Rilien cocked his head to one side, blinking. âYou need not apologize,â he informed Sparrow quietly, allowing the touch even thoughâor perhaps becauseâit allowed him to feel and understand feelings better. Though his face changed little, something about him softened. Perhaps it was his stance, or the hard look to his eye, but it was perceptible all the same. âPain is fleeting, irrelevant. You matter more.â And that was the truth of it, even if he had difficulty understanding why. Almost everything he knew pertained to looking out for himself, ensuring his own survival, seizing personal advantage. He found the knowledge less and less pertinent as time moved on.
He didnât like the look on her face, but stepped away from the contact before he could do something emotional and pointless like say as much. By that point, the others were done with the fight below and ascending the gangplank anyway. Rilien sheathed his knives momentarily, wiping the blood on his face away with a sleeve, glancing at the smear for a second before dismissing it. From a pouch at his belt, he withdrew a potion, a pearlescent red that marked its potency. His other hand went to his nose, and with a sure motion, he set the bones there properly in place, betraying no hint of the pain he professed to be in, then downed the concoction.
The cartilage in his face knit back together, a bit tender and not quite as perfectly straight as it used to be, but a slightly-crooked nose was not a problem as far as he was concerned. If it should truly become an issue, he could re-break it and set it more precisely with tools. His rib mended as well, and he replaced the empty container and stopper up one of his sleeves. The ship contained one obvious door, that doubtless led down to the captainâs quarters, cargo hold, and everything else stored in the bowels of such a transport. He indicated it with a glance, but he would let Sparrow lead the way down, now that she seemed to be in a more fit state for it.
You matter more. Sparrow wasn't sure what bothered her moreâthe fact that he was not upset with her selfish behaviour, or the fact that her apologies did little to stopper her guilt. The stabbing reminders and drawn out internal wounds were beginning to pull at her, plucking away her warmth. She was beginning to tire. If all of this could be over quickly, then she could begin to heal and continue throwing out apologies, tripping over herself to pay them back for all of their efforts. This meant more to her than they'd ever know. Words would never suffice. She swallowed thickly, wiping the sweat from her eyes. Someday, she'd begin to thaw. Someday, she'd be able to live with the dull ache and know, with replete certainty, that it would never happen again. Looking back on the events, Sparrow's memories could be filled with the vibrant, vivid recollection of Rilien's blade carvings its way through Silian's face. As if he were little more than a side of ham. Yes, it would do. Releasing would-be slaves, once they were done dealing with Arcadius, was only the icing on the cake. Ithilian and Aurora, no doubt, would agree with her.
She kept her footfalls to an acceptable din, silently descending into the ship's belly. This time, Sparrow did not plunge down the short staircase, rigid and graceless as a ball-jointed puppet, though she desperately wanted to. Hardly accustomed to stealth or even attempting at not being heard, Sparrow's eyes scrunched up in concentration, nose crinkling against the reek of unwashed bodies and urine. If fear had a smell, it was palpable enough to feel. The hairs on the back of her neck rose up, goosepebbling her copper skin. She rounded a sharp corner, peeking her head into an empty room. It was likely that whatever holding-space the other shipment had been contained in hadn't been washed since. Disgust roiled in her stomach, snatching up the reigns to her anger. The ship was badly lit. Lanterns peppered the hallways, hanging in rusted tins with white candles dripping hot wax on the floorboards. She imagined shadow-hands plucking at her from the darkness, trying to frighten her into turning back the way she'd come.
Pulling back from the musty chamber, with calloused fingers pinching the bridge of her nose (and failing miserably at keeping the stench away), Sparrow led them down another long hallway. Her sense of direction left little to be desired. Occasionally, she prodded doorways open with the toe of her boot, stuck her head into promising chambers, only to lead them back out again. But, it wasn't her fault. Every open doorway looked the same. Every hallway looked the same under the flickering glow of the lamplightâs, throwing stretched shadows across the walls. They must've been going in the right direction, because at the end of this particular corridor was another chamber, lit from the insideâdoor held slightly aloft, like he expected guests. Who else would have remained in the ship? They'd confronted no other sailors. No other grimy, bilge-rats hiding in dark corners while they trekked down. Her head throbbed again and she winced, inhaling a sharp breath through her nose.
Everyone behind her embodied everything she'd ever needed. Steady, even, smooth, strength, reasonableâcalm in the most horrific situations while she flowed around them like an erratic tide, clinging onto their rock faces. Even Ithilian with all of his anger and injustices and bubbling indignities radiated these qualities. She took a few tentative steps forward, until she faced the door. Her eyes diverted from the crooked knob, fell to the floor and back up again. Like a little girl peeping in on someone, Sparrow gently pushed the door open, pulse quickening. Her throat tightened, voice threading away. He was there, sitting at an old oaken desk with his feet propped up on a stack of papers. Documents, information on his kidnapees, no doubt. An old, familiar sword was balanced across his knee, while he held a plumed pen in his hand, absently tapping his chin.
