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Emmanellain wouldn’t be home for starlight.
It couldn’t be helped. The Astalicia was to embark on a very important voyage — to not oversee it personally would be to strangle their business before it had a proper chance to grow. It would be their first trip across the meridian, a milestone for every merchant worth their salt. If all went well, they’d be able to secure trading deals in Thanalan.
Or so he’d said in his letters home.
It wasn’t technically a lie. The aether currents they depended on were seasonal.
And you couldn’t fault him for a little embellishment, especially not when everyone expected it of him anyway.
“And yer sure about missing starlight, yer folks won’t skin ye for it?” Sicard asked, worrying the point of his knife into the table.
They were in Limsa Lominsa, sat in the Drowning Wench. There was so much noise that there was absolutely no chance of being overheard and yet Sicard still looked about every so often. Habit, Emmanellain supposed.
“It’s really not a large occasion back home,” Emmanellain lied. “Besides, you said we could only make the crossing if we left in the sixth umbral moon.”
“Aye, that I did, just…” Sicard frowned.
“The next window is two moons after that,” Emmanellain said. “I’d rather not wait so long if we can help it. Do you?”
Sicard pulled a face and stopped gouging the table. “I was speakin’ in hypotheticals. And bollocks, ain’t Starlight an Ishgardian invention?”
“Well, yes but…”
“Navigator knows your father thinks me a scoundrel as it is. I’ll not be accused of ruinin’ Starlight.”
“Oh they’ll be fine, trust me.”
Sicard still didn’t look convinced. He put his knife away and sighed. “Be it on yer own head then. I’ll make the arrangements.”
Emmanellain nodded, feeling more cheery than usual this time of year. He grabbed a peanut from the bowl between them and began to peel it. He made an absolute mess of it.
“Oi, give that,” Sicard said as he grabbed the mangled shell out of his hands. “It’s like watching a child. Did you have a servant fer that too?”
“Hardly, we don't get peanuts in Ishgard.”
Sicard grumbled something that may have been ‘cept yer a bloody peanut’ but Emmanellain decided not to hear it. He sank back in his chair.
Stiffened as a thought crossed his mind.
“Goodness, I’ve been such a boor! I didn’t even think to ask if you had your own plans for starlight!”
Sicard raised his eyebrows and dropped the single shelled peanut into Emmanellain’s hand.
He was quiet for so long that Emmanellain considered repeating the question.
Then Sicard shrugged. “Well I s’pose the crew would mutiny if we didn’t go to the meet. It’s on the way.”
“The meet?”
“Yeah, in the Cieldalaes,” Sicard rubbed the back of his neck. “You can stay on the ship fer it if you like.”
Emmanellain nodded, “If you think that’s for the best.”
From Sicard’s expression it could only be some dreadfully dull administrative obligation. In such a case he was more than happy for Sicard to handle it whilst he spent the time catching up on one of the novels he’d brought.
“So it’s settled then?”
“Aye, just don’t come whining to me if you change yer mind.”
Emmanellain scoffed. “Me, whine? Perish the thought!”
Privately, he was rather looking forward to Starlight spent with Sicard.
It would make a nice change from his usual obligations.
***
Despite a well-stoked fire, the grand ballroom of house Fortemps was frightfully cold. There were garlands of holly and tiny gold bells hung everywhere. Perhaps the servants hoped that they could force cheer if it would not arrive of its own accord. Emmanellain was skeptical. A Blasphemy would make better company than his extended family.
At least a Blasphemy couldn’t talk.
Still, not one to hasten his fate, Emmanellain had chosen a suit far more modest than his preferred attire for the dinner. It had hardly any frills at all. The waistcoat, jacket and breeches were all cut from the same tiresome red twill and embroidered only at the cuffs and collar. Oh how he longed for silk damask and his furs! At the Haillenarte gala he’d been able to wear roses and float through the crowd like a spring breeze.
Not so for Starlight. Some battles weren’t worth fighting.
He was minding his own business near the punch bowl when his farther pulled up beside him. No chance to be elsewhere, then.
“A word,” Edmont de Fortemps said, beckoning him into the parlour.
Emmanellain had no choice but to follow. The room was empty except for a maidservant wiping down the window frame. She took one look at Edmont, curtseyed, and then took her leave.
“Emmanellain…” his father began.
He was too soft, too careful. It was the tone he used, that everyone used, when they wanted to avoid hurt feelings but couldn’t quite mask their disapproval.
Emmanellain’s heart sank. It had taken him a good week to decide on an outfit and he’d been so certain his father wouldn’t be able to find fault with it. It was probably his hair. He always forgot about his hair.
Never mind. There was always next year.
Edmont de Fortemps leaned heavily on his cane and searched his son’s face. Whatever he was looking for, it didn’t look like he found it.
He sighed.
“Starlight is… a difficult time of year. You are to remain civil. Am I understood?”
The tapestry on the wall was frayed in the left corner. Bright threads of red and gold hung loose, collecting dust.
“Yes, father.”
Edmont’s expression softened. He brushed a forelock out of Emmanellain’s face.
“That’s my boy.”
***
The Astalicia cut through the surf at a steady clip. Fair winds, full sails. Atop the ocean, you couldn’t be bothered by anyone you hadn’t brought with you. Emmanellain was soaring on the winds, not a care in the world. The birds had the right of it, flying south for the winter. His linkpearl was in the bottom of his pack. It was a wonder he’d never done this earlier. He felt so wonderfully light, lighter than he’d felt since the End of Days blew over.
Mind, he hadn’t completely shirked his responsibilities. He wasn’t stupid.
He’d sent the requisite gifts off already: Wineport vintage for his father, a ruby cloak pin for Artoirel, lemon liquor for his great aunt, and orange preserves for the staff. It was always a balancing act: too little, and he’d come across as callous; too much, and he’d make an ill-advised statement about the recipient’s wealth. Let alone the labyrinthine connotations entangled with class and marital status.
As a child, he’d sent a pen knife to a cousin and received an angry letter in return. How was he supposed to know it expressed a desire to cut ties? None of the etiquette guides had mentioned anything of the sort! Emmanellain liked people, he really did, but the games of the high houses could be so dreadfully dull.
At any rate, it was a relief that he hadn’t needed the same caution for Honoroit’s gift. Since they were both on the ship, the only person Emmanellain had to please was Honoroit himself. He’d decided on a set of triple triad cards. Given how many times the boy had badgered the crew for a game, he was confident it would be well received.
He hadn’t been able to ascertain if Sicard celebrated Starlight one way or the other. Any time he brought it up, the man would change the subject. Even so, he’d been feeling indulgent. He reasoned that even if Sicard didn’t celebrate the holiday, he deserved something nice. And so the last time he was in Ul’dah, Emmanellain had paid the goldsmiths guild a visit.
Yes, it was looking to be a very fine Starlight indeed.
