A Pretty Penny

Tandred Proudmoore's knees hit the deck. A rough hand on the scruff of his neck forced his head down so that all that he could see was a flash of the searing sunset from the corner of his eye and his own blood trickling onto the planks. His knuckles were grazed raw and his ribs ached with each heaving breath. He'd not been agreeable about any of this.

He couldn't make out how the Ocean's Grace was faring, but he could smell scorched and burning wood, the acrid reek of gunpowder, could hear his crew shouting and the frenetic billow of sails being eaten by fire. Sailing close to Freehold's brackish shoals was the most efficient way to intercept unlawful traffic, but it always carried a risk. There had been a thick fog lying over the water that had cleared with the rising wind, and from it a ship had come on them swiftly, gun ports already open. There was a fine line between fearlessness and folly, and Tandred had found himself on the wrong side of it.

He flinched at another thunderous broadside of canons. Renewed shouting reached his ears, and the slap of the ship's boats hitting the surface of the ocean. He had hope that his men could escape, but it was a meagre one. Strong winds were blowing in from the north-east, the clouds hanging dark and fat with rain; they'd soon break on Kul Tiras' mountain air.

There was no safe port to be found for his crew in Freehold. The rest of southern Tiragarde was inhospitable cliffs, headlands, siren's nests.

Jaina could have whisked them away to safety. He was certain Derek would never have let this happen in the first instance. But under him, they'd founder or be dashed on the rocks, or worse. It was no way for anyone to die, and Tandred pulled at his bonds in an uprush of frustration and grief, his shoulders straining, rope chafing his wrists.

The man holding him down grunted and leant his weight on Tandred's neck, pressing his face to the boards until he could only breathe in shallow sips. The ocean surged and spray crashed across the ships deck, drenching him. His hair clung to his cheek, strands curling into the corner of his mouth, salt sharp in the back of his throat.

Nothing to do but cease his struggling or risk further injury.

"Ho!" called a voice that was far too cheerful for the circumstances. "Who set to?" And then a bellow: "Harlan!"

"Aye, Captain. At your command," came a reply from portside. Even half-dazed and ailing, Tandred was struck by the disrespect in its tone.

"Well, so much for that, eh? I said cripple her, not scupper our prize!"

"We've secured something far more valuable," replied the man, Harlan, his voice coming closer, avarice curling through it as well as ill temper. "An Admiralty frigate is worth coppers compared to this."

"My men," Tandred spat, trying to rise again with fury enough to make him shake, "my men's lives are worth more than—"

Harlan laid a kick to his bruised ribs, cutting him short. He fell to his side, breathless with pain, his vision blurring with it.

There was an admonishing shout from the captain. A pair of boots came into view as Tandred was hauled back up onto his knees. He couldn't do much more but hang in his captor's grip and aspirate his own blood.

"What have we here, then?" the captain said. "Is that all he had on him? Well, I have to admire his confidence."

The boots toed at Tandred's sabre and belt-knife, slung out of his reach along with his hat, which he'd lost aboard the Grace when he'd been hauled back by the hair and a cutlass put to his throat. That they'd brought it with them was naught but mockery.

"Careful, he's a biter," someone said as a hand caught his chin and tipped his head up, firm but not rough. Tandred got a look at the face that went with the inappropriately disarming voice. The captain had the manner of a man at home on a wild and hostile ocean. Red hair tangled and coarse with salt, a nose that had seen a few breaks, a mouth to start fights.

Tandred had seen Flynn Fairwind's wanted poster in the harbourmaster's office. It hadn't done him justice.

He seemed to find some entertainment in Tandred's scrutiny, and grinned. The setting sun flared over his shoulder as he leant in.

"Well, if it isn't the son of the sea," he said. "Captain Chesthair himself. Not quite a king's ransom, are you? But still worth a pretty penny, I'll warrant." He let go of Tandred's chin and frowned, rubbing sticky blood between finger and thumb. "Well, once we get you polished up."

Harlan, standing at Fairwind's left, snorted. He was a squat man in overdone dress who had an air of dull cruelty about him. Tandred knew men like him, how they operated. Poor choice of first mate. If Fairwind hadn't already found him troublesome, he likely soon would.

"Just throw him in the brig," Harlan said.

Fairwind straightened up, hooking a thumb into his sword belt. His battered longcoat whipped around his legs in the rising nor'easterly. Tandred resisted the hand on his neck to keep his eyes on his face.

"Oh, now. Can't have Lady Katherine short-changing us because we sent him back all dinged up."

"On the contrary. The worse he fares, the more she'll pay, and more eagerly."

Harlan caressed the swept guard of his weapon, then drew it. The crewman holding Tandred's neck released him and Harlan took a fistful of Tandred's hair, yanking his head back hard enough to make him gasp.

"Harlan," Fairwind said.

"Maybe start with a finger, or a toe."

Harlan pressed the flat of his blade against Tandred's cheek, the swordpoint beneath his eye laden with malicious promise. Tandred bared his teeth, clenching them so hard his molars ached.

"Harlan."

The blade slid across Tandred's cheek. "If that doesn't get her attention then his nose will."

Good captains did not build success by bullying their crew, but nor did they last if they allowed their authority to be questioned. Something was rotten here.

"Harlan," Fairwind snapped, as though to a misbehaving dog. That would be a jab to his pride, to talk to him like that in front of both crew and prisoner. And to men like Harlan, their pride was utmost. Tandred definitely had misgivings about this situation.

Harlan's mouth pursed under its oiled moustache, but he lowered his cutlass. "Being lily-livered about it won't get us what we want."

He swung, the metal singing in the dusk air. The tension on Tandred's scalp went slack and Harlan stepped back, tossing a lock of sandy hair to the deck. The wind caught it and blew it asea strands at a time.

"Oh, enough!" Fairwind said, more exasperated than commanding. He glanced up, taking stock of the weather, then raised his voice to the crew. "Get her into the wind, close-hauled on the starboard tack. I want to see that topsail shiver, lads and lasses! Harlan, you take the conn. Canty, get me some hot water, there's a fellow. And you—"

Tandred was hooked up by his bound wrists; Fairwind braced him with a shoulder as he staggered, then scooped up his hat and shoved it onto his head.

"You, my lad, are coming with me."

"You should have let me go down with my ship," Tandred said as Fairwind shoved him along to the captain's grand cabin. The ship heaved, timbers groaning as it shifted course, sailing close to the wind to bear away from Freehold and the smouldering, sinking remains of the Ocean's Grace.

The reality of the day drove into him like shrapnel. Tandred's stomach churned, bitterness rising in his throat whenever he thought on his men—how he should have been with them, valiant to the last. He hadn't even the meekest gratitude to have been spared.

Fairwind appeared to have not heard him, or chose not to acknowledge him even captain to captain. Tandred gritted his teeth and tried a different tack.

"My mother won't parley with pirates," he said as Fairwind pressed him by the shoulders to sit on a brass-bound sea chest. The great cabin wasn't all that different than his own had been on the Grace. Sparsely furnished, mostly utilitarian. No sense of permanence to it. Tandred's was bare because he was anticipating a new commission. Fairwind didn't strike him as the austere type. Something was up.

"Oh, I think she will." Fairwind crouched, soaking his kerchief in the basin of steaming water his crewman had left. In the warm glim of the cabin, his eyes were the grey of a storm on the horizon. "For the only Proudmoore brat who isn't dead or disgraced? You're her favourite now. Of course she will."

Tandred lurched for him, forgetting his bound wrists in his desire to grab him by the lapels.

"You keep my family's name out of your mouth," he said, voice low and with a quake to it that Fairwind would likely take as anger. Insulted, of course, that a pirate would speak to him thus, and not that he'd landed a lucky blow.

"All right, no need for that," Fairwind said, as though there wasn't every need for it. He made a chiding noise and settled Tandred back on the chest again. "I was going to let you sort yourself out, but seems your blood's still up. Hold still, yeah?"

He gave Tandred a pat on the cheek that lit him up with fresh pain—his teeth had cut the inside of his mouth at some point in this fiasco. He could taste it, still oozing. He thinned his lips but refused to spit, settling on a grimace instead.

Fairwind fished out the kerchief, wrung it and held it to Tandred's face to loosen the blood gone stiff in his beard, blithely unconcerned by his radiating hostility. "Mother dearest won't pay what Harlan expects, of course," he continued, as though Tandred was an old friend he was swinging the lamp with. "All of Tiragarde Sound is a bit optimistic, in my opinion. And Boralus, too? Well, that's just absurd. Eyes bigger than his stomach, that's his problem."

Quite the small talk. Tandred gave passing consideration that the man may be drunk. "And what is it you're expecting?" he asked, if only to see if he would answer.

"Oh, gold," Fairwind said.

"How much gold."

"Enough."

"I know your stripe," Tandred said. "There's no such thing."

Fairwind took no offense, instead fixing Tandred with a buoyant grin that made the corners of his eyes crease. "That's a bit of cheek. Can't imagine you've ever found yourself wanting."

He tipped Tandred's head up to dab at his neck. He had sure hands, rough with handling rope day in and out. In other circumstances Tandred might have appreciated the attention. Outside, the ocean thundered in the growing storm. The cabin's lanterns angled as the ship pitched into the rising waves. Tandred swayed with it, and thinking of his men, sank a quiet prayer to the Tidemother.

"Enough for the time being," Fairwind said.

"That might be a blow for your crew if they're expecting to become landed gentry."

"That's Harlan's doing." Fairwind cast the rag into the sloping water of the basin. "The things he says—they worm their way into your mind, get all tangled up in there like a nest of snakes. Has them believing the whole world is ripe for the picking."

"Thought that was the piratical mindset."

"It'll be a bloody shambles," Fairwind muttered. He tucked a hand inside his longcoat; Tandred was unsurprised when he came up with a hip flask. "Drink? Good for whatever mess your mouth's in."

Tandred had his doubts about that, but in his situation, it would be foolish to turn the offer down. A captor who was inclined favourably to him was a captor who could be negotiated with. Besides, perhaps Fairwind would untie his hands. He ran his tongue over the gash on the inside of his cheek and considered how much the alcohol would sting.

"Aye," he said, soft enough to seem cowed. By gratitude, maybe, that Fairwind didn't find him undeserving of simple camaraderie. But instead of untying him, Fairwind took his face again, fingers resting at the corner of his jaw, and lifted the flask to his mouth.

"Just a sip. There we go, there we… go. Now, spit, handsome."

Tandred sluiced his mouth and leant over the proffered basin. The rum was severely overproof and harsh on his abraided cheek, but it tasted better than blood. "Say that to all your hostages?" he said before he could think better of it.

Fairwind lifted an eyebrow. "Only the thirsty ones."

He gestured with the flask again. Tandred nodded then tipped his head back himself, watching Fairwind from beneath lowered lashes, thinking. This friendliness could be some kind of power play. A game between Fairwind and his first mate to secure his trust, even if he couldn't suss the purpose of it.

Fairwind watched him back intently, all the while his thigh making unnecessary contact with the outside of Tandred's.

Or he could just be flirting.

If Fairwind were trying to win him over, well. That could also work in Tandred's favour. Circumstances considered, nobody would blame him for leaning into it, as it were. He shifted his leg, pressing back as Fairwind held the flask to his lips again. That earned him the glimmer of a grin but not much more.

He took a long draw. The rum was rough all the way down and sat like coals in his belly. Fairwind only angled the flask, controlling his chin with a firm hand, pouring more into him until he choked on a swallow and broke away coughing, his eyes watering freely.

"Sorry about this, but it's gonna raise suspicions if I don't put you in the brig," Fairwind said as Tandred gasped for breath. "Harlan likes his fish to wriggle. He won't waste his time on you if you're out cold."

Exhausted and hungry, the rum whipped Tandred like a loose line in a gale. Fairwind's words filtered through. "Bilge scum," he said. His head felt far too heavy.

"Eh. Been called worse."

"No. Him." Tandred felt himself pitch with the ship. How long had Fairwind's hand been on his shoulder, bracing him? He blinked up at him, desperately trying to keep his eyes open. "Why are you doing this?"

"I just told you. Blimey, you nobles really can't handle your liquor, can you?"

"S'not fair and you know it," Tandred said, to a breath of laughter that was dangerously pleasing both to hear and to have caused. He wet his lips and spoke as precisely as he could. "The rest, I mean. The…" He tried to gesture with his hands, then shrugged instead. "Safeguarding."

"Protecting my interests. You're better value in once piece. All right, my lad—hup." Fairwind gave Tandred's shoulder a pat, and the room slanted as he pulled him onto his feet, one arm slung around his waist to steady his lean, the other keeping Tandred's hat firmly on his lolling head.

Tandred lifted his chin with some effort and stared at Fairwind as the cabin slowly spun. He wasn't sure what he was hoping for. Maybe some genuine truth under the flippancy. What he wasn't expecting was the tense set of Fairwind's jaw, the quiet dread in his eyes.

Fairwind stared back, voice dropping as though he feared to be overheard. "And because," he said, as sober as Tandred wasn't, "you're my ticket out of here, Proudmoore."

Tandred awoke with his face in the rough and filthy canvas of a hammock. His mouth and throat were so thick it took him a good minute to work up enough saliva to swallow. In the meantime he lay and took stock of each individual pain he was experiencing, from the dull, unfamiliar discomfort of his ribs to the keen ache of his failure.

With a quiet groan, he opened his eyes. A riot broke out in his head. Tides. The things he'd do for a mug of water.

The surroundings were dim and smelled as rank as the harbour in high summer. He'd made it to the brig, then. No idea of the time as the deadlights were shut over, but the hour had a particularness to it that made him think it was early. He tried to recall anything past Fairwind hefting him to his feet last night and came up blank.

He tentatively shifted. His hands were bound in front of him now, half-numb and cold despite being tucked to his chest. So he could piss with a scrap of dignity, he assumed. A courtesy rather than further pity. Less open to explanation was the matter of his coat. He wasn't wearing it; instead, it was draped over him as a blanket. He didn't know what to make of that, only that Fairwind seemed the type to indulge in such whims that took his fancy.

He lay a while longer and contemplated this strange kindness rather than contend with any of his other thoughts.

A sharp clatter of metal-on-metal knifed through his head and set it pounding anew. He grunted and lifted his head an inch, squinting into the half-dark. There, he could make out Harlan's red coat and the faint gleam of his cutlass as he ran its hilt along the bars.

Oh, he could sod off with that. Tandred screwed his eyes shut. A memory of the night before struggled to the surface: what Fairwind had said about Harlan, and fish.

Academy training, drills, sparring—Tandred had adequate swordsmanship skills, or so he'd thought, but yesterday had proven them all but decorative. He could throw down in a bar brawl with the best of them, but he hadn't the ruthlessness when it came to it. Both his schooling and his nature inclined him to compassion and mercy, but this only meant that against a rat of a man like Harlan, even if he weren't unarmed and with his hands tied, his chances would be poor.

He kept still but for the even rise and fall of his shoulders.

"Wake up, you bucket of swab water." Harlan ran his sword against the bars again, clanging like an old harbour bell. "Wretched lordlings. You're all the same."

Tandred heard the rattle of a key in a lock and the groan as the brig's door swung open. He stiffened. Harlan approached in slow, heavy steps, his breathing audible. The pommel of his cutlass dug into Tandred's side and he shoved, hard.

