With Or Without You

[Sarinah Lissden]

12th Bethas, 2718 - Morning

Sarinah sat against the wall, arms resting against her knee’s, forehead resting on her arms. The room was bare, no bed or chair or windows. Simply four wooden walls and a dirty wooden floor. And a locked door. It was dark, the little light that filtered dimly under the door not really giving away the time. It could be morning, or it could be lantern light. The brunette didn’t really know now. Her long raven locks were unbrushed, falling in tangled waves around dirty shoulders. The black dancers uniform she’d returned to the Queen with on the 9th was the same outfit she wore now, unchanged since then. Minor bruises touched her legs and arms from hard fingers or falling to the wooden floor when Wesley tossed her back in her cage, and a yellowing one dressed her right cheekbone where he’d hit her.

It’s what it was, really. A cage for Scarlett’s Dove. Locked in the room, dragged out to dance, thrown back in afterwards. They fed her, scraps tossed in the room as an after thought, and as Wesley liked to remind her — better than what she deserved.

It had been a day—two days?—since she’d seen Tristaan, and the witch worried for him. Had they sent people after him when she’d returned? The burly bald wick promised her they had, but the brunette wasn’t sure she believed him. At this stage, he’d say anything to hurt her. He’d told her yesterday the man was gone, left on a boat to Mugroba so he’d last heard. Stolen his pound of flesh and left for good.

But he was a liar. She knew it wouldn’t be true. It couldn’t be true.

The sound of the lock turning caught Sarinah’s attention, and she lifted her head from her knees, wincing at the light that poured in from a handheld lantern. A figure slipped into the room, and for a moment the witch didn’t recognise them, blinking as she made out a face.

“Bridgette?” She asked softly, reaching out for the older tumble as she quickly moved to the girl’s side and hugged her.

“Yes my darling girl, yes it’s me. Quickly now, we don’t have much time. Scarlett’s visiting with the King and Wesley’s....he’s busy. But he won’t be for long, unless our Mistress Peregrin has gotten really clocking good in the past few hours.” The blue eyed woman helped the witch to her feet, throwing an oversized black cloak over her and tucking her hair under the cloak. Sarinah frowned as the woman dragged her out of the room by the arm, looking left and right before scooting through the hallway.

“Bridgette I don’t...ye can’t do this. I can’t let ye.” Reaching the stairs to the tavern, the older woman paused and looked at her with a smile.

“I can do this. Because y’aint one of us love. Never have been. Never will be.” Lifting a hand, she pressed her palm against the girl’s cheek and sighed.

“I never had a child of m’own Sarinah, but if I did, I would never want her to be trapped here. I’d never want this life for her.” Taking a deep breath, she wrapped her arms around her shoulders and guided her up the stairs, even as the brunette felt tears welling to blur her vision.

“Now, when we get upstairs keep your head down and eyes on the floor. We’re going straight through and up. Robin’s already gone ahead to find that pretty wick fellow of yours. I hope he’s worth the trouble he’s caused y’love” Sarinah looked at her feet as they moved, Bridgette collecting a small basket from one of the girl’s as they passed by.

“It ent his fault Bridgette. I left when I shouldn’t have. It’s all on me, ye chen. This ent his mess t’fix.” They’d made it to the stairs that led out to the deck, moving at pace. As they climbed the older tumble snorted.

“If he cares about you, then it’s his mess love.” They stepped outside into the morning light, and the wick shielded her eyes from the sun with a shake of her head, the cool wood of the deck nice on her feet. She kept her eyes on the gangplank and eventually the dirt street as they walked.

“It ent like that rosh. It ent. He’s just a balach that’s got himself caught up in tumblehut affairs that ent anything he need’s to worry about. Bridgette stop!” She dug her heels in, forcing the older woman to stop and look at her.

“I can’t do this t’ye. Or to Robin. Or t’him. We have to go back. If they find out y’did this...” The words faded with a tearful pleading sound. Bridgette sighed, lifting her hand to hold the girl’s face, looking into her gaze as though memorising her to mind.

“They’re putting you out back, tonight love. We heard from Wesley. Scarlett put a price down, and someone took the offer. You can’t go back. Me? Robin? What’s the Queen gonna do to us they ain’t already done? Hawke wouldn’t let them kill us, it’s more expensive to find new girls than just keep us on. No love. You have to do this. If he ain’t sweet on you like that, then we’ll stick y’on a boat to Mugroba. There’s enough rations in that basket to last you a few days travel, and a bit of tumbleweed to get you by, ain’t no girl wanting a little baby on the road. Don’t stop taking it, understand? Like I showed you.” Sarinah blushed deeply, her guilty face answering the older tumble’s unspoken question well enough. Bridgette curled her arm around the girl again and pushed her to move.

“Now, move. We’re to the pier if Robin got her rumours right.”

---

“Mister Greymoore? Mister Greymoore!” A meek voice called out in a hoarse half whisper, rapping on Room 7’s door with small freckled knuckles. Robin glanced up the hallway with a nervous frown, before knocking again. Her bright red haired was tucked around her shoulders, blue green eyes wide with fear. It was a fools errand, this plan of Bridgette’s, but Robin had agreed without hesitation. The dancing wick had always been kind to her, always found a way to keep the passive behind the bar instead of out the back. It was only right, only fair to help her.

Hopefully Mister Greymoore felt the same way.

“Mister Greymoore please. It’s Abi—it’s Mistress Robin. I have to speak with you urgently.”

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 12th, 2718

Tristaan had been reluctant to let Sarinah slip away when the storm ended in the pale near-morning hours, their bodies comfortable and warm, their illusion of safety and freedom almost tangible for a preciously short time. He knew there'd be consequences, though he feared they'd either be fatal for himself or simply weighed heavily on the lovely witch instead.

More than two days had passed and when he hadn't heard from nor seen any of her, the dark-haired passive knew they were both paying what was owed. While he went back to unloading the King's cargo quietly and without complaint despite his battered body, aware that if left idle to worry, he'd just find himself in the Cat's Paw, near the Queen, Tristaan worried in silence. He'd been reminded every day now of his mistake, first by his sore, bruised ribs and aching jaw and second by Jonathan's ugly broken nose and sour attitude. To his bizarre merit, however, the human didn't once tell him he was wrong. He just preferred to tell him he was clocking stupid.

The passive struggled to disagree, aware of how easily he'd let Sarinah crawl under his tanned, scarred skin and make a comfortable place for herself in the broken cavity of his chest. It was as if he knew her before he met her, and he couldn't help it, compelled by her undeserved plight of servitude, compelled by the familiar feeling of betrayal and lies. She'd stirred in him a hope for things he could not have, and yet he wanted anyway.

He'd done too much before dawn, needing to work off the fear and concern by lifting too much and for too long. The sun had just risen over Old Rose proper when he crawled back to The Black Rickshaw, having lingered in the early market too long for more than just a meal, package of a few things he shouldn't have bought because he really didn't have the coin for someone else set on the meager dresser even after he'd tugged off his boots and wrestled with his shirt with a growl of pain. Setting the rest of his things on the edge of the bed, he simply groaned and curled up in the bed for a much needed rest.

