Despite the unintended bonk to his shoulder, Del found her head supported by Cyran's gentle hands, aiding her with silent ressurances rather than chastising her for being less than careful. She resisted the urge to, well, resist, allowing him to manuvere her in a way that benefitted the both of them.

And lo and behold, her wish was now granted.

Her head rested on his shoulder, a perfect cushion to rest on that immediately increased the level of relaxation of the moment-- though precisely why she could not fathom-- she was only a little closer now than she had been a few minutes ago. Why should this be so different, apart from the fact that now she could watch the steady movement of his pulse just beneath his jaw, the fact that his scent filled the air she breathed? Why was this... so much better? "Thank you,"[/color] Del manages to mumble, relaxing against his shoulder. Even if she wante to fight this feeling, she was far too unwell to do so.

Not that she wanted to. At all.

Her brows lift in interest as Cyran explains the plot of the book he was reading. Her vision was blurry, but from her angle the image of the cover looked quite intense. Two roses violently intertwined, as far a she could tell? A strange choice for a book about a sea-faring adventure, but perhaps it was a reference to the plot itself. She chuffs a quiet laugh, her lopsided half-smile one of amusement. "That is a funny coincidence. It's funny how things work out like that, isn't it?" Del replies hoarsely, slowly unwinding ever more against his shoulder. Comfortable. Safe.

What a novelty that was.

Despite that sensation of pure respite and the level of care Cyran had provided so far, the offer he presents of reading to her takes her by surprise entirey. "You'd... are you sure?" Del blinks up at him, still a little bleary eyed and very much speechless. It makes her heart swell painfully again. Was she positive that she wasn't dreaming?

"If, um," Del adjusts against Cyran's shoulder, shifting a few scant millimetres closer, so he wouldn't have to lift his voice a single iota higher than he wanted to-- especially because he ha seemed a little on edge about the book as well. A tense place in the narrative, perhaps? "I don't typically get much chance to read while I'm, ah, on the road. I'd like to hear your recommendations, if you have them. Or, just learn what it is you like?" she gestures to the book with a slight dip of her chin, getting steaily less coherent. The idea of being lulled to sleep by Cyran's words? His voice?

She was not about to pass that up.

"I can't guarantee I'll stay awake throughout, but I'd like to hear about what intersts you regardless. And thank you for putting all of this together in the first place." she murmurs, settling again against his shoulder, giving him another, quiet smile. "I'm listening."

As Del felt herself relaxing, so too did Cyran. He was not especially uncomfortable, even with the weight of someone’s head on his shoulder. Besides, it was more important right now that Del herself was relaxed and able to stave off the sickness that was still haunting her. “In part, coincidence is a combination of pattern recognition and hindsight bias.” He murmured. “Though I will admit that this choice in reading was uncanny. Perhaps my subconsciousness was telling me something?” He teased, only to immediately wish he could take the words back. Wishful thinking? About a romance book? Now what in the hell was he thinking, making a fool of himself? What if Del interpreted the wrong meaning from that joke and became disgusted with him?

He doubted that would happen, given everything they had been through thus far, but still…

Ugh, he had to change the subject, quick. Thankfully, Del seemed interested in him reading to her, mostly to pass the time.

“Of course I am sure.” He promised. “I know it is hardly fun to be stuck in a position where you cannot even bring yourself to move. Not much to do. But I’m happy to sit and keep you company in any capacity I can.” And he really, truly meant it. There was no greater peace than in the moments like this.

He was not wholly unsurprised to hear that Del had little time to read in her busy schedule. From constantly moving, being a vagabond and a drifter - almost like she was running from something - to helping others and offering her charity where she could, there would naturally be no time and energy for herself left over save her own survival. Reading had been what he’d done to stave off loneliness on the road, picking up books whenever he stopped in cities and towns. Well. No time like the present, while she was safe and cared for.

Cyran set the romance book aside, mentally perusing his catalogue. “Well, I’m not sure if you’d like many of the books I read…” He mumbled, mostly to avoid mentioning that he indulged in romance novels more often than not. “But I think I have a couple that you might enjoy. I’ve got a couple more espionage stories, the art of war… oh, but you probably need something light. I think I’ve got just the one.”

From the shadows he plucked another book from his collection, a small, well-loved novel that had clearly been read cover to cover many times in the past. It was not an especially pleasant story - probably his only foray into the macabre - but he often found himself returning to this story for a single reason. No matter how many horrible things happened to the protagonist, they found their happy ending. It was not the ending they’d envisioned, but it was a good story about managing expectations and finding joy in the new rather than the old. It was one with no title, no author. He’d picked it up at a bazaar in Zeinav some years back, and had always enjoyed thumbing through it on dark nights.

It would suit just fine now.

“Of course. I’ll read until you fall asleep.” He checked once more to ensure that Del was comfortable before cracking the book open and getting started.

His voice filled the silence, barely a whisper, just loud enough that she could hear without forcing her headache to return. Cyran read with a steady cadence, keeping on it for as long as Del would let him - or until Del fell asleep. And once that happened, he continued his reading in silence, until he, too, drifted off into the void once more. A peaceful day, a day of rest. It had not been what Cyran had intended, but he supposed that he, too, still needed to learn joy in triumph in the new. For he never would have imagined having a friend to share moments like this with. Cyran had companions, that much was true, but it was difficult to imagine sitting like this with Zarius and reading to the young fellblood. What he had with Del was something unique and interesting. Even moments like this were foreign territory for the assassin.

But that was not a bad thing.

As they both drifted to sleep, bringing their single day of respite to a close and bringing about the new day side by side, Cyran knew that it really was not a bad thing at all.

Del blinks up at Cyran blearily, a quiet laugh filtering in quiet chuffs behind closed lips-- he was teasing, of course. The two roses(?) on the cover (the petals looked so much like dress skirts... but... no, she was imagining) were so close to one another, so bound and entertwined that it could only be for romance. Lofty, foolish thinking on her part. Silly brain.

