[Mature] The Worms Will Come

[Lars]

THE MAD QUEEN
ROALIS 50, 2719 ꧁꧂ IN THE NIGHT

text

"Don't you think that's a bit... pointless?"

The words might've been muffled, but he could hear them, though his eyes were closed and his body remained still. He didn't need to show any indication that'd he'd heard the words, he would've heard them even if the voice had originated from within the walls, or outside the apartment, or another kingdom entirely. Lars held his breath, immersed in the now-cooling water of his bath.

"Don't ignore me," the voice tried again, "we can't stay in here forever."

Sure I can, he thought defiantly, although he remained beneath the surface of the water for only a few moments longer. His companion was splashed as he quickly forced himself upright, hair plastered to his face like an ill-fitting hat, and the blonde that'd been sitting with his back to the tub let out a half-shout, head turning to glare at the white-haired passive. He offered nothing but emptiness in return.

"Get my clothes." The other man didn't bother repressing an agitated noise, pushing himself off of the floor and grabbing Lars' clothes from the other side of the room, which admittedly was only about two feet away, while Lars himself reached for the old, worn, but clean-enough towel that rested on the floor beside the tub. The tub itself was the same; it was old, rickety, it leaked if not repaired before every use. Bringing the towel to his face, he couldn't help his own exhausted groan, breathing irritations into the fabric.

"It's already getting dark outside, Lars," it was meant as a gentle warning, but he couldn't help the growing annoyance, and buried his face further into the towel.

"Mhm. I'm moving."

His reflection didn't have to say anything for both of them to know that that was not, in fact, true, and so he said nothing.

It didn't take long for Lars to leave the apartment, dressing himself quickly and muttering half-hearted goodbyes to the chattering humans on his way out. It was an odd notion to put clothes on just for a little walk, only to most likely remove them once he arrived at his destination - but it was the life he'd made for himself. Might've been strange at the start, uncomfortable, even, but he was done spending his life in a kitchen. He didn't intend on working for Scarlett his entire life, not in the way he did now at least, but it was the current solution; a means to an end. He could justify doing anything, so long as it got him what he wanted - and right now, he wanted coin.

He lowered his head as he approached the ship, walking past familiar bodies that knew by now to ignore him in favor of potential customers.

It wasn't until much, much later that Lars found himself alone again, making his way through to the rest of the establishment that he assumed had been built later on, tucked away in the back and accessed by stairs. Half-asleep he stumbled in his ascension, offering a quiet apology to the woman that had been descending when his body chose to do so. He knew her name, but didn't have the energy to recall it, and she didn't seem to care enough to hold him there.

The passive stood there in the dark stairway for a few moments, listening to the woman's shoes tapping against the floor as she got further and further away. A hand fell upon his shoulder, pulling his attention to his side, where his companion now stood.

"Nice to see you again," Lars greeted quietly, not bothering to suppress his bitter tone.

"Yeah, yeah - come on, lets get up to the room and go to sleep. I'm tired."

"Oh, you're tired?" his words fell on deaf ears, however, but the blonde at his side did assist him in making it to the room, tucked away with the rest of the staff's personal quarters. It wasn't his, of course, but it was open for the night and he was far too tired to walk home safely. He'd surely end up falling asleep as he stood.

So when his companion opened the door and allowed him inside, Lars moved quickly to the bed, falling upon the sheets without care for covering himself with them. He was clothed, again, and he knew he'd get cold during the night but fuck if he was awake enough to care.

"Night, Lars," he heard from somewhere, and mumbled, "night, Lars," against the pillow in return. The passive took a deep breath, glancing about the dark, undecorated room one last time before succumbing to sleep.

[moralhazard]

Late Night, 50th Roalis, 2719
The Mad Queen

Niccolette stood at the stove, barefoot, too-large pants sewn up at the hems, wearing a yellow silk men’s shirt tucked in at the waist and secured by a belt with a line of extra holes punched in. She stirred the erg gram with the flat of the wooden spoon, gaze locked on the yellow sauce that bubbled up around the edges of them, and prodded at a bit of onion stuck to the edge of the pan.

