Zahra hadnât meant toânot really.
How long had she paced the halls? She intended to leave and get something to eat. Maybe, catch a few winks of sleep. Enough time to chew on her thoughts a little more, before presenting herself at the captainâs quarters, like he was the captain, and she was not. Sheâd insisted he take it, adamantly. Wouldnât take no for an answer. She stomped her foot like anchors, impossible to budge, no matter what tides or arguments slapped against her. If anyone needed a comfortable bed, it was Cyrus. Or maybe Ithilian, if she was being honest. Stubborn as they both were, she doubted she couldâve put up much of a fuss against that stone-faced elf. He mightâve been the only one aboard the vessel as bullheaded as she was. That was saying something.
Here she was, mulling over the words she wanted to say so they didnât tumble out in an awkward, jumbled mess. Sheâd never been one for tiptoeing around heavy subjects. Better to let them pool out, unimpeded. But, this⊠was different. This was something sheâd never encountered before; not with her crew, and certainly not with any of her prior contracts. This wasnât business. This was personal. It mattered. A heavy sigh escaped her, as she halted and rocked back on her heels. Pacing up and down like a hound slavering after a bone, or a heartsick dullard. How stupid. She had too much to say. And certainly not enough breath to sputter them out.
She smoothed her fingers over the front of her tunic, steeled herself in front of the door and knocked. Once, twice, before jiggling the handle and letting herself in. Knocking on her own door felt foolish enough. Introducing herself before entering⊠no thanks. She cleared her throat, and glanced around the room, eyes finally settling on Cyrus. An unusual sight, bundled in sanguine sheets, with most of the gaudy, laced pillows pushed off to the floor. A stark contrast of pale skin surrounded by a swath of vivid colorâhues that made him look all the more gaunt. No doubt heâd been told not to move around much. She bet he hated it.
Before Cyrus had a chance to break the silence, she held a finger up, kicking the door with her heel, in order to shut it softly behind her. She sucked in a breath, and forgot all of her words; her practiced monologue, thanking him for what heâd done, what heâd almost done. Sacrificing himself like that. Her tone was louder, shakier than she wanted it to be, âYou. Youâstupid, selfless idiot,â with every inflection she swiped at the air with her hand, eyebrows drawn together, âI donât know if I should apologize, thank you, kiss you, or punch you.â She huffed and shook her head, âOr punch you.â
A hand raked her wild curls from her face, tossed about while she paced the length of the room, occasionally swinging a pointed look his way. She knewâshe knew well enough that it wasnât him she was angry at. She couldnât wrap her head around it, and it only frustrated her further, not knowing, not understanding why heâd done it. He almost died. For a stranger. Her brother, yes. Still. Still.
âDo you know how worried everyone was? If you died down there, if we couldnât get you outââ Her voice rose, breathless. Bordering on an anger she had no right to. What would they have done? How broken would Stel have been, if heâd never returned to them: alive, whole. Like he was supposed to. She crossed her arms and stomped her boot into the floor, halting in her mindless tracks. Lashing out like a child, in a feeble attempt to admit how she felt. Only then did her shoulders slump and her voice lower, tempering into a whisper, âYouâre important to us. To me.â
He shifted slightly where he sat, lowering the book in his hands to his lap. He'd adjusted his position so that his back was up against the headboard, and throughout her speech, tracked her movements silently with unblinking eyes. A little smile flickered onto his face for but a moment, perhaps somewhere within her repetition of punch you, but it was gone a heartbeat later, as if it had never been there at all.
When Zahra fell silent, he did not immediately speak to fill it, instead letting it linger, either by choice or because he simply didn't know what to say otherwise. Cyrus's expression remained curiously smooth, like a book opened to the first blank page, with nothing yet to read. He pursed his lips, then blinked once, the tiny motion almost reminding him that the rest of him could move, tooâcould speak. His shoulders lifted; a diffident shrug.
âI'm quite certain this is the first time in my life anyone has ever accused me of being selfless." His hands smoothed over the pages of his book without the assistance of his eyes, for those remained fixed on her. She couldn't read the scriptâmaybe Tevene. âI don't think that's quite the right diagnosis of my stupidity, for the record." That smile againâjust a ghost of one, at the very edges of his mouth, then gone. Wry. Self-effacing, even.
