It was probably for the best that they were in public, surrounded by people, the Duchess and her attendants, Oriole and Andromeda; their presence was a reminder that it was not the best to let this moment blossom into something more, no matter how much he desires to sweep her off her feet - as much as a man like him could hold tight to a woman like her - and kiss her, simply because he could. Unfortunately, Cyran suffered the affliction of being unbearably shy, especially when it came to his affections. Such acts were not meant for the eyes of others, when they were reserved for Del and Del alone. Only her.

So he cherished the small kiss placed against his palm, warmth where her lips rested upon his skin. It was a sweet parting gift as they pulled away, the Duchess approaching them both with a wide smile and the past reflected in her eyes. Of dances she likely had with Earnest across different floorboards, older ships. Carving out the foundation of their love that would endure even past his death, in the memories of the wife he’d left behind.

His melancholy thoughts were shaken off by the feeling of arms around his waist. A small, light kiss on his cheek and her familiar warmth, becoming something he found he would never tire of. Cyran was, as he was finding and as others had pointed out to him, a horribly smitten man - but it was difficult not to be when one was locked in the throes of a first, so impossible yet real, love. Cyran watched her depart, in adoration and an underlying current of concern at their separation in a foreign place, until the Duchess was whisking him away, a servant bringing her a crisp deck of cards. Cyran chose a seat, perched on the edge while the Duchess spoke, and all of those feelings of goodwill and contentment slowly began to evaporate.

Ah. So this was what her game was, then.

Cyran still wasn’t exactly sure what this conversation was leading to, but he should have known that there was something deeper to this meeting. A political game the Duchess was playing, and she was just starting to reveal her hand while she shuffled. All contained behind a veil of nonchalance, as if they were just making small talk about the weather or the like. But Cyran so rarely trusted nobles not to talk in doublespeak. And she was guiding the conversation… somewhere. Cyran still was not sure. Blackmail material? Information? Some sort of deal she wanted to offer?

His back straightened, a subtle gesture while he reached for his wine. No longer just enjoying this meal, but playing this damned game once more. One where words were knives, and each sentence was a delicate act to cut one’s opponent. Oh, how he’d often struggled at this game in his youth. But Cyran was no longer so soft and gullible, and he’d learned a few tricks since his banishment.

“My condolences to your friend.” He murmured, the taste of wine bitter on his lips as he took a sip. “Most in high society I’ve met are bound to those unions. Such is the way of life. Elen and I were first betrothed by our parents. Love came second.” His tone was mild, remembering his and Del’s cover story aboard the Judeia.

“Such a lucky thing. I believe my friend might have always hoped she’d find that love in her union, too. I knew her family from the Crescent Isles - though our lifespans and experiences were so different, we’d struck up a fast friendship. She’d once held those ideals, but the man she found herself betrothed to was a piece of work.”

Cyran remained silent. The situation was familiar to him, uncomfortably so. And in the absence of any interjection, the Duchess pressed on.

”The same fate befell her son, unfortunately. A marriage for political and economic gain, one he’d hoped would blossom into more.”

Cyran’s blood ran cold.

“It didn’t.”

“I am… sorry to hear that.” Cyran swallowed his dawning apprehension, because no - it couldn’t be what she was describing, there was no such thing as coincidence. Unless this had all been part of the Duchess’s machinations. Unless, somehow, she’d known who he really was all along.

Cyran tampered down the momentary, instinctual panic. There was no need for him to lose his head here. He just needed to breathe. Navigate this game. Figure out what she wanted with him, if there was anything at all.

”Ah, it is all in the past. Ancient history.” The duchess waved a hand as she started divvying out cards, in a neat one-two-three pattern. Elen, Illias, Duchess. ”Nasty business best left in the past. Her son was cast out of the family, and the affair left her rather distraught. I remember comforting her in the days after it happened.”

Now, that admission left Cyran a touch confused. He could not imagine Cyrilla Fenestra ever being put out by him leaving. That would imply she’d ever wanted him there in the first place.

”Now, I never liked her husband. They made a fine political match but he’d never been a very kind man to his family. For her sake, I’ve been toying with the idea of having a little fun. The son - the one who’d been cast away - I’ve been thinking about sponsoring his reinstatement to nobility.”

Ah, there it was. Cold realization like a noose tightening around his neck. Cyran wished he could have tapered his reaction better - but as it were, he could not stop the shiver that ran down his spine, memories of cold, uncaring halls, harsh lessons, uncaring eyes boring into him.

Cyran closed his eyes, lips parted. His throat felt insufferably dry.

“… Why are you telling me this?” He asked.

If the Duchess picked up on his apprehension, she did not voice it. With a serenity only capable of from a woman versed in hiding her true thoughts behind a poker face, she continued. “Why, because I want to know your opinion on the matter!”

“As a noble who’s been fortunate enough to find love in his marriage.” Cyran filled in the gaps, voice halting, cautious.

“As you’d like it.” The Duchess conceded. “I find myself between a rock and a hard place, as it were. Only being her friend, I cannot speak to their family situation. I wonder if perhaps I am being too hasty. An outsider’s opinion would be welcome.”

The irony in the situation was so glaring that Cyran wasn’t sure whether he should laugh or cry.

Cyran drummed his fingers against the table, watching the Duchess finish with the cards, the same gentle one-two-three. Like a waltz. But the symphony playing in his mind was far from peaceful. His heartbeat hammered in his ears, confusion gripping his chest. There was no way she could have found out who she really was…

Unless she truly was friends with his mother - in which case, it would be all too easy for her to look at his face and spot the familial connection. He always had born a striking resemblance to Cyrilla, after all.

If she was telling the truth, why did she want to reinstate his nobility? Was she even being honest about her motivations in the first place? And what was her game with this -

No. It didn’t matter why the Duchess might want to go behind his parents’ back to do this. There was no such thing as charity, when it came to nobility. Perhaps the Duchess thought that she was doing him some sort of favor with this, perhaps she wanted a favor from him. But one thing was for certain. Cyran wouldn’t - couldn’t - go back to the way things had once been. He was free now, and he had been for a decade. And just when he’d cemented his own life, free of the trappings of his own roots, they sought so sunk their claws back into him?

