Chapter Text
“This afternoon?”
“The scryings are clear.”
“Evening?”
“Slight rain.”
“That’s all it tells you?”
“With all due respect,” George huffs, “If there were monsoons on the horizon, you would be the first to know.”
“I’m sure,” Dream mutters, and falls into the chair opposite him. Sea salt is crusted under his nails, courtesy of the rising tides last night, and a wave that soaked across the entire deck. The salt always comes after storms; his skin feels cracked and dry.
George’s face is inscrutable. “You’re worrying.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” George says, and he places a hand on Dream’s. His skin is cool; it smells like a rainstorm. “Tell me.”
Dream, although he would never admit it out loud, wonders if George is part siren as well. He drags out answers from Dream with no hesitation, wrapped around his finger, and Dream has never been able to resist him.
“It’s that map,” he says, and George hums in understanding. “Half the crew wants to keep looking, half of them think it’s a goose chase out into the middle of nowhere.”
“You want to keep chasing,” George nods. “You’re not one to give up easily.”
“I don’t want to give up,” Dream says, “But…”
He trails off, and gestures with a hand, as if that will explain it.
To an outsider, it would seem pointless to continue their scavenger hunt, for a rumored pile of gold that may have been just that— a rumor. Their stock of food and weapons is in need of replenishing, and even George is getting tired of eating nothing but brined fish and roots for each meal. The ship itself is doing fine— she’s a beauty of her own, and needs no refurbishments, but the latest storm had weakened some of the railings, and Dream would do good by sailing back to a port town to get her fixed. Even the crew is getting exhausted searching island after island, trapped in one of the easternmost archipelagos, where the weather never changes. Dream is a good captain, and he’s heard the muttered complaints. He’s seen the feuds brew and dissolve within minutes between his crewmates. Just the other day, Bad and Skeppy had gotten into a fight— and they were two of the crew who had never fought before.
The map, retrieved by George himself, remains in Dream’s first drawer. They had been led to it by a soothsayer in El Rapids, who had advised them of a treasure yet uncovered by man. Her directions had helped them find the map, and Sam had spent hours decoding it until he was fairly certain that the treasure was located in the largest archipelago in the Eastern Empire.
Three months, four boarded and conquered ships, and one full season later, their search has come to nothing. George, Dream knows, is fairly certain that if they don't give up the search soon, the crew will be at each other’s teeth.
Any sane captain would direct his crew to the nearest harbor or civilized town and let them run amok to dissolve the tensions. Dream, however, is no sane captain.
Anyone who joined the Nightmare knew what they were getting into. They knew of Dream’s reputation, and they knew of the people he held at his side. That was why Dream refused to give up, although even he could tell when a chase was becoming fruitless.
“We can always return,” George offers.
Dream shakes his head. “It won’t be the same.”
“You and your motivation,” George says. “Too fickle for your own good.”
“I can’t help it,” Dream says. “It’s what I’m known for.”
“The treasure will still be here,” George reassures.
“You can’t know that for certain.”
“No one will find it before you,” George hums. “I know it.”
Dream narrows his eyes. “You’re trying to make me feel better. It won’t work. I know all your tricks.”
George only laughs, clear and bright as a bell. “To tell you the truth, I think it would be worth leaving and then returning. We can start the hunt anew, you see? It’ll be better for everyone. Besides, right now our coffers are still full. We aren’t far from many colonies, right?”
“There’s not many,” Dream says grudgingly.
“It would be what, a week-long journey? The crew can handle that.”
“I’m afraid they’re already at each other’s teeth,” Dream mutters, but considers it regardless. They’re far from civilization right now, out in the middle of the wild blue sea, but it wouldn’t take a considerably long time to reach a town or harbor. After all, they haven’t had a good raid in a long time— the last one was easy, for them, a win that was almost pitiful. Sapnap hadn’t even gotten the glory of swordfighting with a talented person. He had complained to Dream later that night, examining the glow of his blade in the moonlight.
It’s just not fair, Sapnap said, while Dream laughed at him, Our first good raid in a week, and the one person I get to fight doesn’t even have the right stance! It’s a shame, I tell you, a terrible shame.
“Maybe we’ll run into another naval ship on the way,” George coaxes. “We can fly the red flag. Go looking for a fight.”
“You know me so well,” Dream says. “That’s exactly what I want.”
“You can have a chance to show off all your fancy, swashbuckling pirate skills.”
“You,” Dream accuses, and points a finger at him, “Are a menace.”
“You like it.”
“I think I hate it.”
“Come here,” George mutters, and before Dream reacts, George tugs Dream over the desk by the loop around his neck. Dream lets himself fall forward, barely catching himself before George kisses him. Against his lips, George mumbles, “You’re too stressed.”
Dream hums. “Am I?”