âI said, stupid, selfless idiot,â Zahra corrected quietly, uncrossing her arms. A softer sigh escaped her, the edge of ire disappearing all at once, as she rounded up to plop down on the end of the bed Cyrus inhabited. The frustration sheâd felt earlier seemed like a mewling kitten nowâgrowing further and further away. Out of her grasp. Sifting away like sand between her fingers. It had come out all wrong⊠even if it was how she really, truly felt. She wasnât even sure what sheâd even been expecting. A response? An answer? Maybe, nothing at all.
Certainly not this, whatever this was. She was tempted to reach over and close the book in his hands, even though he wasnât looking at it. Fingers poised on the pages, filled with sloping words she couldnât read. Of course, he wouldnât have been trying to get some rest. To heal, to get better. A muscle jumped along her jawline, teeth grinding momentarily. âYouâre more like your sister than you know,â she tskâd and slumped back against his ankles, turning her gaze to the rafters, before meeting his gaze once more, âSaving someone you just met. Iâm grateful, and pissed, and I donât even know what else. What were you thinking?â
The outcome was clear. It wasnât a wound inflicted just before trading blows; it was taking someoneâs place. Sheâd seen it as it happened. The split second before the plunge; the shove, the blood, the end. It was the closest she could get to asking why. Because Cyrus, and her, they werenât selfless people. Not really.
He tilted his head to the side a bit, humming slightly. Almost an agreement that yes, this was quite the interesting question, one worth asking. But that acknowledgment was detached, the same kind he showed when she'd put a riddle in front of himâless than that, even, for no feverish excitement accompanied it, no frenzied scratching of notes, no obvious frown as the gears whirled in his head with the breakneck speed of a man who made intuitive leaps like diving from a cliff.
âI wasn't." His eyes broke from hers for the first time flicking down to his hands, where he'd splayed long fingers across the parchment-pages, spread wide as if to engulf whatever was written there. There was a faint scar on his left perlicue; it probably extended onto his palm. Too old to have been caused by the recent fight. âI wasn't thinking. I just... acted." It seemed to be a vaguely troubling thought, if the crease between his brows was anything to go by, but the frankness with which he said it indicated that he'd probably thought long and hard about it already. Doubtless he'd lacked for much else to do, in the first few days he spent recovering. âI'm not Stellulam. I didn't choose to lay my life on the line. Not in that moment. My body moved, that's all."
Zahra shifted, leaning on her elbow instead, in order to face him properly. She studied him, quietly. His face, his expression. Sheâd never been that intuitive, nor any good at deciphering what someone truly meant. The implications that seemed apparent, baring themselves between unspoken lines; and how someone could just know what they meant. That ability had been lost on her, traded for a loud voice, and bullheaded grit. It was one of the many reasons she wouldâve drowned in the Winter Palace if sheâd been alone, surrounded by all of its games and intrigue. This wasnât the same, but Cyrus had always been a hard person to read, especially in these moments, where she understood so little about him. The fact that it may have been intentional, however, was not lost on her.
Perhaps, he thought no one would understand. In certain respects, he was right. But that didnât meanâŠ
She breathed out from her nose and tapped the back of her hand against his knee. A soft knock of her knuckles. âI donât really believe that,â she turned to face him once more, an incredulous wisp of a smile finally snaking its way onto her face, âBut youâre right. Youâre not Stel.â A pause, as she arched her eyebrows, fixing her gaze on his hand. Scarred. Maybe, a reminder. Another thing sheâd never thought to ask him about. âNo. Youâre someone who willingly let me drag you into who-bloody-knows what, with a creepy lord who spoke in riddles, and then, then you tossed yourself onto a blade to save my brother because your body moved.â
Another knock, âSure sounds like a choice to me.â
Her words seemed to crack the neutrality of his expression a bit, but what seeped through the breaks was unease more than anything. He shifted, a slight frown marring his face. âI chose to follow you, I acknowledge that." A heavy breath escaped him, almost but not quite a sigh. âBut that... that's the same sort of thing we do all the time. Anything we put our noses in could kill us, around here." Cyrus's gesture encompassed the room and no doubt those people aboard the ship beyond it as well.
