Archive of Our Own

There is something ugly in Marya’s soul as she picks up Torse’s iron heart. A dark, withering mass of emotions in the vague approximation of the captain she cannot face. As a youth, Marya often said that Comfrey meant everything to her. It is only now she knows the truth of that statement – Comfrey means everything to her. All things good and bad, wondrous and horrible.

Except she doesn’t know the truth. Not really. All she knows is that there is a truth. One Comfrey will not tell her.

One she’s not truly sure she wants to know.

“Are you sure you want this heart back Torse?” She asks, if only to bring her attention back to this moment in time. “Emotions seem like too much trouble to me.” Torse doesn’t answer. He is still and unmoving, a metal statue instead of a metal man. “Ah, you got me. I suppose the mess is worth it.” Marya stills at her own words. “Worth it…” She repeats, holding up the iron heart in front of her. “You know, in the right lighting this looks perfectly golden to me.”

“I see you have gained additional crew.” Torse notes as crew of the Zephyr returns from their second day in Oda, now with the plant grown submersible. “Are they skilled in the ways of deep sea travel?”

“Doubt it!” Marya answers cheerfully and then does not continue. As if two brand new faces about to accompany them to the hidden temple portion of their sensitive adventure should raise absolutely no concern what so ever.

“It is less that they are joining us and more that they are joining together with Diaz and Polaximus.” Maxwell, as ever, understands him. “They’ve been married. In pairs, not a four.”

“Married?” Torse repeats. He has heard of the concept of course, one does not travel long with Comfrey MacLeod without quickly hearing stories of her many marriages and divorces. Zern has no need of the concept, even before Torse was the last of his kind. Those capable and desiring of companionship certainly weren’t clambering at chance to get some member of authority to sign a declaration of their attachment. Still, he had thought the concepts at least similar in practicality. And yet, “is that not rather quick?”

“Oh, you know how it goes with soulmates.” Van claims. Torse does not. The others must, as they share in that ritual of laughter and half sentences that requires a cultural and/or historical context Torse simply does not have. One he never seems to have here on Zood.

“You… you do know about soulmates, right?” Maxwell asks when he notices Torse has remained silent and staring.

“I have not heard of the concept.” Torse’s answer horrifies Olethra if her gasp is any indication.

“What?” She exclaims in such a way that suggests soulmates as some truly fundamental part of a world. Torse doesn’t often feel shame at his lack of awareness of Zoodian and Gathy culture, but something in the way she says it brings the taste of defensiveness to his golden heart. “Do Zernian’s not have soulmates?”

“I cannot answer that question if you do not explain what they are.” Torse points out.

“Of course.” Monty steps in. “Van, would you mind terribly to offer a visual add?” He asks the bosun who is already pulling up the sleeve of her shirt.

“You know me Monty, always happy to show off.” She does just that, practically shoving her upper arm in Torse’s face to show him… some discolouration on her skin? It rests just above where flesh meets metal but the shape of it doesn’t seem to align when any injury familiar to Torse. It looks something like that Gathy writing he’s seen about on the Zephyr – both I and II – although he hasn’t had the time nor need to study the language so well he can read it.

“Is it a… word?” He questions when it seems the crew is wanting for his reaction.

“A word!” Van scoffs. “It’s my Bert’s name!” She says, shoving the arm closer to his visor as if that might make him suddenly able to read Gathy.

“Apologies, the crystals only translate spoken word.” Something it sounds like the crew forgot.

“We call it a soulmark.” Monty explains. “It names your other half. The person whose soul matches yours perfectly.”

“I have seen many a being of flesh with markings before. I did not know they were naturally occurring.”

“Nah, most of those are tattoos.” Marya claims. “Only the names are naturally occurring. They’re usually pretty small and always in the soulmate’s handwriting.”

“Well, naturally occurring might not be the best word for it.” Monty argues. “Their origins are still largely unexplained – although I’m beginning to think those energies we’ve seen could explain them.” He shakes himself from the thought before he can get distracted. “Soulmarks appear when your soulmate says your name for the first time. It’s not always easy to tell them apart from tattoos, although they only fade should your soulmate pass away.”

“And you all have these?” Torse asks, unable to keep from sneaking a glance at Maxwell as he does.

“Heavens no!” Monty laughs. “They’re actually quite rare.”

“Less rare in Zood though.” Van says. “With those two dames we’ve now had three pairs appear on this voyage alone.”

“It does seem much more common here.” Monty agrees. “In Gath I’d say only one in ten people have one, but on this ship alone we’ve had almost ten. That’s more than half the crew! Although I suppose soulmarks have always been more common in travellers.”

“Is there something similar in Zern?” Olethra asks and Torse’s instinct is to say no. Certainly he’s never heard of it, and soulmates seem the type of overly frivolous thing inherent to Gath and Zood.

But… well, the honest answer is Torse simply does not know. He can’t know. There was time for lessons of tradition and myth when he was first crafted, but he has been the last of the Zernai far too long to know them all. Truly, he cannot be sure marriage was not a thing amongst the Zernai, back in that time before the queen and the ruin and the destruction.

Still, denial is on the tip of his tongue. If only to avoid looking vulnerable in front of these people that should, by all rights be strangers.

These strangers that found him covered in blood, and returned his heart to him.

“I do not know.” He admits and finds himself looking at Maxwell as he says it. The words seem easier that way. “If it is as rare as you say it’s quite possible that as our numbers lessened, we grew too few for soulmates.”

“Oh.” The youngest member of the crew mumbles. “That’s… I’m so sorry.”