âAwfully rude, I'd say. Gentlemen, messere...â The man, with Lucien's likeness, trailed off, as if to invite introductions. He gave them no time to respond, gesturing offhandedly with his pen. There was no indication that he was worried, no hasty movement to defend himself. Whatever intentions the group may have had coming in, Arcadius acted as if he was savvy to nothing that had occurred on the upper decks. âI wasn't expecting any visitors today.â
Sparrow's lips set into a hard, thin line. She managed to find her voice in time, scuffling out of her stupor and feigned a dry laugh. Cold, brittle and bristling with embellished satisfaction. This was her victory. âPapyrus.â It almost felt as if she were talking about someone else. As if Papyrus was separate from Sparrow. Perhaps, they would always remain that way. A small measure of gratification came with the widening of the man's bright eye. The other was still covered by a patch. Had she known Lucien sooner, she may have found the coincidences amusing. âI'm afraid you won't be having any more visitors. We'll be your last.â
Arcadius shifted his weight and let his feet drop down from the desk. He leaned forward, and eyed her companions. The pen twirled between his fingers, half-resting on the pile of papers. âHardly fair. Where's your honour? Or have you become one of the unsavory types all these years past? Unlikely, I think. I could have fled, but I did not. Surely, that warrants for something. I'd make a wager, but I've nothing to offer.â A strained smile appeared, then fell away. His gaze flickered to Ithilian and Rilien. âAllow me to walk free and I'll close the trade, never to violate your shores again. You could kill me, but I assure you, it will continue without me. It always does.â
If he was searching for mercy in the heart of Ithilian, he was looking in a very poor place. The Dalish elf held both his blades comfortably in hand, lowered as he propped himself up against the wall, eyeing the meat before him as it tried to negotiate its way out of a painful death. This was a despicable creature, trying to act like honor meant anything to him. No man who sold others into lives of servitude could speak of honor truly. Why it was dishonorable for them to allow him to leave simply because he'd been stupid enough to stay rather than flee was not apparent to Ithilian.
And beyond that, this was not his to decide. He would certainly not override any of Sparrow's wishes, and she clearly seemed to wish the man's death. Again, Ithilian was not coming up with a single reason why it would be wise to allow him to live. Honor was not his greatest attribute, either. He did what he felt was needed, and he did what he felt was best. "I can kill you," he agreed, "and I can kill whoever comes to carry on your work. You seek mercy from the wrong blades."
Aurora had crossed her arms as her three companions shuffled into the room in front of her, leaving her to slowly walk out from behind them. She settled into an open space on the other side of Ithilian, and nodded as the elf spoke. Neither was it her choice to decide what to do with the man, that honor belonged to Sparrow and to Sparrow alone. She could do nothing more besides lend her strength and lend her mind. And her mind was much of the same as Ithilian's. The man who wore Lucien's face attempted to feign honor, but his words were transparent and meant nothing to her ears. Slavers did not have honor and deserved none. Slavers bought and sold life and broke many more in the act. She felt it was an insult to Lucien that he was forced to share a likeness with this man. If it was Aurora's choice, the man would have already been dead.
"It will always continue, whether you leave here dead or alive. Scum has a habit of rising to the top like that," Aurora said in a placid tone. The student was becoming much like the mentor, in that if she was in this position some years before, she would have flew into a rage and denied Sparrow her choice. Now she was in control, the man had nowhere to go. He was trapped, merely waiting on Sparrow's judgement. She then disregarded the man and turned to Ithilian, saying, "I'll help if you do. They deserve about as much mercy as they give." Rilien said nothing, dignifying the man with no response at all. Instead, his eyes remained fixed unerringly on Sparrow's back. He could read the tension there, but he was waiting to see what became of it.
âHear that? I don't think you'll find any quarter with these ones, either. Not too fond of scum-buckets like you.â Sparrow forced a smile on her face, hoping that it would send a chill of fear down his spine. Mortality had a tendency of doing that, especially if you felt like there was nowhere to go. Hopefully, he'd be reflecting on his lack of options. There was nowhere to run. He'd already blown his chanceâseemed as if he'd grown foolish and stupid over the years. Had she been in a better mood, Sparrow would have swivelled around and enlisted her own two hands in the effort to eradicate any future-interlopers from trespassing on their shores. Prancing down the Wounded Coast hand-in-hand didn't sound too bad. Though, Ithilian didn't seem like the touchy-feely sort. Now, Aurora...
Whatever distraction she was trying to conjure up to steel her nerves only managed to stay with her for a few seconds. Arcadius was itching in his seat, finally realizing that he'd made a mistake. They weren't going to give him any leeway or accept any kind of barter that involved him walking out with his lifeâunfortunate for him, but satisfying enough to her. Sparrow leaned her mace in the doorway and extracted a thin blade from her boot, turning it over in her palm. She distinctly remembered asking Rilien if he'd ever intentionally drawn out someone's death. Made them suffer for what they'd done, if he'd known ahead of time. She knew well enough that he'd killed many in his previous line of work, though perhaps not brutally. Not like she'd seen on the upper deck, slicing open Silian's face like he was chopping up a thick ham for dinner. Did he make them suffer? Did he make them beg? And if so, how? The particulars were always matter-of-fact and he'd never questioned why she was asking.
His blades were far more intricate than her own. Slightly edged, graceful and well-crafted. Sparrow looked back over her shoulder and arched her eyebrows at Ithilian, motioning idly towards Arcadius. âHe needs to be disarmed and detained. If you'd like the honour.â She spoke as if Arcadius was not in the room. It was a gentle offer, almost as if she was offering Ithilian the greatest seat in the room. If he refused, then she'd have to try and disarm him herself. His swordsmanship, from her childhood memories, were not to be laughed at. It was troubling in such small quarters, but she didn't doubt her companions. Either way, Sparrow preferred carrying out what came after. The look in her eyes was one of frigid determination, hardened and tempered. Resolute in the actions she would carry out. She would not falter. She would not hesitate.
