He was late.

Landis Argent was not a man who liked to be kept waiting for long. Every second was precious time that could have been devoted to something else. Even when it came to clandestine meetings carried out behind closed doors… in the dead of the night.

He’d selected this man for the job because Landis had heard the rumors. Hard not to, really. An untraceable killer, as silent and deadly as he was unknowable. Survivors could not accurately recount his face or any aliases he might have used. Armed compounds were like child’s play to him. There were even rumors that he had somehow broken his way into the very bowels of PlatinumCorp’s flagship, and escaped without any harm to his person. He was not merely a contract killer. If you were in the sights of his all-seeing eye, he was an inevitability.

All whispered rumors and hearsay. Enough to intrigue Argent, who could make use of such a particular set of skills. So he’d sent off a letter to people who knew people, and people who could get him in contact with such an untouchable figure. But what those rumors had not indicated, apparently, was the man’s capricious relationship with punctuality.

It had been an hour by now since their agreed-upon meeting time, and there had been not been so much as a peep from the oh-so-great assassin. Argent looked up from his desk, where he’d angrily been scribbling away at paperwork for the past hour or so, growing more agitated the longer time passed. He had the feeling he’d been made a fool of, and he rather detested that someone had dared toy with him in such a way.

He stood, slamming his pen down on the table. “I’m done waiting.” He announced to an empty room, moving to grab his jacket off the back of his chair when he spotted a silhouette in the corner of the room, near the window.

A man.

He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of the tall, elven man leaning against the windowsill with his arms crossed, staring right at Argent. His eyes seemed to bore into Argent’s very soul, knowing. The scare made his skin crawl, but he would not show fear. He heard assassins could smell that weakness like a bloodhound on the scent. Instead, Argent cleared his throat and put on an air of authority. He would not feel small in the presence of such a man. He was the one in control here.

“Took you long enough.” He barked, voice gruff. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show. I don’t like being stood up.”

The Specter shifted his stance, taking a step out of where he’d been partially hidden in the darkness by the curtains, allowing Argent a better look at him. One eye silver, the other pure, empty black - and the lower half of his face obscured by a cloth. Argent had thought that being able to put a face to the title, mortal flesh to a legend, would make the man less frightening to gaze upon.

It did not.

The Specter then tilted his head, every movement silent. Muffled.

“Oh, I have been here for an hour now.”

Argent’s blood ran cold. “What?”

“I arrived at our agreed-upon time, but you looked rather busy, so I decided to observe.”

… This entire time, and I never even noticed him?

Suddenly Argent was quite glad that he was the one with the money to guide this man’s blade and not any of his enemies. He straightened, meeting the assassin’s gaze head on, comforted by this fact. The man was a living weapon. He could be purchased as easily as any fine blade. Argent could control him.

“I suppose your hiding skills are passable. The rest is yet to be seen.” Argent dismissed. “Now. I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve brought you here.”

“The same reason anyone has need of me, I’d wager.”

Argent scowled. “I suppose you think you’re clever, don’t you? No, I think you’ll find that I have a matter of business quite different than what you’re used to.”

The Specter remained silent, but his eyes glimmered with interest.

Good.

“… In a few weeks, there will be a ship departing from Eclipse City for the Capitol. The Judeia. A luxury ship, not one for cargo runs - its purpose is to provide an elegant method of travel for esteemed businessmen and important people.” It had all the amenities one could want. A ballroom, dining halls… there was rumor that there was even a wading pool and heated springs on the deck. All stocked for the right people. “On this ship, there will be a man. Virion Zirona. Human. Twenty-seven. He is going to board the Judeia with his wife and partake in the voyage to Sol City. And on this journey, an assassin hired by his his rival, will kill him in his sleep.” Argent paused, leaving a pregnant silence in his wake. “I cannot allow that to happen.”

“You want me to protect him.”

“I have a vested interest in his fortune.” Argent did not elaborate. It was not important information for a hired hand.

“An odd job for an assassin.” The Specter commented.

“Who better to play a murderer’s games than a murderer?”

If the Specter was bothered by this backhanded comment, it did not show on his face. Not much did, really. It was difficult to get a read on the man, and that made him nervous. But if he was going to make his bed with killers then he may as well lie in it. “One lousy hitman shouldn’t be too difficult for you to take care of.”

“In a ship on the water full of people where I have no idea who I’m supposed to be looking out for.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be one of the best?”

The Specter said nothing. Argent wasn’t sure if it was his eyes playing a trick on him, but the shadows cast by the dim candles seemed to grow colder around them. Darker.

“… Some might call me that.”

“Oh, don’t give me that fake humble bullcrap. You have a reputation for someone who can get anywhere and see anything. Nothing escapes your watchful eye. Can I trust you to carry out this mission or will I have to find someone else?”

Steely eyes bore into him once more. “I can carry out the mission. Infiltrate. Protect Virion Zirona. Find the assassin after him. Dispatch the enemy.” There was a smoothness to his voice, as if he were casually discussing the weather with an acquaintance - but there was conviction there. “Do I have that right?”

“Good.” He nodded, satisfied. “You’ll get paid upon completion of the job once the ship arrives at Sol City. And only then.” But the reward would be a handsome one.

The Specter bowed.

“Understood.”

Argent turned, showing his back to the assassin as he began walking away - at least until one small detail occurred to him. He turned back, casting the Specter one last look. “… Oh, and another thing. This trip is a couples only getaway. However you sneak in… keep that much in mind.”

He shut his office door behind him, leaving the Specter alone in the room. He didn’t bother to see if the assassin left or not. If he had trouble getting out of a single locked room, then gods help him on a ship stranded in the middle of the ocean.

---

… A couple’s cruise.

Cyran had taken odd jobs before now, but nothing as involved or as different as this. A ship was a dangerous place to carry out an assassination - whoever had decided to carry out such an attack in a death trap was either quite talented at what they did, or quite stupid. Given that Cyran was about to attempt the same thing, he was struck with the feeling that they were both a couple of fools.

He had not intended to bring anyone along with him.

Cyran’s first thought was to disguise himself as a member of staff. There was no need to drag someone into this work - his mind had originally drifted to Zarius, but the man was far too busy for Cyran to ask for his help on this matter. Not to mention he was not sure how readily the young man would take to playing as a couple, no matter how much his skill with smooth talking would be beneficial here. Yes, better for Cyran to pose as a servant. Unseen, blending into the background, able to listen out for anything.

But then Del caught him as he was packing, a bright smile on her face as she asked, “What are you doing there?” And Cyran found his resolve crumbling. He found it was incredibly difficult to lie to her about anything, really. He told her as much as he could, skirting around the true nature of his profession as best he could. That he’d been given a covert protective mission, one that might end in death. That he’d be on a ship with guards and killers alike. There was a concerned expression on her face, one that only grew the more Cyran spoke. When he finished, she picked herself up from when she was leaning against his doorframe, and simply said, “That settles it, then. You’re not going alone.”

“What?” Cyran blinked, taken aback by her firm insistence, as if that was simply that. Like it was only natural she would accompany him. “Oh, Del… I could never ask this of you.”

"I know." She gives him a small, knowing smile. "That's why I'm coming with you. I would follow you into hell, if that was what was needed. And to be honest; this does sound a bit like hell."

Cyran had barked out a startled laugh at that. “What have I done to earn such fierce loyalty from you?” He asked, a smile on his face. Though there was a lingering doubt in his eyes. He didn’t believe himself worthy of her conviction. But in the face of the fire burning in her eyes, warm and gentle and ever present as the flames that burned in her forge, Cyran could not say no to her.

… Perhaps the only thing that could have been more mortifying than accepting Del’s trust and help was having to explain what their cover would be.

She took it fairly well, all things considering.

---

The Judeia was possibly the grandest ship Cyran had ever seen in his life.

Perched in the docks of Eclipse City, the pristine white vessel towered over the slim fishing boats and squat cargo ships. It was elegant and refined, its name emblazoned in shining gold on the side. Every aspect of it, from its design to the people already lingering on the deck, was dripping with opulence. Nobles mingled about, chatting happily while servants brought trunks of clothes and pearls to their rooms aboard the ship. Amongst the chaos of boarding, two elves, dressed in finery and jewels, made their way up the plank connecting the dock to the ship, arm in arm. They blended into the surrounding crowd of nobles perfectly, if one did not pay attention to the too-sharp gaze in the male’s only visible eye and the thick, corded muscle in the woman’s arms.

Two killers hidden beneath layers of satin and silk and pearls.

Cyran could feel Del’s apprehension lingering in the back of his mind the further they drifted from solid ground. Nothing showed on her face beyond the set of determination on her face, and an overwhelming focus on the task at hand. Was she nervous? It was difficult for Cyran to parse through her emotions and dig to the root cause of such turmoil, not when he was keeping an eye on their surroundings, looking for anything that might be out of place. He gave her arm a gentle squeeze.

When they reached the top of the boat, there was a well-dressed dark elf servant waiting for them. He tapped a quill against the ledger, eyeing Cyran and axel expectantly. “Your names?”

“Illias.” Cyran responded without hesitation - an old, familiar alias, one that would be easy to slip into. He looked at Del, a lovestruck expression. “Illias and Elenithildin Mellora.”