“What is there to be sorry for? You did not ascend the ruinous queen to our throne, nor direct her actions when she got there.”

“Still…” Olethra mumbles, trailing off as – for a moment – the weight Torse has carried since he escaped Zood seems to settle on her shoulders.

“Who knows, maybe you’ll find your soulmate here in Zood.” Daisuke offers. “Like Monty said, soulmates are pretty common amongst travellers. Can’t imagine there’s greater travelling then Zern to Zood.”

“Perhaps.” Torse says, this time keeping his honest thoughts to himself. He is not really a traveller. He has met many real travellers, heard them talk in that wistful way about the seas or the sky or the land. See the sky-eyed way their faces get. Grown frustrated with their whimsy and frivolity. Torse is not that. Torse is simply an accidental find. The one automata that approached Comfrey offering safety on her first trip to Zern. Torse offers wonders if the woman thought it through when she suggested Torse accompany her back to Zood, or if the moment had been more impulse than decision. Either he is grateful for – Comfrey has given him so much – but he has always felt so out of step with her crew, he doubts she would welcome him if given the chance to make the choice anew.

Torse hopes she never gets the chance to remake that choice. For all he has lamented if his time would have been better spent in Zern, selfishly he does not want to give up the golden heart Comfrey – and Zood – offered him.

Or the man he has met here.

“Are you alright Torse?” Maxwell asks, his expression as concerned as his grapple is strong, which is certainly stronger than Torse thought possible from a being of flesh. “You seem… distracted.”

“My apologies Maxwell. I do not mean for my thoughts to detract from our spar.”

“There is nothing to apologise for.” Maxwell assures before – unfortunately – pulling away from the grapple. “Is it something I can help with?” Torse hesitates.

“I fear the thoughts are rather frivolous.” He admits. “Certainly they will not lead to anything productive in our mission.” Our adventure, as everyone else would put it.

“All the more reason not to let them crowd your mind.” Maxwell claims. He offers Torse a hand that the automata once thought incapable of lifting him. And yet just as he did the first time and every time since, Maxwell helps him too his feet with a muttered ‘hup hup’. Torse does not have lungs to sigh with, but he’s been told before that his vents releasing occasionally sounds very similar.

“I must admit I am still thinking of the conversation this morning. About soulmates.” He says and Maxwell let’s out a slight ‘ah’, looking away for a moment. “I’m sorry, it appears the topic upsets you.”

“It’s not like that Torse.” Maxwell quickly rejects. “It’s simply… complicated I suppose.”

“Complicated?” It hadn’t seemed that way from Monty’s explanation. Maxwell sighs – which Tores supposes does sounds like his vents releasing – and takes a seat to the side of their unmarked wrestling ring, where they usually rest after their matches. Torse is quick to join him.

“Van and Bert are soulmates.” Maxwell states as if that might’ve been in doubt. “But they are…” he pauses, looking for the right word, “they’re something of the ideal, not necessarily the common denominator.”

“Oh? Is there’s not similar to that of the Dames?”

“I… suppose. For now.” Maxwell relents. “But… what I mean is that not all soulmates work out. Just look at Daisuke and Comfrey, they’re soulmates.” Torse did not know that. “Then there are the people that reject their soulmate.”

“Reject them?” Torse repeats and though he has only heard of soulmates today, the thought horrifies him.

“It is… somewhat common in the circles I’m from.” Maxwell admits. “Soulmates – especially romantic ones – are rather inconvenient when you’re supposed to marry for money.”

“But did Monty not imply a soul is not complete without it’s mate?”

“He did. That’s how it works.” Maxwell confirms. “Soulmate rejection is often fatal for one or both of the people involved.”

“That is…” Horrifying. Incomprehensible. Like taking his blades to his own heart.

“It isn’t all bad.” Maxwell quickly claims. “Soulmates can be quite beautiful, even if they aren’t romantic. I’ve heard of platonic soulmates before, and familial ones. The bond only marks someone as important to you, not in what way they are important. Although I suppose the relationship is still rather effortful, and not guarantee like with Daisuke and Comfrey, and I have heard of mortal enemies being soulmates-” Maxwell cuts himself off. “Apologies, I am once more only talking of the negatives.”

“The negatives are important to keep in mind.” Torse assures. “And I must admit they bring me some comfort to know that a soulmate is not some fate you cannot avoid. It was a rather daunting idea to think time so unchangeable that you can be gifted a name and know you are destined for them.”

“Ah, I see what you mean.” Maxwell hums. “Yes, I suppose there is comfort in that.”

“Do you have one?”

“Pardon?” Maxwell startles.

“I’m sorry, I suppose that is a private question.”

“No, I-” Maxwell clears his throat. “It is somewhat private, I wouldn’t recommend asking around causally. But, um, no. I don’t. Or I suppose if I do I haven’t met them yet.” Something in Torse’s chest – something that feels even deeper than his golden heart – reacts to that in a way he’s not sure he wants to fully consider.

He has said Maxwell’s name many times.

“Do you hope to?” Torse asks, if only to keep the silence from stretching too suspiciously. That too makes something in him start to tick just a little too fast, a little too loud. If Maxwell can hear it – and surely he must with the way the noise echoes in Torse’s mind – he doesn’t comment.

“I’m not sure.” Maxwell admits. “It was never truly a possibility for me in Gath. Even if I received a mark it was unlikely I would be allowed to act upon it. And now…” He trails off and then clears his through. “What about you Torse? Do you hope you have one? Even if you aren’t sure the Zernai can have marks?” Now what is a question Torse does not have the courage to ask. Neither does he have the courage to answer the question Maxwell is asking.