Sparrow turned towards Rilien, holding her rusty dagger aloft. âI was thinking, Ril. Could I borrow yours forââ Her words were interrupted by a loud crash, belonging to the wooden desk Arcadius was sitting at. He'd managed to flip it over, spilling all of the papers, quills and bottles of ink across the floor. The expression on his face was not one of breezy indifference anymore, but one that belonged to all men who knew that they were going to die. Desperate and wild, puffing and panting with the effort of keeping his wits about him. He knew, better than anyone, that losing his head in the next few seconds would only give them the upper hand. Three against one hardly did him any favours. Either way, he refused to be cut apart by some little bitch. One dark eye flicked across their faces, calculating. He'd only have one opening. Swinging the broadsword to his front, Arcadius roared indignantly and feigned to attack Sparrow, who brought up her dagger in response, before veering up towards Aurora. Woman. He would attack the weakest.
Cleaving her companion would be a bitter price to pay for revenge.
He'd have to try harder in order to kill the little mage, Aurora was far from the weakest in the room. She wasn't oblivious, she had no delusions about her stature. She looked like a fragile woman wading into waters far over her head. And there was some truth in that line of thought, she was nowhere near the sturdiness Ithilian and Sparrow possessed, but that did not make her weak. What she had was in her head, an intellect and a ground bestowed upon her by a Qunari friend. She would not be swept aside so easily.
She knew better to entirely discount Arcadius. He was trapped, and like the animal he was he'd prove to be much more dangerous in this state. The crashing desk came as little surprise, setting Aurora down into a defensive stance, and he acted like she thought he would, throwing himself first at Sparrow. It would be simple, Sparrow would deflect the blow, and then the rest of them could take advantage. Quick and easy. At least it would have been if she'd managed to see what came next. For all of her confidence, it seemed like she underestimated the swordsman. The blade she first thought intended for Sparrow instead dipped and came up for her.
Still, if he thought such a tactic would be enough to kill her, he was sorely mistaken. Right at the moment it was clear the blade was meant for her, Aurora threw herself out of the way, and rolled sideways across the ground. However, she was too late to completely escape the sword, as a crimson line bit deep into the bone along the length of her upper arm. Quick thinking caused her to freeze the wound close, but this needed to end fast, and she'd need to attend to it more closely if she didn't want to lose a large chunk of it. Still, either way, she felt a scar brewing in the frozen limb.
Aurora rolled up to her feet, sliding back into the far wall and once she was stable enough to raise her hand with the uninjured arm, she fired a stonefist at the slaver, giving him a surprise of her own. Aurora was no mere girl, petite and fragile. She was a mage, with her feet grounded deep. It'd take a lot more than a common bandit to break her.
Arcadius did not seem to account for the possibility of the girl being a mage, and the stonefist took him in the chest, knocking him back and directly towards Ithilian's blades. Normally, Ithilian would have simply speared through the back and pierced the heart, or attacked the head, either slipping a blade around the open his throat, or more brutally punch a sword point down through either the skull or the base of the neck. He was still tempted to simply dispatch the bandit and be done with it, but Sparrow had requested otherwise, and this was her vengeance he was exacting.
Ithilian had been taught to show no mercy to his enemies, and also to never take them lightly. He had used some brutal tactics in his lifetime, but the only time he had ever toyed with the suffering of an opponent had been when he was at his lowest, in the Deep Roads, when he'd sought to inflict as much pain as possible upon the darkspawn there. He knew more than anything else that he didn't want to return to that state of mind, and he wondered if Sparrow was somewhat close to that herself. It was troubling, but if it was the case, he wasn't certain the deed would fall to him to help her, as Nostariel and Amalia had helped him. It seemed like something a closer friend should handle.
For the moment, though, he knew her mindset, or at least something close to it, and he knew what kind of reaction she might have if her vengeance was denied to her. He ducked low and slashed with both blades, biting deep into the back of his legs, forcing him to his knees. Ithilian gave him a kick to the back to force him down on his face, before darting around to the side and stabbing down hard where the man's sword hand lay, spearing through it and into the wood of the ship, separating him from his weapon and holding him to the floor. He looked up at Sparrow with a rather hard gaze in his remaining eye.
"Have your vengeance, if you want it," he said. The tattoo for Elgar'nan at the base of his neck almost seemed to itch.
The Lady Montblanc had called it the red smileâa method of execution that involved slitting the throat directly under the chin, from ear to ear, hence producing a gout of blood and being moderately curved after the fashion of a mouth. It was efficient, though heâd made Silianâs slower, deeper than was strictly required. It was unusual for him, to do something like that, but then everything about this situation was rather unusual. That made it no less necessary.
He could not say if vengeance was the kind of thing that would cleanse Sparrow of these old sorrows. In truth, Rilien doubted it. But if there was even a small chance that it would work, then it was an opportunity he needed to do his part of give her. As usual, she didnât even need to complete her sentence for him to know what she was saying, and even as Aurora and Ithilian reacted, Rilien drew his blade with a slow, ringing hiss, stepping up to Sparrowâs side, even as she recovered from the feint. He knew quite well that the two who had attacked were capable of bringing a single man down, though the mage-girl would require medical attention, he was sure. He had potions enough for that, but first, something else must be done.