A sick sharp pain ebbed from his bruised ribs and spread, shivering like ice into his joints. Tandred bit the inside of his cheek but still a soft groan escaped him.

"Oh-ho. What's this now. Playing dead, are we?"

"I was asleep." Tandred's throat felt full of sand. It made him sound as though he were telling the truth, at least.

Harlan made a contemptuous noise and sheathed his weapon so he could tug off his gloves, something that raised a different kind of alarm. He yanked Tandred's coat from him and tossed it to the floor.

"Open wide," Harlan said, pushing his thumb into the corner of Tandred's mouth. "If you bite me you'll not look so pretty once I'm through. Understand?"

Tandred glared up at him, unwilling to veil his contempt. He knew where this was going, and if Harlan thought he wasn't going to make it as difficult as possible then he was a fool. Harlan's thumbnail dug into his lip, his face darkening further.

He drew his belt-knife with his free hand and slid its blunt edge against Tandred's pursed mouth.

The audacity of it as much as the threat had Tandred take a sharp breath through his nose. He tried to pull away. Harlan spat on him. He tilted his knife and left a shallow stinging score in Tandred's lip; its point worked past his guard and scraped against his teeth. Tandred took another quick breath, weighed up what would be worse to have in his mouth, and decided it was wiser to open up than to be cut open.

"There," Harlan crooned, thumb insinuating into Tandred's mouth and pressing his tongue down. "That's better. This will be much easier if you do as you're told."

He dropped his knife onto the hammock. Tandred didn't dare reach for it, but he kept his eyes on it as Harlan wrenched his jaw wide, jamming his other thumb against the roof of his mouth.

Something to focus on, and to think about, instead of… this.

Harlan leant over him, breath moist on his cheek. He moved Tandred's face this way and that as he squinted into his mouth, growing only more peevish. With a tremour of relief, Tandred understood what he was doing.

Well, he'd find no gold teeth in there. Harlan seemed to realise it in the same instant and let him go.

"Bah. Some other trophy to send home with our demands, then." He clawed his fingers through Tandred's hair like a thief running his hands through piles of ill-gotten gold, then scowled and laid a sudden open-handed slap across Tandred's face. "A lock of hair is too kind for your sort."

It was sharp enough to echo around the brig, but Tandred barely felt it through the rush of adrenaline. His blood pounded in his ears, shook his hands in their bonds. He glanced at the brig's open door, and then back to the knife.

He made a grab for it but Harlan snatched it up first. Tandred kicked out and clipped his thigh. The momentum upset the hammock and dumped him on the floor; he landed hard on his shoulder, rolled away, and Harlan—

"All right, what's this?"

Harlan froze.

"Just checking on our guest, Captain," he said, calmly tucking the knife up his sleeve.

"What's he doing down there?" Fairwind glanced between them both, brows drawn, fingers tapping against the dented enamel mug he held.

"It's where I found him."

Tandred got himself onto his knees with laborious effort, heels tucked under his backside and hands resting on the slope of his thighs so that Fairwind could see he was still restrained.

Tides, but he was feeling that slap now. His cheek burned.

"Get above boards," Fairwind said to Harlan, eyes on Tandred's face. More casual direction than order or reprimand, but Harlan bristled anyway. He stalked out of the brig and deckward, leaving him alone with Fairwind.

There was something miserable about how glad Tandred was to see him.

The furrow to Fairwind's brow deepened. He shoved his hand into Tandred's armpit and hauled him up onto his feet to give him the once-over. "What did he do?"

"Nothing," Tandred said with an aborted lift of his hands. He wanted to run his fingers through his hair, get it out of his face. "Just looked in my mouth like I'm a bloody prize pony."

"Huh." Fairwind was still eyeing him. "Lucky you. Usually waits til they're dead before he starts with all that." He leant in, startlingly frank in his expression. "You're all right?"

Tandred touched his tongue to the gouge in his lip. He was getting a bit tired of the taste of his own blood. "Aye, apart from my head. But that's squarely on you."

Fairwind chuckled low in his throat and brought his mug of coffee up to eye level. "In that case, make it up to you with breakfast?"

"Oh, Tidemother bless you," Tandred said. Then, with as much self-respect as he could muster after that: "Untie me for it."

"Mmm, nope."

"What do you think I'm going to do?" Tandred squared himself up to Fairwind. The captain was barely a half-inch taller, but broader, more thickly-set. Substantial. Quite capable of subduing a man, if he had a mind to.

Fairwind tilted his head, mouth and moustache turned down as he thought, then kicked the brig door over. He pushed the mug into Tandred's hands, and with practised efficiency and without breaking eye contact, unfastened the knots at his wrists. The rope snaked to the floor.

Maybe it was the last of the adrenaline still shuddering through him that made Tandred drop the mug and grab the lapels of Fairwind's coat, just as he'd wanted to the night before. It only made Fairwind laugh. The mug spun, dark coffee soaking an arc into the boards. The next thing Tandred knew his back was up against the brig's bars, his shirt pulled out of the waist of his breeches and bunched in Fairwind's fists.

"Full of fight as a banty rooster, aren't you?" Fairwind said, no heat to it at all. His eyes sparkled. "Waste of good coffee, that. If you wanted to stay down here with a bowl of watery porridge you only had to say."

Tandred sucked in a breath between his teeth. Fairwind's belt buckle touched the bared skin of his stomach.

"I, ah. Didn't realise I had options." He sounded distracted even to his own ears.

Fairwind slackened his grip then slowly let go. In the same gesture he smoothed Tandred's shirt down over his chest and stomach, tucking it back in with two fingers. The smug look on his face should by no means have been appealing.

"I see you, Proudmoore," he said, low and conspiratorial. He caught Tandred's wrists and applied gentle pressure until he let go of his coat. "How about we take this upstairs, eh? Few things we need to discuss, I think."

"Oh, aye?" Tandred murmured.

"If I could have your cooperation." The corner of Fairwind's mouth turned up. "Hands behind your back."

"You'll have to let go first, Fairwind."

"That's Captain Fairwind to you, sunshine," he said wryly enough, but released him. Instead of picking up the rope, he retrieved Tandred's coat from the floor and shook it out, arranging it over Tandred's shoulders with a tug of its collar. "Hands behind your back," he said again. "Keep them there. You follow?"

"That I do."

So he was to remain untied. A show of trust—but again, what did Fairwind think he was going to do? He'd taken his shot and missed. Tandred clasped his wrist in the small of his back and dallied until Fairwind, impatient, nudged him towards the door.

Tandred dragged his heels further. "My hat."

"Ah, your precious hat." Fairwind grabbed the tricorne from the floor near the hammock where it must've tumbled at some point in the night. "I'll look after this, if it's all the same to you." He patted it onto his head, tilting it rakishly to accommodate his ponytail. Tandred tried to identify the feeling that clawed in his belly at the sight.

"Oh, I see. Got your heart set on Fleet Captain?" Indignation wasn't right. Perhaps he should be insulted, but that wasn't it, either.

Fairwind gave him a long look. "Something like that," he said, and hooked Tandred's arm to shove him deckward. "Let's be having you, then."

"What does Harlan have on you?"

Fairwind took a moment to finish pouring, then set down the dented pewter coffeepot and raised his eyebrows. "Beg pardon?"

The cabin was dim, the lanterns unlit; the light from the portholes was the indistinct paleness of early morning. Tandred had shrugged his coat back on against the chill air and hunched into its collar. The wind swept snatches of a working chantey down from above boards. It was familiar, routine, but it was difficult to find comfort in it, situation being what it was.

"He's a piece of work." Tandred cautiously accepted the offered mug. Fairwind had sat him in the single chair as though he were a guest. It left him tense, unsure of himself, still feeling itchy from all the confrontation. He couldn't seem to find the right manners for the situation, so he spoke his mind. "You don't like him," he said, warming his fingers on the mug. "He unsettles your crew. Why else keep him around?"

"Aren't you a nosy one." Fairwind half-sat on his table, one heavy thigh resting along its edge. He was still wearing the hat. Tandred had yet to decide how he felt about it, especially when he cocked his head like that. "Maybe I owe him."

"Must be quite a debt."

The coffee was muddy and burned, lukewarm and strong enough to stand a spoon up in it. It couldn't be more welcome. The headache that had nagged at Tandred's temples since he'd woken finally receded.

Fairwind shrugged his wide shoulders. "I used to help pick pockets as a kid. Ran interference, played scapegoat. I was young enough that all I got was a slap on the wrist. Until I got a few whiskers on my chin, that is."

He scratched said chin, then took a sip of his own coffee. He tipped the mug and pulled a face at its contents.

"Then I ended up in Tol Dagor faster than you could say fresh meat. It's a place. Harlan looked out for me there. Can't help but think things would have got a lot nastier for me otherwise, young tender thing that I was. Anyway—anyway. Both of us were in and out for a while. Kept crossing paths. Rise up, he used to say to me. Rise up, you motherless boy, you dog of the streets. Rise up and sail."

For his part, Fairwind seemed wholly unbothered, although he'd clearly elided the grimmer details. Tandred supposed it wasn't an unusual story. He judged Fairwind to be around his age, though. This must have happened years ago. A decade and some was a long time to consider that kind of debt unsettled. Knowing men like Harlan, it had likely accrued interest.

"Not all that auspicious, if you ask me," Tandred said.

"Nobody did, pretty boy. I owe him, and that's that."

Tandred snorted. "A pirate who keeps his word."

"You wanna try reneging on someone like him? No thanks, mate, I like my face the way it is."

Ah, there it was. The real reason he kept Harlan around. Not just the debt, but the threat. And a fellow like Harlan? No way of knowing when and where revenge might come, nor who he might have paid to exact it, only the inevitability of it looming.

"But I've had enough," Fairwind said. "I'm sure you noticed that Harlan's forgotten who's in charge here. Every time we make port I lose reliable crew and gain some mean new faces. I reckon it's only a matter of time."

Gathering lickspittles, dallying with insubordination. Only one way this was going. Tandred's stomach sank. "You think he's planning to mutiny."

"There can be only one captain aboard. I don't want it to be him, but if I'm honest I'm not keen on it being me, either. If we were still just clipping coins and running contraband like the old days, maybe but..." Fairwind opened his mouth as though he was about to go on, but only stared off in thought instead.

"You want out?"

"Doubt my mother would be proud," Fairwind said. "So I'm thinking I might get me a prim little merchant vessel and try my luck freighting around the mainland instead. Can't very well saunter back into Boralus and work for the coin I need, though, so I gotta do one more crime." He grinned. "Sorry."

"Sure you are."

"Cross my heart," Fairwind said, laying a hand on his chest.

"Right. What's your plan for me, then."

Still with that awfully winsome grin, Fairwind leant over and topped up Tandred's coffee. "How much do you think you're worth, Proudmoore?"

"Bit uncouth, asking me to put a price on my own head."

"Fancy that, a man of my calibre being uncouth. Lucky I'm only asking you to apprise me of your family's coffers, mate. Promise not to deprive you of all your hard-earned inheritance."

He'd heard the sentiment enough times that it slid off him. Tandred had never taken a terrible interest in his family's accounts beyond what provisions it made for him to sail, and even if he had, he doubted he could come to a figure. He shook his head, lips pursed.

"Useful, thank you." Fairwind was still leant over, coffeepot forgotten in one hand. "You know, I'm hard pushed to pin a reasonable price on you, so far as my personal estimations go."

Tandred must have already become used to Fairwind's irreverence, because it was very noticeable when it wasn't there. Fairwind sat back, making ceremony out of placing the pot down. He cleared his throat.

"All right," he said, brisk of a sudden. "Let's get started then, shall we?"

He rose and drew his belt-knife. A knot tied itself in Tandred's throat, growing tighter as he tracked the knife's trajectory. He fought down an absurd sense of betrayal as Fairwind took him by the collar and angled the blade.

Fairwind hesitated, a frown flickering across his face. "Relax," he said, and had the temerity to sound offended.

Tandred found no wherewithal to do as suggested.

With a roll of his eyes, Fairwind slid the blade against the wool of Tandred's coat and neatly sliced off a brass button. He sheathed his knife, gave the button a toss from one hand to the other and then held it out to show him. The cabin's lamplight caught its burnished surface and threw the Proudmoore crest into relief.

Tandred felt his ears turning red.

Fairwind paid him no notice. "It's not proof that I have you alive, but it'll do to open negotiations," he said, tucking it into an inside pocket of his duster. "We'll be close to Boralus by dusk. Gonna send a couple of powdermonkeys to shore with my demands. The younger lads don't have their pictures up in ol' Crestfall's gallery of rogues and rascals yet."

"Your demands," Tandred said, composing himself under the guise of inspecting his buttonless lapel. He glanced up. "Not Harlan's."

"Yep," Fairwind said, eyes glinting. "This is where things start to get a bit dicey. It's, er, not a mutiny if you're the one in charge, if I rightly understand."

"I wouldn't know about all that, but I'd hazard it's a good old-fashioned double-cross."

Fairwind made a thoughtful noise. "Not so bad. My rep could probably withstand it, anyway."

"I daresay it'd improve it."

"Watch that, eh? Or I'll put you in the brig til you're ready to be good again."

It was easy to tell when he was amused. Tandred felt less so with mention of the brig. His mood slouched and so did he, leaning back in the captain's chair. It was long hours until dusk, and he couldn't imagine he'd be spending them all in Fairwind's company—although the thought of that wasn't terribly onerous in itself.

He was making far too much of some simple friendliness. He could only assume the circumstances were getting to him.

The ship's bell sounded out the change of watch. Fairwind seemed a tad disgruntled by it.

"Well, if you'll excuse me, Captain." Fairwind finally took the damn hat off, though he didn't get as far as returning it. He set it on his table in front of Tandred. "I have some duties to attend to before we can get on with the rest. You know how it is."

"Aye," Tandred said. "The brig for me after all then, I suppose."

Fairwind dragged his lower lip between his teeth. "Nah." He jerked his head in the direction of his bunk, set into a cubbyhole on the starboard side. "Can't imagine you got any proper kip down there. Knock yourself out. I'll be keeping Harlan busy, he probably won't notice."

Tandred looked over at the unmade bed and its tangle of blankets, then back at Fairwind.

"Suit yourself. No skin off my nose." Fairwind opened the door. Outside, the sea thundered against the ship's hull. The crew shouted and swore. He paused halfway out the threshold and leant back inside briefly. "Don't touch my stuff," he said with a wink, righted himself, and shut the door behind him as he left.

A key turned in the lock. As soon as he heard the deadbolt thunk home, Tandred was on his feet.

Fairwind's sea chest was battered but sturdy. Firmly locked shut. If he had lockpicking skills beyond that required for the crude padlock on the maze garden's service hatch, he might have stood a chance. As it was, he doubted he'd get anywhere with a cotter pin and some hopeful wiggling. Could be his sabre and knife weren't in there, anyway. Not that they would help him a great deal it they were, but it was the principle of the matter. He didn't rightly know what he was looking for, other than that. Anything that would afford him an advantage when he needed it.

A jab of hopelessness got him behind the ribs. There was nowhere for him to flee on this ship, and he had thus far failed to map his only ally's course with any kind of accuracy. His only escape might be into the sea and the bellowing storm that steadily encroached. If it came to that, between being leveraged to bring Kul Tiras to ruin, and the embrace of the Tidemother—

The thought was shiver-cold. He shook it off. Plenty of ways for things to turn, as the situation stood.