Emmanellain was interrupted from his reverie by a shout from the main mast.
“Oi, Emm, come get a look at this!”
He looked up to see Wandering Brook, an affable Roegadyn with broad shoulders and a ruddy complexion. They’d become fast friends because, when it came to the goings on of the Astalicia, if Wandering Brook hadn’t heard about it, it wasn’t worth knowing.
Emmanellain scrambled up the shrouds to the mast top. He was getting quite good at it by now; his legs barely shook if he didn’t look down and he’d even started to gain a little bit of muscle.
He hummed to himself, enjoying the wind through his hair. What would his family make of him now? Callouses on his hands, wearing only a simple linen shirt and breeches, he was practically naked! Goodness, his great-aunt would keel over on the spot!
He scrambled over the edge of the railing with as much agility as he could muster and tumbled into the crow’s nest.
“Brook, my old boy!”
Brook, who had been peering out through a spyglass, turned to clap Emmanellain on the shoulder.
“Hah! We’ll make a proper sailor of you yet!”
Emmanellain smiled, still a bit more out of breath than he was truly prepared to admit, but feeling surprisingly hale. “Oh come now, I won’t have you coddle me. If Hyllfyr is to be believed, I’d be outpaced by Smoky’s litter.”
Smoky was a magnificent grey tabby with a ruff like a lion and the bearing of a noble lady. If she were able to speak, no doubt she would be ordering the crew about just as much as Sicard.
Wandering Brook guffawed.
“Hyllfyr ain’t ever said anything kindly if he could help i t— and he ain’t here lad.”
“Well, the current captain can hardly be considered unbiased , can he?”
The secret of Emmanellain and Sicard’s relationship had lasted about one week out on the open sea.
Another laugh. “True enough, true enough.” Brook passed over his spyglass to Emmanellain. “Why don’t ye take a look out eastwards?”
Emmanellain did so. There was something splotchy on the horizon, greenish. Although, he was still very much getting the hang of looking out of one eye and keeping his hands steady, so he couldn’t be sure.
“An island?” he guessed.
“Aye, we’re nearing the Cieldalaes. Not too far out now.”
Wandering Brook watched him with that look in his eye he always got when telling a juicy story. Emmanellain nodded, not quite sure what he was supposed to be picking up on. He hardly thought Sicard’s administrative meeting would be anything exciting.
“Well?” asked Brook, clearly expecting more than a lukewarm response.
“Well what?” Emmanellain shoved the spyglass back.
“Will ye be joinin’ us fer the party?”
Emmanellain frowned. “What party?”
“Did the cap’n not tell you?”
“No.”
The Roegadyn blanched and pretended to check the knots on the topsail. A stone was sinking in Emmanellain’s gut. He crossed his arms and assumed the too-pleasant tone he’d barely needed to use since leaving Ishgard. “What party?”
Brook still wouldn’t meet his eye.
Emmanellain pushed. “Come, old boy. You may as well tell me now, no use trying to stuff the chocobo back into the egg.”
Brook glanced down at the deck. He chewed on his lip. Then relented.
“Aye, it ain’t just some party, it’s been tradition since before there was an Admiral.” He paused.“Bleedin’ hells it’s the one day where all the factions are sworn to stop squabblin’ wit’ each other and go get drunk off their bleedin’ faces. It’s messy-like. Enough gossip to last the whole year through.”
“Indeed it sounds like a jolly good time.”
The gears of Emmanellain’s mind were set to task. Sicard was a pirate . It wasn’t as if he had to watch his words. It didn’t make sense for him to be vague.
Unless…
***
Emmanellain bowed to his Great Aunt Melisende and let her kiss him on both cheeks, as was the custom. She was an acerbic old woman who was more paint and powder than flesh.
After a moment, she pulled back and scrutinised him with a peddler’s eye.
“Edmont, your whelp gets thicker every year. Are you quite sure he’s not been neglecting his drills?”
Without waiting for a response, she gripped his wrist, measuring. “Oh most definitely. Goodness, and to think I’d live to see our lineage riddled with indolence. It’s not right for a boy to forsake the lance, not right at all!”
It was almost impressive that she could muster so much displeasure for something she said every year. On her authority alone, one might think Emmanellain was responsible for the End of Days itself. If it wasn’t his excess of weight, it was his lack of it. If not his silence, then his chatter. A lack of muscle, softness in his cheeks, an indecorous bearing — Emmanellain had heard it all.
“Oh every day I wonder what might have unfolded if only dear Jehanne had found a better match,” she tittered. “I suppose what’s done is done. It can hardly be helped, raising sons without a strong female presence is bound to leave its mark. Hence this…” she waved her cane, corners of her wrinkled mouth turning downward “effete frivolity.”
Emmanellain didn’t respond. He wasn’t expected to and it wouldn’t do much good.
Beside him, his father’s hands were white-knuckled.
If there was one good thing about Great Aunt Melisende, it was that at least she was consistent.
Honestly, it was almost funny that she kept trying to shame Emmanellain into being a proper noble when he was clearly a lost cause. Nothing he’d ever tried had changed her regard.
This meant that he could quite confidently ignore anything coming out of her mouth and instead of listening, nod and think about whether pink brocade would be in fashion again in Spring.
(He was fairly certain it would, there’d been an awful lot more trade with Kugane, and prints featuring beautiful young women and cherry blossoms had started turning up in all the high houses. The only question would be the cut, really. Perhaps Ishgard would take a turn for the cosmopolitan and borrow from the flowing lines of the kimono. Certainly, the youth were becoming less insular but the necessity of Ishgard establishing an identity post-Dragonsong might veer into the revival of historical dress instead…)
Emmanellain had quite forgotten where he was when his father cleared his throat. “Melisende, a pleasure as always. Was your journey well?”
Edmont’s tone couldn’t be faulted, he had been the head of a high house, after all. Even so, Emmanellain caught an unhappy twist to his mouth, the same one he wore when speaking of Emmanellain’s mother.
Melisende foisted her bag on one of the attendants. “Oh well enough, well enough. Alas, these old bones ache mightily at altitude and I daresay that I’ll be feeling it for weeks after I return home.”
Edmont bowed, the very model of courtesy. “I’ll have the servants run a hot bath all the same.”
She nodded as though she’d barely heard. “I must insist upon fire crystals if you have them, water boiled by the open flame is much too harsh on my skin.”
“Of course.”
Then Great Aunt Melisende looked down her nose at Emmanellain. He met her eyes with no expression at all. If it weren’t for his father, he’d be tempted to act out just to watch her react.
“Yes, one must make the best of these situations, don’t you think?” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “Stand up straight m’boy, we won’t have you smear our house by slouching!”
Emmanellain, who was certain he hadn’t been slouching, pulled his shoulder blades back and puffed out his chest like a pigeon anyway.