It was the first time since that hostile takeover by Rapture some years ago in his shop that heâd willingly initiated contact with anyone, least of all her, but he did it now, flipping the blade so that he held the flat of it, cold to the touch with the ice enchantment heâd placed on the hardy steel. A gift, from a Dalish weaponsmith, to an erstwhile traveller, goaded into an act of selflessness by another who performed them as easily as breathing. And now it would be used to kill a man who wore a very similar face, by a woman whoâd been stolen from another clan. He was not oblivious to the fact that the world worked in strange ways sometimes, patterns and eddies in the fabric of it entrapping them all.
So he reached for Sparrowâs hand, uncurled the tense fist it had become with his own, more dexterous fingers, and folded them closed again over the hilt. Would she give this one a red smile to match his friendâs, or would she be slower about it, more brutal even than he had been, than the Dalish hunter was, staking Arcadiusâs hand to the floor of his ship? Who could say? He cared not for the answer. He cared only for her. So he tilted his head to one side, studying her profile, then released her hand, dagger now held safely, and stepped back.
Her vengeance was hers, if she wanted it, and he would still be there when it was done.
Sparrow hadn't been quick enough to react when Arcadius feigned to her right, aiming instead for Auroraâshe only had time to swing her dagger in front of her, hoping to catch his broadsword before it cleaved her head from her shoulders, and stumbled backwards when nothing connected. Thankfully, Aurora had been swifter, sending a stoney fist into his chest. She bet that he hadn't expected that. The ill-fated way his momentum carried him into another deadly foe must've been quite a shock, as well. She watched with sick fascination as Ithilian's twin-blades bit into his calves, sending Arcadius to his knees. Watched as Ithilian swiftly dove to the side, sinking his blade into the swordman's hand and successfully pinning him into the floorboards. There was blood. Too much blood. It poured from his wounds, pooling around his legs. He thrashed like a beached fish, flopping onto his back, spluttering and hissing and yowling.
It's beautiful, she thought, it's beautiful but. Her hand dropped back down to her side, fingers clutched into a tight fist. This was it. This was the only chance she'd ever have to feel better. To erase something she never thought she could. Foolish as it may have been, Sparrow believed that it would lessen her burdens. Her shoulders would feel lighter. She could finally shed off all of her bitterness, shake them off like a dusty coatâmaybe, just maybe. Her childish thoughts always won out. Even if she went back with Rilien, hollow and empty and full of uncertainties, she'd know that at least a couple of her ghosts would be gone forever. The memories would remain, but they'd never be able to touch her. They'd never be able to reach her again. It became a silent countdown, a deliberate search for blood owed.
She met Ithilian's gaze and nodded numbly, mouthing soft words of gratitude. The lump in her throat only seemed to expand, making it hard to say anything intelligent. All she wanted wasâwhat, exactly? Movement to her right caught her attention, dragging her eyes away from the writhing body below her. He wasn't going anywhere. Someone caught hold of her hand and she froze. She was caught off guard. He didn't instigate physical contact often. Unravelling her fingers from their tight, wrecking-ball of a fist, one-by-one, until he pressed the pommel of his curved dagger into her palm. Sparrow did not pretend to know the significance of the act, nor the similar antiquities of the blade. Her eyes burned. Rilien didn't say a word. He never needed to. The sturdy, unwavering look told her enough, belying concern and support to whatever she decided to do to this man.
No one would try to stop her.
Sparrow swept down over Arcadius, pinning his free arm with her knee. He bucked underneath her, desperately trying to throw her off. She only plopped down on his chest, slender fingers snaking around his neck and digging into the popping tendons. She applied pressure, and briefly loosened her grip when his bloodshot eye began rolling backwards. Instead, Sparrow smacked him in the face to keep him lucid. To keep him from falling unconscious. âYou don't get to sleep through this,â She snarled sharply, free-hand dropping back to his neck to keep him still. Positioning the curved blade at the crook of his collarbone, Sparrow pressed it down as Arcadius screeched bitch bitch you bitch. Slowly, inch by inch. âFor them,â she whispered. She jerked the blade out, raw and chilly in her hand, and placed it flat against his cheekbone. It jumped up against his ear as he whipped back and forth, though responded by bearing down on his head with her forearm, looming over him.
She was free to do as she wished. She'd spoken of this technique before. Discussed it at length. It was brutal, savage, and entirely appropriate. He deserved no lessâdidn't he? Arcadius' shirt was already black with blood. But, she felt disgusting. Sticky and crusted. Was it worth it? The questioning disturbed her.
âFor her. For me.â
The blade skittered down his jawline as she shied backwards, shoulders straightening. It idled above his thumping heart. All of the acrid morning-fantasies that involved opening him up from his gut, spilling his innards and holding him together only long enough to shred his face up fled from her. But, Sparrow did not shush him like a wayward motherâas she might have had it been any other enemyâremaining silent as blade sunk into his chest, gradually sucking through flesh. Blood dribbled from the corner of his lips, drawn into a toothy grimace. He gurgled, unintelligible. With another quick, crisp jerk, Sparrow hauled the blade downwards, opening up a long laceration. There was no need for sawing. Rilien's blade was sharp enough. Almost as if it were made for this. Mercy? Mercy this. Discarding the blade from his chest, Sparrow made the final push into his chest, pumping arcane energy into her fingers to push aside his ribs and close around his heart.