The drawer of his desk was likewise locked, but it was old and creaking and sagged on its runners. There was a substantial gap between the underside of the desk and the top of the drawer. Enough to force it open, given the right tool.

Tandred frowned and cast about for something that might work. His hand went to his waist, and his belt. He unfastened it and slid it from his belt-loops to inspect its decorative metal buckle. Might do the trick. He wedged it into the gap and pushed it up so that the edge of the desk served as a fulcrum, then threw his weight behind it.

For a moment he thought the buckle might bend, but the lock gave way with a crunch, the half-mortise clattering into the drawer as it sprang open. Tandred froze. It had sounded loud in the cabin, and some irrational part of him was sure somebody must have heard even over the thrashing wind in the sails, the creak of the timbers, the constant rumble of the sea.

He stood, heart pounding for a long minute, until he was certain nobody was coming to investigate. The possibility he'd be caught gnawed at him as he worked the drawer out as far as it would go and rooted around in its contents. Rolled maps, the dismantled components of a sextant, a half-smoked cigar—and something narrow and cold nestling under some dog-eared documents. Tandred pulled it out into the light.

A marlinspike.

That would do nicely.

He tucked it into his coat pocket. He hoped that it wouldn't come down to using it, that Fairwind would prove trustworthy or at least competent enough to get them both off this ship alive, but the less he left to the wind, the better.

It took some discipline to not start contemplating all the things that could go awry. Tandred sat on the bunk, heavy as though the spike was weighing him down, and put his face in both hands, fingertips pressing against his eyelids. Sweet tides, he was tired. The dull throb of his headache had returned. He let his shoulders sag, then slowly toppled onto his side on the bunk.

It seemed less of an imposition to stay above the blankets, coat on, boots hanging over the edge of the bedframe. He could take ten minutes rest, just to ease this weariness. He closed his eyes and listened to the ship's noises, the mellow rounded groan of her hull, the muted oaths and cursing of her crew. If he concentrated, he fancied he could make out the bright timbre of the captain's voice among them.

It felt as though he'd napped for only a minute, but when he woke the cabin had grown dark and the sea more tumultuous. Tandred's mouth was once again dry, his head percussively sore. It was a struggle to sit up, but he managed just as the door swung open. Lanternlight spilled in and chased indistinct shadows into the corners of the room.

Fairwind seemed perplexed at the sight of Tandred on his bed, or perhaps it was only the shadows the lantern threw over his face. After a long pause on the threshold he strode inside and set the lantern on his desk.

"Don't get up on my account." He reached up to catch and light the lantern suspended from the ceiling. It swung with the ship's heave when he let it go.

There was sarcasm to it, but more habitual inflection rather than true mockery. Well, as far as Tandred could tell. He stood anyway, just in case. The marlinspike shifted in his pocket, and he put his hand to it before he could catch himself. To his fortune, Fairwind was busying himself at his desk rather than paying Tandred any mind. He shrugged off his duster and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, then stretched back to tighten his tail. It hardly tamed the hair that had already escaped it. That, he pushed behind his ears.

Apparently satisfied that he'd put himself to order, he sat and rubbed his hands together and then reached for his pen and ink. His arms were like any other sailor's arms: thick with practical muscle, tanned and freckled, scrawled with thin scars and faded blue tattoos.

Fairwind glanced up. This time, Tandred was caught.

"What?" Fairwind said. "I know my letters."

Tandred supposed it was the better option to let him think he'd been judged uncharitably, though he had to wonder when his attitude toward this man had shifted from self-preservation to something like interest.

"Oh, of course," he said. "A worldly fellow like yourself? Didn't doubt it."

"Worldly." Fairwind dipped his pen. He scratched down a few words, then paused. "Now you're just buttering me up, Captain Proudmoore."

"Where did you learn?"

"Orphanage," Fairwind said, pen moving across the page in a big, looping script. He didn't seem about to elaborate.

"You mentioned your mother."

Fairwind paused a long moment, his pen lifted from the page, gaze unfocused, then shook himself. "I don't know what they teach you at handsome sailor academy, but us unwashed find it tricky to talk and write at the same time," he said. "How many Rs in Derek?"

That struck Tandred like a wall of water. His inhale was so painful that it took him a moment before he could reply. "Why do you ask?"

"Just corresponding with your old dear. Thought it could use a little emotional—" He waved his hand, as though searching for the right word.

"Manipulation," Tandred suggested. Hardly diplomatic, hardly careful, but his hands were in fists at his sides, clenched hard enough that his nails scored his palms. This was, perhaps, a necessary reminder that Flynn Fairwind was not his friend.

"Emphasis," Fairwind said. "I'll just leave it with the one. Looks about right, I reckon."

He flipped the top of his inkwell closed, blotted the letter and folded it, then went to tuck it into a pocket of his duster. Next, he might put his pen away in the drawer and see its ruined lock, suspect Tandred of all the perfidy was guilty of, and this already tenuous accord would be broken.

Then there might be nothing for it but the lethally cold sea.

He grabbed Fairwind's wrist without putting any further thought towards it. He was almost as surprised by it as Fairwind looked.

"Let me read it." An excuse for his behaviour, but also an entreaty. He could hardly bear to think how his mother would react, receiving a letter taunting her for the loss of a son only to extort her for the return of another.

And if Fairwind had mentioned Jaina—oh, not even the Tidemother could help him.

"Hardly your place to be asking that, now, is it?" Fairwind said.

His wristbones dug into Tandred's fingers as he tightened his grip. The moment stretched, dilated by the adrenaline shaking him, the heavy heartbeat in his chest.

Fairwind's clear gaze pinned him. "Course, your lot aren't used to knowing your place at all."

Youngest child, last son, forever in the shadow of his siblings and the monument of his family name—hardly what he'd been implying, but Fairwind would never know how right he was. Tandred made a grab for the letter. It fluttered to the floor. Fairwind jerked his arm up, breaking Tandred's hold, and both big hands caught him by the shoulders to slam him full-body against the cabin wall, jarring the breath out of him.

His forearm pressed across Tandred's collar. His unruly hair, escaped from behind his ear, brushed Tandred's cheek and stirred with his warm, quick breathing. Surely it hadn't winded him to put Tandred flat against the wall. He'd hardly resisted.

"What are you playing at now, eh?" Fairwind said. "Thought you'd calmed down."

Tandred set his jaw and spread his hands on Fairwind's chest as though to shove him back, but Fairwind braced his footing and leant into it before he could. It brought him close enough that Tandred could tell he was taking a... firm interest in the situation. This straightforward thrill of being found desirable ran headfirst into the fight-or-flight response set off by Fairwind's manhandling. It sent a shock of heat coursing through Tandred's veins. He felt himself flush.

Fairwind's expression faltered. He let out a sharp breath through his nose and eased up. "Come on then, mate," he said. "Are you going to keep on jostling me like a drunk trying to get to the bar, or are you gonna stick me with that marlinspike you've thieved?"

Tandred was too slow, or too distracted, to cover his surprise. "What marlinspike?" he said anyway.

Fairwind just grinned at him and gave his pocket a pat. Well, it seemed that particular jig was up. Slowly, he retrieved it. A sliver of hope taken from him, and so few left. Fairwind immediately clasped his hand over it but didn't disarm him. To Tandred's surprise, he guided his hand back to his pocket.

"You keep hold of that."

Tandred glanced up and caught Fairwind's eye. "You'd trust me with it?"

"Got a pretty good read on you, I reckon." Fairwind tipped his head down and looked up, forehead creased and eyes darting back and forth as he searched Tandred's face. "I don't think you're going to stab me in the back. Man like you? Too much honour. Try telling me you don't have a noble heart, Tandred Proudmoore."

"For all the good it's done me," Tandred muttered. "I assume you're going to take advantage of it."

"Absolutely. And you're gonna let me do it."

"What makes you say that?"

"You tell me." Fairwind lifted his chin; a motion that brought his mouth close to Tandred's with a brief rasp of his stubble against Tandred's beard. It was promise enough to make Tandred shiver. He grabbed for Fairwind's coat. Fairwind stepped back and Tandred followed, chest almost to chest, keeping in his space. They weren't about to kiss, but Fairwind's hand went to his waist and pulled him close and leant in as though they were.

"Please," Tandred heard himself say, a harsh whisper in the cabin's stillness.

Fairwind swallowed, and reached to brush the hair back from Tandred's face. "Not to alarm you, mate, but I haven't exactly hammered out all the details yet," he said. "You really want me to fuck you more ways than one? I mean..."

The rest of what he was going to say was lost in Tandred's laughter. "All this and no plan?" he said, trying not to be taken aback by Fairwind's honesty or his own. He found himself grinning for the first time in days. "You're the worst kidnapper I've ever had to deal with."

"Or maybe I'm the best one," Fairwind said, gazing at him moon-eyed. "Wait, do you get kidnapped a lot? How do I improve my ranking?"

"You'd have to be competent, for a start."

"Ha! You have a rude mouth for a posh lad."

"You robbed me of my good manners, if nothing else," Tandred said. He thought about Harlan, his contempt and his weaselly self-interest. He sighed, regarding the man before him and his lopsided grin, his features strikingly bold in the shifting lanternlight. "You'd have to be a worse person. I think you're doing the right thing here for whatever reason you hold true, and I'd not deny a man a chance to make something better of himself. Get us out of this, Fairwind, and I promise you—"

He halted, alarmed by the things he was ready to promise this man, a pardon being the least of them.

"Flynn," Fairwind said. He stepped back again, this time drawing Tandred with him, turning him with gentle hands, pushing him down to sit on the bunk. "My name is Flynn, and believe me, Captain Proudmoore, there's nothing I'd like more than to get us off this ship."

He turned aside and picked up the letter.

"So." He tapped it against his forehead at a slant; a farewell salute. "Time to wing it."

This time, the boots came off. Tandred cast his coat aside, lay down and pulled Fairwind's blankets over him. There, attempting to be as decent as he knew how whilst in another man's bed, he closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep.

Small fear of that. He groaned and turned onto his front in a bid to ignore the thud of his pulse between his thighs, but the unforgiving mattress only gave him something to press against. The bedding smelled inescapably of Flynn: liquor and soap and the open sea. Tandred swallowed, frustration gathering tight in the pit of his belly.

Not all hearts could be as holy as the ocean. His evidently wasn't. He was never one to ask for much; it was rare he wanted anything for himself beyond sail and sea, and never with such abrupt fierceness. He went up on his knees, leaning on an elbow as he reached back between his legs. His breath rushed out of him when he cupped himself through his breeches.

He ran his palm firmly over himself, knees sliding further apart as he rocked against the heel of his hand.

This wouldn't take long. Not if he let himself think about the way Flynn looked at him when he had him shoved roughly against one wall or another, or the way he called him such overfamiliar names while he did it.

Or if he thought about Flynn's hands, sturdy around his waist and pulling him flush. How his broad chest would feel against Tandred's back. The nip of his teeth at the corner of his jaw. The things he might murmur in his ear while they—if they'd—

Tandred pressed his face against his forearm and pulled himself free of his breeches with some urgency, and with an exhaled moan and a long shudder, spent himself into his cupped hand.

There, now. And what did he have to show for himself? Just faint embarrassment and a palmful of—well. He wiped the evidence off on the blankets at the foot of the bed, feeling something of a foolish sod. Hopefully Flynn would never know about it. He seemed the kind of fellow who wouldn't let him live it down.

Though, perhaps he would like the opportunity to weather his unguarded tongue and gentle mockery for some while.

Tandred settled onto his side and listened to the waves slap against the ship's hull, the creak of lines and timbers, the first growl of thunder rolling across the sky, and this time managed to drift into a fitful sleep.

A rap on the door jerked him into wakefulness, followed by a key scraping into the lock. He had his boots on his feet and his coat halfway over his shoulders before the door swung open. Industrious noises from deckside swept in with the cold night breeze. The ship lurched on a high chopping sea. Dusk was long gone.

A woman caught the door on its swing back; she was stocky and strong-shouldered, her damp dark hair bound back from her face. A cutlass rode at her hip. One hand rested casually upon its hilt as she leant with the ship's pitch.

"Captain sent for you," she said.

Tandred's gut instinct was to treat this with some suspicion, but that was the case with everything at present. Maybe it was unreasonable of him to expect Fairwind would do all of the hostage nannying himself. This must be one of the crew he trusted halfway, if she had the key to his cabin.

He tugged his collar straight and smoothed down his sleep-rumpled shirt. "Very well, then."

She gestured for him to turn around. "Under orders," she said, pulling a length of thick cording from her belt pouch.

Ah, so he was to be delivered to the captain tied up in a bow. Tandred would reserve judgement on that. He turned around as commanded, dutifully crossing his wrists behind his back. The sailor knotted the cord so tightly it felt as though it might slice his skin.

She marched Tandred down the companionway and through to the officers' quarters, and there, opened a door. A surge of alarm took him. The captain should be on the quarterdeck or attending his sundry duties about the ship, not dossing belowdecks.

The sailor gave him a shove and he stumbled into the cabin.

Harlan was there. Flynn was not.

Tandred squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. "Where is Captain Fairwind?"

It felt an age since he'd spoken with authority. His voice wasn't as steady as he would've liked. It wasn't that he feared Harlan himself, more the unpalatable situations he could devise.

Harlan nodded at his crewmember. She struck Tandred in the back of the legs with a boot-heel. His knees folded and he went down with a grunt, turning his shoulder to the boards to spare himself a broken nose. A fist curled into the collar of his coat, strands of his hair caught with bright prickling pain. Harlan hauled him up to kneel.

"I'm sure you'd like to know." Harlan's mouth was pursed as though he'd bitten into a lemon. He unfolded a sheaf of paper with one hand and shook it. Tides. Harlan must have intercepted the Admiralty's response. "Got a bit cosy, have you? I should have known. He always did have a habit of dipping into the merchandise."

Did have. Past tense. Tandred's heart slammed painfully in his breast. "Where is he?" he said from between gritted teeth. "Where's Captain Fairwind?"

Harlan crumpled the letter up. Slowly and deliberately, he stuffed it into Tandred's mouth, his fingers dragging against Tandred's lips in a way that made his stomach turn. The dry parchment leached the moisture from his tongue and made his throat convulse in an empty swallow.

Satisfied, Harlan leant in so close that Tandred could smell his breath. "There is no Captain Fairwind on this ship."

Tandred glared, steadfastly fending off the furious tears that had sprung to his eyes. He worked his tongue against the balled up paper, trying to expel it so he could demand to know what happened, to understand what had become of that disastrous man.

Harlan caught his jaw and crammed his mouth closed until he had to breathe in sharp huffs through his nose. In his other hand, something glittered. The button from Tandred's coat.

His stomach dropped. So that wasn't a reply to the ransom. Flynn's letter hadn't made it off the ship. Nobody was rushing to meet whatever demands he had laid out. Whatever he'd written was in Tandred's mouth, ink spreading bitterly on his tongue.

Harlan watched his realisation with an oily smile. The bastard—he liked to see the panic in Tandred's eyes. Made him feel important, no doubt. A small man, but one who was satisfied with what he saw. Harlan drew his sword, and with a strike as quick and vicious as a snakebite, cracked Tandred behind the ear with the hilt.