Aremu watched her for a long moment, then turned his gaze back to the dough on the plate next to the stove. He picked up a piece of flatbread, and lay it on the exposed flames, watching as it began to crackle and puff outwards. He lifted the edges with his bare fingers, and flipped it over, the prodding at the edges of browning spots.

When it glistened with grease at the edges, when it had puffed to nearly the size of his head, Aremu snatched it from the stove and set it aside with deft fingers, careful not to puncture the thin layers of bread. He lay the next one down just as carefully.

Next to him, Niccolette was spooning the cooked gram into two bowls, face tight with concentration, not a single drop of the yellow sauce escaping the careful deliberate motions of her spoon.

“We shall eat in here,” she said, carrying them to the thick slab that served as her kitchen table. If she so much as glanced leftward at the dining room, with its spacious table and dusty chandelier, Aremu did not see it.

Aremu merely nodded, and flipped over the last piece of puffed up flatbread. 

Niccolette bustled around behind him, and he heard the soft glug of liquid. Aremu glanced back over his shoulder, and waited until Niccolette looked up from the glasses of dark liquid.

“It is juice,” Niccolette snapped. She scowled at him, and slammed one down on the table, sloshing a little bit over the edge. She stomped off to fetch a rag, and Aremu made no particular effort to listen to what she grumbled beneath her breath.

Aremu ate steadily and efficiently; across the table from him, Niccolette ripped at her flatbread with both hands, and occasionally mopped up a bit of the erg gram. Eventually she seemed to settle down to it, and by the time she rose to wash her hands, there was a good deal less than there had been. Aremu said nothing about any of it; his own plate was clean. 

Niccolette gestured at hers and raised her eyebrows at him.

“No,” Aremu said, but he smiled at her.

Niccolette left the kitchen behind, and Aremu carried the bowls to the deep sink, one by one; he rolled up his shirtsleeves and held them in place with the weight of his arm, and used his hand to scrub them clean, and then the pot last.

“You did not need to,” Niccolette said, when she returned and saw him setting the pot to dry. “The maid would have -“

“I know,” Aremu said, gently. It seemed to him that a man should clean up the messes he had made; he did not see how he could do otherwise, and still deserve the name.

Niccolette shrugged, and went off again, the long hem of her dark green dress swishing softly against her legs.

Aremu dried his arms and went to his room. He sat on the edge of the too-soft bed, and took the dark wooden prosthetic from the small table next to it. As he strapped it on, he thought of scars and weights and pale white hair, and the feeling of jewels heavy against his chest. He strapped his holster on too, and settled his pistol and his knives close to his skin.

It had been a hot, sunny day, and Benea shone full overhead, Osa nearly joining her. Their light glittered through the streets of the Rose, cool clear and white against the yellow glimmer of streetlamps, both scattered over the sandy streets of the Cat’s Paw. The Mahogany had rocked gently beneath the bridge that led across to Bean Island, and Aremu had done his best not to think about staggering back across the bridge two nights ago, rain-soaked and bleeding himself pale into the white fabric of his shirt.

Aremu knew he frowned, but his gaze was curious and frank as it wandered the smiling faces at the edges of the Mad Queen, scarlet-lit and welcoming. Niccolette looked straight ahead, focused and determined, lifting her skirt in the edge of one hand as she passed between the bodies, passed between the laughter and calls as if she did not hear it, up the gangplank and into the ship, low black boots clicking against the wood. Aremu followed behind her, and once – only once – he found himself returning a grin, to a Mugrobi-looking man who winked at him and traced a finger over the line of his pale jacket, made as if to dip inside.

“Other business tonight, adame,” Aremu said, softly, but the fingers of his left hand traced the man’s arm, lightly, before he pulled away.

“Finished?” Niccolette asked from the top of the gangplank, raising her eyebrows, lips pursed.

Aremu shrugged, and followed her into the depths of the ship.