“I am starting to suspect we can have soulmarks.” Torse admits instead.

“Did something happen?” Maxwell asks, a little too quickly and loudly.

“Ah, no, nothing like that.” Torse quickly assures and does not know enough about humans to understand the way Maxwell’s shoulders drop slightly at the answer. “But I have noticed there is a Zernai word for soulmates.”

“There is? How can you be sure?”

“The crystals can only translate spoken words and through they do an impressive job, if a word does not exist it cannot be translated. I heard many words from Comfrey with no Zernai translation. The crystal leaves those words as is and I have had to rely on the definitions being translatable. I do not think soulmate is one such word. The way it sounds to me, it is not a sound your vocal chords can make.”

“Ah, I see.” Maxwell says. “That… that makes sense.”

“Of course it’s possible we have the word simply to describe something observed in Zood. I do not know.” Torse suggests. “I suppose I can not know.”

“We will find a way to find out Torse.” Maxwell assures. “I’m certain there has to information about Zern here in Zood, or maybe we’ll be able to find records when we take the Zephyr to Zern itself.” This time the flutter in Torse’s heart is familiar. He felt it the first time Maxwell promised to assistant in Zern’s healing.

“Thank you, Maxwell Gotch.” Torse cannot hope to express his true appreciation in those four words, but he tries. And he tries not to be disappointed to see no new blemish on Maxwell’s skin afterwards. He has already said Maxwell’s name a number of times.

Torse is not a frivolous creature, nor would he ever describe himself as sky-eyed.

But oh is there a rush to a battle hard won. To a battle that could so easily – so clearly – have skewed against them. A battle that did skew against them. Three of the four beacons have been felled, there are tentacles prying their way from the portal, the barrier Comfrey worked so hard to create tithers on the edge of destruction.

And yet, they won. Mordecestershire is dead. And though the Eyeless Hand may not be destroyed, it has certainly been maimed by their efforts here. Torse is not biological, he cannot get drunk, but he imagines this is what it feels like.

And then, all of a sudden, it feels like nothing.

The golden engine hums within their submersible. Where they in the air, Torse likely would not hear it over the sounds of battle, but given they are underwater it’s not surprising it should echo so loud within the ship.

Although it is surprising it should take up so much of his attention. Why did he board? He suddenly can’t remember.

Three of the beacons are dark. The beacons cannot be allowed to fail.

Torse doesn’t realize he’s removed his golden heart until he is staring at it, fitting within the golden engine as if made for it and not him. Without it he cannot feel the horror or panic or betrayal he rightly should. Without it he does not have the motivation to reach for the iron original. Without his golden heart, all Torse can do is stare as a worthy heart ticks away until his vision goes entirely dark.

There is a sluggishness to waking. His systems are powered from most to least vital and though the process is near instant to a human mind, Torse’s is able to keep it up with the fractions of a second it takes between his visual receptors and his capacity for movement to come alive. In those fractions, something becomes very clear.

“My heart… it has been altered.” Torse raises a hand to his chest, covering the iron heart as if that might help make sense of the new indents his iron heart did not always have.

“Don’t look at me.” The voice causes him to do just that and Torse looks up to see Marya. Of course it is Marya, she is the most mechanically gifted of the crew. And though he is grateful to see her – grateful to see anything at all – he cannot help a pang of disappointment that it is not Maxwell’s face greeting him. “I mean, I did plan on altering it, but there wasn’t any room left for my inspiring message.”

“Perhaps for the best. Given what this heart was made for, I would not recommend inspiring rage and violence.” Marya’s face softens in a way completely alien to a metal man such as himself, even her voice seems softer as she replies.

“That was the point of the message. This heart is just as worthy – you are just as worthy as you were before Torse.” She claims. Torse means to reply and yet finds the words don’t come. Oh. This is what humans call ‘choked up’. Oil gathers within his visor. “Besides,” Marya continues, brushing away his tear, “I think that heart can feel more than anger.”

“How can you be so sure?” Torse himself has always been sure of the opposite. Everyone he has met in Zood has been sure of the opposite.

“That alternation you noticed is a soulmark.” Marya answers. Torse does not need to breath, so why does he suddenly feel as though his breath has been taken away? He looks down, although he knows it will do him no good. His heart is tucked away in his chest, completely out of sight, and he doubts he could remove it long enough to inspect it without deanimating once more.

“Were you… were you able to read it?” Torse asks.

“What? You think I would disrespect the privacy and intimacy of a soulmark by reading yours?” Marya asks, her lips just twitching slightly. Torse cannot make facial expressions in any way recognisable to those of flesh, but his lights dim and cools his steam just slightly in what he’s heard called ‘deadpan’. Marya laughs. “Of course I read it. Are you hoping it is something in particular?” She wiggles her eyebrows and Torse looks away.

“No.” He claims.

“Ah, come now Torse, I am not blind.” Marya says. “Do you need me to say it for you?” Torse has not known these people long, but he knows Marya is not making an empty threat. With a steam-expressed sigh, he relents.

“I already know it cannot be Maxwell.” Clearly that’s not what Marya was expecting to hear, her smile disappearing into a confused frown.

“Why not?”