He came around as he was being dragged to the brig between two crewmen, the toes of his boots bumping over the caulked boards. Without ceremony and without untying his hands, they dumped Tandred into the cell. The door clanged shut and they departed, taking their lantern with them.

He lay there on his side in the darkness for a while, head splitting, saliva gathering in his mouth and eventually dribbling into his beard. He dared not spit out the paper in case he lost it in the dark; he wanted desperately to know what it said. So much so that his heart strained behind his ribs, hard enough he feared it would rupture.

Not much else to buoy him. If Flynn was right about what Harlan wanted, his mother would never accede to his demands. One life weighed against all of her kingdom, all of her people? Indefensible. Tandred closed his eyes and listened to seawater sluicing over the gravel ballast in the bilges, churned up by the vigorous pitch of the ship as it rose and then troughed on the rising waves. Outside, the storm bellowed like an angry god.

Had Harlan put Flynn out in that? Cast him into the bitter sea and lashing rain like so much flotsam? He could be drowning right now, as Tandred lay here. Or he could already be dead, lungs full of saltwater, and nothing to do for him but mourn. But if Tandred knew anything about grief, it was that it never reached the dead. Just tormented the living.

Eventually his arm went numb, agitating him from his self pity. With a sigh he rolled onto his front, then began to tug the fabric of his coat between his fingers. Tricky at first with the feeling gone from them, but by the time he'd pulled his pocket into reach, the blood was flowing again, skin prickling as he retrieved the marlinspike. Its weight sat reassuringly in his hand as he manoeuvred it, carefully, carefully, and pried its point into the knot of his bonds. Just like loosening an overtight buntline hitch. His palms sweated.

He worked at the knot until it eased and the rope around his wrist began to slacken. Just a little more, and… there. Enough room for him to squeeze and wriggle one hand free. The rope scoured the skin from his wrist and thumb but he barely felt it. Immediately he extracted the paper from his mouth, carefully uncrumpled its soggy mass as best he could, folded it and put it safely in his pocket.

The marlinspike he kept on hand. If a guard came down to check on him, he'd stab him with it. And then, after that, he'd—do something. Find Harlan. Stab him, too. Probably not, but it was nice to think about. He'd figure something out.

Something moved in the dark, a sound like a boot scuffing over the boards, and a low, pained groan emanated from the corner of the brig.

It sounded familiar. Tandred's heart thumped hard. He scrambled over, reaching out in the gloom until his hands found leather and worn cotton, a tangle of salt-rough hair. Flynn, here, alive and breathing and warm.

"Oh," Flynn said. He sounded groggy. "Proudmoore. Come here often?"

The man's spirit was truly remarkable. Tandred choked out a laugh, finding Flynn's shoulder and helping him sit up. He hissed and made soft 'ah, ah' noises no matter how gently Tandred tried to handle him. Harlan must have worked him over pretty thoroughly.

"More than I'd like," he said. "What happened? Harlan—he said there was no Captain Fairwind on this ship. I thought—I thought the worst."

"Well, he wasn't lying. I'm definitely not captain any more." Flynn sucked a breath in between his teeth. His hand landed on Tandred's shoulder and anchored there. "It all went a bit tits up. Thought I had those lads on side, but they took the ransom demand straight to Harlan. Don't know if I have a single man aboard now."

"You do," Tandred said. "You have me."

"Oh, good," Flynn said with fantastic sarcasm, then guffawed. It cut into a pained groan. His hand slid unsteadily along Tandred's shoulder and to the crook of his neck. "Ow. Sorry, no. I'm. Glad to have you, mate. Glad you're all right."

"For now, leastways. Can you stand?"

"Yeah. Ribs are giving me hell, though." He struggled to his feet, clutching Tandred's arm for balance. "Hey. Still got that marlinspike?"

"Aye. Here." Tandred found Flynn's hand in the dark. He turned it palm-up and folded his fingers around the spike.

"You beauty." Flynn limped over to the brig door. From the sounds of it, he'd shoved the spike into the lock and was applying as much finesse to picking it as Tandred had done with his belt buckle and the drawer. "Once we're out of here, things are gonna—"

"Get dicey?"

Flynn laughed. He was sounding rough. "You're getting the hang of things. Come on, you clam-snogging, bilge-sucking bastard... ah! There we go."

The brig door clanged open and Tandred felt Flynn's hand on his arm. Instead of sliding down to take a grip of his wrist, he felt upward, to his shoulder then to the back of his neck. Tandred found himself pulled in, Flynn's breath warm on his mouth as their foreheads bumped.

"Rowboats are on portside stern. It's a filthy one out there so we'll have to be quick and we'll have to be sure," Flynn said. "If we run into crew, we'll have to make a mess of them. How about it, Tandred Proudmoore. You ready?"

There was something momentous about this, with the unceasing crash of the sea and thunderous rain, Flynn's intensity, his proximity, the confidence he had in Tandred in this moment. The hair on his arms prickled, like a bolt of lightning had found ground nearby. This was a bond cemented; the kind that begs for shallow-cut palms, mingled blood.

Tandred brought a hand up to mirror the grip Flynn had on him. "As I'll ever be," he said.

"Then make a fist," Flynn said, pressing his hand to Tandred's cheek for a giddying few seconds, "and get ready to throw it."

They met a midshipman on their way up; Flynn cold-cocked him and stole his cutlass, leaving him to tumble about belowdecks. Above boards, tall waves crashed against the ship in thunderous cascades that left scars of foam over the deck. The air was thick with spray, everything perilously slick and shining in the meagre lanternlight.

The storm howled around them, snatching their voices away. The wind tore spitefully at his coat and his wet hair lashed against his face. Flynn was bellowing something but Tandred couldn't make it out, then he was pointing, pointing, grabbing Tandred's cuff and pulling.

Another crewman. Tandred barged him with his shoulder, sent him scudding against the ship's rail. His boots slid freely on the wet boards and he almost went over. Flynn yanked him onwards, shouting things: prayers, threats, jokes, he could be shouting anything, Tandred thought, then he saw the davits the boats hung from.

Flynn grabbed one of the suspending ropes and glanced back at him, visibly steeling himself. Below them, the sea churned like a foaming rabid maw, never a friend but an admired adversary. Waves reared up and slapped themselves against the hull. Behind him, Tandred heard a clamour of voices raised over the storm. No time to stop and think, no room to second-guess himself. He grabbed a rope and swung over the side of the ship.

Tandred heard the shot even over the squall of the storm. He felt it an instant later, thudding into his shoulder. Agony tore through him. He lost his grip on the rope and dropped like deadweight into the rowboat. It shook and swung.

"Hang on!" he heard Flynn holler.

His cutlass flashed. Tandred wrapped his arms around the forward thwart and held on with blinding terror as Flynn cut the davit ropes and sent the rowboat, and them, crashing into the ocean. The ship's wake caught them and tossed them about, freezing water slopping over the sides of the rowboat as it rode the crest of a wave and plummeted again. Tandred struggled to pull himself up from the bottom boards. Sitting up seemed an unlikely proposition.

"Hey, hey!" Fairwind yelled, and scrambled over to him, buffeted by the raging wind. He gave Tandred's face a slap but he was so drenched and numb he couldn't feel it. "None of that! Not going to die in some pissy little rowboat are you, Proudmoore?"

Would rather not, Tandred tried to say, but he couldn't form the words. He couldn't even manage a no. His shoulder burned, the only part of him that was warm: a fierce locus of pain. Was this how it felt to bleed out like a wild animal? Flynn was bent over him, his hands on Tandred's shoulders, shaking, then on his face, begging. Begging for something. Couldn't tell what over the noise and the pain and the cold.

Maybe for him to stay awake, Tandred thought. Might be letting him down, here. But he couldn't let anyone down farther than the bottom of their grave, and they were sunk. Surely they were sunk. Hie eyes were heavy, so he closed them and lost himself to the thunder in the sky and the water, to Flynn's hands pressed to his face and his invective. Decent way for a Proudmoore to go out, not that anyone would know it.

Or maybe—

Maybe Flynn would make it to shore.

Red spindles of sunlight unfurled on Tandred's closed eyes. Morning, then, against all odds. He was lying somewhere soft. Too quiet to be the shore, too sheltered and still, windless and warm and smelling of laundered linen, besides.

A bed. He tried to make sense of the thought, but it unwound like a poorly-secured line, snaking away from him the more he tried to grasp it. It didn't tally with the chaotic sea and spray and frigid ocean, the terror and resolve that had driven him into that boat with the one man he could trust in the moment.

Flynn. That jolted him into full wakefulness, sheets sliding over his bare skin as he sat up—ah. Not only was he in a bed, he was in his bed, in his room at the keep with its tall windows and seaward view, a great slab of morning light striking him in the face and making him squint. Sensation raced up his back, almost but not quite pain that kindled in his shoulder. He reached over with his opposite arm, and found it bandaged. He pulled them away and beneath felt only unbroken skin. Newly-healed, tender and smooth.

How long must he have lain here, sleeping that off? Long enough that the storm had blown itself out. Not long enough for him to feel refreshed.

There was water on his nightstand. He forewent the tumbler and gulped directly from the glass pitcher, draining half of it before he had to stop for breath, then finishing the rest in several long swallows. It was tepid and a mite stale, but to his parched mouth it was as sweet as spring water.

It set his stomach growling ferociously. He pulled on some clothes—trousers and a linen shirt left folded on a chair for him, and fetched his coat from the hook on the door, slinging it over his arm. The guest quarters were on the other side of the keep. A detour, but he wanted to find Flynn first. He could come with him to lay waste to the kitchens.

A smile played at the corner of his mouth. He'd probably like that.

There was a small, scorched hole in the back of his coat. Tandred's thumb stroked over it as he navigated the keep's long hallways, and then to distract himself from that, sought out the letter he'd tucked into one of the pockets. It had endured a soaking and the paper had turned soft and fragile. Tandred unfolded it with great care, though it still almost pulled apart along its damp creases.

The ink had spread until it was only partially legible. He drew to a halt beneath a large window with a stained-glass Proudmoore anchor in order to inspect what remained.

My Dearest Lord Admiral,

Oh, tides, Tandred thought.

I have in my holding a most precious treasure of yours. One of three, I understand, though you've already carelessly lost two of them. But it doesn't have to happen again.

Your last son has come into my possession, Lady Katherine, and I'm sure you wouldn't like to see him meet a fate such as his brother Derek. As we all know, it doesn't take a dragon to put a man at the bottom of the sea.

Truth is, I wouldn't like to see (Here, the ink had bled severely.) company, and has proven to be a fine (Here, the ink had been entirely washed from the page.) must have prospects for him. If I were more of a scoundrel, I'd have ruined those (Here, the page had softly disintegrated along a fold.)

In exchange for his return, all I require is a purse of a thousand gold coins, a seaworthy ship with skeleton crew, and safe passage out of Kul Tiran seas and into open waters.

I would rather like to keep him for myself, but my priorities are clear and my needs, as it turns out, are few.

With esteem,

XOXO, Captain Flynn Fairwind

Tandred read the surviving parts a second time, holding the paper up to the light in the hopes of gleaning more from it, though what was there had him giddy enough. While it was probably best for all parties involved that any detail on how, exactly, he'd intended to ruin Tandred's prospects had been destroyed—

Ah, he might just have to ask the man himself about that. Anticipation fluttered in him, spurring him along to the southern wing of the keep.

He found all of the guest room doors standing ajar, as was customary when they weren't occupied. Tandred stood at the head of the hallway and frowned. Surely Flynn wouldn't have been ousted to an inn or somesuch. Mother had grown cooler over the years, but she was not one to inflict the casual unpleasantries his father had been capable of, and as much as Flynn Fairwind was a ruffian, House Proudmoore owed him a debt.

Perhaps a misunderstanding. Perhaps Flynn had opened his mouth and Mother had immediately ejected him from the premises. In fairness, he thought with a grin, he couldn't blame her if that were the case. He headed towards the Lord Admiral's offices to have a word, or to explain, or, if it came down to it, apologise.

If nothing else, she might be pleased to see him looking lively.

"Goodness. Captain Tandred," came a dry voice from the office antechamber. "It's good to see you on your feet again." An angular man emerged: Bickerstaff, the keep's chamberlain, with a bristling ring of keys in one hand. He gave a brief, neat bow from the waist.

"Thank you," Tandred said automatically, tilting his head to peer as best he could into the rooms. "Is my mother available?"

Bickerstaff drew the office door closed behind him and locked it, addressing Tandred with his usual stiff-backed formality and equally inflexible expression. "Attending to some business at the Academy, sir."

"Ah, very well." So much for her fretting over the fate of her youngest. Just another Tuesday after all. Or whatever day it was. "Tell me, where's the gentleman who brought me to land?"

"Gentleman?" Bickerstaff's grey eyebrows rose to where his hairline had been twenty years ago. "Perhaps you mean the pirate who brazenly paraded you through Upton? I should think he'd be gathering an audience as we speak."

With concern, Tandred considered the many things Flynn could be doing to court such attention, but then Bickerstaff's meaning struck him like a swinging boom. He laid a hand to the hallway wainscotting to keep himself sturdy.

"The rope?"

"Indeed." Bickerstaff spoke slowly and clearly, as though he suspected Tandred had suffered some head trauma as well as being kidnapped and shot and all but drowned. He felt lightheaded enough. Everything sounded distorted, like he was hearing it from underwater. "His misdeeds are well documented by Harbourmaster Cyrus. By standing decree of House Proudmoore, he is to be hanged."

By decree of House Proudmoore. They'd tell him that before he dropped. It was an unbearable thought. The grim little square on the outskirts of Boralus with its creaking wooden stage and gaggle of morbid spectators seemed insurmountably distant, but he had to get there.

Now.

"Are you well, sir? You're looking a little pale," Bickerstaff said with some delicacy. "Should I fetch a glass of water?"

Disquietingly inane for the circumstances. Tandred didn't care for that at all, so he instead turned on his heel and, to hell with decorum, broke into a run. Bickerstaff's disapproving exclamation followed him, laughably genteel compared to a memory of his father bellowing at him to behave, tides drown you. Tandred rumpled the carpets on a sharp turn, clipped a corner with his shoulder and hurtled through the entrance hall and out of the keep, barging past the guards who'd stepped into the doorway at the sounds of his commotion, their pikes raised.

Outside the air was humid, the rain evaporating off the pavement. His intention was to belt along to the stables, but one of the Admiralty soldiers had brought a charger around for patrol, leading it with a hand on its bridle.

Tandred snatched the reins. The soldier resisted briefly. "Go saddle another," he barked at her.

She stood back with a salute and a crisp, 'aye, Captain,' as Tandred swung himself onto the horse's back. He flung her a grateful nod, pressed with a heel and wheeled the animal around. Dangerous to urge him into a gallop here. The streets were narrow and their surfaces cobbled. He leant over the horse's neck, knees gripping his flanks, and did it anyway.

Sweat coursed down Tandred's back, plastering his shirt to him, but he barely noticed, focused only on the pound of his heart and the thunder of the charger's hooves. When he reached a gathering of townsfolk he didn't bother to dismount, simply reined him in to a walk and let the crowd jostle out of the way.

The scaffold here had once been part of the old weigh house. Now the only thing it weighed was a man's life, though by the time they were stood here, they'd already come up too short to have any hope of tipping the scales in their favour.

