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The daft fool’s gone and bought her a flower, of all things.
Her. A flower.
Shocked as she is, there’s no real choice but to accept it. She takes the proffered blossom, nearly as large as the palm of her hand, and stares at it without a word. Tiny, pointed petals are fanned in neat circles around its knotted center, a dazzling crimson array; they look sharp, dangerous, like beautiful little daggers. Carefully, so carefully, she runs her fingers over one of the larger petals near its thick stem. It’s baby-soft beneath her curious fingertips, the vibrant color matching perfectly with her painted nails.
“Why?” It’s not that she hates the gift—quite the opposite, really. No one has ever given her a flower before. No one has ever dared. Rather than address her directly, Carvallain chooses to speak to the air above her head.
“You see, that is… er… I suppose one might call it—” His usual poised manner is stilted, affected by nerves that only seem to arise around her. Any other time, she would revel in the fact that she can make him nervous without so much as lifting a finger. However, now is not the time for mind games. She wishes he was more confident in his delivery, his prowess in the art of courtship, or… or whatever the hells this was supposed to be. “… an anniversary gift, naturally.”
Anniversary? Her eyes widen, lips parting in silent confusion. Anniversary of what? Casting her eyes across the plaza, she finds the Aftcastle suspiciously devoid of decoration. Nor can she remember the Admiral sanctioning any new holidays recently. She chews her lip, running through the calendar in her mind and coming up blank. He stares at her with increasing agitation, all but fidgeting in place. He glances towards the alehouse, fingers dancing in erratic patterns on his crossed arms, and she wonders if he secretly wants to make a run for it.
“What anniversary?” she finally asks, puzzled beyond measure. There’s no point in dragging it out any longer, even if it is fun to watch him squirm. He looks at her strangely, thin lips twisted in an expression that—if she didn’t know better—she might call a sullen pout.
“Ours.” Eh? Well, she thinks, the words hovering on the tip of her tongue, that’s news to me. Since when did they have an anniversary? What’s more, when had they decided on a date? Even if Admiral Merlwyb held a musket to her head, she would not have been able to pinpoint the day Carvallain had first propositioned her as a lover. They had danced circles around each other for ages before ever entertaining the idea of becoming “official”, a term the Herald enjoyed throwing around whenever their crews made the front page.
Besides: how could they have an anniversary when the nature of their relationship was still so… nebulous? In her eyes, Carvallain was an unfathomably complicated mixture of lover, rival, partner, adversary, and companion. That being said, she had no idea what she was to him. Neither of them bothered with labels. Whatever it was… simply was.
And now he—self-righteous, long-eared fool that he is—had apparently decided on his own that the two of them need an anniversary, complete with gifts. What’s more: he’d given her a flower, and she had accepted it. Now, the ball was in her proverbial court. She was meant to do something in return. But… what?
“Do you like it?” he asks suddenly, tongue catching on the last syllable. She looks again at the flower, crimson petals fluttering in the salty breeze. If anyone else had bothered to ask her such a ridiculous question, she would have told them point blank where they could stick their next bouquet. What did she look like? Only airheaded village maidens had the time to sit around sniffing flowers, plucking the petals one by one with a silly little smile on their silly little faces.
She is a woman! A pirate! A corsair with more blood on her hands than a butcher! And yet… and yet here she stands, heart melting into a soft, gooey heap. For a flower, of all things.
“Mm.” Her lips quirk as she attempts to summon the words that would accurately match the cloying warmth in her chest. It unfurls behind her sternum, painting her cheeks in a shade dark enough to rival the petals in her hand. “Aye. Suppose so.” It doesn’t feel like much, but it’s enough; he visibly relaxes, mouth smoothing into that haughty grin she so loves to hate.
“It’s a red chrysanthemum,” he explains, his hand fluttering in the air between them. “Do you know what it means?” Means? Since when do flowers mean anything? They were just… plants! Glorified weeds!
“No-o-o,” she says, eyeing him with suspicion. Waiting for the other shoe to fall, for him to laugh out loud at her blind naivety. Flowers, she grumbles to herself. Foolish, foppish business, that. To her growing astonishment, he blushes almost as hard as she does. It’s not easy to spy the flush on his cheeks, but she’s learned to tell by the slant of his gaze, the way he avoids her questioning look, the quick movement of his throat as he gulps. “What?” she demands, peering up at him with narrowed eyes.
“Never mind. It’s nothing.”
“Obstinate woman! Will you please just take it?”
He practically shoves the thing into her hand, metal warm on her palm. His own hands tremble as he closes her fingers around the clasp, holding them as though daring her to open her fist. Her multiple attempts to break free come to naught, a near-silent struggle in the center of his ornate bed.