“He does not have a soulmark.” Torse answers easily and oh, he had forgotten how much more he felt within his iron heart. He felt on a tinge in his heart when Maxwell said as much, now he feels a hollowing ache. It is foolish. The hardly know each other. And yet…

“You don’t know that.” Marya claims. “Unless you have seen him naked, have you seen Gotch naked Torse?” No, no he has not and now is not the time for the distraction such a thought brings.

“He told me himself.” Torse quickly tries to move on from such an image.

“Perhaps he was lying.” Marya offers.

“Why need would he have to lie?” Torse frowns.

“Soulmates are… messier than Van and Bert would make you believe.” She says. “Perhaps he feared it was one sided.”

“One sided?” Torse repeats, unable to entirely bury the horror in his tone. “They can be one sided?” Marya offers him a sad smile and a nod before raising her hand to the leather choker. Suddenly, Torse releases he’s never seen her without it. Not even in the mornings we he has joined them for breakfast. She takes it off now and in doing so she reveals a soulmark, one presumably written in Gathy although Torse cannot read it.

“You know, we have superstitions about the placement. I always scoffed at the idea that a soulmark on your neck is destined to choke you, I thought it signalled that I was destined to sing Ludmilla’s praises.” Marya makes a noise like laughter but sadder, more broken. Nothing like the noise Torse has heard echoing through the Zephyr’s halls. “But they were right.”

“And… and she did not have your name?” Torse asks. Marya shakes her head.

“No, she did not. It is not unheard of, for parents or mentors to wear their child’s name unpaired.”

“I know that words do not help any lose, but I am sorry for yours all the same.” Torse offers.

“Thank you Torse.” Marya smiles. “It is foolish but I am hoping, perhaps, that she is somewhere here in Zood.” She replaces her choker and pulls out a small photograph.

“That is a hope I understand.” Torse still hopes – foolish as he knows it is – that he will find another of his kind one day. “Is that her?” He gestures to the photo and Marya nods. She hesitates a moment before holding it out to him.

“My Ludmilla.” Torse takes the photo, aware of all the this must mean to Marya.

“She is…” He trails off. She is certainly… certainly something. Something great and powerful. Something he must protect, he must fight for, he must die for.

For a second time, Torse’s mind is not his own.

Torse has had more than his fair share of second chances. He should have died with the rest of his people, he should have rusted away in Ramansu, he should have slept forever after giving up his golden heart. Endless chances he has been given and yet he has wasted every single one.

He is not hopeful enough to assume he will be given yet more chances.

“Maxwell Gotch.” If these are his last moment there are words he needs to say. “I have always considered you a friend.” And yet he still can’t quite say them. I hope the name on my heart is yours. The last thing he hears – the last thing he will ever hear – is Maxwell calling his name. That’s enough, Torse thinks, enough to allow him the rust that is so desperate to consume him.

Torse is falling.

Nothing else matters. Nothing else even registers for Maxwell. Not the ship, not the Straka, not his rapid approach to Zern.

Torse is falling. He may be made of metal instead of flesh, but Maxwell is certain that a fall like this will turn Torse into scrap. Either Maxwell catches his Torse, or he watches his first friend die. The fear grips his heart hard enough to physically ache – more painful than anything he’s ever felt before. Maxwell cannot let Torse die.

He throws the golden heart back towards the Zephyr II, Maxwell is pretty sure he says something as he does it but he isn’t fully aware of what. The only thing that matters is Torse.

Something slams into him.

“I’m coming with you lot.” Comfrey declares as she collides with him and all Maxwell can think is ‘what if this slows me down?’. It’s not very gentlemanly to throw an old woman to her death but oh if it isn’t his instinct. Instead he forces himself to take a breath. Comfrey has a grappling gun.

“Can you shot that at Torse.” Maxwell doesn’t quite control his tone well enough for it to be a question but Comfrey doesn’t raise any issues. She nods and fires the hook and thankfully – thankfully – it wraps around the metal man who is still falling far, far too fast.

“Come on Torse, come on.” Maxwell begs the disanimated man and the universe and any higher power there is, pulling against the chain in a desperate attempt to slow Torse’s fall. “We’re friends Torse, okay? We’re friends, please slow down.” It’s the first time he’s said it aloud and it cannot be the last. It can’t. Not when Torse is unconscious and dying. “Please!”

Somehow, it’s enough.

It’s not a light landing but it’s light enough and that’s all that matters. Maxwell races to Torse’s body, utterly unaware of the ship debris falling around him. Torse’s heart has been knocked askew from the fight or the fall or something Maxwell wasn’t here too see. He doesn’t think about the Queen, doesn’t think about Torse’s warning. He presses the heart back in to place and desperately scans Torse’s face for any change. “Wake up, wake up.” This time his pleas go unanswered.

“Hm. He seems to have sustained substantial damage.” Maxwell startles at the strange voice, turning to find a small, boxy automaton standing besides him. With his adrenaline as high as it is, he’s lucky he doesn’t punt the creature across Zern. Thankfully, his hands are preoccupied keeping Torse’s heart in place. “My apologies. I am Sandy. It would appear this automata has received damage impacting his hearts ability to power his systems.”

“Can we… Is that fixable?” Maxwell asks.

“Most likely.” Sandy assures and Maxwell starts to breath, until Sandy continues.. “Although it has been sometime since I was awake and active. I am not sure if there are still the facilities for such repairs here in Zern.”

“We’ll figure something out.” That’s Van’s voice. What is she doing on the ground? Maxwell blinks and finally looks around.

“What happened?” Maxwell frowns. The Zephyr is no where to be seen, instead there is a new pile of largely wooden wreckage and two lifeboats.

