A/N: As will hopefully be obvious pretty quickly, this chapter starts (time wise) just a little bit before the last one ended. Just a heads up.
PART I | Chapter IV
1:4 | Between a Rock and a Paper Swan
Colony of Ire, Merseille Carriage From behind dark, burgundy curtains, Baisyl watched the world outside pass by with no undue trepidation: grass and cobblestones at first with a few sparse trees and mountains in the far, far distance, then more cottages, and finally the more bustling clamor of concentrated peasantry as they entered the port city. Alone in the privacy of the coach, he allowed himself to fidget—smoothing anxiously over his skirts, tugging at the lace on his gloves and the fastenings on his bodice, constantly shifting in his seat to resituate himself.
He
hated women's clothes.
They were tight in all the wrong places, heavy, complicated, easily damaged, and ridiculously difficult to get in to and out of. Corsets were the worst, but tight, pinching, laced heels were a close second. Even the undergarments were ghastly – layers upon layers upon layers of sheer fabric and lace – more often than not white and bothersome all around.
As soon as the ship made it out of dock and far enough away not to be glimpsed by 'proper' society, Baisyl promised himself, all of it would go. Rhyan had agreed to assure that some of his old clothes made it into his stores of things, and shock factor or no, he fully intended to 'cross-dress' and don men's clothes again the soonest the situation permitted it. It wasn't as if he had to dress up and 'look pretty' for the crew.
He snorted—as if—and gloved nails tapped out a restless beat along the windowsill.
He wondered what it would be like, to be on the sea again after all these years. He wondered what sort of 'escort' his brother had selected for him, what the sea air would taste like, and whether it would storm.
He tried not to think about what he was leaving behind: about his brothers and his father, or about his curse and his land. He tried not to think about the child on the other side of the sea, waiting for him, and he
tried not to wonder what it would be like, to lift his feet over a varnished rail, to open his hands, fall, and feel water swallow his body.
Would it be dark? Would it end quickly? Would he panic? Feel remorse, at the last second? Would he
regret it, after it was too late?
When he caught himself musing about whether or not he might perhaps be better off donning a set of skirts before he jumped, to assure that he sank faster, Baisyl snatched his hand back into his lap, and scowled. Surely, there were better ways to entertain one's thoughts in the last hours of a man's life?
The carriage clipped to a halt, saving him from chasing that thought further.
Drawing a breath, Baisyl pushed his skirts around to allow him to shift, and turned the handle. Naturally, as soon as he leaned out, his hair attempted to fall forward in his face to blind him and his skirts rustled to tangle about his ankles and trip him, so he caught at them, lifting them as he searched for footing, and
why was there no one to meet him at the door? He lifted his head, fully ready to tell someone off for not aiding him, when-
'
Oh.'
At first, Baisyl could think only that his brother had hired him a giant.
The man was huge—not overweight, or even burly, but
massive—towering at easily a head taller than Lord Merseille himself, his shoulders broader than Baisyl's more than twice over, and his waist at least that much thicker. He wore a thin, beige cotton tunic with an unbleached vest and trousers which did little to hide a wide barrel chest and arms that looked like they could snap a man's spine faster than a butcher could a chicken's.
And then there was his skin.
It was like the color of wet topsoil, or rich, expensive wood, distinguishable from black only because his hair was black—long enough to hang to his shoulder blades, but tied back at the moment—and it was darker than his face. In all his travels, Baisyl had never seen a man so dark.
Realizing he was staring, Baisyl mentally shook himself back to his senses, and tilted his chin up, letting his eyes relax and lifting his eyebrows as he held a hand out, expectantly. It took the man a moment to catch on. When he did, though, Baisyl fought the urge to swallow as his fingers disappeared in the larger man's; he remembered only just in time to step down.
"Mistress Merseille-"
"Baisyl," Baisyl clipped, "will suffice…" half his attention still devoted to the hand that had yet to release his. The last thing he wanted was constant reminders of his femininity. If he could persuade the man to simply call him by his first name…
Unfortunately, given his new guard's immediately uncomfortable look, Baisyl sensed that that, for now at least, was out of the question, and he sighed. "Very well,
'miss,'" he consented to compromise, "…or '
milady,' if you must…"
That, thankfully, seemed to pacify him, and the man nodded. "Yes, Mistr—miss," he said, and Baisyl hummed.