But then, they were pretending to be married, weren't they? Over the past few days, they'd gotten rather good at pretending, to her eye. She'd enjoyed it... well, more than she probably should. --No, surely he was referring to the sea-faring adventure, of course. Nothing more to do with the roses she could barely make out.

"I think your choice in books will be more than fine," Del's voice takes on a gravelly grumble as she settles in, smiling to herself a little. It made sense that Cyran was so enamored with books; he had so many children to look after, so many stories that he would tell to the little ones that could not quite fall asleep that for him to have as many at his beck and call as he did, was not at al surprising. It stood to reason, then, that on such days that he experienced the same sleeplessness or restlessness for himself, that he would have to find solace among the pages as well. On the road, she had leaned on her craft to keep her mind at bay and to pass the time. Where would she be now if she had read instead of callousing her hands with whittling and splinters? Would they be as soft as the backs of his hands looked? She knew he had palms that held callouses in specific areas and had clearly seen work, but the skin around his knuckles did not look so worn; reader's hands, she thinks to call them. It reminds her, in some way, of the new book cover he lifts into his hands. Worn down with fondness and love.

"Thank you, Cyran," She murmurs, exhaling with a quiet sigh. Cyran's voice fills the scant space between them, soft and reverent, like a man reciting a hushed prayer in a temple. He speaks smoothly and without hitch, the slight accent in his voice a river-like cadence that carries her through the story itself. A protagonist who had one bad thing happen after another, the gaining of companions, the struggle and the happiness that found them in the end. What a lovely tale.

Even when she can no longer keep her eyes on the movement of his lips and they close, Del stays awake a while longer yet, Cyran's words painting wonderful images across her darkened vision as he narrates the story. Eventually, she drifts off on this river of words, one hand moving to rest in the centre of his chest as though feeling the thrum of his voice and his heartbeat was some sort of anchor. There is no questioning as to whether or not she should do this; in her sleepy, hang-over addled state, it simply feels right. She enjoys this closeness. More than that, she enjoys... him. The company, his friendship, his kind and thoughtful regard. She had never shared any moment like this with anyone else, in all her life. Whatever it was, it was special. It was to be cherished.

Eventually, as sleep takes them both, the world still turns; there is yet more work to be done, but for the moment, they can enjoy this peace and comfort, together.

The next few days, by some strange twist of fate, progressed without much incident. Ever since the pair of elves had boarded the Judeiea, everything had been so go go go, what with the constant threat of the assassin looming over the both of them like a ticking clock marching them closer to a deadline neither Cyran nor Del were cognizant of. Even during their day of rest, Cyran was constantly worried that the assassin might make their move while the two of them recuperated - a foolish mistake on his part to give in so easily, to let himself slack on vigilance - but there was no incident that day, nor in the following days, for that matter.

The guards were on high alert, and the ship felt a little nervous, but everything else was somehow… fine.

Cyran and Del took to mostly spending time with the Vironas, keeping a constant watch in case anything might happen. There was no other incident like what happened the night of their drinking competition, and Cyran had been so worried about the state Del ended up in afterwards that he hadn’t touched a drink ever since for fear of dulling his senses… that, and he was beginning to worry that poison was a very real possibility they were going to have to contend with. He had no way to counter such a thing if that were the case. He was no healer, nor did he have a method for constantly monitoring every single thing the Vironas ate. All he could do was hope that the assassin really had been tasked with turning this into a public humiliation somehow.

… As it turned out, he didn’t have to worry about poisoning.

What he did have to worry about, as it turned out, was something much worse.

The days passed without incident; and slowly, the passengers began to relax, routine returning to normal. Loving couples all celebrating their unions, romance in the air. With the danger slowing to a simmer, it was easy for others to forget there was threat of it in the first place. The only reminder that something sinister lingered aboard the vessel was the extra guard presence, and the added complication of an evening curfew. The ship had not thrown any more of the scheduled public events, leaving everyone bathed in a quiet serenity while the ship pressed forth from Moonglade to the waters of Sol City.

The day that everything fell apart started as a quiet one. Cyran and Del had kept at the mission with their own gentle rhythm, an ease of working with one another that felt right despite the fact that they’d not known one another more than a few months. They’d still not spoken about the… what happened in the backstage closet, nor had they discussed any further about nightmares and the ghosts that inhabited them. But there was peace, days spent stalking the shadows in search of their prey. With each passing day, there’d been a quiet dread mounting in Cyran’s chest, that they’d missed something, that they’d been made a fool of somehow.

He tried not to let that stress show in his face while he and Del relaxed along the top deck, seated in a few lounge chaises and watching the bustling activity. The afternoon sun painted the sky orange, laves lapping against the side of the vessel with a gentle rhythm. Back and forth, back and forth, like a rocking cradle. The stillness might even lull him into a false sense of security, if it were not for the man across the way. Virion Zirona, still publicly enjoying his drink and a cigarillo between two fingers. One might think the young man would be a little more cautious considering the fact that there had been attempt on his life earlier, but from what Cyran had gathered, the young man was filled with the bravado often imparted by the follies of youth. He seemed to believe that his sheer luck and tenacity would protect him. Cyran almost felt pity for the poor young man. So cocksure of himself, and if his father-in-law had his way, the kid would never have the opportunity to learn and grow.

Cyran did not get the chance to watch Virion for long, though. Because as he and Del lounged on the ship, only occasionally breaking the comfortable but alert silence to make small talk, the ship gave a shuddering, violent lurch accompanied with the bellow of something groaning and tearing. The Judeia did not come to a halt, but as the guards started hastily calling out, “Nothing to worry about, the vessel merely grazed a rock -“ Cyran turned to Del, biting his lower lip. It should have been nothing, and yet.

The assassin had not survived thus far by ignoring his intuition.

All of that day could have been a dream for Del, if not for the terrible headache caused by her little gambit. Coming out of it the next day brought on a pleasant haze that seemed to carry them through the rest of the week. It was... quiet. Simultaneously, it was hard for Del to enjoy herself and at the same time stay on guard; a strange combination of reclining and suddenly remembering that they needed to be sharp and on the look-out for this assassin was enough to keep her up at night, on edge and ill at ease. At the same time, she was much more careful with what she imbibed and where, and did her best to ensure their surroundings were clear. It was the simple act of not finding anything amiss that made her feel... paranoid. As though they were missing something.

