Work Text:
Something is wrong.
She knows it because Sir de Courcillon would not have sent for her otherwise, as she tends to be his last resort or secret weapon in situations like these. Constantin has told her, of course, that he is due a discussion with his father, but she did not expect the repercussions of that to be so severe.
From inside her cousin’s office, she can hear random objects hitting the wall from time to time, and then the off-tune singing of Constantin, with small pauses, most likely allowing for sips of alcohol. It is not like him, this public display, and De Sardet merely nods at their tutor, before opening the door without knocking.
She ducks almost immediately, avoiding a paperweight as it tumbles down the hallway.
Constantin sways, his frown turning into a grin.
“Cousin! Come join me!”
He drags at her arm, even as she is trying to at least close the door behind her with the other, and she’s pulled into a very poor dance around, as he bellows at the top of his voice, right in her ear. She winces but bears it all silently, allowing Constantin to push and shove her around, in what she thinks is attempting to be a Theleme traditional dance.
“What’s the occasion?” she says, as the last words of his song are dying on his lips.
“I am to be the new governor on Teer Fradee. And you my skilled diplomat, of course!”
“So… like here?” she asks, trying not to show how much the news shock her.
He laughs, as if she made a joke, and pushes her into one last spin in their dance, before allowing her a dip, as his arms hook around her waist. She does not look impressed at all, but neither is she annoyed, and that’s why Constantin’s seriousness returns, because he knows he’s been found out.
“My father has finally tired of me, essentially. And this is his last test.”
He tries to make for his alcohol bottle, but De Sardet is sober and quicker, and she grabs it first, making a rude gesture at her cousin to keep him away.
“It’s also freedom, Constantin.”
He chokes on a laugh, and it sounds like a sob to her.
“Do you think he won’t have half the nobles reporting back to him?”
She nods, accepting his reasoning, as she guides him…. on the floor, on the soft rugs, seeing as he destroyed the legs of his armchair. She settles herself next to him, taking a sip of his alcohol, and pulling a face. This is the type bought cheaply in town, to get yourself drunk enough that you won’t mind the taste anymore, but she can’t resent her cousin for choosing it.
“But his letters will each be months apart.”
So no more lecturing, be it private or public. No more running all of his decisions by his father, Constantin nothing but a shadow of the prince’s words and choices. And New Serene is a terribly young place, and he could do so much as its governor, shape into reality all of his good, grand ideas that no one listens to back here.
She has not decided to follow him to hell and back, become his most beloved friend and advisor, just because he was the prince’s son. She believes in Constantin and in his goals, and it hurts her that few others give him even the respect to hear him out. He has a big, warm and kind heart: too much of it, she suspects, to be so tenderly hurt every single time by his father, but that’s why this distance might be the best thing for him yet.
“Freedom, you say?” he asks, calm now, and with a sigh he leans closer to her, resting his head on her shoulder.
At least for one of them, her binding to him made stronger by how big the need for her would be in a new island, between local in-fighting and the already existent diplomatic tensions.
But at least for one of them.
“Freedom,” she agrees, and pretends not to notice Constantin’s shoulder shaking, or her shoulder getting wetter, her cousin otherwise silent.
***
She has tried putting this off for as long as possible, sweating for hours while fighting Kurt in the courtyard, going around the baths to wash it all off, wasting precious moments in the mirror, having her hair braided, choosing her finest clothes. But at last, when there is nothing left to do inside her house, when the sun has risen in the late morning, she makes her slow way towards her mother’s rooms.
It is never easy seeing the princess like that, ravaged by illness, her mind half lost to herself already, so quick to anger because the pain is close to unbearable, and relentless despite the poppy milk, the experimental acupuncture… Damn it all.
De Sardet knows there is no saving her mother now. She just wishes she had more time saying goodbye, making peace with it all. She has never been a petulant child, but she finds herself raging within now, wondering where is the fairness she has tried so hard to bring into this world, here at her mother’s side? She has never felt this helpless, and she hates the feeling.
She grabs her mother’s hand, coming on her knees in front of her, burying her face in her mother’s lap.
“My dear child,” the princess sighs, as if her daughter’s mere presence is easing her sickness.
Her mother is patting her hair, in a mimicry of her childhood, and something in her chest opens and caves in, the grief so overwhelming, even as the person is still alive.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, words muffled in the material of her mother’s dress. “I’m having trouble getting used to your condition.”
But it’s not just a condition, it’s dying, and there’s no getting used to that. They both know that, and the silence stretches, not uncomfortable, for a short period. The princess guides her daughter to look up, their faces close, now that the blindness is spreading.