She squeezed and he died. It took her a moment to realize what she'd done. It took her even longer to remove her hand from his chest and lean away from him, shoulders slumping. Her expression crumpled. Beginning, middle, end. She wasn't sure where she fit, exactly. Still, Sparrow looked up, expecting no one to be there but herself. To be alone with her grief and her savagery. She was surprised when she was not.
He didnât like the look on her face, but stepped away from the contact before he could do something emotional and pointless like say as much. By that point, the others were done with the fight below and ascending the gangplank anyway. Rilien sheathed his knives momentarily, wiping the blood on his face away with a sleeve, glancing at the smear for a second before dismissing it. From a pouch at his belt, he withdrew a potion, a pearlescent red that marked its potency. His other hand went to his nose, and with a sure motion, he set the bones there properly in place, betraying no hint of the pain he professed to be in, then downed the concoction.
The cartilage in his face knit back together, a bit tender and not quite as perfectly straight as it used to be, but a slightly-crooked nose was not a problem as far as he was concerned. If it should truly become an issue, he could re-break it and set it more precisely with tools. His rib mended as well, and he replaced the empty container and stopper up one of his sleeves. The ship contained one obvious door, that doubtless led down to the captainâs quarters, cargo hold, and everything else stored in the bowels of such a transport. He indicated it with a glance, but he would let Sparrow lead the way down, now that she seemed to be in a more fit state for it.
You matter more. Sparrow wasn't sure what bothered her moreâthe fact that he was not upset with her selfish behaviour, or the fact that her apologies did little to stopper her guilt. The stabbing reminders and drawn out internal wounds were beginning to pull at her, plucking away her warmth. She was beginning to tire. If all of this could be over quickly, then she could begin to heal and continue throwing out apologies, tripping over herself to pay them back for all of their efforts. This meant more to her than they'd ever know. Words would never suffice. She swallowed thickly, wiping the sweat from her eyes. Someday, she'd begin to thaw. Someday, she'd be able to live with the dull ache and know, with replete certainty, that it would never happen again. Looking back on the events, Sparrow's memories could be filled with the vibrant, vivid recollection of Rilien's blade carvings its way through Silian's face. As if he were little more than a side of ham. Yes, it would do. Releasing would-be slaves, once they were done dealing with Arcadius, was only the icing on the cake. Ithilian and Aurora, no doubt, would agree with her.
She kept her footfalls to an acceptable din, silently descending into the ship's belly. This time, Sparrow did not plunge down the short staircase, rigid and graceless as a ball-jointed puppet, though she desperately wanted to. Hardly accustomed to stealth or even attempting at not being heard, Sparrow's eyes scrunched up in concentration, nose crinkling against the reek of unwashed bodies and urine. If fear had a smell, it was palpable enough to feel. The hairs on the back of her neck rose up, goosepebbling her copper skin. She rounded a sharp corner, peeking her head into an empty room. It was likely that whatever holding-space the other shipment had been contained in hadn't been washed since. Disgust roiled in her stomach, snatching up the reigns to her anger. The ship was badly lit. Lanterns peppered the hallways, hanging in rusted tins with white candles dripping hot wax on the floorboards. She imagined shadow-hands plucking at her from the darkness, trying to frighten her into turning back the way she'd come.
Pulling back from the musty chamber, with calloused fingers pinching the bridge of her nose (and failing miserably at keeping the stench away), Sparrow led them down another long hallway. Her sense of direction left little to be desired. Occasionally, she prodded doorways open with the toe of her boot, stuck her head into promising chambers, only to lead them back out again. But, it wasn't her fault. Every open doorway looked the same. Every hallway looked the same under the flickering glow of the lamplightâs, throwing stretched shadows across the walls. They must've been going in the right direction, because at the end of this particular corridor was another chamber, lit from the insideâdoor held slightly aloft, like he expected guests. Who else would have remained in the ship? They'd confronted no other sailors. No other grimy, bilge-rats hiding in dark corners while they trekked down. Her head throbbed again and she winced, inhaling a sharp breath through her nose.
Everyone behind her embodied everything she'd ever needed. Steady, even, smooth, strength, reasonableâcalm in the most horrific situations while she flowed around them like an erratic tide, clinging onto their rock faces. Even Ithilian with all of his anger and injustices and bubbling indignities radiated these qualities. She took a few tentative steps forward, until she faced the door. Her eyes diverted from the crooked knob, fell to the floor and back up again. Like a little girl peeping in on someone, Sparrow gently pushed the door open, pulse quickening. Her throat tightened, voice threading away. He was there, sitting at an old oaken desk with his feet propped up on a stack of papers. Documents, information on his kidnapees, no doubt. An old, familiar sword was balanced across his knee, while he held a plumed pen in his hand, absently tapping his chin.