“Not—” She breaks off with a growl, the nails of her free hand digging into his wrist. “Not until ye tell me why!” You never take them off! she wants to shout—and would, if her mind wasn’t so preoccupied with escaping his grip. But she hates being held down against her will, and—though Carvallain would never purposefully hurt her, she knows this—the longer she struggles, the tighter the knot at the base of her throat feels. Given the chance, it might choke her.
“Let go!” It had been much easier to escape her da, with his grubby, ale-soaked hands holding about as much grip as an oil slick on a rainy foredeck. But Carvallain’s long fingers can encircle her wrist with room to spare, leaving her no way of breaking free.
“Rhoswen.” There is a desperation to his voice. “Don’t struggle so, my—”
“Le’ggo!” He obeys, the sudden release sending her careening backwards on the mattress. Relief floods her from head to toe, followed almost immediately by shame, and anger, and a host of confusing emotions warring for dominance against her racing heart. All at once she feels like a child again, exposed and vulnerable. She puts distance between them with a derisive sniff, taking an inordinate amount of time to bundle up in one of his blankets. The black karakul wool is soft against her naked skin, the metal clasp still held tightly in her fist.
“I’m sorry.” Wounded, he stares at her with inexplicable sorrow. It’s clear that he’s aware he crossed a line, one which—until this moment—he had no idea existed. A painful sigh escapes him as he rubs both hands over his face, the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes. “It was not my intention to argue with you. Not tonight, of all nights.”
“When I say let go, I mean it. Ye ought to have sense enough for that, if nothin’ else.” She sneaks a peek at him beneath her arm. He looks utterly absurd with only one clasp on his ear, gleaming in the candlelight. What’s even more absurd is the thought that his right ear looks bare, indecently so. There is a faint imprint, a crease in the skin where the clasp had sat for so many years. “Why?” she asks again, softly.
“Is our tenth anniversary not enough of a reason for you?” There’s no real answer to such a question. Perhaps it might have been reason enough, had he not been acting so strangely. Restless all night, fretful and timid and—just now—insistent that she must take it for herself. Even now he seems on the verge of a breakdown, unable to look her in the eyes for more than a moment or two, hands wringing in his lap. “Why must you be difficult?” he asks, voice caught on a high note. “Simply accept my gift and we can be done with it.”
“But I can’t even wear the bloody thing!” she spits, lifting her head from her knees. “Yer a thrice-damned fool of a man if ye think that’ll ever fit on me ear.”
“It doesn’t necessarily have to,” he huffs, feeding into her impatience. There’s another fight brewing between them already, borne of natural tension and too much nervous energy. Neither of them know what to do with these unwelcome feelings, nor how to handle them… aside from trading verbal blows or falling to the sheets in a frenzied passion. While she wouldn’t mind being fucked to the point of oblivion, he is very clearly trying to avoid the selfsame outcome. “’Tis not the gift itself that matters, but rather that you accept it.”
“N’ when, exactly, am I t’know just what it is I’m accepting?” She opens her hand, looking down at the lone clasp. The beautiful scrollwork along the edges of the metal catch the light in a pleasing way. “I swear, if this is some sort o’ long-ear marriage proposal—tch! What a joke!” Her cold laugh trails away when, rather than jump to his own defense, he turns his face to the wall. “I-It ain’t, is it?” she squeaks, flinching at the sound of her own voice. “Is it?!”
No answer. He averts his gaze, chewing the inside of his cheek.
“Seven hells…” she manages weakly. “Carvallain….”
“Not marriage,” he finally mumbles, lips barely moving. “Not exactly.”
“What, then?”
“When an Elezen offers his love a—that is, in Ishgard, when two souls share a—devotion. It’s meant to be a symbol of devotion.” For a moment, the room itself seems suspended in time. He breaks free of the spell first, reaching imperatively for the clasp in her open palm. “It’s nothing, a whim. Certainly not worth the fuss. You may hand it back now.”
“I’ll take it.” She maneuvers her hand behind her back, putting herself between the clasp and his insistent fingers. He follows blindly, groping in the blanket’s folds and scowling when he comes up empty-handed. Leaning forward, she gently bumps his forehead with her own. “I said that I’ll take it,” she repeats firmly, gazing steadily into his eyes. Their noses brush and he sighs, the sound warm against her mouth.
“Give it back, please.”