“You remind me so much of your father…,” the princess sighs, and this has been a thing too, how often her mother gets stuck in the past, hours at a time spent as someone else, sometime else. “I do miss him so.”
She untangles herself from her mother’s embrace, taking to pacing the room instead. She hates being known so well too, because her mother guesses her reason for doing so.
“Today is the big day, isn’t it?” and in the midst of it all, the princess still tries to sound happy for her daughter, enthusiastic for this new change.
She can’t take it anymore.
“Yes, but the idea of leaving you behind… alone and ill…”
They have never discussed it so openly, what will become of her mother after she is gone. She feels the old rage bubbling inside her, and she tries to temper it, because it is anger at the world, and not at her mother.
“Dying, my child,” and De Sardet has to stifle a sob at the admission. “There is nothing you can do by staying that would ease my suffering.”
And the princess is still a mother, to the very end, because she consoles her daughter, rather than the other way around.
“But they say the island is full of miracles. And we might find a cure!”
She hates how her mother is forcing herself to sound happy at the idea.
“Even if I were to find it, I would never be able to return in time to-”
“I know. But it gives me comfort to know that my daughter has left on a mission to heal her people.”
And once again, what she needs to do is painted out in kind words, but it makes it not less of a mission. Then there’s her gift, a charm for good luck, and in a new and foreign place, De Sardet thinks she will sorely miss it.
“Thank you, mother,” she says, voice faint, as she bends to kiss her forehead, one last time.
“All my blessings go with you, my child.”
She cannot look back, she does not look back. If she did, she would have to go to her uncle, beg on her knees to delay their departure for a few more months, allow her to see her mother’s sickness to the very end.
***
The port is a flurry of activity; while their party is the only human cargo on this trip this time around, there’s enough merchandise to power a new city after all, and the people all around the docks are working tirelessly to make it happen. She hears the captain before she can properly see him, giving orders and confident in them being followed, upset at the smallest failure, just because he has earned the right to be. She has quizzed their tutor on their captain, learning he is of her age, so young that he is almost the stuff of legends. She wonders for a brief moment if she paints a similarly terrifying picture in the circles of noble diplomats she is usually found.
“Captain Vasco!” she calls out, Kurt at her side giving her a stern look for her unbecoming eagerness.
She doesn’t care. They’re leaving this place, and she has allowed herself this afternoon to do whatever she wants, one last farewell.
The captain turns, and De Sardet would have sworn under her breath if she wasn’t such a good diplomat. He is handsome and roguish, and she is doomed from the first time she looks at his face. She is lucky Constantin isn’t here yet, or he would have read her to filth instantly. Unfortunately, like all handsome men she’s met before, he opens his mouth.
“And you are?”
She pushes out a hand, formality winning over anything else.
“De Sardet. The prince’s niece. If all is in order, we will soon be embarking on your boat.”
Vasco looks her up, from her head to her toes, letting his eyes linger, clearly trying to make her feel uncomfortable. It’s a tactic that has been used countless times before on her, and so she’s not phased. She knows she’s no particular beauty, but she also knows there’s an ideal buyer for any seller; she’s from a merchant family after all. The captain doesn’t show if he is pleased or not by her looks.
“It’s a ship, not a boat.”
So she assumes not.
She nods her head at him, forcing her smile not to slip.
“Apologies.”
“Apologies for my asking, but the young governor isn’t with you?”
She is her cousin’s keeper after all. She imagines this question will keep being posed to her, until she eventually finds him, or he makes himself finally known.
“Perhaps he simply celebrated his imminent departure with a little too much enthusiasm,” she says; no need for the captain to know the details of Constantin’s habits or whereabouts. “Is everything ready?”
Their party can’t be the only one with last minute tasks yet to be completed, and it’s a barb as much as it is a genuine inquiry. Still, Vasco remains unaffected, and she supposes that if she had his kind of reputation, a mere noblewoman wouldn’t matter much either. He agrees, however, that they are missing a cabin boy.
Since she is supposed to be running around Serene looking for her cousin anyway, she offers her help in trying to locate this Jonas too. It is partly to get their captain to forgive her earlier blunder, partly concern for what their relations with their Naut, on whom their entire state depends on, would become if the word spread that Serene kidnaps Naut kids.
That’s how her mind works: even when selfish, constantly thinking ten steps ahead of the diplomatic ramifications in her life.
And her fears have been real and true after all.
Power in the Congregation goes, after all, to the best merchant. It is not so far-fetched that a desperate individual would give up their child for a chance at success and riches, but the power of a merchant noble is also in keeping their contracts and promises. Going back and stealing Jonas away is the way of a true coward, and one that scarcely should hold such a power within her uncle’s circles. Their grief may be real, but the son they imagined is not: Jonas now sea-given, one of the Nauts, with no desire or need of its past origins. Even she can understand as much, but pain makes one do intense things.