George doesn’t bother responding. “It clouds your judgement. I can tell.”
“It doesn’t,” Dream murmurs, in between kisses.
George’s hand comes up and taps his temple. He presses their foreheads together and breathes, “There will be more treasures to hunt.”
“I want this one,” Dream says, well aware he sounds like a petulant, whining child.
“Like I said,” George says, a smile on his lips, “Too fickle for your own good.”
Dream pulls back. He sighs. George knows him too well.
“I’ll rally the crew,” he says. “We’ll leave tonight.”
“Slight rain on the horizon,” George reminds him, as Dream turns to leave. “No monsoons.”
“Best time to sail is right before dawn,” Dream says. “I know.”
Dawn arrives, and with it brings a full crew at his command. Dream wakes up to see the ship in gorgeous motion, chopping through the waves with ease. The brig is a beauty of her own, sleeker than a dozen of the admiral’s finest ships and quicker than the navy’s own scouting vessels. She cuts a majestic figure sailing through the water, unstoppable and unconquerable. She’s manned by a handful of the finest pirates known to mankind, and each of them are talented in their own way.
For now, Karl perches in the bird’s nest, surely half asleep but always on guard. Dream picked Karl up in Rutabagville, a sleepy, honeycomb town just west of the main trading cities. While on a routine maintenance check, Karl had snuck onto their ship, somehow managing to remain unnoticed until they sailed away. Dream had threatened to make the stowaway walk the plank— until he realized how much better it was to have Karl join their small crew. Eagerly, Karl agreed.
Sapnap, Dream’s quartermaster and second hand, examines a compass by the helm of the ship. He's the smartest person Dream knows and then some; as children, fighting in mock-naval battles together, they had been practically inseparable. When Dream decided to leave and commandeer his own ship for a change, Sapnap had followed him.
Beside Sapnap are Skeppy and Bad, two sailors who agreed to give up their life as henchmen for His Majesty’s fleet and work with Dream, in exchange for limitless gold and jewels (which Dream had certainly supplied). Bad was a soothsayer, second only in talent to George's scrying, and while Dream understood next to none of what he preached about, he wasn’t one to go against superstitions and magicks. Skeppy was Bad’s best friend and, Dream suspected, a close partner, but he wasn’t one to guess.
Underneath everyone, deep in the hold, was likely where Sam and Ant were. Dream had assigned them to check on their stocks of gunpowder and cannons; it had been too long since the Nightmare had a decent raid, and their supplies were growing rusty. Besides, Sam was his first mate, and Ant his second; Dream had complete faith that the two of them would prepare everything adequately in case they ran across any naval ships on their way back to civilization.
Alyssa was likely with them, as Dream couldn’t see her anywhere above deck. Dream had recruited her to their motley crew when he had stopped in the Badlands for supplies. Nervous, thin, and scared, she had mugged Dream at knifepoint in an alleyway. It took two seconds for Dream to disarm her, but only one second to realize that with a bit of training and practice, Alyssa could be a truly deadly weapon. He had welcomed her to the crew that night; neither of them had looked back since.
Ponk was standing by Sapnap by the helm, map unfurled in front of him. He and Sapnap were talking, exaggerated gestures, and Dream recalled that the two of them had been close friends as soon as Ponk had stepped foot onto the ship. Dream and Ponk had been close friends, back when they were in His Majesty’s navy, and Ponk had always been a troublemaker. He had no qualms about leaving his life behind to become a pirate.
Together, the ten of them rule the seas. People whisper about them, and rumors run rampant. I hear they can magick the winds to their commands, one might whisper. Another might say, they have a kraken on their side, that can sink any ship. I hear a leviathan follows them. A third might quiet the two of them and look around fearfully. You never know when their masked captain is listening. They say he can hear his name said, even from the other side of the earth.
Dream hums. He runs another glance over his ship. The slight rain George predicted had done nothing; only leave the deck damp and the air fresh. They mop it nearly every day, almost obsessively— Sam is a stickler for cleanliness, and Dream doesn’t object.
Halfway through the day’s journey, there’s a shout from the starboard side.
“Dream!” Sam shouts, hair flying in the wind, “Get George, there’s an issue.”
The issue, as it turns out, is another one of His Majesty’s nets. Wide, spanning yards, and knitted together with deep-rooted magic, they capture magical creatures. Today’s catch is a pack of mermaids, and Dream’s heart twists to see them bunched together. They’re young, too— scales are still reddish-blue instead of green, and their fins haven’t come in entirely yet. The oldest is trying desperately to pull themselves free with webbed, clawed hands.
“I’m on it,” George mutters. His hand brushes across the small of Dream’s back, and a ladder unfurls to the sea. The sails shift, to still the wind, and George’s legs dip into the water.
“Is everything alright?”