“Straka happened.” Marya answers and though Maxwell can see her, she sounds as though she’s a hundred miles away.

“A problem for later.” Van states. “Come on Maxie, up you get. You won’t be able to help Torse if we stay here.” Maxwell hesitates, looking back to the metal man whose heart he’s clutching hoping for what, he isn’t sure. Maybe – just maybe – if he looks hard enough Torse might wake up despite his injuries. But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. Van is right. Maxwell removes Torse’s heart carefully, holds it as if it were made of glass, and stows it away.

“Come on then Torse, we must away.” He can’t help but mutter to his unmoving friend, pulling him up onto his back.

“There ya go kid.” Van nods, picking up Bert in a very similar style. “Let’s go then, sooner we’re out of here sooner we can help Torse.”

“Right.”

Despite being a hasty build, the new ship – Maxwell still isn’t sure if Mr Big Britches is meant to be an insult or not – is surprisingly spacious. Between that and their sparse crew, it’s not too difficult to find a private room in which to settle himself and Torse. A private room in which he’s supposed to be resting. As refreshing as Maxwell finds a good fight, the crash afterwards is not light. And that’s without considering the emotional exhaustion he’s feeling. The crew knows it, it’s why the scheduled him the last of the watches. Maxwell knows it, it’s why he didn’t protest.

And yet he can’t seem to close his eyes. Can’t seem to look away from Torse. The last time he did that, he almost lost his friend forever. Maxwell clutches a hand over his heart and continues to stare.

“Thought I might find ya still awake.” Van sighs as she pokes her head into the little space he’s claimed. Maybe ‘private room’ was too generous a term. ‘Spacious closet’ is likely a bit more accurate.

“You know how it is.” Maxwell shrugs a shoulder and still can’t manage to tear his eyes away from Torse to look at her. “We are in enemy territory it’s only right I remain aware of my surroundings.”

“You aint anywhere of anything but Torse.” Van argues, her point proved in the way Maxwell flinches when she settles next to him. “He’s going to be alright Maxwell.”

“You said that last time.” Maxwell can’t help but mutter even thought he knows it’s childish.

“Last time was different.” Van claims. “We didn’t know about… well, you know.” She quickly glances to see if Marya is in ear shot but even on confirming she’s not, Van can’t say Ludmilla’s name.

“And what if this time it’s different in some other strange way we don’t know?” Maxwell asks. Van sighs.

“I don’t think he’d want ya watching him like this.” Van tries a different approach.

“Someone has to.”

“I can take a few hours to do it for you.” Van says and even at the thought Maxwell’s shoulders relax some. He hadn’t realized he trusted Van so much. Still…

“It’s quite alright.” Maxwell claims. “You have Bert to worry about.”

“Aye, I do.” Van agrees. “That’s why you can trust me to look after your lovey.” Maxwell’s next words die on his tongue, face turning red as he tries to stutter out a denial. “Oh come off it, nothing gets passed a crew like ours Maxwell.”

“There is nothing to get passed you.” Maxwell argues. “He isn’t my-” He flushes darker at just the thought of the word. “We aren’t dating.”

“’Course you are.” Van rolls her eyes. “Marya already told me about Torse’s soulmark, you know.”

“What soulmark?” Maxwell frowns. “Torse doesn’t have a soulmark. He’s not sure Zernai can get them. He told me himself.” Why would he lie?

“His golden heart ma’not have had a soulmark but the iron one sure as shit does.” Van claims. Maxwell frowns a little deeper.

“Well I don’t have a soulmark.” He points out, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone. Torse has a soulmate. It’s fine that it isn’t Maxwell. It’s fine. Van raises an eyebrow at him, waiting with that judgemental expression on her face before she eventually gives up and sighs.

“Kid, ya been rubbing a hole into your chest since we got here.” She claims and Maxwell immediately stops doing so, only now aware that he had been.

“It’s sore.” He claims.

“That’s ‘bout what I said when mine came in. Come on, shirt up.”

“What? Van! I am not lifting my shirt!” Maxwell refuses immediately, his face turning red again as Van reaches out with hand and tentacle to do it herself.

“Why not? I’ve seen you shirtless plenty of times.” Van points out which, well, might be true. Perhaps. But really isn’t the point.

“That’s different!” Maxwell claims, growing increasingly concerned that his shirt is about to be ripped.

“Look, you say you don’t have a soulmark I say you do. Easiest way to prove one of us right is to check.” Van huffs, tugging a little harsher. All of Maxwell’s shirts were destroyed with the Zephyr and he doubts they’ll stumble on a clothing store in Zern so, with a huff, he gives up.

“Fine!” He declares and this time Van lets him move away. Muttering under his breath about how ridiculous she’s being, he pulls off his shirt to reveal his bare chest. “See? I told you.”

“You aint the one who just won the argument kid.” Van says, staring right at Maxwell’s heart.

“What?” Maxwell frowns, raising a hand to the spot she’s staring. It doesn’t feel like there’s anything there although he supposes the area is perhaps a bit tender.

“Oi! Sandy! Get in here!” Van calls out to the rest of the ship. She pulls her mirror from her pocket and pointedly hands it to him.

“I don’t think this is an appropriate use for that.” Maxwell argues, nerves starting to bubble away in his chest.

“Just look.” Van orders. “Don’t make me use the whistle.” Hesitating a moment more, Maxwell takes the mirror and angles it so he can see his chest. There, right over his heart, is a mark. A soulmark. It’s not written in Gathy, or in any language Maxwell has studied. But it is the slightest bit familiar. He traces a finger along the sharp, occasionally overlapping lines unable to tell when one letter begins and one letter ends.