Coin eased one’s way everywhere, and the Mad Queen was known for being no exception. Niccolette did not stint, and it was not long before the two of them stood silent in the hall outside a small room. Niccolette had pulled her field in; Aremu could not feel it from only a few feet away, but when he stepped closer it was there, taut against her skin; it filled the air with heat, all around her, and her breathing was in that same familiar rhythm.

Aremu checked his gun with his hand, then reached for the doorknob. He took a deep breath, turned it, and stepped inside, keeping himself between the bed – the sleeping figure on it, curled up, white hair strewn across his face – and Niccolette, who stood close behind him. Niccolette followed him into the room, and she released her field; it swept through him, swept out – he knew, from long experience, that the figure on the bed would feel it, bright and vivid and sharp enough to cut, setting all his nerves aflame.

Aremu rested his left hand lightly on the hilt of the knife at his waist, his right arm at his side, prosthetic making a bulge in his pocket, and studied the passive on the bed, and he waited.

[Lars]

THE MAD QUEEN
ROALIS 50, 2719 ꧁꧂ IN THE NIGHT

text

Everything was red. He was drowning in it; his hands were coated as they lifted in front of him, and color dripped down his arms until his arms were red, too. His shirt, his trousers, his shoes, his hair, his eyes, his skin - the room around him red, the bed beneath him red. His head tilted to the side from its place on the pillow, taking in the sight of his fingers as they moved in gentle motions above him, as if swimming in the air. A low sound reached his ears from the corner of the room furthest away, stealing his focus and causing the passive to sit up with a start.

"What are you... doing?"

His words sounded as if they were coming from miles away, as if he was somehow underwater and above the atmosphere all at once, his body overwhelmed with nausea from the feeling of motion that wasn't there. A figure sat with its knees pulled to its chest, face hidden away in its hands, and it didn't respond. It felt familiar in an unfamiliar way, and no matter how long he stared - he couldn't tell if it'd been seconds, minutes, hours of simply staring - he couldn't decipher the image, couldn't push his eyes past the blur that the figure wore like a suit of armor.

"Who are you?" he tried again, red hands tossing red sheets away, red legs swinging over the edge of the mattress for red feet to hit the red floor - red footsteps left behind, red fog that emanated from the withdrawn figure in the corner as he approached. Lars knelt beside it, reaching out but finding himself repelled by some unseen force. The figure didn't move, but aspects of its appearance became known to him; hair that'd been red from the start, messy atop its head as if it'd been sitting in this room for days and hadn't cared to run a hand through the strands. Glasses that rested upon its ears and nose, covering the figure's nondescript face - what was wrong with its face? Everything else came now into focus, but the face remained a mystery, blurred completely by some mask of foggy glass.

Lars, we need to wake up now. It felt like another warning, another reminder that he didn't have time for whatever he was doing now, he needed to pull himself together quickly and get to the task at hand - what task? What was he doing again?

Sleeping, that's all. He was sleeping. Dreaming. He'd never dreamt like this before.

It took a lot of sudden energy to pull the passive from his slumber, and that's exactly what he got - the feeling was instant, that foreign and unwelcome prickling accompanied by the sensation of his skin peeling back from his bones. Whereas Lars had been sleeping rather soundly, curled on his side above the covers and sheets, he was all of a sudden jolted awake and into movement.

His body moved upright and backward all too quickly, the white-haired man unintentionally somersaulting off the edge of the bed and away from the others in the room. He pulled himself into some form of composure as quickly as he could, mind half-asleep even as his body shot itself full of adrenaline and sent his heart into a flutter.

A few short moments later and his eyes began to adjust, taking in the sight of two half-familiar figures in the dim light let in from the hallway. That was... Aremu, the other passive, and... Niccolette, the galdor that'd healed him, and - ah, fuck. Lars had a good idea of what they were doing here now. He was hidden partially by the bed he'd thrown himself over, and hadn't bothered to stand up and approach the two when they clearly weren't here for his services or a friendly chat, and remained instead hunched down, peeking over the bed at the figures.

"Not satisfied with our goodbyes, then?" escaped his mouth quickly, "what the fuck do you want?"