Dream keeps his gaze firmly on the water, ignoring Alyssa’s curious gaze. “It seems the king is up to his tricks again.”
“Bastard,” Ponk adds. His brows are knitted in concentration.
The Nightmare bobs in place, sails holding it steady. Bad emerges from the hold, frowning as well; he’s a soothsayer and a medic, and he always has a second sense for when things are in trouble.
“Is George already down there?” He asks, without preamble, and Dream nods.
“I’m not sure how well they’re doing,” Dream says, “I’m sure he’d appreciate the help.”
Things like this happen far too frequently. Ever since His Majesty began deciding that it was his objective to rule both the magical creatures and the non-magic ones, they had been running into trapped creatures. It was painful to witness; those who lived in the sea were often disconnected from the politics of the real world. They never knew what was happening, and hardly any of them spoke the language of the humans as well. George had stopped the ship in a panic, one time, hearing the fearful shouts of a selkie trapped, and hadn’t given Dream a chance to object. He and Bad had freed the selkie, who was trapped with nets and curses, and that night, George curled up and sobbed. Dream sat next to him, unsure of how to appease him, but feeling the same pain.
Ever since then, they had made it their objective to actively go against whatever His Majesty wanted. Dream had never been one to follow the rules regardless. He hated people who flexed their power and might over others. Dream never intended to become like that, and he never would. Whatever His Majesty wanted, Dream would do the opposite. One day he would topple the throne and rid the world of a demon who was hunting magical creatures, once and for all.
Now, he glances down the ladder at the side of the ship. Bad clambers down as well, leaving his jacket and boots behind. He sits on the lowest rung while George bobs in the water, holding his breath for an unnaturally long amount of time, swimming faster than any human should be able to.
It takes ages, eons, it feels like, but the first mermaid, with the darkest scales, wriggles free, and the rest of them soon follow. The youngest one is so small— in human days, it would be thought of as a toddler— and it still had the first hints of red scales, which mermaids were born with. The toddler wriggles through a hole in the curse, and vanishes into the dark.
One of them turns around, eyes keen and oddly human, before they truly leave. Rippling underneath the water, it opens its mouth and sings something. The language is strange and unnatural to the human ear. George ducks underneath the water as well, hair floating, and sings something back.
George surfaces after a moment. The pack of mermaids disappears. Bad clambers back up the ladder, and George follows soon after. He wrings out his clothes over the edge, and vanishes into Dream’s cabin to retrieve dry ones. He’s silent and upset. Dream doesn’t press.
“Alright,” he says, and collects himself, “Back to traveling. Ant, drop the sails.”
Ant gives him a quick nod, and unravels the rope. It swings the sail forward, catching the wind, and the Nightmare points her nose towards the west, angling towards growing civilization. A few more weeks, and they will arrive.
Once Dream is certain that his ship was in working order, and there will likely be no stops for the remainder of the way (for they are in deep waters, and deep waters are dangerous to those unskilled with the sea), he crosses the deck to his cabin. George is still inside, and Dream knocks once.
“Come in,” George calls, and Dream does.
George has changed into one of Dream’s shirts, though at this point, their wardrobes are so entangled that the two of them might as well have no individual items. Everything that is Dream’s is George’s, and everything that is George’s is Dream’s.
George is sitting in their hammock, legs dangling. His toes nearly touch the floor. Dream comes and sits against the wall a few feet away.
“I’m fine,” George says, before Dream even has the chance to ask him.
“Are you?”
“I am,” George repeats, though he sounds uncertain. “I just hate when things like this happen.”
Dream nods. His mind is half on the mermaids and the terrible injustice of it all, while the other half is on the song that they had been singing to soothe each other, and the tune of the song sung to thank Bad and George once they were free. He thinks he can recognize certain words of it; like the ones that George whispers to him, in the dead of night.
“At least they’re free,” Dream says. “That’s what matters.”
“Them,” George says, and spreads his hands hopelessly, “But how many others?”
Dream glances towards his lover. His eyes are dark, shadowed with the exhaustion of curse breaking. In Dream’s shirt, he looks small, miserable.
“We saved them,” Dream says, though he knows it might not help much. “They’re alive and free, and they know how to avoid those traps from now on. If they meet more people, they can spread the word. It’s a chain reaction, isn’t it?”
George still looks unhappy. “It is. I wish it didn’t have to be.”
“One day,” Dream says firmly, “One day we’ll topple his throne. It won’t be like this forever.”
“I know,” George sighs, and repeats it, like he’s trying to convince himself of its truth. “I know, I know.”
Dream pushes up from the wall and George obligingly shuffles over in the hammock to make room for them. When they first began sleeping together it had taken some trial and error to figure out the exact height for the hammock to swing so they don’t brush the floor. Their combined body weight makes it sink low, enough so that Dream can reach out with an arm and still its swaying if needed.
