Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's around midnight when Cara finally arrives and it is raining like she's scarcely seen before. The weather had been overly unkind to her as of late, much to her and her crew's appall; a storm had gathered around the East Sand harbor where her ship was docked and followed them all the way to Manberg, lighting and hailing through the entire way. “I can barely say the winds are on our side,” her First Mate had told her not long after they'd departed, a meek little man with a smoker's laugh and crow's feet adorning his eyes—they would get there quicker than they should but it would not be pleasant. “I am already too late,” Cara had said and that was the end of it.

My brother is dead. The thought crept in during the rare moments of the trip her hands weren't busy with documents or ropes or the rubber. Cara told herself they weren't close and there was nothing to mourn, and yet she soon rushed to fill her hands with something else. It had not stopped when they moored their vessel nor when she rented a white mare at the harbor village's stable. He is gone , she thought as she rode through the Prime Path sore-legged and headached, gripping the reins tighter. 

The body of a manor appears on the horizon amidst the dark clouds and she finds she has never seen an uglier building. It might have been decent, once, although Cara could not really imagine how. It felt like a crooked carcass, like someone who had never seen a house before had tried to draw it from memory. Walls met at weird angles and cracks and paint fell off the entrance pillars as time, tragedy and nature slowly tore it down. Storms like this one couldn't have helped and she suddenly finds guilt brewing in the pit of her stomach for seemingly no reason at all. 

It happened here, Cara was sure. The house looked like it smelled of him and she wondered if he was still in there, rotting alongside it. For now , she tells herself, soon the rain and the people would wash any trace of him off this place. There will be nothing to be done about the scars, though; those would stay , she thought bitterly, and her hand reaches for her forearm, an old wound stinging underneath her clothes, and she wonders when Captain Cara became a creature of such grief and spite.

The murk is thick, the moon covered by obsidian-black clouds, and yet the white manor feels more somber than the world ending around it. Her mare comes to a sudden halt despite Cara spurring her further. It neighs and shakes its head, signaling it would not proceed beyond, decided not to cross a line invisible to Cara’s eyes. As she gets closer, on foot this time, she wishes she had done the same.

It is late, dark and cold, the rain water freezing her down to the bone, and yet her body tells her it'd rather be outside than inside it . Warm light escapes through the manor's crown glass windows, two on either side. Between them, crooked like the walls and the windows and the pillars, stands a tall, imposing dark oak door. It is the first time she hesitates. 

She could hear banter coming from inside, more voices than she thought she'd hear at this hour and at this place. Cara's shaky breath merges with the late-night haze, and three firm knocks on the fine wood slowly kill all sound beyond the walls. It doesn't take long for someone to open it.

The man was tall, particularly so, with dark maroon hair in desperate need of a haircut, pale skin and an underdone beard. His eyes were black, barely visible under a pair of glasses and Cara doubted he could even see that well with the thick layer of grease over it. One of the lenses was cracked diagonally. The gentleman—Cara felt like she should call him one—wore a stained shirt and a brown overcoat, his bruised hands poorly concealed by punctured black gloves. Even so, dressed no better than a castaway, he felt nobleborn, and Cara knew from the first look that he was a liar.

"I... Pardon me, who do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" 

"Cara," she says awkwardly.

"Cara," He tasted the word in his mouth as if trying to decipher some hidden meaning where there was none. "I'm afraid it is not a good time, dear." The man chuckled. His nervousness came from a place of requirement, not of authenticity. 

"I came to see— I came for J. Schlatt." The name felt foreign in her tongue. 

He blinks slowly. "That, uh, won't be possible,” the man laughs as he says it and yet even through the murked glass lenses, Cara sees a stain in his eyes that resembles grief, not so different from her own.

"Who is it?" A young boy's voice whispered. She couldn't see him hiding behind the door, but he didn't sound older than sixteen. This is no place for a kid , she thought. But the truth is that this was no place for anyone. Cara wondered what brought him here. Family, most likely. And then again, it was precisely why she waited outside, in the rain and the cold. 

The gentleman ignored the boy.

"I'm… his sister.” She felt stupid for not thinking of anything more clever to say. "I'm aware of the, uh, situation."

He looks at her as if she'd spoken gibberish and Cara wonders if she had. She could see the cogs in his head turning and something somewhere deep inside her felt accomplished. He didn't seem used to being suprised. 

"Well, that facilitates things." He smiled uncomfortably. "Come on in, please."

She nodded before entering her dead brother’s grave.

Chapter Text

Most people weren't aware of how much and how often mold would affect ships. Vessels were not above earthly problems—neither were the men and women aboard, she came to understand later rather than sooner. Not even the open blue sea could stop humidity from doing what it does best: damage. Once it reached a certain point unnoticed, eating away at wood and foam—and even the hardtack depending on the species—, there was not really much to do. If the foundation was lost, all was lost. 

But a ship never sank alone, and so certain types of mold also made their way to the crew, and the sea rats would start “acting funny”. Men would become forgettable,  irritable, confused. Lose sense of direction and of routine habits at sea, sailors could not forget if it was forcibly taken from them. If structural damage didn't kill them, soon the mold exposure did. 