“Not on yer life.” Slowly, so slowly, his brow starts to unknit itself. He glares at her, torn between relief and frustration and something else, something she has no name for. Its echo resonates inside her, twinkling in the depths of her stormy eyes. Without warning he surges forward, his weight collapsing them both to the mattress. He buries his face in the join of her neck and shoulder, arms tangled around her waist. He pulls her flush against him, skin to skin; though he could easily reach the clasp, he does not try to take it from her.
“Bothersome termagant.” Each word is a fluttering kiss. She smooths the hair from his neck, his pulse thrumming beneath her fingers.
“Are ye devoted to me?” she teases, tugging lightly at the tip of his newly-bared ear.
“Utterly.” The word fairly drips with sarcasm. His hands trail down her spine as he works his way from her shoulder to her ear, leaving a trail of blossoming love bites in his wake. When he again speaks, whispering just above the sound of her stilted breath, it takes on an entirely new meaning. “Utterly.”
Twenty years of gifts, and she’s never given him a single one… until now.
It makes sense, from an outsider’s standpoint. If anyone cared to ask, he would be the one to lecture them on the importance of courtship, of gentlemanly favours, the way to woo a lady of one’s choosing. Although he would pretend it’s as convoluted as the rules of Meracydian chess, in reality it’s quite simple.
He enjoys showering her in gifts.
By now, there’s no way she doesn’t have at least one of every single thing upon the star. Be it books, clothing, trinkets, jewels, silks, treats or weapons: if it can be named, he’s wrapped it in gaudy paper and handed it to her with a flourish. He does not ask for recompense, nor does he seem to mind when she has no gift for him in return. Her reactions are their own reward, leaving him thrilled beyond measure when she shows any sort of excitement over what he’s handpicked for her.
Clearly, he would be perfectly happy continuing the charted course. But she wants him to have something, too. He deserves at least one gift, recompence for years of devotion—though he still balks at the word—and even if he would be happy going without, it is for her own peace of mind as well. It has taken months of scheming to reach this point, plans written in code, gil-greased palms, hasty appointments made during his frequent trips to the East. And now?
Now, she almost wishes she hadn’t kept it a surprise. Perhaps then he might have warned her about the dangers of gift-giving. Sitting across the table from him, hands fisted in her lap, watching him admire the wrapping paper—it’s utterly nerve-wracking! What if he cannot appreciate the care that went into such a gift? What if he doesn’t understand the meaning? What if—gods forbid, what if he laughs at her?
This lack of confidence is… unsettling, to say the least. It’s not something she’s used to at this stage of her life. She has never cared for anyone’s good opinion, least of all his. But if he laughs at her… well, she’ll simply have no choice but to throw herself into the nearest body of water. Perhaps the Navigator, taking pity on her beleaguered soul, would grant her a swift demise.
With bated breath she watches him open the box, carefully prying back the first layers of thin, sky-colored tissue paper. He hesitates when he reaches the vellum lining, recognizing the material, if not its purpose. A questioning smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, brows arching curiously as he turns the box over in his hands. His gaze flits to her and she dares not respond, swallowing back her mounting fear as he unwraps the vellum to reveal her gift.
For what seems like an age, he says nothing at all.
“Well?” she chokes out, prodding him for an answer. Belatedly she realizes that this is how he must have felt that day, years ago, when he gave her the first of many flowers. The latest bouquet is already on display, a centerpiece amidst the remnants of their lavish anniversary dinner. Twenty flowers for twenty years: truly foppish business, a waste of good coin… she can’t help but look forward to them. Carnations, chrysanthemums, star lilies, apple blossoms, salvias and roses in full bloom, gathered from all corners of the globe. Each year, he asks the same question. Do you know what they mean? Each year, he refuses to explain himself.
He lifts the miniature portrait out of its protective vellum, holding it up to the candlelight. Ever so gently, one fingertip strokes the feathery wisps of pale blonde hair scattered across the painted forehead. She stares at her own face, upside down. In the whole of her life, she has never sat for a portrait before now; looking at the finished product, she is still unsure how she feels about it.
She had assumed it would be the equivalent of staring into a looking glass, but that was not the case. The portrait master’s keen eyes had noticed things about herself that she often overlooked: the natural downward slope of her mouth, the dainty shell of her ear, the little crease that formed between her brows, just above her nose. The artist had painted what they saw, rather than what she chose to see. That alone made a world of difference.
The experience had made her uncomfortably conscious of her own appearance. When Carvallain looked at her, did he also happen to see the same petulant, pensive woman? Was the miniature an accurate likeness of everything he knew her to be? She had hoped—foolish as it was—that he might take it with him on his voyages. If he truly missed her as much as he claims, he could look at the portrait and think of her. But was this gesture enough to convey those silent wishes?
