Quiet Distress (Patreon)

• Continuation of the prompt: Romanus is upset and is being cheered up — read Part One here.

You can't keep your hands still.

You snap a stick in two, toss the parts to the side, and immediately latch on a thin leaf with soft, transparent fur on the underside. You twist it until tiny tears start to pull the luscious green apart.

There's a restlessness in you, a pressure inside your ribcage that won't let you breathe deep — only in shallow, anxious breaths. It has your heart racing, and you don't know why you feel as if you’re being hunted for sport while sitting in the Theer's beautiful garden.

But when the soft breeze gently rustles the canopy, all you hear is the rustle of an Inquisitor’s black robe.

You tear the leaf apart, but before you can toss its wrecked remains to the floor, two hands seize yours. The fingers are long, golden, and elegant. The kind of fingers made to be adorned with rings, but Lady Ysabella's hands are bare when they close over yours.

"Dear," her perfumed voice calls, and you lift your eyes to see her. Ysabella's hair hangs around her face, the curls continuing past her shoulders. But as soft and silky as they look, it's her eyes that are the gentlest. "Why are you mangling my poor flora?"

She gives you a teasing smile, but you can only frown at your hands. You didn't even hear her approach. How far gone are you?

"I'm sorry," you say, letting go of the leaf, but Ysabella tightens her grip when you move to take your hands from hers. Her fingers slip in the cracks between yours, smooth and perfect with not a callus or a scar.

So different from your own.

"Now, I'm worried," Ysabella says, sitting beside you on the stone bench. Her gown, like her hair, is casual — to be worn at home and away from the eyes of the public or other nobles. She's gotten to dress this way around you. "I expected anything but an apology."

She still smiles, her tone jovial, but you can see the worry she spoke of as Ysabella looks you over.

You muster a weak smile. "What would you have me say? This leaf made an affront on your honor, and I had to take revenge?"

Ysabella lets go of one of your hands to cup your cheek. "That's more like you," she says, leaning closer until her eyes are all you can see. "What's wrong?"

You sigh but take her offered comfort. Leaning into her touch, you tilt your head to let her palm support it. Ysabella pulls you towards her until you sit close enough that your knees bump into each other. "Honestly, Bella, I'm not sure. I feel restless, but... I also dread to make any move."

The admission shames you. You’re supposed to be fearless, aren’t you? Her sword for hire. You can't look at her eyes, so you fix your sight on her elegant lips. They're not painted, either. The darker brown is their natural color.

Ysabella hesitates. You can feel her staring at you, but you keep your eyes down. Your heart is racing again, and that pressure in your ribs feels like an orb slowly growing, taking up space, pushing your lungs to the side as—

"I think," Ysabella speaks. Her hand on your cheek shifts so that her index and middle fingers are on your temple. Her other hand snakes up your body to do the same on the other side of your head. "You need to breathe."

She gently presses on your temples, lowering your head to kiss the top of your forehead. "Breath slowly, my one and only."

You find yourself doing as she says. You inhale, then hold it, and slowly exhale. Ysabella guides you, her soft voice bathing your ear. Without thinking, you sink your head into her bosom, your arms looping around her waist to pull her into you. You squeeze her hard, but Ysabella doesn't complain. She only holds you, talking all the while.

"In... and out," she whispers.

You close your eyes.

"In..."

The breath you take is the deepest one of the day.

"And out."

- - -

The waves are beautiful.

The sea is calm today, as it has been the past tenday. Your journey is coming to a close, or so the Pirate tells you, and soon you'll be walking on solid ground again.

But, for now, the ocean stretches as far as your eyes can see. The sunlight hurts your retinas, but you don't close them to see the great white seagull soaring close to the water. Is it only you, or are the seagulls larger here than on land? Perhaps they seem bigger because you have nothing to compare them to. A bird next to a tower is small, but one in a desert of blue seems like a giant.

The seagull dives, but when it comes up again, shaking its wings, there's no game in its beak.

A failed attempt.

You smile to yourself. How fitting.

The ship lurches, but you effortlessly keep balance, letting your body rock along with it. The balustrade beneath your hands is warm from the sun, and you make a little indentation in the wood to mark your passage here. Something for the ship to remember you by.

You let out a sigh.

"What's this?" A voice speaks from behind. Even without looking, you can hear the smirk in the tone. "I give you one of the most beautiful visions on earth, and you're sighing?"

The Pirate's boots clank on the wooden planks as he strolls closer. Suddenly, a hand with a red gem on the thumb grabs the railing next to yours.

"You're turning into a real sailor, aren't you, peach?" the Pirate King says, head lowered to murmur near your ear. He's not touching you, but you can feel his body looming just behind your back. His other hand joins the railing on the other side, caging you in. "Soon enough, you'll be singing sea chanties and trying to smell upcoming storms on the wind."

"Real sailors sigh at the sea?" you ask, tightening your grip to keep upright. You know he wants you to lean back into him, but you don't. You're not sure why.

"It makes us blue, in a way," the Pirate answers. "We're staring at our grave. It's akin to how you feel walking through a graveyard."

"What happens to sailors who don't die at sea?"

The Pirate hums, and then, presses forward. His chest rests between your shoulder blades, and his hips melt into your lower back. He drops his head to put his cheek beside yours, his beard tickling your skin. "I don't know," he murmurs, and now you can feel the vibration from deep in his chest. "I don't want to find out."