âAwfully rude, I'd say. Gentlemen, messere...â The man, with Lucien's likeness, trailed off, as if to invite introductions. He gave them no time to respond, gesturing offhandedly with his pen. There was no indication that he was worried, no hasty movement to defend himself. Whatever intentions the group may have had coming in, Arcadius acted as if he was savvy to nothing that had occurred on the upper decks. âI wasn't expecting any visitors today.â
Sparrow's lips set into a hard, thin line. She managed to find her voice in time, scuffling out of her stupor and feigned a dry laugh. Cold, brittle and bristling with embellished satisfaction. This was her victory. âPapyrus.â It almost felt as if she were talking about someone else. As if Papyrus was separate from Sparrow. Perhaps, they would always remain that way. A small measure of gratification came with the widening of the man's bright eye. The other was still covered by a patch. Had she known Lucien sooner, she may have found the coincidences amusing. âI'm afraid you won't be having any more visitors. We'll be your last.â
Arcadius shifted his weight and let his feet drop down from the desk. He leaned forward, and eyed her companions. The pen twirled between his fingers, half-resting on the pile of papers. âHardly fair. Where's your honour? Or have you become one of the unsavory types all these years past? Unlikely, I think. I could have fled, but I did not. Surely, that warrants for something. I'd make a wager, but I've nothing to offer.â A strained smile appeared, then fell away. His gaze flickered to Ithilian and Rilien. âAllow me to walk free and I'll close the trade, never to violate your shores again. You could kill me, but I assure you, it will continue without me. It always does.â
If he was searching for mercy in the heart of Ithilian, he was looking in a very poor place. The Dalish elf held both his blades comfortably in hand, lowered as he propped himself up against the wall, eyeing the meat before him as it tried to negotiate its way out of a painful death. This was a despicable creature, trying to act like honor meant anything to him. No man who sold others into lives of servitude could speak of honor truly. Why it was dishonorable for them to allow him to leave simply because he'd been stupid enough to stay rather than flee was not apparent to Ithilian.
And beyond that, this was not his to decide. He would certainly not override any of Sparrow's wishes, and she clearly seemed to wish the man's death. Again, Ithilian was not coming up with a single reason why it would be wise to allow him to live. Honor was not his greatest attribute, either. He did what he felt was needed, and he did what he felt was best. "I can kill you," he agreed, "and I can kill whoever comes to carry on your work. You seek mercy from the wrong blades."
Aurora had crossed her arms as her three companions shuffled into the room in front of her, leaving her to slowly walk out from behind them. She settled into an open space on the other side of Ithilian, and nodded as the elf spoke. Neither was it her choice to decide what to do with the man, that honor belonged to Sparrow and to Sparrow alone. She could do nothing more besides lend her strength and lend her mind. And her mind was much of the same as Ithilian's. The man who wore Lucien's face attempted to feign honor, but his words were transparent and meant nothing to her ears. Slavers did not have honor and deserved none. Slavers bought and sold life and broke many more in the act. She felt it was an insult to Lucien that he was forced to share a likeness with this man. If it was Aurora's choice, the man would have already been dead.
"It will always continue, whether you leave here dead or alive. Scum has a habit of rising to the top like that," Aurora said in a placid tone. The student was becoming much like the mentor, in that if she was in this position some years before, she would have flew into a rage and denied Sparrow her choice. Now she was in control, the man had nowhere to go. He was trapped, merely waiting on Sparrow's judgement. She then disregarded the man and turned to Ithilian, saying, "I'll help if you do. They deserve about as much mercy as they give." Rilien said nothing, dignifying the man with no response at all. Instead, his eyes remained fixed unerringly on Sparrow's back. He could read the tension there, but he was waiting to see what became of it.
âHear that? I don't think you'll find any quarter with these ones, either. Not too fond of scum-buckets like you.â Sparrow forced a smile on her face, hoping that it would send a chill of fear down his spine. Mortality had a tendency of doing that, especially if you felt like there was nowhere to go. Hopefully, he'd be reflecting on his lack of options. There was nowhere to run. He'd already blown his chanceâseemed as if he'd grown foolish and stupid over the years. Had she been in a better mood, Sparrow would have swivelled around and enlisted her own two hands in the effort to eradicate any future-interlopers from trespassing on their shores. Prancing down the Wounded Coast hand-in-hand didn't sound too bad. Though, Ithilian didn't seem like the touchy-feely sort. Now, Aurora...
Whatever distraction she was trying to conjure up to steel her nerves only managed to stay with her for a few seconds. Arcadius was itching in his seat, finally realizing that he'd made a mistake. They weren't going to give him any leeway or accept any kind of barter that involved him walking out with his lifeâunfortunate for him, but satisfying enough to her. Sparrow leaned her mace in the doorway and extracted a thin blade from her boot, turning it over in her palm. She distinctly remembered asking Rilien if he'd ever intentionally drawn out someone's death. Made them suffer for what they'd done, if he'd known ahead of time. She knew well enough that he'd killed many in his previous line of work, though perhaps not brutally. Not like she'd seen on the upper deck, slicing open Silian's face like he was chopping up a thick ham for dinner. Did he make them suffer? Did he make them beg? And if so, how? The particulars were always matter-of-fact and he'd never questioned why she was asking.
His blades were far more intricate than her own. Slightly edged, graceful and well-crafted. Sparrow looked back over her shoulder and arched her eyebrows at Ithilian, motioning idly towards Arcadius. âHe needs to be disarmed and detained. If you'd like the honour.â She spoke as if Arcadius was not in the room. It was a gentle offer, almost as if she was offering Ithilian the greatest seat in the room. If he refused, then she'd have to try and disarm him herself. His swordsmanship, from her childhood memories, were not to be laughed at. It was troubling in such small quarters, but she didn't doubt her companions. Either way, Sparrow preferred carrying out what came after. The look in her eyes was one of frigid determination, hardened and tempered. Resolute in the actions she would carry out. She would not falter. She would not hesitate.