She muttered something under her breath and then looked around the room for a new target. “Ah, Artoirel! You’ve grown into such a handsome young man…”
She ambled off, great cane tolling against the marble like a death knell.
Emmanellain caught his father’s exhale. Then he turned, jaw tight, eyes stern.
“Remember Emmanellain, civility. You are to be on your best behaviour tonight.”
Emmanellain narrowly avoided rolling his eyes. He wasn’t a child.
***
It was almost as if Sicard didn't want him attending the meet.
Emmanellain had every intention of going off to find Sicard and pinning him in place until he got answers. Preposterous! If there was a party to be had, then Emmanellain wanted to be there! Especially a pirate party, it was bound to be exciting! He’d never been to one before.
But there it was, the heavy feeling in his chest. It stopped him mid-stride.
It wouldn't hurt to gather more information, he reasoned. For preparedness. He ought to know the facts in case Sicard came down with a sudden case of tonsilitis, or if he hit his head on a ceiling beam and lost his memory. Possibly he was being blackmailed. By a group who cared only about Emmanellain knowing about a social event attended only by pirates.
Yes, they were all perfectly rational concerns. So. Instead of setting out towards the captain's cabin, Emmanellain turned and headed to the mess.
***
When he arrived, Honoroit was sat at one of the wooden tables practising his sums, just as Emmanellain knew he would be. At his lord’s behest, the boy had been assisting the purser with the accounting. (After all, it wouldn’t do for him to neglect his education just because they were at sea.)
“My lord,” said Honoroit as Emmanellain entered.
“Ah, Honoroit my boy, I’d hoped to ask something.”
Honoroit frowned. “If it's about the rum ration again I...”
“No, No, nothing of the sort.” Emmanellain sat down on the opposite bench. “It's about the meet, you see. Have you heard aught?”
Honoroit's face was bland. “My lord, you can't mean the Starlight party?” He sighed and put down his quill. “The one we are currently en route to?”
“The very same.”
”My lord, I say this with the utmost respect, but would it behove you to check the details of our destination *before* we are halfway across the salt?”
“It's not our final destination,” Emmanellain countered, aware that this was not really answering the question.
Honoroit rolled his eyes.
“If you must know,” Emmanellain continued, “It has recently come to my attention that my information on the event is lacking. Through no fault of my own, of course.”
“Of course,” said Honoroit dryly.
“Come, I ask this not only as your lord but as your friend .“
Honoroit scoffed. “Fine, I'll tell you...”
“Oh, thank you Honoroit, truly your service is—”
Honoroit raised a hand. “... on the condition that you promise me your chocolate rations for the next month.”
Emmanellain was speechless. Honoroit leant back, smug.
“That's hardly fair!” he complained. “Don't I give you enough allowance?”
“My lord, if you rely on me for everything, you'll never learn. Besides, it's technically not part of my duties to tell you things you ought to know already.”
“It's never stopped you before,” Emmanellain grumbled.
Honoroit was unmoved. Goodness, when had he gotten so bold? Too much time spent with pirates, clearly.
Honoroit tapped his foot. “Well, my lord, do we have a deal?”
Emmanellain thought longingly of all the chocolates he wouldn't be eating this month. The sacrifices he made! Oh how life could be so terribly unfair.
“Fine,” he snapped. “Yes, we have a deal.”
”Sign on it.“ Honoroit pushed a piece of paper and his quill across the desk.
Emmanellain’s face soured.
Nonetheless, he took up the quill and printed:
'I, Emmanellain de Fortemps, do hereby relinquish my chocolate rations for the First Astral Moon to Honoroit, ward of house Fortemps.’
He signed it with a flourish, pressing perhaps a little too hard than necessary.
“There, happy?”
Honoroit took a moment to scrutinise the statement. “Yes. I believe I am.” He tucked the paper away into his shirt, probably so it couldn't be stolen. Gods above, it was almost as if he didn’t trust Emmanellain! Not that Emmanellain was necessarily above destroying evidence when it served the greater good, but still. The cheek!
Honoroit, perhaps sensing that Emmanellain was on the verge of pestering him further, began to speak.
“The island that the meet is held on, where we’re going ,” Honoroit couldn’t keep the touch of scorn out of his voice, “does not have a name and cannot be given one under pirate law. Apparently, it’s something to do with maintaining neutrality. It’s a show of peace, you see. Anyone who’s anyone in the pirate world will be there.”
“So it is like a gala!” Emmanellain exclaimed.
“I suppose,” Honoroit shrugged.
“Goodness, so it must be awfully important.”
“Quite. Honestly…” Honoroit paused, as if unsure whether to speak. “Honestly, I’m surprised you hadn’t heard as much from the captain. What, with how close you are.”
“Yes. Well. Did you hear anything else?”
“There’ll be drinking? A lot of pirates? It’s a party Emmanellain, what do you expect?”
“I don’t know!” His hands were tangled up in the cord of his shirt so tightly that red marks were starting to appear. He didn’t mean to, but he voice came out awfully fretful. “Why wouldn’t Sicard want me there? I’m excellent at parties.”
(Most parties, at any rate. There was one party he wasn’t excellent at. The one party he was pointedly not attending this year.).
Honoroit raised his eyebrows.
“Surely Sicard doesn’t think that I’d embarrass him, does he?”
“Oh I don’t know, you could try asking him.”
Emmanellain chewed on his lip. “Yes, but what do you think?”
“I think. That you ought to stop dallying.”
“Well.” Emmanellain huffed. “Perhaps I’ll check in with some of the crew first. Yes, that’s only logical. It’s important to be well prepared for these things.”
Honoroit rolled his eyes. “Why ask for an opinion at all if you aren’t going to listen?”
Emmanellain didn’t respond. He was already on his way out the room.
***
At Starlight dinner Emmanellain was sat between two cousins, both older by a few summers and currently in conversation about the season’s wheat yields. Thankfully he was well out of range of Great Aunt Melisende and if his luck held, he’d be able to avoid her for the rest of the night.
Unfortunately, as the servants laid down a platter of roast duck, the conversation turned to him.
“So,” said cousin Ophélie to his right, punctuating the question with an idle flick of her fork, “Have you grown bored of your ward yet?”
When he didn’t respond, she laughed. Not kindly.
“Come now, Emmanellain, if you’re so set on proving your virtue to Lady Laniaitte, there are better ways to do it. She’s unlikely to be impressed by your pity for one gutter child. You don’t have to keep up the performance for her sake.”
“Who says it was for her?” asked Emmanellain.
She scoffed. “Well fury knows there can be no other reason.” She reached one bejewelled hand across to Artoirel. “Arty dear, do you remember that time our little Emm decided to buy out all the roses in the jewelled crozier for her?”
If Artoirel was irritated at the interruption, he hid it well. “How could I forget?”