Flynn Fairwind was no exception.

There was a bitter relief in seeing him alive, if not particularly well. He stood on the stage, elbows pinioned to his waist and his wrists bound in front of him. They'd taken his coat and his boots and his neck was bare of his kerchief. He stared ashen-faced at his own feet as the noose was pulled down over his head.

The executioner tightened the slipknot under his left ear and gave the rope a yank to test it. Flynn's expression crumpled.

Tandred stood up in his stirrups, unable to tear his eyes from Flynn's face.

He had never witnessed a hanging. He'd be damned if he'd start with this one.

"Stop," he tried to say, but the word sat in his mouth like a stone. It was a nightmare, just like the ones he had about Derek, about Father, about Jaina, where terror would collapse his lungs or dam up his throat. Where he would try to warn them, but no matter how he shouted, he couldn't make a sound.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. He had been noticed. Heads turned, no doubt curious what business he had here on a gala day, and looking such a state besides. Last of his line, ill-attired and indecorous, vouching for a pirate. This may yet break his mother's heart.

"Stop!" he called out again, this time his voice ringing and clear, commanding but for the slightest tremour. "That man—he is to be released."

Flynn's head jerked up at the sound of Tandred's voice, his distraught expression blooming into a terrible hope. The crowd parted as he rode closer, elbowing each other out of the way until he could draw up to the stage side-on.

The executioner, a granite-faced man with stress lines around his eyes, approached him with arms folded. He spoke with the appropriate amount of respect and not a jot more.

"Begging your pardon, Captain Proudmoore, but I haven't heard anything about that."

"You're hearing it now. Fairwind here has been absolved of his trespasses against Kul Tiras. He is a free man."

"If you could hand over his pardon, sir."

"The bailiff will have it to you in due course, but if you're in a hurry you can petition the Lord Admiral for it," Tandred said with calm vehemence. "Untie him. Now."

The executioner regarded Tandred with a hard even stare, then apparently done interrogating his authority, nodded briskly, drawing his belt knife. He cut Flynn's hands loose, then the rope that bound his elbows to his waist, and then freed him from the noose. His hair clung to the coarse rope as it was pulled back over his head.

Flynn stumbled to the edge of the stage, and with some muttering and booing from the crowd, the executioner unceremoniously heaved him into Tandred's waiting arms, manoeuvring him with a fistful of shirt until he was settled in front of him on the saddle.

Silently Tandred nudged the charger into a trot. He was unable to find anything to say, language being untrustworthy when it came to matters like these. There was certainly nothing he'd want the milling crowd to overhear, so he occupied himself with getting them away from the gallows, holding the reins one-handed so that he could keep Flynn steady with the other. His focus narrowed to the threadbare collar of Flynn's shirt, the knot in the leather thong of his necklace, the streaked dirt on the back of his neck.

Why didn't you say something, Tandred wanted to ask. Why didn't you tell them what you did for me? It came from a place of despair, but it would only sound like a scolding, levying blame on him for something that had been wildly out of his hands. Being the kind of man he was, Flynn had no doubt tried what he could, though all he would have had was his word. So far as intrinsic value went, being the kind of man that he was, it got him as far as expected.

"I forgive you for missing my trial," Flynn said, struggling towards levity. "It was a blink and you'll miss it affair, after all."

"Flynn." More abrupt than Tandred had intended, but he couldn’t bear to hear another joke fall from the man's lips right now.

He lapsed into silence again while they picked their way out of the crowd and into one of Boralus' wide market streets. Between the buildings he caught glimpses of the gunmetal-grey sea, the pale sky, the gulls that wheeled above. The briny air was vivid on his tongue. Familiar things amongst the unfamiliarity of the day, though still everything felt too sharp on Tandred's stripped nerves, more real than he could manage. He wanted to sit and curl in on himself, rest his forehead on his knees and just breathe for a moment.

Flynn slouched like a sack of ballast, the horse's gait jouncing him against Tandred's chest. Tandred felt a pat of his hand where it was curled in a fist against Flynn's midsection.

"Let me off, would you?" Flynn said. "I'm gonna throw up."

He slipped to the ground the moment Tandred brought the charger to a standstill, staggering back a step before regaining his balance. He braced his hands on his knees and retched miserably into the gutter. It might've been more polite to leave him to it, but Tandred found himself reluctant to break physical contact with him even for a moment. He dismounted, touched his arm, and when that wasn't shrugged off, settled his hand between Flynn's shoulders and waited until he was done.

Flynn straightened, wiping at his nose and mouth. "Ugh. That's better," he said, though he didn't particularly sound it. His auburn hair was limp and dark with sweat, face pale, his eyes bruised and glittering. He looked every bit as young as Tandred felt. "Sailed that one a bit close to the wind, eh?"

He pressed his hands to his eyes, took a deep, hitching breath, and grimaced.

"Aye. Too close," Tandred said softly, squeezing his shoulder, tugging. "Come here."

Flynn fell against him so immediately that Tandred was caught off guard; he had to grab him roughly so they wouldn't collapse together in the middle of the street. Flynn clung to him for long minutes, his face pressed into Tandred's shoulder, breathing steadily. Warm. Alive.

And in need of a bath. Tandred stifled a inappropriate laugh, instead drawing away and holding Flynn at arm's length to look at him. Flynn stared tearily back, a far cry from the man who'd stood over him on the deck of his ship with hands on his hips, hair blazing in the sun. Tides—how long had it been since then? It felt as though he'd known Flynn for months. Between imprisonment and unconsciousness, time had lost all meaning for him.

"What day is it?" he blurted out.

A blessed grin stole over Flynn's face. "Oh, thank the stars. I thought you were about to say something profound and I was going to have to cry." He wiped at his eyes again anyway, and made a noise like he meant to laugh but got it wrong. "It's Tuesday, mate."

"Fuck Tuesdays," Tandred said quite sincerely, and this time Flynn did laugh, bubbling out of him uncontrolled, his nose scrunching up. His hands fisted in Tandred's coat so that he wouldn't sway clean off his feet. Tandred laughed along with him just as wildly, clasping his elbows to keep them both steady.

"Ah," Flynn said, catching his breath. "Thank you. Thank you."

Tandred took his face in both hands, his hair a rough tangle against his palms, and pressed his forehead to Flynn's. "I wouldn't let that happen to you," he whispered fiercely.

Flynn's laughter subsided into a shuddering sigh; he only nodded, as if he didn't how else to respond. Tandred decided any further breakdowns should be done somewhere more private. It didn't take much to hitch him back onto the horse, but he seemed to have regained some stability overall, so Tandred held the reins with both hands either side of him, forearms bracketing his waist.

"I just thought," Flynn said as they reached the outskirts of the market and headed toward Upton. "Like mother like son, you know? Figured it was—it was just how it was gonna be. I kept thinking, is this how she felt? One last way to remember her. Poetic, I suppose, if you want to think about it like that."

"I don't want to think about it like that," Tandred said. "Or at all."

"Yeah, no, me neither, but I don't seem to have much choice in the matter." Flynn shifted on the saddle. "My day being how it was."

"Tell me about a different day, then. A better one."

He'd wanted to shift him onto a different tack, but Flynn just went on. "I mean, think of all the better ways I could go out. I could dramatically pitch overboard during some swashbuckling heroics. Or be attractively but fatally wounded in the heat of battle. Or run through by a jealous rival after stealing their lover away—"

"I'm single," Tandred said, caring little for the implications at this point.

Flynn twisted around to look over his shoulder, eyeing the flush Tandred knew must be spreading up his neck.

"I suppose I could succumb to some alcohol poisoning," he said, some of the bleakness lifting from him. Amusement danced across his face as he turned to sit forward in the saddle again. "If you'll let me buy you a drink. Hey, so, er… I can't help but notice where we're headed."

"Aye. I'm taking you home with me." Heat struck Tandred's cheeks with the intensity of a midsummer's bonfire. If Flynn turned around and looked at him again, he feared he would have no recourse but to kiss him.

But Flynn didn't. He was quiet for a moment, then said, "Those are words I like to hear in most circumstances, but are you sure that's a good idea?"

Tandred was cleared-eyed about this. Taking Flynn to the keep would be like taking a lit candle into a powderworks, but he'd never shied away from causing a scene. "Not really, but I'm hardly going to leave you to fend for yourself."

"Ah, noblesse oblige."

"Don't start with that."

He felt the low rumble of a laugh where Flynn's back was pressed against his chest. It was buoying. Tandred wanted nothing more than to field more of his sly remarks, and was partway through composing something that would leave him open to some merciless teasing as they rounded the corner into the square.

Well, perhaps it would have to wait.

Lady Katherine stood on the steps of the keep, immaculately coiffed and resplendent in full uniform, her hands clasped behind her back and a tremendous frown on her face. A dozen of the Admiralty's elite guard flanked her.

News travelled fast, evidently. Still, a bit overkill in Tandred's opinion.

He drew the charger to a halt and dismounted, resisting the urge to smooth down his breeches. Even if he could make himself presentable, he doubted it would ameliorate the situation. He looked up at Flynn still perched on the charger, and patted his knee. "Stay here. I'll take care of the welcome party."

Flynn arched an eyebrow down at him, and Tandred knew he wasn't going to do as he was told. Sure enough, as soon as he turned his back, he heard him slither from the saddle.

"Tandred Proudmoore," his mother said in clipped tones.

Sounded like his reprimand wasn't going to be quite on par with the time she had to bail him out of the drunk tank at three in the morn after inciting a brawl at the Salt and Shanty, but probably worse than the time she'd seen the state of his first tattoo.

"Lord Admiral." Tandred smartly saluted.

This didn't elicit even the slightest roll of her eyes. That didn't bode well. Instead, she fixed him with a narrow look. "Exactly what is it you think you're doing?"

Tandred reassessed the level of chewing out he was about to receive, and decided he couldn't make it any worse.

"I do live here. I'm allowed a guest now and then, aren't I?"

"Don't test me, Tandred." And there was the raised voice. That was him scrubbing out the fleet's bilges for a month, then.

"Oops." Flynn, at his side. He hung on Tandred's aching shoulder until Tandred caught him about the waist and took some of his weight, at which point he leant into him twice as heavily. He pitched his voice in a low, loud whisper. "Thar she blows."

"Don't speak about my mother like that," Tandred said under his breath.

"I would like a word with you," his mother said, having somewhat regained her poise. "In my office. Privately."

"Oh, I think you're in the shit, mate," Flynn whispered.

"Aye, no thanks to you," Tandred muttered with halfhearted reproach. He gave Flynn's side a pinch, then had to catch him as he buckled at the knees, cackling. He sounded drunk, though it was likely he was just coming out of the other side of exhausted; that strange liminal headspace familiar from long hours on middle watch. Tandred was feeling similarly punchy himself.

He glanced up to see if his mother was marking the exchange. She very much was. He offered her a placating smile to no avail, and he had a sudden and exhilarating glimpse of how much aggravation he was about to cause. His let his smile grow, until eventually she sighed and brought a resigned hand to her forehead.

"Put him in a room somewhere," she said to the guard on her left, gesturing towards Flynn. She strode into the keep without waiting to see if Tandred would dutifully follow.

Her mistake. Tandred intercepted the guard as he approached. "Put him in my rooms."

The guard shot a concerned glance at the keep entrance, but found himself alone with Tandred's authority. With a clank of armour and a reluctant salute, he attempted to escort Flynn away. Flynn's hand tightened on Tandred's arm, his expression foundering.

"I'll be there as soon as I take care of this," Tandred said, gently prying Flynn's fingers from his sleeve. While his humour had resurfaced, he was still disarmed of his brash confidence. Tandred gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

"Best make it quick." Flynn squeezed back and brought their heads together briefly, temple to temple, turning as they pulled apart again so his nose brushed Tandred's cheek. "Or I'm gonna touch all your stuff."

Anaemic sunlight filtered through the smudged leaded windows of the Admiral's offices, brightening the flitting dust motes in the room and casting indistinct shadows. The offices, both now and as they featured in Tandred's memories of his youth, had always been a dim and claustrophobic affair. A place for arguments, scoldings, dressing-downs.

"You have come dangerously close to setting a precedent. Lady Ashvane has already sent a missive quite directly enquiring about House Proudmoore's stance on piracy. As it stands, I expect we'll have people dashing in to interrupt hangings left right and centre."

His mother's voice suited the wood-panelled severity of her office. She leant with one hand on her desk, the other fisted at her hip, and stared with intensity at the desk blotter as she spoke. The golden fringe of her epaulettes shivered with the tension in her frame. Tandred could sense how much she wanted to pace.

Temper, Katherine, father had always said, whilst losing his own.

Tandred pushed a hand through his hair. While not nervous, exactly, the disappointment rolling off her made it difficult not to fidget. Or to be reflexively lippy.

"Maybe we should hang fewer people, then," he said.

"You can rule on that when you're Lord Admiral, which will be sooner rather than later if you keep this up. You're going to be the death of me."

"Oh, don't say things like that."

She looked up at him, the lines around her mouth tight with with fond reproach. "I don't mind if you bring people home, Tandred, but..." she trailed off, somewhat indecorously slumping into the large carved chair behind her desk. "But please."

"I know how it seems." He knew she'd see only Flynn's rough edges, his survivalist's creed. She didn't see the rest. "But he's not like—"

"—not like other pirates?"

"He's done right by me," Tandred insisted. "I wouldn't be here to cause a furore if he hadn't."

She gave him exactly the look he deserved for that, then gestured for him to offer further protestations on Flynn's behalf.

Well, he did have something.

He slipped his hand inside his coat and retrieved the letter. It felt as delicate as ever, and he unfolded it with preciousness. His mother watched the process interrogatively, a line forming between her brow as he laid it on the desk in front of her.

Her frown progressively deepened as she read. "You know," she said abruptly, "Lucille Waycrest has been asking after you. You could have made more of an effort."

Ah. Prospects. Tandred let the silence stretch a bit before replying.

"Lady Lucille is a charming and capable woman," he said, because it was true. "Very respectable." This was also true. "Perhaps I'll ask her to dance at Norwington's this Winter Veil." This, less so.

His mother looked at him the way she had when he'd been fourteen and caught making eyes at one of the older stable boys. He shrugged instead of saying something difficult just for the sake of it. Sometimes he felt as though he were a crisis that would never be resolved to her satisfaction.

Realising that was all she was to get from him, she rested her elbow on the arm of the chair, her hand pressed to her mouth. It couldn't disguise the waver to her voice, nor the plaintive cast to her brow.

"This is barely a ransom demand," she said.

"I know."

"Why isn't it?"

"Because," Tandred said.

"Tandred, it's practically—"

"I know how it reads."

His mother sat very still, staring at the letter on her desk as though it were a jellyfish washed up at high tide, fit only to be poked with a stick.

"Why must you always be so difficult?" she eventually said.

"My upbringing, I suppose."

Reaching for her pen, she sighed in the way she did when Tandred was being more amusing than annoying, but still more annoying than she'd prefer. "And every time, I yield. Being the only child has made me spoil you."

"I've never been an only child, mother." He said this with, in his estimation, remarkable diplomacy.

"No," she said softly, setting pen to paper. "I suppose not." The scratch of the nib against parchment became all that was left of that conversation. It settled into a rhythm as she drafted—three messages, in all. She rolled and sealed one of them and set it aside, then carefully folded the other two, sharpening the creases with the blade of a letter-opener.