âI'm not... I'm not willing to read too much into this, Zahra. It doesn'tâI've still done more wrong than right. Still chosen selfishly more often than not. This doesn't mean I'm a better person now, or that I've reached a place where I don't have to keepâ" He clicked his tongue against his teeth, searching for the right words with a look of consternation. âI still have to watch myself. I'm still a vindictive prat, honestly. I need to be better. The Inquisition needs better. Or at least deserves it."
There it was againâ
The ocean of history strewn between them like a broken bridge, and Zahra, crass and dull as she could be, seemed at a loss for words for once. How couldnât he see him how she did, how they all did? From whatever things heâd done, heâd improved himself.Become better, in every way that mattered. If they were alike, if their hands were just as dirty and he didnât consider himself a better person⊠what did that mean, for any of them? She knew that pull to his lips, however. He couldnât be convinced, certainly wouldnât be swayed by her words. No matter how much sense it made to her, this was a puzzle he couldnât force together. An illogical moment. One that warranted no forgiveness for prior mistakes, for wrongdoings. Just another thing the Inquisition did.
She didnât believe that. Not for a second.
It hadnât been inconsequential. Not to her. Not just another thing they did as Irregulars. As big goddamn heroes. They didnât need to do it at all. The Inquisition, and her problems, never aligned. Sheâd trusted him with her business, personal as it was. He almost died for it. If he didnât think he was a good person, then how could she think that she was? The burden, the smear, the shame; heavier than all the good theyâd done so far. That heâd done, and continued choosing to do. What of the prisoners? How angry heâd been then, wanting them free, no matter what. Her brows drew together, mouth falling into a sincere line. She wanted to say that he was mistaken, that she, and the others, thought he was a good person. How far, and how much, would it take?
She scooted closer on the bed, though she retracted her hand from his knee, âIf thatâs what you believe, Cy. But your friends, they think differently.â There was another pause, as she folded her hands in her lap, âYou know, Iâll never understand if you donât tell me. I⊠Iâm not saying you should, or you have to, but Iâd like to, if you need someone...â Her words faltered, rather lamely. The way he felt was valid, as much as she wanted to disagree, throw her hands up, and make him see that he was every bit worthy. Sheâd felt it enough times herself. Still. She was here, if he needed someone to listen. If he needed someone to talk to, as if he ever did. Stoic, straight-faced Cyrus, who couldnât see any goodness in himself even when he bled for them.
His expression softened, another sigh leaving himâthough this one was a gentler thing. Less frustration, more resignation. Maybe even acceptance, though of what, it was hard to say. Certainly not of her insistence on the topic. He could be quite intractable when his mind was made up. âI know." He nodded slightly, closing the book over. âI'm... I'm grateful. Really." He paused, studying her thoughtfully.
âAnd I'm glad your brother is all right. I'm sorry, about your mother." He raised a hand, as if to forestall an objection. âNotânot because I blame myself for it. I'm just sorry it happened that way." The hand fell back to his lap. âSorry you lost her."
It was strange now, looking back on it. How it still hadnât quite hit Zahra yet. Her mother was gone, dead. Alone, in that place. She hadnât even heard her voice after all those years, not even an uttered word. Only a breathless scream. She didnât know her anymore, and for now, she felt⊠nothing. Not really. She didnât feel the same way Maleus felt, having been so close to her. There was a detachment there, a subtle, lesser ache, mirrored against her brotherâs raw, obvious grief.
She didnât know how to arrange herself. How she should feel. There was a wrongness that twisted her guts, as if she had no right cry and weep, nor reflect fondly, because her memories were reclusive, and cold. Her lips pursed as Cyrus waved his hand in the air, deflecting any reproach he might have felt otherwise, because it hadnât been his fault. She wish she could say the same for herself. A small, guilty part of her still sat in her belly like a rock, reminding her how long sheâd been there, and how sheâd never tried to contact them before, âYeah, Iâm sorry too.â
She leaned forward and smoothed her hands over her face, taking another measured, even breath. Her voice wavered, but only slightly. âYou never got to hear it, but my mother, she had a beautiful voice. Like those old tales, about sirens carrying men off to sea. She used to sing this song...â She would remember, fondly. As many times as she needed to.
âOh?" From the way he tilted his head, the odd inflection to the syllable, she could tell he was asking more for her sake than anything. âHow did it go?"
With a curt laugh that sounded weaker, and a little forced to her ears, Zahra dragged her knuckles across her eyes, tipped her head back and sang.