Sparrow turned towards Rilien, holding her rusty dagger aloft. âI was thinking, Ril. Could I borrow yours forââ Her words were interrupted by a loud crash, belonging to the wooden desk Arcadius was sitting at. He'd managed to flip it over, spilling all of the papers, quills and bottles of ink across the floor. The expression on his face was not one of breezy indifference anymore, but one that belonged to all men who knew that they were going to die. Desperate and wild, puffing and panting with the effort of keeping his wits about him. He knew, better than anyone, that losing his head in the next few seconds would only give them the upper hand. Three against one hardly did him any favours. Either way, he refused to be cut apart by some little bitch. One dark eye flicked across their faces, calculating. He'd only have one opening. Swinging the broadsword to his front, Arcadius roared indignantly and feigned to attack Sparrow, who brought up her dagger in response, before veering up towards Aurora. Woman. He would attack the weakest.
Cleaving her companion would be a bitter price to pay for revenge.
He'd have to try harder in order to kill the little mage, Aurora was far from the weakest in the room. She wasn't oblivious, she had no delusions about her stature. She looked like a fragile woman wading into waters far over her head. And there was some truth in that line of thought, she was nowhere near the sturdiness Ithilian and Sparrow possessed, but that did not make her weak. What she had was in her head, an intellect and a ground bestowed upon her by a Qunari friend. She would not be swept aside so easily.
She knew better to entirely discount Arcadius. He was trapped, and like the animal he was he'd prove to be much more dangerous in this state. The crashing desk came as little surprise, setting Aurora down into a defensive stance, and he acted like she thought he would, throwing himself first at Sparrow. It would be simple, Sparrow would deflect the blow, and then the rest of them could take advantage. Quick and easy. At least it would have been if she'd managed to see what came next. For all of her confidence, it seemed like she underestimated the swordsman. The blade she first thought intended for Sparrow instead dipped and came up for her.
Still, if he thought such a tactic would be enough to kill her, he was sorely mistaken. Right at the moment it was clear the blade was meant for her, Aurora threw herself out of the way, and rolled sideways across the ground. However, she was too late to completely escape the sword, as a crimson line bit deep into the bone along the length of her upper arm. Quick thinking caused her to freeze the wound close, but this needed to end fast, and she'd need to attend to it more closely if she didn't want to lose a large chunk of it. Still, either way, she felt a scar brewing in the frozen limb.
Aurora rolled up to her feet, sliding back into the far wall and once she was stable enough to raise her hand with the uninjured arm, she fired a stonefist at the slaver, giving him a surprise of her own. Aurora was no mere girl, petite and fragile. She was a mage, with her feet grounded deep. It'd take a lot more than a common bandit to break her.
Arcadius did not seem to account for the possibility of the girl being a mage, and the stonefist took him in the chest, knocking him back and directly towards Ithilian's blades. Normally, Ithilian would have simply speared through the back and pierced the heart, or attacked the head, either slipping a blade around the open his throat, or more brutally punch a sword point down through either the skull or the base of the neck. He was still tempted to simply dispatch the bandit and be done with it, but Sparrow had requested otherwise, and this was her vengeance he was exacting.
Ithilian had been taught to show no mercy to his enemies, and also to never take them lightly. He had used some brutal tactics in his lifetime, but the only time he had ever toyed with the suffering of an opponent had been when he was at his lowest, in the Deep Roads, when he'd sought to inflict as much pain as possible upon the darkspawn there. He knew more than anything else that he didn't want to return to that state of mind, and he wondered if Sparrow was somewhat close to that herself. It was troubling, but if it was the case, he wasn't certain the deed would fall to him to help her, as Nostariel and Amalia had helped him. It seemed like something a closer friend should handle.
For the moment, though, he knew her mindset, or at least something close to it, and he knew what kind of reaction she might have if her vengeance was denied to her. He ducked low and slashed with both blades, biting deep into the back of his legs, forcing him to his knees. Ithilian gave him a kick to the back to force him down on his face, before darting around to the side and stabbing down hard where the man's sword hand lay, spearing through it and into the wood of the ship, separating him from his weapon and holding him to the floor. He looked up at Sparrow with a rather hard gaze in his remaining eye.
"Have your vengeance, if you want it," he said. The tattoo for Elgar'nan at the base of his neck almost seemed to itch.
The Lady Montblanc had called it the red smileâa method of execution that involved slitting the throat directly under the chin, from ear to ear, hence producing a gout of blood and being moderately curved after the fashion of a mouth. It was efficient, though heâd made Silianâs slower, deeper than was strictly required. It was unusual for him, to do something like that, but then everything about this situation was rather unusual. That made it no less necessary.
He could not say if vengeance was the kind of thing that would cleanse Sparrow of these old sorrows. In truth, Rilien doubted it. But if there was even a small chance that it would work, then it was an opportunity he needed to do his part of give her. As usual, she didnât even need to complete her sentence for him to know what she was saying, and even as Aurora and Ithilian reacted, Rilien drew his blade with a slow, ringing hiss, stepping up to Sparrowâs side, even as she recovered from the feint. He knew quite well that the two who had attacked were capable of bringing a single man down, though the mage-girl would require medical attention, he was sure. He had potions enough for that, but first, something else must be done.
It was the first time since that hostile takeover by Rapture some years ago in his shop that heâd willingly initiated contact with anyone, least of all her, but he did it now, flipping the blade so that he held the flat of it, cold to the touch with the ice enchantment heâd placed on the hardy steel. A gift, from a Dalish weaponsmith, to an erstwhile traveller, goaded into an act of selflessness by another who performed them as easily as breathing. And now it would be used to kill a man who wore a very similar face, by a woman whoâd been stolen from another clan. He was not oblivious to the fact that the world worked in strange ways sometimes, patterns and eddies in the fabric of it entrapping them all.
