Before their lull had the time to stretch, again as for how he felt the man enjoyed toying with him, a response from beyond them both broke it off. The ghost herself, come sailing in with words and drink. He accepted his in a nod and a smile, overtly cordial as any sailor accepting wanton hospitality. The warmth of an offering hand.

Not much a meal. He rose his mug at that, toasting before tipping it for a taste, eye belatedly rowing over the renewed sight of her. A little different, like fresh from a tryst. Would explain the delay, wouldn’t it — the thought coloured his smile a brighter shade, mirroring the wider smile she sported for the occasion.

Right, the fife. The expectation landed on him as a lead weight, reminding him of a rather poor decision. To go against an educated suggestion, on some whim. They were both daring him, like any cheerful wraiths on a night a man should’ve drifted just a touch too far.

Well, sailor?

He took another sip of his drink, the dark rippling mirror awash with the moons and the stars. A sweeter sort. but no less burn. Sugar, tar, a hint of woodland. A long candlelit night in a tavern far away. Sat his arse down on the relatively small bench, hovering his mug for any which one of his companions to hold. To have his one hand free.

“ Bears a man ill to attempt a chord, Jem says. “ He relayed, glancing at the instrument, tentative. The hum, like a draft. “ It’s already playing, just by itself. “
 
„Most things play themselves“ Her voice quieter now, closer. „This fife hums. A bell rings in the wind. Even a drum'll thrum on its own if by the right fire.“ She glanced back at Jem, but he was sipping away. Content as witness.

„But that's just noise.“ She looked back to Jens. „Doesn't mean someone's playing.“

There wasn't time enough for a dramatic pause. No spell to break. She just reached down and picked up the fife. Turned it once in her hand, like it was another piece of Wagonwood. And it did hum. Faint and waiting. There had been a time she might've feared its curse. But she was too cursed now. If anything, the fife should be afraid.

„It's easy to play by yourself.“ Her tone even. „No rhythm to match. No need to listen. Just blow till you're breathless.“

She offered the fife out, level in her palm.

„But when you're not alone... that's a song. Then it matters how you start.“

Smile, breath, and no small bit of mischief.

„Your call, sailor.“
 
Vyn took charge, but gave no rope. Left an empty spot on the bench by him where the fife had been. He put his cup down himself, slow and measured to a spot he wouldn’t knock it over from. Maybe.

With everything she said, whether coaxing, charming or warning, she gained something bewitching to her aspect. He didn’t mind any of it, any which one of those things nor the sinking in the pit of his stomach. Sailors’ superstitions, what was both love and fear for all the things that drifted and didn’t explain themselves. A fisherman with a visitor come to the bow of his boat, all light and convoluted words that promised as much as they tricked.

They knew things about you. Often an easy, yet thrilling comfort for one that was alone and knew himself such. Prey to a fiend and a friend, a curse and a spell. Some men invited both in with a smile.

He didn’t look at the fife when he fished it out of her hand, as firm in his motions as he dared. One brow quirked, giving her a once over like to memorize it all for a future haunting. He’d remember that sight for the next age, the shape billowing with fire and its hard shadow, positively tousled as with a strong coast wind, smiling as a fabled fox does.

They didn’t have those at Astersaar. Not even wolves. Just sheep.

Dont’ get dramatic now. It’s just a flute. For blowing. He didn’t say anything more, working his lips before pressing them to the gnarled mouthpiece. Look cast so far down he may as well have closed it off, as a wandering artist does. Lungs expanded, fingers trying the holes on the stem on some instinct, idly exploring what felt like just regular wood. Warm and full of character.

Now, about that D major.

He blew.
 
He said no more. Flute to his mouth. She tensed, but a moment. She could've stopped him. But no. One could not enjoy the flame fearing a match. So she stuck herself on the bench, like tar on deck, next to where he'd left. Took up the mug.

Jem signed Halt? in question. She just drank.

The flute gave a hum, like a person might. Then came the puff – two curls of smoke, one from each of Jens' ears, rising like incense. Harmless, mostly. That's what they told the little ones the curse was.

But she knew the rest. The shift in him. The smallest falter. She heard nothing – but knew it had sung.

It always did. Different tune for everyone. Jem was always afraid of it.

„One for the sea, and another at the bell,
Gave your hand, remembered well.
One child waits, thought two once fell.
You hold the weight. You never tell.“

She didn't ask if he was alright. Just got quiet.

She hoped he wasn't afraid. Of wood that hummed. Of riddles in breath. Of her.

He looked ready to kill himself a few hours ago. And look at him now. Beside a cursed fire, ears smoking, and still breathing.

She sipped from his mug. Now hers.
 
It wasn’t a chord. Not even a tune. But there was music, a song as she had called it.

Telling him things he already knew. Or found himself in, as one did in plenty a lyricist’s work. Art.

