Chapter Text
Nigel awoke on the shore, the line of water sucking against cold, pale sand. At first he thought the cove sparkled with beads of blue and purple, some kind of rare phosphorescence dredged up from the deep. Then his eyes cleared, and he saw it were only shreds of wood and sail sparkling in the moonlight, the last of his ship and lifeblood splattered at the seam of the waves.
He shuffled his head against the damp, blinking at the empty sky. A face peered over him, upside down and smiling widely.
“-the fuck-!”
The man scrambled back as Nigel sat bolt upright, pain twisting in his stomach from the exertion. The beach tipped and swam in his vision, and Nigel quickly turned aside, coughing up more seawater than he thought he could have possibly swallowed.
When he looked back, the man tried another smile, far more nervously this time.
“Sorry about that,” Nigel croaked. When the man only tilted his head to one side, Nigel cleared his throat, trying again. “Sorry you had to see-”
His eyes travelled to the man’s lap, and a very familiar pair of officer’s trousers, emblazoned with the royal crest. Squinting at his own legs, he saw a ripped pair of cotton under-britches.
“-did you swipe my fucking pants?”
The stranger peered where Nigel glared back and forth, warming to a bigger smile once more. Then he slowly nodded, and continued doing so until Nigel held up both hands.
“Okay, okay. It’s fine.”
Swiping his nose on his sleeve, Nigel could hardly believe that was the first question to cross his lips. The ones that mattered floated lifeless to the surface, and he shivered, suddenly chilled to the bone.
“Were you on the Siren?”
The man’s face fell, his stare slipping to his knees. He shook his head, unsure.
“You were on another ship then? A trading vessel?” Nigel took the man in. He did have a foreign look about him, all pale skin, features sharp and soft at once. Even with the most modern advances in navigation technology, so much of the east remained uncharted, and Nigel well knew there were boundaries that even the most ambitious of explorers dared not cross.
The stranger’s eyes flicked over the ocean, his lips fumbling soundless over the pattern of Nigel’s words, not seeming to comprehend them. He shook his head again.
“And you don’t speak the Queen’s English, huh?” Seeing the man’s features twitch in anguish, Nigel regretted making note of it. But still, he did seem to understand…
“Did you save me?”
Nigel’s voice came coarse, barely a murmur over the frothing shallows. On the cliffs above, he could see a trail of oil-lanterns lighting a path down the narrow slopes. An echo to his distress flare, several hours too late. Or maybe they caught a glimpse of the wreckage.
He didn’t want either of these things to be a fact. He wanted to imagine the lifeboat had made it, that his crew had landed in a more sheltered inlet, scouts sprinting to the castle as soon as their feet touched ground. As the trail of lights blurred, Nigel sank against the sand, barely noticing the stranger guiding his head into his lap. He had been at sea far too long for it to be any more than a fantasy.
And fantasies never came true.
The man had both arms around his chest, squeezing gently whilst Nigel sobbed into his hands. He was nodding in answer. Nigel didn’t see. But he held on.
-
It were nights like this that seemed to last forever. First had been the shouts, joyful, as the search party recognised their Prince. Then the voices washed numb as they saw it were only their Prince, and bar the presence of the quieter man, only a scattering of debris to commemorate the grand voyage. They had brought blankets for an entire fleet, and at a loss to realise what had come to pass, heaped enough of them over Nigel’s shoulders for ten. The blankets wrapped round the foreigner were just as hastily thrown to the ground, his blue eyes wide and fearful, as if staring at a pile of barbed nets rather than wool.
Nigel picked one up, holding it out encouragingly. Perhaps such luxuries were not the custom where he came from, but it was a long enough walk back to the castle without being soaked and shirtless. Pale arms caged around his smaller frame, the man cowered once more at the sight of the outstretched material. Nigel let it drop.
At the crest of the rocky outcrop, the court messenger was waiting with Nigel’s horse, and the stranger seemed a lot happier. Whilst Nigel heard his instructions to go straight to the King, his new acquaintance smiled and petted the mare. Habitually skittish, she seemed to take to the soft clicks and touches like an old friend, whinnying with unusual enthusiasm. Despite the gaping hollow at the centre of his chest, the sight made Nigel feel somewhat warmer, if not more whole. Swinging up into the saddle, he reached an arm down, palm open and steady.
“It’s only a half mile from here. And I don’t think she’ll leave without you anyway.”
It was a poor invitation for the person to whom he owed his life, even poorer when Nigel realised he hadn’t even given his name. Blinking, the man tentatively stretched his arm back, placing his hand carefully within Nigel’s rougher clasp.
And then he pulled.
Completely unprepared, Nigel near found himself wrenched from the saddle, his foot coming free of the opposite stirrup, his hand grabbing for his horse’s mane. The man immediately let go, jumping back in alarm as Nigel let out a few choice words. Surprise turning to amusement almost as quickly, Nigel settled his rump back into the seat, only a jot of dignity lost.
“Darling, that’s me asking you to hop on, not the other way around.” Nigel gave the horse’s withers in front of him a meaningful pat. The stranger was a lot stronger than he looked, and for the first time since he’d spat out half the sea… Nigel wondered how far they actually swam. When the last flash of lightning had turned over the deck, land hadn’t even been in sight.