It couldn’t happen. Plain and simple.

“I’m not sure what your end goal is for toying with the idea of a sponsorship, Lady Aroha.” Cyran started, tone as neutral as he could manage. “Nor do I know exactly why you’ve asked for my opinion on this. But as someone who has found happiness, true happiness… let him have his.”

The Duchess smiled. Cyran was struck with the sensation that he’d been suitably placated.

”I just wonder if there’s some happiness he might be missing out on, is all. Not to mention my friend’s brute of a husband… I would hate to see someone’s family torn apart from the actions of a single man.”

“With all due respect, my Lady, it’s not fair to throw a wrench in someone’s life to teach someone else a lesson.”

“No; but is it entirely unfair of me to want to look out for my friend? When she was denied the chance to find love in her life, must she suffer the pain of having her family torn asunder, as well?”

“I-” Cyran paused, any argument dying on his lips, mind putting the scattered pieces together. Was the Duchess trying to… help him, in her own way? Did she think she was patching together the relationship between a loving mother and son? Lips pursed, fingers curling into a fist, Cyran forced his anger to quell. “I… appreciate you asking for my advice, and for looking out for your friend’s son. But I think it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie. Wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, he likely stayed gone for a reason.”

The Duchess hummed, something dangerous in her eyes sparkling. Cyran felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his gut - and with it, a cold realization. It was entirely likely she’d already made up her mind to go through with whatever she was doing. And it was entirely likely she’d only made him aware of it as a courtesy.

Cyran was going to be sick, and it wasn’t from the gentle rocking of the waves.

He took a sip of his wine in silence, glancing back to the washroom, waiting for Del to return.

The old woman watches the face of Illias impassively as she studies his own expressions. The silence seemed to indicate he was stepping away from that aspect of the conversation, at the very least. As she taps a finger against the deck of cards, she looks at the young man thoughtfully.

"It's a shame, really," the Duchess says after a few moments. "There are so many doors that close when there are such drastically severed ties. Economical and political, certainly, but familial most of all-- those chosen and those not. My children are grown of course, but I am not without error or mistake throughout my time as a parent. Nothing so terrible, in hindsight, but things I regret; a raised voice here, a slammed door there. Would my children insist on never seeing me again, as would be their right, I would have no choice but to accept that as a consequence of my actions.

"But to be fully divorced from a support system, ineffectual though it might be, is not only harrowing for that child, but I imagine any children that they should have as well. As a parent, I find myself deeply sympathetic to that; to see your child raising their own children and bearing the brunt of a consequence that is a mark of your failing, not theirs? What a terrifying thought, that the cycle that caused such pain in the first place should continue to perpetuate. To be powerless to stop it due to something as silly and inane as politics, of all things.

"I think," she continues, lifting her glass and idly swirling it, watching the legs of wine cling to the crystal. "The solution for my friend's son lies within peerage. Where neither person would have an advantage over the other in social standing, on equal footing. Give him the resources and access he needs to be able to make the life of his own chldren's children. After all," she gives the man a knowing, and empathetic look as she lifts her wine to her lips. "Even when your children are grown, you never truly stop being a parent. At least, in the case of the good ones."

A certain peice of work named Lormundel notwithstanding.

Del returns to the table, smiling sweetly as she adjusts the handbag on her shoulder to come and sit next to Cyran, kissing his cheek as she shifts closer to his side. Just as she had sensed his radient adoration for her on her departure, during her few minutes away, she had felt the sharp spike in unease and tension. Unsure of what transpired, she takes Cyran's hand and knitting her fingers through his, silently checking in to make sure he was alright, first and foremost. On the exterior, Elen beams. "I'm back! I hope I wasn't terribly missed?"

The Duchess waves her hand. "Illias has always made for wonderful company, fortunately, as I am sure you can attest." She gestures for Del to look at her hand. "Now, we can play properly."

Cyran appreciated the motivations behind her actions; truly, he did. She’d grown up in high standing and never left its embrace. When you were in its walls, it was difficult to see a cage as a cage. Cyran had always abhorred the status, the money, the artificiality of it all. When it was forcibly removed from him, it was a difficult transition - suddenly going from living in a miserable shell of a house to having no roof over his head, not a single dime or even a family name, but it was a hard-won battle he scraped through because it meant he was alive and free.

There was nothing in the world that would ever make him accept that noble title again.

Nothing except for the young woman he’d been forced to leave behind there.

Cyran worried his lower lip with his teeth, unable to voice his maelstrom of thoughts as the Duchess brought up that very point. That he’d not only been severed from the uncaring people who raised him, but had deprived his daughter of her father as well. His greatest failure, his worst mistake.

That was a low blow.

There wasn’t a devil in hell Cyran wouldn’t make a deal with to give her a good life.

“Pardon my bluntness, but think you’re meddling with a family dynamic you only have an outside understanding of, and making assumptions about what constitutes as standing and power.” His grip tightened, ever so briefly, on the stem of his wine glass. He felt the fragile material creak under his hands, threatening to crack under the pressure, but did not break.

He hummed, releasing his grip. A fascinating material, glass was. He felt he could ask Del more about its construction, but he knew the basics. Little granules, superheated until they melted into a slurry - cooled, and purified. So clear and lovely, and yet so ready to break upon the slightest hint of pressure. But this hadn’t crumpled yet.

Neither had he.

“But.”

He closed his eyes.

“As I mentioned before, I’m a father myself. Be aware that it is entirely possible that this is something that has the potential to ruin someone’s life. If you’ve no idea what your friend’s son has accomplished and built for himself since leaving home, then this could crumble it entirely. And yet… a noble title may be the only thing that allows him to take custody of his own child, again. I would never deny someone that.”

Because if there was a possibility, no matter slim, that this might allow him to take back his daughter…

Shouldn’t he take it?