George leans his head against Dream’s shoulder and squeezes his eyes shut. He presses his lips together, as though he’s trying not to let a sop slip out. Dream rubs small circles into his shoulder and the back of his hand, trying his best to sooth his lover down. He does his best. He hopes George knows.
Night dims and falls, and with it come the stars. In the middle of the sea, where Mother Nature never intended man to be, they are brighter than anything Dream has ever seen before. The only light is of their oil lanterns, and when those are blown out, all Dream can see is the wide expanse of stars. He has kissed George, more than a few times, underneath heaven’s eye. They often clamber up to the bird’s nest just to see them better.
Dream glances down at George, who hasn’t moved in a few minutes. With a start, he realizes that George has fallen asleep.
Carefully, and slowly, Dream edges out from underneath him. Sleepily, George fumbles for him, and Dream lies him down. He presses a kiss to his forehead, and imagines that with it, he can take away all of the stress, all of the fear.
Exiting his cabin into the darkness, he can see where people are. Up in the bird’s nest is Alyssa, with a spyglass and no lamp (for improving vision in the night). Sam is still at the helm, and Sapnap will be trading spaces with him once it reaches midnight in a few hour’s time. Everyone else is likely in the hold— they have game nights, every so often, and today seems to be one of those nights.
For a minute Dream thinks about joining them. He just as quickly dismisses the idea. He can hear their laughs, filtered through the doors to the gallery, and wonders how different his life would be if he had stayed, working as a shipwright and a sailor for His Majesty’s navy. Where would he be? Would he have dragged those mermaids aboard, stolen their magic, killed them? Instead of setting them free? If George was the one in the net instead of those mermaids— would Dream have done the same?
He likes to think that he wouldn’t.
He prays to a god he doesn’t believe in that he is more than the visage of his mind.
In a week's time, they arrive at civilization.
The newly budding L’Manburg is a district that sprung up from under the king’s rule. The Nightmare switches the black and white skull flag of a pirate’s ship to a neat yellow flag, signaling welcome friendship. Dream calls to drop their anchor a decent few yards away from the harbor; half of them sail to land, while the other half remains to guard the ship. In a few hours time they’ll switch, to ensure that there’s always someone on board.
Their crew totters onto the docks with wobbly sea-legs, but Dream knows the feeling will fade within the hour. George clings onto his arm, both supporting each other. The harbor market is broad and bustling and they both have satchels full of gold coins by their sides. Beside him, Sapnap, Alyssa, and Ponk step out, looking equally unsteady on land. The marketplace by the harbor town is small, but there are a dozen ships docked that day, and so the sun beats oppressively down onto the backs of their neck. All of them are tanned and freckled from the sun; still, he feels the prickle of a sunburn begin to spread.
“Well?” Dream grins, and smiles flicker on the faces of his crewmates. “Go wild.”
Alyssa’s grin is positively devilish, enough so that Dream calls out in concern, “Within reason!”
“Of course, Captain!” Alyssa calls, before Sapnap and Ponk drag her into the throng.
Dream watches them go and faintly hopes that they get into no trouble while they’re gone. He has low hopes, though; they’re all known for trouble. It’s why they work together, don’t they? No one who works on a pirate ship is one for following the rules.
He and George make a slow round of the marketplace. George detours down an alleyway to spend a few precious coins on new supplies for his magicking; he spends a decent amount on shells, for which Dream looks scornful at, but George smacks his arm and mutters something about magic and contained power, and Dream looks away. He can’t talk, either— he splurges on a new hat, since his old one is getting worn down to threads, a silver-tipped quill for writing, and the finest India ink L’Manburg can offer. Pitch black and excellent for writing.
It’s nearing midday when the other three members find them again. Sapnap sidles close to him and whispers, “Don’t look now, but I heard that you’re a wanted man.”
“What?”
“You have a wanted poster,” Alyssa confirms. “It’s rather dashing, if I do say so myself.”
Dream whips his head around. “Really?”
George flicks Sapnap’s side. “I wasn’t going to point it out.”
“Where?” Dream says, feeling giddy. “Am I worth a good amount?”
“A hefty sum,” George mutters, “They’re on every railing, I can’t believe you haven’t noticed. Sapnap, this is exactly why I didn’t tell him, it’s going to go to his head.”
“It’s not going to my head.”
“Your eyes have gone all starry,” George says, and frowns when a shopgoer comes too close to his shoulder, brushing past him, “I can tell you’re thinking something.”
“I want to see one,” Dream demands. “Sapnap, show me.”
“Sapnap—”
“Come along,” Sapnap grins, and the five of them duck behind a stall. The fresh smell of roasting meat wafts through the air as Sapnap leads the two of them on a winding road. He comes to a rest in front of the main square, and gestures proudly.
“There you are,” he says, “Your very own wanted poster.”
