Work Text:
The carriage ride to Port Damali is tantamount to torture.
Imagine: a nauseating haze wherein you are afflicted with every possible form of weakness. Cradled by sickness like a babe without even the force to cry, to the point pain is no relief. To the point the only kindness you can hope for is an end, as bloody or bile-filled as it need be, so long as it spares her the ache of this fruitless effort.
Imagine, then, that you are more alive than you ever were. Fast as a man chased by devils, more powerful, even crueler - finally, finally, a match for her.
And then Sylas and Delilah stuffed themselves into carriages and inns and all sorts of cramped, terrible places. For weeks.
They cannot be Sylas and Delilah Briarwood; that would attract too much attention. And the Cobalt Soul, once his condition was discovered, has been nothing if not attentive.
Under the guise of perfectly bland travelers, they cannot have undead horses that need no rest or feed. Or reanimated carriage boys who do not ask for sleep or a tip, if it pleases mi’lord? And they certainly cannot be followed by a string of brutal murders to stretch Sylas’ sore muscles. or fully appreciate the gift Delilah has given him. or to alleviate the boredom from spending most of each day trapped in a rolling box.
The coffin would almost be better! At least it has dirt in it. Except the one time he tried (look at him, experimenting - Delilah has rubbed off on him) the jostling made him very sick. And it would do no good to be sick after his dear Delilah went to such lengths to make sure he never would be again.
So. Carriage it is.
He can’t even chew out the scenery - they travel by day to avoid suspicion, which requires the curtains be kept cinched shut. For a time, it was almost distracting to try and guess what the world outside was like. The carefully slow pace of the horses on narrow paths running between trees or alongside cliffs. The quality of the road, the type of gravel or sand or soil or cobble beneath their wheels, implying the terrain and civilization beyond.
(And there’s another issue. Baggage kept carefully in the coffin and carefully selected feedings at night. Because there’s no one but them, and the carriageboy, and the horses, and Delilah’s blood is loud whenever she looks at him.)
Sylas is this close to braining himself on the ornate wood panelling for lack of something to do. Test out the healing factor. That would irk Delilah, though.
Which is about the only distraction he has: however twitchy he might be, Delilah is handling the boredom far, far less gracefully.
Wizards are very used to convenience, he’s found - and their journey is one long, long inconvenience.
The carriage wheels purr. To their left, the world hisses out breath in gentle sighs. Sylas licks his lips; the air smells like blood. Like salt.
With a discreet peek at his wife, Sylas inches the arm he has lazily thrown over their seat. His fingers play with the edge of the velvet curtain. A glance - she’s engrossed in the trashy smut novel, dog-eared by now. Gently, he tugs the fabric open, revealing -
He easily catches the book Delilah just threw at him.
“Sylas,” she hisses.
Pouting, he looks over the poor novel for damage. “Delilah,” he replies, aghast. “I never thought I would see you treat a book so terribly.” (He is, admittedly, a touch fond of this one. It has made their nights in various dreary inns interesting… though he isn’t sure if Delilah is fuelled by spite or inspiration.)
She repeats, “Sylas! It’s midday.”
“But I’ve never seen the ocean before, dear.”
“You’ll burn, Sylas. The ocean will still be there tonight - it would be nice if you were, too.”
With exaggerated dejection he stares longingly at the curtains. The light filters through them just so - like skeins of flesh from flayed prey. How’s that for romantic prose? “I suppose. If it makes you happy.”
Delilah huffs. “Very happy.” She wiggles around, seething, until she finds a comfortable position. It just so happens that this means curling up against his side in such a way that will surely give her a sore back within the hour.
Perching his chin in his hands completes his dejected portrait - but it also serves to hide his smile. He doesn't actually care to see the ocean. Not really - Delilah's ire is more lovely than any view. And it’s fun, being her distraction.
Maybe he should try reading the novel, to further entertain her on this long ride.