The trip from Ramansu to Oda feels like a life time ago now. He and Torse had discussed the Zernai language then, when Maxwell was showing him about the ship and helping Torse grow more familiar with the Gathy signs detailing each room. The Zernai language is carved with blades. Sharp angles and long strokes, messages are conveyed through the number of strokes, how they overlap, and the depth with which they’ve been carved. Torse had translated the Mess Hall sign to best illustrate the language.

Maxwell hadn’t had the guts to ask Torse what his name looked like in his own hand.

“Is everything alright?” Sandy asks as he joins them, looking first to Torse who has – obviously, upsettingly – not moved.

“You can read Zern, right?” Van asks.

“Zernai.” Sandy corrects. “But yes, of course.”

“What’s that say?” Van gestures to Maxwell’s chest, to the mark he is still studying intently.

“Oh!” Sandy startles. “A Zernai soulmark, how wonderful.”

“Then soulmates are a thing in Zern?”

“Why of course.” Sandy assures. “Rare, as they are everywhere. The names appear on our mechanical hearts, as that is where most of our well, soul for a lack of a better term resides. It is why the Queen was so thorough in removing them.”

“Is it common for automata to have non-automata soulmates?” Van continues to ask questions that Maxwell would be very interested in if he wasn’t still wrapping his hand around his soulmark. It can’t be Torse, can it? The man has said his name countless times.

Except he’s only said it once with his iron heart.

“Certainly it is not unheard of.” Sandy confirms. “Always over the heart. Actually, I’ve heard it’s deep enough to reach the physical heart. Or at least that is the theory for why it hurts so much.”

“It did hurt.” Maxwell mumbles. He always heard soulmarks weren’t supposed to hurt, maybe that’s why he didn’t realize. “I was just… a bit distracted trying to catch him.” Van whistles.

“Who knew the least sky-eyed of the crew would get the most romantic soulmark.” She teases.

“Can you read it?” Maxwell asks, finally looking away from his mark to Sandy. “I need to be…” sure, he doesn’t say. The hope of it is too much for him.

“Well, I must admit the language seems to have changed some in my years within the Straka.” Sandy says which, Maxwell supposes, makes sense. The repair bot doesn’t appear to have any sort of blades with which to write. “But if the letters have not completely unrecognisable, then I believe it says Torse.” He doesn’t quite say the automata’s name right and Maxwell means to correct him, he really does, but he’s a bit busy feeling his heart skip a beat.

“Ya might wanna give that iron heart of his a second glance.” Van encourages, grinning. “We’ll leave you to it.” She directs Sandy from the room. “Oi! Stop ya lollygagging and get back to work!” She shouts as she does – Maxwell does not want to consider how much of the crew has been eavesdropping, nor for how long they have been. He settles back against the wall, across from Torse, and for all he couldn’t keep his eyes off the metal man earlier now he struggles to even steal a glance at him.

At his soulmate.

Maxwell’s heart flutters again at just thinking the word. Soulmate. He’d been so disappointed the first time Torse said his name. Some part of him had been convinced – had known, apparently – that it would bring with it the tingling sensation he’d read about it. When it hadn’t, he’d been unable to contain his frown. And then he’d been annoyed with himself for even being annoyed in the first place. He’d literally just met the automata, what was there to be disappointed about?

That disappointment had grown when they discussed soulmates. At least by then there had been reason to feel it. Although not really. Maxwell had never wanted for a soulmate back in Gath. He’d always known that even if he had one, it’s unlikely he’d be able to pursue such a connection. People of his station rarely could, people of his inclination all the more rarely.

His station – his father – would never permit him to be Torse’s soulmate. But then, what does he care about his station now?

“Gotch’s stay on the ground.” That is the life his station would permit. Investment only in the financial sense, never the emotional or the physical. Maxwell threw away the restraints of his station the moment he stole the Zephyr, gave them up entirely when he arrived in Zood. He already broke the golden rule – a rule he suspects more and more that Cadswitch did not obey – why should start caring about it now?

Besides, he certainly couldn’t give a shit about what disappointment Longspot would express about that partner fate has called him towards. Maxwell is going to murder him. It might make the it better to disappoint Longspot while he’s doing it.

But he’s getting ahead of himself already imagining a life within which he and Torse are… Soulmates can be platonic, of course, and Torse didn’t expression any desire to have a soulmate. In fact it’s entirely possible Torse doesn’t have one and Marya simply misunderstood what she was looking at.

Except Maxwell can feel it.

Where his soulmark is flush against his skin without the hint of a bump, Torse’s is engraved into the metal of his heart. Maxwell can trace the letters. He has been tracing them. Idling as he holds the heart gently in his hand. Those are Gathy letters. Gathy letters Maxwell is very, very familiar with. And yet he is terrified to look. What if he is projecting? What if he’s misunderstanding? Perhaps it is just a similar feeling name. Perhaps it is not Gathy at all.

Gotch above, if it turns out Wealwell is Torse’s soulmate Maxwell is going to lose it.

He has to make sure it doesn’t say Wealwell.

But… but isn’t this intrusive? Shouldn’t he wait until Torse is awake once more to ask about the mark? Is it truly okay to be doing this? This is Torse’s heart.

It’s probably doesn’t say Wealwell. Maxwell would have noticed if the name had a third L. Right? Right.

Right?

He needs to check.