If he dreamt of olive skin and mahogany eyes, could anyone really blame him?

text

The knock on his door stirred him quickly, and he sat up too fast, cursing and hissing at the fiery pain that gnawed at his shoulder and dug claws into his bruised side and ribs. The knock was faint and the voice was unfamiliar.

No one called him that.

"Oes, hang on—oh. Alioe what is it?" He half fell, half staggered out of bed and fussed blearily with the lock, sunlight peeking through his window. He'd been asleep just long enough to be slow, too slow, cursing as he almost threw the door open to stare wide-eyed at the red-headed youth in the hall.

Small statured, freckled, and field-less, Tristaan didn't need to be told twice what she was. She may as well had been Erich's sister, that scrawny bastard from the Soot District all those years ago. He bit his lip, all the wrong emotions coursing through his system as it struggled to function consciously, forgetting himself in the young woman's presence as he reached for his shirt, scars and bruises and the inked badge of his heritage all in plain view by the sputtering, faint lantern light in the tiny room,

"Gods, Robin, is Sarinah a'right? Jus' Tristaan's fine, ye chen—Abigail, is it? I'm guessin'." He spoke nervously in an attempt to both encourage the red head to be honest and quick about it as well as focus himself, having been born a scrawny son of a galdor himself, reaching for his belts regardless of her answer, already moving as if he knew something was happening just by the fear on her well-bred face, wincing his way though every motion, ignoring the heat that stung the edges of his vision as concern gave way to anger and self blame. His chest ached and he looked at the young woman expectantly,

"Vrunta, 's m' fault—whatever it is. C'mon, what can I be doin'?"

[Sarinah Lissden]

12th Bethas, 2718 - Morning

The young woman’s eyes were round moons as the door flew open, her mouth stammering wordlessly as they focused on the familiar stain gouged into his bicep. Her freckled face looked confused at first, lost. Mister Greymoore wasn’t any wick at all. He was just like her. A passive, just another magicless galdor thrown to the rats. Blinking, a small frown crossed her features as she watched him move, a small fire flaring in her chest.

“Not Abigail anymore. Just like you aren’t whatever name you’ve left behind maybe. Robin’s fine, Tristaan.” Swallowing her personal feelings and her shock, the passive nodded rapidly.

“Yes. I mean no. Mistress Wren told me to come find you right away, to bring you as quickly as I could out the backway of the Rickshaw.” She met the anger in his eyes with a timid wince back, an automatic reaction from years of servitude, something he would understand if no one else.

“She’s alive, if that’s what you mean.” The redhead said quietly, beckoning the man to follow.

“But they locked her in one of the rooms. Wesley is with her anytime she comes out. And Madame Scarlett, she’s said—“ Frowning, the young woman stopped in the lower house, moving to head behind the bar, the keep merely nodding as she passed. Through the back room they went, passing kegs of ale and crates of food, Robin looking back at the man as they moved.

“Sarinah’s been bought, do you understand? Scarlett’s visiting with the King now, then they’re letting them have her. Today. She’s not just a dancer anymore. Mistress Dove’s going to be one of the tumbles now.” They passed through to the back of the storage room where Robin opened the lock on another door, opening it to the outside world, an alleyway between the back of the Rickshaw and another building. It was empty, save for the puddles of unknown liquid and a few stray cats. The red haired passive crossed her arms, glancing back and forth with a worried frown, before looking at him again.

“Does she know? That you’re not really a wick? That you’re a scrap?” She asked quietly, the last word almost spit with vehemence.

---

“Here now love. I need you to stay right here, do you understand?” Bridgette said sternly, tucking the younger witch in the alcove of a ramshackle doorway. They’d made it to the pier, weaving through backstreets and alleyways until even the brunette was sure she was lost. Now, it seemed, the older woman had something to do before they moved on.

“I...alright rosh but...hurry please. I’m...I’m scared.” The brunette dancer whispered, pulling her hood close and pressing herself closer to the door. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she was terrified to look back, unsure of what she might do if she saw Wesley or Scarlett turn the corner. Bridgette squeezed her hand, before leaving the girl, lifting her skirts to walk briskly away and into a few more corners. The older woman knew all the secret passages in the Rose, it had been her playground many many years ago and after that her home. Turning one last corner, she saw the fiery haired girl and the wick. Stepping quickly, she approached the duo, her kind face drawn into a motherly scowl as she slapped his arm as though scalding a youth.

“Silly boy. This is your fault, no matter what that girl says. I mean honestly, couldn’t just send her home with her....dignity?” Sighing, the older woman narrowed his eyes at him, weighing up how much she wanted to trust him.

“You need to take her away from the Rose, now boy. I mean, right now. If you care about her at all, get her the clocking hell away from the King and Queen. Probably a good idea for you to be scarce anyway, coz after today I’m pretty sure they’ll come knocking here before anywhere else.” Poking a finger in his chest, the tumble fixed him with another frown.

“If this was just a cheeky bit of fun for you, then tell me honest boy. Tell me and I’ll put her on the next ship to Mugroba right now. Better telling me then break that girl’s heart on top of this mess.” The ringing clinking tinkle of a kicked empty bottle sounded up the alleyway, bouncing on the ground with a guilty sort of rattle. Bridgette and Robin both snapped their heads up, the older swearing profusely as the cloaked dancer looked at them shamefully, having followed Bridgette the minute she’d turned the first corner. Her mahogany gaze shifted to the man with a wavering voice, her heart stammering at his face. It’d only been days, but God’s she had missed him. The sight of the grey eyed man caused a fresh waive of tears to well in her eyes. She’d heard it, the end of the older woman’s tirade, and her stomach turned in knots.

“Tristaan, epaemo. I told them not t’come find ye. I told them it ent anything to do with ye balach.” Sarinah took a broken breath, moving closer with a slow sort of caution, afraid of the answer to Bridgette’s question that remained between them all. It was too much too ask of him. The man had a debt in the Rose, friends too. They’d barely known each other for a week, and Bridgette was asking him to take her away, to steal her away.

It wasn’t fair on him, and Sarinah was ready to accept he would say no.

Mostly.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 12th, 2718

He saw where her eyes wandered toward the tattoo on his bicep and he heard the edge to her voice, confirming his assumption that they were the same. Her vehemence dug at sore places and picked at scabs that never seemed to heal,

"Ent anyone can take your name from you. An' I sure 's Alioe wouldn't let those beasts at th' Queen tell y' who y' are. Better y' decide that for yourself, ye chen?" Tristaan hissed, less in physical pain, hasty to get his flintlock in place before buttoning his shirt and his vest, grabbing his coat. He packed his few belongings without being told to do so. He wasn't stupid—he'd spent the past few days running things over in his mind, in his heart. He didn't need Abigail to tell him what he'd already anticipated, "M' real name's Tristaanian Greymoore an' I'll take 't t' m' unmarked, magic-less grave, rosh."

