THE KING'S PALACE | EARLY MORNING
Yulina stood over them, a look of mixed triumph and disgust smeared onto her scarred face like the splatter of blood on her cheek, her hands stained red like the daggers she bent to wipe on the clothes of the largest of her henchmen she'd just murdered in the half light. Seagulls called overhead and the break of waves could be heard even this far from the beach. The witch sheathed her blades and let her amber gaze snap to the only other figure standing in blue light before sunrise—Wavorly, Corwynn's pirate wick companion.
"Don't go wakin' yer blond bastard bruno yet." Spat the Henchwitch, wiping her face with the back of her wrist and resisting the temptation to lick blood from her fingers in front of the lanky redhead, catching the flash of his gold teeth as he laughed,
"I'm not gonna, love. It's too early for Cor. I'm just here for that clockin' gun."
"I bet ye are, kov." Yulina rolled her eyes and cocked her dreadlocked head in the direction of the Palace, "C'mon then."
The lithe assassin led the way up the stairs and left bloodied fingerprints on the door as she opened it for the tattooed old wick, both of them heading up another set of grand stairs, past guards and the watchful eyes of a couple of tired prostitutes making their way down to return to their homes. The Palace was quiet at this house—eerily so considering the excitement of the past few days—and the silence didn't settle well in the old bones of the mansion because it felt like the ominous weight of the calm before a storm.
She nodded toward the burly Mug at the door, a signal he knew, and he turned down the hall a different direction to fetch the pair of bodies that had been her present to Hawke: his property finally returned.
Wavorly paused once they'd made their way through familiar hallways and nodded that he intended to wait his turn outside the set of double doors that led into the throne room—the affectionate name for the main hall where Silas received both guests and prisoners.
"Suit yerself. I'm sure it'll be a show." Yulina grinned wickedly, wiping her hands on her coat and blowing a kiss in the pirate's direction before she opened the doors with both hands and shut them behind her, letting the wash of fields and words fill her with her typical cruel form of excitement.
Her King looked tired and she was quite aware that Silas hadn't slept since her boat arrived sometime in the night, impatient for his returned property to arrive at his feet. He'd spent his time since gathering Scarlett from the Mad Queen during the busiest hours of the night and giving Yulina a moment to deal with what she claimed to be the failure of her personal entourage.
The wick sat in his makeshift throne, an oversized chair bedecked in his favorite tributes, and he turned over in his hands the weapon that had been so forcibly wrest from the calloused fingers of one fucking annoying passive. Dark eyes flicked up from the strange firearm, quite entertained to have simply made Scarlett wait, grinning hungrily as Yulina closed the doors behind her, not even bothering to ask the question the Henchwitch already knew,
"They're coming, my King." She promised, offering a bloodied grin at the Madame before she stepped up to lean against Silas' throne.
Tristaan had been in and out of consciousness for the week long trip down river, isolated and bound, wounds left largely untreated. He had no idea where Sarinah was or if she was safe, and no one bothered to let the dark-haired passive know of his fate, let alone hers. Yulina enjoyed the long game, the torturer for the King of the Underworld a cruel creature who now was far too aware of the contents of his heart for his own safety, especially not for the safety of his lovely witch.
He knew not to ask, but the defeated creature wasn't entirely capable of backing up such questioning anyway. Weak and sore, he was dragged from the boat in the sticky, salty darkness of night, hauled up the Palace's private, well-hidden docks and through the underground tunnels, blindfolded and restrained. He spent silent hours in agonizing impatience, his only recourse a betrayal of his own mind: those same hours were spent reliving the past few beautiful months and searching desperately for every moment he'd done wrong.
He hadn't been careful enough.
He'd let them stay in Vienda too long.
He'd not kept them enough to themselves.
He'd taken their freedom for granted.
He'd loved—
Rough hands shook him awake and lifted Tristaan to his feet without regard to his bruises, fingers curling into the sack over his head to remove it, revealing the haggard passive's face to a pair of sharp green eyes and a flash of missing teeth,
"Welcome home, kov. Your king says it's time for an audience." The wick was laughing at him already, pushing him roughly toward the door and leading his weak, unsteady self down the hall.
"Where's Sarinah—"
"Don't worry your head." Purred his escort, sucking his bottom lip between his ragged teeth, "Saw 'er pretty self I did jus' an hour ago. Still breathin'. A bit round tho’—"
The dark-haired man growled in warning, scarred chest filled with a sudden bright fire of protective anger and hopeful relief, stopping in his tracks to ram a shoulder into the taunting wick who'd raised his hands in order to make the motions that implied his awareness of her growing baby bump. With a hiss, the restrained passive pressed his so-called escort against the wall, grey eyes wild and able to exhale a few choice words before the other man had a chance to gather his wits,
"If you've hurt her, so help me—"
The green-eyed wick was laughing louder instead of at all afraid, stronger only because he was well-fed and uninjured, and he brought his elbow up to strike the side of Tristaan's head and shove him away with both hands in one smooth motion. He crumpled the angry, magic-less beast to the floor, and he was satisfied by the groan that escaped the passive's cracked, dry lips.
"Tsssk. Ent gonna damage Scarlett's things. I ent stupid like you." Kicking the man while he was down, the guard cackled and dragged him back up to his feet again, leaning close enough to whisper way too loudly in the smaller-framed man's ear, the stench of his hot breath nauseating like his words, "I suggest you behave, kov. It's cute an' all, your feelings, but you're back home now and it's time to suck it up and stop playing house, ye chen. Ent gonna be pretty, what Hawke has in mind for runaways. He ent killed you outright, neither of you, which is what you deserve."
The wick hefted Tristaan thoughtlessly toward the doors, pressing him against one of the two heavy wooden things with a knee while he opened the other with his free hand, twisting hard at the passive's hands that were tied behind his back and tossing him into the throne room before him. The dark-haired man staggered, kept on his feet only by the grip of his captor,
"Special delivery, my King."
"It's about clocking time." Silas sat up eagerly in his throne, bare feet curling toes into the lush rugs that littered the decadent room, bejeweled fingers curling tighter around the gun in his lap. His dark eyes narrowed at the battered beast, Hawke quietly hoping he could finally break the scrap's will before the sun rose, "Bring our friend Mister Greymoore here so he can kneel and beg forgiveness. Where's the witch and their bastard?"
"On their way, I'm sure." The green eyed wick smirked, shoving Tristaan forward and all but forcing him to his knees while they waited.
— Passive Proverb