[moralhazard]

Late Night, 50th Roalis, 2719
The Mad Queen

Cailan jerked into motion, sudden and abrupt, only moments after Niccolette’s field washed over him. Aremu’s hand tightened briefly on the knife hilt – but the passive threw himself backwards, away from them, and crouched behind the bed, peeking over the edge at him. Aremu relaxed his grip, but didn’t take his hand from the knife for the moment, frowning softly in the dim light from the hallway.

Aremu glanced behind him, and shifted slightly to the side; he did not quite step out from in front of her, but Niccolette eased forward, and she could see Cailan herself, white hair washed almost blonde in the yellow light. The two of them were solidly still between him and the door – the bed, too.

“You know what we want,” Niccolette said. “You took something which was not yours,” her eyes swept over him, and she shrugged. “Did you think we would not come?” The sharpness of her field had eased, slightly – it flared back into life again, filling the entirety of the little room with its sharpness. Aremu felt like it like a knife, prickling through him.

Aremu swallowed back the words he wished to say; he had not intended to speak. For a moment, he felt the weight of Uzoji’s absence so tangibly that the man might have been standing in the room with them. Uzoji would have known best what to say; he had always been gifted with such things. But this was no time to think of him, and sorrow did his memory no justice. So, Aremu thought, he would need to find a way to make the best of what Uzoji had left behind – among it all, the ties that bound him to Niccolette, the ties that he would never have broken, even if he could have.

Aremu shifted, then, slightly.

He was conscious of Niccolette turning slightly to look at him; he was conscious of a strange ache in his chest.

“Let me talk to him,” Aremu said, and he was not quite sure why. The words were heavy on his tongue; Niccolette had asked him, after they had left Hawke, if he was sure. He had not known what answer to give her then. He still did not know.

Niccolette raised her eyebrows, looking at him, only half of her face lit by the light that trickled in from the hallway.

“Give us – ” Aremu hesitated, not quite sure how to say what he meant. He met her eyes. He thought she knew; he thought she must know, how uncomfortable the heavy press of her field was for them. Even for him; even after so many years. When it did not brush against him, he could forget the terrible brightness of it; when they stood together and cooked, when they joked as friends, he could let it slip from his mind. Here, in the tight confines of the little room in the back of the Mad Queen – he could not –

“Give us space,” Aremu said.

Niccolette stared at him a long moment, and then she shrugged again, and she stepped back – once, and again, and he felt her field pull away, slowly, washing back away from him. Aremu stepped forward to take himself out of the range of it, conscious of her presence in the doorway still, of her right hand wrapped across her body, settled against her side.

Aremu left the bed between himself and Cailan; he did not try to come around it, or to force the other passive up from where he knelt. He did not kneel either, and still he kept himself between Cailan and Niccolette – between Cailan and the door. But his hand slipped free from the handle of his knife, slowly, although it did not stray far.

Aremu thought of Cailan’s words – thought of him saying that he did not know the Rose well. He studied the sliver of face visible. “Do you know who the King of the Rose is?” Aremu asked. He heard Niccolette snort from the doorway behind him, and it lanced through him, but he did not look away, his gaze fixed on Cailan.

[Lars]

THE MAD QUEEN
ROALIS 50, 2719 ꧁꧂ IN THE NIGHT

text

Lars was surprised that anyone would care this much about a pair of damned earrings - wasn't thievery as common as breathing in the harbor? They were lovely things, sure, he'd have been quite upset if stolen them from him, but not enough to track down the thief at his place of employment. This was simply bizarre in the passive's opinion, and he looked from Aremu to Niccolette again when he felt her field, once again, almost lash out at him. His expression betrayed his discomfort, an unusual break in the man's empty façade, and he grasped the edge of the bed to ground himself. He needed to be on his guard, not throwing up all over the floor.