Del returned in that moment, like a breath of fresh air. Cyran welcomed her return with open arms, relief flooding his system that at least he no longer faced this battle alone. She threaded her fingers through his, giving a gentle, questioning squeeze. Cyran replied with one of his own, reassuring. Confirming that, yes, he was alright. It was odd knowing that someone had access to the smallest microcosms of his emotions, sentiments he normally tried to conceal to the best of his ability. Cyran would not normally allow anyone such insights when his feelings mattered so little. But Del never missed anything.

Things had been worrying, and he did not like the implications of what the Duchess proposed.

But damn if he would not grasp the chance to see Marlow again, to hold her in his arms, to introduce her to the woman that could be her new stepmother.

“You are always missed, darling.” He replied. “Though we were just making small talk about politics. You know. Ever my favorite subject.” Spoken with a degree of sarcasm only managed by someone who so abhorred politics. “Lady Aroha was enlightening me to some family drama.”

He laughed, bowing his head at her enigmatic dismissal of any of the previous words exchanged. He would tell Del all about it later, of course. In the quiet of their lonely room, because he wanted her advice; and more than anything could no longer fathom bearing any storm on his own. But for now, he would allow it to lie, allow the thoughts to simmer. He had no other choice, after all.

“You humble me; and remain an excellent conversationalist, as always. But I quite think it’s time for me to lose at cards.”

The cards had been dealt. All participants present, the hand had begun. And all Cyran could do was play to the best of his ability, a game he’d never been particularly good at.

For all their sakes, he should brush up his skills.

Feeling Cyran's 'reply' over their connection eases Del's mind a little, knowing he was alright. She wore her heart on her sleeve at the best of times, and now this man could see, feel it bared to him wholly. It was due in large part to this that Del trusted Cyran completely when he responded as to how he was feeling or thinking in such ways; not only because she might get an inkling as to whether or not that was true, but because he could feel how she felt, and know that her worry was taken seriously, not treated like some frivolous thing. Bowing a little at the waist, she leans down to lay a light kiss upon the top of Cyran's head, before taking her seat a little closer to him. "Your most favourite topic! How lovely for good Lady Aroha here to try to tell you a story to help put you to sleep right before we play cards." She turns her teasing smile to the Duchess, who chuckles dryly.

"Nonsense! I prefer my opponents bright eyed and bushy tailed. It's no fun wiping the floor with a couple of lumps," The Duchess drains the last of her wine before pouring herself another glass. She lifts the corners of her cards where they lay on the table. "Lets see if you two can keep up. You're far older than I am, after all. Wouldnt want to tire you out too terribly."

Del laughs, delighting in the challenge as she picks up her cards. "We've got some fight left in us yet, Lady Aroha, I can assure you of that." She gives Cyran an encouraging smile as she takes a peek at her own cards. Not a terrible hand, but certainly far from the best. Del wasn't here to win, though, competitive though she could be. For now, it was more than enough to be in this space with Cyran and his apprentices, relaxing without pretense and enjoying his presence and company thoroughly. Even if that meant losing soundly to an old human woman with a mischevious glint in her eye.

---

And lose they did.

Quite spectacularly.

Duchess Aroha might be getting on in years, but she was sharp as ever, and a deft hand at predicting what it was her opponents had in their hands. Whatever wins Cyran and Del were able to eke out between them paled in comparison to how the Duchess absolutely wiped the floor with them. Still, it was all in good fun and in light, pleasant company as the ship began to sail into the bay proper. As the Duchess drained the last of her glass, setting it down on the table, she rose with a smile.

"Now that," Lady Aroha does her best not to look too victorious, "Was a good game. You two did an excellent job of keeping me on my toes... and as much as I would love to give you another fair shot, I do believe it is time to retire." She gathers up the cards as her staff come over to clear away the table and await to shepherd everyone below deck to their quarters. "You played far better than last we met! Well done."

Del laughs as she slowly raises from the chair, the alcohol she consumed a light buzz rather than a heavy cloud it had been back on the Judeia. "We're doing our best to imitate a master, I am afraid! But I am glad we could impress." She takes Cyran's arm, leaning against him comfortably as they prepare to head to their rooms for the night.

"You always do," the Duchess intones, amusement in her voice, as she directs her ship hands to the four guests. "Now, Jurgen here will show you to your quarters. We have spacious cabins below deck for our guests I am sure you will find quite accomodating, and should you need anything at all, a rope bell will be provided for you to ring someone for assistance."

Looking between the two elves, Lady Aroha's expression softens slightly, "Have a pleasant night, the both of you." standing at the main entrance to the hall of the sleeping deck, Duchess Aroha waves before herself disappearing from view.

Jurgen bows and offers to lead the way down into the lower deck of the ship where the guest's quarters were located. Lady Aroha's room was further back at the stern of the ship, a spacious cabin fit for the captain of the vessel. The room made for Elen and Ilias was second in terms of grandeur-- near the port side of the stern of the ship, a spacious room with a large bed and the fixtures of finery, humble but extravagant. It was perhaps only a little smaller than their rooms aboard the Judeia had been. By contrast, the rooms for the two apprentices were separate, smaller cabins, but almost certainly bigger than any room they had right to have seen by the end of the night.

Once all were squared away in their cabins, Del heaves a long sigh, sittng on the edge of the bed to remove her shoes and look to Cyran with an easy smile. "Well, that was fun, wasn't it? The Duchess is lively as ever, I see."

“Mm, perhaps.” Normalcy was a difficult thing to achieve but Cyran was used to compartmentalizing, shoving rotten thoughts down for a job. Rarely did a job require so much… socializing, but the kiss from Del helped center him. An assassin who let emotion live in the forefront of their thoughts and actions to cloud their judgment was a dead assassin. Trepidation, anxiety, dread; he could set those aside for now and focus on the task at hand, whatever the battle required of him. Whether that be slitting someone’s throat in the dark of the night, prying information out of their dying lips, or playing cards with the shrewd woman who’d already decided to turn this encounter into a chessboard of her own design. “Quite the considerate sabotage, in that case.”