***
“You didn’t bring me back my clothes,” Constantin wines, pressing a palm against his chest and trying to smooth wrinkles caked into the material of these borrowed clothes.
De Sardet laughs.
“Of course I didn’t,” she says, “How else would you learn your lesson?”
“And did you not think a good apology would have been to make a good impression on our Naut captain?”
She shakes her head at his shameless attempts of coming back in her good graces.
“You realise I let you go on your own one night, and you got kidnapped, right?”
Constantin grins, an arm slipping against her shoulder, pressing her close to his body. He smells a bit, of the damp in his clothes and leftover alcohol still, but she still presses herself closer to him, feeling his warmth against her body, his beating heart in her ear.
“Thank you for worrying about me, fair cousin,” he says, grinning still, knowing he has now won, that he understands where her frustration is coming from.
Knowing that he had been in real danger, even if pathetic as it was, had her trembling in an alley for long seconds, until Kurt’s palm pressed against her shoulder, bringing her back to herself. Even the idea of his weakness and vulnerability, the potential of danger upon him, had her almost collapse in fear. She is terrified of losing him, Constantin her anchor, the most important person in her life. He knows, that’s why he is such an efficient negotiator to her, why he is the best marksman upon her weaknesses.
“Always, Constantin,” she sighs, and they walk in that half-embrace all the way to their boat, safe in each other’s presence.
***
She must admit, she thought many of the stories from Teer Fradee mere exaggerations. Exotic beasts they may be, it’s a new land after all, but surely not the size of a house. She has felt cockily confident that she could take on anything the island might spit at her, hasn't even thought to worry about something like that. Of course, that is until one of the ship’s hull exploded, revealing exactly the kind of mythical being she was so sure could not be real.
What do you do in such a situation?
Most people run for their life.
Constantin freezes.
And De Sardet swears, and instead of going away from this nightmare, she gets closer, pushing her cousin out of its path just in the nick of time. She’s desperate, adrenaline already pumping in her veins, as she quickly checks if he is mostly unharmed; her brain shuts off when she cannot tell.
“Take him to safety!” she shouts at Kurt, over the dazed look on Constantin’s face, and she pushes at his body, his legs finally cooperating, helping her along.
Then she turns on her feet, and there’s truly just one last thing left to do, if she wants Constantin safe then. And maybe not even just him, but her whole city too.
She checks the grip on her weapon, and she runs, swinging with full power. She’s fighting as if she’s possessed, not enough care to even dodge incoming attacks, and the one time she goes down, there’s a loud gasping sound from each and every onlooker, as if of one creature.
It takes a lot of butchering to get it to stay down, bits of meat and blood flying with every swing, each pain making the beast more desperate in its attacks. Time stops making sense, and at some point, she stops hearing anything but the tide, loud in her ears.
Eventually though, the snarls turn into meowls, and those turn into silence. She hits it several times more to make sure, and then, with a tired sigh, she drops to her knees, in the middle of a literal blood bath.
For a long moment, no one dares say anything, no one dares move. Then Constantin drops into that make-believe pit, running towards her, catching her in his arms before the adrenaline evaporates from her veins, and has her crashing down. The cheers are deafening all around them, but she only cares to burrow herself closer to her cousin’s chest, before starting to pat him down, checking for wounds.
There’s slight tears forming in his eyes, and he smacks his head hard against hers.
“You idiot, I’m alright. I’m alright,” he says softer, a second time, as she simply blinks up at him, incredulous. “Are you?”
Constantin pushes the hair away from her face, leaving a stain on her cheek, against her mark. She still looks too dazed, not like herself at all, and he feels the bile rising in his throat, for he knows this is all because of him, because he is a coward and utterly pathetic and they all left her to fight a monster on her own, damn them all.
Then, the veil lifts, her eyes focusing, her self coming back to her.
“I am, Constantin. Thank you,” she says, pushing him away, though his hold tightens instead, not willing to let her go just yet. “I am staining your clothes,” she adds, trying to make a point.
“They’re not even my clothes,” he says, shaking his head. “Let me help you.”
She wants to push some more, refuse - but when she tries to stand, she realises her legs do not want to cooperate, and so she begrudgingly has to accept his outstretched arm.
“You were illustrious,” he says, his voice booming, and several people nod their head in agreement.
She looks back at where the monster’s body lays, the fight although gruesome, maybe perhaps too easy for what a threat her opponent was.