"You are my brother's idea of an escort, I presume?" he asked, needing to make sure, and his attendant blinked, apparently thrown for a moment.
Then, "Yes, milady," he answered, "I would assume so."
"I see…" Baisyl waited a moment, but then, impatient, he pressed "…
well?" and the man's brow furrowed, puzzled, again. Baisyl rolled his eyes freely. "You have two options," he quipped, lifting a hand for visual cues. "The first," He held up a finger, as if schooling a toddler, "is to lead me onboard yourself, now. The other," He raised a second digit, "is to
trust that I not trip on that diseased looking thing passing off as a boarding plank, thereby drowning myself," '…
a bit early…' "…before this wretched voyage even begins, and go aid in attending to my baggage instead."
Honestly, Baisyl didn't particularly
want to board on his own via that gangplank; he hated walking in heels enough as it was, and rickety, uneven pieces of wood that moved when the ocean rolled would not, likely, make the experience any easier. He left that out, though, and cocked his head.
"Have you reached a decision? Or should we continue standing here uselessly several minutes longer until you-"
The abruptness with which the other put out his arm startled him, and Baisyl hadn't actually
expected to be lead quite like that, but, "I'll show you to your cabin, then, shall I?" the man was offering and so, ignoring—as best he could—the unexpected tickle of heat creeping up from his neck and onto his cheeks, Baisyl took the man's arm.
He felt as solid as he looked.
As he followed the other's lead up the dock, Baisyl felt unnervingly like an ornament—a ribbon draped over a tree or a paper swan perched on a boulder—and he would have put money on a bet that if he collapsed, then and there, the man wouldn't have hardly had to budge to sustain the full of his weight. It was humbling—in a frustrating and erring on humiliating way. He took solace in the thought that either of his brothers, too, would have looked comparatively small at this man's side.
They exchanged no more words after that, the man showing him his "cabin"—a small, tightly enclosed space which Baisyl felt sorely tempted to more aptly refer to as a cabin
et, but held his tongue—and Baisyl spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening first policing the unloading and packing of his things (mostly siphoning out which ones he wanted to keep accessible and which could be stowed more permanently), and then arranging the things he'd selected in what little space he had.
No one came to see him off, Rhyan having already bid him farewell and Myles and his father having no interest in the matter, and the sun set that evening with the
Fair Lady at sea, mild waves clapping lazily at her hull as she headed off for the darkening horizon and Baisyl tucked alone in his bunk, counting the grooves in the planks above his head.
He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he woke—to
loud voices.
Seaman's Pass, East of the Colony of Ire "-are you
doing here? How did you get on?"
Baisyl stirred, brows furrowing in half sleep as an unfamiliar voice seeped in through his door. Was it the servants arguing? What on earth were they thinking, being so loud right outside his room?
"You can't be here Zy-"
And why was his bed so hard?
"Oh, no? Well guess what, Dee? I
am here…and I'm not leaving!" A second voice spoke up, equally unfamiliar and at least as loud as the first, but younger, and Baisyl scowled, rolling onto his side with every intention of pulling something over his head—only to wince with regret as that pinched a muscle which apparently
hadn't gotten a good night's sleep.
What
time was it?
"What are you going to do, throw me off the ship?"
'
Ship?'
"Feed me to the sea monsters? We can't exactly turn back, and you can't make me—"
Realization hit hard, and for a moment Baisyl felt sick, his stomach revolting, his head swirling dizzily and his pulse pounding between his temples.
'
Right. Ship.'
He was not at home, he was on the sea, a
woman, headed to his own personal hell served ripe on a platter with only a couple of filthy seamen and peasants for company in his last hours of-
He rolled onto his stomach, scrunching his eyes shut.