But they had gone over every possible angle again and again, and either the assassin was keeping their distance, or they were much more efficient than they had given credit for. If they were laying low until their ideal opportunity struck, then that meant that she and Cyran would need to be on high alert. It was difficult to be lounging in the main deck, idly chatting with a champagne flute in hand, and not suddenly shatter the glass wholly with the realization that she was doing far too much socializing and not enough reconnaissance. Though... that might be primarily due to her own more usual methods, and not recognizing the parlours and luncheons for precisely that. Cyran was far better at conducting those investigations in such a way, adroit as he always was.

If there was any hope, however faint, that the assassin had given up their attempts at striking Virion Zirona, it was quickly dashed. The lurch sends people staggering and dropping their food and glasses, stumbling into one another. She Cyran, having been seated, merely sway with the motion of the boat and ice settles in the pit of Del's stomach.

As her eyes connect with Cyran's, her amber gaze is bright with certainty and abject fear. Certainty that she found reflected in him, that this was not some mere scrape along the hull-- they were too far out into the bay to run aground. She reaches out to cling to Cyran-- to Ilias, rather. Of course. Obviously Elen would look to her partner for comfort and reassurance. It had simply been a reflex, to reach out to the person who made her-- ELEN-- feel safest, when she was suddenly the most aware she had ever been that they were on a boat.

Despite some of the colour leaving her face, Del was not inebriated this time when the ship lurched. Pumped full of adrenaline, she swallows thickly, attending with razor focus on the task at hand as she takes the opportunity created by her obviously very planned out and strategic hug to lean close to Cyran, so only he could hear. "Pursue or get the Zironia's to safety?" she breathes, already readying herself for the next action. The nobles on deck were alarmed and uncertain, but the guards were doing well to not throw them into full on panic just yet. Still, beyond the door, she could see bodies rushing quickly down the hall. Prioritizing was the key here, and there was no wrong answer; if the ship was going down, they needed life-boats sooner than later. If this was a ploy of some kind, a means of gathering the nobility in one place to single out the one they were after (or just going wholesale and going after everyone), it might be better to pursue and investigate what was below deck. An option which may blow their cover.

Del finds herself looking to Cyran as her heart hammers at her rib cage, trusting his judgment in this moment when her body was petrified with the implication of the hull's potential breach.

Unease and uncertainty shimmered in the amber of Del’s eyes. With a start it all came crashing down on Cyran - all he’d learned of her fear of water, all he’d seen and heard in the vulnerable moments he and Del had shared strung across the past few days - the realization came with the lurch of the ship and the sight of Del reaching for him on instinct. He gripped her hand from where he was seated, champagne flute immediately abandoned. In that moment it was all he could do to squeeze her hand, their cuts and callouses pressed together, a worry, a promise. It was all Cyran could do, because with the lurching motion came a realization.

There were no rocks this far out in the ocean.

Del lunged forward and wrapped her arms around his shoulders in a hug; Cyran replied by wrapping his arms protectively around her waist, rubbing circles along the fabric of her afternoon cocktail dress, unsure what to think about the fact that when confronted with the reality of her fear, her first instinct was to reach for him. And that his first instinct was to reach for her, in turn.

Do not make it any weirder than it needs to be, he chided himself. This is just a front on her end… a scared wife would naturally reach for her husband for comfort.

Thoughts that were pushed aside when he heard her whisper and was reminded of the situation they’d found themselves in.

If the vessel was truly compromised, if the hull was breached, then it was only a matter of time before water started filling the lower deck. Only a matter of time before the ship began to submerge, its destination never to be reached. But there was no way for them to know - the guards were still behaving as if everything was normal, which meant that whatever had truly happened, they still believed it was salvageable. Belief often differed from reality.

The ship gave another violent, yawning shudder and Cyran forced himself to focus and reassess. His first thought was not for the passengers, not for the man he’d been paid to protect, but for the woman at his side. If worse came to worst, he could just fly her out of here, keep her as far away from the water as possible, just flee until they reached Sol City or even turn back to Moonglade. Damn the money, the politics. But for better or worse he knew Del like the back of his hand; if he pulled them out now while there was still a chance they could fix this situation, she would not be pleased. So he had to operate on the assumption that they would continue on course until there was nothing left for them but for Cyran to grab her and flee.

Okay. So they were here to stay, for now. The logical decision would be to pursue both; Del the shield, Cyran the blade. But he found, as the option was on the tip of his tongue, that it was not the one he wanted to pursue. If the Judeia was going down, if this ocean was to be the ship’s graveyard, then the last thing he wanted was to leave Del stranded. They moved together, or not at all.

“Pursue.” He decided, an air of finality in the assuredness of his voice, a far cry from the serenity he spoke with normally. They could stick close to the Vironas and, in the event this was a diversion, ensure their safety. But this was just one event. There was no telling how long this game would carry on. Better for the client to wholly eliminate the threat, possibly even pry information on his employer from his dying mind. Better to be the knife slipped between a ribcage than a dull blade.

He pulled Del to her feet, gentle. The activity on deck had lulled to a dull, anxious murmur as people speculated what was going on. Keeping his pace casual, he led her to the double doors - when questioned by a guard, Cyran offered a small lie, “The lurch left my wife rather nervous, so we’d like to retire for the afternoon,” which allowed them to slip back into the halls. Only once they were undetected, away from prying eyes, did Cyran manifest his shadow, creating a double that stood by his side. In a whispered command in elvish, he uttered, “Get to the Zironas. Watch over them.”^[1]

It would not be able to do much in the event of a real attack - but at least Cyran would have an idea of the danger they faced if it dissipated. The shadow nodded, making its way back out to the deck to keep an eye on the couple. A shoddy solution, but it would have to do for now. He still could not bring himself to suggest they split.

Together, or not at all.

‘Til death did they part.