She stood and came around her desk, and with unexpected fierceness, she caught Tandred in an embrace. He brought his hands up in surprise; for want of any other response, he gently patted her on the back. It made him notice his own back was tender, aching with a muted throb.

She rested her chin on his good shoulder. "My boy," she said, voice thick with a grief that she must have been carefully schooling all along. "I'm glad you're safe."

Tandred swallowed the knot that had risen in his throat. Never did this family feel the wedges between them more than when they were hurting. He let himself relax into the hug. "I was looked after. I'm all right, Mother."

"I wish the same could be said for me. I had no choice but to believe that—oh, that was it, all four of you, gone." She stepped back, dabbing at her eyes, and after a moment of self-consciously tending to her hair, held out the papers. "A pardon," she said, regaining some of her steel. "And a letter of marque. This Flynn Fairwind is accountable to you first and foremost, and so help you both if—"

"Thank you," Tandred broke in, past comporting himself well and riding on the relief of having secured Flynn's safety—at least from the Admiralty's wrath. He had no doubt the man had chalked up any number of additional foes. He took her narrow hands in his, papers and all. "You'll not have cause to regret it. I promise you."

"I wish I had your confidence," she said. Then, despairingly, "Oh, a pirate, Tandred?"

He should be more cautious. Flynn was the kind of man whose promises could easily be made of smoke, but truth was Tandred hadn't a care. He'd risk the proverbial fire. He carefully folded up the letter and returned it to the breast pocket of his coat, and laid his hand over it as though to make a pledge.

"I'll have none other," he said.

His mother took him by the face, raised her eyebrows beseechingly and, ignoring his foolish smile, said with great emphasis, "Then at least, for the love of all things, get him cleaned up."

Tandred opened the door to his rooms and found Flynn climbing halfway out of the window, one hand braced on the frame and the other fighting off a gentle accosting from the billowing drapes. He appeared to be giving fair consideration to the substantial distance between himself and the keep grounds.

"It's quite a drop," Tandred said.

Flynn shot a somewhat harried look over his shoulder, surveying the room behind Tandred more than Tandred himself. "There's guards on the door. I'd rather take my chances with the shrubbery."

"They've been dismissed." Tandred caught his arm and drew him back until he had both feet on the floor again, planted one after the other with a wobble. "I thought you'd want to sleep. Where were you going to go?"

"Just needed some air," Flynn said, not quite blithe enough. "Evening constitutional, you know. You look awful, mate. How long did you get shored for?"

"I talked my way out of it."

"Well, at least one of us managed that today."

There was a brittle edge to him that was concerning, but if there was a surefire way to guide a man back to steadfast currents, Tandred didn't know it. They were both in uncharted waters here. He cupped Flynn's cheek in the hopes that it would help, and Flynn leant into it as instantly as he had in the street, curling both hands over Tandred's nape and bringing their foreheads together.

The tension flowed out of him on a long exhale, his shoulders relaxing.

For a moment this was all there was in the world: his slow breathing, his clear grey eyes, skin lit bright by the sun from the window, the fan of shadow his lashes cast over his freckled cheeks—until Tandred mirrored the gesture, and was reminded how gritty the back of his neck was.

The time for delicacy had probably passed, but he felt he should lead in gently anyway. "I sent for food, if you're hungry," he murmured.

A yearning sigh. "Starved."

"While we wait, I'm going to run you a bath. And then I'm going to put you in it. No offense intended, mate, but I'll hear no complaining either."

Flynn's eyes squinted in quiet amusement. "And so you'll hear none from me," he said, as Tandred led him into the adjoining bathroom with its painted plank walls and narrow stained-glass window, the clawfoot tub with brass fittings. He glanced at Flynn to gauge his reaction.

"I already had a snoop around. Beats an old washtub in front of the fire."

There was no small amount of envy in his tone. Tandred set the water running, and with his rigger's knife scraped in a bit of soap to generate some bubbles. It was something of a luxury. Certainly compared to being asea, where a bucket of saltwater over the head was all a sailor could expect. He'd take that as the preferable option, if it meant they were out there on the ocean together. Just the snap of canvas and the timbers singing, the Tidemother whispering to them through the foam. That felt more like it would set them both to rights.

Perhaps he had been thinking loudly enough to be overheard, because Flynn shifted on his feet. "You know," he said. "I don't think I can stay here."

One last curl of soap, thin enough to be almost transparent. Tandred shook it off the blade and watched it dissolve in the steaming water.

"You can if you want." At the keep, in Boralus itself, or—with him. Whichever he meant. Tandred gave the water a stir while he fended off the desire to press him on it. "But you don't have to, if you don't want to."

He straightened and dried his hand on the tail of his coat. Might as well do this now. He untucked the papers from an inside pocket and gravely offered them to him.

Flynn gave him a look with plenty of raised eyebrow in it, though wasted no time in unfolding them to read.

"If you want to leave, start over somewhere else, nobody can stop you." Tandred tried not to sound particularly injured at the idea, though wasn't certain how successful he'd been. "But at least let me thank you for bringing me home. And for risking—"

Yourself. For me. He glared at the floor, blinking as he fought with the rest of what he wanted to say.

"For risking it," he managed.

"Ah, you'd have done the same." Seemed Flynn could be irreverent every which way, but at this point it was more bearable than sincerity would have been. He looked up from his reading. "In fact, can't imagine your dramatic rescue went over well."

Tandred sniffed and wiped at his nose. "Hardly going to get my colours hoisted over it."

"Well, it's the thought that counts."

Flynn flashed him an uneven grin and pulled his shirt off over his head.

Underneath it he was made of thick muscle and soft edges, generous and strong and lovely. Not an uncommon build on Kul Tiras, Tandred told himself. No need to stare. There were plenty of men who looked just like this, sailors with with brawny chests and arms and shoulders and a gentle slope of a belly. He swallowed. Nothing he hadn't seen before, except for the ugly purpling bruises that spread like stormclouds over Flynn's ribs.

"Yeah, got a good kicking before Harlan tossed me in the brig." Flynn lifted an arm and turned this way and that to inspect himself. He seemed impressed more than anything. "Not as bad as it looks. Well, not any more. Well. A little bit, but, you know."

Tandred kept staring. A certainty burned through him. He would hunt Harlan Sweete down and wring his wretched neck.

"Nothing broken." Flynn patted Tandred's cheek. "Hey. It'll heal. Oh, don't look at me like that, mate. I can't bear it."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm the sorriest thing you ever saw."

There was a hint of reproach to his tone, but more awful was the bow to his mouth, like he was about to become just as sorry as he feared he looked. Tandred didn't hesitate to pull him into a hug, mindful that he might be downplaying his injuries. He needn't have worried. Flynn listed into his arms like an unmoored yacht.

"It's all right. I'll get the bastard sooner or later," Flynn said, muffled against Tandred's shoulder, his arms cinched tight around his waist.

With some bemusement, Tandred realised Flynn thought he was comforting him. He stroked his warm bare shoulder. "Leave that to the Admiralty."

"Mm, don't think so," Flynn said, then played at distracting Tandred with a shake of his papers. "Hold onto these for me, would you? Put them somewhere dry."

Well, perhaps the discussion on vouching and repercussions could wait until everyone was clothed again.

"Aye, aye, Cap'n." He'd managed it aridly enough to provoke some laughter. It was just as pleasing to hear as it had been that first time on the ship. He took the papers and retreated to his room, where he ran his fingers through his hair and paced around until he heard the water shut off and the squeak of wet skin against porcelain, and a long blissful sigh.

He set the papers atop the nightstand on the side of the bed he didn't usually sleep on, trying to decide whether it was hopeful or presumptuous.

"Hey," Flynn called through.

"Aye?" Tandred said, pitching his voice towards the door. He picked up the papers again, then made himself put them back in the same spot.

"Aye yourself—are you gonna make me carry on hollering? Is this how you nobles have your important conversations?" A slosh of bathwater. "Explains a lot, to be honest."

Important. Well, in that case. Tandred plunged back into the bathroom.

"So I'm thinking I'll keep the pardon, of course." Flynn had one hairy leg slung up on the edge of the tub while he soaped between his toes. "But you can keep the marque. That's just piracy with a pat on the head. I mean, us men of low moral fibre are always getting it in the neck, but your Admiralty-sanctioned privateers aren't much better than us. In my experience, that is. Just a bit of feedback, there."

"I'll pass that on to operations," Tandred said faintly, as Flynn hiked his leg back into the water.

The humid air was making Tandred sweat. He gritted his teeth and manoeuvred out of his coat, the ache of his shoulder sharpening into definite pain as he went about slipping his arm from its sleeve.

Flynn paused with a lathered-up hand under an armpit, and frowned. "Didn't you get fixed up? I didn't haul your backside all the way through toff town just for you to land a second-rate healer."

"It's fine." Tandred turned away to hang his coat while he grappled with everything left unmentioned there. "Just tender. I'll not be sweating a halyard for a while, that's all."

He winced. Ah, yes, rope. A tasteful conversational gambit.

"Pity," Flynn said in speculative tones. "Come here. Let's have a look."

His hair was still bound in its tail, the flyaways dampened by the dense steam that rose from the water and clinging to his forehead. He pulled the rest of it free and shook it out over his shoulders as Tandred approached, then wasted no time in tugging him down by the front of the shirt until he had no choice but to lean over the tub.

He braced both hands on the rim. Mercifully, there were enough suds skimming the water to protect what little modesty Flynn had. Not so merciful was the way his wet hand slid beneath the open collar of Tandred's shirt, hot and clinging with damp friction, his fingers seeking the faint indent and smooth skin that was all the healer had left of his wound.

"Oh, I see," Flynn said contemplatively as he let water trickle down Tandred's back.

Tandred's breath caught. "You're a rotten sod, Fairwind."

Flynn took that with grace and another wink, then leant on the edge of the bathtub and hoisted himself up with a plash, balancing with the hand spread over Tandred's shoulder. Their noses brushed. Tandred's heart beat in his throat, and Flynn—Flynn gave him a peck on the cheek.

"Hold that thought. Gotta rinse my hair." He took a deep breath and fell back.

Tandred uttered a surprised laugh has he immersed himself with a slap and a flurry of bubbles and sent water sloshing over the edge of the tub. His hair floated about his head in deep red swirls; bright rippling caustics of light danced across his face, his eyes squeezed shut and cheeks puffed out. Tandred was too disarmed by his ridiculousness to appreciate it fully, but perhaps he'd revisit the moment another time.

For now he was of the opinion that it was silly for Flynn to bother getting clean when he had every intention of getting him dirty again, and so hauled him up by the shoulders.

He caught Flynn's mouth with his own as soon as he broke the surface, soap be damned. Their lips glanced in his urgency, sliding apart after only a brief clumsy taste. He struggled to keep his grip on Flynn's wet skin; with a squawk of laughter and another tremendous splash, Tandred lost him to the bathwater again.

Flynn resurfaced with a sputtering foolish grin and his hair plastered over his face. "Blimey. I didn't make it through all that just to drown in your bathtub, you know."

The soap had mostly dissipated. Flynn's firming cock was plain to see, curving toward the surface. He noticed Tandred noticing and shot a look that asked him what he'd expected, really.

Tandred gave up on any chance of a clever comeback.

"Sorry," he said, leaning in to kiss him again. Properly this time. Flynn returned it with about the level of politeness Tandred had come to expect from him, heated and greedy and with more tongue than was strictly good manners for a first real kiss, but in this moment, there was nothing he wanted more desperately than Flynn's rude, incendiary passion.

His fingers twined in Flynn's hair. It was coarse, heavy in his hands. He used it to pull Flynn closer to him, losing himself to the sweep of his lips, the slick curl of his tongue. Couldn't say he was surprised to learn Flynn's mouth was clever for more than talking. A thrill to think how else he might use it.

"Tides," he groaned when Flynn tugged his lower lip between his teeth, and returned in kind, biting at his mouth. He felt and heard Flynn's breath hitch, just audible over the rampant splashing going on as he suddenly lurched to his feet, water cascading off him. He grabbed Tandred's shirt for balance and drenched it. Wet skin slipped under Tandred's hands as he steadied him, trying to keep him upright as he clambered out of the tub and keep their lips together at the same time. The kiss scattered to the corner of Flynn's mouth despite his efforts, to his chin, his stubbled jaw.

Flynn laughed and pulled back, far enough to get a good look at him. His eyes were bright, his face flushed. His mouth was absolutely criminal.

"Just wanna say," he murmured. "I'm very glad to be alive. Makes me want to sail and sing and drink and dance. Makes me want to, mm—"

"Fuck," Tandred finished for him.

Flynn backed Tandred up against the wall, eyes locked to his, and pressed the entire length of his damp naked body against him. His heat sank into Tandred's bones like the sun on the deck.

"Now that's the kind of thing I like to hear out of that pretty mouth of yours."

A slow grin spread over Tandred's face. "Well, could be I got some measure of you, too."

"Well, good! Here's something else you can measure."

Flynn nudged his cock alongside the hopeless straining going on in Tandred's own damp trousers. He was already roasting with the humidity of the room and Flynn standing so damn close, but turned out he had margin to flush hotter yet.

He closed his eyes as if he were giving things thought.

"Reckon that's sufficient," he said.

"Only sufficient? Bit of flattery, mate."

"It's what you deserve after a bloody awful line like that."

"Think I already got enough of what I deserve today, don't you?" Flynn's hands insinuated themselves beneath Tandred's shirt and slowly travelled up his chest, light enough to make him lean hungrily into it. "Now I should get what I want. It's only fair."

What he deserved. Hauling Flynn's arse out of the fire had been an objectively risky decision made on extremely thin grounds. He was, fairly, an outlaw. By law, he should have got his just deserts.

As for what he wanted—well. Tandred was far more interested in giving him that. He lifted his arms and let Flynn strip his soaked shirt off him. It hit the floor with a slap.

"Spoken like a pirate, truly."

"Ex-pirate. Says so in that letter there." Flynn got his strong steady hands on Tandred's thighs and hefted him up, pushing him against the wall. "Though I'm not above one last plundering."

Terrible. He really did like him a lot. Tandred grinned and caught his arms around Flynn's neck, spreading his hands to feel the powerful shift of his shoulders. He found thin stripes of scarring there, long healed, and wished he could be more surprised.

"Your lines aren't getting any better, so you know," he said.

"And they won't, so you're gonna have to deal with it. Though—" A roll of his hips, the hard jut of his cock rubbing alongside Tandred's, who couldn't do anything but helplessly, shamelessly want more of it. "Seems to be doing the trick. First time for everything, eh?"

Tandred closed his eyes and tipped his head back, and, despite Flynn's best efforts, began to slide down the wall. "Ah, you could be saying anything."

That earned him a miffed snort. Tandred just kept on grinning as he steadily succumbed to gravity's insistence. Flynn adjusted his hold in an attempt to stop him falling, shuddering with the effort of keeping him up.

"Damn," he muttered as he lost his grip entirely and Tandred ended up with one foot back on the floor again instead. He buried his face in the crook of Tandred's neck and laughed.

While sex against a wall was exciting in the abstract, maybe when they were both better rested. Tandred sought Flynn's face and tipped it to him. "Bit ambitious."