“I think it took him two trips. When I saw him, I could scarcely believe there was a person beneath all the petals!”
“Yes. Well,” Emmanellain offered the platter of duck to his brother for the first pick of the meat. “We all make mistakes.”
“Of course.” She smiled a grin that was all teeth. “How is Lady Laniaitte, by the way?”
Emmanellain kept his voice neutral. “I’m sure she’s well enough.”
“Oh, no sonnets this year? No declarations of, what was it, how she brings breath to your bosom?”
He felt heat rush to the tips of his ears.“I assure you that my regard for her remains as strong as it ever was.” He took a sip of his brandy with what he hoped was dignity. “I’m simply less overt with my affections these days.”
Ophélie giggled. She really did have an annoying laugh. All light and airy, the perfect facade of innocence. He was sure she’d practised it.
“A pity. I’d assumed you’d just grown sick of dispelling the rumours.”
He didn’t need to ask what those rumours were. Not when they followed him all over Coerthas. He swirled his brandy in his hand, nonchalant. “Odd that you should be so concerned with my affairs when, from what I hear, your dear husband has a nasty habit of getting lost in such unusual places.”
Ophélie did not flinch. They were both trained too well for that. “Surely you don’t believe such things.”
“Of course not,” he said, because that was how the script went. “Although I do note that he is absent this evening?”
“His work is very important to him. I’m proud to support someone who does so much for the realm.”
“I’m sure.”
She flicked her fan.
“How is manning Falcon’s Nest going for you, by the way?” Judging by her tone, she thought it only slightly above shovelling manure.
“Old news. You’ll be pleased to note that I’ve been serving in Garlemald.”
“Oh that’s right, with the pirate.” She pressed a hand to her mouth then grinned. “No wonder you’ve lost your taste for Lady Laniaitte.”
He imagined that it would be rather satisfying to dump his drink over her head. Alas, this was a game that could only be won without showing weakness. Even so, no riposte sprang ready to his tongue. His hands clenched and unclenched under the table.
“Ah well,” she said airily, as if commenting on the weather. “At least your father got one intact son out of Aunt Jehanne, bless her soul. I can’t imagine he’ll be getting heirs from the likes of you.”
It wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard before. Emmanellain risked a glance at Artoirel, who was pretending not to listen. As usual, he’d be of no help.
So Emmanellain forced a laugh. “Oh my, what a vivid imagination you have! Let me reassure you that if that were the case, at least I wouldn’t have any bastards to worry about.”
For someone who wasn’t listening, Artoirel’s face became very still.
Emmanellain flashed his most irritating smile at Ophélie, the one that had once been described as ‘eminently punchable’ by the warrior of light.
“Still, my dear, I’m not confident I could say the same for you. Your bed must get so cold with all the work your husband gets around to. Tell me, does he even remember your name?”
Had she access to a weapon more threatening than cutlery, he would have taken a step back for the fury in her eyes. Then, just as abruptly, she smiled.
“Oh, I’ll have you pay for that,” she said.
Then Ophélie leapt from her seat and ran off to the courtyard. She wasn’t sobbing, but she was doing a decent enough impression to catch everyone’s attention.
Attention that swiftly shifted to Emmanellain.
Who had just lost.
Emmanellain sat dumbstruck for several moments. Then his father’s hand was tight like iron on his shoulder.
“I thought I asked you to be civil,” he hissed.
“I was! She…” he looked at Artoirel who was pointedly looking away.
If Artoirel wasn’t going to verify the truth of things, nobody else would.
The words died in his throat.
***
Emmanellain hadn't spoken to Sicard about the meet. He'd been busy! And honestly, if the pirate didn't want him there, then perhaps it was wise to simply not go. No use causing a fuss over nothing.
For the past bell the bosun had endeavoured to teach Emmanellain how to tie a bowline. They were both sat on deck. Emmanellain presented his latest attempt.
The bosun gave him a gap-toothed grin. “There ye go lad, it just takes a lil' practice is all.”
Emmanellain flushed with pleasure. Stupid, really. The other crew members would have mastered the trick of it as children. They must think him woefully incompetent.
“You need not humour me,” he demurred.
“An' lose a pair of hands?” the bosun spat a thick wad of tobacco overboard. He regarded Emmanellain through crinkled eyes. “I'll not abide self-pity, ye hear! No use fer it at sea! Ye wouldn't be on this boat if ye'd naught to offer, so shut ye bleedin' trap an' tie that knot again.”
Emmanellain wanted to protest but knew from experience that once the bosun got in a mood, he'd not respond to anything he deemed 'useless yappin’, except perhaps with a stern look or double latrine duty. Emmanellain undid the knot as ordered, running the tarred rope over his hands. There was something to be said about being made to accept praise. Genuine praise. Despite his protestations, he knew the pirates wouldn't waste breath on empty platitudes.
Loop the hole, the rabbit comes up, then 'round the tree, and down again. He pulled the knot taut and then presented it again. A gruff nod.
“Again.”
He loosed the line again. It was starting to come more naturally now. Still, with the bosun’s reputation he was sure the man wouldn’t be satisfied until Emmanellain could tie it in his sleep.
That goal didn’t seem as unattainable as it once had.
He was interrupted by footsteps behind him.
“Cap'n,” said the bosun with a nod.
Emmanellain stiffened. Sicard was stood with his arms crossed. “Honoroit said ye were lookin' for me?”
Emmanellain was in shock. It wasn’t like Honoroit to intervene so directly. Perhaps the boy had simply wished to forestall the inevitable request for further advice.
“Well, spit it out.” Sicard tapped his foot.
“Erghmm…”
“You were looking fer me, weren’t ye?”
“Ahh, indubitably, um. Yes. Perhaps we ought to convene in your quarters?”
Sicard shrugged in acquiescence, all easy confidence. His well-shaped forearms were golden in the afternoon sun. Goodness, it was enough to make a man weak at the knees. (If they weren’t weak already).
***
The door to Sicard’s quarters closed behind them. Emmanellain shuttered the curtains. Ran a hand over the mahogany desk. Looked at the other man.
“It's about the meet,” Emmanellain said. “Why didn't you tell me what it was?”
Sicard shifted in place, not meeting his eyes. “It ain't anything like your fancy parties with horse doovers and a side of neckin' behind the curtains. It'll be rough. Nobody gives a shit about behaving proper.”
“So?”
“So it ain’t no place for no nobility.”
Emmanellain's blood ran cold. “I'd embarrass you,” he surmised.
How easy it was to keep his voice steady when there were shards of ice where his heart should be. It wasn't the first time he'd been told he wasn't wanted. He'd manage. He could brace himself.
“No…” Sicard reached a hand out.
But his voice was too soft, too careful. Emmanellain blanched and pulled out of reach, the hurts of bygone years bitter behind his teeth. This wasn’t Ishgard. He didn’t have to smile and put up with it. Any of it.