The Duchess waved her hand, offering a lighthearted defense in jest. Though her words were spoken in a teasing manner that was not particularly kind or gentle, there was an undercurrent of honesty to her words, like the sharp tang of an aftertaste when biting into a fruit. She was good at games and she knew it - perhaps she meddled and played mind games to win, but she did not need to. And given Cyran was almost certain she’d sussed out that “Illias and Elen” were not who they claimed to be, she was still confident she could win.

Del seemed determined to try, though. Cyran glanced at his cards, keeping his face carefully blank. A dismal hand, really. But if one was careful they could still maneuver themselves towards a win even with unfortunate odds. Unfortunate, that Cyran was much better at spectating than participating. He glanced at Lady Aroha, trying to glean some kind of weakness from her expression, but she seemed quite confident. False bravado, or true confidence? He sifted through his archive of her tells, remembering that she often affixed false laughter when she had a bad hand, but there was none of that breathy sound now. Perhaps she truly did have a better hand than him, rather than the dredges. It was impossible for him to verify for sure. She’d learned long ago that Cyran somehow had an easier time discerning lie from truth when she made small talk. As the game started, she’d fallen completely silent, save the impossibly knowing smile on her face.

Cyran drummed his fingers on the table before grabbing a few wooden chips painted with different lotuses of the Crescent Isles to demarcate their value. Throwing them into the center of the pile, he kicked off the first bet, determined to salvage some manner of social leverage in this encounter…

---

Hours later Cyran trudged after Jurgen to their private quarters. His pockets would have felt pitifully light if they’d gambled with real Solars; as it was, what little semblance of pride he carried felt like it had taken a beating in place of his wallet. He huffed out a small sigh, running a hand through silver hair and pushing it away from the right side of his face, the way he wore it to obscure his eye when posing as ‘Ilias’. In the privacy of their room there was no such need for disguises.

The room that they had been provided was spacious, not that Cyran was paying much attention to it. Fineries and pomp and circumstance meant little to him, reminding him of… more bitter times. He ought to get used to such sights again. He did not want to get used to it.

Del’s own sigh was not lost on him. He turned to glance at his fiancé, who’d perched on the edge of the plush bed to kick her shoes off. It was almost a familiar ritual at this point, stripping themselves of rich disguises to reveal the tired elves underneath. They were accustomed to picking themselves up and wiping away the dust from whatever life had decided to throw at them that day - first and foremost, they were survivors. Cyran wondered how long they’d have to keep doing this until they found some semblance of peace and quiet.

He pried his own shoes off, setting them gently near the door, and stripped off the light summer fabric he’d donned as an outer shell to ward off the ocean’s chill. That was slung over a bedpost as he made his way to sit next to her. They hadn’t done anything particularly exhaustive today but Cyran still felt gravity beckoning him to sink further into the comfortable mattress.

Instead, he moved to undo some of the clasps and buttons on the back of her dress she would not be able to reach without some difficulty, finding comfort in the simple act of helping his love with her needs and setting his own aside for a moment. When he was finished, he settled for wrapping his arms around her waist, burying his head in her shoulder - an echo of a time long ago, spent in one another’s embrace to stave off the chill of the blizzard. The situation now could not be more different than it was then. He now sought physical closeness not because of some innate need or anguish, but merely the desire to be close.

“Lively is one word for it.” He replied in agreement. “Conniving, another. We both suspected there was more to this invitation than meets the eye, but… when you were in the powder room, she tipped her hand.”

He rolled his head to the side and angled himself to stare at the wall, midnight hair streaked with starlight betraying his fatigue. He’d accrued more gray hairs in only the past few months. He was certain he’d have at least ten more by the end of this trip to the Isles. “I suspect she’s got some idea of our true identities. Mine, at the very least. If she’s aware of your history she didn’t indicate as such but given her ties with Sol City I wouldn’t be surprised. I don’t think she carries any malicious intent, though it appears she is good friends with my mother. She seems to have the idea that, um, retracting my exile and restoring my noble title may fix some things in my family. I tried to dissuade her of the notion, but, well… surprise? When we wed there’s now the possibility you may inherit the title of Lady of House Fenastra.”

Exhaling, she leans forward slightly as Cyran touches her back, allowing him better access to undo the snaps that hold the back of her dress. Smiling to herself, she closes her eyes; Simply sitting in one another's presence after a long day had an inherent domesticity that Del found she craved the more she got to experience it. These times were some of the most meaningful to Del, whether it be preparing a meal or wrangling children for bed, or simply existing in the same room, she could not get enough of how wonderful it was to embrace such companionship. To be cared for in such a gentle and sincere way... no matter how often it happened, Cyran never failed to make her feel as though she was the most special person in the whole of Charon.

"Thank you, darling." Her arms slide over his, securing them tighter around her waist as she sinks comfortably against Cyran, relaxing fully. As he takes refuge in the crook of her shoulder, Del breathes slow and deep "Oh?" Her brows lift. The old woman was sly, certainly, but conniving was quite a bold thing to refer to her as.

Though, as Cyran explains, she cannot help but agree the description was apt.

It seemed when she had stepped away, the Duchess had made her move. It was good to hear he did not think Lady Aroha was being outwardly malicious, but her own hackles raise at the idea of being seen so thoroughly, even by someone who was, by all accounts, at the very least an ally. And there was the potential of mending some things within Cyran's family. She could feel his unease there, his anxiety that centered around Marlow and having been parted from her for so long.

More than anything, she wanted that for him. To be reunited with his darling daughter.