He offered no response to Niccolette and her looming field, but his eyes did shift to Aremu when he spoke, requesting space from his companion. If the request gave Lars any ideas, any questions about why he would want her to step back, it wasn't clear, for he'd steeled himself again in the moments between. Lars swallowed the lump in his throat, and along with it, the rest of his anxieties - he'd either make it through the night or he wouldn't. There was no need to dwell on that now, not when they'd already found him defenseless.

Still, he was curious, even if that fact didn't shine through. The other passive had stepped closer, though he assumed it was only to escape the reach of his friend's field, but he wasn't foolish enough to take that as a good sign.

The King of the Rose. This was the second time they'd mentioned this king, but not the second time he'd heard mention of him - he'd heard whispers, mentions, but he'd never asked anyone for details. The only king he knew was the king of Anaxas, and he wasn't entirely certain he wanted to know another, if he was as bad as the first. He shifted in place, fingers tapping at the sheets they grasped, body itching to move.

"No," admitted the passive, quieter now, less concerned with being immediately attacked now that Niccolette had stepped away enough, "I've been here a month, if that. I don't know of your king."

Slowly, Lars raised his hands, forcing himself to stand up however remaining at the furthest point in the room from both unwanted visitors. He kept his hands out of his pockets, though they begged to tap against his sides, and brought one up to push the hair out of his face, messier now from his sleep.

"I don't have anything you'd want, here. The earrings are at my apartment."

[moralhazard]

Late Night, 50th Roalis, 2719
The Mad Queen

Aremu watched the passive huddled behind the bed, carefully. He swore he could feel Niccolette stiffen behind him when Cailan answered, and he realized a moment later that it was the wash of her field, a note of brightness, accompanied by her sharp inhale of breath.

“You ignorant – ” Niccolette began.

Aremu’s hand flicked out to the side, gently, a calming motion.

Niccolette went silent, abruptly, although he heard her huff, quietly. Aremu did not look back, but he heard a quiet thunk, and he was nearly sure she had leaned back against the door once more. His eyes were still on Cailan, standing now, looking a little more comfortable, shoving messy strands of hair from his face. He wondered if it was just the lack of Niccolette’s field, bearing down on him; he wondered if Cailan was foolish enough to think she could not cast on him from the door.

Aremu had nodded, just a little, when Cailan said the earrings were at his apartment. He took his time answering, even when he heard Niccolette shifting impatiently behind him. In the Rose for a month or less, he thought, looking at the passive pressed back against the wall. Surely even in the Dives of Vienda they had heard of Silas Hawke. And his accent was distinctly Anaxi – and if it was hard to place, Aremu was almost certain that it had not been roughened by the Soot District.

Aremu drew his own conclusions, tentative though they were; he was not so sure he wished to know, not really.

“Silas Hawke is the man who runs the Rose,” Aremu explained, looking at Cailan. “It is his money which funded Scarlett to make this place. He controls the flow of goods in and out of the Rose; he holds this harbor tight, and with it he keeps his fist around the neck of Anaxas.”

“Those earrings were his,” Niccolette snapped, abruptly, evidently having lost the last of her patience. She shoved forward from the door, and stalked closer, her arms crossing over her chest. “You clockstopping idiot,” she said, looking at Cailan, her lips pursed. “You did not steal from us. You stole from the man they call the King of the Underworld.”

There was silence, then; Aremu did not know what to say. He had thought she would let him finish; he had hoped she would. Her field was swirling around him again, hot against his skin.

Niccolette turned to Aremu, and shrugged when he did not answer. “Perhaps we should just take his ears,” she said, coldly, glancing sideways over her shoulder at Cailan. Her gaze traced over the ears hidden beneath his hair, slow and deliberate enough that Aremu could follow the path of it without trying.

Uzoji, Aremu knew, had played well with such games. Aremu was not so sure he had the stomach for it. He knew there was a frown creasing his face, but he could not be quite sure how it would read; he could not be sure what Cailan would think he meant. He hesitated; he was not quite sure, either, how to proceed. “But – ” He began, and faltered, shoulders hunching slightly.

“Stripe that,” Niccolette said, coolly, her Bastian accent as thick as ever. “There is a poetic sort of justice to it, I think. Hawke will like it quite well, if we make him a gift of those ears along with his earrings.”