Calloused fingers strayed over a pocket in his vest as he spoke, brushing over the round, still form of a pocket watch he had hidden in there almost out of habit. Broken. He'd smashed it himself. Engraved on its silver surface was his family crest and fading inside against the smashed glass face of the watch was a spectrograph of his family, of the galdori who had abandoned him to his rejected fate.

Just like that, the dark-haired passive was dressed and armed and he had everything he owned in a worn leather bag. He paused to carefully tuck the wrapped package into his rucksack as well, hefting it with an unmuffled groan as the muscles of his stabbed, sore shoulder objected.

His life was just road dust, and he knew it.

Following her quietly, he left coins on the bar as they passed it, glancing to the keep before Abigail led him through the back room of the Rickshaw like she knew the place. Squinting in the sun, he didn't interrupt the young red head as she spoke, frowning at what she was saying but woefully not surprised. His chest ached, but it wasn't from bruised ribs or this morning's labor. He knew he'd made his choices, and here Abigail was handing him his consequences, only they weren't just his. He knew what was happening—her words more or less telling him he was drifting.

Again.

This time, most likely, with a price on his head.

"Oes. She knows, but y' an' I both know she ent got a clue what 't means, no' really. T' be like you an' me." Tristaan met her fierce, crystalline gaze for a moment, his grey eyes sharp like steel, "Doesn't matter, though. Golly, scrap, tekka, 'r plowfoot, th' heart wants what it wants an' I ent gonna live m' life by someone else's stupid clockin' rules—"

At Bridgette's appearance, the dark-haired passive tensed, unsure of her expression even after she slapped his arm like an angry daoa, "Dignity ... really?" He visibly bristled at the accusation coming from the mouth of an old whore, calloused palm running over his bruised cheek with a scowl, "Dze—I didn't take nothin' that weren't freely given, which 's more 'n I can say for what could've happened with anyone else with a fistful o' ging an' time t' spare at th' Queen. Mujo ma."

His eyes flicked down to the woman's finger in his chest, her words scalding his ears and sparking to life the fires of defiance that smoldered under his scarred skin. Determined, indomitable gaze returning back to her face, Tristaan was honest as always, his firm tone of voice full of a mix of emotions, both past and present,

"Oes, I know it's m' fault, but I ent sorry. Ent gotta tell me twice, but I ent playin' games. Sarinah's not jus' a bit o' distraction on th' side from th' King's work, she's—I—"

The noise of glass on stone startled the dark-haired passive and his stance shifted, hand moving to the firearm at his side and grey eyes snapping to the alley, to the lovely witch, disheveled and afraid. He relaxed as quickly as he'd jumped to fight someone, the sight of her the twist of a dagger between his ribs. The confusing rush of feelings felt like he was bleeding on the inside, hot and deadly, when he looked at her. His narrow shoulders sagged, the pain that washed over his expression not pity or physical suffering, but familiar, buried hurts that all his years of servitude had etched into his existence clawing their way to the surface.

All those years ago, had someone offered him an out, had someone taken his hand and dragged him away, would he have gone with them? He'd left alone instead, running from first the Soot District and then the Red Crow out of panic and fear and never looking back, but he'd been running ever since.

Alone.

Letting the rest of his words to Bridgette die without speaking them out loud, he answered with actions by stepping toward the olive-skinned dancer, barefoot and bruised and still in the clothes she'd left him in days ago. He reached for her, ignoring any resistance to embrace her, arms welcoming and needful,

"Don't epaemo me." He chuckled, having not wasted an hour thinking of her for days: they'd all been worth every minute. To say he hadn't played out any similar scenarios to what was unexpectedly unfolding between them would have been a lie—he had, "Ent got anythin' t' be sorry for. This has plenty t' do with me, an' y' know 't. With us, Sarinah. An' I'm a'right with that." Tristaan kissed her forehead and tangled one of their hands together, whispering with a wink, "I've run m' whole life. I know what I'm doin', rosh. Sorta."

He looked to Robin, to the red-headed daughter of galdori who shared his lot in life, digging what few forts he had left in his pockets out to hand to her, "Y' need t' tell th' newsboys at th' docks that Mister Tristaan's gone for a sail. Jus' like that. Those words an' nothin' else. They'll know t' tell Lil' Mo an' m' crew. Tell those bochi not t' spend this all at once, though."

"It's Surwood season, so there's plenty o' ubo headin' up river, prob'ly every couple 'f hours. I know a few 'f 'em who ent run by Brothers. We'll go. We'll go today." The dark-haired passive spoke his plan quietly for all to hear, but he looked at Bridgette while he said the words, realizing the woman felt a sense of protective responsibility for the lovely witch that he could only believe to be a motherly, hopeful sort of care. She'd done her best, and while Tristaan had crashed through and broken the walls, bringing danger with the truth he wasn't afraid to speak up about, the older woman only wanted the best for Sarinah. And now she couldn't do anything else.

He thought of Guaril. Of the Crow.

He remembered leaving the man he'd called father, he'd called da, behind, laughing and sure of himself in a crowd of young wicks who told him they knew better. And he'd believed them.

Here he was, looking back over the scarred and broken landscape of his life choices, and he understood for a moment, fingers entwined with someone else's, someone he knew he cared for,

"We'll lay low somewhere. I ent a stranger t' driftin'. I'll keep her safe, Bridgette, I promise. An' we'll figure out a way t' send word every once an' a while." His word was all he had, after all. His word and his name. Looking back to the disheveled dancer, he sighed. Everyone would take one look at her and assume he was trying to escape the Rose with some stolen slave. Dirty and bruised, in clothes hardly meant to be worn outside of the brothel they were made for, he grimaced and reached with his free hand to dig the package out of the rucksack over his shoulder,

"Can't wander th' streets like that, though, macha. Ent no captain's gonna take me on as a deckhand with property that looks stolen—" His words implied he would be negotiating passage with them together, as a couple, and he said so without a hint of fear or shame. Tristaan knew that some things simply had to be pitched well to be sold, and he had little doubt they could convincingly fake something that wouldn't have been such an unattractive truth anyway, had he been allowed such thoughts at all. "—here, now's as good a time 's any. I bought y' things for no real reason, an' I guess now I know what for."

His smile was almost mischievous, and he pressed the folded clothes wrapped in plain paper toward her. How much had he thought about this plan already, in just a handful of days? Truth be told, he'd always had some sort of escape plan, aware that things with the Bad Brothers could go sour at any time, but had he thought of the lovely witch and her servitude since he'd met her? Yes.

"We'll have t' wash y' up later. An' find y' some shoes. You can leave your old life with your old clothes, Sarinah—behind."