***
On board of the ship, she’s immediately offered the option to wash off the grime off her, by a somewhat scared sailor, clearly weary that she might take it as an offence that he is carrying a mop and a bucket. She is, after all, dripping on their dock. She laughs, and gladly accepts.
What follows is a cup of tea, brought by a different ship staff, sugared much over her taste, but so much needed now that the adrenaline has fully worn off, and she is feeling bone weary.
She also guesses that despite the fact that the captain commented nothing of the fight, he is thankful regardless for that beast’s vanquishing. After all, someone must have given the order for all of this comfort.
She does not want to hide though. She wants to share Constantin’s joy at finally being away. So she joins everyone else.
It takes her a few hours to locate the young Jonas, in the chaos of leaving harbour. He is something of an errand boy, good for everything, in the midst of his learning, still green. She smiles faintly at the image, reminding her too much of how she has been the first time she met Kurt, his nickname that stuck for a reason, green blood.
She turns around, imagining the soldier still at her side, mouth already open to remark on said similarity, ready to evoke an awkward memory - but Kurt is next to Constantin, looking upon the smaller and smaller shore of Serene, and she closes her mouth, finding herself unsteady by the lack of her attention.
Then, she notices Vasco noticing her fumble, and in any other person, what she’s doing would have been called pouting. Be it that this is De Sardet, she merely crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow at the captain.
She wouldn’t have been able to hear him over the bustle of the ship, so he mouths slowly, allowing her to read it on his lips instead:
“Thank you.”
He turns to look at Jonas, where he is now laughing with his two friends, tears in Lauro’s eyes. She waits for him to look back at her, and then she nods, her offer of friendship, now that they have this mission that brought them together.
***
She reads during her long voyage, a lot of it foreign journals of past dignitaries of this new island, and sometimes, when she thinks Constantin is too preoccupied with teasing the sailors or winning at cards against Sir de Courcillon, fiction or poetry.
Any time that is not spent entertaining her cousin with past stories, training against Kurt - a task made all the more difficult with what it’s commonly known as sea legs -, or rehashing her lessons with her tutor, she spends reading. If it’s late in the night, she does it inside her cabin, door open in case she is needed, the faint light illuminating the deck. If the weather holds, she reads on the dock, under the sun, wearing one of her cousin’s hats so she is able to look at the pages, her posture growing more relaxed as the hours pass by.
With time, she gets freckles, which Constantin teases her about - until he develops them himself, and then the teasing is returned. The one time she held a longer conversation with the captain, she noticed his gaze upon her cheekbones, and she blushed with embarrassment.
But that only meant that Vasco paid attention, noticed, and something shifts in her understanding of the man, of their first encounter, wrong as it was. So, she starts paying attention as well.
He pays no attention when she goes through journals and travel diaries, most of it probably boring to a seasoned captain. However, he slows down in his usual knot making, his talks with one sailor or another takes longer, when he finds her reading poetry books, his eyes trying to decipher titles, or at least the author.
No one truly bothers her, all throughout those months. But as time passes by, as her habits don’t change, the captain finds himself in the same place as her more often than not, never talking beyond a greeting. She deducts, as such, that maybe the interest is not in her person, after all.
One evening, as Constantin’s voice carries in his call for her, she catches him staring. She makes it very obvious that she is finishing off the last page of her book, and when she gets up from her seat, she leaves the book behind on top of a barrel, smiling slightly in his direction, but not meeting his eyes, not making it awkward. He allows many minutes to pass, the night getting darker around him, before he dares touch the leather binding, trying to make out the title.
It’s a poetry collection, of a relatively infamous poet, on the beauty of nature and fleetingness of our human selves, in the face of the wonders of the world. He did not expect it, for her to favour such lyricism, finding her taste after his, after all.
He returns it to her, but not without having read it first. She can tell because there’s one page only, creased with sea salt, and she understands how much more damage it would have been if he didn’t cherish it enough to look after it.
Next one, she just leaves on his cabin desk, and he does not remember until halfway through the volume that the door has been locked.
***
“My admiral laid me off.”
“We were nonetheless all delighted with your service. I hope there was no misunderstanding…”
He sees the fleeting uncertainty on her face, that this could be somehow related to their little reading game, so he hurries to quench it, that maybe the most interesting thing that has happened while transporting nobles since he’s been made captain.
“None. I’m sure of it. She just ordered me to “give you any assistance you may need.””
De Sardet fights the urge to roll her eyes. She has expected the vying for favour, now that Constantin is the new governor, to wait until at least she’s settled in her new house, but she should have known better than anyone that that was wishful thinking.
“I am sorry, Vasco,” she sighs. “I imagine that doesn’t please you.”
“It is not pleasant for a captain to abandon ship. Either way, here I am, in your service, for a while!”