"Well. Our host seems... well informed." she clicks her tongue thoughtfully, arms squeezing Cyran's where he held fast to her. She couldn't say for certain whether or not Lady Aroha knew about her situation, but it was best to assume she did. In the back of her mind, Del wonders whether she made the right call in choosing not to dispatch the elderly woman that first night on the Judeia. "But more to the point-- is, ah. That is what you'd want?" she feels herself blushing profusely. The idea of being a lady, a titled noble. It was alien and uncomfortable to hold even an empty vestige of power... but the opportunity it presented was important. "I had the thought of taking your name, but I know it bears a history that hasn't been... kind to you. To say the least. I would understand if you wanted nothing to do with it." Del turns slightly, lifting her hand to start to comb through Cyran's beautiful hair with her fingers and pulling it over her shoulder in a glittering curtain of the night sky. "I was also going to offer you mine, though I know it does not retain any bearing or match what I imagine is Marlow's last name. I never imagined that I would one day have any noble claim at all. I don't care about titles; The only thing I want to be is your wife. And if you are willing to pick up that name again, then I shall share in it, too." she leans forward a little to leave a small kiss amidst his hair. "Where you go, I go. Your family is not ready for the incredible man you have become in the years since you left, my love. But what you want is what matters here."

Her head tilts slightly towards him, nuzzling her cheek against the back of his head. "What do you want of this, if anything?"

Cyran winced at mention of his last name. “See, that’s the thing… I do not, um, have a last name, technically.” He started, slow and uncertain. “When I was banished, my father did not just strip me of my title. He declared me dead, essentially had me expunged from any court records. He did not want me to exist - he told me, on no uncertain terms, if I were to claim the Fenastra name, socially or legally, he would find out. And he would…”

Finish what Rowan started.

“Kill me.”

He manifested a brush in his hand as if plucked from the shadows and focused on the motion of running bristles through it.^{(Summon: Possession)}

“Regardless of my own feelings on the subject, I was effectively barred from ever using the name. It’s not mine. It never was, really, so it was no loss…” His exile had turned him into a drifter, a nothing. A ghost, damned to wander in perpetuity until he finally extinguished; it had always been Lormundel’s intention to turn him as such. He’d likely never expected Cyran to embrace it, instead.

It was the assassin’s turn to flush as Del brought up a single, very important point - and one that he’d never considered, fool that he was.

“I’d admittedly not thought about the names arrangement.” It had… crossed his mind, when she first proposed, that he must have been some shoddy husband if he had not even a name to himself to offer, gods forbid the situation of money and funds. Del had never cared about anything so petty and shallow, he knew - so those worries eventually faded away. But now it did not occur to him that he’d neglected to consider exactly how the naming situation was going to work.

“I haven’t shared a name with Marlow in ten years.” He waved a hand, though the way he bit his lip betrayed that the thought still… did bother him somewhat. “I suppose for legality’s sake, it would be practical for me to take yours.”

Cyran Asiliari. He liked the sound of that.

“Even if I had any desire for you to be a Fenastra, I can’t-“

He paused, clearing his throat.

“Or, couldn’t give it. If the Duchess intends to go through with this then I suppose the name would be mine again, wouldn’t it?”

Cyran Fenastra. He suppressed a shudder of revulsion.

“I’ll never be free of it…”

The resignation felt like stepping to the gallows. Frustrated, Cyran’s grip tightened on the hairbrush, imagining it the hilt of a knife, as if he could merely fight his way out of this scenario - but no, he was in no battle. He was safe in a room with the woman who was to be his wife, and that was worth the world. That was worth taking on that wretched name once more.

He set the brush down on the bed in favor of allowing Del to run her fingers through it, a sensation that brought him no small measure of peace. The lack of anger, it merely left him… tired.

“I hate politics.” He murmured. “I hated that place, and that title. I used to say the day I learned to truly live for the first time was the day Marlow was born.” And his father had sought to sever that connection.

“When I left Moonglade’s aristocracy I swore I’d never return, Del. I was free, and though I was unmoored for a long time, it was a choice I’d made of my own volition.” The choices he’d made with his life were not entirely good. But they were his. “… But I also swore I’d do whatever I could to give Marlow a good life. Even if she desires one away from me. Lordship, ladyship, I don’t want it, and I don’t wish to force it on you. No matter how ceremonial the title might be, it comes with strings attached, ones with which the crown can pull you.”

It didn’t sit right with him, the past Lady Aroha had been able to unearth. His own, Cyran was not so concerned about. If the Duchess held acquaintance with his mother, then it really was not difficult to find a secondhand account of exactly what shame Cyran had brought to that wretched family. What really bothered him - what was still a niggling paranoia in the back of his head - was what the Duchess might have unearthed about Del. A failure of a noble’s son was one thing, but Cyran had a hard time believing that the Duchess acted out of the kindness of her heart, or because she wanted to do a favor to Cyran’s mother. If she’d learned about the Crucible, then Cyran could not deny the dark possibility that she’d orchestrated all of this for the express purpose of putting them in her debt. So she could hold a favor from the living weapon, the bane of the Capitol.

On instinct, his hand moved to grip a dagger that was not there.

“I don’t trust it. And I don’t trust her intentions.” She’d been harmless enough thus far that it did not yet seem necessary to take care of the problem - and perhaps Del might want to exercise caution, Cyran was not so reserved. He’d made a vow, upon their engagement - his blades, in service to her. He could make a monster of himself a thousand times over if it meant preventing them from making her a weapon again.

And therein lay his answer.

“And I want nothing more than to be your husband.” He agreed, leaning into her chaste kiss. “I don’t want this wretched title again. But if it might do good, grant me a different kind of power -“ That of standing and repute, small as it was- “Then for you and Marlow I would take it. I’d be a fool not to, for my two dearest ladies.” He managed a small chuckle at that.

“Just, can you grant me one small selfish wish? If I am to take the Fenastra name once more, may I still have yours?”

It was unfortunate, but… finding love, finding a new life, reminded Cyran that the past did not have to be these horrible shackles on him. He didn’t have to live in misery and fear of the blood and name his father had given him. He could choose to give it new meaning; and right now, that meaning lay in the new family he’d be building with Del. A partnership between the two of them, with ample space for Marlow and any other child that desired it. Fenastra and Asiliari. Not the individual sims of their past - but theirs, and theirs alone.

