Lost on You (Patreon)

Tell me, are they lost on you?

Lance Silverthread watches you from the dais. Smoke rises like a curtain from the dozen different pipes hanging from strangers' lips. His eyes sting, his tongue tastes of ash, and his stiff fingers hurt every time he plucks a new note from his lyre.

Still, Lance does not stop. The spy isn't sure he could have.

Music swirls with the smoke, beats with the crackling of fire, and pulses along with the throbbing of own heart. But it's not the addiction to applause or the greed of flowing gold that has kept him stuck on this hard stool for close to an hour.

It's not the smiles of strangers or the silly dances of a few drunken patrons. It's not even the melancholic tears of the broken-hearted few, seeking to mend the cracks.

It's your smile. It's the way you sway on your chair, a half-forgotten drink in hand, and a foot loosely rocking along with the song. Lance plays for a room full of people, but in his heart, he plays for you only, serenating you in secret.

The mysterious mercenary. He had been curious, then intrigued, and lastly, as if put under a gradually developing spell, Lance found that he could not get you out of his head. It is a novel, uncomfortable thing, this feeling of love. But what else can it be? Lance has sung countless times about it — has written poems of longing and loss, of conquering and surrender, and yet, the bard has not felt it. He had not truly understood it...

Until you.

The song approaches the end, and his tired vocal cords come down from the high notes as his blue hair clings in wet strands to his forehead. Some people stand, shouting something in his direction, no doubt asking for another song, but Lance's grey eyes don't stray from you.

Do you want him to play another? You put your drink aside and clap, smiling brightly at him, and Lance cannot help but smile back. Perhaps he will put his lyre to rest and join you on the table. Perhaps he can offer you another drink or dinner, or, if he's really lucky, you will walk with him to the night. Lance remembers how you looked under the light of the stars.

He wouldn't mind witnessing it again.

"My apologies, dear patrons of the arts," he says to a group near the stage. He gets up, stretching his stiff back and flashing the disappointed people a perfect smile. "I need to fix this parched throat."

When he walks forward, you wave him to your table, and Lance feels his steps getting lighter. Tiredness melts to nothing, soreness dissolves, and callouses get softer. He waves back—

When a hand falls on your shoulder.

You look up, startled, but don't have time to react before Hadrian leans down and places a kiss on the side of your temple.

Lance stops walking. He sees your smile shift, morphing into another form. A different form. It is beautiful and gentle and filled with adoration.

You have never smiled at him that way.

You speak words he’s too far to hear, and then, you hug the other mercenary, pulling him to the chair next to you. Lance doesn't need to look at Hadrian to know the other man is beaming. He does not fault him. He would be too.

Wordlessly, Lance turns to walk towards the door.

"Lance?" You call from your table. He can hear the confusion in your tone.

Lance doesn't look back. He didn't know what love felt like. He realizes, now, that he doesn't still.

But as he dives into the freezing night, he feels something new, nonetheless.

Heartbreak.

Just that you could cut me loose

Rafael Borja nurses a stale, lukewarm drink with a perpetual sneer on his lips. He's drunk enough that he doesn't even care that his teeth gap is on full display. Honestly, Rafael cares little for anything right now.

He sits half-bent over the counter, not bothering to hide the hateful glances he keeps sending in your direction. Well, not yours, really. That damn nobleman who likes to pretend he's some dirty peasant as if this is all a game. "Fuckin' pretentious bastard," Rafael mutters as the other man puts his arms over your shoulders and pulls you into an embrace.

Rafael isn't above admitting that he disliked the Theers the first moment he met them. Both him and that sister of his. They have everything he never had – wealth, power, and even bloody looks. They're everything he's not.

His fingers tighten on his cup, and Rafael has half a mind to just chug it at the wall. "Goddam it," he curses. "God fucking damn it. It's your god damned fault, you Lord of the Heavens. Couldn't ya give someone else for arrogant bastard to toy with?"

Does it have to be the one who treats him like a person? The one Rafael has fevered dreams about? The drink makes his brain swim, and Rafael does not care. So what? "I'll admit it. I ain't no bloody coward," he mumbles, not realizing he's speaking out loud. "I like the damn Company merc. So what?"

His tirade is interrupted by a loud, musical laugh. The thief's eyes narrow, but part of him scrambles to put the sound to memory. It's your laughter. Rafael thinks it's the most beautiful thing he's ever heard.

Too bad you're laughing with another man.

He squints at you again and sees the Theer bastard whispering something in your ear. It disgusts him. "Can ya shut the hell up?" he barks.

The effect is immediate. "Me?" you ask him with wide eyes. Goddamn, Rafael doesn't like the hesitance in your tone.

But when he's about to speak, the fuckin' con artist interrupts. "I think you've had too many drinks, Borja," Alain says, having the balls to grin at him. "You should seek the company of your bed."

"The hell did ya say?" Rafael snarls, stumbling out of his chair.

Alain smiles wider and gracefully disentangles himself from you. "Alain," you beg, but he throws you a reassuring wink and meets Rafael in the middle of the empty bar. Even the barkeep is gone.

"I said." Alain lowers his head to meet him in the eyes. Rafael hates that he's slightly shorter. "That you're making a fool of yourself, and you should go. You're ruining a fun night."

Rafael's face burns with fury. "I'm not the on' makin' a fool of myself."

"You're right," Alain retorts with that godawful grin. "To be made a fool, you have to not be one to begin with. But alas, Borja. You're there already, aren't you?"

He doesn't think.

Rafael barely feels the impact of his fist on the noble's jaw, but he hears the resounding crack. Alain stumbles back, holding his face in disbelief, and Rafael laughs in drunken merriment. He'd bet this is the first time the blue blood has ever been hit.