He's warm and comforting, but you find yourself rigid in his embrace. The Pirate puts more of his bodyweight on his hands as he turns his head to you. "But it's not the sea making you gloomy."

Your lips tighten into a line.

His chuckle makes your hair sway. "Out with it."

"There's nothing to out about," you shoot back, almost annoyed, now.

He hums again. You hate how good it feels. "Peach."

"Your Majesty."

The Pirate inhales deeply, his fingers closing hard over your gloved hand. "It does something to me when you call me that," he rumbles, voice lower and darker, and you can’t help it; your cheeks ignite. Another smug chuckle. "But base desires aside, what changed? You seemed happy when you woke in my bed."

It's so well disguised that you almost miss it, but you hear the concern buried beneath the cockiness. His other hand moves to cover yours, and when the ship lurches again, it's his weight that guides you both upright.

You let out another sigh, this one of defeat. "You said we're close."

"Should be, according to your maps. The winds aren't helping, but even at this slow pace, we should reach Baiae before tomorrow."

Apprehension has you digging your nails in the wood.

The Pirate looks down at your hands. A pause. "You don't want to," he concludes.

"I... I do. But I also don't."

Your King of Pirates hums for a third time. There's no wind to shield from, but you finally let go and melt against him, welcoming his warmth. "What is it you fear?"

"I don't know."

"The unknown, then."

You shake your head. "Must it have a name?"

"Yes," the Pirate King says, his voice harsher. "Name it so you can overcome it."

You take a moment to think. "I don't fear the unknown. What I fear is to know."

"Ah." The Pirate straightens up, his head rising over yours. "There's no running from the truth, peach, but I can promise you something."

You crane your neck to look up at him. "What is it?"

He looks down, black eyes serious, and lips torn in a wide smile. "I'll be right there with you."

- - -

Neia watches the flames lick the logs.

The yellow, red, and orange dance is captivating, and she imagines slim figures making graceful leaps and twirls within the fire. She doesn't believe in spirits — not the fairy types, anyway — but she likes to pretend she's witnessing ethereal women performing for her eyes alone.

But then she realizes it doesn't have to be only for her eyes.

Neia lifts her head, searching for you, and sees you hurled on your bedroll with a blanket over your shoulders. The Dawnseeker narrows her eyes against the dark and notices you shivering. Her scarred lips twist in a scowl.

If you're cold, why, by devil's forked tongue, aren't you closer to the fire?

With a click of her tongue, Neia gets to her feet. She walks towards you, intending to pick you and your bedroll up and dump you near the flames when you glance at her, and Neia stops.

You're quick to turn your head away again, but Neia catches the glistening tears on your cheeks.

She feels three things at the same time. Surprise, for one, and mild bewilderment; but they're quickly overrun by uncertainty. Neia is no stranger to tears. She's been the cause and effect of countless others, but she was never taught how to stop them.

She stares at your hunched back. You're hugging your knees to your chest, and now a new feeling rises above all the others. Anger. Why in the Lord's light are you hiding away from her?

Neia walks to her bedroll, yanks it up, and carries it to you. She spreads it beside your own, not bothering to look at you as she sits heavily on it. Neia sees you glancing from the corner of your eye, and she waits for you to speak...

But you never do.

You simply look forward again, setting your eyes on the dark of the night.

Neia is utterly confused. The silence that follows makes her skin crawl, but as much as she detests it, she doesn't know how to break it. You're the one who voices things, not her. But when Neia hears your stifled breathing as if you're trying very hard not to cry, she finds herself opening her mouth.

"What can I do?" Neia asks, still not looking at you. It's clear you don't want to be seen by her.

"Nothing." Your reply is cold and emotionless.

Neia turns her head and fixes her yellow eyes on your profile. You've stopped crying, but she finds your gaze vacant. "What do you need?" she tries again.

"To be alone."

She almost snarls. Instead, Neia closes her eyes and prays to calm the fire in her veins. No one fucking talks to her like that. No one except… you. "Tough luck," Neia says, her voice like a dark craving. She lifts her arm to grab your opposite shoulder. You're rigid, but she pulls you to her with a yank. "I can't do that, sweetling."

She expects you to push her, to fight, but instead, you're motionless. "Neia," you murmur, your tone a warning.

She wants to shake you to action. "What?"

You crane your face and glare at her.

Neia's snarl looks like a smile. "There you are. Anger looks better on you."

"You would think that," you spit, but here are your hands, grabbing onto her shirt.

"Tell me what you're angry about," she demands, dragging her calloused hand up your spine. "So, I can go kill it."

Neia would die before admitting it, but she finds the way you furrow your brows to be adorable. "You can't kill this," you say, resting your chin on her breastbone. You pull on the blanket to cover you both. "And neither can I."

She doesn't know what to say, so Neia contents in palming the back of your neck, her fingers making possessive circles on the side of your throat. "It's not anger, either," you say, half closing your eyes at her massage. "I'm just sad, Neia."

Neia lifts you, settling you in her lap. She brings her knees up so that you slide right against her. Your sweet little hands spread on her shoulders. "So, what can I do?" Neia asks again, bringing her mouth closer to yours. It's there if you want to take it — an unspoken invitation to have Neia make you forget about the world for a night.

But when you kiss her, you aim for the corner of her mouth. "Nothing," you say, kissing the other side. "But I lied. I’d rather have you stay here with me.”

Neia lets you kiss up her scar, but when you lean away, she holds your chin to keep you near. "I can do that," she says, licking your cheek in return.

She tastes salt on the skin.