If this was a noble, he would have at least attempted to make it sound less sarcastic, though Vasco is clearly troubled by the news. She feels sorry as well. There is no pleasantness in being used, even by one of your own. She oversees all their crates, ensuring the right ones end up for the governor’s house, and then her own. It’ll be the first time in her life living apart from Constantin, and she is glad to be having Kurt, putting together guards for his safety.
At her side, the captain is more subdued now that his authority has been stripped, though his eye is still critical on the proceedings in front of them, the hustle and bustle bound to create errors. When she cannot take it anymore, she speaks.
“You seem mad at me for some reason. Do you still resent the fact that I called your ship, a boat?”
She attempts teasing him, hoping to ease some bit of the frown now latched onto his face, but it does not help.
“It has nothing to do with that. Nobility makes me uncomfortable, I’m sorry if I was rude.”
Now, in this new place, it seems the sea camaraderie has worn off, both once again reminded of their titles, how far apart they truly sit, in name and duty. But Constantin has already walked off with his predecessor, and De Sardet seems forgotten by that part of her life. But it’s just for now. And if Vasco truly intends to help her, then there will be countless instances where he’ll be forced to face nobles, and such awkwardness.
“I can’t blame you. Most nobles are tiresome,” she says, turning away from the alley that her cousin has followed, enthused like a child.
After all, she has made her living bowing and awing at nobles from all over the continent. Constantin is not forgiven from the remark, but she finds him the least tiresome of all.
She turns towards Vasco again, her hand faltering in the air, wanting to place it on his arm, changing her mind at the last moment, knowing it to be overstepping.
“I hope I have at least managed to change the first poor impression of me.”
She doesn’t know or understand why it is so important for her to gain the approval of this sea captain, but after months of sharing close quarters with him and his crew, she is not interested in questioning it. Not when this may as well be the last time she is seeing him: she will not force him into her service.
“You have, I was wrong about you. You are different, I should have realised that sooner. I hope you can forgive my manners, it was foolish of me.”
“Nothing to forgive, captain,” she says, turning the full force of her gaze upon him. “But you will have to choose.”
***
For three days, she unpacks and frets. She sits during meetings intended for Constantin, passing over diplomatic details about the island and their allies and potential enemies, gathers information on their previous delegation, and mostly tries to ignore the way in which a lot of the people stare at her, here.
On the fourth day, Vasco knocks at the door of her estate, early enough that she has not yet left for her meetings, but late enough that he finds her in a presentable state. She smiles, and he is almost smiling back.
“What can I do for you, captain?”
From his chest pocket, he takes out the last of the poetry volumes they exchanged, and he places it on her desk, without looking away from her. For a moment only, she looked crushed, reading in the gesture a final goodbye, but Vasco is more of a coward than she gives him credit for, and he simply wouldn’t have shown up if he decided to refuse her offer.
“I would like to join your party.”
“Truly?” she asks, half incredulous, half delighted.
“Yes.”
“Then, captain, would you like to peruse the governor’s library with me?”
***
After the sudden appearance of Siora, it seems all the more urgent that their diplomatic envoy starts travelling, strengthening ties with its neighbours, of all kinds. De Sardet merely delays enough to unroot the corruption in the middle of their hired swords, and then she leaves. She refuses the caravan, considering it is more important to familiarise herself with this new land, this the best way. Part of her is still scared, of that huge monster that escaped in Serene, and she wants to assure herself that is an outlier, and not her new reality.
Two days in, and too many kills later, she is bored of all the walking. Of course, she doesn’t show it in anything but a sigh, the fourth time they are attacked by bandits on the side of the road. This is a state of safety that her country hasn’t seen in centuries, and of course diplomatic relations break down, if safety of its people, in even something as basic as the main road, cannot be ensured. Neither other state has the men or resources to support travelling merchants, or desperate islanders, and De Sardet adds that to a growing list of concerns.
She fears she won’t ever be able to shorten said list. They are at the beginning, she understands, but it is such a painful and pathetic start.
She sighs once again when at the end of the day, at last they decide to camp, and she can take off the dusty cloak. She prays her things arrived in Hikmet ahead of her, allowing her a proper change of clothes once at her residence, too ashamed to show herself like this in front of its governor. She didn’t have the presence of mind to pack anything beyond an undershirt.
“No offence, but you’re a lady. How are you alright travelling like this, doing all of this?” Vasco asks her, imagining it can’t possibly sit well with her to be sleeping in a tent.
She huddles closer to the fire, the chill of the night starting to seep into her bones, as she tries to gather a response from her tired mind.