Maxwell shuts his eyes as he positions the heart so he can read it and for a very, very long moment he doesn’t open them. Then he manages a peak. Just a quick one. Enough to confirm the name does end in ‘well’. Actually, worse than Wealwell would be Hatwell. Torse cannot be Hatwell’s soulmate. He deserves so much more than that. If Maxwell has to choose one of his brothers, please let it be Samwell. The man is so reasonable. Torse would appreciate that. Even if it would kill Maxwell a little bit more each day.

Please. Please. Please.

He forces his eyes open once more.

Maxwell, written in his own hand and craved into an iron heart stares back at him.

For a moment, Maxwell cannot breath. And then he cannot contain his excitement. He lets out a laugh, a disbelieving, happy thing, and looks up-

To find Torse sitting just as he was before. Just as Maxwell left him when he settled the cast iron man within the room.

Maxwell clutches the heart a little bit closer to his chest.

Torse, to his utter shock, wakes up once more. Or maybe he’s in some form of afterlife. Zernai have no concept of such a thing but he’s heard the mutterings from the religiously inclined Zoodians and Gathy before. Some wondrous place for the deserving, and hell for the rest. Torse does not know what hell would look like for automata, but sitting in a room piled with mechanical corpses listening to a moronic toad sing certainly seems fitting for such a title.

Except it cannot truly be hell. Not once he has found Maxwell once more. Even a wondrous afterlife cannot match conjure what he feels when he sees his friend’s face light up.

“Torse!”

“Maxwell!” The words they share are less important than the simple fact that they are sharing words. Torse presses his forehead gently to Maxwell’s forehead and though he does not have lungs, he feels suddenly feels he can breath. It is as though a loose cog within him has once more slipped into place.

Oh, if only he had the time to relish in Maxwell’s presence. But water is rushing towards them and given his last brush with being submerged, Torse is not in a rush to repeat the experience.

Torse is – first and foremost – a solider. He was created after the Queen of Ruin came into power, after the net between Zood and Zern caught it’s prey. His has been a long life but it has not been a vast one. He has not known peace and comfort and plenty. Not in the permanent way that they now stand before him. It is everything he has ever wanted.

And yet some part of him feels hollow.

What is he now that his purpose is completed? The battle is won, the Aganti Zernai are returned. There is no need of a hastily, desperately built solider that barely remembers the greetings of his own people.

“Torse?” Maxwell finds him sitting at the back of the Zephyr. Even here he is not safe from the sounds of a party he was created to prompt but not enjoy.

“Maxwell.” Torse straightens up some. “You should be partaking in the festivities.”

“So should you.” Maxwell says softly, settling into the space next to Torse. He is unbothered by the sharp edges welded onto Torse’s form, although he has to be careful of them. It has never bothered Torse before but then, they have never seemed so pointless before. What need does anyone have of sharp edges in a world that is not at constant war?

“I fear I would only bring injury. Most are not careful enough even without the addition of alcohol.” Torse states.

“That wouldn’t be your fault.” Maxwell assures.

“But it may cause problems when the political decisions begin.” Because that is what comes next isn’t it? Political decisions and rebuilding. Torse hasn’t spared the thought to such possibilities in hundreds of years.

“I’m sure you’d be able to smooth over any issues.” Maxwell says, brushing away Torse’s concerns. “You spoke incredibly before the battle.”

“I merely spoke truth, you are the one that was convincing.” Torse argues. “Without you I… I am not sure the engine would have been destroyed in time.”

“You should have more faith in yourself.” Maxwell huffs. It is too dark to make out the blush on his checks, but Torse supposes it must be there by the way Maxwell looks away. “You’d have done fine without me.”

“I’d still be the last of my kind without you.” Torse points out. He can still see it so clearly. Maxwell ringing the bell and the lights of Aganti Zernai returning to his home. Torse hadn’t realized how lonely he was before that moment, didn’t truly understand the weight of being the last until it was suddenly gone.

Of course, all of it has flooded back to him since. He may be of the Zernai but he… he has lost so much and been so changed by Comfrey and Zood he isn’t sure they would welcome him.

But for that moment he had felt so light he might’ve been made of feathers instead of iron.

“They are among those celebrating.” Maxwell says softly.

“I am glad.” And unsurprised. He is likely the youngest of all the Zernai, few were created so late in the Queen’s reign that victory is so foreign a concept as to be utterly inconceivable. “I… I do not know what a Zernai celebration looks like.” Torse doesn’t really mean to admit it. It sounds so… vulnerable. Nothing about his creation intended for vulnerability. But, well, it is Maxwell he is talking to. Somehow that makes it feel… right.

“When we first arrived in Zood, I did not know what adventure looked like.” Maxwell says. “I… Before we left Gath it was all rather, simple really. We were gathering the crew and then, I don’t know, I think I expected to be left at port somewhere. That was how my grandfather always made it seem. Gotch’s aren’t meant for the sky.” The words are clearly hard for Maxwell to say and doesn’t quite look at Torse as he says them, fiddling with the bruises on his skin that he used to hide behind his gloves.

“And even arriving in Zood that… as far as I was concerned that was pretty much it for the ‘adventure’ portion. Yes, we needed to find Comfrey but proving Zood was real was enough to righten my grandfather’s name and everything after…” He trails off, searching.

“It’s not what you were built for.” Torse finds the words for him.

“Yes.” Maxwell takes a shaky breath. “That’s a good way to put it.”

“I disagree.” Torse says. “I have seen you in the everything after, you were- you are incredible. Certainly you were built for this, even if you did not know it.”