How long had she paced the halls? She intended to leave and get something to eat. Maybe, catch a few winks of sleep. Enough time to chew on her thoughts a little more, before presenting herself at the captainâs quarters, like he was the captain, and she was not. Sheâd insisted he take it, adamantly. Wouldnât take no for an answer. She stomped her foot like anchors, impossible to budge, no matter what tides or arguments slapped against her. If anyone needed a comfortable bed, it was Cyrus. Or maybe Ithilian, if she was being honest. Stubborn as they both were, she doubted she couldâve put up much of a fuss against that stone-faced elf. He mightâve been the only one aboard the vessel as bullheaded as she was. That was saying something.
Here she was, mulling over the words she wanted to say so they didnât tumble out in an awkward, jumbled mess. Sheâd never been one for tiptoeing around heavy subjects. Better to let them pool out, unimpeded. But, this⊠was different. This was something sheâd never encountered before; not with her crew, and certainly not with any of her prior contracts. This wasnât business. This was personal. It mattered. A heavy sigh escaped her, as she halted and rocked back on her heels. Pacing up and down like a hound slavering after a bone, or a heartsick dullard. How stupid. She had too much to say. And certainly not enough breath to sputter them out.
She smoothed her fingers over the front of her tunic, steeled herself in front of the door and knocked. Once, twice, before jiggling the handle and letting herself in. Knocking on her own door felt foolish enough. Introducing herself before entering⊠no thanks. She cleared her throat, and glanced around the room, eyes finally settling on Cyrus. An unusual sight, bundled in sanguine sheets, with most of the gaudy, laced pillows pushed off to the floor. A stark contrast of pale skin surrounded by a swath of vivid colorâhues that made him look all the more gaunt. No doubt heâd been told not to move around much. She bet he hated it.
Before Cyrus had a chance to break the silence, she held a finger up, kicking the door with her heel, in order to shut it softly behind her. She sucked in a breath, and forgot all of her words; her practiced monologue, thanking him for what heâd done, what heâd almost done. Sacrificing himself like that. Her tone was louder, shakier than she wanted it to be, âYou. Youâstupid, selfless idiot,â with every inflection she swiped at the air with her hand, eyebrows drawn together, âI donât know if I should apologize, thank you, kiss you, or punch you.â She huffed and shook her head, âOr punch you.â
A hand raked her wild curls from her face, tossed about while she paced the length of the room, occasionally swinging a pointed look his way. She knewâshe knew well enough that it wasnât him she was angry at. She couldnât wrap her head around it, and it only frustrated her further, not knowing, not understanding why heâd done it. He almost died. For a stranger. Her brother, yes. Still. Still.
âDo you know how worried everyone was? If you died down there, if we couldnât get you outââ Her voice rose, breathless. Bordering on an anger she had no right to. What would they have done? How broken would Stel have been, if heâd never returned to them: alive, whole. Like he was supposed to. She crossed her arms and stomped her boot into the floor, halting in her mindless tracks. Lashing out like a child, in a feeble attempt to admit how she felt. Only then did her shoulders slump and her voice lower, tempering into a whisper, âYouâre important to us. To me.â
He shifted slightly where he sat, lowering the book in his hands to his lap. He'd adjusted his position so that his back was up against the headboard, and throughout her speech, tracked her movements silently with unblinking eyes. A little smile flickered onto his face for but a moment, perhaps somewhere within her repetition of punch you, but it was gone a heartbeat later, as if it had never been there at all.
When Zahra fell silent, he did not immediately speak to fill it, instead letting it linger, either by choice or because he simply didn't know what to say otherwise. Cyrus's expression remained curiously smooth, like a book opened to the first blank page, with nothing yet to read. He pursed his lips, then blinked once, the tiny motion almost reminding him that the rest of him could move, tooâcould speak. His shoulders lifted; a diffident shrug.
âI'm quite certain this is the first time in my life anyone has ever accused me of being selfless." His hands smoothed over the pages of his book without the assistance of his eyes, for those remained fixed on her. She couldn't read the scriptâmaybe Tevene. âI don't think that's quite the right diagnosis of my stupidity, for the record." That smile againâjust a ghost of one, at the very edges of his mouth, then gone. Wry. Self-effacing, even.