The servant hummed, flipping through his paper before giving them both a satisfied nod. “We’ve been expecting you.” He turned around and rummaged through the cabinet behind him before producing a brass key for the two, handing it to Cyran, who tucked it in his pocket. “You two are in suite 204. Please, enjoy your stay.”

Securing passage on the ship was the easy part, one that had only required a bit of forgery. Actually keeping up the ruse for the duration of the voyage, that would be the true challenge.

Some of the wait staff directed the two below deck, where an event was to take place soon. “We set off for Sol City in an hour. All guests are welcome to attend a gathering in the ballroom and mingle amongst one another.”

Cyran wanted nothing more than to retire to his room and rest, and he was certain that Del wished the same. But they couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get a cursory look at the others that might be in attendance. The two shared a look before making their way down to the lower floors, where the ballroom was quickly filling with guests.

And what a gilded sight it was.

If it was even possible, the ballroom was even more grandiose than the rest of the ship. Crammed inside were guests in fashions from all over, not just Moonglade. Lively music drifted through the air from the group of bards in the corner strumming away with no signs of stopping. The perfect picture of everything Cyran hated in nobility.

“Why don’t you go find us a place to sit and talk?” ‘Illias’ whispered to his companion, the message clear in his voice. We split up at first, cover more ground, and scope out the room. “I shall secure drinks for us.”

He waited for Del’s nod to let go of her arm, briefly lamenting the loss of contact. They would only be split for a few moments while Cyran investigated and grabbed champagne, but the nerves still lingered.

Del will be fine, he told himself. She is a capable warrior.

His mind was still lingering on her as he scouted the room.

Nothing of note yet - he could not spot the target nor anyone that looked immediately out of place. He did spot a few darkened corners and exits to kitchens and serving chambers that would be ideal for an assassin to slip through, which he filed away to keep an eye on through the evening. With nothing else standing out to him, he grabbed two drinks from one of the waiters bustling around, before hastily scanning the crowd for a head of familiar curls. Eventually, he spotted her on the other side of the room, having somehow found empty seats for both of them in the crowd. He made his way over, breezing through the crowd. No one paid him much mind, as usual.

For someone who claimed to be uncomfortable in her attire, Del couldn’t look further from it. Where she sat in a chair at one of the round, cloth covered tables, Cyran thought she outshone every other woman in the room in her earthen-colored gown. He sat down next to her, handing her one of the glasses.

Play the part of the suave, doting husband.

He had to stay focused on the task at hand.

“Are your heels bothering you, Elen?” He asked, bending over to take off his loafers. Proprietary be damned, he didn’t want Del to be uncomfortable. Especially if they were going to need to move at a moment’s notice. “Here, you can wear mine for now. I’ll go barefoot.”

Illias and Elenithildin Mellora. Husband and wife.

The stage had been set. Cyran only hoped they could find their target before the killer could… wherever he was lurking.

---

SPOILER: Click to show

Quest Name: Royal Escort
Participants: Two or more
Location: Anywhere
Post Requirements: 4 post per person, 200 words per post
Reward: +1 Renown
Description: A local noble is in need of an escort from one city to the next. With the world getting crazy, all kinds of dangers have become more common on the open road. They are willing to pay good money to anyone who can transport them to their destination. But be careful, their fears are valid, for bandits, wolves, and all kinds of creatures of the wild lurk right around the bend. All you need to do is make sure they get from their home city to the neighboring city alive, and unharmed if you can manage.

Her surmisings had been right; this was a special sort of hell.

The large ship was opulent in every respect, from its sheer size to the wood use to make her; some sort of alabaster pine, ostensibly from Frost Gale. And every which way she looked, there were people dressed head to toe in finery, perfect decorations for such a grand and imposing ship. She and Cyran were to become part of that count. The rich and smug, those who never had to work or struggle a day in their life, basking in the finest that Charon had to offer... for a pleasure cruise.

Her arm squeezes Cyran's lightly as they ascend the gangplank, trying not to look at the water below, focused on keeping each step clipped and precise so she would not roll her ankles on these ridiculous heels, or step on the long hem of her less-ridiculous dress. The man at her side steadied her, was a rock in this time of uncertainty, a lighthouse on the shore of a turbulent sea. An appropriate person for Elenithildin to call husband.

Del was not usually one who used identities; her work, when it came up, usually involved her being wholly unseen and uncommunicative. The way that Cyran, who was doing this for work (an odd task for a hunter, she thought, especially one that, as far as Del could tell, carried no weapons at the moment) had explained it, though, seemed that hiding in plain sight was the best way to accomplish what needed to be done. And thus, Elenithildin was born, loving and devoted wife of Illias. The two were besotted with one another, even all these years on, still as hopelessly in love as they had been a century and a half ago. As Cyran's arm squeezes hers in return, gentle and reassuring, Del relaxes, and gives him a small smile-- a Del smile, crooked and kind.

He is hard not to look at, though she does try, determined not to stare. He wears his finery... very well indeed; a fine brocade, star embroidered black coat that fit the trim, rapier-like line of his form that made him seem all the taller. The shirt beneath was not accented by a tie or cravat, but a slender rise around his neck. His black and silver hair covered his eye rather than his usual eyepatch, and though she didn't get a good glimpse of his face beneath, she did see slightly more of it than usual, his cheekbones and how much further his smile could push. He did not seem entirely at ease; though he knew what he was doing to the level that Del could not help but admire it, he was ever sharp and perceptive. She could feel his tension, though on his surface, she showed none of it. A true professional, her husband was.

Er. Elen's husband.

Dust and ash, this was going to be hard.

Del had to stay in character as much as she could for this to work, to act as though she belonged with these people aboard this ship. Elen was elegant and proud, aloof to all but her wonderful, charming husband; she did not look at him and feel panicked flutters in her chest, or feel a wrenching at the thought of being his wife. This was acting; pure and simple. Elen was comfortable and unapologetically affectionate. That was who she had to be right now.

As Cyran introduces their aliases to the man taking their reservations, she meets his look of pure adoration (the wrench, again) with a coy bashfulness that blooms under the heat of his gaze. Listing her head to touch his shoulder and looking up at him through her eye lashes as though she only has eyes for her husband, she says to the attendant, "It's our anniversary."

While the man has heard this about sixty times today, it was a good refrain to get used to. That was why they were here after all. An anniversary gift; not making sure the man Cyran was tasked to protect stayed alive and well. That wouldn't fit in. Not at all.

After quietly nodding a distant thanks to the attendant as he leaves the roomkey in Cyran's hands, she leaves her eyes firmly on Cyran as they finally make their way up to the deck; easier than looking over the sides at the sea below, she tells herself. Though soon, her gaze is elsewhere; the top deck is a flurry of activity. It would be easy for her to be overwhelmed, but Del stood fast. Elen was not intimidated; this was barely an acceptable size of party for her.

Gods, she wanted to rest, get out of these things and let herself be Del again, but this is too golden of an opportunity. Sweeping as much of the perimeter as they could, getting eyes on the guests and getting a handle of the layout was what they needed to do. There was work to be done. She meets Cyran's gaze with a surety of her own as they make their way, arm in arm, to the lower decks.

It would be easy to pretend, seeing the grand size of the space and how many people had begun to fill it, that this ballroom was not on a ship at sea at all, but on land. There was music, glimmering gilded leaves of gold on the trim of the room, and a finely varnished floor Del was certain they could see their reflections in if they looked hard enough.

His voice lowered to her ear to whisper sends a little chill down her spine. Elen's eyes slide towards Illias, lifting a hand to gently touch his opposite cheek with just her fingertips. She got the message loud and clear. "Thank you, my darling. Don't be long."

When they finally release one another, she is again cold, a little uncertain. But Elen is not, thank the gods. Her stride is steady and unhurried as she makes her way through the crowd. The way down had been a large staircase with portholes, she had noticed, and here and there were the cleverly hidden doors of servants entrances where waitstaff passed in and out of so as not to be obtrusive, but nothing especially worrying or anything to key off of. As far as the people went, they seemed to be bright and chatty and snide as they discussed the band, the drinks, the food, one another. What a waste of resources.

Only one or two are as watchful as they; a blonde, older man in a white suit fiddling with his drink along a back wall, and a willowy halfling woman in a black gown who looked terribly bored. Neither fit the profile, but she does keep an eye on it as Del makes her way to a table and sits down.

She pays close attention to those who come and go, giving polite nods to anyone who looks her way, but nothin further so as not to invite conversation prematurely. Her expression changes, though, when she sees Cyran approach. How anyone cannot notice him as he walks, such a fine figure in that suit, is beyond her. The way her face lights up is not feigned, at least, and she gratefully accepts the drink as he sits own beside her. "Thank you, Illias." She takes a sip. At least the alcohol is good.

"Mm?" She blinks as Cyran starts-- oh, gods. Dust and ash. She feels a warmth seeping from her chest to the rest of her, a dam breaking. What a sweet and thoughtful gesture, one she would have happily accepted under other circumstances. She couldn't let him do that.

Panicking, thinking of how best to do this, Del moves her hand down to place her fingers under his chin, lifting his gaze back to her. Her own face flushes with heat at the action, but barrels right along. Elen wouldn't be flustered by this, no, not even a bit.