This time, the man seemed to catch on to the idea, swinging himself in front of Nigel without need for assistance. He sat light, his balance surer on horseback than whilst they’d stumbled up the hill. When the mare broke into a smooth canter, he hardly seemed to be holding on at all, curls whipping back against Nigel’s face as they soared over the highlands. As the man threw him a glance, Nigel saw his eyes were watery and elated, his entire face lit by a wide grin. It reminded Nigel of the first time he had ridden as a child. Smiling in spite of himself, he curved an arm around the man’s waist, his shout swallowed by the wind.
“Hold on-”
Needing no heel, the mare lengthened her stride to a gallop, charging swift all the way to the palace gates. When they finally stepped down, Nigel’s legs couldn't have been more wobbly if it had been his first ride, and he found himself as breathless and voiceless as the stranger.
-
“Enough.”
It was the kind of scraping courtesy that sent courtiers scurrying from sight. For Nigel, service to the Royal Navy had weathered him to his father’s tone, King or no. He stood tall, bracing himself for the storm.
“Do not tempt me with your explanations, I know how tides can turn. The greater miracle is not how swiftly disaster can strike, but that you are here to tell of it at all. You were thirty mile off the coast when we saw the flare. No man can swim that distance in calm waters, let alone the tempest of God.”
Nigel sensed it were not the right moment to mention he had also been unconscious.
“It is a miracle, and heaven strike me down if I throw such a gift to sink. You will henceforth abandon these whimsical notions of sailing the seven seas, and prepare for marriage, as heir to the throne.”
Nigel felt a surge at his pulse. He was used to his father’s rants and rages, but there was a finality to his command that stoked his heart to anger. His younger sister were by far the superior candidate, her knowledge of politics and diplomacy outranking most of the court councillors by her early teens. But law dictated that the King’s eldest child would inherit all, and it seemed Nigel’s wish to receive a military education had been humoured long enough.
He knew argument would be futile, but it didn’t matter. If the navy had taught him anything, it were never to surrender without a fight.
Nigel inhaled, summoning the best of his negotiation skills, along with all the patience he could muster. The wind left his chest only moments later, as he heard a loud bang echo from his chambers down the hall, several nondescript shouts following close behind. Frowning, Nigel bowed, pardoning himself to a father who seemed only too happy to see him depart.
Hastening his pace as he rounded the wing, Nigel tore open his door with no small degree of fortitude. The first thing he saw was the foreigner standing on his writing desk, half dressed in some sort of silk brocade shirt and flailing his arms rather wildly. The second thing was his best friend Darko, brandishing a feather-ink pen like he were conducting some invisible orchestra, yelling in Romanian at the top of his lungs.
“Excuse us.” Nigel nodded to the guest, then proceeded to grab Darko by the frills of his necktie and promptly drag him from the room.
With Darko summarily pinned to the wall outside, Nigel felt a good deal calmer than he had all evening.
“What the blazes do you think you’re doing?” Nigel hissed, twisting the outlandish decorative accessory until Darko spluttered, holding both hands up in apology. His remorse soon faded as Nigel let go, coiling to a heady glare.
“Get a grip, Your Grace,” Darko managed, unable to sound quite as languid as usual. “Am I the only one in this castle with any fucking common sense?”
Nigel raised an eyebrow, and Darko looked where he was staring, seeing the fountain pen had leaked black ink all the way over his hand, wrist, and most of his shirt sleeve. Darko threw it down in disgust.
“Listen,” his drawl fell to a whisper, an urgency behind it that even Nigel couldn’t ignore. “I sent a rider to the local port as soon as he arrived- I knew something wasn’t right.” Darko jerked his chin toward the chamber door, and the man presumably still on his desk inside.
“The messenger just got back. I had him check the harbourmaster’s log books.” Knotting his eyebrows, Darko leaned in even closer, as if afraid the very walls would hear his speech. “Nigel, no offshore traders have dropped anchor in the last two days. And the coastal fishing boats are all moored and tethered- weather was too bad for anyone to get as far out as you.”
Nigel scowled. There’d hardly been time to question the stranger much further, and he wasn’t quite sure the man would be able to answer if he did. The chances of an unregistered ship charting the exact same location, sinking at the very same time as the Siren was… well, it would be a coincidence, he’d give it that.
“Pirate vessel?” Nigel knew it didn’t accord as soon as the suggestion left his lips. Pirates were few and far between now that the Royal Navy had sank its teeth into the Western quarter.
Darko’s mouth twisted, eyes blackening with suspicion. “Even pirates cannot sail without a mast. Did you see anything on the horizon?”
Nigel gritted his jaw. In truth, he remembered no more than splintered shouts and flashes, the snapping of rope, determination suffocating to terror. Darko placed a hand at his shoulder, quieting.
“Nigel, what if he was on your boat? Some cabin rat, scullery boy, a stowaway, even. Look at the way he doesn’t speak. What if he struck some deal with the devil, for his salvation!”
Nigel exhaled. Then, very slowly, he gave a sad smile. “Darko, I’m sure every man aboard would have struck the same bargain, or any man who ever faced the battlefield, for that matter. God, the Devil… if such barters could be made, this world would be filled with voiceless souls, and heaven and hell with far too many favours.”
Darko stared at the ceiling, unconvinced. “Perhaps it is. Perhaps they are.”
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