No, Aremu wanted to say – no, stop it. Let me try; just let me try. Just wait, Niccolette, please; I know it is hard for you, but be patient. Just wait. I am not Uzoji; I cannot do it the way he did. Let me try my way.

He could not; he could say none of it. They were in the midst of it already, and Aremu had not wanted it this way, but he knew he could not go back now. What would Uzoji have done? He would have explained, soft and friendly; he would have told Cailan, cheerfully and kindly, that it was already too late to return the earrings and be done with it.

“There’s another way,” Aremu said, and he knew his voice was tight in his throat. He glanced at Cailan. “There are – there are those of us in the Rose who work for him. For Hawke. You said that… there isn’t anything here we’d want here. Not us, but – but Hawke, maybe that is not… not true.” He felt he was fumbling, and he took a deep breath, and tried to find his way once more.

“You could join,” Aremu said, looking at Cailan. “Become a Bad Brother – one of Hawke’s men and women. It is not for the faint-hearted, but… I do not think you are. I could vouch for you.” I already have, he did not say.

[Lars]

THE MAD QUEEN
ROALIS 50, 2719 ꧁꧂ IN THE NIGHT

text

Niccolette's immediate reaction told the passive that it'd been a mistake to speak - should he have told them that yes, he did know this king? Did she want lies? Something told him that she would've reacted in such a fashion either way; it wasn't his words that bothered her, it was him. He'd dealt with plenty of people that had hated him before, people that had grown frustrated with the way he used to speak, people that despised him simply because he was quiet and preferred not to fight back. But this woman, he didn't know how to deal with her - at least the galdori in Brunnhold had just ignored him, and when they did happen to find issue with him, they left it to his Patron to deal with.

Her companion didn't seem quite as perturbed, giving explanations of things he should've known, he supposed - but he'd never heard of this Silas Hawke before leaving the university, and if he had, he certainly hadn't given it any importance. His life hadn't been about criminals and the state of the underworld, it had been a simple one, one devoted to cooking and cleaning and laundry. The passive blinked, light eyes focused on Aremu, considering him in the dim light.

He supposed he should be grateful that the man was explaining at all, considering the weapons he'd brought with him, not to mention the living weapon of Niccolette. She came forward as if he'd just insulted her, defending their king as if he'd insulted him, too. The passive fought back the urge to speak back, to ask why the hell this Silas Hawke needed to send a trigger-happy galdor and her loyal little scrap to fetch his earrings if he was the godsdamned king of the fucking underworld, but bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying any of it.

It was a good thing, too, because next came the mention of his ears, or rather, the removing of them - and Lars moved without thought, stepping back but finding himself flush with the wall. Nervously, he looked to Aremu, watched his frown but knew not if it was a good or a bad sign, and felt his heart drop within his chest.

She can't take our ears, Lars, how the f -

"I know, I know," escaped him, low, not meant for anyone else's ears, eyes still fixed upon Aremu, half-expecting him to approach with his knife in hand, half-hoping he'd stay right where he was. His heart felt as if it would surely beat out of his chest, the passive's face already drained of color at the prospect of having his ears removed. No, that couldn't happen. He would die. They would not show the same kindness as before and heal his wounds afterward, they would leave him on his own to bleed and bleed and bleed until he couldn't bleed anymore, and no, he couldn't have that, he didn't escape just to get himself killed, he didn't want to die, not now, not here - no, no, she had to die instead, he couldn't die -

The Hessean almost didn't hear the other man when he spoke up, the buzzing in his ears almost overwhelming - but a few rapid blinks later he was focusing again, on the sound of Aremu's voice.

He couldn't help the movement as his hands traveled upward, crawling up his arms as if the passive was holding himself. Long, cold fingers pressed against the sleeves, digging indentations into his arms; his head tilted slightly, as if in disbelief that the galdor's companion was offering an alternative to her morbid suggestion. Another few moments passed, another few confused blinks in Aremu's direction, before the man could reply.