"I am well, Illias, dear," 'Elen' assures. Her voice is the smooth one she had practiced as much as she had walking in her heels, but her eyes are all Del, sparkling and a little mirthful, touched at his attempt to make her comfortable, "I would hate to step on your unprotected feet while we dance; you know I always miscount the waltz." an airy laugh accompanies the end of the sentence. "If I find myself weary of them, I will be certain to tell you. I promise."

After a beat, she moves her fingers from his chin, faintly clearing her throat as she looks around. More people move in, the bards playing a little louder to compensate for the clamour. "How long are we meant to be on the water?" She asks, turning to look at Cyran again. "I want to make sure we get the most of our time here of course. There seems to be so much to do and so many people with whom to be introduced to."

Cyran blinked, taken aback when Del declined his offer for his shoes. He’d have thought she would appreciate the break on her feet and the increase in mobility, but she seemed determined to continue wearing the uncomfortable looking pair of heels. The explanation that she expected them to dance made sense, however. He recovered quickly, slipping the loafers back onto his feet. Yes… the waltz. They would be expected to dance, wouldn’t they? That was something normal couples did - once he was wed, Cyran had spent plenty of evenings on the ballroom floor with Rowan Pavyre, masquerading as a blissful couple. Spinning around in an endless loop, a neverending duet in a waltz of woe.

He remembered the experience had not been particularly pleasant.

What would dancing with Del be like?

“I always say that a waltz is a partnership.” He waved a dismissive hand. “When you step on my feet, it just means I haven’t guided you to the rhythm well enough.”

That last spark was spoken with a humble laugh, as if Del had stepped on his toes countless times at countless other dances. Normal. This was normal.

And it was only natural for her to ask, he rationalized. Going out to the ballroom floor would provide them a better view of the entire floor while scoping out for their target.

“We should reach the Gold Port in a month and a half, weather permitting.” There it was again, that strange, mounting feeling of anxiety that he’d felt earlier. What had Del so unnerved? Perhaps it was the atmosphere of this place. Cyran had grown up in this kind of spoilt life, gilded halls and fancy curtains and trappings that hid true misery. He was accustomed to this. It was all too easy to forget that this kind of atmosphere was not one that everyone was accustomed to. He trusted Del could handle whatever the people here threw at her, but that didn’t mean all this… the glamor, wasn’t overwhelming.

Or perhaps it was the nature of their cover.

His features softened. Worried.

“If you are weary from travel, I’m sure no one would be offended if you needed to retire early. There will be plenty of opportunity to socialize over the course of the journey.” The message was implicit in his tone - this is my job to handle. If you need to rest, I can scope out this party on my own.

The corners of Del's lips twitch a little, an action she has to smooth over with her fingers brushing over her lower lip before placing it down to cover her hand with his. "And deprive myself of your company and enjoying every moment of our anniversary together? Perish the very thought." She arches a brow slightly, her own message clear. 'I'm not going anywhere'.

“Far be it from me to deny my fierce wife what she wants on our special day?” There was forced humor in his voice - a stammer at the word wife. But there was warmth tingling in his hand where she’d grabbed him all the same.

Cyran stood, offering his arm to help her up. The picture of a gentleman and a doting husband. Del accepted his help up, taking to this odd cover with far more grace than he could ever have asked her. It was no easy task to ask someone to act in blissful holy matrimony, but Del had accepted like it was only the right thing to help him despite the fact this was most likely a source of discomfort for her. When she stood, he moved to put a hand on her back and guide her to the floor, when out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something… odd.

Scars.

An odd smattering of them across her back, a canvas of cuts and injuries, with two long, twisted vertical scars near her shoulderblades and an odd… burn? One that didn’t quite look like it had been made with traditional fire. Some were small, surgical cuts, but most of them were jagged - the result of training, or perhaps, the more grim thought that struck him like a bell… punishment.

Punishment for what?

The sight made Cyran’s heart drop out from his stomach. Oh, no… it didn’t matter how strong she was. No person deserved this kind of treatment. And the idea that Del had suffered such injuries…

Claws, raking across his back.

Cyran blinked.

It burned, ice-cold.

It seemed that they had more in common than either of them could have expected. Cyran gripped her dress, for a moment - barely wrapping around the fabric protectively. Angry on her behalf, a flash of simmering fury at whoever had done that to her. It passed as soon as it arrived, buried under a layer of forced calm. These scars were old by now, some looking faded and a bit greyish. It would do them no good if Cyran were to get angry now. He needed to be alert.

“Now. Shall we dance?”

He bowed and offered his hand to her before sweeping the both of them off into the mass of swirling ballgowns and robes.

There was only slight hesitation when he put his hand on Del’s waist, allowing faded memories to take over. And the two began dancing around the room in earnest. Cyran’s hands felt oddly clammy as the two moved - for some reason it felt difficult to keep an eye on his surroundings. There were other dancers, none that matched the description of their target… until he spotted a shock of golden hair amongst the crowd, and a pair of bright green eyes.

There.

Cyran nudged Del, subtly gesturing with his head in the direction of the man they were set to protect. He looked happy, carefree, not a worry in the world - blissfully ignorant to the snakes that lie in the grass, and the mongooses that waited to snatch the snakes before they could make their kill.

They had to get closer.

It wouldn’t be smart for them to go speak with him, not right away. If they made contact here, there was no telling who was watching and waiting, and might realize they were not the only one with an interest in Virion Zirona. Still, as if their thoughts were completely in sync, both Cyran and Del pivoted, changing course to move closer to the man. They kept their distance, but remained close enough that they could observe his surroundings. He chatted happily away with his wife as they danced, with most of the people surrounding the couple giving them a wide berth.

In fact… no one seemed particularly interested in the chatty young man.

Cyran pursed his lips, dipping Del low until she could tilt her head and get a better look at the man. After a few moments, he pulled her back up, and the dance smoothly resumed, as if nothing happened.

That was when the hairs on the back of his neck stood on edge.

There was barely a fraction of a second between Cyran sensing something was wrong and his hand darting out from where it held Del’s waist to snatch something from the air to his side - moving on instinct. When he turned to look at what he’d caught, unfurling his palm, he got a better look at exactly what kind of projectile he’d caught.^[1]

A dart.

His entire body went rigid, immediately on guard. Aiming for him? No - it had been going past him, straight for…

He followed its trajectory with his eyes, only to stop on the very man he hoped it wouldn’t.

Cyran immediately tucked the dart in his pocket, scanning the crowd. Who’d shot at him? And why were they moving so early? Mounting questions budding in his mind, but all with the realization that the die had just been cast. Whoever was after their target they weren’t planning on waiting. But no matter how he looked, scanning for anything amiss in the crowd - anyone heading for exits, or attempting to conceal a weapon - but he spotted nothing.

He was still clutching the projectile in his hand when he turned to Del, eyes narrowed. Delicately, he tucked the dart in his pocket, out of sight. “We’re not alone.” He whispered.

But would they make another move now that their attempt had been thwarted?

---

1. Steel Catch

The little giggle that escapes her is half-genuine, at least-- the pair of them pretending that Elen stepping on Illias' feet was a normal occurence. It's a pleasant cover for the flare of anxiety that hits as she confirms how long they will be at sea. All the times Del has ever boarded a ship, it had been simply to get from one port to another, on a merchant vessel or a passenger ship that prioritized expediency over comfort. Cyran's... committment to doting on her-- on Elen truly helped. She doesn't quite feel like herself... but Cyran can see her.

Was this what it was like to be married to someone who cared for you? If so, he played the part astonishingly well. It was hard to not be convinced herself, though she knew this was a facade.

She tries not to dwell on that, especially as he calls her his 'fierce wife'. That word burns electric across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. That would be something she would have to get used to. A month and a half...

As Cyran stands, offering his arm. Del accepts with a gracious smile, proud of herself that she hesitated for only a split second before taking his arm. Her nostrils flare on the inhale as she feels his hand rest on the middle of her back, right where the cloth of her dress ended and met her skin. Fine, normal, good; a husband would place a familiar hand there, it was a chaste location. He was sheparding, guiding her, seeing to her comfort.

Odd then, that her skin should feel as though it was crackling beneath his touch.

A sensation, a sudden rising of righteous anger blooms at the back of her mind, a quiet fury that seethes. It isn't hers, she knows; there is a protective flash, a shady ripple of something watchful and worried. As Cyran grips her dress, she turns to look at him; did he see something, or someone-- but as soon as her questioning eyes start to connect with his, the feeling vanishes, and he is smiling at her, sweet and gallant and--

What was she thinking about again?

Oh, right. Dancing.

"Lets," She delicately puts her hand in his-- his hand moved to her waist and she fights a flutter-- and they're off. Del was not much of a dancer, but thanks the stars for being light on her feet-- and the fact that Cyran is a wonderful lead. To say the experience is breathtaking does not quite do it justice; she's never danced like this before, never felt her skirts (odd to be wearing skirts anyway) whirling about her legs as Cyran guides them across the floor, never felt this one with the music, never felt... beautiful like she did just then.

It's hard to focus on anything other than Cyran-- the world seems to spin behind his head, a blur of faces and glittering gold that she has to remember to focus on. It becomes easier when she surrenders to his lead, following his steps as their synchronicty becomes effortless. Still, it was hard not to lock her eyes on his while they moved, while they idly chatted as they danced. It felt natural in a way she didn't expect.