Dream strides forward to examine it. He can hear George’s muttered swear from behind him and intentionally ignores it. It’s tacked up by four corners, with a stamped picture of his face, covered with the infamous mask. Dream ignores his own cold gaze and instead reads: WANTED: for crimes against His Majesty and Naval Services. The reward is even brighter: a thousand gold pieces. Against his will, Dream’s heart leaps to life. A spark blooms behind his eyes.
“Look what you’ve done,” George grouses, “He’s thinking.”
“A thousand gold pieces,” Dream says, hushed. “By god, that’s wonderful.”
Ponk looks alarmed. “You’re not suggesting—”
“Alyssa,” Dream interrupts, “How good are you at fake crying?”
Alyssa grins. “I can do my best.”
Dream’s smile is sharp. He looks over the wanted poster again. They don’t know his name— they call him the Masked Killer. How fitting.
“Here’s the plan,” Dream says, and he lays it out for them.
In a better world, the plan would have gone off without a hitch.
Fortunately, though, Dream is a pirate, and he’s always been lucky. He’s seized, captured, taken from the harbor. He’s grateful that he has the foresight to give the key around his neck to Sapnap, because he’s patted down and searched, and every last one of his knives is taken from him. They even find the small one, made of carved ivory, in the heel of his boot. Dream doesn’t bother fighting back; he shrugs, a smile on his lips, and allows himself to be led into a cell. The gates clank shut around him ominously.
Alyssa, who plays the part of a fearful maiden impossibly well, returns to the ship with gold aplenty, and hides the lot of it in the hold. Skeppy nearly goes incoherent at the sight of it. Sunset begins to appear on the horizon, painting the sky pink, and Alyssa carries the trunk of gold into the hold. The sun dips low over the sea, and she fixes her gaze on the harbor of L’Manburg. For all their quick planning, Dream doesn’t appear again for a long, long time.
While Alyssa’s side of the story goes well, the rest of the plan does not.
What it should have gone like is this: Dream is arrested. Before he’s locked in the cell, Sapnap and Ponk should have incapacitated the guards and stolen Dream away. By that point, Alyssa would have made it back to the Nightmare and alerted them to raise the sails, preparing to leave.
Instead, Dream is locked inside the cell. The guard, dressed in the rich blues and reds of L’Manburg’s flag, hangs the rusty key from a loop around his waist. Dream’s eyes fixate on it as he walks away, down the hall, and he tilts his head back.
He’s unsure how many hours pass, but there’s nothing to do when his friends aren’t there to help him. There’s no point in fighting and attempting to break out with no supplies. Instead, he just waits. His cell is small, lined with cinder bricks, and he feels his mind begin to give into sleep.
In the moments before he drifts off, there’s a harsh whisper, at the window to his cell.
“Dream,” Ponk says, “Dream, wake up.”
He blinks awake. In the time between his eyes closing and opening, the sun has begun to set. Navy blue emerges over the sea, blurring the lines between the land and the air. Fog creeps in. L’Manburg glows with yellow, as lanterns are lit.
In between his fingers, Ponk wiggles three fine pieces of metal— from Dream’s own lockpicking kit.
“Wonderful,” Dream sighs, and stretches up for them. The metal clamped around his wrists and ankles hinders his movement, but with enough wiggling, Dream inserts one of the picks into the lock. The tumblers are basic, elementary level, and his handcuffs unlock before long. Ponk watches as night falls; when Dream gives him a thumbs up, beginning to work on his ankles, he vanishes.
Good. Dream rubs the raw skin around his wrist as he works; there’s a shout from down the hall, and it takes all his willpower not to look to see what caused it. He hears the clank of metal armor, slowly getting louder, and grits his teeth.
The cuffs fall open. Finally. He rushes up and to the door of the cell. The lock here is deeper and better made, and it clicks slightly. The sound of clanking grows louder. Dream’s hand cramps up and he forces himself to count to five, tamping down on his frustration. The padlock taunts him.
With a click, it falls open.
Relief surges through Dream’s chest. He wrenches the door open, feeling a little thrill at how easy it was to escape— just how new was L’Manburg to the Empire?— and looks down the hall. There is a door at one end and a turn at the other. Before he can choose, two guards turn the corner.
They are in iron armor, slightly dull, one with a sword, the other with an axe. Dream stares with wide eyes. He could turn and run to the door, but he has a sinking suspicion that it's locked.
Fine, then. He has won fights with worse odds.
The first swing of his hits the guard under his jaw. His head snaps back, and the second draws his axe. He swings it viciously, and Dream ducks under it. the blade ruffles his hair as it passes, and there’s a sick spike of adrenaline. Dream wrenches a knife from the first guard’s waist, and slashes blindly. It cuts through fabric but not skin, and he dodges the next punch to his sternum.