“Sicard,” he said bluntly, “Explain.”
Sicard raked one hand through his hair. Grimaced.
“It's not about you embarrassing me. It might just be a shock, is all. Didn’t think it’d be yer… eh, kettle of fish.”
“My kettle of fish?” Emmanellain folded his arms.
“Aye, y’know. There’ll be a fair bit of whorin’ and whatnot goin’ on. If ye think our lot’s improper now then…” he trailed off, the corners of his lips turning downward.
“Heavens Sicard, I'm not one to confirm hearsay but do you really think my reputation is unfounded? Has it not occurred to you, you absolute buffoon, that an evening of wanton debauchery might be exactly what I want?”
Sicard scoffed, “won’t be like one of yer romance novels neither.”
“My old boy, I never said I expected it to! Come. I'm hardly the blushing virgin you seem to think I am.” He stepped forward and smoothed down the collar of Sicard’s shirt. “Do you know how many of the temple guard I've blown behind the barracks?”
Sicard scowled, unconvinced.
“Because it’s more than six,” Emmanellain continued. “You haven’t known true fear until you've heard the clergy rounding the corner with the officer on duty and thank the fury we were never caught.”
“That ain’t. That ain’t me point,” Sicard said.
“What, you’re afraid people will think you’re some scoundrel set on corrupting the innocent?” Emmanellain leant in to catch a hitch of breath. “Corrupt me? You could never, my dear.”
He pulled Sicard into a kiss, which he thought was an excellent argument to his favour.
Sicard swayed on his feet, not at all from the rocking of the ship, and it took a full minute for his eyes to focus again. If nothing else, it was reassuring that Emmanellain could still reduce him to a puddle in human form.
“Emmanellain…” Sicard’s voice was low, raspy. “Gods, ye’ll be the death of me.”
“Mmm, so you’ve said.” He tucked a strand of hair behind Sicard’s ear. “Satisfied?”
Sicard’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Still ain’t me point.”
“Well go on then, old boy.”
Sicard closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against Emmanellain’s chest. His hair tickled. They stood like that; steadying breath, creak of rope, the muffled footsteps of crew on deck, for quite some minutes.
Sicard turned his head to the side.
“Ye haven’t seen me right and proper rowdy.” It came out as a mumble.
Ah.
“I ain’t… gentlemanlike. Not like you,” he continued. Then inhaled and pulled back. “Aye, not that I bloody well want to be but bleedin’ hells Emm. I ain’t proper. Not a whit.”
Emmanellain scoffed. The harder he’d tried to become a perfect noble, the more abysmally he’d failed. Oh the irony in being told he was a gentleman in the one place he’d given up trying.
“Goodness, if I’d found myself in want of a proper gentleman, I’d have stayed in…” he forced the word out, “... fucking Ishgard.”
***
In the end, Sicard did aquiesce.
On the day of the meet, the moon sat fat on the horizon like a giant eye watching over the proceedings. The night was warm, the ocean placid, and great lazy waves rolled in upon a beach of pure white sand. The galleons moored offshore had sails stowed, ships' lanterns flickering across the water. Mostly empty of crew, 'twas as if they were great creatures lulled to rest, mouths closed, claws sheathed.
It was to be a night where the usual rules of engagement didn’t apply.
The meet proper was further inland, past palm trees and cycads and the salty, scrubby brush that grew upon the sand dunes. The path upward was not arduous, but it was disused and took a certain amount of brute force via cutlass and machete to uncover.
At the crest of the dunes, the land evened out into a grassy clearing where one could see all out across the bay. There was a central bonfire surrounded by a patchwork of tents and awnings.
There were no garlands of holly, nor tiny gold bells, nor baubles set atop an obligatory Starlight tree. Instead, strings of rags were tied between the trees. On the larger pieces, there were vulgar drawings in ink, statements like 'MOZ WOZ HERE ', or in one case, what looked to be a fairly accurate star chart where the moon had been replaced with a caricature of some Miqo'te woman's face. The chains strung about near the entrance to the clearing were bleached nearly white, clinging to the branches only barely. This place had the weight of history to it.
It wasn't like any Starlight celebration Emmanellain had ever been to and yet the atmosphere was oddly full of cheer. Pirates of all factions sat elbow to elbow on a series of long log benches under the largest, most crimson awning. There were some pirates sporting greens and purples amidst the familiar red, blue, and black, and some didn’t wear any faction colours at all. There were even a few Sahagin at the very far end, completely at home and chatting amiably with some of the Krakens.
He looked to Sicard at his right, whose eyes crinkled at his expression. Evidently he’d failed to completely hide his astonishment.
“How’s this compare to ye Starlight yer back home then?”
Emmanellain considered the pistols and knives slung casually about the pirate’s hips, the jewelled sabre the bosun had been so fussy about polishing earlier that day, the tattooed arms as thick as tree trunks and — Halone be merciful — nary a scrap of clothing to hide them.
He unclipped his cup from his belt and set it on the table with an air of deliberate indifference.
“In my earnest opinion, it seems far less bloodthirsty by far.”
“Ha!”
Then, BANG .
Emmanellain nearly shrieked. A few members of the crowd actually did. Then, immediate silence. Gunpowder in the air.
He looked to where the sound came from and saw the captain of the Sanguine Sirens stood at the head of the tables, pistol held aloft, a sharp madness in her eye. Attention obtained, she lowered her weapon.
“All right ye lot. I ain’t repeatin’ meself fer any laggards. Since it’s our year hostin’, it falls t’ me to lay down the laws.” She raised a finger. “One: if ye start a fight I’ll have ye nards fer a necklace. I don’t care if the sorry sod buggered yer mam sideways. Today ain’t the day.”
She looked around the crowd, raised another finger and then stopped.
“Carvallain, Sicard, get up ‘ere — what the hells are ye loungin’ about for?”
Beside him, Sicard rolled his eyes and got up. “What? Ye need help rememberin’, Rhoswen?” There was a chorus of sniggers amidst the Bloody Executioners.
Rhoswen made no sign she’d heard. Emmanellain supposed that she wouldn’t have made captain if she’d been that easily rattled.
In contrast to Sicard, the captain of the Kraken's Arms didn’t bother with any snide remarks, or any remarks at all, really. He was a tall Elezen fellow, graceful despite his swagger, with a face that was vaguely familiar. Emmanellain was sure he hadn’t imagined how the captain’s eyes had briefly landed on him.
Granted, the niggling sense that he knew this man could be nothing. Elezen weren’t common amongst the pirates. Emmanellain himself often had to explain that ‘ No, he’d never met the Elezen they’d had lunch with in Limsa two moons ago,’ or ‘No, he didn’t have an opinion on the carpenter’s guild, he’s only been to Gridania once on holiday,’ or worst of all, ‘ Yes, it’s true that Isgardans share a salt rock at supper,’ which always lead to further questions.