“Well I…” Maxwell clears his throat. “I don’t know that I’d have put it quite that way but, but I suppose that was my point.” He looks at Torse, and though the light of the stars is dimmed some by the celebration behind them and the last remains of the fight, Maxwell is lit by the light of Torse’s visor. By Torse himself. Something about that makes Torse feel a way he certainly was not built to feel. “You were built for the war and ruin face in Zern, but that does not mean you weren’t built for everything after.”

“I am not sure the same… flexibility exists amongst people of metal as it does people of flesh.”

“I think it does.” Maxwell swallows and Torse watches the movement, fascinated in ways no one else has ever made him feel. “Have you…” He clears his throat again. “You told me once that your iron heart was built for rage and battle.”

“It was.”

“But that’s not all it’s capable of all. I mean…” He raises a hand to Torse’s chest, settling it over the ribs that protect his iron heart. Torse has never wanted protection less. “You were right, before, when you guessed that Zernai also have soulmates.” Torse thinks that if anyone else told him, he would feel only shame that they knew for certain before he did. But this Maxwell, and so the shame does not outweigh the warmth – the joy – of having figured something out for himself. Even if he knows he shouldn’t’ve had to.

“Yes, it would seem there is a name craved into my heart. It was not always there.”

“Have you read it?” Maxwell asks, and something about his tone is… no one has ever spoken to Torse in a tone like that. He is not… unfamiliar with being object of lust and he supposes the tone reminds him of that but there is… there is something more to the way Maxwell speaks. Something Torse can feel echoing within his marked heart.

“No.” He says. “Marya did not get the chance to tell me what it said.” She did, in a way. In a way that Torse could draw his our conclusion, but not in a way that he would feel confident of that conclusion.

“Sandy read mine to me.” Maxwell says and again, Torse does not need to breath, so why does it feel like he has breath to pause? “But he isn’t familiar with modern Zernai.”

“No, I suppose he would not be. He does not have blades.” Maxwell’s hand moves from Torse’s chest and automata’s sight glues himself to it as he Maxwell slowly – hesitantly – removes his shirt. It is an act Torse has seen countless times before in the context of battle – both the life threatening kind and the intimate kind that comes with sparing – but this… this feels different.

Torse had noted Maxwell did not remove his shirt for their final battle atop the Straka. It hadn’t felt appropriate to ask.

It doesn’t feel appropriate to raise his hand to trace the name written a top the place Torse knows to rest hearts of flesh. This time the feeling does not stop him.

“Read it to me.” Maxwell breaths the words so close to Torse’s face plate that the breath clings to his metal.

“Read mine.” Torse requests in turn and with his free hand he opens his ribs. Vulnerable is not a strong enough word to describe an act he does with a hardly a thought. Maxwell does not need to look as his hand rests atop Torse’s iron heart. Cogs and gears and metal shudder at the warmth of his hand.

“Maxwell.” The man whispers his own name. Torse cannot whisper. His vocal box does not have the capacity for volume. He was built to either speak or be silent. Torse has learnt the ways to manipulate his voice in anger, to seem louder even when he’s functionally speaking the same. He has never had need to sound quieter. Torse can only hope he manages to do so now, or at least that he sounds as reverent as this moment deserves.

“Torse.” He reads his name as it is written – as it marked – across Maxwell’s skin. Maxwell presses up closer to him, arms wrapping around Torse’s neck as he presses a kiss to the metal man’s face plate. Torse cannot reciprocate the gesture but he presses closer to Maxwell all the same, one arm wrapping his waist while the other presses against the ground, offering them some support as Torse leans more and more into Maxwell’s space, forcing the man to lean back as the physics of matter keeps them from occupying the same exact space. Maxwell’s lips are soft and warm against his metal skin, his breath tangling with the steam that vents quicker and quicker from Torse’s body. It’s perfect. Torse could stay like that forever. But Maxwell needs to breathe. He pulls back only as much as necessary, breathing heavily against Torse’s face – panting, Torse has heard the action called although the term hardly seems as important as the feeling of Maxwell’s chest rising and lowering against his still open ribs.

“I-” Maxwell tries although he doesn’t yet have the breath to make a full sentence. Torse likes that quite a bit. “I was supposed to have a point before I got distracted.”

“I quite like the point you made instead.” Torse says and oh he must be steaming quite a bit, the chords of his vocal box having changed as steam heats it more than it should. He should probably care for the damage, instead he decides he’d strip vocal chords himself if means making Maxwell shiver like that.

“It’s a good point.” Maxwell claims, although he’s easily distracted once more when Torse presses close again.

“Your point, my heart.” Torse encourages when they break once more for the sake of Maxwell’s lungs. He is rewarded for the term with a noise that Maxwell quickly ties to muffle, one that reminds Torse of when he gets the upper hand in their spars.

“You can be more than what you were made to be – you are more than what you were made to be.” Maxwell says, shutting his eyes so that he can focus on the words he must have prepared. “Joy might not come easy to you Torse, but it does come. That’s more than a solider needs to function. That you continue to live, even outside battle, that you wanted this war to end. It’s all proof that you aren’t just a solider.” Not just a solider. Torse forces himself to truly hear what Maxwell is saying. Maxwell would not lie to him and so for all it feels unbelievable, it must be true mustn’t it?

“Just as you are more than what you were made to be.” He says and Maxwell smiles, lets his eyes open once more.

“Exactly.” He murmurs. “Let’s be more Torse, together.”

“Together.” Torse agrees and closes the distance between again.