He throws himself to the side, right as the sword hits the brick where he was standing. It leaves the guard open, though, and Dream’s next punch snaps his head to the side. He crumples to the floor. The remaining one clutches his axe, takes a swing, but Dream is ready for it— he catches the axe midswing, twists, and slams it into the wall. It sticks into one of the support beams, and he hits the guard’s chin— he, too, falls to the ground.
Dream stands up, breathing heavily. His mind spins wildly, and faintly he registers the sting of a wound in his side. He doesn’t glance down at it, but instead limps out into the corridor. He doesn’t see Sapnap, George, or Ponk, but he can hear muffled sounds of a fight to the right.
He arrives to find a squadron of prison guards on the floor. George’s knuckles are bruised, nearly bloody, but both Sapnap and Ponk are unharmed. All three of them have their bandanas pulled high over their noses, blocking their faces. George pulls Dream’s bandana from his pocket— deep emerald green, with a crudely drawn smile on it. It’s the bandanas they wear when they’re preparing to wreak havoc on the world.
“Dream,” George says, with alarmed eyes, “Your side—”
“It’s fine!” Dream exclaims. He’s high on adrenaline, mask on, ready to conquer the world. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”
The four of them burst out into the crowded streets of L’Manburg. No one seems to realize what’s happening; they dissolve into the milling crowd surrounding the marketplace before the second squadron even makes it to the front of the prison. Dream ducks under the swinging laundry of a woman and vaults over a cooking rack of fish. Sapnap’s laugh is wild and giddy.
“Go!” he shouts. “Dream, you’re a maniac.”
Dream doesn’t spare the breath for an answer. Their lifeboat bobs in the docks, and already, Sam is waiting there, ready to row away. Water splashes over the five of them, but with strong, swift strides, they’re already out of reach of anyone
“Anchor’s up?” Dream checks.
Sam nods. Just a few more strides and they’ll be in reach of the hanging ladder. “We’re in luck. Winds are strong tonight.”
“And heavy fog,” George adds. His smile is a brilliant flash of white in the nighttime.
Dream reaches up with one hand and grabs onto the rope ladder; he heaves himself up it, rung by rung, even though his side is truly starting to burn now. He doesn’t look down, and Alyssa reaches over to hoist him over the railing. The rest of his crew are waiting by the sails, and the anchor is piled in thick chains on the deck. Without a glance towards L’Manburg, Ant releases the sails, and the wind seems to pick up with them.
For a moment, no one speaks.
Then Ponk whoops, jubilant and bright, and the crew dissolves into cheers. Alyssa earns more than one slap on the back; none of this would have been possible with her.
Dream grins. “Are we millions of gold richer?”
“You’re mad,” Sam gasps, out of breath from rowing them all back, “A mad genius, still, but absolutely mad.”
He feels high off the thrill of the win. In his mind’s eye flashes the image of the eastern archipelago, which they just left. Only three weeks and they’ll be able to regain the hunt. He hasn’t forgotten. They’re filthy rich and his luck has never been better. It’s time to become richer.
“Sapnap,” Dream says, “Direct us back to the eastern archipelago.”
Dream’s quartermaster and prime navigator grins. He tips his hat as Dream passes. “I’ll get us there within the week.”
“That’s impossible,” Karl says dubiously, but Sapnap merely waves a hand, wholly unbothered.
“Are you all okay?” Ant says. He’s still standing by the ropes, in case the wind changes— it’s finicky tonight. “None of you are hurt?”
Sapnap and Ponk shake their heads. George examines his knuckles with an expression of wry distaste; he’s never been a fighter, but he knows how to win. He, too, shakes his head.
Dream’s side pulses with pain. For a minute the thrill of adrenaline fades, and a wave of nausea ricochets through his body. He presses a palm to his side and heaves a deep breath.
“Bad,” he says, “I may need your help.”
Bad’s gaze is troubled and concerned. The second Dream passes the doorway to the medic’s hall, he stumbles. He tries to speak through numb lips, but all that comes out is, “Ow.”
“How bad is it?” Bad says, voice tinged with panic.
“Not that bad,” Dream breathes, “Maybe a slight stab wound.”
“You were stabbed ?”
“Slightly,” Dream allows. “It doesn’t hurt, I promise.”
“Why don’t I believe you,” Bad sighs, and begins peeling off Dream’s shirt. Beneath a deep green overcoat, his white shirt is soaked through with red, and Bad blanches.
“George,” he says, without glancing up to see if the other man is there, “Go fetch a healing potion.”
George moves swiftly and silently. Out of curiosity, Dream presses a hand to his side and feels something wet; his hand comes back stained dark.
“Huh,” he says. His heart is still racing. The pain builds, hot and burning, and his mind is swamped with a thick fog. Something clenches in his chest. “That’s interesting.”