Flynn looked faintly disappointed. "I'd just thought, seeing as you enjoyed yourself so much on the ship—"

But they weren't on the ship, and Tandred was no longer cold and miserable and distressed. This wasn't some impractical human impulse driving him to seek comfort in unlikely places. Small fear of this being some fire stoked by circumstance. It felt as though he'd been aching over Flynn for years, not mere days.

Right now, he truly didn't care how they went about this, only that they did.

"You're not wrong." He let his voice be as rough as it liked. "But let's just go to bed, aye?"

Flynn settled Tandred's other foot to the floor and kissed him again, bold and unhesitating. His hands, similarly bold, gave Tandred's backside a proprietary squeeze. "All right, then. Let's have you, my lad," he murmured.

Then he deep-sixed what little seductiveness he'd managed by trying to stifle a laugh and snorting, which set him off into more giddy laughter.

Not a jot of grace to him, but it didn't matter; Tandred was truly gone, a vastness opening up in his heart, a broad horizon. Same one that had always been there, same winds and stars and currents, only he was seeing it with the exhilaration of the first time, with all the new promise of having this absurd man to seek it with.

If any such sentiment showed on his face, Flynn was too lost to his exhausted giggles to notice. Tandred took him by the hand and led him through to his rooms, put his arms around him and kissed him until he calmed. The window was as they had left it, flung open with pale sunlight streaming in. A brisk sea breeze pried at the chamber of warmth between them.

"Sorry," Flynn said, with a last rueful laugh. Tandred could feel his heart thudding against his own bare chest. "It's just—a lot."

Too much, maybe. All Flynn had wanted was enough. He'd said so himself, even if Tandred hadn't believed him at the time. He had his suspicions that he could lay riches before Flynn's feet and what he'd see was a debt he couldn't repay. Some pirate.

"Come to bed with me." Tandred stroked his cheek, days of scruff rasping under the sweep of his thumb. In the morning, perhaps he'd let Tandred shave him. "Take what you want, or don't take a thing. We'll see where we are tomorrow."

"Oh, don't get me wrong. I want—" Flynn caught Tandred's face in both hands and leant their foreheads together, something that was starting to feel as intimate as any kiss. "I want every bit of this. Better believe it."

"I believe it," Tandred quietly said, then matched some of Flynn's brashness and added, "So what are you waiting for?"

Flynn looked at him as though he simply didn't know, then gave him a soft kiss, and another, and with a throaty groan that would have set Tandred's blood pounding if it weren't already, made short work of their remaining clothes.

He pushed Tandred down onto the bed and shoved up against him, then set about kissing him like he was indulging in a luxury: slow and lush and openmouthed, lingering as if he had to make each one last as long as he could. Tandred did his best to convince him he wouldn't find himself short anytime soon, but in the end he had to pull back to catch his breath.

"Well, Captain Proudmoore." Flynn rolled onto him, knocking the remaining breath from his lungs. His thighs straddled Tandred's hips, and Tandred put his hands on them. "Looks like I finally have you exactly where I want you."

"Not a moment too soon," Tandred said, which only became more true when Flynn leant forward and rocked his hips against him. His cock slid against Tandred's, and Tandred helplessly jerked up against the solid pressure of his erection.

They had the same thought at the same time. Flynn dropped to one elbow and reached back; both of them fumbled to get a hold of things, fingers bumping until his hand pushed beneath Tandred's, curled around them both and began to stroke. No chance of lasting, to his chagrin. Not with the past few days stringing his emotions high, and not with Flynn looking at him so avidly as he dragged his rough palm over them.

Tandred pressed his face into Flynn's shoulder. His teeth found the hard slope of muscle there. Flynn squeezed his hand and thrust against him urgently, and each time Tandred rose like a wave against him, craving the building tension as much as the moment it cast itself to shore. He came with a wash of pleasure and a long seizing shudder, and something that would have been a curse if it weren't muffled in Flynn's flesh.

"Oof. Weren't wrong about you being a biter." Flynn petted the back of his head in entreaty. "Let up a bit, eh?"

That seemed to take more effort than was reasonable. Tandred wanted to nestle into it while the last of his orgasm shook itself out, but he managed to slowly give up his mouthful. He ran his tongue over the indents his teeth had made, kissed them, then fell back against the covers and flopped a hand apologetically. Tides, his limbs each felt as though they weighed a long hundredweight. "Might leave a bruise," he said.

"Should hope so." Flynn gazed down at him, brushing hair from his forehead and then pressing his palm to his cheek, his eyes shining. "Thought you'd be a sight to see like this. I love it when I'm right."

He must be as flushed as Flynn was. Certainly just as indecent. He gathered as much of his composure as he could but he still sounded dazed when he spoke. "Give it a lot of thought, did you?"

"Had some time to kill in the brig. Don't try to tell me you didn't have a thought or two of your own."

Tandred recalled, with some vividness, kneeling facedown in the captain's bunk.

"Some," he said.

"I knew it," Flynn murmured. He idly stroked himself, his knuckles brushing Tandred's belly as he did. They smeared through his spend, shone with it. "I see that look, mate. I want to know all about it. Don't spare the details."

"Need to be helped along?"

"Oh, I'm practically there, I just like a bit of…" He licked his lips, eyes half-lidded, as though he'd been distracted by the mere thought of the thing he was after.

"Talk," Tandred finished for him.

Flynn laughed, breathy and hiccupping. "Well, you know me."

Well enough. Tandred cupped the back of his neck and drew him down until his mouth was by Flynn's ear, and told him how he'd thought about Flynn on the ship, imagined him curled over his back, a hand lifting his hips and pushing his head down. How he'd imagined Flynn fucking him like that.

Flynn came partway through it with a choked shout, but Tandred finished his story anyway.

The afternoon had changed to evening and then night, pivoting unnoticed while they'd talked and kissed and slept together and slept. Flynn was sprawled out beside him, still napping. His body rose and fell with his soft breathing, hair a dark rust that spilled across Tandred's pillow.

Tandred leant over, gently bumped his forehead to Flynn's shoulder, then untangled himself.

The bathwater had long cooled. He used it to clean off then let it drain, regarding the incredible amount of sand and grit silting the bottom of the tub with some bemusement. Flynn's impact on his life had already left a crater. He so badly wanted all these smaller dents, too. Even if he might need a shovel.

A tray of food had been left outside his door: a platter of cold meats and cheese, bread slathered with herbed butter, sliced fruit, a jug of wine. His stomach bellowed ravenously at the sight. Flynn was awake and sitting up when he brought it over, soft with sleep and with a tired, unguarded smile. Tandred couldn't stop looking at him in the warm lamplight, at his hair sticking out every which way, the scrawl of tattoos faded into his skin. His legs made hills and valleys of the bedsheet.

It seemed unfair that after all this, he might leave. Tandred imagined how he'd feel, finding a strand of red hair when he was least expecting it, or how his shoulder was going to act up whenever the barometer fell; how it would bring the ache of his memory along with it.

No—he couldn't bear it. He won't stand for it.

Tandred let Flynn pilfer a slice of beef and stuff it into his mouth before he set the tray down on the nightstand. "I'd like it if you would stay," he said, while Flynn had no choice but to hear him out while he chewed. "There's plenty of work to be had in Boralus. More, if you head into the Sound, or the foothills. You could make a life here."

Flynn made a noise through his mouthful. "Not as easy as all that, though, is it?"

"Isn't it?"

Flynn swallowed, then reached for a wedge of bread. "You have to have a sense of proportion about these things. You're underplaying it, mate." He took a huge mouthful and shoved in some cheese after it, holding up his hand to fend off Tandred's protestations while he dealt with this predicament of his own making. "I'm a pirate, in case you forgot," he said, muffled. "There's only so much wickedness a bit of paper can cleanse me of."

"Well, wouldn't want to get all of it," Tandred said, but it didn't garner the grin he hoped for. He sobered. "A pardon is a pardon."

"It's bit of paper," Flynn repeated, with an askance look at the letters on his nightstand. He reached for the jug of wine and sniffed it. "Not gonna make a spit of difference when someone decides to take exception to me—and they will, even if I give up my favourite pastime of antagonising people until they want to hit me. I've had my mug up on the harbourmaster's wall for tides know how long. I'd be in for some knocks if I stuck around here."

Tandred took the jug from him before he could drink from it, what with it being a red and the likelihood of the sheets coming a cropper. He located a tumbler from his bedside, the one he'd not bothered using this morning when he'd instead slaked his thirst direct from the pitcher.

"What's funny? Oh, cheers," Flynn took the proffered glass of wine and polished it off in one long gulp. "Anyway, doesn't absolve me of anything. Not here." He slapped his chest, over his heart. "Might have parleyed myself into a Proudmoore's bed, but it doesn't change what I am.

"Could tell you everything was Harlan's doing, that he blarneyed me into all the bad decisions, the cruel ones, things that make my eyes water to think about." Flynn stared down into his empty glass, embittered by the hour, his weariness, or by his own self. "But they weren't, not all of them. Even if he had, I was still captain. Still my responsibility to bring the crew up with a round turn when things got disagreeable.

"Thing is, and I'll tell you straight—for a while there, I was having the time of my life."

With that, Flynn went back to wilfully stuffing his mouth full.

Tandred lay back to stare at the ceiling and consider what he'd said. That Flynn was talking about responsibility at all spoke volumes for his character, as did the modest nature of his ransom demands, but Tandred got the feeling that wasn't an argument Flynn was going to let him win. For now, leastways.

"Don't let my mother hear you say that," he said.

"I don't think I should talk to your mother at all. Pretty sure she doesn't like me. Anyway, I'm being serious here." As reproving as he sounded, he shot Tandred the grin he'd been looking for. "It's a lot of effort, so the least you can do is humour me."

"Sorry," Tandred said, mostly meaning it. He chewed at his lip, then fixed Flynn with a level look. "Point is, you just had your chance to feed me any lie you'd like. I think you know I'd make excuses for you, tides help me. But you didn't. I say that counts for a lot."

The grin on Flynn's face turned wry. He turned aside as he made a sandwich of a heap of pork and a slice of apple and then more pork. There was no conceivable way he was going to fit it in his mouth, and he knew it, from the way he was regarding it with such pensiveness.

"Tomorrow you're gonna put on your finest coat and hat and go see the families of every one of your lost crew." He politely returned some pork to the platter. "That's on me. Can't bullshit you about that one, so why the rest."

"Aye, I suppose," Tandred said, grief and gloom sweeping over him like a cloud across the sun. Not worth arguing that, in his opinion, the blame was firmly on Harlan's shoulders. Making apologies for him and all that. He filched the wedge of apple from Flynn's sandwich, eating it in the face of his half-hearted affront. "Then there's the matter of me being called up for court martial."

The rest of the sandwich tumbled to pieces into Flynn's lap. "The what!" he said, scooping it up and depositing it onto the platter with a glorious lack of delicacy. "That's a lot more trouble than I thought you'd be in!"

"Ah, nothing so serious, mate. It's usual for the Admiralty stuffed shirts to convene whenever a ship is lost. I just have to… recount the events surrounding that, as matter of official record."

Flynn's eyes widened, his morose air shed for one of gathering mischief.

"Oho! And what are you going to recount? How you flirted with reckless abandon with the depraved yet devilishly handsome captain of the pirate vessel what captured you?"

"I shouldn't have to go into… ah, that much detail."

"But it's a matter of official interest, Captain." Flynn raised a suggestive eyebrow.

"Official record, you salty dog. It's all hardly relevant to—"

"Oh! Will you be under oath?"

"No, no, it's not—"

"Are you going to perjure yourself, Proudmoore?" He'd dropped the licentiousness in order to sound utterly scandalised. Had to hand it to him, Flynn could turn in quite a performance.

"Now you're just being silly," Tandred said.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't possibly be with someone who has a record," Flynn haughtily said. "There's only room for one reprobate in my relationships."

"Oh, aye? Just like that, I'm not your type." Tandred bunted him in the face as ungently as one could with a pillow. Flynn caught it to himself with a bark of laughter, then tucked it behind his head and settled back.

Which, as Tandred should have anticipated, left him without a pillow.

Flynn would serve, even shaking as he was with stifled laughter. He subsided with a soft heh when Tandred dimmed the lamp then laid his head on his shoulder, as though he hadn't expected it. His hand brushed Tandred's cheek, then he caught his chin with the side of one knuckle and tilted Tandred's face up with it, and kissed him so sweetly it made his breath catch and flutter in his throat. The smile on his face was wistful enough, but there was something sharply greedy in his eyes when he pulled back, as though he were about to delve in again. He had certainly enjoyed Tandred's flight of fancy. Perhaps he'd been thinking on it. But instead of any of that, he gave Tandred's cheek a fond pat and then curled an arm over him, pulling him closer until his head nodded onto Flynn's soft chest.

His heartbeat thumped steadily beneath Tandred's ear. Could be that big heart was an idealisation all Tandred's own, but time would tell.

Until then, in these drowsy moments, he was tender and he was good.

It might have been a long while later, or only five minutes. Tandred was on the cusp of sleep when Flynn said, in a low gentle rumble, "I'll think about it. Cos all of this, it's… it's like that turtle."

Tandred chased the thought in lethargic circles. "Hmh?"

"Those Tortollan folk stories, y'know. 'Bout the little turtle, bopping through his life without a care." Flynn's voice was distant and meandering, as though he weren't quite awake himself. "All his adventures turn out okay for him no matter what. D'you notice when they tell the story, there's always a guiding hand? Like little ol' turtle's got its own miracle that fixes everything for him. Well. I'm the kinda guy to hope for a miracle at the last moment."

Tandred lifted his head and squinted at him in the gloom.

"Never had it happen before." Flynn squinted back, though mostly in a smile. He bumped Tandred's nose with his own, then said, "I'll think about it. Staying, I mean."

"A turtle?" Tandred said, after a long moment.

"Promise it makes sense. Go back to sleep."

Tandred woke to a surly dawn, the sun yet to bleed its pastels into the sky. The window was open still. Cool salt air touched his skin. Flynn's mouth was hot on the back of his neck, smothering him in slack kisses. He was so hard it was radiating an ache of pleasure into his stomach and thighs. He rolled back so that he was fitted more closely against Flynn's body. Flynn's hips nudged against him, mindless in way that told Tandred he was only half awake, so he turned his head and caught Flynn's mouth and kissed him, slowly, until he roused from his sleep-sodden state.

Flynn pushed Tandred onto his belly and draped himself over him.

His weight pinned him down. Fundamentally satisfying. Tandred closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Salt on the air and on his tongue. He could hear the muted crash of the sea. Nothing like being on the ship, but he could imagine. He flung an arm in the vicinity of his nightstand until Flynn caught on. A slide of the drawer, and shortly after the soft pop of a cork.

The touch of his fingers, slick with oil, then a questioning pause.

Tandred made an impatient noise in the back of his throat. A demanding one.

"Well, now. Aren't you eager." Flynn hooked his arm around Tandred's waist and dragged him to his knees. His other hand he ran down Tandred's back to the nape of his neck, slanting him so that he was face-down amid the pillows. Firm about it, rough but not cruel. The captain had already bent Tandred to his whims. No need to coerce or threaten.

The tease of fingers again, and the soft slick noise of oil being spread by a closed fist.

Finally, he felt Flynn's cock pressing into him.