"I... a..." what? "I - what... use would I be?" he inquired, his voice betraying his genuine surprise. Why would this Silas Hawke want him? He couldn't even steal a pair of earrings without getting tracked down and threatened.

Don't refuse, he prodded, don't give them another reason to hurt us. Maybe we can get something out of this.

Lars glanced to the bed for a moment, as if considering something, his eyebrows pulled close and his mouth set in a frown.

"If that's what you need, then... alright. But I don't know what this king could want of me."

[moralhazard]

Late Night, 50th Roalis, 2719
The Mad Queen

Niccolette shifted next to him, her face set and hard.

“Stop it,” Aremu said, turning to her; he knew what she would say before she had opened her mouth. He knew her too well; she was all sharp edges. He had thought that pain had softened her; he knew it had found the soft places inside of her and dug its claws in, tight. He wondered if it had not sharpened her too, made worse the hard edges. It was an act, Niccolette the ear-taker, but he did not believe for a second that she was not capable of it. He knew very well that she was.

“Just – ” Aremu took a deep breath. “Just go into the hallway, Niccolette,” he looked at her, meeting her eyes for a long moment.

Niccolette stared back at him, her hazel eyes almost brown in the small, dimly lit room.

Aremu could still see Cailan clutching at his own arms out of the corner of his eyes, staring at them, that pale, almost expressionless face of his pulled down in a frown.

“Let me deal with it,” Aremu said, again, and he hoped he did not sound like he was pleading. It was too much, just then, trying to manage her and Cailan both. It was too much. He did not know how Uzoji had done it; he supposed being her husband must have helped.

Niccolette’s jaw clenched; he saw her face square. But she did not threaten him; her hands did not tighten; there was no pressure in her field, nothing like that. She turned and swept from the room, her skirt sweeping up to the side. She did not go far; there were only a few more footsteps, and Aremu felt a last little brush of her field, lingering against him before it swept away. He knew she was trying to tell him something; he did not know what it was.

Aremu turned back to Cailan, slowly, looking at him. “The Bad Brothers keep Hawke’s peace,” he explained. “We… do whatever he asks of us, whether it’s fetching his treasure, making his deals or enforcing his laws. Niccolette and I were airship pirates, for a long time,” Aremu shrugged. He could speak of it without bitterness, now; it had not come easily. He did not mention Uzoji. “You handled yourself well, the other night. He’s – always in need of men who can handle themselves. It’s bloody work, and once you join you cannot leave.”

“But…” Aremu said, slowly. “It pays. For the man who can handle it, it pays well. Better than this, I think,” he gestured with his hand at the ship around them, although there was no particular judgment in his tone. “Hawke’s Bad Brothers rise with him, and he has risen far – and intends, I think, still to rise further. Join, and I think you can keep the earrings. Join, and I think there’ll be more where they came from.”

Aremu let his words hold there, just a moment, and then he shrugged. “Hulali floats and he drowns, Cailan. Will you sink or swim?”

[Lars]

THE MAD QUEEN
ROALIS 50, 2719 ꧁꧂ IN THE NIGHT

text

It was shocking still to hear the other passive, again, ask for his friend to give them space. He wasn't entirely sure if it was more for his sake or Aremu's own, and wasn't sure if he cared, either. So long as Niccolette stepped away and her field's bright edges withdrew from his skin, he didn't care for the why. He watched her exit the room, one of his hands crawling up to hold the collar of his shirt while the other remained wrapped around his abdomen. It rested over the space that'd been ripped open and subsequently healed, still tender to the touch, but he couldn't help but tap his fingers against it.

The light pain was grounding, more so than anything else in the moment, and his breaths grew steadier.

The Bad Brothers. This was some sort of ironic punishment, he thought. Aremu had mentioned that once one joined, there was no leaving - he wasn't just giving some recruitment talk for fun, he was asking him to sell his soul to this Silas Hawke. He wondered, in some fleeting thought, if the Bad Brothers would have ever even run into him at all if he hadn't gone against his own brother, his real flesh and blood. It was a reminder, at the very least, and Lars wasn't unaware of that irony.