"Come on, Kedean, it's not that bad…"
"Not that—? I already have someone to babysit, Zyric! I don't have time to watch you, too-"
"Who said you have to? I'm not twelve anymore, Dee…or even, you know what? Forget that…I took care of myself more than you did when I
was twelve!"
"Zy-"
"No, okay? I don't need you to…"
Baisyl stopped listening, and took a breath, a different sort of frown in place as forced down his initial upsurge of nausea and pushed up, onto his elbows and then into a sitting position, careful not to bump his head. It did no good to panic. Breathe, relax—he shoved a hand back through his hair, pushing it from his face.
'
Kedean, Kedean, Kedean…'
"Kedean…" he tested the name aloud, feeling the weight of it on his tongue. The name of his guard, he assumed, but who was the boy he was arguing with?
When his fingers came upon a knot, Baisyl started a search for a brush.
A friend, perhaps? Someone close to him, in any case. A relative, more likely, he decided. They'd obviously known each other well if childhood experiences and 'babysitting' came into play.
Locating what he was looking for, Baisyl took up his brush and began working patiently through the few kinks that had developed in his sleep thanks to his lack of preparation (usually, he braided it before lying down) and once finished, he stood. He curled his bare feet against the floorboards: shoes, or no shoes? He'd fallen asleep in a dress (how he managed
that, he couldn't begin to fathom) and didn't plan to change out of it immediately, so for the moment, he opted for barefoot, and took the steps out.
It was dawn.
Baisyl lifted a hand, squinting and blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light. He'd slept through the
night? When was the last time that had happened?
"-and besides, I'm not a stowaway…"
"Oh? Would you like to explain that one to me?"
"I spoke with Alroy…"
"Alroy
helped you-"
"Of course Alroy helped me!" the younger man snapped, and Baisyl took to inspecting him: dark skin—like Kedean's, but not nearly so much so—about Rhyan's age, but taller, and with striking blonde hair. "Alroy would pull the moons down for me, if he could-"
"Zyric-"
"In any case," the younger man—Zyric—persisted, "I've been hired by th—oh, well, wow…" Zyric's sentence cut off midway as his eyes landed, for the first time, on Baisyl, and Baisyl stilled as the boy stared. The next moment, he broke out into a grin. "And a
very lovely morning to you, too, missus," he greeted, cheeky.
Beside him, his back still to Baisyl, Kedean sighed, and, "Good morning, Miss Merseille," he said without turning around, making Baisyl wonder if he'd known he was there the entire time. "I trust you slept well?"
Baisyl waited. Only when the man turned to face him did he answer, meeting his guard's gaze. "Passably so…" He gave a nod towards the younger man. "Grant me the honor of an introduction?"
He watched Kedean frown. "That, ahh…unfortunately, is my-"
"Zyric Akuwa," Zyric cut in. "And I must say it is a
pleasure to meet you, milady."
"Mm…" Baisyl eyed him, "…yes, I'm sure it is." He returned his attention to Kedean, ignoring the boy's pout. "Do they serve meals on this ship, or are we to adapt the way of the native Zibulu and feast on each other's innards and such?"
Kedean's lips pursed, Zyric's eyes grew noticeably rounder than a moment before, and Baisyl was shown to breakfast.
In the hours that followed, Baisyl found himself frustratingly full of idle time.
A ship, apparently, truly
wasn't a place for a woman—what with most of the men engaged in tasks of one sort or another and the idle ones talking more or less privately amongst themselves—and he ended up spending a good deal of time to himself, sitting on deck (because, contrary to what his fair skin suggested, he much preferred the sun and nature to being cooped up indoors), and watching.
It was a modest crew, though, and well before noon Baisyl had familiarized himself with the faces and occupations of virtually every member—if not their names—from the captain and first mate to the cook and wiry cabin boy, only to find himself bored again by the end.
The sun was high in the sky when he received an unlikely savior from the drudgery in none other than Zyric himself.
