Work Text:
The Wraith loves Kaz Brekker. She loves him in her silent flight over the rooftops, making sure that he is safe and whole. She loves him in the secrets she teases from locked houses, the truths she hears from high above, all gathered like trinkets to keep him satisfied. She loves him in every throw of a knife, every soul a boon on her own, but she would take them again and again if he walks away. When the Wraith loves Kaz Brekker, it is silent. Her heartbeat thrums and she fears that he will hear it, but he never does. He has never needed to hear her to know that she is there. She wants to rip it from her chest some days. She refuses to be feeble. She will not tremble like a wine drunk young maiden at his flashes of teeth. But Ghezen what can she do? When she sits at his window she knows in her bones that he is nestled into her chest cavity, and when she breathes she can feel the pieces she has stolen of him, her selfish horde kept where it will be a constant reminder. He is hers, and that is a weakness. Neither can afford it, so her love stays silent.
The Ghost Captain, Bane of Slavers, Sankta of the True Sea, loves Kaz Brekker. She loves him as the bow turns to face Ketterdam, returning always to the man who is her home. She loves him as she flits from port to port, leaving blood and justice in her wake, but taking sweet Ravkan toffees and intricate Zemeni locks to send away. Her crew cannot comprehend who would want such strange souvenirs, but the recipient laughs in delight each time he finds a parcel. She loves him as the sea grows rough beneath her feet or a bullet cuts too close, and she prays to her saints not for her safety, but that someone will protect him if she can’t. Her last actions will be of fury and freedom, but her last thoughts will be of him. When the Sankta of the True Sea loves Kaz Brekker, it is contrary and sharp and longing. She has never wanted an anchor, but he is a tether. He does not drag her down, his words and devotion and ungloved hands giving her a sense of peace, not restriction. She hunts wicked men, but shares her bed with one. Her love for him defies her reputation, but he’s always had an affinity for irony. She misses him like a knife in the side. She whispers his name in the privacy of her cabin, and some would call it melancholy. But the yearning is always worth it.
Inej Ghafa loves Kaz Brekker. She loves him as she relearns to touch, with gentle strokes of thumbs and tentative caresses. He makes her feel the way she did before she was taken, finding solace in hugs and brushes of fingers, young and unburdened with years of hands on her skin. She loves him as she shares her culture, two pairs of hands kneading skillet bread, and flour in her eyebrows. He is privy to the things she swore Ketterdam would never learn, would not let the city take, and he learns Suli slowly and clumsily, but every new word makes her beam with joy. She loves him in the way her face never leaves his in her first performance with her troupe in years. He follows her to Ravka for the first time, and they spend weeks traveling with the caravan. She melts at the way he treats her parents, and in those moments they are not two trauma-ridden souls barely holding themselves together, they are simply a young man and a young woman who love each other more than life itself. When Inej Ghafa loves Kaz Brekker, it is simple. He knows her favorite flowers, she knows how he likes his coffee. On good days she can pretend that she has never felt pain, that she is still a carefree girl, and that she will never have to leave him. She never pretends for long. She will not dwell in kind lies, especially because the truth is far from terrible.
She will grow old and her grip on her daggers will fade, but her love will stay the same. She loves him, she has always loved him, and she always will. A part of her loved him from the moment he led from the gold bars of the Menagerie. She owes him nothing, he does not own her, she does not need him. But she wants him. She gives herself to him freely. He is a better man than even she knew, and years pass as they grow, her path tangled with his. They learn to love, and touch, and stay. Her purpose gives her pride and a sense of peace, but the truest happiness she feels is wrapped loosely in his arms, his pale hand unknowingly clutching her heart tight in his grasp. Saints help her, she loves him so much. His armor has been shed, and it is so much better than she could have imagined. Her feral side, the part that relishes in the pleas of the damned, is not swayed by gentle hands but by knowing he will never leave her behind. The part of her that is justice and righteousness falls for the kindness he shows to the orphaned children of the Barrel. And the part that isn’t scarred? The part still filled with childish wonder? That part is still alive because of him. Every piece of her loves every part of him. In the ugliness and the light, jagged edges and patterned silk, breadcrumbs and miracles. The Wraith loves him. Captain Ghafa loves him. She loves him, no addendums necessary. Her past, her present, her future, all of it is inextricably tied to her broken and beautiful canal rat.