Aremu and Niccolette had been on orders from the king the other night, then. How long had they been working for him? The other passive had said they'd been airship pirates for a long time - Lars only barely knew what that even meant, airship pirates - but he had to wonder just how long that meant, how many years they'd both already given in service. How many things they'd given up for him.

He also didn't know if he truly wanted to work for someone else; he supposed he worked for Hawke even now, if Scarlett herself owed the Mad Queen's existence to him. That didn't mean he'd have to give up his job here, he figured - why not collect from two sources instead of one? Why not allow himself that opportunity, and maybe get the chance to afford something other than the shack of an apartment he lived in now?

Lars' fingers tugged gently at his collar idly, and after a few moments of silent consideration, he stepped forward, hesitant. There were no weapons in the room beyond those Aremu had brought himself, so it was clear enough that the passive wouldn't have been able to attack in any substantial form if he'd had the intention of doing so, but he was reluctant to get too close nonetheless.

"Lars," he said before anything else, quiet, as if he didn't want the galdor in the hall to hear him.

"My name is Lars. I... don't love the idea of it all, but your offer's better than hers, isn't it?" he would've been bitter if he wasn't grateful for Aremu's alternative option. If Niccolette had had her way, he assumed that he could've expected to die in this room tonight whether she intended it or not, and even if these Bad Brothers and their King didn't sound like a dream, it was... a new opportunity. A chance to learn, and to make a profit, if the other man could be believed. He was suspicious of him still, wasn't sure if it would be smart to trust him despite the things he'd done for him thus far - but some part of him still did. Enough to give him a name, at least.

"Alright. I'll join you. And... Hawke," the last bit sounded almost like an afterthought, but genuine.

"What comes next?"

[moralhazard]

Late Night, 50th Roalis, 2719
The Mad Queen

Aremu held still as Cailan approached him; he did not reach for his knife or jerk or twitch or start, but waited, looking with dark eyes at the white haired passive. If he felt anything like fear, there was no sign of it in him.

“Lars,” Aremu repeated, quietly, in his soft lilting accent. He had understood even before the other man explained. He did not answer Lars’s question about which offer was better; he did not offer any further reassurances about becoming a Bad Brother, nor any warnings.

Aremu wondered if he would come to regret this in time. He was not sure he had ever spoken up to Hawke before; he was not sure he had ever put his neck forward like this. He was not sure if he would like to do so again. But Niccolette had her own troubles these days, and perhaps those with the King were the least of it. And most of all, a man needed to clean up the mess he made.

I’ll join you, Lars said, and Aremu felt the weight of it settle onto him. It clung to him, skin-tight, and sealed him up inside itself, and for a moment he could not breathe. But that moment passed, and Aremu nodded, slowly, almost solemnly, accepting Lars’s agreement.

“Someone will be in touch,” Aremu shrugged. He didn’t know more than that, not really. His own joining had been rather different, and no more voluntary, not really, but he had always known, then, where to look. A man always had a choice, even if it was not a good one. He had had a choice, and he had weighed it, and done what he had to. Lars, too, had had a choice: this way, or else the one Niccolette had offered. Perhaps one’s ears were not such a bad trade, in the end.

Someone would be in touch. Perhaps Hawke would want to talk to Lars himself; perhaps he would not. Certainly someone would. Aremu could let Niccolette go home, if she wished; he could go back and deliver the news to Hawke himself, to speak directly with the man once more. He did not think she would make him do it alone, but it was not more than he could handle. He would find his way through this as well.

Aremu eased back, then, slowly. “We’ll leave you to your rest,” he said, and then he shrugged again. “If you can find it.” It was not quite an apology, but there was a tinge of sadness to it, and a softness to the imbala’s eyes. He waited, just a moment; he thought Niccolette would not give them long, but he had thought to give Lars another moment for questions, for anger, for demands - for anything else he might need, conscious still of the heavy weight of responsibility that bound them, now, whether the other man knew it or not.