"Rafael!" You yell, jumping between him and Alain. "What in the hell are you doing?!"

Rafael's smile slowly dies. You don't talk to him that way. You're always kind.

"Answer me!" You bark, stepping closer with fire in your eyes. "What's your problem?"

You’re yelling at him because of Alain. Because, no matter what, you'll never look at Rafael the way you do at the noble. You’ll never kiss him or fall into his arms.

And why should you? He has nothing to offer. He barely deserves your friendship.

The truth hurts more than the dagger the fake eye stabbed him with, but Rafael chooses the offense. "My problem?" he yells back. "My problem is you. You and your goddamn fake kindness. I don’t need your pity. I don’t need you!"

Hurt flashes across your face. Rafael hates it, but not as much as he hates your next look of disappointment. The fight dies in you, and you sigh, and Rafael will never forget that sigh. It's the sound of giving up. "Fine," you say, turning to join Alain. "Fine, Raf."

You hold Alain's hand and walk away. The noble smirks at him one last time before following suit, making sure to loop an arm over your shoulders to pull you close.

And Rafael is left alone with yet another regret to add to the long, bitter pile.

After everything I’ve lost on you

Lieutenant Vallen stares beneath a canopy of rain. The water seeps past her garments, coming to wet the skin beneath, and she shivers at the freezing kiss of God's tears.

Her hood is pulled all the way up, partially covering her eyes. Her heart-shaped face is as motionless as marble, and the rosy lips often parted in a confused pout, are pressed into a straight line. Vallen does not blink, her owl-like eyes completely dark in the gloom.

She does what she does best: she watches. Although, this time, Vallen doesn't only watch you. You're joined by another, both of you standing under the large archway of a nameless building. A small, feeble lantern burns beside your feet, engulfing the pair in a halo of light.

Vallen admires the way the light plays with the planes of your face, making it seem as if they're alive — small, slithering beings that cling to your skin for warmth.

The same shadows play on Alessa's features but Vallen doesn't find them half as fascinating. If anything, they make the other mercenary seem even sharper and colder than she already is.

But still, you don't seem to mind it. Vallen's round, wide eyes watch as you pull the other woman by the waist and lower your head to kiss her. She sees your mouths moving together and notes the parting of lips and the sliding of tongues.

She sees Alessa's fingers sinking into your hair and the slightly, contained passion of your bodies pressing into each other.

Vallen has never seen a more disgusting sight.

She loses track of how long you stay mingled together. Sometimes, you part for air, but one will pull the other back. Vallen finds herself smiling. She has never thought of Alessa White as greedy, but she will have to reassess her impression. In another life, another world, Vallen would have respected Alessa. She might even have liked her.

Now, the Red Guard wonders how the mercenary sounds at death's door.

Finally, you pull away from each other. Vallen wishes she could see your eyes from up close — are they blown wide? What do you look like while lost in desire?

You exchange words Vallen is too far away to hear and then, with one last parting kiss, you walk back into the inn by the side of the road. Alessa, to Vallen's surprise, stays behind and turns her eyes to the sky.

Vallen finds herself with a difficult decision.

She knows she should back away into the night— disappear and keep buying her time from the shadows. However…

She finds herself walking forward.

Alessa's eyes immediately snap down, searching for the source of the approaching footsteps. Vallen has to give it to her: she is not a helpless lamb. Still, she is no threat to Vallen. No one is, except for you.

"Who comes?" Alessa challenges when Vallen looms just beyond the light. Instead of answering, Vallen throws her hood from her head and steps within the halo of flame.

Alessa's shock has Vallen's lips tilting. "You," the mercenary says, putting a hand on her belt. "What are you doing here?"

"I went for a walk," Vallen says in a chipper tone. She smiles brightly at the other woman and then tilts her head up, closing her eyes at the weeping sky. "I like feeling the rain on my skin. It takes me back to my childhood."

She lowers her head then. "Did you used to run in the rain too? My father kept warning me it'd make me sick, but I never was."

Vallen can see Alessa’s tense posture slowly easing. She lets go of her belt, where Vallen knows she hides a multitude of knives, and lets her face fall to a stoic countenance. "I have not," Alessa answers coldly.

"You don't know what you're missing!" Vallen says, beckoning her closer. “Come! We can skip together like my friends and I used to."

Revulsion flashes on Alessa's face before the woman scolds her features back to indifference. But Vallen saw it. She's like everyone else, fooled by her poorly constructed mask.

All but you.

"I would prefer not to," Alessa answers, looking Vallen up and down. "I shall retire for the night. You may have avoided falling sick before, but do not risk it now. We all depart in the morrow.”

With that, Alessa turns to go.

"You'll lose them, you know."

Alessa stops dead in her tracks. “What nonsense are you spewing?” she hisses from over her shoulder.

Vallen doesn’t bother smiling any longer. "The one you love. You will lose them. You're already losing them; you just have no idea."

Alessa turns all the way around.

If Vallen was anyone else, she might have been afraid of what she sees in the mercenary’s eyes. But she's Vallen, so instead, she cocks her head in a curious tilt. "But don't worry. You don't know what you have, who they are. And that's good, you know? It'll sting less when they leave you."

Alessa takes a step closer, but now it's not the time, so Vallen matches it with a step back. "Who are you?" Alessa says very slowly. Vallen always enjoys watching it dawn on people how wrong they were about her.

"Wrong question." Vallen takes another step back. The rain washes down her face. "D'want to know the right question? Ask them about that growing mark beneath their glove."

With that, Vallen turns around and walks away. Alessa stands in stunned silence behind, and the last glimpse of her shocked face has the golden-haired woman laughing to herself.

Is that lost on you?

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Song: Lost on You by LP