Cyran's subtle nudge draws her attention, looking in the direction of his tilted head-- a blonde haired fellow with bright green eyes. She marks him in her mind, her chin dipping in a subtle nod in reply. They move closer to get a better look, amid a pattern of other couples that danced a less lively waltz around the dance floor--

The steps suddenly change, and Del feels her body being lowered. She has to remind herself not to resist-- Cyran's hand is on her holding her weight as he dips her low, enough that her head can tip back to look behind her, at their target. It's genius; she gets an excellent look at the young man, the make of his clothes-- the fact that no one seems to be coming to chat with him specifically, though he stops a couple of people for a quick word before they go about their twirling once again. He holds a plate of mostly untouched hors d'oeuvres, by his lonesome. Odd.

Admittedly, at the fore of her mind is the breathy laugh from the elegant dip, as Cyran rights her and they're off once more. Del opens her mouth to say something when a tingle moves up her spine. His hand flashes up, catching something as it flies over their shoulders. He opens his hand and Del inhales, sharply.

A dart.

Her eyes move to over his shoulder, around them at the people moving about. Nothing. No sign, nothing beyond the different rhythm, no eyes trained on the halted path of their dart. In those heartbeats, Del affixes the beatific smile back to her face as he moves the dart to his pocket, and they resume dancing. "Definitely not," She agrees.

It was early for things to be moving. Her mind reels as they dance, the steps now nearly second nature under Cyran's fluid guidance. She leans in a bit closer than the boxy shape of the waltz folds their arms, her cheek brushing lightly against his so she can keep the words just between them. "Could be a test?" She murmurs. To other eyes, she hoped this looked like whispering sweet nothings into her husband's ear, rather than communicating theories to her dancing partner. "Trying to assess levels of security around the target? Either that or they're very amateur."

“Testing the waters to see if there are any sharks…” Cyran murmured, thoughtful. There was a smaller, more paranoid part of him that wondered if their cover was already blown before the hunt had begun. But when he scanned the crowd, he saw no movement, no eyes on them at all. Had the assailant even noticed that their attempt had been foiled? Or had they spotted Cyran and Del and decided to wait and hide their time with the knowledge? These weren’t questions that normally bothered the assassin - not when he was on his own. But he had other lives to consider right now. Del’s life. Someone who could take care of herself, but one whose existence was precious. Cyran wasn’t sure what he would do if he’d inadvertently put her in danger with some of his own careless mistakes.

No blood on the dart. No trace of the killer. Which meant that Cyran couldn’t track them with magic.

“Smart or amateur indeed.” He muttered to himself with a soft, frustrated exhale of breath. There was no point in getting up in arms right now - the trail had already gone cold. A projectile weapon could have been fired anywhere from this crowd, if one was fast enough. All they could do was stick close to the target and catch any more stray darts that came his way.

A headache was beginning to bloom behind his temples. This was so much easier when he was on the other side of things…

Cyran was beginning to remember why he didn’t often take protective details.

Eyes flicked once more towards their target - happy as a clam, still dancing around with reckless abandon. Oblivious to the near-miss against his life, and showing no signs of stopping soon. This was going to be a long night.

Cyran pulled Del closer, as if leaning on her would make the grim task of pushing through the fatigue to continue this vigil from the shadows. “I hope you’re ready for the next dance, my dear. We’re going to make the most of this anniversary, up until the clock strikes midnight.” The message, implicit in his tone and the weariness fraying the edges of his emotions - we’re going to have to keep our eyes on him.

---

… But nothing happened for the rest of the night.

The party began to wind down in the early hours of the morning, nobles having had enough of mingling and getting to know one another. And the entire time, there had been no further threat to Virion’s life, and Cyran and Del had danced until their feet and legs could no longer move and then some. But even as guests began to vacate, they still could not afford to relax. Not until the moment their target and his wife were safe in their rooms would the two of them be able to sleep.

Ah, this was the part he remembered. No rest for the wicked while there was still work to be done. Only when Virion himself left the ballroom, making his way to his room, did Cyran take that as their sign to get up and go. He turned to Del with a tired smile. “Why don’t I go get your overcoat from the coat closet?” He suggested, despite the fact that Del had most definitely not come aboard the ship with one. “I’ll only be a moment.”

He hesitated.

Oh, hell, why not?

It’s only to solidify the illusion, he told himself, as he moved to press a kiss to her temple right where her curls had begun to go gray. Only for the crowd. He breezed off as quickly as he’d arrived, off to the coat room before he could see Del’s reaction.

He made sure that the coat room was empty before stepping into the comfort of the shadows until they formed a protective cloak around him.^[1] He didn’t waste any time stepping out, now invisible to anyone around him, before following Virion down the hall. The young man was obviously drunk, stumbling and giggling with his wife as they moved at a snail’s pace. Cyran got close enough to hear their conversation, following them from a few paces away, watching out for any more threats.

Could it have been Virion’s wife who hired the blade against her husband? The thought had occurred to Cyran before: that perhaps she simply wanted a piece of his fortune. It was too soon to tell - he needed more observation.

“You know I love you, right?” Virion slurred, an utterly starstruck expression on his face, like his wife had hung the moon in the sky for him. Admittedly, she was rather pretty - a sun elf, young, but with her hair in delicate ringlets, looking like a princess. The kind of woman a young man like Virion would fall head over heels for.

“Not as much as I love you, darling.” She hummed.

“Then we shall profess our love to the world so that all will be able to hear!” Virion cried, throwing his arms in the air before wrapping the young woman in a hug, pressing an obnoxious level of kisses to her cheek. “Renew our vows upon the sun-kissed sands of Sol City!”

“Yes!” She cheered, sounding just as elated as him. “And we shall be together the rest of our days, until death do us part!”

Hm. Those didn’t sound like lies. Only the slurred promises of a young, passionate, and drunken couple. The absence of any lies in her words didn’t automatically remove any suspicion from her - but Cyran felt a little more secure leaving the two alone together for the night, where Cyran and Del would only be in the room across the hallway, ready to jump into action at a moment’s notice.

He watched them until they retreated into the safety of their quarters and made his way back to Del.

“It looks like someone made away with your coat.” He spoke in greeting, a frown tugging at his lips. “I spoke with the staff about searching for the dastardly thief, but it appears as if it’s gone up in smoke. I’ll purchase a new one for you once we’re back on dry land, if that pleases you - but for now, I’m sure you’re tired.” They both were. “So let’s get some rest for now.”

… But there was one problem Cyran hadn’t anticipated in their room.

Namely, that in a couple’s retreat, the rooms would be catered towards couples. And consequently, there was only one bed in their room, one they would be expected to share.

“Ah.” Cyran stared at the bed, mortified. “Um. Okay. I shall sleep on the floor, then.”

---

1. Dark Form

There’s a tingle that arcs up her spine as Cyran pulls her closer. The anticipation of the assailant being so near, of course, of wariness for an impending attack. Surely, that.

Del had done protection jobs in the past, but these tended to be less a hired thing and more an off-the-cuff type of request… more impromptu, if anything. And certainly nothing she would ever ask for payment for. This, the deep cover, while a new experience, was not wholly unfamiliar. Much of her existence outside the Crescent Isles felt like deep cover, always hiding and on the move, trying to avoid notice, never knowing where the next attack would be coming from.

This-- twirling about the ballroom, watching her partner husband friend’s back while she could feel his breath grazing her ear, was brand new. Was she doing this right? Had she blown his cover? She can hear the exhaustion in his voice—she feels it too. They were a bit old to be partying late into the night.

Nonetheless, there is a smile in her voice as they sway together; Elen would be thrilled. “And I shall treasure every moment.”

---

Nothing happened.

Hours of dancing in those damnable shoes had her wishing she had taken Cyran up on his offer to wear his loafters, the hem of her dress be damned. It would have likely resulted in more incidents of crushing Cyran’s toes (something which she could only quietly hiss apologies for on the odd occasion it did happen through their night of revelry), but at the point where they were finally going to their quarters for the night, Del was nearly ready to pitch the shoes off the side of the ship.

Del supposed she should be grateful that the night remained uneventful, especially as it begins to wind down. Where did rich people find the energy?

She looks at Cyran with the most loving-yet-tired expression she thinks Elen can muster. There was no coat, but the splitting up was agood thing, well timed. “So chivalrous, my husband.” oh, that felt...strange to say, there was almost an energy in the word that made it want to leap off her tongue and trip against her teeth. She takes a look to the side, to see who else might be sharing the space with them. Something for her to do, to observe, while he is away. “Thank you, darling. --oh,.” It leaves her as a hushed little exhale as she feels Cyran’s lips press to her temple in a quick, affectionate peck before he’s away.

A quaking hand raises to the spot, as though trying to quell the small fire started there. Or preserve it. No, that was… foolish. Silly. He was acting. This was for appearances. This was Illias and Elen, he was playing the part of a wonderful husband, but he was not her wonderful husband. Something so... benign, so chaste shouldn’t spear through her like an arrow, it wasn’t real--

“He’s a keeper, isn’t he?”