The more she learned about Lormundel, the less and less Del liked him, and that was saying something as her opinion of the man who had caused Cyran so much strife was in the gutter. Now, it was buried at a considerable depth beneath the earth in what Del was beginning to consider the new low by which she would judge people going forward. Most people could not *possibly* be as callous and cruel as he. At least, she hoped not.

While Cyran talked, Del listened in attentive silence, hugging him tightly once she had finished toying with his hair. It saddened her to think of Cyran being trapped again in a social hellscape from which he had already lost everything once before. It was easy to understand his reticence... and how torn he was about taking part in it again. It meant he could see his daughter again. Rebuild a relationship with her that had been stripped from him so many years ago.

It also did mean, too, precisely Cyran's point; that this could and would likely expose her to the Crown. She's silent for a moment, lost in thought, as she weighs her options.

"If she does know," Del says slowly, softly, as she hugs him, moving her chin to rest on his shoulder. "Then there isn't much we could do to prevent the Crown from, ah, trying to find and pursue me, could we? Regardless of whether or not I take a noble title." She shifts again, lifting her hands to cover his. Enveloping his cool hands in her own callused warmth as she takes his hand away from where he reached for a dagger that was not at his hip, trying to soothe him. "We don't have any reason to trust her insofar as we already have, but I do think that if she was trying to harm us-- harm me-- she would have done so already. Unless this is some long-con, in which case I have no idea what she's up to. There's an agenda here for sure, but I cannot see what it might be."

She trails off again as Cyran resumes, chuckling softly as he refers to her and Marlow has his dearest ladies. "To be in the same place of honour as Marlow is a compliment indeed." Del murmurs, eyes twinkling brightly. She could only The laughter stops, though, when he asks if he could have her own name, pulling back a little so she could look at him properly. He wanted her name? A name like hers meant nothing, in a literal and figurative sense. It was the name she woke up with, and it was hers-- at some points in her life, the only thing she had ever properly owned. But it also signified that same loss, the unraveled sense of self that had come from her fall fifty years or so ago. Whoever she was, wherever she belonged was long gone, and she had never been able to find a similarity or a source in anyone else over the years of her travels.

But Cyran wished for it. Wished to put her name with his, stained and broken and damaged though those names were. Names that referred to isolation and rejection.

Squeezing his hand again, she lifts it slowly to her mouth, and presses a light kiss to his knuckles. "I adore you." Del sighs wistfully, before breaking into a lopsided little smile. "If... you want my name, it is yours, love. It would be my deepest pleasure to join my name with yours."

Del moves from around Cyran to sit next to him on the bed, hands never leaving his as she leans against him, side by side. "What I want is for you to be free and happy. We don't have to be bound by our surnames and what it have might have represented. We can make something new from them both. Even though my name has no... ties, or meaning to anything, and yours was used to hurt you, we know we are better than whatever moniker we are given. I know it has harmed you and trapped you in the past, but this time, you are not alone. You are not the man that was banished from that place years ago. Regardless of what titles or other names you may bear, you are Cyran and I love you. And I would.... I would very much like to be Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari." she gives him a watery smile, giggling softly. The words were like a little electrical charge that pulsed through her.

“I’m not sure.” Cyran’s voice was as small and uncertain as he felt in the present moment. “If she’s aware of anything - anything about you or why you might be wanted, it would be more prudent for her to play her cards close to her chest. Rather than make an enemy of us, she seems content to put us into her own debt. A social obligation, if you will.” Cyran hesitated to call it blackmail, but…

“The problem is that we don’t know the details of your bounty. If only I could figure out more about it…” He was aware it included her physical description, at the very least. That was how the thug in Frostgale managed to recognize her; almost managed to make good on his threats if they hadn’t taken care of him. But did it include her name? He wasn’t certain the status of Del’s old life before waking up in the Crescent Isles, and he didn’t need to know. But without being aware for certain whether it was Delaela Asiliari that the crown was looking for, or another name or title, he wouldn’t be able to say for certain what Lady Aroha intended to happen was going to make waves or not.

“You’re right.” Cyran murmured, allowing her to cup his hands with her own. He felt the little callouses and scars… Del was no child, but a fighter, one who was bound and determined to survive. This setback wouldn’t deter her. But that didn’t mean he wanted to light a match and play with the resulting fire. They needed to lay low, not… not play pretend with other nobles and flaunt their wanted status in the face of the ruling class. “Regardless of the charity behind her intentions, it will have ill affects for us - for you.” He frowned. “You are a person not a tool to be used. It’s no skin off my back if I’m made a pawn in this game in the grand scheme of things, but I despise the thought of her using or blackmailing you.”

It seemed they’d entered a catch-22. Cyran could not ascertain more on the nature of Del’s bounty to know what risk of discovery she faced without more influence - yet to learn more she’d face ending up as someone’s target anyways. It was the choice between the shark’s gaping maw and the craggy rocks that flanked him in his bid for freedom.

“Of course.” Cyran replied, earnestly and sincerely; all the conviction in the world. “I may not have much in this world, but I am endlessly grateful for what I do. I cherish you and Marlow… I know I talk about her a lot. Most people would probably accuse me of living in the past - that I should let her go and move on with my life. But every day I find myself endlessly grateful that you do take the time to know her and care for her, and you’ve never even met her. The both of you - you’re my family, and I’m just reminded of how lucky I am to have a life partner that cares. That wants to know. Of course I’d want your name. It’s yours.”

Del was the one who’d brought up the concept of names first; yet, Cyran found himself falling a little more nonetheless. There was nothing he owned that was not hers, if she asked of it. But this was something different. This was the two of them, taking little broken pieces of themselves. Legacies that were stained with different meanings; dark histories or no histories to speak of. Fenastra - centuries of elves tearing one another apart for their own ambitions. Asiliari - a name whose meaning came without ties or expectations.

Del pressed a kiss to his knuckles, small, unwavering, sure.

“And I’d love nothing more than to be Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari.” Not just an exchange, or a part of their soul. New, something made together. It was the right choice.