A serpent mingled in the mouth, down the throat and into the chest, where it coiled. Wouldn’t bite, settled to rest with a weight and hissed the words as only bad magic could, tugging on shame and regret. It found his in that shallow, yet open grave, both taking his hand every time he as much as thought about Mirka. Where was she, right at this moment — would she hate him for the leisure? For the sight of him here, as if he had forgotten.

Maybe even glad for having left, waving one last time on that pier. In the hollow song of all that painted driftwood that marked their little corner in a desolate home, far away from everything.

He had never told her why she ended up staying with him. Why her father never came back. But she knew it by now, had to, for how there was no weight there when she spoke of their past. Old Verna must’ve told her, eventually, before she died.

Neither grief nor hope. Did it hurt her that he’d refused to give up the latter? What then, when he isn’t dead and shows up to claim her back, one day.

As the rush of air in his ears gradually died down, it was quiet. But only in that meager space betwixt the three of them — sailor, ghost, keeper. Had they heard it, the words that vibrated in his very bones? How close Vyn sat, then, as if knowing something. He let the fife fall from his mouth, but held on yet, grip slack about the stem.

“ It’s not cursed at all. “ He started in a smile, tried to give it in a laugh but his voice broke in the middle. Mouth made a mournful twist, a glisten in one welled-up eye, a sniff in the breath that drew in sharp like he meant to inflate his composure with it.

“ Just art. Speaks too much. “

He offered the instrument back, had to have it off him, arm extended.
 
The first thing that found Jens' arm was cloth. Fabric and the pressure behind it. Jem moved too quickly, too quietly, even for Vyn. Sometimes that scared her. The very idea that the man who made himself a walking jingle could walk with silence was unnatural.

Jem looked up at Jens, pressure slightly forming around the instrument. Each finger careful not to smudge the curse. A touch so light – to call it force would be generous. And yet he pulled. His face got softer as he nodded at the sailor. He offered no warning or comfort. Just took.

The other hand twitched at his weight, fringe of sight.

„Some curses are just stories.“ And some stories had teeth. She wasn't sure if it was kindness or cowardice that obscured half her thought, but she didn't allow it out. Because all Elum knew that no story was just a story. But to bare teeth here would be to kick his in – and what good could come from that?

Her arm tugged at his coat.

„Sit with me. It's cold.“ And maybe it was.
 
The weight was off, the thing with the accursed story gone, wrapped away to cloth and stashed away. Arm falling, he sagged with what felt like relief, but wasn’t. It was heavier to breathe and he didn’t think it was for the smoke and the crowd, the milling that’d grown blurry and ghostlike. Out of focus through water. He wiped the back of his hand over his eye and averted his attention at the ground beneath his feet, one made dark by the shadow of two who’d yet sit.

The invitation was enough for him to stay. So he did in a nod, mouth ironed tight lest he speak another sorrowful tune without meaning to. Exhaled, heavy, and leaned against an elbow with tension about his face, composure bent as the curse recited itself. As many times as he would listen.

“ You did warn me against it. “ He spoke low into the lull on the bench, not hazarding a glance at her. Instead he inclined his shape to bump shoulders with her. Gently, something warm against something solid.

The smile he meant to have fell short. So he disposed of it, staring at the middle distance.

“ Don’t know if I’m sorry for not listening. “
 
„Smoke gets in your eye.“ Tone flat. A quiet, kind lie. There was a way out if he wanted one.

She didn't look back either, simply passed the now shared drink to him like she'd once passed the bir. Only this time she didn't have to word the offer. Just held it there. Some things go down like glass unless properly lubricated.

Vyn allowed herself to sag into his shoulder. Being solid was pointless. People were like water, simply doing their best with the hole they found themselves in.

„There were only two men at the end of that road, the wise and the brave.“ Voice perked up.

An elbow found its way to his ribs. Not enough to bruise. Enough to punctuate the joke.

„Which one do you think I got?“
 
“ It does. “ He buoyed his head and huffed a laugh, half-hearted. Tried at his eye again with his knuckles and swallowed the rest of the mourning that threatened to bloom out of him. Residue lingered, there in the sorrowful twist of the brow and gaze that dare not look at anything too long.

Yet it alighted upon his company as she first offered the drink, then the comforting weight. He’d take both, to have and to enjoy. Watching the liquid in the cup, he swirled it in a soft rotation of the wrist as Vyn spoke. Cryptic, bringing him back to attention in a jab.

“ I don’t know. “ Genuinely, spoken past a swig of drink.

“ Wise, brave, neither. You could get any which one, I feel. “ If you wanted to. He leaned his weight against her, emphasis, with a lilt of play in the tone.

“ How long ago? “
 
Whichever one she liked? A brow wanted to go up, but only lips did, at the corner. She already knew which man he was. She could be wise enough for both of them.

„Entirely too long.“

It could've been any numbers of things he asked about. And the answer would've been much the same to most of them. But she had a pretty good idea of what this was. A girl could still be surprised at the confidence.

And then she tugged him nearer. Arm and sleeve repurposed until their hips could touch. Her voice dropped lower for the next bit:

„You?“

She could feel his breath this close. Still found something real interesting to watch, off in the distance.
 