Del's head snaps up, blinking as she is brought from her reverie. An elderly human woman, bedecked in finery and pearls, smiles with beatific knowing up at her; her wear looks to be from Moonglade or the crescent isles, her skin deep and weathered. Del utters a small laugh, remembering herself, and clears her throat. "I beg your pardon, my lady. I was not aware we had an audience." She offers a small curtsey, a small dip that was more appropriate to her station than a more humble bow.

The woman barks a laugh, "Nonsense, no need for such formalities. I am a bit too drunk to care at the moment, and much too amused by spotting a couple so terribly in love as you both are. How long have you been married?"

"One hundred and seventy five years tomorrow," Del says automatically, havin enough grace to let her smile be sheepish. "It's our anniversary."

"Aah! A wonderful life you've had together so far. My blessings to you both. So much time together and you still feel like you did the first time he kissed you, mm?" The woman nods slowly, very sage-like in her broad dips as she shuffles closer. Del feels a thrill of panic, sure they've been made. Was their cover blown? "The way you look at him, it brings a frothy bubble to your chest, like you did when you first met?"

Internally, Del screams. Externally, she puts a hand to her reddening face and laughs demurely, entirely unsure of how else to react.

"I also saw how he looks at you."

Del freezes. Her heart climbs into her throat an lodges there, painfully. Unable to respond, the old woman barrels along.

"Such wonder and affection! He can hardly keep his eyes off you. I know exactly what this is."

Del tries to swallow. Her voice comes out roughly and looks around the hallway, finding it quite sparse. Was she really going to have to kill some old dowager to preserve their cover? Dust and ash she hoped not. She would if she had to, to keep Cyran safe, but oooh, she really would rather not have to. That would cause so many problems--

The old woman stamps the end of her cane into the floor with a finality. "You've a happy marriage!"

Del stares. She is at a loss for words. "I-- you think so?" She eventually says, confused, but interested. It's a slip from character for a moment, but the old woman does not seem to catch it. Well. At least she wouldn't have to kill an elderly woman...

"Of course I do, my dear! I'm old, not stupid. My Earnest and I, Lunala rest his gentle soul, we never got out of that puppy love stage! He would woo me, bring me flowers, take me on dates, all the eighty years we were married." The old woman exhales a contented sigh. "He always made me feel so wonderfully special. Does your man make you feel special, young miss?"

"I--" Del's thumb brushes the ring around her finger, remembering the words that had accompanied it when Cyran had placed it on her hand. In a second, several moments cross her minds eye, and she nods, smiling. "That he does, my lady. Very special."

The old woman jabs the end of her cane at Del, firmly. "Hold onto that feeling!" She commands. "Commit every day to making that good man feel as special as he makes you, and you will have a millenia's worth of memories if you should ever part this coil before the other. That's why I'm here after all!" She sets her cane back down, still smiling proudly. "My dear Earnest-- he paid for twenty years worth of these trips for me before he passed four years ago. I still come on them to remember him and the wonderful times we shared."

Del's expression softens. That he had thought so far ahead, had thought to give his wife respite and memory even in death... this Earnest was a good man, Del knew. "I am sorry for your loss, but that is truly beautiful. Your husband sounds like a wonderful man."

"The very best, my dear." the old woman nods slowly. "I see a lot of him in that husband you have there. Make sure he doesn't overwork himself trying to make your life sweet. I hope you're not afraid of a little hard work?"

Del shakes her head with a laugh. "Not a bit."

"Good. Now, get the pair of you to bed. I expect we'll be seeing more of you around, Mrs...?"

"Elenithildin Mellora." Del inclines her head.

"Ahh, a fine name. Moonglade, yes? Duchess Aroha Pewhairangi. A pleasure to make your acquaintaince, Mrs. Mellora."

"And yours, my lady Duchess." Del smiles. "I hope you have a pleasant night."

As she toddles off, still deep in her cups, clearly, Del has a moment or two to process what just happened... and the realization that even before this trip, before the facade. Cyran had made her feel... good. Special. Being in his presence was always a highlight of her week. She touches the ring again with her thumb, wondering what that might mean. What it might mean to be a good wife.

Before she can think too much, Cyran returns moments later. Still a bit flustered, Del looks at the little frown on his lips, at the apparent frustration with not being able to find her coat. Oh, right. The coat that didn't exist. She shakes her head, giving him a fond look. "It is a good thing the weather here is warm and seasonable. I can wait until the shore, Illias, fret not." She loops her arm through his-- an action that was becoming more and more natural with each time it happened, and smiles up at him. "Yes, lets get ourselves to bed and to sleep."

But of course, there was a small problem...

Married people tended to sleep in the same bed. This she knew. This made sense. But for whatever reason, she hadn't thought that this would be the case for them, as the door shuts behind them in their spacious, but otherwise modestly furnished quarters.

"I'll sleep on the--" She starts to say at the same time as Cyran. She looks to him, blinking, hearing the echo. Her lips quiver with amusement and she shakes her head. "Nooo, no, no. This is your job, you need to be well rested and ready for anything. Besides, I'm, ah, used to sleeping on the floor."

“I am more than used to spending my evenings on the floor.” Cyran’s voice is firm, but worn down by traces of fatigue that linger at the ends of his words. “Besides, I don’t think I’ll do much more than meditate tonight. Have to be alert in case our friend decides to make another appearance across the hall. Please, I insist.”

Del puts her hands on her hips as she turns to him, stubborn. The old Duchess had advised she ensure he was taken care of, and she was going to do just that. "All the more reason for you to sleep soundly tonight and in the bed. I can take watch, I sleep very light and I can hear small changes in my surroundings. I insist."


Cyran’s brow furrows. It’s difficult to read much from expression, considering how desperately he tries to hide his thoughts, but Del knows. He does not expect this much push back. He is not sure what to make of this kindness. “I couldn’t ask you to take watch. As you said before, this is my job. Please, I am very much accustomed to these long nights.”

Her expression softens a little, cracks of her stony stubbornness showing in the face of his gentle confusion. "You don't have to ask me, I'm--" She swallows the words 'your wife', and clears her throat, "with you. In this. I'm your partner for this mission and I'm here to help you see this through, and that means taking some of the burden off your shoulders." She exhales lightly, thinking of... a compromise. Heat rises to her face.

"Alright. The bed is huge. We both need as much of and as good a rest as we can get. We can share." She offers, moving a hand from her hip to gesture at the bed as if this was a casual, logical suggestion. And it was, for all ostensible purposes, in spite of the squirming flutters in her chest at the very idea. "If you're... not comfortable with that, I will understand, and take the floor."

Cyran cleared his throat, unsure what to say. He’d shared a bed in the past, of course. Been through all the trappings of marriage, what it meant to share a home with another person - in theory. All of these things were familiar on paper, but Del’s insistence of calling him partner, insisting that it was large enough for them to share, made his heart hammer in his chest.

“I. Um.” What should he do? Politely decline, and take the floor instead? But the bed looked awfully soft, and if Del was truly okay with sharing a bed with… him, then there was no point letting it go to waste. All fight draining him from the utterly exhausting day he’d had, Cyran’s shoulders merely slumped over, a huff of a breath escaping his lips. “As I said before, far be it from me to deny my fierce wife anything.”

He did not need to call her wife in private.

He found he didn’t really mind it all that much.

“Then… we shall share, and attempt to get as much rest as we both can. Does that sound fair?” He asked, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It only made sense for them both to share. It was logical, and cemented the ruse should they encounter any unwelcome intruders in the nighttime hours. Only logical, he told himself.

The two went about getting ready for their evening - Cyran wasn’t really thinking when he turned his back on her as he changed his tunic to sleepwear. Just as Del had incidentally shown him her own scars, Del would be greeted to a front row seat of his own wounds. Jagged, near-blackened, and ugly. Though they were years old at this point, a bit faded with age, they didn’t look as if they’d been very well treated. They were old enough that Cyran barely paid them much mind by now at the very least. Perhaps around others he might have been more careful. But he didn’t think much about being around Del, as if it was second nature.

… He almost felt as if she already knew these things about him.

Just as soon as he took his shirt off, his sleepwear was already back on, and he could put off the task no longer. It was time for him to rest.

He turned to stare at the roomy bed. He glanced at Del. “Then, I suppose that we should… get to it then.” Why did going toe to toe with the assassin in the ballroom feel easier than this? He was married once, for fuck’s sake. He knew what it meant to play a part out of obligation.

… Maybe it’s because you actually care about her, a small part of his mind whispered. Maybe because you don’t want to drive her away by bringing her close to you.

The realization was like a jolt up his spine, tingling nerves zapping at him as he pulled himself into bed next to her. Didn’t want to get too close and intrude upon her space.

He closed his eyes, heart hammering in his chest like it was threatening to stop entirely. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her, couldn’t make this feel more real. If he pretended he was alone then he could do this…

Cyran opened his eyes.

Oh.

It was difficult for the sight not to steal the breath from his lungs, being close enough to see the flecks of gold in Del’s eyes, hidden underneath long lashes and wisps of her elegant curls. She truly was a lovely woman, Cyran thought. Almost like a statue given life, feminine details and toned muscles - impossible to believe that she was real and tangible and here with Cyran.