It felt a fitting course of action, given all they’d been through so far.

Cyran turned to Del, unable - or unwilling - to conceal his worry. “Last chance to hop off, you know. If this is -” If the ship was really going down - “If it is what I suspect, I would not begrudge you a quick escape. I’d catch up with you all once I’m done here.”

An uncomfortable implication in his words, that he would be left behind while the ship sank. But Cyran would be okay. He might not have been able to swim, but he could fly, and he was slippery. In the event something were to happen, Del wouldn’t be able to protect herself. It was far more important, the sentimental part of him whispered while he twisted the ring on his finger, her Hearth Day gift he’d taken to wearing on his finger as part of the ruse, that she be safe.

That much, he was certain of.

---

1. Shadow Clone

The ship shuddered again and the facade that 'everything's fine' was starting to crumble. Passengers were not yet at full panic, but some were begining to look properly worried. None were as terrified as Del was.

None were as secure as Del was, either, so long as she had one hand on Cyran's shoulder as he led her carefully through the hallways, like a good husband ought to.

While Cyran took a moment to manifest his shadow, Del found herself glaring down at her skirts. They hadn't bothered her over much before, but that was when she was dancing and socilizing and sitting about preening like a pretty bird locked in a cage. She starts manuverin her skirts in a very unladylike manner, roughly moving the fabric in a loop through her legs so that the skirts were wrapped around her thighs and hips, allowing her full range of motion.

Except for the heels.

With pretense thoroughly abandoned, Del bends to pull her shoes off, holding each in her hands by the spike of the heel in a closed grip. She turns to Cyran with a look of determination, tempered by a surprised blink when he offers her to leave him behind to handle whatever came from this, especially as she was already ready for war. With anyone else, she might feel a little offended at the insinuation that she shouldn't participate, but with Cyran... the worry in his voice. The care in his eyes....

Her heart turns over a little no, surely it is simply care for her wellbeing, and not something deeper. They were not Elen and Ilias. They were not.

Del's expression softens a little, and she shakes her head. "We're partners, remember?" Her gaze flicks to his hand, where the ring she had given him sat, for just a second, a blink. "I told you I'd follow you into hell, and I'm nothing if not good for my word."

Promises could be such heavy things, in the right hands.

It made sense from a survival perspective for her to leave, but she was not going to. She did not want to. Though it was terrifying to not know if the ship was going to stay afloat, Del was certain there was nowhere else she would rather be than with Cyran.

"Besides, I already took my shoes off."[/color] she gives him a crooked smile and an assuring nod. "I have your back. Lead on."

Cyran looked away for all of a second while commanding the shade - merely a single second, but by the time he turned back around to face his partner in crime, Del was already in the middle of hoisting the skirts of her dress up and that damn play came to mind once more, unbidden.

Cyran averted his gaze, biting his knuckle to resist the urge to let out a scream. What was she doing? They were in the middle of a situation, they shouldn’t - wait, the fact that they were otherwise preoccupied shouldn’t be the only reason he was opposed to anything happening! His gut churning dangerously, his resolve only mounting a weak resistance, trying and failing to find reasons why he would otherwise saying no but his rational brain screaming at him they were still very much on a potentially sinking ship; Cyran turned back to Del, his face flushed as he moved to shrug off his jacket and throw it over her…

When he noticed that she’d expertly tied her skirt around her legs, offering her superior mobility, and was moving to kick her heels off.

Oh.

“That’s… practical.” He sounded endlessly pained before clearing his throat, wishing desperately for a glass of water. He needed to focus - get his head in the game. The Specter could not afford to let the Judeia submerge because his head was in the clouds and his traitorous mind was in the gutter. He chose to voice his concerns instead, a small, minuscule part of him hoping she might take him up on his offer. That she might seek solace, and he wouldn’t have to worry about her, knowing she was safe.

He ought to have expected the response he received, though; Delaela Asiliari was not the type of person to leave when she had the potential to save the lives of others, even those who did not deserve her kindness and compassion. Even if it meant throwing herself headlong into her fears. That was what Cyran had always admired about her… and he could not help but find himself taken aback now.

“Of course.” He smiled, visible eye crinkling at the corners. “I won’t do you the injustice of asking again and doubting your resolve. And should it come to it… I’ll make sure you get out of here safe.”

There was something deeper in the spoken promise, a darker vow hidden in the shadows of his words - even if it was only her that Cyran was able to save. A job was temporary; Cyran had few friends and even fewer who bothered to stick around through hell. That was important to him. It meant something.

He let out a small laugh. “Your disdain for your shoes is noted.”

He hesitated only a second before grabbing her hand and sprinting down the hall, deeper into the belly of the ship. It was only convenient, he reasoned, that they stay in contact, in case he needed to make a quick getaway in the air with her. Practical. That was all there was to it.

That was all there could be to it.

Her palm was warm in his and solid even as the ship gave another lurch.

It was a good thing that Cyran had studied the layout of the ship before setting out on this cruise, because he already knew the way to the deepest layers, the part of the brig submerged underwater… the most vulnerable part of the hull from the manufacturer’s details. If the assassin had studied the same blueprints as him, then that was a good place to start. He did not give much attention to the small, niggling suspicion that this might have been an elaborate ploy to finally lure them out - even if it was some sort of trap, they still had to act. The assassin’s desperation could damn hundreds just to kill a few.

Still, he was cautious - checking for traps around the door to the brig’s frontmost storage room, only releasing his breath when he found nothing. He had half a thought to conceal his presence, but the assassin had gone through all this for one of two reasons: to strike the Zirona’s, or lure them into a confrontation. Their presence was expected. The lack of traps, likely an open invitation. He steeled himself, pushing open the door…

Only to find the inside empty, save a large contraption pushed up against the ship’s wooden interior. An amalgam of metal and wood creating some kind of pillar on its side. Even stranger were the off scribblings in the material, some sort of script that Cyran could not identify - but before he could move any closer, the etchings lit up, the air simmering with arcane energy, and he realized they weren’t random scribblings at all but the formulae of a spell, one forcing the pillar to move backwards, holding still for a few tantalizing seconds -

And then it SLAMMED into the ship’s hull.

