Work Text:
The docks were exceptionally foggy that morning, covered in a layer so thick he could barely make out the lights, let alone people. His transport should be somewhere in this section, but locating the pier could prove somewhat challenging. Especially with a need to lay as low as possible.
Pulling his collar up to ward against the chill, he made his way through the docks, an eye out for the vessel he was ordered to board. As far as he could see there weren’t many people around, just workers hauling cargo back and forth to the ships. Someone probably knew where he should go, but he didn’t fancy asking and bringing attention to himself. They didn’t seem to mind him walking past, even if they sent him gazes he was sure were distrustful. Or at least appeared so through the mist. Whether he liked it or not, he stood out, not being one of the workers and walking through the docks. He wouldn’t blame anyone for assuming he had shady business to attend to; most contraband came by zee, from all those lands everyone heard of but few really knew, like the island rumoured to be the home of red honey. The workers could’ve easily taken him for a smuggler, or an addict on his way to purchase a fix.
Maybe he should’ve dyed his hair.
Finally, the bow of a ship emerged through the fog, the name engraved on its side being one he recognised. The Middenwake, surrounded by zailors hurrying to get her ready to set out. Crates and barrels were carried on board. Someone was checking ropes. The horn blared briefly. They noticed him, sending glances his way, but no one bothered to stop him. Clearly he’d been expected.
He approached two men standing by the gangplank, locked in a conversation so engaging they didn’t even see him walk up. He caught the name of one of them; enough to confirm it was the man he’d been looking for.
“Excuse me,” he nodded his head politely. “Captain Fairwind?”
“Yes?” the brunet zailor said. He was handsome in a very distracting way, with unevenly shaven facial hair, a messy ponytail and the most dashing smile. “Can I help you?”
“Mathias Shaw. I believe you’re my transport.”
“Oh!” the captain snapped his fingers. “Yes, yes, I remember. We’ve got a bunk for you and everything. Port Carnelian, was it?”
“Cecil,” Shaw frowned. Did they really put him on a ship with someone who had no clue what he’s being paid to do?
“Cecil,” Fairwind nodded. “Right, yes, there. It’s fine, I have all my notes and charts on the bridge.” He half-heartedly pointed a thumb behind himself.
The other zailor excused himself, but Shaw paid him no mind, instead focused on the ship. From up close he could see the damage – bent plating, patches, some looking distressingly haphazard. “Is this even safe to zail?”
“Perfectly safe,” the other man patted him on the arm.
“What even happened here?”
“Just a lorn-fluke.”
He raised an eyebrow. The captain said that like it was the most normal, everyday occurrence, to be attacked by half-mythical beast of eyes and spikes. And live to tell about it. “What were you doing that far east?”
“Seeking adventure and riches, my good man!” Fairwind gave him the most disarming smile, the kind that could collapse the legs under anyone.
Get a grip. He’ll drop you off and that’ll be it. Though not looking at that beautiful face – or that round behind – would certainly be a challenge.
“Fearless zailors, hm?” was what he chose to say. Surely his superiors knew what they were doing when they singled this ship out for the job.
“You have to be fearless to throw yourself at the zee,” the captain laughed. “Or crazy. It gets tough to tell the difference.”
Shaw’s bewilderment must’ve shown on his face, because Fairwind put a hand on his shoulder. The palm was warm. “Don’t you worry. We’ll get you to where you need to go, safe and sound. No heroics, no funny business.”
It felt odd when the hand moved away. Surely he wasn’t missing the touch already. “But it’s going to take a while, isn’t it?”
The captain glanced at the zee, dark and veiled in a mist that hid everything from view. Even the lighthouses could not dispel it, nothing more than faint points in the distance, not unlike the mysterious false-stars of the Neath. “Unfortunately, it’s quite a way out there. But straightforward.”
“Good,” Shaw sighed. “I don’t… actually like zailing.”
“Well, will try to make it as pleasant for you as possible, then.” The man walked up the plank to the ship, waving at Mathias to follow. “Rum helps.”
The passenger thought about mentioning that he doesn’t drink, either, but that confession could wait for later. God willing, he won’t be on that ship for more than a week. Though, with his eyes fixed on the back – and the backside – of the zailor before him, he decided that maybe it won’t be all bad.