“Hi.” He squeaked out the word, suddenly feeling like he was in his fifties again and learning what it meant to find someone beautiful. To stare at a light that the darkness was not meant to get close to. “… Sleep well, and may you have pleasant dreams.” He bid, finally, unable to bring himself to day anything else for fear he might make a fool of himself. He squeezed his eyes shut once more, unable to keep staring at the sun for fear he might go truly blind.

… It took an unfortunately long time for Cyran to drift off.

For a moment, she thinks she will have to try and be very firm with him, seeing his eyes falter just a little. It would be hard, though; as stern and stoic as she could be, something about the way he looks to her, politely bewildered by her insistence, bends that hard steel she had cultivated over these many years. Thankfully, he is either to tired to argue or agree that she will take the floor. She thought there was... a chance that he may see the sense in her compromise, but it wasn't expected. He relents; They will share the bed.

Del sputters a little, a laugh and a choke happening at the same time as Cyran, again, called her his wife. A slip. A tease, a reminder of before when he had said much the same. Of course, that was all it was. "I, ah, ahem. Yes. That sounds perfectly fair. Thank you."

She sits on the bed to take off her shoes, exhaling a long sigh at the feeling of freedom in her aching feet again. She puts them to the side, finding her bag to get ready for the rest of the sleep. It was perfectly fair. It made sense. The idea was hers, even! So why did that action feel like an insurmountable summit? It was as nerve-wracking as the idea of looking over a high ledge to a pool of water below, a stomach flipping sensation that sent flutters of nervousness up and down her arms. As though she was scared of whether or not she would do it right.

--Do what right? Sleep?

Del takes a moment at the sink to splash her face with cold water, trying to centre herself, calm a little before sleep. It was a silly thing to get worked up about. Del had a space in his home. They had fought together, traveled together. Had curled up for warmth beneath a cloak before. How was that any different from this?

Her gaze drifts down to the ring on her finger.

It wasn't different. It was more.

A shiver of recognition runs along her nerves. She turns from the sink-- and pauses, seeing Cyran's bare back. Dark, jagged scars, like a swipe, cut across his torso. Angry slashes that looked like festering shadow, a grim reminder of something heinous he had been through. Something that touches a part of her soul that wanted to reach out, to soothe... and a part that burns hot and angry. A quiet fury that bared its teeth at the maker of those marks. He deserved better. He did not deserve--

Del shakes her head abruptly-- Oh, she should not be watching him change.

Del turns around quickly and pulls her sleeping shirt over her head, privately kicking herself. But finally comfortable, finally ready for sleep. Sharing a gaze with Cyran, she nods, trying to swallow the lump in her throat down. Despite knowing she is exhausted, she feels wide awake. "Yes. Probably should."

Feeling all the blood rush to her head, Del lifts a corner of the covers and slides in; there's more than enough room for both of them, but she still does her best to only take up the smallest amount she can. The bed is soft. There's a tingle at the back of her mind, for a moment, Del thinks is her own, her body warning her of the sea beneath the hull of the ship. Del rolls from one side to the other, finding a comfortable spot with her eyes away from the curtained porthole window. Then, the bed shifts beside her and her eyes automatically lift. Her heart flutters.

Oh. Gods help her.

But, there were no gods. It was just her and Cyran in a bed, contained within the close quiet that made everything seem that much bigger, that much louder. And if there were, surely this vision before her was one of theirs, a piece of nightsky and starlight made flesh.

His hair falls about his face in pools of ink and silver, an artists rendering of obsidian splashes falling across the ridge of his cheekbones and the gentle slope of his brow. His single moonlight eye, meeting hers, made her feel as though she was gazing up into the night sky itself, a sense of awe that came from looking up into something so watching and present, that its resplendence needed no words. Reverent poems could be written about that nose, that eye, those lips--

Del inhales sharply, clamping down on the thoughts as she turns her face into the pillow, burying it there. He bids her a wonderful goodnight, so sweet and thoughtful that she feels like she could scream. Instead, her reply is a smothered "Goodnnnrrff." Which she will also kick herself for for the next thirty minutes.

By comparison, it does not take Del as long as Cyran does to fall asleep. Though she does peek once or twice, to see his face fall a little more peaceful as he tries to find rest, before her exhaustion wins out, and takes her under.

---

In retrospect, Del should have warned him about the nightmares.

On the surface, there is little to go off of. A furrowed brow, a clenched jaw, a persistent but small shiver. Otherwise, she is frozen, locked in place, hardly moving at all.

This is, in reality, precisely what is happening within.

Suspended in darkness, Del drowns. At times, what surrounds her is a current, at others, an indefinite stillness. It's oppressive, overbearing and encompassing. It surrounds her, it is within her, and she cannot escape, cannot move to fight it with limbs leaden with the weight of the water, the weight of this prison that keeps her. Shapes move beyond, above the surface. She tries to call out to them, but there is no sound, only lungs swollen with water and pain, unable to draw breath but desperate to do so. Muscles tense as if trying to fight back, but they move so slow, so sluggish, they might as well not be moving at all. Del thrashes, but she is still. She screams her rage, her protest, but cannot draw breath. Unheard, unseen, unknown, dragged to endless depths, she drowns.

Floating.

Cyran felt like he was floating.

He was not a man who dreamt often - his sleep was usually filled with a sort of quiet emptiness until his eyes opened once more, almost like he were meditating instead of sleeping. And yet, maybe it was because of the change of environment. Maybe it was because he was sleeping in close proximity of someone else rather than in a cot on his own. There was any number of reasons that he could have felt this way, this strange feeling in the back of his mind, but in this semi-conscious state, Cyran could not rightly place it. He was…

Drowning.

He was drowning.

The sudden feeling struck him, as if he were unable to bring air into his lungs, unable to kick for the surface, left to suffocate. He could not swim, but he thrashed, desperately attempting to make his way to safety, which remained ever-just out of his grasp -

He drew in a breath, filling his lungs with water -

Cyran bolted awake in his bed in the middle of the Judeia, clutching at his chest as he finally drew breath into his aching lungs. His heart was pounding so rapidly he thought it might stop working from the effort of recovering from drowning. Despite the fact that he was wrapped in blankets, his body felt awash in the cold. He shivered.

Nightmare. I was having a nightmare…

But Cyran never had nightmares. As he calmed, his brain began working on overdrive while he fiddled with the ring on his finger - traditionally worn around his neck, but relocated for the sake of the ruse. It felt odd to play this part again, wear a such a heavy promise on his hand after he had failed so miserably the first time. But Del’s promise to him - what this ring meant - was different than the one he’d once worn for Rowan. Oddly enough, it was only here in the dead of the night, did it occur to Cyran the implications of the ritual that he and Del had partaken in.

The exchanging of rings.

Bound - perhaps not by marriage, but by something deeper.

That strange feeling they’d both been struck by.

Cyran was not such a fool that he couldn’t recognize that in something as simple as the act of exchanging Hearth’s Day gifts, they’d opened the door to a force they couldn’t understand. Cyran hadn’t just given her a ring. He’d given her a piece of him in that innocuous piece of jewelry, an absence that been replaced by a piece of her in turn. Like a puzzle, where the pieces fit together so perfectly you thought they were one whole rather than individual parts.

For some reason, that thought didn’t seem so daunting.

Another twist of the ring, another thought. He’d been able to pull on knowledge of her fighting skills without realizing it in the heat of battle. If this… bond, gave him access to Del’s subconscious knowledge, then who was to say it didn’t allow him to feel her subconscious feelings as if they were his own?

He turned his attention to the woman slumbering next to him. She was not tossing and turning, but despite the fact that she was radiating heat as always, Del was shivering. And beneath it all, Cyran could feel the undercurrent of anger, searing heat that reminded him of Del, and… traces of despair. Helplessness.

In her rest, Del let out a quiet whimper, and Cyran’s heart ached.

That hadn’t been his nightmare. It had been Del’s.

“Oh, dear…” Cyran’s brows furrowed, reaching out a hand as if to brush the curls off of Del’s clammy forehead - froze right before he touched her skin. Did he have any right to offer her comfort? They were friends, there was no doubting that. But this was more than just help. This was an invasion of privacy.

And yet.

The gods would not give Del good dreams, so it fell on Cyran to do so. And if it meant alleviating a bit of this pain, then he would happily do so as many times as it took. Resolve renewed, Cyran pulled himself back out under the blankets, wrapping an arm around Del’s shoulders. The contact left them agonizingly close, but he’d learned contact was the best to carry out this spell. Holding her close, Cyran whispered, “I’ve got you. Let me be your anchor.”

And then he closed his eyes.^[1]

…

When Cyran opened them, he was standing at the edge of a river, near a waterfall. The scenery almost reminded him of the Crescent Isles in winter - a light smattering of snow, like powder. Below him, the water was slow-moving, but rather than the clear spring water he expected, the liquid resembled ink, a pure void that he should not have been able to see through. And yet, Cyran could see just fine - enough to see the figure thrashing just under the surface.

Del!

Alarmed, Cyran bent over, ready to reach in and grab her, when a figure at the other side of the river caught his attention. Cyran’s head snapped up just in time to catch sight of the short, stocky figure standing across the water - the scarf over his face obscuring most of his features. Cyran thought he might have felt the ghost of a smile, kind, before the figure turned and walked away into the winter mist.

… Who?

No - didn’t matter. All Cyran could think of right now was Del, and getting her out of here. Cyran plunged a hand into the ice-cold depths, reaching out for Del as best he could.