“Two!” bellowed Rhoswen, “ if ye brought a tribute for the cup, it’s over there,” she gestured unhelpfully with her pistol. “No don’t get up right now — ach — wait ‘til I’m done!” “Three, no thievin’, pinchin’ or otherwise takin’ what ain’t yours. Any problems, talk to thems wit’ the gold sashes…”
She proceeded to outline the locations of the various amenities, open bars, and where to go if you ‘decided to go break yer swivin’ ankle’. That done, she gave a cursory look to the other two pirate captains.
“That’s all, ain’t it? No more remarks before we fill the cup?”
She didn’t actually wait for an answer before firing her pistol into the air again.
“Right! Anyone with something to add to the cup, up ye get!”
It was with faint alarm that Emmanellain watched a pair of burly Roegadyn women pull forward the largest chalice he’d ever seen. It was closer to a gilded bucket, really, with gems set on its exterior only as an afterthought. Instead of gifts, as per the Starlight tradition, those who came forward poured their offerings directly into the communal cup. Most were alcoholic, and some were juice. A Lalafell woman added a sprig of galago mint. The only precaution that seemed to be taken at all was a conjurer checking for obvious poison.
Then there was a great deal of fuss whilst all the pirates gathered went up to fill their own cups from the ghastly concoction.
When all cups and hands were full, Rhoswen raised hers and roared to the crowd.
“Alone we’re awful…”
“Together, we're worse!” came the rumbling chorus.
Emmanellain choked his share down with everyone else because what else was he going to do? It tasted foul, like cough medicine and grass clippings and some kind of cherry almond nonsense that was too sickly sweet that lingered at the back of his throat.
Rhoswen grinned and threw her empty cup into the crowd. “And thus our pact is sealed for another year!”
After that, the feast began. It wasn’t organised in the slightest. There were dishes laid heavy with pickled vegetables and rice and sweet baked goods without any apparent system. There was a whole hog on a spit over the fire. There were no clear courses, diners served themselves, and people came and went as they pleased.
It was a far cry from the curated seating plans Emmanellain was used to, but that also meant he wasn’t locked into speaking to the same four pre-selected people for the whole evening. He ended up having quite a pleasant conversation with a Sahagin named Novv who apparently he knew of Emmanellain through his father’s memoirs. Who’d have thought! He couldn’t imagine ever coming across such a person had he stayed home.
It was a welcome change, if at times, a baffling one.
***
As the night wore on, people split off from the main tables into pockets of music and drinking and far more salacious activity besides.
With a start, Emmanellain realised that he'd yet to distribute his gifts. Since Sicard was in conversation with the bosun about fishing (a topic that had never interested him), he decided to go find Honoroit first.
It was only a short walk. The boy was in a tent not too far from the main bonfire that had cushions spread about the floor and old packing crates set up as low tables. There were a few people lounging about, a pair people setting up a game of mah jong, and there, in the corner, Honoroit.
The boy was in a very intense conversation with J’talhdi, a woman Emmanellain faintly recognised as one of the crew. She was dressed only in shorts, as if it were perfectly ordinary party attire.
Emmanellain wondered if he’d overdressed.
Upon Emmanellain’s approach, Honoroit flashed his deck of cards, all fanned out in one hand. “My lord, I will soon face my most dangerous opponent yet! Pray for my success, for my ultra rare card hangs in the balance.”
He looked rather serious.
Then Emmanellain saw the pile of rule books.
Sure enough, the topless woman was pouring over several of them at once and making notes in the margins.
“I still think the primal buff triggers first,” she grumbled.
“Do you have a moment?” Emmanellain asked Honoroit.
He caught how Honoroit’s face fell before his better manners took over. “Of course, my lord.”
Goodness, he hoped the boy didn’t think he was about to send him off on some errand.
“I promise I won’t keep you, m’boy,” he said, retrieving the gift from his coat pocket.
“Happy Starlight, Honoroit.”
Honoroit accepted it without complaint. “My lord, I left yours back on the ship. Should I wait until tomorrow before opening this?” Emmanellain waved a hand. “No, I think you’ll appreciate having this right now.”
Honoroit shrugged and tore into the packaging. When he saw the gleam of the triple triad booster packs he exclaimed in delight.
“But, but my lord, this is highly irregular.”
Meaning: ‘this isn’t what a lord is supposed to give his ward, won’t you get in trouble?’
Emmanellain smiled, conspiratorial. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Honoroit grinned with his whole face then and turned back to J’talhdi. “Tournament rules?”
“Of course!” she said.
***
Emmanellain was busy congratulating himself on a gift well chosen and only partially paying attention to the red lanterns that marked the way back, when by pure chance, he happened across the captain of the Krakens. He remembered his earlier thoughts. The captain really did seem familiar. This close, he almost resembled…
Before Emmanellain could puzzle out the mystery any further, Carvallain stumbled away into the bushes. There was a yelp. A woman’s voice?
He crept closer, unsure of what he would see. Then.
Oh.
It had been Rhoswen’s voice. With how enthusiastically they were going at it, Emmanellain got the distinct impression that he was interrupting something.
He hurried along until he was nearly back at the main area when he heard a shout from the beach.
“Emm!” it was Wandering Brook. “Come on in! The water's lovely!”
He was bobbing in the water with a few of the crew members from the Astalicia and a few faces Emmanelain didn’t recognise.
“But I didn't bring my swimming trunks!”
Emmanellain wasn’t the best swimmer, but it did seem like they were all having a wonderful time down there.
“Don't need em! Just strip!” came the response.
Now if this had been Ishgard, it would have been extremely improper-- people had ruined their good name for less. But this was not Ishgard. He told himself it was just like going to the bath house. Except he wouldn’t be restricted to the pools reserved for nobility. And there weren’t any servants to monitor his behaviour. And most of all, there was no chance of running into anyone he was related to.
So, not at all like the bathhouse, really.
“If you insist!”
Emmanellain folded his coat and placed it on one of the knobbly white rocks that marked the transition between beach and low-lying scrub. Then shucked his shirt and breeches. He felt extremely naked.
Possibly because he was.
He didn’t even have a towel!
He raced down the beach and waded in to his shins. The water was. Chilly. Then a wave came and practically froze his balls off. His chest went tight.
“Brook, you barefaced liar! It’s freezing !”
Brook was not sympathetic in the slightest. “The trick’s to jump in all at once!”
The next wave knocked Emmanellain off his feet and water went up his nose. He surfaced, coughing, to the sound of laughter.
“There, see?” Then, “Ain’t ye from Coerthas?”
To Emmanellain’s chagrin, Wandering Brook was right and the water felt a bit better already. That didn’t mean he was about to admit as such, though. He walked out to where the others were, just past where the waves were breaking.
“We have heated pools! We don’t make a habit of just jumping into whatever pond happens to be nearby.”