No, not a pillar. Cyran realized, holding right to Del while the ship shuddered from the force of a blow, wood creaking and threatening to snap. A bartering ram.

Around it were various costumes - an attendant, a stage costume, a guard, a noblewoman’s gown and an elegant coat. A few prop blades and a couple of trunks that looked like they’d been filched from the backstage area of the ship’s theater.

“It looks like we’ve found their hideout…” Cyran murmured under his breath, scanning the area for any sign of life.

He found none, until an unfamiliar voice rang out, their presence felt rather than seen in the dim of the shadows.^[1] “Two of you, hmm? I was only expecting one, but it makes sense. No matter. Now that you’re here, I’ll just have to make quick work of you so you stop interfering with my job.”

---

1. Shadow Sight

Her head tips for a moment at Cyran, seeing him go from battle ready to nervous in what seemed a sudden change of his demeanor. Though Del was of a mindset for battle now, and in no frame of mind for deep self reflection, later she would recall her brash immodesty with a mortification that would last her a few days. For the moment, though, Del was focused, the clarity of danger flooding her mind with the certainty of what they needed to do.

And yet.

Even with that, Cyran's gentle concern for her penetrated through her battle-readiness, giving her a different sort of clarity; time and again, he had proven that he cared for her wellbeing. It was a good thing she was not wearing her shoes, feeling a little wobbly in the knees. A quality to his words that made her certain, trusting implicitly, that he would see her safe, come hell or high water. And the water was, indeed, threatening to rise.

His words seem to have a way of reaching her in ways no other could match. It was... quite singular, this ability of his. The hard set of her jaw softens a little, easing the harsh, stoic mask of her face. She clears her throat, touched in spite of herself and the situation, filled with urgency and also wanting to extend the same. "Not if I make sure you get out of here safe first," she huffs, an attempt to convey that she was not going anywhere without him, trying to be noth determined and a little humourous.

Perhaps as a cover for her own vulnerability in this moment?

While Del found herself... enjoying his care, unique and astounding as it was, she also wanted, very much, to be someone Cyran could rely on. Someone he never had to question whether or not she would be there at his side when the chips were down, or when hell was at their heels. That was, for some reason, exceedingly important to her. Perhaps... perhaps her own stubbornness, surely.

But the sound of his surprised laughter at her removal of her shoes makes her heart flutter in spite of itself. Oh, what a sound. For a moment, even though the world was crumbling around them, when Cyran steels her hand to pull her down the hallway, she cannot stop a little laugh bubbling up from her own throat. Holding fast to his hand, they run towards the danger, determined and side by side.

Del had not looked into the state of the ship quite as thoroughly as Cyran had; he was by far the better investigator out of the two of them, and she was happy to help by distracting people any way she could. She follows his lead resolutely, confident Cyran knew where he was going, something else shortly proven correct as they found themselves deep within the hull of the ship. Down here, the sounds of water sloshing against the ship's exterior were drowned out only by the blood thrumming in her ears. She pushes it from her mind, focusing; if she didn't want to drown, they needed to stop the source of that clamourous strike against the ship itself. Rooms and rooms of little to no leads, Cyran carefully guiding them through while Del stood at his back, attentive and wary... until they came to the storage area.

The sight of the machine makes Del's eyes widen. It is... a contraption, certainly. One she immediately recognizes for what it is; a battering ram. The ships hull shudders under the tremendous impact, a sound loud and terrifying enough that it makes Del wince, spiking her through with panic as she nearly loses her footing. Cyran, though, thinking quickly, secures her, holding her close to... to protect her? To prevent her from falling?

In either case, her mind reels, though there is no time to dwell on the closeness or her response to it; Gods. This assassin was mad.

The voice speaks up, from apparently nowhere. Del frowns, shifting to stand back to back with Cyran, her hand remaining laced with his. Through the shadows[1], she cannot immediately spot the persons location. But they really, really, don't have much time to worry about that.

"I can take the machine," Del murmurs in reply, squeezing Cyran's hand. "Take to the shadows. I'm sure they might attack or try to stop me."[/color]

A pause, a scant half second of savouring his cool palm in hers, wrestling with something in her chest that seemed to fight to get out. Del opens and closes her mouth, once, before she decides on those last words. "Be safe, please."

Releasing Cyran's hand, Del darts away, breaking off hard towards the side and taking a path through the crates and boxes scattered about, vaulting and leaping through the obstacles[2] in an effort to get towards the device and to get the assassin to show themself.

Before it was too late.

---

[1] Shadow Sight
[2] Cat's Grace

”Not if I make sure you get out of here safe first.”

Cyran had to stifle a laugh at the bold stubbornness. Even now, not wanting to be coddled, treated like she couldn’t do anything. Cyran understood the sentiment. Even now, he felt oddly… soft in the face of the thought that Del would so sincerely want to protect him in a mission that seemed impossible. Her promises could make him soft if he let himself fall. All the easier for an enemy to find a weak point.

All the easier for Del to watch his back and make sure that didn’t happen.

Cyran opened his mouth as if to continue the debate, but they could be here all night if that was the case. Both of them stubborn. Both of them wanting to be of use to the other. And the strangest thing was that Cyran found he didn’t mind the childish debate. As silly as it was, there was almost… fun to be had in the back and forth, the relentless saving of one another, something competitive simmering underneath the surface. If circumstances were different, it might have almost been a game.

He shot her a crooked smile. “I look forward to seeing it.”

Her laughter rang down the hallway, fading away as they drew closer to their destination. There was no humor to be found in the ship’s bowels; only the contraption, and a spike of fear as the two of them wobbled dangerously, their footing as uncertain as the ship’s integrity.

Cyran pursed his lips as Del squeezed his hand.

He really didn’t like this.

But between the two of them, Del was stronger. Muscles built from years of discipline and training, a preternatural strength and purpose in her body. If anyone could disable the machine, she had the best chance ripping it apart piece by piece. Cyran squeezed her hand back once before she slipped away, and tried not to think about what it meant that he lamented the sensation of something solid in his grip as she left. As her palm left his he uttered one more spell.