… And Del reached back.

He felt the familiar sensation of a calloused palm gripping his. Cyran squeezed her, reassuringly, before bracing himself against the bank and pulling with all his might. He would not rest until Del was out of the water, on solid land, pulling her into his arms.

Winter melted away into spring, cherry blossoms floating around them lazily in the warm wind, as Cyran gripped her, rubbing circles into her back, patting her to help dislodge any water in her lungs. This was only a dream, but to Del, the effects of drowning no doubt felt entirely real.

“Breathe.” He said, as calming as he could. “Breathe. You’re safe. You are on solid land, and the river cannot harm you anymore. Oh, my fighter, you never gave up reaching for the surface, did you?” How long did she thrash about, waiting to breach those waters? Perhaps waiting for someone to reach out and help her? Or had she given up hope of aid?

“Please, your battle is over. It’s okay for you to rest.”

---

1. Cyran’s Dreamwalker

Through the haze of the dream, her rage, her pain, something familiar changes the typical scene, enough that Del pauses in her attempts to escape. A closeness that comforts and reassures, one she recognizes, one her soul cannot help but sing to; You. You. You.

In the waking world, without hesitation, Del leans into his touch, the natural coolness of the body that drew her in soothing her feverish skin. Without the pretense of her waking and aware mind, Del curls into Cyran, tucking her head beneath his chin and resting her cheek against the hollow of his clavicle, as if that spot was meant for her.

Under, though, in the depths of sleep, Del only thrashes harder. Something has changed, something good, and for the first time in any of these dreams, a spark of hope glows gold across the cracked bridge of her nose. She can see shapes above the water again, and she knows, instinctively that is a different shape than usual. But she cannot reach it, cannot move her weighted limbs to swim closer or force air into her lungs to call out. She does not know why-- cannot remember in the midst of her dream where all she knows is pain-- but she has to get to them.

Then, a miracle; through the black, a hand reaches down. It glows soft and pale, like the moon, against the void of the water that holds her. Fighting everything that presses in around her, she takes the hand, clasping it firmly in her own, and lets herself be pulled up.

For him, the task is easy; but for Del, it feels as though the water tries to hold her down, trying to keep her there, for those agonizing seconds before her head breaches the water. She coughs first, sputtering black water out of her lungs to clear it enough to take a breath. Her vision swims; the air is faintly warm, like spring dawn, and there is something soft and wonderful against her cheek, a frame holding hers up as she quakes from spent effort. She clings to it, to him, to the 'you' her soul knows, and exhales more water in a harsh little sob.

Those words bring her around, out of the haze of panic and instinct. However cold the water had been, the words 'my fighter' bring a surge of warmth through her. Never, is the answer of course. Never once did she stop trying.

But now she is out of it. Free for the first time in... gods, she has no idea how long. Slowly Del lifts her head, looking at Cyran with naked shock and gratitude, tears brimming at the corners of her eyes as cherry blossom petals dance around their heads. You.

"Cyran? What..." She whispers, reaching a hand up to touch her fingertips to his face, as if to test if he is truly there. In this dreamscape, this untethered subconcious connection, she knows with certainty that it is him. Her Cyran. The one that fit snugly on her finger. "You... you saved me. How can you be here?"

--

In the world of the waking again, the trembling stops. Del exhales a slow, careful sigh as the tension of her muscles loosen, and she wraps her arm around Cyran in return, embracing him in her sleep.

Cyran smiled as Del’s fingers ghosted across his cheek, as if assessing whether he was real or a construct or not. “I’m just paying a visit.” He explained. “My position amongst the waking and dreaming world is… hazy. I don’t fully occupy either, so I can sort of slip between them at will.” He pulled her to her feet, making sure everything was okay. A shift in the world - and in a second, she was wrapped in his cloak, similar to how she had been the night of their outing on Hearth’s Day. Her body still felt cold to the touch, but Cyran would stay with her and make sure she was warm.

“I’ll explain it better once you’re awake, if you remember this.” Upon waking, he wasn’t sure how much Del would be able to parse from reality. “And of course I would… I…” He paused, frowning. Thought back to the unease Del had felt earlier upon boarding, and the scenario she was in now. Always thrashing, struggling, never quite reaching the surface. In the Crescent Isles, where Del was from.

Dreams often reflected memories.

“Did I bring you out into the open ocean when you have a fear of water? Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked, voice soft with confusion and worry and… not quite hurt, but perhaps something adjacent.

Not quite hurt, but guilt.

He’d been the one to crumble when she insisted she would be tagging along for this mission, woefully unaware of the monsters that plagued her dreams.

In the waking world, Cyran gripped Del tighter in response.

“I’m sorry. I had no idea… if I knew about your fear, then I would never have asked for your help. I would never have forced you to do something that has clearly caused you much anguish.” They were still close enough to the shore - enough that Cyran could fly her back in the morning if she so desired. But those were thoughts for the morning, once they were both awake and calmed down. “The least I can do is banish your nightmares for the evening.” He could take her mind off the bad memories and give her good ones to focus on.

Cyran offered Del his arm to stabilize her, in case she was still feeling woozy from the waves. The current hadn’t been especially strong, but acclimating to solid ground after being tossed about by the waves was disorienting, to say the least. He would keep her steady as much as he could as he led her away from the river, through the Crescent Isles.

Memory, Cyran had learned, was the easiest to draw upon in this strange realm. The mind was a curious thing, one that tucked away thoughts and feelings from moments to examine in this twilight realm, where one could not even truly lie to themselves, not fully. Cyran could manipulate its environment to his will, could turn a nightmare into a peaceful place, but it was done best through his own memories. Easier said than done - his own mindscape was fraught with things he didn’t want to examine.

But he had happy memories of the Crescent Isles.

The landscape morphed around them, morphing from mountains to bamboo forests to a town centered around a pool that looked awfully similar to Shingetsu. Out of the corner of his eye, though, something Del might be able to spot if she was paying attention - a mansion that always seemed to be ever-present, one whose architecture clearly wasn’t from the Crescent Isles.

Cyran resolutely ignored the manor.

“Let’s just… go for a walk.” Cyran said. “We’ll walk around the Isles and just be. We don’t have to talk. We don’t have to do anything. Just, please, let yourself relax. You’re okay.”

"I don't quite understand what that means..." Del admits softly, letting him help her stand. In both but in neither? How could he be here, then, and touchable, tangible?

She squeezes his hands to further anchor herself, with a smile, regardless. Del was still not sure how this worked, but there were bubbles of fascination that appeared on peripheries here, effervescing as his cloak manifested around her shoulders. The memory of his scent was strong, almost like he had his arms around her at that very moment. Cyran was incredible-- he could do so much, and every time she learned something new, it felt as though she was just barely scratching the surface. "Even if I don't, please tell me. I want to hear how this works when I'm... awake," Weird to not be awake now, not when she felt VERY awake indeed.

A frown crosses his face, and a question follows. In the subconcious of her mind, where there was little to no filter to soften such impacts, Del feels a wave of his guilt, and her own subsequent shame at knowing she caused him pain for withholding this-- for his need to apologise for bringing her here when it was her who had insisted. No, no, not that. She had to put that right.

Taking his offered arm, Del takes a breath. "Cyran," She moves a hand to his chest, palm flat against the plane of his sternum. Her eyes glue to that spot, to where she knows his heart beats. She can feel it, if she tries.

Because of him, Del feels warm and cool, and comforted-- she wanted to give that back to him. "Put away your guilt, my rogue. I have this dream every night. You have done nothing but give me happiness."

The memories of drowning are so close to the fore, she can feel that fear touching the fringes of her mind, calling to her from the pool of water. She scowls at it, her breath a little shallow as she pushes those memories back, so she can say what she needs to. "I am the one who should apologise. I didn't mention because... because I didn't want that," Del doesn't have to gesture behind her to indicate what that is, "--to stop me from helping you. From having a life. I have to be on ships to travel quickly from place to place, I've been doing it for decades, so even though I am... afraid, if I let it rule me, rule my life, I will be alone, trapped, forever like that wants me to be." She almost spits the words, glaring hard at her hand in place of that underwater dream she found herself trapped in night after night.

Finally, Del lifts her eyes to him, putting aside her shame for a blazing conviction. Gold flickers under the crack of her face, the visible parts of her arms, as if a furnace had been stoked and could be seen through the scars of her body. She had to banish that thought from his mind; it was deeply important for some reason. "You-- you could never cause me anguish."

She takes a few steadying breaths in the pause after those words, the amber gaze that meets his firm and unwavering... for a moment. Good gods, but he had a knack for breaking down her walls. Her shoulders drop a couple of inches. "I promised you I would follow you into hell... and you're the one who came to meet me in mine." Del huffs a soft laugh as she looks up at him in quiet wonder, tears standing again in the corners of her eyes. "Why would I wish to be anywhere else?"

The scene changes as they move, (are they moving?)  and Del looks around, wonderstruck. This isn't her home-- but yes it is. She hasn't spent any meaningful time in Shingetsu, knowing it from description and paintings, and this place is vivid and special and feels like the Crescent Isles-- one she does not know. It's happy, too. Not like her dream; a better place. Something of Cyran's.

...Oh.