The boy, presumably bored himself, off-handedly challenged one of the deck hands to spar—friendly, light—a simple test of combat technique with small, wooden practice blades (which he referred to as 'kattas') to warm the muscles and pass the time. What started as a two person event, though, soon escalated to a string of matches, and eventually blossomed into a group event as more joined in, either to face off or just to watch, and
that Baisyl found much preferable to idle sitting. It had been too long since he'd last engaged in any form of proper combat, and observing it—evaluating the men's various techniques and wide range of skill levels—while not nearly so much fun as participating, was entertaining, nonetheless.
Then, bets started being placed.
"Ayeayeaye—up, up, up, get 'im with th-
ohhhhh…" A scattered chorus of various impressed or disappointed hollers followed in the wake of one the helmsman's weapons clattering to the deck floor, but the stakes were small enough that all results were taken with a relative degree of goodhearted sportsmanship.
"Alright, alright…next? Any takers?"
The rules were simple. To keep the actual damage to a minimum, there was to be little to no contact—no feet, no tackles—and disarmament spelled instant defeat. If neither lost a weapon, taking two taps to the gut or ribs, or one to the neck or heart also qualified as a loss. No headshots were permitted.
As the most recent victor spread his arms, fishing for challengers, Baisyl watched Zyric, off to the side, as he urged his brother to join. Kedean looked adamant, his back to the forward mast and arms folded, expression stern, but, interested in seeing his appointed keeper's skills in action for himself, Baisyl made a split second decision.
"Come now, Mister Akuwa…" he spoke up, not overly loud but enough so to earn the two brothers' attentions, as well as much of the crew, and he tilted his head once his guard's eyes were on him, quirking up the corner of his lips in a wry, baiting smile, "…surely it wouldn't be too much of a chore for you to oblige us with
one match, mm?"
Kedean hesitated. "Miss Merseille…this display of violence is already inappropriate for a lady. I would have thought-"
"You forget, Mister Akuwa," Baisyl kept his tone neutral, "that I surround myself with men quite regularly. With two brothers and a father, I can safely assure you: it is difficult to unsettle me with violence alone. On the contrary…" He settled back some, propping his elbows against the rail behind him and lifting his chin, "…I find this highly preferable to mapping the sun's path and naming the cloud patterns. Besides…" He smiled, eyes idly tracing the path of a loose strand of dark hair across Kedean's face, pushed by the wind for a brief moment before the man caught it and shoved it back, "…I'd quite like to see if my brother did indeed make a wise investment in purchasing you…"
"He
hired me," Kedean started to object, "he didn't-" but then, apparently, he reconsidered midsentence and never finished, rolling his shoulders and shaking his head instead. "Very well. If it's a show you want, milady, I can give you
that…"
Whatever retort Baisyl opened his mouth for died in his throat when Kedean's hands dropped to his waist, loosening, lifting, and shedding his shirt with easy, careless grace, and Baisyl's eyes immediately tripped over the bared skin, tracing the sharp lines of unbridled masculinity with the attention of a mapmaker and swallowing the details whole.
If the man looked well put together with his clothes on, he looked like a sort of dark, rippling demigod with half of them off: built as an arena fighter for emperors, but trimmer than a board and stoic as one, as well. When Baisyl caught himself wondering sardonically if this
was the show, heat swam for his cheeks and he jerked his eyes away, at once irritated and flushed and uncomfortable under his skin. Warm, too. Especially between his…
Flushing darker still, he curtly crossed his legs, petulant.
It wasn't that he was a man. Baisyl had discovered long ago that he appreciated a man in his bed at least as much as any woman, if not more so. Kedean, however, was most certainly
not his type.
Generally speaking, Baisyl preferred younger partners—stable boys, kitchen boys, the young sons of older maids—two or three years his junior, preferably, and small. He liked the innocent, pretty ones; the ones who had to be
taught how to drop to their knees and take a man in their mouth, coached on how to suck and lick and touch and swallow, and trained to bend over and spread their legs on his call like the peasantry they were. The ones that trembled, even when he touched them gently. He liked control.
Kedean did not strike him as the type to tremble. Ever.
