Take me Back — Pirate, Neia, Rafael, Vallen & Lance

• Take me back to the night we met

His whole body seals shut. Muscles tighten, jaw locks, and shoulders tense until a knife-like pressure sinks into his spine. Ebony eyes stare at you through long strands of black hair, his chin lowered, his face completely still.

He sees you fidgeting, and for once, the Pirate King doesn't find it endearing. Not when you're ripping his heart out.

"... I don't want this."

He heard you the first time. You open your mouth, and he realizes he doesn't want to hear more. "Go."

Your brows crease. "I'm trying to—"

"Go."

He didn't mean to sound so harsh, like the whipping wind of a hurricane. He didn't mean to make you flinch, nor did he like how your eyes watered. Frustration, no doubt. You have no more tears for him. He wonders if the ones you shed before were ever sincere.

He stays locked in place, unable to look away. The Pirate sees you opening your mouth again, but then defeat coats your features, and were you anyone else, he would have been disgusted by how easily you folded. "Alright," you say, not willing to fight back.

He can't judge you too much. Neither is he.

His hand grips the desk so hard he feels his nails cracking under the pressure. The wild wolf in him is tempted to throw you over his shoulder and take you with him, willingly or not, but the notion leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. He's had all of you; he won't settle for any less.

Let you be a lost memory. Spirits know he has enough of those. Maybe you'll drown in the others, and he'll forget you too.

You turn around and walk to the door...

"If you cross that door, you can't come back," he says to your back. It's not a threat or a warning; it's a simple fact. "No writing letters, no waiting by the port. If I see you again, peach, we're strangers. And if you ever cross me, we're enemies."

You stop by the threshold, one hand in the doorframe. He can hear the gentle waves lapping against the hull of his ship, and the sound steels him for when, inevitably, you cross the door.

The Pirate finds himself smiling. His eyes darken, his mood plummets. The paper in his hand crumbles, and inside, a storm is brewing. A beat. Two. He snaps his head up and walks outside.

The sky is infinite, the horizon taunts him, and the wind blows his hair in a caress that has never failed him. That's what he gets, giving his black heart away to more than the sea. "I've betrayed you," he whispers, the smile ripping his face until it's a show of teeth. "But no more."

He walks to the helm, boots slamming against the boards. He's king here, emperor. He has all he needs, and what he doesn't have, he'll take. "Set the sails," he barks, watching his men scramble to obey.

Up ahead, the sea calls him. He will always answer.

"Where to?" his second in command asks him.

The Pirate narrows his eyes against the blinding sun.

He's in the mood to kill something.

"The Theer's stronghold, just off the southern coast," he says; there's a gaping hole in his chest. The sea wolf finally realizes that's how he likes it.

• I don't know what I'm supposed to do

Neia, the Dawnseeker, cocks her head. She is entirely aware of how disturbing the sight can be. Her scarred lips, her yellow eyes, her hulking figure, but, for once, she didn't mean to be intimate.

She's confused. "You what?"

You fold your arms. "I don't think we're meant to be."

"Of course we are. God tied our souls together."

She sees something flickering across your face. Maybe it's because she's caught off guard, but Neia can't read what it is. She, who called herself the best interrogator.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about," you say, your nails scratching at your arms. That she can read. You're anxious. "Our beliefs, they're…" You shake your head. "I can't connect with you, Neia."

The large woman can only frown at you. "What are you saying?" she asks.

Frustration flashes across your face. "I'm saying this is it. I'm done."

"I'm not."

You blink at her. "Well, it takes two—"

Neia takes a step forward and catches your forearm. She doesn't grip it harshly, but she holds you steady. You don't flinch, only crane your neck and stare impassively at her. You're the only person in the world who would do that. Neia didn't care at first, but now...

She can't let go of the one who isn't afraid of her. "You misunderstand, sweetling," Neia speaks very softly. "I'm not done with you. Tell me what you need."

You open your mouth, and Neia tracks the movement. Your sweet little mouth was gasping into her ear only a few nights before. She doesn't understand. "All I need is for you to let me go."

Neia’s fingers flinch. “Ask something else.”