Her eyes land on a large, out of place structure in the distance; some sort of large estate. Del knows with certainty that's not hers, and that it is not in the Crescent Isles-- no way would she have missed that. Before she can ask, though, she can feel Cyran dismissing it, ignoring it. She gives the place one last look over her shoulder, frowning at it, and then up at him.

...She could ask. Maybe she should. But he was here and wanted to help her and already had felt guilty. She could give him peace for this too. For now. Maybe when they woke up, and she remembered, she would ask.

For now, in this space, Del nods slowly, accepting his words and agreeing to his suggestion. "But I am doing something; I'm with you." There's a light tease of a smile that follows her words. While not the best at relaxing, Del was... learning. Cyran had given her a gift, and she would be remiss to turn it down. She leans her head on Cyran's shoulder and closes her eyes. It was almost... easy, to relinquish control around him. That trust, maybe; Implicit and as certain as her own heartbeat. "Okay." She echoes softly. A walk and 'just be'-ing with him sounded... lovely.

In the world of reality and peaceful rest, Del melts into Cyran's sleepy embrace, getting as close as she can. Very slightly, she nuzzles under his chin as if to try and get more room, before falling blissfully, finally, still.

“It’s not something I fully understand myself.” Cyran said with a small shrug. The best he could figure was that this… darkness in him, the part that allowed him to draw upon the shadows and occupy their domain allowed him to delve someplace deeper. Not quite the living world, not quite the realm of shadows. Something in the middle. His own magic was not something Cyran was fully conscious of - it was this ugly kind of thing in the pit of his soul that he used, but didn’t choose to fully examine. It had never been an issue before now. But now that his power was growing, and he could do things like this, Cyran supposed it might be time to give his magic some conscious thought. These abilities concerned him.

… Then again, if it could be used to to good like this, Cyran supposed it couldn’t be all bad.

“Even if you do not remember, then I shall tell you.” He promised, squeezing her shoulder. His enthusiasm dimmed as she spoke of her nightmares, that this same horrifying dream plagued her every night. And still, she willed herself onto this boat, not wanting to be seen as weak. Still willing to travel despite this fear. And she put it aside to help Cyran of all people…

His heart ached. A kind of yearning he could not place.

My Rogue.

“Nor could you cause me anguish.” Cyran promised, resolve firming as he heard her words. There was still a small part of him that felt guilt for bringing her here, to this place of her fear. But oh, she was so strong… “I just wish I had known, is all. I would never have looked at you lesser for this. Del, being fearless is not what makes you strong in my eyes. It is the way you hold yourself in spite of that fear. How could I not admire you for this strength?”

But he could, at the very least, alleviate this pain of hers. Just because Del could bear it didn’t mean she should have to. Cyran brought a hand up to the gilded crack on her face, molten heat pouring from the fissures, running a thumb across her cheek. The blazing fire was like a balm against the cold.

“At the very least, allow me to take this burden from you tonight.” And every night he could, as long as Cyran had the strength to continue changing her nightmares into good dreams. That resolution carried him through their walk, determined to at least give her this moment of peace. His heart hammered in his chest as Del spoke.

“Then we shall be here together.”

And there was nowhere else he’d rather be, either.

…

By the time Cyran drifted awake, Del was curled against him, looking far more peaceful than she had during the night. And the troubled feeling that he’d gotten through their bond was practically gone, and traces of gold flower petals graced her pillows.

Cyran smiled, feeling more well rested than he had in some time.

“… Good morning.”

That he returned her words with such earnestness, and told her how he admired her strength, makes a little shiver travel up and down her spine, an electric charge flowing between two poles with nowhere to go. How she held herself, in spite of fear. Dust and ash, he made her feel like she could take on the world.

As his hand moves to her face, Del cannot help but lean into his touch. Under his hand, the little molten line shifts, thinner fissures like a spiders web moving up and over the slope of her forehead and into her hairline, as though he was deviating its flow. She doesn't seem to notice the advent of gold, only sighing quietly at the light, tender assurance of his comfort.

"Only if it doesn't burden you. Please." She insists, lifting her head from his shoulder to look at him for that moment of concern. She had no idea how this... dream thing worked, but wonderful as it was, she did not want it to cause him any pain. She almost hopes it does, because this one good, wonderful dream seems to selfish, too greedy to want more of, and yet, she does. Again, she relents, setting her head back against his shoulder as they stroll. "Thank you for being here with me."

The manse still lurks in the background, but she forgets it quickly, determined to be in the moment with him. It was precious, this space, as finite as their evening in the stars a few weeks back. Her cheek moves against his shoulder in a slight smile, echoing his words.

"Together."

---

Cyran's gentle greeting is met with a crease in Del's brow, as though unwilling to rouse from sleep. Her face scrunches, burying closer towards the wonderful coolness of where she laid her head with a soft grumble of protest-- she was having the most wonderful dream. The best she could remember. It had been a nightmare, at first, but then she was pulled from the darkness by the moonlight. Then, Cyran--

Cyran.

There's a sharp intake of breath as her eyes snap open, violently brought to full wakefulness by the full memory of the dream and an awareness of her surroundings. Del found herself staring at the length of Cyran's throat, before drifting upward to catch his eye, and his little smile. Amused, perhaps? And a little disheveled from sleep.

"oh," Blood rushes to her face to the very tips of her ears, darkening her deep brown skin to a mahogany as her heart feels as though it did a backflip straight into a wall.

Dust and ash, what sort of good karma had she earned to wake up to that smile.

Or maybe she was still dreaming. If that was the case it was a... revealing one. Because in what world would she find herself waking up in Cyran's arms, her own limbs loosely flung around him as if she had sought him out in her sleep. Her subconcious was finding new ways to torment her, maybe. But... no. This feels different. And if she was awake then... oh, gods, she was certainly invading his personal space. "...Good morning," She manages, her voice a little squeaky. She clears her throat and tries to push herself up on her elbow. A line of gold dust from the crumbled petals in her hair drifts down and she blinks, taken aback. What.

"I. Um." That was new. She shakes her head and looks back-- down-- at Cyran, seeing where the little petals have fallen on him, on the pillow cases and has no idea where to fucking start, so she just starts apologising, "I'm sorry, I should have told you, about the water, and I don't-- the metal flower things are new, that's never happened before, and ah, I'm sorry, I didn't make you uncomfortable, did I?" She frets, reaching up to brush the little gold petals where they collected on his jaw (from where she was sleeping on him!!!!) "The... you were in my dream--" Oh gods, why did she have to say it like that? The blush worsens, "itwasn'tweirdIpromise, but you were there and helped me and, I don't know if it actually happened but, uh, thank you? It didn't... um. Disturb you. I hope. How did you sleep?" She ends on an upward inflection and forces her lips shut, stemming the tide of words finally.

Awareness came to him slowly, as did the realization that they’d drifted closer together at some point during their rest. Startled, Cyran released his hold on Del as she propped herself up, frantically dusting off the gold petals that had gathered on his pillow - and some even stuck to his face, against his notice. He blinked, unable to move while she profusely apologized, cleaning up the flowers that had appeared from nowhere.

“Um, it’s okay, really.” He insisted, suddenly nervous at feeling her nerves in the back of his mind. “No, you didn’t - did I -? For you-?” He stammered, kicking himself mentally. This wasn’t a big deal if they didn’t make it a big deal, why couldn’t he just be normal and get a damn grip? He was nearly in his fourth century of life, for fuck’s sake. There was no need to act like a blushing maiden, or like this was his first time occupying a bed with someone else.

He sat up, rubbing at the back of his neck while Del spoke about her dream, even more nervous than before. Oh, gods, had he made her uncomfortable by invading upon her nightmare? Sheepish, Cyran murmured, “Not to worry. I really was there, like I said before…” He shrugged. “No imposition. I don’t, ah, normally dream, so it’s not terribly difficult for me to slip into others, especially those of people that I’m close to.”

He froze.

“Er, yes, close to, but also in physical proximity -“ He waved a hand in the air frantically, “I didn’t mean to grab onto you in such a way. I’m sorry. But I hope, at least, you slept well?”

The question seemed paltry in comparison to the awkward situation he’d put her in by… cuddling with her in the middle of the night. Face still entirely red, Cyran pulled himself out of bed, rapidly moving to get dressed. Busy, they had a full day of work ahead of them. Acting as husband and wife was going to be a Herculean task in the face of how they’d… woken up this morning, but Cyran tried not to think about that. It was only natural for Illias and Elen. Yes, this was all part of the undercover mindset.

Cyran took a deep breath, ran his hand through his hair. Composed himself.

Yes, this didn’t have to be a big deal if he didn’t make it one.

“I slept well, thank you for asking.” He replied, forcing a wobbly smile on his face. Yes, that was good. He was the picture of nonchalance right now. He was really nailing this! “Well, we should get ready, yes? We’ve got a busy day ahead of us…”

It was their first full day on the ship, and there was an assassin to catch. There was supposed to be some sort of big event today, too - if the assassin’s previous attempt was any indicator, they would be using large crowds to their advantage, which meant Cyran and Del would have to run interference. Not to mention start investigating the guests and crew, try and find anyone who stood out. They could do this, put this evening behind them until it was a distant memory.

… They had an entire month and a half of a trip ahead of them.