Wandering Brook shook his head, spraying everyone with water. “Can’t say I’ve ever been.”
He introduced Emmanellain to the other members of the group. He’d seen the two hyur women around the ship and was fairly sure they had some job involving the cannons. He was half right, they were both blacksmiths who had picked up some ballistics knowledge at sea. There was another Roedadyn man, even more muscular than Wandering Brook (Emmanellain hadn’t thought that was possible), and a Raen cartographer from the Ruby Sea. They all seemed friendly enough. Apparently they’d all met on a fishing trip.
Nobody else was wearing any clothes. That put Emmanelain at ease. He’d have felt like the odd one out if he’d worn his trunks.
When the next wave came, he was prepared. It lifted him off his feet and then set him down again like he’d briefly learned to hover. The water really was lovely now that he’d passed the shock of it. In that sense, it was much like running away to join a pirate ship.
”You know our Emm here is a proper little lordling!” Wandering Brook was telling the others. “You should hear 'im when his silver tongue gets going. Could talk an Ul'dahn merchant into buying sand.”
Emmanelain flushed. “It's really not all that,” he protested. “It's just all about understanding who you're speaking to, that's all.”
“Aye, don't sell yourself short, lad. I’m sure you had everyone in Ishgard wrapped ‘round your little finger.”
It couldn’t be further from the truth. Another wave and Emmanellain was weightless again. There were so many stars that he thought he might fall into the sky.
He came back to himself and shot the group a lopsided grin. “Well, when you’ve learned to treat with the dastards in Ishgard, a few pirates is no challenge.”
***
After they'd talked about everything from how J’tahldi’s mate’s mate had lost ten thousand gil on a chocobo to the price of eggs in Doma, Emmanellain’s fingers had gone all wrinkly. When he got out of the water, still as bare as a newborn babe, Sicard was waiting on the beach.
Emmanellain’s stomach dropped. For a moment, he was back in his ancestral home and his nursemaid was scolding him for showing his ankles around an unmarried lady.
Then Sicard burst out laughing.
“I see ye’ve well and truly warmed up to our ways.”
Emmanellain went about locating his shirt and trousers. “You’ll be taking a dip yourself, then?”
Sicard tilted his head, smirked, and made no secret of eyeing Emmanellain up.
“Nah, not tonight.” He jerked a thumb towards the hill, up where the tents were. “Fancy a drink?”
“Goodness,” said Emmanellain after clothing himself. “If you go around saying things like that, a man might be inclined to think you fancied him.”
Sicard elbowed him amiably. “Oh sod off.”
Emmanelain took that moment to catch Sicard’s arm and kiss him on the cheek. “Lead the way, old boy.”
***
Emmanellain tried not to stare at the three — no four — people currently entangled in some rather enthusiastic love making.
Sicard had once tried to explain the nuances of Lominsan mateolage arrays to him, but it had all gone rather over his head. It involved children and the inheritance of material goods, except when it didn't. It was between two people, except when it wasn't. It involved a combination of love, friendship or loathing — except when it didn't. And the conditions therein were subject to change at the consent of all involved.
It made Ishgardian marriage look simple by comparison. The notion of bastards was redundant when it was common to not know which father one had sprung from. Briefly, he thought of Haurchefant and whether he’d still be alive if he had not so fervently needed to prove his virtue. It was moot anyway. What’s done was done.
The point was, a good number of the pirates of Limsa Lominsa apparently liked to have sex loud and often, with as many people as possible. He could see the appeal. In theory at least.
Beside him, Sicard let out a good natured chuckle. “Ye look like ye might care to join in.”
It wasn't entirely in jest.
“Perhaps another time.” Emmanellain squeezed his hand. “At any rate, I’d like to give you your gift!” He started rummaging around in his coat but then Sicard stopped him with a squeeze.
“How about ye follow me fer a bit first.”
Emmanellain was confused, but let Sicard take the lead. They walked past the orgy, past the triple triad tournament (Honoroit and J’tahldi had amassed a whole crowd to do battle with), and then past a group of Sanguine Sirens slurring out drunken compliments at each other. If there was one thing to be said about pirates, they were never boring.
Then, hidden away behind a copse of trees and up a small hill was an empty tent. Sicard grinned back him and then used a spark of magic to light several glass lanterns strung from the boughs.
“Well, do ye like it?”
It was lavish, made of a canvas shell with silk hangings inside. It was tall enough to stand comfortably in, and on the sides where the tent faced the ocean, the walls were woven from an impossibly fine lace that would let air in but keep mosquitoes at bay.
“Goodness, is that all for us?” was all he could manage.
“Thought ye’d approve. I had ‘em bring up some of that spiced rum yer so keen on, it’s in with the chocolates.”
Emmanellain wasn’t actually aware of when he started kissing Sicard. It seemed to happen of its own accord. The pirate tasted like rum and cherries and rich red wine. He was a little tipsy, they both were, and if their merrymaking was somewhat sloppy as a result then that was neither here nor there.
They broke, pressed their noses together.
“Inside?” Emmanellain asked.
Sicard nodded and pulled him in and down onto a woven grass mat. This close, Emmanellain could smell the salt smoke scent of him. Feel the warm steady breath in his breast.
“Oh!” Emmanellain said, remembering. “Your gift!”
He took off his coat (since this was just as good as an excuse as any), rummaged through the pockets, and retrieved the small wrapped package.
Sicard, meanwhile, set himself up against Emmanellain’s back. Sucked at the soft parts of his neck.
“Sicard…” Emmanellain breathed. “Let me… Let me give this to you.” There was a nip and he nearly dropped the gift.
“Sicard!”
Emmanellain wriggled away and turned around in place. He tried to look serious, he really did, but it was so hard to be stern when his heart was near leaping in joy. The other man did not look repentant in the slightest.
Emmanellain handed over the package before Sicard could get any further ideas.
“For you.”
Sicard took it, his smile lopsided. “I’d almost think ye were tryin’ to court me.” He chuckled and pulled the wrapping away. Then, upon seeing the wooden box, frowned. When he saw the stamp of Eshtaime's Lapidaries, he frowned further and looked up.
“Go on.”
Sicard opened the box to reveal the gift inside. His eyes widened.
When Emmanellain had stopped in at the goldsmiths guild, he’d commissioned a pocket star globe. It was a robust little contraption, about the size of a horologe, and hung on a chain. When Sicard unclasped it, a series of concentric rings unfolded and oriented themselves to the ambient aether currents, cardinal directions, and stars. The point of these functions being: the user could tell within 2 fulms of error exactly where they were on the entire star.
Emmanellain had felt a little silly shelling out the extra gil, but he’d also insisted that the artisans set a miniature Astalicia at the very centre of the rings. There was also a swallow and two crossed axes engraved on its mainsail, the same as the tattoo Sicard got inked when he made captain.