“I have nothing else I want from you. Let me go.”

For the first time, Neia's eyes darken. She lets go of your arm but doesn't step away. "No."

"Neia—"

"You want to run free? Do it," she says. "You want to lie with others?"

"That's not what this is about."

"Then do it," Neia growls. Black wrath bites her tongue, and the world narrows at the edges at the mere outrageous notion, but she spits the words out. "Do whatever you need to do, and when you realize what a holy mistake you're making, you can come crawling back to me."

Your pretty, beautiful eyes shine up at her. Neia wants to cup your face, to make you understand, but she knows enough about God’s children to recognize when to press and when to ease. Some bend under pressure, but you—

You will never bend. You'll break before you kneel, as any worthy should. Your soul was made for her, the light to her shadow.

You will always come back to each other. You just don't know it yet.

"You'd wait for me?" you ask, astonished. "You'd— what?"

Neia's lips curl. "Run far, sweetling, run fast." She bends down to whisper in your ear. "But you can't outrun fate."

Neia turns and walks away. Iron grip on her greatsword and a new, unfamiliar ache in her chest. She wonders why God made humans to love if it's so easy for it to spoil. But no matter. She'll carry it alone if she must.

Neia doesn't think she has a choice.

• Haunted by the ghost of you

He knew it.

"You're great, Raf, you really are, but..."

He's not enough.

"I don't think I'm right for you."

Of course, you didn't say it. You'd never say it. You're too kind, too bright, too goddamn good to speak the truth. But Rafael Borja can read between the lines. He's not good enough for you; he never has been. He never should have had the privilege to touch you, to hold you, much less call you his.

"... Raf?"

Never had the right to hear the concern in your voice and that soft, open look in your eyes. "Rafael, are you alright?"

You step closer, and Rafael realizes he's watching you through the haze of unshed tears. He doesn't blink. He doesn't want you to see them. Doesn't want you to know how pathetic he is. "Yea."

You stop coming closer but look just as concerned. "Are you sure?"

Rafal's mouth twists. "Yea, I'm sure. Y'gonna leave, yea?"

Your face falls. So goddamn beautiful, you are. And he taught himself to be worthy. Rafael would laugh if the knot in his throat wasn't nearly choking him. "Don't put it like that," you say, writhing your hands in each other. "We can— we can still see each other."

"No."

Your eyes widen at the force in his tone. Rafael may be a pathetic failure of a man, but even he has some pride. He's not hanging around your heels like a dog, waiting for a scrap of affection. Y'want out? Then be out. No more pitying half-measures.

"No, softie, no need. You can go, yea? You're free."

He hates the pain in your face. He hates even more the sick sense of satisfaction he feels by seeing it there. "Please, don't talk like that," you say. "You're taking this the wrong way."

Rafael laughs now. It's such a wrecked sound. "Only one way to take it.”

He'll never say how he won't forget you for as long as he lives. He won't tell you it's you he'll think of when he's curled up alone at night. He will never tell you Rafael will ache for you until the day he's put back into the earth.

But he thinks it as he turns and walks away, fleeing, he knows, but can you really blame him? He's always been a coward. You call after him, but Rafael doesn't turn around. "Bye," he whispers and disappears. He's good at doing that.

Rafael doesn't know how he got to the roof. He didn't really try. His feet took him there as his mind swirled. He doesn't remember buying the bottle of cheap mead he nurses in his hand, nor does he remember stealing it. It just got here.

He takes a swing, watching the distant streets below. People walk back and forth so peacefully. He feels like the world should be at war. The sky should be storming, and weeping clouds should mount above his head. But it isn't. The day is beautiful. The sun shines, the birds sing, and the blue sky seems infinite. People laugh and love and hug each other.

Rafael smiles, hollowed eyes gaunter than ever, heart breaking into a thousand pieces. It hurts so damn much. More than when they pulled out his tooth. The world fogs, and Rafael blinks, setting the tears finally free.

He takes another swing before letting the bottle slip through his fingers. He sees it crashing on the cobble street below. Rafael wonders if he'd break the same way if he were to lean forward, close his eyes…

And embrace nothingness.