He cursed under his breath as his body yielded around him, pleasure lancing up his spine. There was an answering curse from Flynn when Tandred pushed back to take him to the hilt. Steady but determined. No more messing about. An ambitious move, Flynn being a substantial man in all respects, but yes, Tandred was eager. His hindbrain had been prostrate and pleading for this since Flynn had first taken his bloodied face in his hand.

His chest heaved; he couldn't seem to breathe except in gasps. A warm sweat collected on his forehead and in the hollow of his throat. Flynn filled him to the brim.

Flynn propped himself over Tandred's back, arms locked straight either side of him, his hips flush against him and his thick cock pushed deep inside, a full, heavy pressure. Tandred felt the brush of his chest hair, the tremble of his thighs pressed flat against the back of his own, the harsh gust of his breath against his shoulder.

"Blimey, that's," he said, his voice tight and shaking. "Something. You need a moment?"

Tandred caught his lower lip between his teeth; every time Flynn took a breath or spoke he could feel him shift inside of him. He wanted to twist around, yank him close and kiss him, but more that than he fiercely wanted him to move.

"No," he said. "I was your prize, wasn't I, Fairwind?"

"Tandred—"

"You should have your way, Captain."

Flynn made a raw sound in his throat. "Oh, sink me deep."

A common sailor's oath. Probably tripped off his tongue out of habit, but it sent a liquid heat flaring through Tandred regardless. Yes, that was what he wanted, and he'd have it. Flynn pressed a hand in the middle of his back and leant his weight on him, sliding his cock out in a long electrifying drag, and took him with a rough thrust. Again, and again, shoving Tandred across the mattress with the force of it.

He'd been with other men, but it wouldn't have done to let any of them have him like this—no such stark vulnerability, no handing over of his trust. Only hands or mouth, or he'd sat astride them and set the pace. Tides, there was no comparison. Tandred braced himself against the headboard and shoved back, determined to match Flynn thrust for thrust for as long as his thighs would hold out. The bed rocked under them, creaking like the timbers of a ship.

They'd sail together. He'd decided. They could do this again in the ship's narrow bunk. He'd let Flynn captain, so he could command what he wanted from him, and—

Flynn dropped his forehead to Tandred's shoulder and pitched over him, feet under him and knees lifting from the mattress. The bedsprings squeaked threateningly. The tilted angle punched Tandred's breath out of him in a sob. Flynn was moaning, too. Low and quiet at first, but growing louder as he set about pounding into Tandred with devotion, as though he couldn't get enough to sate himself even curled over his back and every inch buried inside of him.

Damned if he wasn't trying. Like his humour, Flynn brought his tenacity to bear in all things. Tandred let each thrust jar through him and light him up, let himself feel from the back of his teeth to the curl of his toes just how much Flynn wanted him, and answered in kind again and again, pushing back against him with everything he had until all he could do was tremble and sweat and hope Flynn would understand.

Flynn's hand found the nape of Tandred's neck, then caught his chin. He stroked his cheek with his thumb and rocked into Tandred at a slackened pace, an erratic one.

"Can I," he gasped. "Tand."

Yes. Tandred caught his thumb between his teeth and nodded. Tides, yes.

Flynn sank deep into him with one last fervent groan, plastered himself against Tandred's back and spent inside him with desperate little jerks of his hips. That was almost enough. Tandred's cock ached between his legs, thudding with the beat of his heart. He'd come with the slightest of friction, he knew it. He anchored himself on one elbow and reached for himself.

Flynn batted him away. "Hands off," he panted into Tandred's ear, then kissed it. "That's an order."

"Oh, you sod," Tandred said gladly. His face was hot. All of him was hot. He was shimmering with sweat and tension. "Who do you think you—"

"Settle down, sunshine." Flynn's hand skimmed Tandred's belly and traced the jut of his hipbone, following the crease of muscle down to his groin. "I'll give you a reacharound. Like a gentleman."

Tandred tried to laugh, but all he managed was a great gulp of breath and a loud, indulgent sigh as Flynn knelt back and manhandled him into his lap, spreading Tandred's legs either side of his own, still implacably hard inside him. His hand curled at Tandred's jaw again, encouraging him to let his head fall back onto his shoulder, so he did. Flynn nuzzled at his cheek.

"There now. All right?" Flynn murmured.

His hair smelled like Tandred's soap, strongly fragrant with the heat of their bodies. The rightness of it glowed like an ember in Tandred's chest, and that feeling burst aflame when Flynn skated his fingers along the underside of his cock with leisurely enjoyment. Perhaps he intended to tease a while, but they were far and away over that horizon.

His breath faltered; he came in a long agonising shudder, spilling over Flynn's fingers and his own stomach. Flynn uttered a soft ah of surprise, then a string of giddy wheezing laughs and curses as Tandred clenched helplessly around his cock.

"Well," he said, low and breathless, with a wonder that lingered like the kiss he was pressing behind Tandred's ear. "Someone likes being mercilessly ravished by a ne'er-do-well."

Tandred closed his eyes and let the last rills of his orgasm shiver through him. He gingerly disentangled himself with one last delicious drag of pleasure, then promptly fell face-first into the sheets with a sigh. He ached wonderfully, all over.

"I hardly made a secret of it," he said.

Flynn flopped down beside him and, after a languid stretch, pulled Tandred into his side. They were both in enough of a state it was hardly worth objecting to, and so Tandred returned his head to Flynn's chest without complaint.

It felt good to hear the quick trip of his heart, to know it was him who made it beat a little faster. Flynn's big hand teased through his hair. His eyes felt immediately heavy. "Glad you're that much of a scoundrel after all," he said.

Under his ear, Flynn's heart skipped a beat.

"Say what now?"

"Ah, the ransom letter. You wrote—"

"I know what I wrote, mate. I also know Harlan had a hold of that, last I saw it."

"Aye, that was the case. He gave it to me for safekeeping."

Too flippant for him to expect Flynn to believe it, though the tense air he was putting out was a bit of a surprise. It felt as though it could boil over into something savage. The thought made his stomach jolt.

"I could only make out bits of it, stuffed in my mouth as it was," he said. "Not the most terrible thing he could've done. I was more insulted than anything."

Or he would have been, if he'd not been desperate and frantic instead, his last scrap of hope torn from him. In that moment, he'd believed Flynn dead. He closed his eyes and tried to chase the memory away. His throat tightened all at once, so abruptly it hurt.

"Your mouth! Your beautiful mouth!" Flynn said, his simmering fury transmuting instantly into irreverence. Even with his eyes closed, Tandred wasn't fooled. "Absolute travesty. Sorry, I can't let such disrespectful behaviour stand. I'll have his guts for garters."

"You want to leave that, mate," Tandred said.

"I mean, I was going to do him in anyway, but it's personal now."

"It was already." Tandred sighed and took his chin and made him meet his eyes. Despite Flynn's jovial tone, tension strained in his face. "Stay away from Freehold. Stay away from Sweete. The Admiralty will take care of him."

"The Admiralty's sat around with their thumbs up their collective arses so far, no offense," Flynn said. He took a sharp breath through his nose. "I can't just—"

"Yes, you can," Tandred insisted. "Flynn. If you get mixed up in all that again, I don't know how much I could do for you." He let go of his chin and rested his palm over the dip of his throat instead, thumb and forefinger against his neck. A silent plea: I can't lose you to the gallows.

He felt Flynn swallow against the flat of his hand. "All right," he said, tartly. Then gentler, when Tandred bumped his forehead against his. More resigned. "All right."

"What was your damn pirate ship called anyway," Tandred asked, by way of changing tack. Knowing would makes things mildly easier at the court martial, besides, and he'd take any alleviation.

"Oh, you're going to like this. It's right on the nose," Flynn pushed his own nose against Tandred's. "She's the Golden Opportunity."

Tandred slanted a hand to his forehead, cutting the glare of the midafternoon sun. The day was a cloudless deliriously blue, and the kind where he most missed his hat.

He had others, of course, but that one had been his favourite.

Dog days were biting hard this summer. He'd foregone his coat, and a hot wind ruffled through his hair as he made his way down a winding path eroded into the cliff face. It was one of many along Stormsong's northern promontory, but over the past few months Flynn had claimed the particular spit of beach below as his own. He was diving out in a seaward reef, silhouetted amidst the sunlight glancing off the water. Tandred raised a hand and called out a greeting, and he waved back with both arms.

Tandred spotted his coat spread out in the shelter of a dune. He trudged over the loose-packed sand to reach it, kicking off his boots when they got too full and suffering the coarse spikes of dune grass instead. A few of bottles of ale were propped in the sand, more empty than not. He selected one with promise and settled himself down in time to enjoy Flynn's sea-soaked, bare-chested approach.

"Ahoy, Cap'n." He hunkered down to kiss Tandred's warm cheek. Sand clung to his chest and to the damp rivulets his hair left over his skin. The rest of him had baked dry already.

" 'hoy," Tandred said, low and affectionate, catching his chin to return the kiss square on his lips. Flynn leant into it until he'd successfully flattened him onto his back, hair dripping seawater all over him without a care.

His nose was looking a tad swollen. Not broken, but it had been bleeding at some point, and a bruise coloured one of his cheekbones. The Admiralty guards had mostly learned to leave him alone. The same couldn't be said for some of the townsfolk. He'd got a place outside Bridgeport where he claimed people were less contentious with his sort, but so far as Tandred could tell, he barely lived there. He spent the days hauling line for whoever'd have him aboard, and every night and morning in Tandred's company.

"And what brings you to my secret getaway, Proudmoore?"

He smiled, boyish and expansive, and plucked the ale from Tandred's hand. Tandred had thought him cheerful when they'd first met, but out from the shadow of a black sail, he was positively exuberant. A man who'd had a weight lifted from him.

"Just here to enjoy the view," Tandred said with grin of his own as Flynn threw his head back and took a long swig, throat bobbing. "Something interesting out in the reef?"

With a sigh and a belch, Flynn twisted the empty bottle back into the sand. Well, it had probably been warm anyway. "Nah," he said. "An old wreck. Already been picked over, but the fish seem to like it, and I like the fish."

"Rosaline usually knows where the good salvage is."

"That she does." Flynn raked his damp hair away from his face and fastened it into a tail. "Even started looping me in. Must be making a good impression, give or take the odd three-day rum-soaked carouse."

"Oh, that's a plus in Rosie's books," Tandred said. "I suppose that's why she put a word in for you with the harbourmaster."

"Yeah. Another century or so and I might get on his good side." Flynn waved a dismissive hand. Tandred wanted to catch it and trace the creases of his palm, feel the heat of his touch. The sun spilled over the soft bulk of his muscle and lit his hair afire, and Tandred wanted to touch all that, too.

In fact, he decided he would. "I shouldn't think it'd take that long," he said, and leant over to kiss Flynn's mouth. He tasted briny and sun-soaked, and returned the kiss effusively, his hand pushing warmly up under Tandred's shirt. "Got something for you."

"Mm, I bet."

"X marks the spot."

Flynn's eyes sparkled, his hands travelling down Tandred's flank and teasing over his hip, likely with the intention of turning things wicked. He brushed over the envelope tucked into Tandred's belt. Interesting to see if his libido or his curiosity would win out.

"Oh? Another letter?"

Seemed the lure of a mystery was more enticing than Tandred was. To be fair, he was a bit sweaty and unkempt, the summer being what it was and the beach being quite a hike from the nearest gryphon aerie. Flynn gave him another kiss, quick but promisingly lavish—first things first, but he expected he'd be shaking sand out of all sorts places one way or another today. Tandred grinned at him.

"I love your letters," Flynn said, grinning back. "What latitude does this one give me? Permission to buckle my own boots?" He sat up to investigate, tearing into the envelope and tugging out a wedge of paper. He unfolded it and laughed, as Tandred had hoped he would. The breeze snatched at the wanted poster as he held it at arm's length to admire.

"They just can't get my nose right," he fondly said.

Tandred gave the tender-looking thing a poke. "It's different every day, mate."

"Ow, hey!" Flynn clutched the poster to his chest and brought a hand up, one eye flinching shut. "Steady on, you cheeky bastard. This time it was an honest misunderstanding."

"Oh, aye?"

"Mishap with a jar of pickled eggs and my dignity."

Tandred's sigh was more gruff amusement than admonition, but it was enough to get him to fold.

"All right, all right. An old scorbutic in Admiralty colours down the Octopus last night. He spat at me so I stole his fancy coat when he went out to piss. Didn't go down well."

"Sounds honest, but not much of a misunderstanding."

"Yeah, I'm still working on my version of the events. But it definitely involves pickled eggs somehow."

No doubt it wouldn't be the last time he'd turn up bloody-nosed and black-eyed after an altercation at some tavern or other. It was true that Boralus' citizens took a dim view of a pirate in their midst, but was also true that Flynn tended to react to hostility with the kind of humour that only exacerbated matters. Something would have to give, and Tandred hoped he had the thing to temper Flynn's reputation, if not his belligerence.

Flynn slid the second letter from the envelope and unfolded it. Tandred rested his chin on his shoulder and watched his face as he read. Gulls squalled in the vibrant sky, wheeling in the breeze. The sea beached its glimmering waves in distant rhythmic rumbling. Flynn refolded the letter and tapped it against his mouth. "Trying to keep me out of trouble while you're back on the sail road, eh?"

"Cyrus will be expecting you on the morrow. Bright and early and not hung over."

"I can do two out of three." Flynn hitched up his knees and slung his arms over them, letting the letter dangle between his fingers. If it was easy to tell when Flynn was pleased, it was just as easy to tell when he was apprehensive.

"You'll do fine," Tandred said. "He's fair, you know that. You'll not catch the end of a rope from him." He looped an arm over Flynn's shoulders and pressed a kiss to his brow. "There's one last thing in there, too."

A puzzled moue slanted Flynn's moustache. He shook the envelope against his palm. A brass shank button tipped out, its curved surface embossed with the Proudmoore anchor.

"Heh." Flynn held it up so it shone in the sun, then pressed it to his lips for a long moment, eyes closed. He seemed endlessly touched by small gestures like this. The look he'd given Tandred when he'd retrieved his coat for him—they'd not managed to get out of bed that day.

"It's not the same one."

"Doesn't matter," Flynn said. He unfastened his necklace and unstrung its beads, carefully feeding the button onto the leather thong so it nestled in the curve of the seashell. It wasn't a charm or a protection or anything like that, but Flynn touched his hand to it as though it were.

But his quiet contemplations were never made to last, so Tandred was prepared for it when Flynn threw his full weight into him and toppled him into the hot sand. "It's barely a trinket, not worth anything," Tandred said, laughing as Flynn smote him with an enthusiastic kiss. "So don't try to barter it for a drink or suchlike."

"The very thought." Flynn's face was lit in a lively grin, the blue sky framing his salt-tousled hair. "No, mate—I wouldn't be parted from it. Not for the prettiest penny. Not even if the Tidemother herself demanded it."

Not a sentiment to take lightly. Tandred let it wash over him. The sea sang like a siren to them both, her tides forever a pull on their hearts. Tandred had never be able to resist that lure, and it was only right that he'd be in deep with a man whose heart was not only bound to those same winds and currents and the illimitable skies, who would not only weather their tempests at his side, but would blaspheme their goddess to her face for him.

He was reckless, warm-hearted trouble, and Tandred would have it no other way—and he'd have no other.