A nervous sip of wine soothes her parched throat, and she looks up in time to see him carefully rewrapping the portrait. Each crease was folded with exact precision, the tissue paper arranged over the vellum and the lid firmly pressed to hold it in place. The act itself tells her nothing of his thoughts—he is, at times, both fastidious and exacting. She sits on her hands to keep from wringing them raw, watching from beneath her lashes as he slips from the chair and kneels before her.
“Did… ye like it?” Taking her face in both hands, he kisses her with a glowing tenderness that makes her heart ache.
“I love it,” he murmurs between kisses, thumbs caressing her cheekbones. “Beautiful, priceless, my treasure—” He coaxes a soft moan from her lips before nuzzling into her hair, and she cannot help but melt against his lean frame. Continued endearments rumble in his chest, tickling her fingertips without ever reaching her ears.
In the far recesses of her mind, a notion glimmers just beneath the deceptively calm surface of her thoughts: It ain’t the gift he’s talking about.
“Meddlesome codger.”
He chuckles at the insult: how can he not? Even if it holds a grain of truth, she is shooting herself in the foot. She’s older by several years, and they both know it.
“Badgering crone.” His thumb traces a line from ribcage to hips, catching on an old scar from her heyday. She is no longer captain of the Sirens, having retired the tricorn and given the new leader her blessing. Her days are spent lounging in her usual seat at the Missing Member, ensuring that the tavern’s standard fare doesn’t take a nosedive in her absence.
“Wrinkled old gaffer.” Lazily she lifts her eyes to the thirty-two flowers tucked neatly into a vase behind the flickering gas lamp. Their petals are vibrant, even in the shifting shadows of twilight. Faster and faster, the years seem to fly. How many are left? What number would serve as the bouquet’s final count?
Not that she has plans to roll over and croak, mind. These are her golden years, her well-deserved rest after years of building up one of the finest pirate crews—and finest taverns—in the city-state. In Eorzea, at that. As a young woman, she could not imagine living long enough to see her own retirement. Now, she is looking forward to this new stage of life. Who better to share these years with then the preening bastard who shares her bed?
“Withered hag.” He rolls over, trapping the quilt between their bodies. Warm lips kiss her forehead, lingering there with a satisfied grin. “I love you.”
Her heart skips a beat in her chest.
“Hmph. Never heard that one before.” Even as she says it, something deep inside her proclaims it to be a falsehood. Not an outright lie, per se, but not true either. Had he not told her as much with every gift? With each additional flower added to the bouquet? All those nights in his arms, the trips to Radz-at-Han, to Kugane… even to Ishgard, if only for the fact that she wished to see it for herself. “Ye ain’t feverish, are ye?”
“Mmm… hot-blooded, perhaps?” He smirks at his own joke. “What say you, old woman: feeling up for a round? For old time’s sake?”
“Round? Round o’ what?” she cackles, and—gods preserve her—it truly does sound rather crone-like. “Round o’ drinks? Duels?”
“Desires?” Over thirty years at her side, and still he remains as smooth and haughty as ever. It’s enough to make her snort aloud, rolling her eyes with a good-natured grin.
“I ought to be asking ye the same, then. Feeling up to it?” she jokes in turn. “Never could keep up with me, even in yer prime.”
“Liar! Should levin strike this bed….” His hand strays further south beneath the quilt, tracing along her thigh before slipping between her legs. “Shall I prove you wrong?” he offers, shifting closer into the waiting cradle of her arms. Like many facets of their relationship, their lovemaking has become something at once both practiced and predictable. That does not making it boring; on the contrary, it has become something of a comfort to them both. A way to connect physically, now that their bodies can no longer keep up with sparring.
“Yer welcome to try.” It’s his turn for derision, the air puffing his cheeks as he shakes his head. The years have thinned his long face, giving once-prominent cheekbones a gaunt air. His joints are bonier, his knees knobbier, but his face still clings to the last vestiges of youth. She has more wrinkles than he’ll ever have, but she loves the way age writes silvery-white threads into his copper locks. He used to pluck them, back when he still cared about such things. Vanity has deep roots; time, it seems, runs far deeper.
“I—” Her breath catches as his fingers awaken the first stirrings of pleasure within her. “Love ye,” she mumbles, feeling her face light up. It sounds awkward and clunky compared to his honest declaration, and yet it’s no less heartfelt. He peppers kisses across her burning cheeks, down her jaw, dragging his nose against her skin. It never fails to make her squirm, chasing his mouth with her own until she captures it with a triumphant smile. He kisses her once, close-lipped and chaste, before resting his forehead against her cheek.
“Happy anniversary, my dear.”