• Oh, take me back to the night we met

You don't know whether you’re heard.

Vallen's face remains as still as a pond, porcelain skin immutable, eyes merely a reflection. She doesn't crane her neck or furrow her brows. She stares at you, seemingly trying to take you all in.

You dig your nails into your palm and calm the storm brewing within. "Did you hear me?" you ask, your voice closer to a snarl than actual words.

Vallen stares.

"Vallen," you say, the name a verdict, an accusation. "Did you hear me?"

Finally, the woman parts her lips. "How could I not?"

"We're through."

A ripple scatters across her pupils. "Are we?" she whispers.

Your mark throbs up your arm. "Heed my warning," you say and step up to her, flushing your foreheads together. "And stay away."

"What are you afraid of?" Vallen asks.

Your teeth flash. "I don't know what that is."

"Liar." A hand grabs your covered arm. "Why are you running from me?"

You tear yourself away. "I'm not," you rasp, putting distance between you to quell the urge to rip her throat open. "I'm done with you. You're suffocating, too fucking weird. You were fun for a while, but it's over now."

Vallen stares anew. You feel she sees through your flesh and gawks at your soul. Her eyes are like an itch in your skin. You've grown to abhor it.

"Stay away from me," you say, and turn your back.

"You'll have to try harder."

You stop. "What?"

You look over your shoulder and see her smiling. It's soulless, that smile. Impregnatable. "You'll have to try harder, lover."

"I won't be as gentle next time, Vallen," you warn her.

Her smile widens. "I'd hope not. I know you can do so much better."

"You're sick," you spit, and walk away, clenching and unclenching your hand.

But a tingle at the back of your neck tells you her hazel eyes are stuck to you. And you know, deep down, that she's right. You'll have to do better.

• When the night was full of terrors

Lance slowly puts the lyre down. He uses the small pause to take a deep breath, to loosen the ball growing inside his ribcage. "Is that so?" he muses, and his voice is calm and measured.

He sees you through the corner of his eye. Sees the way your face scrunches. "Yes, Lance, it's so," you say, the tone bordering on aggressive. You want a fight, he can tell, but what he can't tell is why.

Lance turns his head to take you in, considering you quietly. He needs to keep a level head. Now more than ever. "And why, if I might ask?"

You scoff. It hits him like a lashing. "Why? Look at you!"

He does as you ask, looking down at himself. "Ah," Lance says, not having the slightest idea what you mean. "So, it is."

You scoff again, but now he hears the hurt in your voice. "God's nails, Lance, not even now? You won't pretend to care even now?"

Lance's blue eyebrows knit as realization starts to dawn on him. You don't want a fight. "Would you prefer me to what, mercenary?" he asks, rising to his feet. "Cry? Would you have me kneeling before you, begging you to reconsider?"

You shake your head, your eyes dampening. Lance would gladly kiss the tears away, but he stays still, waiting for the whipping, for the other shoe to finally drop. "I don't want your tears, Lance," you whisper. "I only ever wanted your heart."

You have it. He cannot speak it.

Lance's eyes drift down. The silence that follows is one of the heaviest of his life. Only when locked away in the monastery, thrown into a pitch-black room for a tenday without human contact, did Lance ever experience a darker silence than this.

"I see." You break it, the shake in your voice imprinting in his memory.

When Lance looks up, he gives you his best smile. "So do I," he answers, voice light and airy.

You go, then, practically fleeing from the room. Lance rolls his lips, feeling his hands shaking. He turns around, and Chouriça whines, sitting up in her bed. Large, gold, innocent eyes stare worryingly at him.

The spy smiles at the little dog, all broken and wrecked, no longer the practiced smile he offered you. "It is alright," he lies, lowering himself to her. Chouriça’s little foot paws at his chest, and Lance grabs it, letting her use it as leverage to bring her wet snout to his face.

She starts licking his cheeks, and he realizes he's crying. His next breath is shaky, gurgling up his throat like a sob. The ball within his chest inflates until he fears it'll crack his ribs open. "It's alright, little lady," Lance says, but he buries his face in her soft fur and weeps.

• Take me back to the night we met

- - -

Song