[Sarinah Lissden]

12th Bethas, 2718 - Morning

Sarinah felt her heartbeat in her ears, watching the passive reach for his firearm in a moment of fight or flight, only to relax just as quickly when he recognised her. The woman fought back the tears that threatened to overwhelm her at the sight of his still bruised face, visibly wearing the emotions her situation rallied in him. He wasn’t a free man, not in the wider scheme of things. He’d lived pain, servitude, confinement. He’d run from his past into the arms of the Crows, then again to the arms of the Rose. It wasn’t fair to him to do this.

And yet, here they were.

She moved to meet him as the grey eyed man stepped towards her, curling into his embrace with a soft sob of relief, closing her eyes and hugging him tightly in return.

“I’ll epaemo ye all I like, ye chen.” The dancer muttered defiantly, lifting her head to look at him with a small laugh, before it faded away again.

“Mujo, mujo ma. I shouldn’t have...I should have just...ye shouldn’t need to.” Lacing her fingers with his, she looked at Robin and Bridgette as Tristaan handed the red head a bit of ging. The passive girl nodded, moving past the man to give the brunette an unexpected hug.

“Be careful Sarinah. The Rose shows her ugly side freely, without shame, but some of those other places out there...well ugly just likes to hide under her make up and her petticoats. Not everyone will come to love you like we do.” Her blue eyes fixated on Tristaan as she spoke, before she withdrew from the group without any further words, leaving to do exactly as she had been bid. No more, no less.

As the dark haired man spoke, Bridgette looked at him with a frown, trying her level best not to show the worry and concern that ate at her from the inside. She nodded, knowing Surwood for its wick festival. Probably a good a place as any for two wicks to disappear. Lifting her chin, the older woman tried to hide the tremble of her lip.

“You do that young man, and don’t worry about sending word. Just get yourselves gone. Ain’t anything an old girl like me needs to be in the know about.” Looking at Sarinah, she shook her finger at her.

“Don’t let me see your pretty face ‘round here again, understand love? Mistress Wren ain’t one to give out her charity twice to the same fool. Keep yourself out of trouble, give your parents a swift kick up the erse if y’see ‘em and don’t forget what I told you.” The older woman’s voice broke then, her chin dimpling as she tried not to cry. Sarinah reached out to the woman, hugging her tightly and crying into her shoulder.

“Mujo ma, beata. For everything. I’ll miss ye, and I ent sure when or how but I ent going to leave ye to the dogs rosh. One day. Ye chen? One day.” She drew back, wiping her cheeks with her palm. Bridgette nodded wordlessly, unable to trust herself to speak, and shoved the basket of food and tumbleweed into her hands.

Ent no captain's gonna take me on as a deckhand with property that looks stolen—

Sarinah looked over at Tristaan, glancing down at the state of her and pulling the cloak closer. Gods it was true, it was more than accurate, but the words hit home hard and her cheeks darkened with shame. Still though, there was a small piece of her that realised what he’d meant between the lines, and she couldn’t help the racing of her heartbeat against her chest. The passive planned on presenting themselves as a couple, and whilst it was a necessary lie, the witch could believe it was just a bit more than that.

“Ne, Tristaan, I...I can’t take this...I ent got the ging t’pay ye back balach.” The dancer stammered as he pressed the package into her hands. Bridgette reached out firmly, holding the younger woman’s hands around the paper and looking at her sternly.

“You can take it, and you will. This ain’t a birthday gift love, it’s your fellow here making a good gesture that’s going to be the make or break for you getting away. Now, get in that storage room and change.” Glancing back at Tristaan with a grateful smile, the raven haired woman hugged him again with her free arm.

“Mujo ma.” She said again, before she disappeared into the door way they’d come through to do as she was told. Bridgette stood alone with the passive for a moment, breaking out her rolled cigarettes from a pocket in her cloak and a match. She offered one to the man, before placing hers between wrinkled lips and lighting it with a shaky hand.

“What else can I do to help you boy? Do you know the back streets enough to make it to the river without being seen? If not, I can take you. I won’t leave till you’re both safe away from the Rose.” Puffing on her tobacco, the woman regarded him for a moment.

“You’ve done this too many times before.” She said matter of factly, leaving the air between them open for anything else he had to say to her.

The door to the storage room opened, and the witch stepped out with a shy smile. She was dressed in a simple white blouse that sat slightly off the shoulders tucked into a long deep mauve skirt, the cloak and the basket that Bridgette had given her. She’d managed to coax her hair into a somewhat respectable braid, and tucked it behind her under the hood. Moving to stand beside the passive, Sarinah swallowed her self-consciousness.

“What next?” She asked them both, feeling strangely out of place in the new outfit. It had been so long in her rags and her uniform that it was unfamiliar to wear something different. Something so nice.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 12th, 2718

It felt good to hold the lovely witch, realizing with the tightness of her returned embrace that he'd worried about her far more than he was willing to admit to himself. It hurt to know that he was right about Scarlett and the Mad Queen, and the guilt stung like the aching of his bruised ribs. He sighed,

"It ent a need." Tristaan answered simply, just a quiet exhale of truthful words. The passive would have done the same for anyone, he told himself, had they needed and wanted to escape servitude in such a way, though he also realized heavily that he was in this moment already very biased, that Sarinah had touched places inside the scarred walls of his heart without necessarily even meaning to, "It's a want. I want t' help you, ye chen. There ent any reason for me t' stay here, t' be fair. No one's ever gonna tell me what I owe, not really, so I'm jus' gonna end up spent before someone calls m' debt paid in full."

The young red head brushed past him to hug the dancer, but her words were directed at him. Whether it was protectiveness or jealousy or that same understanding, that burden of knowledge that they were cursed and broken things, Abigail's blue eyes were sharp as if they wanted to cut him, to add another scar in his tanned, weathered skin. Clearly, the other passive cared about the witch, but perhaps she doubted that he was at all capable of such depths of emotion—Tristaan wasn't quite sure what he was capable of feeling for someone else, either, had anyone asked him to be honest. The other passive's gaze was a warning, a reminder. He hardly knew the lithe dancer, and yet he was risking his life to help free her from the grip of Old Rose Harbor.

Sarinah tried to refuse his gift—simple clothes he wasn't even sure would fit the lithe dancer considering he only had his imagination and a few gestures to assist him in her measurements for the shopkeep to choose by—and yet his grey eyes widened at Bridgette as she stepped in to insist. Convinced, the lovely witch hugged him again and he snuck in a quick kiss on a tear-stained cheek before she slipped away to change. Refusing the older tumble's offer of a smoke with a wave of his calloused hand, the dark-haired passive shrugged at her question,

"I think th' less folks lendin' a hand, th' less suspicious, ye chen? It ent far t' th' river from here. I grew up on th' streets—not here, but they ent so different than th' Soot District—an' I've learned m' way 'round th' Harbor jus' fine." Her comment drew a sigh from Tristaan, narrow shoulders sagging. For a few ticks, he said nothing, watching Bridgette's smoke drift in the alley, keeping his expression even instead of revealing the hurt and fear and sadness, "Oes. I've run m' whole life—I ent a wick, maybe y' should know that, so I ent driftin' from anywhere but m' useless life as a passive."