“Shadows be with you.”^[1]

Del bolted towards the machine - the target on her back outlined in bright red. The assassin lunged, desperate to keep her from touching the contraption.

Cyran was there first.

Spell Slicer and Cold Steel sang in his hands, the cool leather and weight of their grip filling the gap where the warmth of Del’s palm had resided only moments ago. He locked his two blades in an X formation, holding the sword that had come from thin air, brought downwards right against her back. They stood, locked together - the masked assassin struggling to muscle past him, and Cyran’s legs shaking, arms crossed overhead as he braced himself for dear life, desperate to give Del only a few seconds to put distance between them -

And when he couldn’t bear it anymore, Cyran brought his arms apart, sending the sword spiraling to the side. The assassin recoiled, sword arm flung backwards; took advantage of the moment and spun, swinging the blade back towards Cyran in an upward swing. Cyran couldn’t block in time, taking a nasty gash to his forearm to save his face. Pain blossomed in his arm but he had to push through it. He braced his back leg on the deck as he raised his hind leg in the air, triggering the mechanism for the concealed blades in his boots with a metallic sound, aiming right for his jaw.^[2]

The assassin caught his foot and threw him to the ground. Cyran hit the wood with a THUD, stifling a grunt of pain as his skull knocked against the ground. The assassin ignored him, taking after Del before she could do any damage to his machine.

“Oh, no, you don’t!”

Cyran picked himself up and sprinted, calling upon the shadows for aid - they responded, enveloping him in their hold and pulling him where he wanted to go - in a second he was in the man’s shadow, in grasping distance.^[3] Cyran dropped Cold Steel, Spell Slicer in one hand and the other grasping at his throat. The tip of his blade pointed at his chin.

“Who sent you?”

”A good hired blade is a vault of secrets.” The man spat.

Cyran shrugged. He had other ways of prying for information that didn’t want to be found. He closed his eyes and gripped tighter around the man’s neck, sifting through memories -^[4]

You see a darkness that is vast and ever-changing, one which seems to doom each second it passes. You know death as an old friend, but they - they know death as a lover. It is easy to follow the string of deaths backwards through time, murders under different faces, names, each one different from the last. You see public executions, quiet poisonings in the night, whatever the client requests. And this time, he’s received a rather special job. Murder at sea, that’s a new one. At the very least it will provide a place where no one can escape.

You see a figure in the shadows. “Make it public,” he says. “Make it a spectacle.” You see Landis Argent, the man who hired you - Cyran - explaining what he wants to happen. Virion is one of his biggest suppliers, you see, but the man has grown too big for his britches. He’s raising prices, burning bridges with old clients and galavanting with pirates. “It’s bad for business. He’s going to get caught one of these days, and drive the family whose goodwill he uses will be wasted. Their reputation, in tatters. Their assets, reclaimed by the city for investigation.”

And you remember, through the swath of memories, your first meeting with him. “I have a vested interest in his fortune.” Never once did he express interest in Virion’s wellbeing. What a joke.

You continue watching this encounter, played out in front of you like a dream. Argent lays out the details of this mission, and oh, is he thorough. “His wife - the elven waif. She intends to give him ownership of the company. But Papa wouldn’t like that, wouldn’t he? Maybe even enough to do something about it-”

The spell was cut short, burning at the edges like flame taken to parchment as the vision dissolved; the assassin had kicked Cyran across the room, preventing him from seeing any more of the vision. Not that Cyran needed any more to go off of. He wiped a bit of blood from his nose with the back of his sleeve, smearing crimson across his face while he readied his daggers. The assassin stood across from him, wild-eyed.

“What did you just do?”

“A frame job, then?” Cyran murmured, ignoring the question. “Not a bad idea. Argent hires you to perform public execution when someone else has all the motive. Then he hires me as a bodyguard, painting himself as a concerned citizen. His hands are clean, and as the Zephyr Trade Company is driven to the ground while rumors spread, he swoops in and acquires it from Layla’s father, finally gaining access to their assets to do with what he wishes. There’s just one problem with your plan.”

”Which is?” The assassin’s voice dripped with venom.

“Sinking the ship would kill Layla too, you fool.”

Cyran lunged once more, blades a whirlwind of steel and silver.

And in the distance, the machine geared up to take another strike, magic simmering in the air.

---

1. Quicken
2. Ice Skates
3. Shadow Walk
4. Reveal Truth

She sees the movement out of the corner of her eye, something that would have inspired the instinct to react and fight had she not quelled it specifically before her feet started thudding their staccato rhythm against the floor of the ship. Del had restrained that instinct because of the man pretending to be her husband. Something she did without question or really reasoning why she was entrusting the whole of her safety to Cyran, quite literally, with her back.

Though that trust was not in question, the ring of steel on steel behind her told her that it could not have been better placed.

In spite of this, her jaw tenses; There are sounds of combat behind her. While she is confident in Cyran's abilities, she found she had a new impulse to restrain herself from; going back to help him.

The idea of her husband being hurt or injured by this interloper was infuriating. She would break their bones. She would rip them in half. There would be nowhere safe on Charon for that man if Cyran wound up with even so much as a scratch.

So engrossed, not catching her own mental slip that leads her to fall a little further, Del grits her teeth, determined. The best way to help Cyran was to see this through. She charges ahead, to the machine.

The hull is a convoluted layout, with crates, canvas and barrels everywhere, but the spell Cyran cast on her has Del feeling as though she is flying. She vaults over these obstacles, sliding under the sagging nets of bundled luggage, finding paths quickly and smoothly as she gets to the machine[1]. She slows near it, taking a second to skirt the machine itself to suss out the situation.

The battering ram was still in the process of drawing back, Formulae runes glowing brightly as the Space magic that allowed the log to hover in place repeated the cycle it had been set to accomplish. The timber was huge. Where the assassin had got it, Del had no way of knowing. Did he cut loose one of the support struts in the interior of the ship somehow? Or was this a log used as ballast and he had just commandeered it?