Sicard had so few things that were his own, specifically for him and not the previous captain. Emmanellain had wanted to change that.
It was a few moments before Sicard could speak. Then, his voice rough, “Emm, this is too much.”
Emmanellain had been expecting something of the sort. “If the saviour of Eorzea can go around buying a new weapon every month, I'm certainly within my rights to get you something nice.”
“Nice don’t even begin to cover it. Emm, this is something for a lord or a—”
Emmanelain put his hands over Sicard's. “...It's for you.” His tone was gentle but firm.
Sicard clamped the star globe shut. “Sometimes I fear I’ll never understand ye.”
Sicard rubbed a thumb over the contraption’s metal casing. “If I’d known ye’d be expecting a gift worth half a sailor’s yearly wages…”
“I wasn’t. I’m not.”
Emmanellain was firm but Sicard did not look convinced. He shook his head. “Aye, well. All the same, I'm sorry this isn’t like the Starlight you’re used to.”
“Why?” Emmanelain scoffed. “Because I’d rather be stuck in a cold room, trying to avoid making a scene?”
“C’mon, ye don’t need to honey ye words just fer me.”
“It’s true.”
Sicard returned the star globe to its box and set it aside, shoulders hunched. Emmanellain reached out to run a hand across his cheek.
“I gave you that gift because I enjoy spoiling you, my dear.” That, Sicard couldn't possibly deny.
Sicard closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. “Yer sure?”
“Of course, my dear.” Emmanellain placed a kiss on his forehead. “I’ve had such a wonderful time tonight, and navigator willing, I’d have you too.”
That got Sicard’s attention. “Have me?”
Emmanellain pulled back, smiling wickedly.
“Exactly. Now why don’t you be a good chap and get those clothes off.”
***
It wasn’t long before Emmanellain eased himself into the other man and then stayed there, chest to chest, nose to nose, breath coming ragged at the closeness of it all. The great overwhelming sum of their parts.
“Ugh. Need you,” said Sicard.
He set a slow tempo. Enough to bring out a series of moans from the pirate but nowhere close to satisfying. This was the part he liked best. The great and fearsome pirate captain made into putty under his touch. Completely at his mercy.
Here, his whims were law.
Emmanellain laughed, low in the back of his throat. “Goodness, you do worry so much but I don't think I'm the one being seduced here.“
“Shut it,“ he hissed through clenched teeth.
Emmanellain tweaked a nipple just because he could.
“I think you'd look marvellous with them pierced. Perhaps string some gold chain between them, give me something to...” he tweaked harder for emphasis “...play with.”
He felt Sicard's cock twitch against his stomach. He was starting to get frustrated and Emmanellain drank it in. He did not change his pace. He did not go deeper nor harder. He simply watched. As a crease turned to a frown turned to desperation.
“Please, I can't...“
Sicard went to grab his own cock but Emmanellain caught his hand first. Pushed it down. Gentle but firm. He pinned down the other hand for good measure.
“Not yet.“
A grumble. Precum spotted against his skin.
“You're doing so well, old boy.”
An intake of breath. A whine. Sicard tried jiggling his hips to increase the pase but to no avail. “Bleedin' fop. Gonna explode. Not enough.“
Emmanellain leant forward so Sicard's thighs were pressed up against his chest, then sank deeper with each. Torturous. Thrust.
“Now that. Isn't very sporting of you.“
Fury, he felt like heaven. Emmanellain’s restraint was wearing thin and the sound. The sound Sicard made was deep and stuttering. Beyond words. Beyond thought.
He gave up on temperance altogether and pushed inside with abandon that verged on madness. His cock beat a tattoo on Sicard's innards, an oar pulling water, waves breaking without mercy on a wooden hull.
“Gods, you're so good for me. So good,” he murmured.
Sicard was juddering as if caught in levin.
“Hng. Gonna. Can I? Can I please?“
“Yes. You've been so good. Oh hells, you've been so good.“
Sicard pressed his face into the crook of Emmanellain's neck and convulsed. Thick spend spattered between them as he emptied himself out.
A few moments later Emmanellain finished with one final, stuttering thrust.
His dick twitched as he returned to himself, the sensation on the cusp of too much. He panted. Flopped his forehead down onto Sicard's chest and pulled out. Slick oozed out onto the woven mat.
Sicard rolled into a more comfortable position and they spent the next few minutes entangled and catching their breath.
Clouds rolled over the ocean. They were wispy, not the solid sort. Little smears of paint against the ink blue sky. Emmanellain had never been much of an astrologian but he was pretty sure the constellation he could see was the ewer. Something auspicious about wringing each other out, perhaps. Which of the twelve governed really good sex?
It probably wasn't Halone.
Although that said, her symbol was the spear so maybe it wasn't completely outside her domain. Is getting stabbed erotic? He wondered. Did the temple knights secretly spend all their time polishing each other's spears?
Then Sicard pressed a kiss to his forehead and the thoughts melted away. He smelled like sweat. Felt like it too.
“Consider me had,” said Sicard.
“Oh. The pleasure is mine.” The words were hard to get past his teeth. Not because he didn't mean them, but rather because his bones were pudding. He wanted to melt all over Sicard.
Another kiss and then a hand carding through his hair. “Mmm. Yer a bad influence all right. A man could get 'imself besotted, no trouble.”
Emmanellain burrowed into the other man's arms. His chest hair was rather soft. Powder blue, just like the hair on his head. “I'm very besottable,” he agreed. “It's just as well I've taken a liking to you or you'd have no hope.“
“Aye.”
He could hear the smile in Sicard's voice. And he was starting to think clearly again. Goodness, he loved all the ways the pirate was his.
“And I wasn't joking about the piercings, by the way. If it interests you, I have a fellow who comes with very robust recommendations. You need only say the word, my dear.“
“What do ye mean ye know someone? “
“Oh please, with how often the church talks about penance, people were bound to get lewd about it. It's hardly new.”
“Well colour me impressed.”
A pleasant summer breeze blew in from the ocean. It was salty and had the tang of seaweed. It occurred to Emmanellain that somewhere along the line, it had become a comfort, a smell more home than home. A sign that he was where he belonged.
“Mmm. You know,” he started, “I’ve taken quite a liking to the seafaring life. I find it to imagine I shall ever tire from it.”
Sicard scoffed. “What could a gang of pirates possibly have to offer a noble like you?”
Emmanellain turned and rested his head on his hand, watching Sicard’s easy breaths, the faint flush to his face. It was so easy to be himself around the other man. Not the second son of Edmont de Fortemps. Just Emmanellain.
He thought about how even though life at sea was difficult, there were people who believed in him, respected him. Liked him. He thought about how, for the first time in his entire life, he felt like the master of his own destiny.
“The freedom of choice,” he replied.
And kissed Sicard on the lips.