Just in case something happened, at least Bridgette would know the truth. He wasn't out to hurt anyone, but he was dangerous and he knew it. The dark-haired man may have had more to say—apologies, sincerities, worries—but Sarinah re-appeared and he couldn't help but smile wistfully. He'd chosen pretty well, if he did say so himself, though she was beautiful regardless. Once she was back at his side, he adjusted the satchel that sat on his good shoulder and looked at the lovely witch without hiding the sadness in his tone,

"Next? We dust, macha."

Tristaan gave her whatever moment she needed with Bridgette and Abigail before he reached to take her hand again in his, leading them through the back alley behind the Rickshaw with all the intention of keeping off the main streets. He'd let the shadows guide them mostly, the sun not yet high enough in the sky to fully illuminate the spaces between buildings, which gave them a bit of cover from being seen. The dark-haired passive didn't look back and he fell quiet, turning over all of his decisions over the past few days that led to this moment, digging into the sore places of his heart instead of his bruised chest. Strangely enough, despite the danger to both his person and Sarinah's, he did not feel as though he was at all making a mistake.

He should have left himself a long time ago, debt owed or not.

His whole existence was a burden, so what was one more? Alioe had kept him waiting for a reason, it seemed—his heart raced against his sore ribs because it felt as though the goddess had kept him waiting just to give this lovely witch the second chance she deserved more than he did.

"There'll be some boats on th' river off Clark's Isle, prob'ly a few 'f them full o' tekaa on their way t' Surwood. It's about ten 'r twelve days down th' Arova from here. We'll be more 'n welcome t' hitch a ride, I bet, an' I'm happy t' offer coin an' work t' get us there. We both said we wanted t' go back—jus' didn't think it'd be this way."

He offered her a chagrined sort of expression, grey eyes full of mixed emotion, squeezing her hand and lingering in the shadows under an old, torn up awning as he watched the cross street for familiar faces, thumb softly tracing over the olive skin of her hand,

"We can maybe pass through th' Trader's Market on th' way t' th' Bean. Get y' some shoes. Pick up a few things for travelin'." The dark-haired passive led them as he spoke quietly, weaving through the tight alleys of Castle Hill, his voice confident that they were making good time, that no one would come looking for them.

[Sarinah Lissden]

12th Bethas, 2718 - Morning

Bridgette narrowed her eyes as she looked at him, taking deep drags on the hand made smoke and blowing it away from the man with an almost furious sort of movement. Pinching a piece of tobacco from her tongue, the older tumble shook her head with a scoff.

“Fuckin’ gollies.” She said softly, dragging again deeply of the unhealthy stick and coughing furiously, before turning her weathered eyes on the man.

“I knew one of your kind once. Nice older fellow. Worked down at the docks actually. ‘member one day they beat him, flogged him good. Not sure what happened, but we all heard the screaming from the Queen. When we got down there, it was just him and ashes. Just ashes. He never spoke again after that.” Dragging the final smoke of the cigarette, she flicked the butt away and chewed the inside of her cheek.

“Y’just keep her safe, even if that’s from yourself. That girl’s taken with you, I can see it. Even if I was t’tell her y’was dangerous, I don’t think she’ll stop. I don’t think she’d even understand. But—“ Her eyes turned to the doorway as Sarinah returned, leaving any final words on the matter unsaid. It was not her place to tell the witch what him being a passive truly meant, and time was not on their side to discuss it further.

Next? We dust, macha.

The brunette frowned, looking at the greying tumble before her, tears welling again.

“Bridgette...” She began, her voice thick with emotion and admiration. The older woman shook her head, fixing the dancer’s hood and tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

“No more sad words, and no more tears. We’ll be alright love. As will you. Go on. Get out of here.” Sarinah took Tristaans hand, allowing him to lead them away, tears blurring her vision. She blinked heavily, looking behind them one last time to be met with only an empty space, Bridgette already gone. She swallowed the ache that welled in her chest, looking back at the passive with a sad smile.

They were leaving!

As they walked in silence, Sarinah tried to accept the idea they were truly leaving, unable to believe it. Her stomach churned with anxiety and worry, afraid any turn they took would be into the waiting arms of the Brothers. If they did, the dancer knew it would be a fight. There was no way she was going back to the Queen, not alive at least. Her heart hammered in her chest as the dark haired man pulled them into the shadows, and she squeezed his hand back as they looked at each other.

“It ent the homecoming I imagined either balach.” She sighed, following his eyes to glance across the street. It was clear, for now at least. Trusting the man, she nodded, and together they moved across the street.

“Ent sure what’s in the basket, but Bridgette said she’s put some food in here. What else do we—“ A gunshot cracked loudly, echoing around the street, sending people screaming and running with arms over their heads, the bullet whizzing past Tristaans ear.

“STOP Y’FUCKING THIEF!” A booming voice roared from down the street, causing Sarinah to spin, stepping closer to the passive with a gasp. Wesley pointed at them, staring down the length of a long barrelled flintlock, moving towards them with a face red with rage. Dom was with him, and from behind them another two luggers approached.

“Tristaan!” She said, eyes wide as they turned on the man, breathing hard. It was over. They were caught. Turning around to face the two approaching from behind, the dancer drew her field in tightly. Whispering a singular word of monite she threw her hand out towards them, a shower of sparks and ash spraying into their faces. The first one, a greying human fellow with less teeth than legs yowled and pawed at his eyes. The other, a bright dressed wick with thick dreadlocks uttered his own trick in return, gusting her pathetic spell away like swatting an annoyed insect.

“No second chances this time y’fuckin’ kenser. I’m gonna best you senseless.” Wesley pointed at Sarinah, closing in on the couple with each long step.

“Then I’m gonna make you watch whilst we all have a go on that fuckin’ bitch. Every which way, till she wishes she’s dead. Then, I’m gonna rip your arms off and beat you to death with ‘em.” He growled, reaching for the passive’s shirt as the wick behind them muttered a pull to grasp Sarinah by the hand. She moved, just like he’d shown her, pushing the hand aside and stepping up to smash the heel of her hand into his nose with a satisfying crunch.

“Keep ye hands off me ye laoso vreska!”

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 12th, 2718

ABBC3_OFFTOPIC

Combat here is pre-determined, so no dice will be rolled for all the terrible things that happen.

The crack of a firearm and heat of a bullet dragged the dark-haired passive unwillingly from his illusion of safety, smacking him into a moment he neither desired nor was prepared for. Injured already and immediately out-numbered, Tristaan realized with anger that he had thought too little about the burly wick and his particular band of Bad Brothers. He was a lousy bouncer and obviously an even lousier lover, given how little time he felt they'd had to get away. His scarred heart sank in the battered hull of his chest—a heavy anchor unable to find purchase in too deep of water. He moved without hesitation, however, having chosen to live his life as one who had both everything and nothing to lose.