Not to mention, the last thing Baisyl wanted to deal with was his current body in a state of arousal. That never went well. Baisyl frowned, and, seeing as that line of thought was getting him nowhere, forcefully trained his attention back onto the scene at hand.
The two men were facing off now—the previous victor edgy, at the ready with his wooden kattas forward, to either side, and Kedean loose, almost thoughtful. Baisyl wondered who'd taught him such a fighting stance. Then, quick as a whistle on some unspoken cue, everything was movement.
The deckhand moved in first, going for a speed and surprise advantage, but Kedean swerved as easily as a lazy step to the side, leaving the other to hit wide to the left at nothing. The spectators quickly backed out some, giving their sparring circle more girth, but from the sidelines, it became obvious to Baisyl in minutes that Kedean was barely putting forth an effort.
He tested his opponents range, first, baiting him—though subtly—and then retreating again within a fraction of the last possible moment. He then tested the man's adaptability and speed, advancing and forcing a string of blocks out of his opponent—while always seeming to leave just enough time for the other to react—and then going back to leaving himself open only to skirt any damage just before it landed.
It wasn't long before the deckhand began to visibly tire, his steps growing more sluggish and his attacks more wild with each passing minute, and finally, not so much out of pity as boredom with the crewman's incompetence, Baisyl huffed and waved a hand.
"Yes, yes, very impressive, Mister Akuwa," he called, shaking his head, "…but you need no longer embarrass him for the sake of my entertainment…" and there was fraction of a moment where his guard's eyes met his.
Then, Kedean shrugged, and the next time his opponent swung forward there was a jerk, two twin clatters as the both of his weapons dropped to the deck, and a brief, feather-light tap of Kedean's left katta to the crewman's neck before he could move out. Baisyl lifted fingers to his mouth to cover a smile; Zyric laughed aloud.
"Oh,
yeah?" The downed man swung around in the direction of the laughter, shouting out between pants, "I'd like to see…
you…do better!" but before Zyric could snap anything out, Baisyl stood.
"I don't believe that will be necessary," he came in smoothly, pushing down the folds of his dress and eyeing the peaked man's flushed face with some mixture of amusement and disgust, "seeing as virtually
anyone could top your performance without much effort…" and not surprisingly the man sputtered. "In point of fact, I could do better," Baisyl stated flatly, and out of the corner of his eye, he caught his guard tense.
"Miss Merseille…"
"Come to think of it…that does sound interesting," Baisyl continued, heedless of Kedean's warning, and without waiting for a response, he turned to the crew. "What do you say I match any bets from a man who says I can't disarm my own guard, single-handedly?"
There was a murmur amongst the men, the most of them probably trying to decide whether he was teasing or serious; Kedean did not look pleased.
"Forgive me, milady, but it's pointless to get them started. I do not fight women."
Baisyl clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Wouldn't you know, quite the coincidence, mm?" He met his guard's eyes with a smile. "Neither do I."
"Miss Merseille-"
"Don't think of it as a fight, Mister Akuwa," Baisyl advised calmly. "Think of it…" He pondered a moment, and then toed one of the fallen kattas, "…as a game…with sticks."
Kedean sighed. "Milady," he conceded, "I can allow you to disarm me in front of the crew, but I don't see that as being fair on their pocketbooks…"
"Mm, yes, I do see your point," Baisyl considered aloud, pensive. "Well," he concluded after a moment, "I suppose the only option, then, is that we give you incentive not to lose as well."
Kedean blinked. "My apologies again, Miss Merseille, but I have nothing you want."
Immediately, Baisyl raised his eyebrows, amusement and something else entirely surely evident in his expression as he said, "Now, I wouldn't go so far as to say that…"
If his guard's features had not been so dark as to make it impossible to tell, Baisyl would have sworn the man was blushing.
Kedean cleared his throat. "Milady-"
"How about," Baisyl cut in, "you wager me…" and there, he tapped a finger to his chin, thoughtful a moment before deciding, "…a kiss."
A/N: To fully understand Kedean's character, you have to realize that showing off his bare chest was the farthest thing from his mind when he took his shirt off. Honest. He's a practical fellow.