“Dream?” George says, voice alarmed, “Dream, stay awake.”
“Tired,” Dream mumbles.
“I know.” George sounds panicked. “I know you’re tired, stay awake for me please, stay awake.”
His hand clutches onto Dream’s. It’s cool to the touch. Dream wants to reach out, but he does so in a strange, lopsided way.
He reaches out. But not in real life.
Something inside him reaches out towards the magic that rests inside George, a creature made of magic. Whatever reaches out tries to touch the magic. George’s magic reacts, a soul of water, and pulses brightly. It, too, is alarmed.
It whispers to him. Stay awake, the soul says, blue and shining, stay awake.
“Your magic,” Dream breathes, in the fine line between consciousness and unconsciousness. “It’s beautiful.”
The world goes black.
Dream wakes up in a dark room. He sways gently; he’s in his hammock, in the captain’s cabin. It’s dark and quiet. He can hear muted conversation coming from outside, but none of the words register. What does register is this: a hand, in his. Smoothing over his hair. The gentle touch of skin against his.
“You,” George says, “Are the damn luckiest person alive.”
Dream pushes himself up. He can feel the thick padding of bandages through his clothes. “I always make it out alive, don’t I?”
“That was too close for comfort.”
“They don’t want me dead,” Dream says. “Everything worked out.”
The strike of a match. An oil lantern lights up, and the cabin is illuminated. George hangs it from a hook and shifts closer. His eyes are dark as pitch.
“I’ll never understand why you always lie to yourself,” George says.
“The poster said wanted alive. ”
George presses two fingers to Dream’s side, and he winces. The bandages are padded well, but a dull heat pulses from the wound. “When I agreed to the plan, I thought it was an implicit agreement that you wouldn’t get hurt.”
“I’m not,” Dream says, and shifts so George is laying on him more firmly. “Kiss me?”
George still looks upset, but he leans in regardless. As always, he tastes of freshwater. Dream wants to drink him in like he’s lifeblood.
George’s hand presses against his chest, hot fingers tracing obsessive lines downward. Dream arches backward, and then just as abruptly as it begins, it stops.
George looks puzzled. He presses two fingers to the hollow of Dream’s throat.
“Where’s your key?”
A flash of panic. Dream lifts a hand up and finds his throat empty.
“I gave it to Sapnap,” he recalls. “Before.”
He takes note of George’s face. Drawn and upset.
“I can go get it back,” he says.
“Would you?” George asks, even though both of them are flushed red from the kiss. Dream’s shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and George looks no better.
“Of course,” Dream says. His throat feels empty without the key around it. “I’ll be right back.”
He takes a few moments to collect himself, buttons up his shirt, and runs fingers through rumpled hair. It hurts faintly to walk, but whatever potion George and Bad gave him has taken the edge off the pain.
Sapnap, upon seeing the shape he’s in, bursts out laughing, and then hands the key back. Dream slips it over his head and relaxes, feeling the weight of it rest against his chest. He returns to his cabin to find George still there. But one look tells Dream that his lover is no longer in the mood.
“It’s here,” Dream says, and gestures.
“Okay.”
He’s displeased. Dream isn’t surprised.
That night, George’s mood eases somewhat. He climbs into Dream’s hammock, same as every night, and twines them together. One hand, one leg, curved over the other, chin resting on shoulder, chests rising and falling together. When it’s only them and the moonlight, George allows Dream’s hands to run over every inch of him. Even after all this time, Dream can’t believe that George has stayed.
The cot of a selkie, George had said. The weight of it was smooth and warm in his hands, and the pelt was pliant in Dream’s fingertips. I want to give mine to you.
He had never been so serious in his life. The sea entwined around their legs, tangled the two of them together.
Are you sure? Dream said uncertainly. Even he, as out of touch with magic and the spirits as he was, could sense the power of the item he held.
Doubtless, George breathed. I’ve never been more certain.
George’s pelt, now, lies in a gilded oak chest, locked inside the lower drawer of Dream’s dresser. The key to the chest rests around Dream’s neck; the key to the drawer lies around George’s. It was an arrangement they both agreed upon. But Dream would be lying to himself if he said he hasn’t seen the hungry looks George gives the keys. He wonders, sometimes, if his lover regrets it. If the sea still calls his name, or if he’s relinquished his days beneath the water to be with humans.
If George thinks about retrieving his pelt, he never says a word. Only stares, too long, at the glimmer of gold tucked beneath Dream’s shirt.
“I’m sorry,” Dream murmurs, in the middle of the night. George stirs, caught in the valley between sleep and awakeness. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“I don’t mind,” George says.
“I thought we agreed that we wouldn’t lie to each other any longer.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You were upset,” Dream says. “You can be honest about it.”
The hammock sways as George shifts. He pushes himself up. “I think you are too reckless sometimes.”