Cara thought about it when she entered the house. The stories of men crashing their own vessels, making mistakes not even first timers would be capable of. Whatever sick monster lay beneath the white birch floors of the manor was so encrusted in the meat of the building and of those living inside it, they could not see it breathing under the boards. 

The living room was loud despite the silence of all the men inside it—loud then quiet in the way only a wreck can be. A hearth stood in the middle, taking too much space even in a big building like this one, and a man tended to the fire, young and scrawny not unlike his companions. They all had dreadful, sullen eyes and for a split second Cara wondered if she had entered a room of ghosts. 

She could see , as clearly as if it was day, her brother sitting in the embroidered purple armchair near the fire—where now sat a brown-haired boy—, an expensive old cigar in his hand of a brand she never bothered remembering the name before . Cara saw the days pass by and each time he sat and smoked and waited, something nibbed at him as he grew weaker and frailer until he looked no different from the boys in front of her now. It had certainly taken his life. She could not bring herself to think of that as meaning much.

Cara blinks and the scene vanishes, and she is left with nothing but a chill in her spine that does not go away. Despite the fire, the air felt cold.

The boy in the embroidered armchair was quite short, light-skinned, underweight. He looks so small , Cara thought, a boy still green . And yet, his features were harsh, and when he turned to face her she saw why. Engraved on the boy's left side were the worst burn marks she had ever seen. His features looked molded by wax, sunken into his skull, frozen in a constant state of melting, and a faint gray highlighted his partially blind eye. A pin on his suit—Cara was surprised he was dressed so formally—read Tobias Smith .

She asked herself if the fireplace bothered him. He didn't even seem to notice it was there. It actually took a while for him to note she was there, too.

The boy who tended to the fire was young, although a few years older than Tobias. Nineteen, maybe twenty, but a boy nonetheless. He wore an indigo coat with a high collar and rolled-up sleeves. She thought he looked a bit ridiculous dressed that way , like he couldn't decide if it was cold or hot, until she saw the burn marks up his forearm, not unlike the ones she saw in Tobias, but considerably less severe. When he saw her looking, he pulled the sleeves down as if that would make her unsee it.

“We have company, gentlemen,” The tall man with brown hair and dark eyes and cracked glasses announced. 

“What's this, Wilbur? I thought we made it very clear—” The fire tender protested before he was interrupted. By the look on his face, it happened a lot.

“This is Cara,” he paused, “Schlatt's sister.”

Wilbur seemed pleased with himself and Cara thought him vain and arrogant. You're a fool and that will be your demise , she thinks bitterly. Cara does not understand why it angers her, so she tries to put it away. 

"She knows," Wilbur added and some gaped mouths turned to frowns rather quickly. 

"How?" A ginger boy asked and accusatory stares turned on each other.

As their voices overlapped and they questioned their brothers, she stared at the fair-skinned blond boy, how he looked so young beside Wilbur, the only kid in the room that still had life enough in him to act his age. He smiled at her and she gave him a small smile back.

"That— That's actually a very good question, Fundy." Wilbur said with a yellow grin and turned to Cara. 

"I received a letter from a… a friend,” she told them, trying to look at the many eyes in the room, hoping that would help them believe her words. It’s been some time since we last spoke, but it’s crucial that you know this , the familiar handwriting had told her when she opened the letter a world away from here.

"What friend?" The boy with the beanie asked, annoyance clear in his voice. Wilbur looked over, intrigued.

Explain you’re his sister. If that doesn’t work, tell them I sent you.

“Niki,” she told them. “She explained what happened.” 

She comes into the room as if summoned by name. Cara catches the smell of flour in the air before she sees Niki. “You're here early,” she sounds surprised, an apron on her waist, her blonde hair styled in a bun, some strands clinged to her forehead with sweat, brown roots peeking through honey-yellow dye. A sadness washes over her and suddenly she wasn't only mourning her brother. 

I missed you , she thought, but the words would not come out. Instead, she said, “I came as soon as I could.” 

The fire tender puts his stoker aside. “What the hell, Niki? We talked about this, we weren't supposed to tell anyone.” 

“And I agreed, Quackity. But one thing is not telling the people and another is not telling his sister.”

“It will be for nothing if she doesn't keep her mouth shut.” His voice had an edge to it sharp as netherite.

“I'm sure Miss Cara understands what that would entail, Quackity,” Wilbur's smile betrayed nothing, but the veiled threat had not gone unnoticed to her ears. 

Cara was relieved she did not need to think of anything clever to say, as Niki cemented they would speak about it in the morrow, that Cara must be tired from the travel and that they were being rude by not letting her rest. They seemed unsure, distrustful, Quackity and Fundy the ones to voice their concerns, but after Wilbur supported Niki's sentiment, they were advised to retreat to their rooms. Cara follows Niki knowing the discussion is all but over. 

Caroline, sharing this letter or the information within it with anyone not authorized is a capital crime. Right now, you won’t want to be committing those.

No amount of blankets were able to warm her through the night.