"Stay near me, macha." He hissed, hand moving for his own flintlock, unable to help but wince at the strange feeling that someone else using vroo made in his stomach. Wesley spat fire and growled threats, but Tristaan hardly bristled, his tone quiet even as the crowds near the market began to filter in their direction, wide-eyed, curious, and eager for blood.

"Y' ent gonna lay a hand on her."

Not while he was alive, anyway.

The dark-haired passive was a quick, lithe creature, especially under duress. Despite the protest of his bruised ribs, he shifted his stance and drew his pistol, glaring at Wesley while he feigned his aim at him, intending instead to fire at Dom, his pointy-object loving companion. Grey eyes flicked away for a heartbeat, Tristaan's free hand reaching for the karambit at his belt even as he felt the other two attackers close in behind him, desperate to keep Sarinah within reach despite the way the tide of unexpected combat washed over them on the street. He was aware that the burly wick had one more shot and he was willing to take it, but he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of going down without a good fight.

"If I make a space for you, Sarinah, go. Just go." He exhaled just as Wesley was moving toward him, swinging his arm and his firearm out wide to pull the trigger. While he'd aimed for Dom's chest, the upward motion of a fist curling into his shirt quickly changed his trajectory. The poor wick didn't stand much of a chance with a bullet to his face and he dropped like a stone in a blossom of blood and smoke just as the lovely witch shoved the hard ball of her palm into the nose of one of the Brothers assaulting them from behind.

Attagirl, Tristaan would have said if Wesley wasn't already lifting him, shoving the butt of his weapon roughly into the bruises he'd made just days before. He did his best not to groan, but the third whack of the hard wood and metal end of the firearm came with a sickening, internal crack, and he gurgled a pained noise.

Twisting in his grasp despite the fiery pain, the smaller, lighter passive brought his knee into the other man's gut, swinging his still-smoking pistol toward the uglier wick's face. The lugger wasn't ready and caught the blow to the side of his face, dropping Tristaan with a much louder howl of surprised pain, burned and bruised by hot metal and the force of the smaller man's swing. Spitting blood from broken ribs at the larger man's feet, the dark-haired passive tossed his pistol aside and drew his other blade, pressing it against his palm as he curled his calloused hands into fists,

"My fuckin' face, you lil' shit." Wesley snarled, close enough to shove Tristaan roughly before the passive had entirely recovered, sending him back a few steps and into the dreadlocked wick who had countered Sarinah's spell while the man with a broken nose sputtered and whined. He took the moment, hoping to give the lovely witch some space, hoping to buy her some time, and turned on the other man, ignoring Wesley for a heartbeat and shoving a karambit into the surprised fellow's gut, twisting and leaving it there with a hiss just as Wesley's meaty hands grabbed his shoulders and tossed him to the side, onto the ground with a sweep of his leg,

"Ah, no you don't. Gotcha now." Growled the burly wick, stepping further into Tristaan's personal space, so much bigger than the lithe galdor-born creature that he simply overpowered him, immediately making sure his knees found the other man's broken ribs when he all but sat on him. The dark-haired passive gurgled a string of expletives in pain and stars filled his vision for a moment, trapped and terrified.

Oh, how many times he'd been here and barely walked away, he couldn't count.

But Wesley didn't need him to run a machine. He didn't need him to sweat in the shops. He needed him to keep away from Sarinah. He needed him dead.

The dark-haired passive looked up at the wick, wheezing, grey eyes hardening like steel. He had one blade left, but the position of the larger man left him more than just a little helpless, unable to get the movement of his arms that he wanted. He stopped struggling, unable to lift the shoddy bouncer's weight off of his bruised and battered body, anticipating what was to follow,

"Epaemo, macha." He wasn't sure she could hear him, not above the crowd that had gathered or the sound of his own heart echoing through his racing mind. He'd made all of this trouble. He'd brought this horrible fate on the lovely witch and himself. He could have kept out of the way all those days ago. He could have let that lugger have his way and kept his mouth shut. He could have kept his door closed. He should have.

She didn't deserve this.

This was his lot in life—trash on the docks, a smear of useless galdor-born garbage on the cobblestones. This was what his kind deserved. For a few moments, he'd held something nice—a lovely witch, an adventure, a little taste of redemption—but his reality was shaped like Wesley. And Wesley was going to hurt.

Those that had wandered from the market were chanting and exchanging birds, taking bets, yelling for the passive to get up and keep fighting. The first few punches were tolerable, and Tristaan made mocking faces at him, but the next several blows dragged him close to unconsciousness and threatened to steal his will to keep fighting. He couldn't help but talk back at the man, attempting to win himself a brief respite from the assault,

"Is that all th' pina manna trouble I've caused you? Y' can hit harder than that—'r are y' tired, big boy?" He taunted, spitting blood at him again and causing the burly wick to shift his position over his body, leaning harder on the broken places, hot tears stinging his eyes and a whine escaping where he'd wanted words. It was enough, however, and Tristaan brought his blade up and into Wesley's thigh, the wick bellowing in pain again and leaning forward, this time curling thick fingers around the passive's neck,

"Shut your head already. And to think I was gonna let you watch—"

"Fuck you." Wheezed the passive, the constriction of his wind pipe a most unpleasant and undesired way to die. He refused to look for the lovely witch, gritting his teeth and giving struggling one more try. Wesley just squeezed harder, making sure to leverage his weight and cause as much pain as possible.

It was when the tendrils of darkness seethed into his vision that he felt it, a strange sensation that filled his senses in the same otherworldly fashion as the fields of others, the gathering of something that was not a part of him at all. No longer able to inhale, he kept his steely, defiant, indomitable gaze fixed on the sneering, burned, satisfied face of Wesley. The wick's angry expression began to falter, however, eyes widening in surprise as the sensation grew—suddenly tangible and strong and just as defiant as the dark-haired passive had ever been in his short, useless life.

Alioe, forgive me.

In a precious breath he couldn't take, everyone felt the field appear and expand, felt the tide of the mona shift as though Tristaan was a full moon, and in a precious exhale, everyone felt the force of the magic that lay hidden inside the broken, cursed, scrawny son of a galdor wash over them. First their skin crawled, then their ears rang, but that was all anyone had in common. For some, the diablerie crept into their minds and gave them visions of wonderful things, made them dizzy, weakened their knees. For some, the diablerie assaulted their senses and overwhelmed them with sound and smell and light until they were vomiting or fainting. For others, the mona set their heart racing in terror, filled their vision with nightmares, and stole their sanity for a few precious heart beats.

Wesley was one of those terrified, screeching and releasing Tristaan, waving his hands in front of his face in blinded, completely hallucinogenic horror, almost mercifully leaning away. It was a window, the chaos that his uncontrollable curse was causing, almost literally melting the brains of everyone nearby. People foamed at the mouth and fell over. Someone grasped their chest and fell dead. Children screamed and ran. It was pure mental destruction and the dark-haired passive had no control over it. Knife still in his bloodied hands, he was gasping and wheezing, everything burning as he desperately filled his lungs with air. The large wick on top of him was babbling in panic and Tristaan somehow managed to sit up, to arch toward him, and to slam the small, curved blade right into his throat without a second thought, shaking and dizzy ... the only one not effected by his horrible—

Sarinah.