Some of the tension bled from his shoulders. Cyran reached up, wiping some of the wetness from under her eyes, wearing an impossibly smitten expression. Despite the inherent dangers they’d found themselves tangled in, and the games others played, he did not doubt that this moment was true; and that it was abundant with affection and joy.

“I love you too, my fighter. If the Duchess intends to go through with this, then I shall weather the storm for you. For us. For this.” He squeezed her hand, firm and gentle. Because despite the indecision, the fear, she was right. He was not the same person he’d once been, and the mantle would not change who he was. He would not become that timid shade of a man again. He would be Cyran, and she would be Del - and through the turbulent waves and the scheming of nobles and the entropy of the world holding itself together by thin threads, that was all they could ask for.

A wry smile appears again, as Cyran insists that she is not a tool to be used. Her hand squeezes his. His care for her ran so deep... it was easy to forget that at times "Well, I have a problem with you being made a pawn, so I suppose we're at an impasse." Chuckling lightly, she threads her fingers through his, stroking his knuckles with her thumb. "Perhaps the Duchess would be interested in coming to an understanding about the opposing concerns we have. Help you find your way to Marlow and prevent any... unwanted attention at the same time. What do you think?"

Her smile turns serene in the low light of their room, a brief puzzled expression slipping over her brow. Who had said that to Cyran? To stop 'living in the past', regarding his own daughter? She would have to have a word with them. More importantly, though, in this moment, Del shakes her head; it was never a question of whether or not she 'had' to. She wanted to. "She matters to you, she's part of you. You're not living in the past-- she's your present. And even if you were, holding onto those memories are not a bad thing. They're precious. She is precious to you, therefore, she is precious to me."

But, oh, just when she thought his words couldn't get any sweeter...

Little gold-leaf petals fall from her curls as she flusters, touched by his overflowing affection for her. Gods. Between this and the dance and the wonderful little name he had bequeathed her earlier in the day, she was beside herself with adoration. A pleasant, drunken buzz that saturated her nerves, not enough to invoke a stupor, but heady enough to be tipsy, certainly. She lets herself list towards his hand as he wipes the moisture from her cheeks, chasing his fingers with little kisses.

In the grand scheme of things, perhaps this wasn't much more than an affectionate indulgence, taking one another's names the way they were. To her, though, it represented their willingness to forge ahead, continue in spite of the odds, and to do so hand in hand. It was more than just words on a document; it was a promise. It was hope for the future they wanted to build together. It may not change the world, but they'd changed their lives when they met. It seemed fitting, then, to represent that together.

Again, Del moves, no longer sitting directly next to Cyran, but shifting to his lap so she could drape her arms around his neck and shoulders, look him properly in the face. "We will weather it together. Salen Qarsice'tho," she whispers, leaning close to nudge his nose with hers. "You know, the first time I met her-- the Duchess, that is-- I was prepared to throw her off the ship because I thought she might have clued into who we are." The corners of her mouth turn upwards playfully, as she steals a light kiss. "It's not too laaate."

“That I suppose we are.” Cyran huffed out a small laugh at her insistence that she’d not allow him to make a pawn out of himself. Another loop they could run themselves ragged in circles on. Truth be told he didn’t see any other way this series of events could find their natural conclusion. It ended with one of them subjugated for the other’s freedom. In a game there always had to be one person who was played. But… perhaps Del was right. They’d shouldered their way through worse odds before, so who said they couldn’t find an alternative solution to this dilemma?

He pursed his lips and gave a half-hearted shrug at Del’s suggestion.

“I could, but when I voiced my concerns earlier, I received an answer that ultimately boiled down to, high standing will grant you doors to the channels you seek.” Never mind that he was much more adept at creating his own doors than using what already existed. “This is her solution. In order to get closer to Marlow, I need to be on even ground with my father.” God, no matter how much he’d like to just ghost his way into that damn manor and take her with him, but the Fenastra manor was guarded for this very reason, and Lormundel would have every single reason to drag Cyran through the mud. To hunt them down. That wasn’t the life he wanted for Marlow, either.

Cyran let out another resigned sigh. “In my experience that is the way people of noble blood tend to think. Throw money and influence at a problem and most things will be solved.” Today’s events had left a somewhat shattered impression of his trust in the Duchess. It was nothing personal - and she didn’t seem to mean them any direct harm - but given the light cast on her machinations under the guise of ‘help’, he would trust her about as far as he could throw her.

Nothing she’d said today had been a lie. Not directly, at least.

Yet, he’d seen her prowess in poker. One didn’t have that much success with cards without knowing how not to tip her hand.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt… though the way she spoke implied these events were set in stone. I can object to them and get dragged away by the current, or I can go with the flow and make use of it. Besides,” Something akin to mischief, or as close as a man like Cyran got to the concept, “Who’s to say I cannot find a way to get myself exiled a second time once Marlow is safe?”

His smile turned a bit sad at Del’s assertion that Marlow was part of his present. She seemed so sure…

Cyran had tried so hard to be at peace with the fact that she might live her own life independent of his own. But his time at Shade’s Valley - his engagement to Del - was it truly so bad to imagine she could one day inhabit the space permanently carved out in Cyran’s heart for her again? That she could choose to be part of their family? Those thoughts flitted through the back of his mind every time Del played with the kids, or gave life advice to Astrid or Fish. There was no question she would be a good mother to Marlow. And there was no question that Cyran wanted the three of them to be family.

“Thank you.” He whispered, a small, broken thing. “I hope one day they will be memories for the three of us together to make, as well.”

The sudden burst of brilliant gold, like sunbeams gently floating down from the sky, elicited a small, affectionate laugh from Cyran once more. Always a lovely sight to behold. Where Cyran was reserved, unsure how to express his affections, Del’s love was so great it couldn’t even be contained in her person. He leaned into her touch, savoring the moment. It was admittedly not the first time he’d considered the subject of names; a topic that once might have filled him with dread at the thought of his own inadequacy. And yet, the more he thought about it… Fenastra-Asiliari, the more excited he became.

A new step. Forward. Together.