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Oh, shit.

He hadn’t a clue what they were talking about, anymore, but the way she’d sidled closer gave him ideas. Comfortable ones, more hot than warm. Correcting or asking her of what it’d been too long, for he knew what himself had meant, was out of the question. They could play, yet.

He cocked his head, coy.

“ A sailor learns to endure any which ‘too long’, he forgets such a thing might exist. “ Things just are or aren’t. Mostly the latter.

“ Doesn’t mean he doesn’t yearn, though. “ He glanced at her, lingering in the sight of her transfixed profile. The glowing eyes, wisps of dark hair about the temples, a mouth that smiled easy. Something to admire.

His chest expanded as he drew in deeper the air of smoke, alcohol and the whiff of perfume alongside. Looped his arm around her, the cup brought to front in a loose grip, held by the rim. He bumped it against her forearm, offering.

“ I hear you get mean. “ He hazarded the remark, tone low next to that horned head of hers.

“ That true? “
 
He said yearn. And something inside twitched. Because there were layers beyond obligation. She didn't know how to answer immediately. Not in words. But she knew.

So she reached past the drink and grabbed the collar of his coat. It wasn't a strong grip, especially for someone his size. But it didn't ask any questions either.

Mean, huh?

She stood up and flicked her fingers, curling inward. Looked at him and wondered who among them was more scared.

Because she knew herself. Knew the rhythm of the day, and the weight of need just beyond the edge of the moment. Give it twenty more, and someone would call her name. And ask. For things. Like they always did. And she'd say yes. Because that's who she was.

So she moved, fast. Purpose to her step. Toward one of the Wagons she knew was empty. Her boots bit the ground and she didn't look whether he followed. No need. Some choices didn't wait.

And by god, neither did Vyn.
 
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It must’ve been the pleasant little buzz of alcohol that’d allowed him to not flinch when she seized him by the coat. Eye languid, staring down at her with what was nothing short of an invitation. Come closer.

She didn’t, but neither did she move away so to speak. Stood up, but beckoned. And he watched it, look rife with both fascination and the type of fear one reserved for the seas and the likes of her. The more one saw of both, as they did tell of themselves not in words but in merely being, the more the thought of it being impossible to fully know them sunk in.

There was a danger to that gesture when she begun away, saying nothing. He gave her a couple paces, lingering on the warm bench to merely admire the sight of her heading off. Once it seemed serious enough, he drained the rest of his drink and put the cup down in a soft clop on the spot Vyn had left behind.

Man. Rose up himself, all pleasant smile, and marched on after her.
 
It wasn't far. Her feet worked the familiar with more certainty than she had any right to feel. Then she stopped just near the green door, tapping it ajar as she listened for another tap behind her. It had been a while, so it was flattering to know someone would still follow. One echo behind was all it took, just one boot to lift her spirits.

This one would do. Her Wagon was already occupied – Marcy, probably. Curled with the book they all knew was haunted. But Vyn wasn't in the mood for ghosts, or explanations. Because not all hauntings were horrible.

She pushed the door open fully and climbed inside. Not the neatest Wagon, but it had bones she liked. Rusty hooks and worse books. Uneven floorboards and a hunched over cupboard struggling with the weight of one sack too many. The hatch in the ceiling had long since given up any attempt at opening. And the foreverdust that clung to everything. Sweeping had become pointless. So at some point, they simply accepted the Wagon's story and stopped. That spill of runeink was no longer visible, but the scent lingered. Old coins and spice, in the far corner.

But whatever it was – tonight, its name was Enough.

She didn't bother lighting the lamp. Stepped further inside and turned around. What little light made it in only made her eyes more predatory in the dark.

„Lock it.“
 
They didn’t walk long, but it was enough for him to feel the determined silence betwixt and reflect what in the Hells he was doing right about now. The other goings on kept going on, just about acknowledging with curious glances. The music picked up and two burst to song, a quick curse erupting as someone spilled their drink in a wanton twirl. At the edges of it all, people moved more restfully, settling down or in the midst of their quiet tasks of a late hour. Further out yet, the Hold rose up on it’s incline, smoking and flickering with waning lights. The shadow of a ship sailing over the rooftops, blotting out moonlight on it’s way to the skypiers that one could yet see all the way from here where the river roared and even relatively large men got to feel endlessly small.

Chosen or no. What a bizarre night.

He roused back to attention at the telltale sound of a door being opened. The wagon rocked, chiming with all manner of things as he bowed his head to pass through the frame into what lay darker yet. No fire not moonlight reached here, but their residue made known the edges of clutter and Vyn’s shape as she turned and spoke.

Orders. He could do that.

The door groaned as he closed it behind himself and reached for the latch, its old iron porous and polished to a sheen with use. Drawn sideways and turned up, pointed clicks.

“ Is this yours? “ He asked in a lopsided grin, baring teeth, taking an absent step as his shoulders pulled back to shrug off his coat.

“ Cozy. Like a ship’s hold. “
 
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