Sourness surfaces in Dream’s throat. He’s heard this lecture one too many times.
“I trust Sapnap,” he says, “And the plan worked.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust him,” George says. “It’s not about Sapnap at all.”
“I know,” Dream says. “I’m sorry.”
“I gave my pelt to you,” George says, and his hand skitters up to feel for Dream’s pulse against his neck, “Not to anyone else. To you.”
Because I love you. The words go unspoken, although they’ve been said before.
“I know,” Dream repeats, as always astounded by the level of trust George gives him, so much that it takes his breath away. “I don’t take that lightly.”
“I know you don’t,” George echoes. He tugs lightly on the key, once, twice, and the third, Dream manages to free his hand. He brings it up to George’s, laces their fingers together. “I wish— I don’t know what I wish. I know the plan worked, but I hate it regardless.”
Dream murmurs, “You need to stop worrying so much.”
“I can’t help it,” George says. “It’s in my blood.”
“I’ll be fine,” Dream says. “You know this. I’ve fared worse.”
“That’s not entirely what I’m worried about."
Dream glances at him.
“You said something,” George says, and he sits back. His tone is serious.
Dream tilts his head. “What?”
“Before you passed out,” George continues. “You said something about me.”
“I say a lot of things about you,” Dream says. “Clarify for me?”
George looks almost embarrassed. He presses two fingers to his chest. “You talked about my magic. You said it was beautiful.”
“You are beautiful.”
George’s embarrassment deepens. “You say that a lot.”
Dream likes when George is flustered. “It’s true.”
“Shut up,” George mutters, and Dream’s heart beats with light. “I was going to ask, though— can you see my magic?”
Dream frowns. “How would I be able to see your magic?”
George’s gaze is scrutinizing. “Do you not remember?”
Dream shakes his head. “I remember seeing you . I don’t remember seeing magic.”
George considers that. He tries to think of the right words to put it in, and eventually he says, “It’s like my soul, I suppose. Where I draw my magic from. That’s where Bad gets his from, too. I’ve never heard of someone who’s… non-magic being able to sense that. Or see it, in any way.”
Dream is nonplussed. “Are you sure it’s not just a closeness thing? I’d say we’re closer than typical people on this ship.”
“No,” George says. “It’s not.”
Neither of them speak. The ship hits the crest of a wave, and crashes back down in a swell. The hammock sways, always keeping them steady.
“Dream,” George says carefully, “Do you think…”
Nervousness rises like the crest of a wave. “What?”
George stares at him for a long, long time. Deciding whether to speak or not.
He says nothing. He leans in and kisses Dream, soft and slow, and twines fingers into Dream’s hair. Dream allows him, falling into it.
George breathes, “It’s nothing important.”
Dream, for all his love, chooses to believe him.
They are both silent for a long, long moment. Dream curls into George, sleepy but satisfied, and on the verge of sleep, he says, “Tell me a story?”
The end of his voice ticks up. George hums.
“What kind?”
“Any.”
“A good one?”
“If you’re willing to tell it.”
George’s hand skitters up to rest over Dream’s heart. He presses there for a moment, feels it beating steadily.
“There’s an ancient legend about an eternal flame,” George says. His voice is low, with that odd accent that no one else has, and it soothes Dream like nothing can. “Many legends talk about it, but no one is sure where it came from. The idea is that it’s a flame that can never go out, no matter what. It burns forever, regardless of where it is.”
“Ah,” murmurs Dream. “Interesting.”
George smiles against his cheek. “You’re lying to me.”
“No,” Dream says, “Keep talking.”
George hums, clears his throat, and continues. “The interesting thing about the eternal flame is that it’s been hidden for a long time. There are many myths about its use. Some say that whoever possesses the eternal flame can control who passes from life or death. Some other people say that the eternal flame controls the magic that’s in people. It can pass powers onto others and take them away.
“Most people believe that the flame is a false myth,” George continues. “That whatever flame the ancient people were stoking went out a long time ago, and it vanished. That’s why death continues to take its toll, no matter what, and why only certain people are born with magic or without. Whoever had the flame lost it to time.
“But others think that the flame is out there, hidden, and is waiting to be found. They think that the world is waiting for the right person to come and possess it again. Some people keep flames burning on their own, in the hope that it’ll turn out to be their flame that never goes out. But for all we know, the eternal flame is lost forever.”
“Huh,” Dream mumble. He tilts his head against George’s, and his hair brushes against his cheek. Sleep begins to pull her veil over his mind. “You have a pretty voice.”
George’s smile, quiet and soft. “You need your rest, Dream.”
George’s hand laces with his own. He presses against Dream’s heart again. It beats in time with George’s— one, two, one, two.
Dream makes it to forty-five pulses of his heart before he has fallen asleep.