There really wasn't much time to wonder. The hull of the ship looked to be in rough shape, with water beginning to stain the wood through cracks in the side. It might be able to handle one more blow, but the integrity of the ship could be so weakened at that point that the outward pressure from the water could finish the job by itself. Del gritted her teeth. Shit.

She looked back at the device, eyes widening. The hum of magic increased, the runes flaring as they shifted polarity-- no longer drawing back, but gearing up to piston forward.

Del was not a learned woman. She could not begin to try and unravel the complicated Formulae that was endemic to this device, not without more time, which they desperately lacked. What she was, was very adept at breaking things. Better than she was at fixing them. By far.

With the terrifying threats of drowning and Cyran being injured by this assassin hanging over her, Del could only hope that she wouldn't make things worse.

The battering ram flared, as Del was right in front of it. She braced, hands drifting upwards, offering a silent prayer to Master Maruyama to guide her.

The runes gave one last flare, the ropes slackening to allow the battering ram to shoot forward, toward the hull of the ship, and into Del. She thrusts her hands upwards, the edge of the ram scraping her chest as she forces the angle of the ram into the air, the momemtum knocking it loose from its moorings and sending the giant log airborne.

It can't hit the floor. It's heavy enough that it could punch straight down and out of the ship, creating a hole that could not possibly be fixed.

It's thanks to Cyran's spell that she can move in time to get under the battering ram as it flips once end over end, before gravity begins to pull it flat to the ground. Her back turned towards it, Del grimaces, bracing for the impact as she attempts to catch the giant timber.

It hits with a force she could only think of as blinding. She buckles under the sheer weight of it, forced to her knee with a sharp gasp of pain. Reaching behind her to seize the log and keep it in place, keep it from rolling off of her, is an agony in and of itself, her joints and muscles stretched to their limit as she struggles to force the damn thing to settle, settle. The battering ram bears down, driving her further to the floor, knee pressing so hard into her chest that she can scarcely breathe.

The ship rocks beneath them, the waves lapping the hull, and the battering ram settles. Slowly, carefully, Del lets herself list to one side, practically slumping to the floor as she gently tips the inert log off of her back. It rolls harmlessly off to one side, coming to rest against a stack of crates.

---

[1] Cat's Grace boosted by Quicken

Cyran struck the assassin at the same time the battering ram swung.

Del met the heavy wood at the same time a sword met his blade.

Cyran winced - heavy, as if the world was caving in above him - and turned to catch Del pressed to the ground, holding the ram from breaching the hull with all the strength she could muster. One slip, one second for her muscles to give out from under her, and she would find her end at the magical weapon’s weight.

Panic seized him like the grip of the icy depths - he couldn’t breathe, he needed to help her -

A second of hesitation that cost him. A boot planted itself in his chest and knocked him to the ground at the same time Del knocked the ram to the side, preventing it from completing its course. The ship shuddered from the weight, but remained intact. The blow, on the other hand, rattled Cyran’s brains in his skull. His blades had clattered to the ground in the scuffle, just out of his reach. He twisted his body, lunging to grab one when the assassin kicked it out of Cyran’s reach, coming to a rest near his boot - and a curved sword kissed his neck, the proximity of the steel making his pulse flutter.

She’s safe. She’s safe. Cyran had been disarmed but Del was safe. The thought alone forced him to calm, letting go of the anxiety that had coursed through him only moments ago. Perhaps he was getting sloppy. Or perhaps he was just getting used to fighting by someone’s side.

“Give it up.” The assassin’s voice was harsh, cold. “You can’t stop me. What has been set in motion cannot be undone.”

Cyran wheezed, a small, fond smile growing on his lips. “You’re right, I can’t. But she just did.”

Only then did the assassin realize the ram hadn’t yet struck its target. His neck whipped in the direction of the toppled weapon and the woman catching her breath while clinging to the crates, and only then could Cyran draw air into his battered lungs again and kick his foot out in the direction of the discarded dagger.

The curved tip of his concealed boot-blade hooked on Spell Slicer’s hilt, and Cyran kicked as hard as he could, launching the blade upwards, hurtling through the air -

And straight for the assassin’s back.^[1,2]

The killer made a choked sound as blood filled his lungs. Drowning. A fitting way to die at sea, Cyran supposed. The Specter’s victim lurched and coughed up blood, the last plea he would ever manage before he fell on top of Cyran with a thud.

Well. He supposed he’d have to get rid of this shirt once all was said and done.

Cyran shifted, melding into the shadows for a moment to pull himself free from the victim’s weight, coming to an unsteady standing position.^[3] The ship was still moving, Virion wasn’t dead, and they had all of their limbs intact. Cyran turned to Del, his chest heaving dangerously as he found her across the room.

And he smiled.

“That was…” He whispered, unsure what to say. Incredible, miraculous, impossible…

But he came up short in his attempt to express his gratitude, so he merely made his way over to her and offered a hand to help her to her feet. His face and hands were still covered in the blood of the assassin he’d dispatched, Spell Slicer held tight in his grip. And yet, there was nothing but relief and fatigue in his expression.

“Thank you.”

If she hadn’t been able to stop that in time, this would have gone a lot worse. Del was the one with the fear of the water, and yet, everyone on this ship today owed her for its safety.

They’d survived by the skin of their teeth, but they’d scraped by. They were both here to enjoy the aftermath of battle and the hard earned aches and pains of victory. That was the best Cyran could hope for.

---

1. Boomerang Arc
2. Gerhart’s Final Strike
3. Phase Walk

Her ears ring as she gasps for breath, the inertia of the speed-increasing spell Cyran had bequeathed her wearing off just as the stars started to fade from her vision. That. Was stupid. Incredibly, undeniably stupid. Her chest hurts where her knee had pressed against her sternum, her back aches, her head throbs-- absolutely paying for her hubris.

As Cyran's face floats into view above her, though, the quiet scolding she was giving herself abruptly fades. He was okay. Alive and well. What was that expression on his face? Relief, perhaps? Had she worried him?