The passive groaned and struggled to free himself from the weight of the dying bouncer, cursing at him and sobbing, in so much pain he wanted to pass out like a few others in the crowd had already. Scrambling from the body, tears running down his battered, bloodied face, Tristaan crawled his way toward the lovely witch even as he felt the strange and sudden field disappear like someone with a cruel sense of humor had snapped their fingers during a trick show around a caoja. Shaking, crying, bleeding, and wheezing, the broken passive was aware that this was still a window of opportunity and he was too wired for escape to ignore it. Running was all he knew—even if now, more than ever, he was desperate to run away from himself.

"Epa—forget it. Not here. Not now. Get up. Lessgo." Bloody hands were reaching for her, regardless of what state of mind she was in, hauling her to her bare feet and grabbing his meager belongings with a guttural noise of pain. If he had to carry her, he would. If he had to support her, he would. The crowd was barely starting to recover, the duration of whatever he'd just unleashed upon the world with helpless, reckless abandon slow to wear off. He had precious time to get them both to Clark's Island and find a boat—if anyone on the river would take them in in his current state, bloodied and broken for sure.

Maybe they'd be lucky and find a boat with a healer on board.

Maybe they'd just make it to the damn river without dying first.

[Sarinah Lissden]

12th Bethas, 2718 - Morning

“Ne, I ent gonna leave ye kov.” She growled as the broken nosed man dropped back with a howl of pain, hands over his streaming bloody face. The gunshot was loud beside her head, and she turned with hands over her ears, watching Dom drop dead to the dirt ground, even as Wesley grabbed the passive.

“Let him go y’—” Sarinah screamed at the wick, gathering her meagre field, only to loose it again as he shoved her with his free arm. She tripped, landing heavily in the dirt and looking up in terror, hearing the muffled crack as Wesley’s weapon smacked into Tristaans ribs again and again. He made a sound, and Alioe her heart wanted to leap from her throat.

“Ne! Tristaan! Wesley, stop!” Tristaan swung at the burly man, and she could have cheered with relief as he dropped the passive, scrambling to her feet as quickly as she could. The grey eyed spoke stumbled into the vroo spitch, and almost without hesitation he turned and shived him. The dancer gasped, reaching out for Wesley’s shirt as he grabbed the passive and tossed him, finding her hands torn away as thick arms came around her from behind to curl around her in a tight bearhug. The witch struggled as she watched the huge wick drop down on the smaller lithe once-aristocrat.

“I’ll come with ye! I’ll come just please don’t kill him! Please!” The brunette screamed, throwing her head back to try and take out her assailant, wrenching with her shoulders.

“Not likely lass.” The human snarled, squeezing her tightly and lifting her off the ground as he turned his head away from the blow. Sarinah groaned, clenching her teeth against the strain around her arms and chest. Tears streaked her face, and she watched helplessly as Tristaan made sounds of pain and fear, crying as she tried to get to him. She could see the man was trapped, his breathing wrong. Gods, Wesley was killing him. Around them, people cheered and placed bets, just a stark reminder of the beast that was The Rose.

Each punching was a blow to her heart, and Sarinah wanted to look away, to hide her face from the cruel end that the passive was facing all because of her.

Epaemo, macha.

It was quiet, but she heard it, struggling anew against the man. The dark haired man goaded Wesley, and Sarinah sobbed, pulling hard against the arms around her. Was he mad, did he want to die? Suddenly a moment of victory, a knife deep in the burly man’s thigh, only it was short lived as Wesley wrapped meaty hands around Tristaans throat. She screamed again, her voice hoarse, pleading with the wick to stop, knowing it was useless.

Gods, save him.

She felt it then, they all could, a strange gathering of a field more powerful than the witch had ever felt before. Even the human holding her felt it, his grip loosening with a muttered curse of confusion. Sarinah took advantage of the moment to stamp hard on his foot and tearing herself from his grasp, reaching out for the passive as the curious field passed over her like a wave, bringing with it something awful. Gasping, the dancer fell to her hands and knees, staring with wide tear filled eyes into nothingness before her.

In her mind though, she saw a campfire in the early morning light, and beside it a bright yellow kint. There were children laughing somewhere in distance, and a light breeze stirred the long grass of the clearing she found herself in. A woman stood beside her, smiling and reaching out to stroke her hair from her face, whilst beside the fire an older man looked at her and winked. It was so real, so vivid, she could smell the wildflowers in the air and hear the soft chuckle that came from the man.

“Da? Daoa?” Sarinah whispered, her eyes unseeing of the death around her, nor the passive’s victorious act of freedom.

And like that, it was gone.

The witch inhaled sharply, blinking as the tears fell, her whole body shaky and her head feeling as though it would split in two. There were hands reaching for her, and she stumbled to her feet, reality returning thick and fast with loud screams and blood. Moving with the hands, she looked at the man.

“Tristaan?” She said with a dazed sort of tone, before she reacted finally, making a sound of surprise and tucking her arm under his to support the barely functional man.

“Oh my Gods. Hold on, just hold on kov.” The woman stammered, mahogany eyes looking ahead to lead them across the boardwalk and onto Clarke Isle, stumbling under his weight as they went. On the isle, people whispered, some staring and some looking away entirely. Sarinah looked around with a panic rising in her chest.

“Help, someone help.” She sobbed, completely lost in the throng of river traders, surwood travellers and merchant wares. From across the isle, she saw a boat loosening its mooring, and made a beeline for it. The wicks onboard milled near the railing, pointing and questioning.

“Ye chen! Passage to Surwood?” The crew shook their heads, pushing away from the dock as the witch stumbled and cried out in dismay. Stopping, she turned to press her forehead against Tristaans shoulder with a broken sound.

“Epaemo. Epaemo balach.” Sarinah whispered, hurt and lost and confused. She didn’t know what to do, Alioe save her she didn’t know what to do.

“We’re headed to Surwood. Ubo’s this way, but we gotta dust.” A sharp voice said, causing the dancer to lift her head, looking into the hard eyes of a green haired sailor. He moved to help her support Tristaan, guiding them onto the gangplank of a small passenger vessel.

“Ye ent lookin’ so great kov.” He said to the passive, gesturing for the couple to sit at the bow of the ship as they began to unmoor, running hands over the passive with a frown.

“I can help, if ye want.”

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 12th, 2718

ABBC3_OFFTOPIC

Self-moderating healing magic because it's all good story. And I have permission.