âI said, stupid, selfless idiot,â Zahra corrected quietly, uncrossing her arms. A softer sigh escaped her, the edge of ire disappearing all at once, as she rounded up to plop down on the end of the bed Cyrus inhabited. The frustration sheâd felt earlier seemed like a mewling kitten nowâgrowing further and further away. Out of her grasp. Sifting away like sand between her fingers. It had come out all wrong⊠even if it was how she really, truly felt. She wasnât even sure what sheâd even been expecting. A response? An answer? Maybe, nothing at all.
Certainly not this, whatever this was. She was tempted to reach over and close the book in his hands, even though he wasnât looking at it. Fingers poised on the pages, filled with sloping words she couldnât read. Of course, he wouldnât have been trying to get some rest. To heal, to get better. A muscle jumped along her jawline, teeth grinding momentarily. âYouâre more like your sister than you know,â she tskâd and slumped back against his ankles, turning her gaze to the rafters, before meeting his gaze once more, âSaving someone you just met. Iâm grateful, and pissed, and I donât even know what else. What were you thinking?â
The outcome was clear. It wasnât a wound inflicted just before trading blows; it was taking someoneâs place. Sheâd seen it as it happened. The split second before the plunge; the shove, the blood, the end. It was the closest she could get to asking why. Because Cyrus, and her, they werenât selfless people. Not really.
He tilted his head to the side a bit, humming slightly. Almost an agreement that yes, this was quite the interesting question, one worth asking. But that acknowledgment was detached, the same kind he showed when she'd put a riddle in front of himâless than that, even, for no feverish excitement accompanied it, no frenzied scratching of notes, no obvious frown as the gears whirled in his head with the breakneck speed of a man who made intuitive leaps like diving from a cliff.
âI wasn't." His eyes broke from hers for the first time flicking down to his hands, where he'd splayed long fingers across the parchment-pages, spread wide as if to engulf whatever was written there. There was a faint scar on his left perlicue; it probably extended onto his palm. Too old to have been caused by the recent fight. âI wasn't thinking. I just... acted." It seemed to be a vaguely troubling thought, if the crease between his brows was anything to go by, but the frankness with which he said it indicated that he'd probably thought long and hard about it already. Doubtless he'd lacked for much else to do, in the first few days he spent recovering. âI'm not Stellulam. I didn't choose to lay my life on the line. Not in that moment. My body moved, that's all."
Zahra shifted, leaning on her elbow instead, in order to face him properly. She studied him, quietly. His face, his expression. Sheâd never been that intuitive, nor any good at deciphering what someone truly meant. The implications that seemed apparent, baring themselves between unspoken lines; and how someone could just know what they meant. That ability had been lost on her, traded for a loud voice, and bullheaded grit. It was one of the many reasons she wouldâve drowned in the Winter Palace if sheâd been alone, surrounded by all of its games and intrigue. This wasnât the same, but Cyrus had always been a hard person to read, especially in these moments, where she understood so little about him. The fact that it may have been intentional, however, was not lost on her.
Perhaps, he thought no one would understand. In certain respects, he was right. But that didnât meanâŠ
She breathed out from her nose and tapped the back of her hand against his knee. A soft knock of her knuckles. âI donât really believe that,â she turned to face him once more, an incredulous wisp of a smile finally snaking its way onto her face, âBut youâre right. Youâre not Stel.â A pause, as she arched her eyebrows, fixing her gaze on his hand. Scarred. Maybe, a reminder. Another thing sheâd never thought to ask him about. âNo. Youâre someone who willingly let me drag you into who-bloody-knows what, with a creepy lord who spoke in riddles, and then, then you tossed yourself onto a blade to save my brother because your body moved.â
Another knock, âSure sounds like a choice to me.â
Her words seemed to crack the neutrality of his expression a bit, but what seeped through the breaks was unease more than anything. He shifted, a slight frown marring his face. âI chose to follow you, I acknowledge that." A heavy breath escaped him, almost but not quite a sigh. âBut that... that's the same sort of thing we do all the time. Anything we put our noses in could kill us, around here." Cyrus's gesture encompassed the room and no doubt those people aboard the ship beyond it as well.