What a wonder, for someone to worry about her the way he seemed to.

Gratefully, Del takes Cyran's offered hand to help her to her feet, unsteady on legs that had too quickly reached their limit. But... standing. That was unusual in and of itself; she had felt the weight of the battering ram as it impacted her back, felt it drive her towards the floor. Yet, she had kept her feet under her. Yet, it had not crushed her. Bruised, rattled, but not broken.

...Del was not quite certain that she should have survived that. But, gods, was she ever grateful she had.

They were safe. They had saved the ship and Cyran's targets, and, more importantly, themselves.

"Don't-- don't mention it,"[/color] she gives him a weary smile that falters as she looks Cyran over. Blood on his face, his hands-- what of his arm? The chill of steel through flesh, that she remembered through the connection of their rings. "Cyran, you're hurt," she furrows her brow, eyes full of concern as she lifts a hand, unsure of where to touch. The bloody face? His hand? His arm?

The assailant immediately springs to mind, and she looks over Cyran's shoulder, eyes wide for a moment with a surge of adrenaline-- but, the man lies dead. Still as stone, blood pooling around him and seeping into the wooden planks below.

She breathes a sigh of relief and looks at Cyran with another small smile. He had stopped the man from coming after her, and receieved wounds for his trouble. A noble thing to do, though she wished he hadn't been hurt at all. Especially not on her account. "Thank you. He would have killed everyone if not for your quick thinking."

Realizing they were still holding hands, Del quickly let go, coughing softly, sheepish. Above were the sounds of voices, footsteps of people attracted by the cacophany of the battle in the hold. She looks to Cyran, silently asking; what next?

The dull pain coursing through his body was not his - yet Cyran adopted it all the same. He took in a slow breath, every bone in his body wracked with the ancient sensation that they had been pushed past what they were capable of; the knowledge that they would grow stronger for it when they stitched themselves back together, and he would feel each agonizing second. Stupid, he was so stupid for that gambit -

No. Those were not his thoughts.

Del’s?

Cyran was aware of her prowess, the strength that had been ingrained into her very being. The quiet sureness with which she controlled every part of her body to deliver the most power and force into a single blow - she’d slain dragons and felled hellhounds with fists alone. Still, to watch her defy gravity itself, and to feel her shame at being so reckless…

He could not even comprehend it.

His eyes pinched as he thanked her, unable to muster any other words amongst the maelstrom of his worry and gratitude. It was all too unfortunate that Cyran was so wracked with emotions and knew how to express none of them.

Her gaze drifted towards the blood on his hands; the blood that, for a moment, he’d forgotten existed. Rarely were his assassinations so… messy, but it was horrifying to him to know how mundane it was for him to exist like this. Bathed in the viscera of his kill like some animal. Unlike animals, he’d felt no guilt associated with the act. Nor any necessity.

Cyran instinctively tucked his arm behind his back, as if that could prevent Del from seeing what she’d already seen.

He’d yet to trust himself enough to believe that the furrow of her brow was born of a place of concern.

“I’m fine.” He insisted quickly, shaking his head as if the action alone could assuage her worries. “It’s not mine. Most of it, anyways. He barely grazed me. It was just…”

Messy.

Cyran’s voice trailed off into a whisper as Del glanced behind him at the assassin, whose life had already spilled out of him to the wooden floor like scattered rose petals. Nasty business, murder was. Victors; but no winners. This was hardly the first person whose life Cyran had taken, and it would not be the last. His face would be burned into the tapestry of Cyran’s memory for as long as the elf would live.

Yet, as Del broke into a smile, tired but true, Cyran’s tension melted away to grim satisfaction. Good. He’d done the right thing.

“I’m not the one who defied gravity.” Cyran replied with a sardonic laugh, one that lacked no affection. She was the one who’d held the world in her hands to save the lives of those who resided above, without a clue of the danger they’d been in. Cyran had ended a life, and Del had saved countless. Gods, she could not be real - she could not truly be here, still holding his hand after it all -

Dangerous thoughts, Cyran.

He’d not even realized she grabbed his hand until she pulled away, taking her warmth with him. He… lamented the loss of the sensation. He shouldn’t have.

Cyran’s hand hovered in the air for the briefest of seconds, as if by leaving it there he could grip the air and remember the gentle kindness she’d treated with him. It was an utterly ridiculous thought, especially when the distant sounds of alarm broke Cyran out of his reverie. He curled his fingers into his palm before pointing upwards.

He hoped that she knew what he was getting at.

Murmuring a small apology under his breath, Cyran stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Del’s torso, hooked under her armpits, fingers ghosting over her back in a feather-light touch, remembering the map of scars he’d seen only a few evenings ago. It was not the closest they’d been this journey. Still, he could not help but feel that once more, he’d stepped past the boundary of the privacy that was meant to exist between friends and work colleagues.

(And subconsciously, his mind might wonder how much longer he would play the denial game.)

The truth was, Cyran didn’t know what was to come next. They’d completed what they set out to do, found the light at the end of the tunnel. The killer had failed in his task to bring everyone down with him. And so… were they merely to keep up with this ruse for the rest of the voyage? Would they parade as Illias and Elen, without the distraction of a mission, without the pretense? Would they continue to share a bed as they had? Would Del even want to?

That was for the future. As Cyran gripped tightly to Del, allowing her to hold him back as a pair of familiar, ink-black wings burst from his back and he took to the air, tracing a hole in the ceiling with the tip of his dagger, nothing seemed as important as the present.^[1,2]

The door burst open just as the pair found refuge in the storage room just one floor above, and the shadows closed behind them.

Cyran let go of Del’s waist, lingering in the space between them for all of a second before he changes his mind. He grabbed her wrist, a gentle touch; it was not her hand, not yet. But it was… a start.

It was the closest he’d come to allowing himself intimacy in centuries.

“Come on,” He whispered, something akin to relief - a ghost of amusement - joy - dancing across his features. They’d survived the day. They would survive more. “Let’s go enjoy the rest of the cruise.”

---

1. Bat Wings
2. Create Door