“Salen Eath’she. My fighter.” He replied affectionately, a small smile growing on his lips as she stole another kiss, before a startled giggle ripped from him. “Over the side of the ship? Why, Del, I wasn’t aware you were hiding such a devious side.” He teased, tone light to hide the deep gratitude coursing through him. “You’re right… we’ve got the boat, we’ve got the railing. It’s a fine day to carry out a little mutiny.”

He leaned back against the headboard and comfortable pillows of the bed, gesturing for Del to get comfortable with him, slipping an arm around her waist and holding her close. “But for now, I think I’ll settle for this.”

He held out his hand and manifested a bottle from the shadows; champagne, a pricey bottle from the looks of the fancy gold leaf topping the cork.^[1] “From the Duchess’s own personal stash.” He whispered, as if she might somehow overhear him talking about it. “I had Oriole and Andromeda swipe some earlier. You know. As practice.”

Next came two glasses, fine crystal, also conspicuously looking like they’d been taken from her private stores.

“And you’ve already so kindly provided the romantic ambiance.” Cyran said, gesturing to the golden rose petals that had gotten scattered everywhere, tangled in the sheets and on their clothes. “It would be a shame not to take advantage of the Duchess’s rather generous hospitality while we’re here, no? It is a festival, after all.”

He moved to steal back his own kiss from her, light and chaste. Whatever indecisions plagued him from earlier, he’d had quite enough talk of the uncertainties of the future. It was time to enjoy the present.

---

1. Summon: Possession

She settles in, sighing softly as Cyran wraps his arms around her back. "I was worried for your mission, purely, of course," Del gives him a wry little smile; that was true, but of course, it also meant that if they'd been discovered, it would have ended her part in the mission as well. She had not wanted to fail him... and perhaps, even then in those first days, she was rather enjoying the idea of being wife to him.

Her eyes move to the bottle of champagne produced from nowhere, gasping with delighted surprise. "Cyran. Now who's devious?" she teases playfully, giggling as he also revealed two matching glasses. "Well. It's no mutiny, but I will gladly take this as an alternative. Those two did a splendid job," she beams, allowing him time to pour the pair of them a few ounces of the bubbling liquid and taking one in her hand. She clinks her glass on his, enjoying the sweetness of his kiss with bubbles effervescing in her stomach.

"It would be a terrible shame," she sighs again, feigning reluctance with not being able to partake in mutiny. Still, she rather likes this idea. "She's been kind enough to give us a private room aboard a ship where I'm sure the galley is full of the sailors in her employ who don't have the same luxury. Well." she leans forward to gently blow a little petal off his shoulder. "Mister Fenastra-Asiliari. I suppose this means we are officially on vacation."

---

Waking the next morning to the gentle sound of rain outside of the ship as waves lapped along the hull, was a blissful experience. It had been some time since they'd been able to indulge in an uninterrupted sleep like this; though at a distance they could easily hear the sounds of a lively deck in full swing, the clatter of dishes and low chatter, it was closer in experience to their weeks aboard the Judeia.

But better, this time.

"ATTENTION, GUESTS. BREAKFAST WILL BE SERVED IN TWENTY MINUTES," A loud voice announces from somewhere above. There is some chatter after this, too far for Del to make out, but it quickly dissipates as the bustle continues above.

Stirring reluctantly, Del pushed up on her elbows to gaze down at her fiance. Brushing hair off his forehead, she leans down press her lips to Cyran's forehead, smiling. "Good morning, my heart. Ready for the day?"

“Purely for the mission, of course.” Cyran teased; all in good fun. Back then he was aware they’d not quite had the bond they did now. What companionship they’d built was nervous and fleeting… far too young for him to expect such devotion. She had vowed to help him with a job that had gone awry in rather strange ways, and it was that very venture that had shown them both how well they worked together. He was endlessly touched by how hard she’d worked on a job that wasn’t even hers...

Either way. How far they’d come since then, but it was still fun to tease.

Her mock-scandalized admonishment made him laugh harder, some of the weariness leaving his body. “A devious criminal, me.” He replied as he poured a little for the both of them, raising the crystalline goblet in celebration. They made a pleasant clinking noise where they touched together. “If one cannot obtain political victory, at the very least, we can make their pockets hurt.” It was, perhaps, a little petty. He was not usually the kind of man to take such small, venomous wins, but so much had changed in the course of just one little conversation. His world turned on its axis by one choice that had been taken out of his hands. He figured that, if they were guests that had been given access to all the ship’s amenities, it was a small balm to ease the day’s news.

His heart felt filled with butterflies as she used their name - even though they’d discussed it, to hear it spoken aloud, in such a casual manner, made it feel more real.

“Why, Madame Fenestra-Asiliari… I do believe we are.”

---

The soft pitter-patter of rain and the gentle lull of the ocean was what eased him awake. Cyran was often a light sleeper, with no dreams to speak of; and yet, the familiarity of sleeping next to one another in the warmth of the summer storm, it had lowered his guard enough for him to find respite in their shared bed.

He blinked awake, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and wiping a bit of drool from his face. Yesterday’s party - dancing, dinner, drinks, and their own private conversation - all of it hitting him now reminded him that he was a bit too old to be partying so hard now. Still, as he turned to glance at Del’s sleeping form, only just now waking up herself… it was worth it.

Above, he could hear creaking footsteps, smell food in the air. The entire ship was waking with the sun, getting ready for another day on the ocean as they steadily inched towards their destination. It would be some time yet before they reached the Crescent Isles for the Queen Consort’s beach party, which meant there would no doubt be more political games and difficult conversations to come.

And yet, in the bubble of this room, those Cyran could pretend those troubles were a distant dream. If only for a moment. He could bask in the aftermath of the celebration, and the fatigue that had not been born from a soul-draining mission, but happiness and love.

Del shifted and pulled herself above him, her voice a small, warm murmur when she spoke. Cyran angled his neck to stare up at her, adoration brimming in his eyes as they shared one more secret kiss.

“And all that it brings.”