“If I don’t ask for anything, then I can take what I want, when I want it, without requiring permission,” she lands on, wondering if she managed to explain the complexity of this presumed modesty, hardship.
But of course Vasco can understand that as well; after all, he has seen her overstepping diplomacy in the name of justice, making choices on the spur of the moment that would have normally required more patience, speaking in Constantin’s name. She shifts in place, to attempt rubbing a stain away from her sleeve, though he knows she has no chance of ever making that happen.
“And,” she continues, “I suppose I am used to it. You’re a captain, people follow you… but I’ve always just been my cousin’s right hand man. Err. Woman.”
She seems a bit awkward for the admittance, forever the diplomat. Of course, if she is known to be this loyal to her cousin, she wouldn’t be allowed to know as many other nations’ secrets. After all, loving a country is different from loving the man ruling it. People seem to underestimate both cousins because Constantin is not prince yet, but De Sardet has known all her life he would be next, regardless, and has spent her life in building his kingdom. But Vasco has kissed enough royal ass to know these two are probably some of the most normal out there, or maybe rather too tangled up with each other, and as such with few care left to give to the outside.
“And what did that entail, if you don’t mind me asking?”
She shrugs, throws a glance at Kurt, him probably her secrets’ keepers as well, having overseen both her and the prince’s training. Vasco cannot begrudge the man, he has done a splendid job.
“Anything and everything, really. Whatever is asked of me.”
There’s nothing else the captain can say after that: both an answer and not one at the same time, the limit of it only Vasco’s imagination.
***
Back when they were ten, before they even started their separate lessons, Constantin not yet on the path of being governor, her cousin first ordered her.
It was a childish wish, like most of the other ones that followed, but she was his so of course she agreed.
Constantin ordered her to break into his father’s study and find proof that the prince loves his son. It was relatively easy, most of the guards and attention focused on the outside threatening in, and adults and not potentially lost noblelings. Of course, she now knows it would have been treason if she was found out, not even her mother capable of saving her, but back then she just wanted to make the most important person in her life happy.
She found nothing. Not one kept present from Constantin, not the start of an emotive crumpled note, not one report on how well the young prince is doing from his tutors. She returned to him after an hour and lies through her teeth, her first and last time.
She simply couldn’t get in, guard always at the ready in the antechamber, her body too big now to fit onto the roof beams.
It was her first and last time failing him too.
***
“De Sardet…” Vasco starts, and no one says anything nice to her by starting with her surname. “I have a favour to ask.”
She has tried to get one of her cousin’s men to pay Vasco for his work under her; the captain has sent the man back without taking the coin each and every single time. He has said he’s being paid by the Nauts still, having lost merely the title and its honour, rather than his full job. So, she wants to repay him in other ways.
“Very well. I’m listening.”
She is not surprised to learn he has been sea-given, she has known from past conversation, when she asked him how he came to travel the seas. She is not surprised to learn his family is affluent either, though she is biased by the fact that she’s found him handsome and gentle, slightly heroic, for quite a while now. But she is surprised by his need to know his origin, by the Nauts’ cruelty in keeping it away from them unless their titles make them worthy of the truth.
“The mystery of my origin has now become an obsession…”
Being stuck on an island promising the future, with no certainty in sight, there is no wonder Vasco feels that need, to connect with some part of his life, especially now that the Nauts refuse him entry within their ranks for the time being. It’s a small request, really, and one that comes from the heart of a man whose presence she appreciates. So she agrees.
Breaking into places is half of her job as it is. The demand to not hurt anyone in the process is the bigger task here, but Vasco is clearly someone born to command, because after a plan A, there’s also a plan B and C. They’re next to the port, playing cards inconspicuously as he relays his information, and he is relying on her skills at keeping a face straight in public, much rather drawing attention to such an activity, than the possibility of rumours growing around strange men visiting De Sardet’s residence: her official office within the governor’s manor.
“I made some inquiries. The harbour office has an… arrangement with Dieter, from the brothel. Girls come every night, with wine.”
She is an excellent multi-tasker, for she places a winning hand down the table, smiling so very pleased with herself.
“You want me to dress as one of Dieter’s girls?”
Vasco sputters, the cards deck in his hands flying everywhere around them as his grip slips.
“I would never!” he almost shouts, embarrassed by her total lack of offence at even thinking of something like that. “I would never ask that of a lady. I was merely thinking of spiking their drinks with a sleeping potion.”
De Sardet straightens herself in her chair, passing the few cards she picked up from the floor back to Vasco, their fingers touching. Neither move it immediately, an apology in the gesture on both sides.
“Pity,” she remarks. “I would have looked quite dashing in…”
“De Sardet!”