Walking was exceptionally difficult and as much as the dark-haired passive wanted to blame it on what he was very sure had been his diablerie—that curse, that danger, that burden that proved him broken and had lay in secret for all these godsbedamned years—he knew it was because he was severely injured. Breathing was almost as exceptionally hard as walking, and Tristaan wheezed and sputtered, aware that smashed ribs were probably making something bleed in the aching cavity of his chest.

Sarinah did her best to support him, though he didn't deserve it. He just didn't have the strength to shove her away, terrified and wide-eyed even as she mostly had to drag him through the streets toward the little isle in the middle of the mouth of the Arova. A few times, he just had to stop her, leaning against a wall, Wesley's blood on his hands, staining his sleeves, aware that his face was bloodied with his own as well. He'd stop to breathe, but nothing inside wanted to work the way it should, and he was panting by the time they staggered over the river docks. He just needed to find passage for her, to find some boat willing to take the lovely witch from him to safety and leave him here to die.

He wasn't safe. Any pretend notion of safety they'd foolishly fostered between them, from Tristaan standing up for her in the Queen and sleeping on the floor to him taking the beating here on the streets—they were all lies.

He was a lie.

A monster.

A terrifying scrap.

Sarinah attempted to get the attention of a few of the river boats as their flat-bottom vessels bobbed on the brackish water docks. People were staring. Whispering. Pointing. The dark-haired passive could feel their looks bore into his tanned, scarred flesh, staring past the blood and bruises into his very disgusting, mona-rejected soul. She dragged him toward a boat about to leave and as he all but threw up food and drink and blood there on the sunbaked wood from the effort, the wicks on board watched him warily and denied her, shoving off quicker than before.

"Jus' set m' down there an' go find a boat." Tristaan finally gurgled, a quiet, strained voice, grey eyes still stained with tears, "I'm scarin' off th' help you may get without me."

It was true. Surely she knew it. He was a mess. Still, she clung to him and he groaned, afraid to embrace her in comfort, afraid to touch anything right now lest he somehow manage to do something worse than magically explode all over the place. Oh, gods, why hadn't he just died instead?

"Ne, it's me. I'm sorry, I—"

A voice cut him off, loud and clear. Hands were reaching for him and he hissed, fiery resistance welling up in the hull of his chest, slapping them away as he slipped from Sarinah's grip. Staggering back with a wheeze, his words were angry exhales of breath,

"Ne, jus' her! Take her! She needs t' get away from th' Harbor. Look, I have coin—" The dark-haired passive struggled like the wounded animal he was, attempting to shrug off the green-haired wick who was helping take his lithely muscled dead weight off of her shoulders alone, but the sailor was far stronger than he was in his given state. He sobbed, clearly convinced of his words, "I need t' stay here. I'm no' safe. It's no' safe for her—"

"Sssh. Ent leaving you here, kov." The other wick responded quickly, gritting his teeth as he attempted to quell the raging crazy passive, "It ent a good idea, I can tell."

Strangely enough, he asked no questions of the witch or the bloodied man he dragged onto their boat, coaxing them carefully toward the bow of the flat-bottomed vessel as other wicks on board began to shove off from the docks hastily with long poles, pushing them into the wide open water of the river. Tristaan slumped heavily against the wood, gasping for breath now after so much struggling and too many words. He still felt like he was suffocating, only this time, without Wesley's hands around his neck, it was slower and more subtle. He was too weak to fight back any more, and so simply curled against the worn wood of the deck.

The green-haired wick was offering help, and the dark-haired passive knew what he meant with the way he ran his hands over his wounded body, "Broken. There. Alioe, please—listen." He wheezed, "Bleeding, I think. On th' inside. Look, y' gotta drop me off an' jus' take th' rosh. Sarinah, I'm clockin' dangerous, don't y' understand? I don't need t' be here with you 'r anyone! Jus' leave me—"

"I'm guessing in danger. Not dangerous. Oes, broken—and worse, you're right." The wick was already reaching for the buttons of the other man's shirt without asking, "—We don't need your coin. Whatever happened in the Harbor probably ent your fault, not with this rosh here so desperate for help, eh, balach? Just relax. My da and I've been fixing broken bodies for mant manna maw."

Bloodied fingers smacked the wick's hand away, weakly, but Tristaan's whole body seemed to dissolve with the effort, unconsciousness calling him, dragging him away from reality, wanting to swallow him whole with pain, "Ne! That's no'—"

"Quiet now. I must work quickly." The green-haired wick scolded, bright eyes flashing to Sarinah and implying she should find a way to hold the man before he waved a hand and got the attention of someone else who wasn't using a pole and pushing them away from the shallows and into the wider, open waters of the Arova. The older witch that approached seemed wary at first, but her kind, dark eyes wandered over the crying witch and it seemed as though she understood,

"You always pick up the strange ones to adopt, don't you, Farhid?" The older woman made as if she was going to smack the younger man, who only held the dark-haired passive a little until Sarinah was settled with him before directing the other witch to assist her. She was obviously strong from years of river life, quickly finding a hold that wouldn't hurt the passive and yet still gave the green-haired wick access to where he wanted to touch,

"No bullets, right?" Farhid quipped, and the dark-haired passive's grey eyes gave him the answer even as the other man shook his head, half compliant, half not. Tristaan's words had stopped, and he mostly growled and groaned and breathed with obvious difficulty, body tense but no longer at all with the right faculties to physically resist. Tears crawled down his face instead, and his eyes fluttered heavily, as if he was falling asleep, but it was obvious he was just fighting to stay conscious, unseen injuries slowly doing what Wesley had failed to finish.

"This ent gonna feel any better than it did getting hurt in the first place, but by the looks o' you, you know that already." Farhid smirked, making haste to open the other man's vest and shirt and investigate him more thoroughly before he simply placed his palms on the scarred, tanned skin he found already bruised. His bright eyes flicked back to the lithe dancer, "I can't fix everything, but I can keep him alive and somewhat less hurt than he is now. Mostly."

The wick had gathered his field, which was robust and strong compared to most of his kind. He spoke with practical understanding, his brief words like a poem or a song, a trustworthy acceptance that the mona would hear him. Farhid began to work on the dark-haired passive's injuries with strategic motion, and as he cast his well-practiced healing magic, a few other wicks from the boat began to gather. Some of them brought things—water, clean clothes, bandages, poultces—as if the boat was a floating place of helpfulness.

As soon as the green-haired wick began to knit flesh and bone back together with vroo, Tristaan screamed and writhed, both objecting to the heavy weight of someone else's field, but also to the excruciating sensation of all that was broken being put back together, physically anyway—

There was no fixing him. Not really. Worthless spitch. Disgusting passive.

—eventually, he simply passed in and out of consciousness, half awake and half delirious in his suffering. The magic would take quite some time, and new waves of pain would awaken him again before he'd just pass out. He whined and groaned, but otherwise let the wicks do their work on his broken body, occasionally still begging to be left behind.

Somewhere in the middle, just as bones were being reknit and punctured lungs were being repaired that he finally passed out, leaning his head against the lovely witch and breathing a few more curses and objections before he just collapsed.