âI'm not... I'm not willing to read too much into this, Zahra. It doesn'tâI've still done more wrong than right. Still chosen selfishly more often than not. This doesn't mean I'm a better person now, or that I've reached a place where I don't have to keepâ" He clicked his tongue against his teeth, searching for the right words with a look of consternation. âI still have to watch myself. I'm still a vindictive prat, honestly. I need to be better. The Inquisition needs better. Or at least deserves it."
There it was againâ
The ocean of history strewn between them like a broken bridge, and Zahra, crass and dull as she could be, seemed at a loss for words for once. How couldnât he see him how she did, how they all did? From whatever things heâd done, heâd improved himself.Become better, in every way that mattered. If they were alike, if their hands were just as dirty and he didnât consider himself a better person⊠what did that mean, for any of them? She knew that pull to his lips, however. He couldnât be convinced, certainly wouldnât be swayed by her words. No matter how much sense it made to her, this was a puzzle he couldnât force together. An illogical moment. One that warranted no forgiveness for prior mistakes, for wrongdoings. Just another thing the Inquisition did.
She didnât believe that. Not for a second.
It hadnât been inconsequential. Not to her. Not just another thing they did as Irregulars. As big goddamn heroes. They didnât need to do it at all. The Inquisition, and her problems, never aligned. Sheâd trusted him with her business, personal as it was. He almost died for it. If he didnât think he was a good person, then how could she think that she was? The burden, the smear, the shame; heavier than all the good theyâd done so far. That heâd done, and continued choosing to do. What of the prisoners? How angry heâd been then, wanting them free, no matter what. Her brows drew together, mouth falling into a sincere line. She wanted to say that he was mistaken, that she, and the others, thought he was a good person. How far, and how much, would it take?
She scooted closer on the bed, though she retracted her hand from his knee, âIf thatâs what you believe, Cy. But your friends, they think differently.â There was another pause, as she folded her hands in her lap, âYou know, Iâll never understand if you donât tell me. I⊠Iâm not saying you should, or you have to, but Iâd like to, if you need someone...â Her words faltered, rather lamely. The way he felt was valid, as much as she wanted to disagree, throw her hands up, and make him see that he was every bit worthy. Sheâd felt it enough times herself. Still. She was here, if he needed someone to listen. If he needed someone to talk to, as if he ever did. Stoic, straight-faced Cyrus, who couldnât see any goodness in himself even when he bled for them.
His expression softened, another sigh leaving himâthough this one was a gentler thing. Less frustration, more resignation. Maybe even acceptance, though of what, it was hard to say. Certainly not of her insistence on the topic. He could be quite intractable when his mind was made up. âI know." He nodded slightly, closing the book over. âI'm... I'm grateful. Really." He paused, studying her thoughtfully.
âAnd I'm glad your brother is all right. I'm sorry, about your mother." He raised a hand, as if to forestall an objection. âNotânot because I blame myself for it. I'm just sorry it happened that way." The hand fell back to his lap. âSorry you lost her."
It was strange now, looking back on it. How it still hadnât quite hit Zahra yet. Her mother was gone, dead. Alone, in that place. She hadnât even heard her voice after all those years, not even an uttered word. Only a breathless scream. She didnât know her anymore, and for now, she felt⊠nothing. Not really. She didnât feel the same way Maleus felt, having been so close to her. There was a detachment there, a subtle, lesser ache, mirrored against her brotherâs raw, obvious grief.
She didnât know how to arrange herself. How she should feel. There was a wrongness that twisted her guts, as if she had no right cry and weep, nor reflect fondly, because her memories were reclusive, and cold. Her lips pursed as Cyrus waved his hand in the air, deflecting any reproach he might have felt otherwise, because it hadnât been his fault. She wish she could say the same for herself. A small, guilty part of her still sat in her belly like a rock, reminding her how long sheâd been there, and how sheâd never tried to contact them before, âYeah, Iâm sorry too.â
She leaned forward and smoothed her hands over her face, taking another measured, even breath. Her voice wavered, but only slightly. âYou never got to hear it, but my mother, she had a beautiful voice. Like those old tales, about sirens carrying men off to sea. She used to sing this song...â She would remember, fondly. As many times as she needed to.
âOh?" From the way he tilted his head, the odd inflection to the syllable, she could tell he was asking more for her sake than anything. âHow did it go?"
With a curt laugh that sounded weaker, and a little forced to her ears, Zahra dragged her knuckles across her eyes, tipped her head back and sang.