Vasco admonishes her before she can finish her sentence, having already done too much damage to his poor nerves, and his attempts at secrecy. Of course, no one actually knows their conversation, but the captain’s facial expression and clear indignation will fuel quite a handful of inspired ideas from the passers-by.
He doesn’t want her to think he is a crass, rude man, though maybe his protests are enough to prove his relatively good intentions. But from the way in which the idea doesn’t seem to affect her, and the kind of trouble she seems to get herself in on the usual, he fears it wouldn’t have been the first time anyway.
He spends the rest of the day trying not to think of the lady in a prostitute’s dress, being looked at and admired even by his siblings. But when she at last shows up, wearing a sailor’s coat, he is undone in a different way by this image: De Sardet as one of his own men, part of his big family. It’s an interesting thought, how her skills would fit in, or how different she would have been if sea-given, but maybe nothing beats the reality, because when she shows up, after long minutes of fretting on his part, she has the scroll with his life’s information in her hands, and no one has even noticed a shadow of hers.
“You’re perfect,” he says, and in the spur of the moment, he forgets all about propriety, and his arms snake around her waist, lifting her off her feet in a quick, joyful spin.
It is her free laughter, hidden in his hair, that brings him back to himself, and he is gentle when helping her back to steady standing.
“That was quite a thanks!” she exclaims, straightening the hat on her head, her smile still on her face, and she still looks so happy, so not offended by the gesture, that Vasco finds a small smile of his own at his lips.
De Sardet remembers then, the comments of his crew, about how bitter their captain is, quick to anger and slow to happiness. She has been on the receiving end of so many of his smiles that she simply cannot agree. Vasco simply hasn’t met the person to make him so, but what kind of unfortunate, poor soul doesn’t wish for joy and peace?
De Sardet, with so few to give outside of her role, makes up her mind to offer the rest up to him.
Still in her sailor’s coat, she joins him at his place. More stretching of the boundaries between them, more unnecessary risk that she’s taking for him, but his hands tremble so hard, on the eve of this realisation in his life, that he is merely grateful when she guides him in the nearest chair, picks up the scroll and undoes the seal herself. She has to come around him, an arm over his shoulder, so close he can smell her perfume, and see the strand of her coming undone at the nape of her neck, so that she can hold it in front of him.
“Is this okay?” she asks, and her eyes not once left his face, not once glanced at the open paper in front of her, waiting for his consent.
“Yes,” he says, and they both turn towards it, reading the truth.
“Leandre d’Arcy,” she murmurs under her breath, and though he knows that it is his name, that it should invoke something inside him, it is just mere spoken words. “I believe you may have a brother…”
The memories are hazy, just a fragment of a name in the midst of hundreds others, and she is not much help beyond that. She wonders, as an only-child, if this blood relation will matter now so much more than Vasco’s everyday choices, but that’s a decision he will have to make on his own. Although her and Constantin are related, she always thought that choice, more than anything else, kept them together all this time: her decision to remain by his side and do everything in her power to help him, his decision to seek his and her freedom at the same time, refusing to escape a cage without opening the door to his cousin too.
“Do you wish you were never given to the Nauts?” she asks, before she can stop herself, though she can only imagine the emotions that Vasco might be going through.
He turns around in his chair, to face her, and from where he is sat, he looks up at her. She feels the unnerving instinct to comfort him, reach out and touch his cheek, and she has to bite her lip to stop it.
“How could I not be regretful? I never got to experience a mother’s love or a lavish youth..” It’s part a criticism, for after all De Sardet has enjoyed both, but she told him once, that nobility is not everything it seems to be, but it’d be a cruel reminder now, in the midst of all he has lost.
“Don’t you have any happy memories?”
And damn it all, she’ll blame it on the one-off weird secrecy of the night, but she leans closer to him, tucking a strand of hair behind his hair, allowing her touch to linger. Vasco closes his eyes, and his face turns, his cheek resting in her open palm. He takes a shuddering breath before he starts talking, and the image he conveys feels more real than her entire life felt to her.
***
She has heard and read about the fanaticism of Theleme at its worst. They’re a missionary state after all, on a quest to convert the whole world to the Light. Of course, De Sardet doesn’t believe in forcing your beliefs on someone, not if they harm, not like how it’s happening in this market, horrified screams of an immense being, the scared wide eyes of a native who doesn’t even understand what is being asked of him.
She hates the inquisitor immediately, on the spot. The sentiment is reciprocated, but after days on the road, she doesn’t have the patience to deal with him in any other way but treat him like the scum at the bottom of her shoes. The sentiment is reciprocated, because the inquisitor turns towards her with some ferocious sense of vengeance, himself incapable of recognising who she is, not seeing beyond her looks.