So he reached for Sparrowâs hand, uncurled the tense fist it had become with his own, more dexterous fingers, and folded them closed again over the hilt. Would she give this one a red smile to match his friendâs, or would she be slower about it, more brutal even than he had been, than the Dalish hunter was, staking Arcadiusâs hand to the floor of his ship? Who could say? He cared not for the answer. He cared only for her. So he tilted his head to one side, studying her profile, then released her hand, dagger now held safely, and stepped back.
Her vengeance was hers, if she wanted it, and he would still be there when it was done.
Sparrow hadn't been quick enough to react when Arcadius feigned to her right, aiming instead for Auroraâshe only had time to swing her dagger in front of her, hoping to catch his broadsword before it cleaved her head from her shoulders, and stumbled backwards when nothing connected. Thankfully, Aurora had been swifter, sending a stoney fist into his chest. She bet that he hadn't expected that. The ill-fated way his momentum carried him into another deadly foe must've been quite a shock, as well. She watched with sick fascination as Ithilian's twin-blades bit into his calves, sending Arcadius to his knees. Watched as Ithilian swiftly dove to the side, sinking his blade into the swordman's hand and successfully pinning him into the floorboards. There was blood. Too much blood. It poured from his wounds, pooling around his legs. He thrashed like a beached fish, flopping onto his back, spluttering and hissing and yowling.
It's beautiful, she thought, it's beautiful but. Her hand dropped back down to her side, fingers clutched into a tight fist. This was it. This was the only chance she'd ever have to feel better. To erase something she never thought she could. Foolish as it may have been, Sparrow believed that it would lessen her burdens. Her shoulders would feel lighter. She could finally shed off all of her bitterness, shake them off like a dusty coatâmaybe, just maybe. Her childish thoughts always won out. Even if she went back with Rilien, hollow and empty and full of uncertainties, she'd know that at least a couple of her ghosts would be gone forever. The memories would remain, but they'd never be able to touch her. They'd never be able to reach her again. It became a silent countdown, a deliberate search for blood owed.
She met Ithilian's gaze and nodded numbly, mouthing soft words of gratitude. The lump in her throat only seemed to expand, making it hard to say anything intelligent. All she wanted wasâwhat, exactly? Movement to her right caught her attention, dragging her eyes away from the writhing body below her. He wasn't going anywhere. Someone caught hold of her hand and she froze. She was caught off guard. He didn't instigate physical contact often. Unravelling her fingers from their tight, wrecking-ball of a fist, one-by-one, until he pressed the pommel of his curved dagger into her palm. Sparrow did not pretend to know the significance of the act, nor the similar antiquities of the blade. Her eyes burned. Rilien didn't say a word. He never needed to. The sturdy, unwavering look told her enough, belying concern and support to whatever she decided to do to this man.
No one would try to stop her.
Sparrow swept down over Arcadius, pinning his free arm with her knee. He bucked underneath her, desperately trying to throw her off. She only plopped down on his chest, slender fingers snaking around his neck and digging into the popping tendons. She applied pressure, and briefly loosened her grip when his bloodshot eye began rolling backwards. Instead, Sparrow smacked him in the face to keep him lucid. To keep him from falling unconscious. âYou don't get to sleep through this,â She snarled sharply, free-hand dropping back to his neck to keep him still. Positioning the curved blade at the crook of his collarbone, Sparrow pressed it down as Arcadius screeched bitch bitch you bitch. Slowly, inch by inch. âFor them,â she whispered. She jerked the blade out, raw and chilly in her hand, and placed it flat against his cheekbone. It jumped up against his ear as he whipped back and forth, though responded by bearing down on his head with her forearm, looming over him.
She was free to do as she wished. She'd spoken of this technique before. Discussed it at length. It was brutal, savage, and entirely appropriate. He deserved no lessâdidn't he? Arcadius' shirt was already black with blood. But, she felt disgusting. Sticky and crusted. Was it worth it? The questioning disturbed her.
âFor her. For me.â
The blade skittered down his jawline as she shied backwards, shoulders straightening. It idled above his thumping heart. All of the acrid morning-fantasies that involved opening him up from his gut, spilling his innards and holding him together only long enough to shred his face up fled from her. But, Sparrow did not shush him like a wayward motherâas she might have had it been any other enemyâremaining silent as blade sunk into his chest, gradually sucking through flesh. Blood dribbled from the corner of his lips, drawn into a toothy grimace. He gurgled, unintelligible. With another quick, crisp jerk, Sparrow hauled the blade downwards, opening up a long laceration. There was no need for sawing. Rilien's blade was sharp enough. Almost as if it were made for this. Mercy? Mercy this. Discarding the blade from his chest, Sparrow made the final push into his chest, pumping arcane energy into her fingers to push aside his ribs and close around his heart.
She squeezed and he died. It took her a moment to realize what she'd done. It took her even longer to remove her hand from his chest and lean away from him, shoulders slumping. Her expression crumpled. Beginning, middle, end. She wasn't sure where she fit, exactly. Still, Sparrow looked up, expecting no one to be there but herself. To be alone with her grief and her savagery. She was surprised when she was not.
The Chanter's Board has been updated. Burying the Hatchet has been completed.