It’s a strange thing, to be so immediately recognised and categorised based on her mark alone. At least on the continent, people have enough manners to pretend not to notice it. But here, on this far away island, the stares are the best she can hope for, the outright preaching and blame almost the worst of it.
She hurries away from the altercation, promises of later meetings shared around. By the time she shoves past servants, dismissing them with a hand in the air, she’s worked herself up in a huff and she’d just like to be alone. She pulls at the scarf around her neck, fanning her warmed face with the material, and stiffly puts together a bath. After pushing hard on the road, and the type of welcome she hasn’t received since she was eight, she just wants the relief of primness, cleanliness.
She is almost fully dressed by the time a man shows up in the frame, door open to allow the flowery scent of her soap and bath salts to spread in the stale, warm air.
“I… I apologise,” Vasco says, glueing his eyes to the floor, hearing her walking around the room but not daring to see more than he’d already done, her shirt opened, so much skin for his viewing.
“It’s quite alright, captain,” she agrees, too kind about this intrusion which, in any under circumstance, if this has been any other noble, would have cost him his title and maybe his life. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”
“Are you teasing me now, De Sardet?” he says, finally looking up at her; she has sloppily done her buttons up, leaving too many still open around her neck, her collarbone pale and so enticing.
“You’re acting all shy around me,” she points out, using a towel to pat away at the remaining water around her neck. “It’s not like you.”
He coughs, clearly uncomfortable, and he turns to look outside the window, at San Matheus, this cold, barely welcoming city. She spares him having to explain how his heart started racing, how he wanted to kiss a path down her body, starting from her chin down to her belly, wondering how she’d taste on his lips. It’s an…. uncomfortable but not unwanted realisation.
For most of the time together, he has simply thought of her as an extraordinary diplomat, and a noblewoman, but not as… a woman he might desire. To know her so, layered on top of the immense respect he has for her work, has left him unsteady.
“What can I do for you, Vasco?” she asks, and he finally faces her.
Her hair is still undone down her back, so much longer than he would have guessed from her usual tight hair-do, and in the afternoon sun, it looks like it’s glowing, the way the sea sparkles under sun.
“Just… be careful. I do not trust the priests here, they’re hotheaded. You did a good job.”
She has used her firmer voice, changed her stance to look taller than she actually is, as she insisted on her diplomatic right, on her assured safety. She has shown no sign of fear or weakness, and the inquisitor had nothing to latch onto in his quest of demanding religious conversion.
She accepts the compliment with a smile.
He remembers however how polite she remained even afterwards, how she uses the correct title, accepts any request given, even by those that have previously offended her.
“Do you truly not believe in their god?” Vasco asks, even as she knows he of course doesn’t either.
“I don’t believe in any god, let alone one whose servants do something like that.”
Without being aware of doing it, she touches her cheek, where her mark spreads, being the detail that caught the inquisitor’s attention in the first place. In the intimacy of this room, each at one end and just the afternoon silence stretching around them, De Sardet allows herself to be terrified, just for a moment.
“Besides,” she says, shaking herself out of it, “I know that miracles are made by everyday humans.”
Vasco knows, from the rumours in Serene, that De Sardet has left behind a sick and dying mother, the cause that horrible disease that she is now trying to find a cure for. If it’s truly the anger of a divine being, then there is little that just one person, even her, can do to appease or heal. Her heart, most likely, refuses to accept something like that - understandably so. If Vasco had been told that the sickness that killed one of his family members is a curse from a god, he would have started waging a holy war.
De Sardet is better than him for that: she simply smiled and nodded her head and made potential promises that she, clear for those that know her to some extent, has no intention of keeping.
She has not moved her hand away from the marked side of her face. When she catches him staring, she smiles, though it is not reaching her eyes.
“Do you… find it unsightly?”
The answer is quick, surprised to even have to be given.
“No. It’s part of you, simple as.”
***
“How did you not end up like him? You’re literally related to the prince, all the more a noble,” Vasco asks, looking in the direction where his brother has been kept, referring to that foul attitude.
“I am like that if it serves me to seem so. But I’ve been raised for Constantin, and he doesn’t allow space for anyone else’s ego around him,” she jests.
But Vasco, who has been given to an order before he could form any memories of a previous life, who has done so well he was on path of becoming an admiral before his thirties, knows what she means.
“Duty, then.”
She nods her head in quiet acquiescence, looking at him in a way she hasn’t since they’ve been on his ship together.
“Then maybe we are more alike than I thought, and not because of our origins.”
After all, one is a child born for the sea, and the other is a child born for a prince. Both those things ask a life’s worth of commitment.