Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The settlement, precariously situated right at the edge of the eternal storm that parts the Empyrean territory from the rest of Eleutheria, is dark and silent, squat buildings huddled together as if seeking warmth from each other. In this part of the sky, dark doesn't necessarily mean abandoned, so the crew sweeps through the area with caution, lanterns held low and shoulders huddled under the oppressive charge of thunder in the air.

But this settlement is empty, absent of life. Absent of anyone who'll mind if the crew of the Misery help themselves to their stockpiled supplies. Skyfarers can rarely afford to be sentimental.

The Captain stands in the courtyard of the main building, overseeing the crew ferrying crates and supplies–reminding one particularly ambitious crew member that the upholstered chair she's trying to haul back to the engine won't fit in the crew quarters, no matter how comfortable it is–, but the more crates are carried out, the deeper the furrow in their brow grows.

There are times when settlers are forced to leave their homes. Not every rock in the Wilderness has soil fertile enough to live off the land. Sometimes pirates attack, although the buildings of this settlement carry no scars of combat. If no one intended to return here, someone would have taken most of these supplies already. Most likely, this isn't a settlement at all. It’s a safe house. Someday, its owner intends to make use of it.

Well. As long as they don't linger, that day is unlikely to be today.

"Captain," one of the crew calls, hurrying from around the back of the main building. "There's a cave back here. One of the men saw something inside."

The Captain frowns and waves the Fortunate Navigator over to take over for them, then follows the out-of-breath crew member. He takes them to a small hill behind the settlement, nestled up against the jagged edge of the hunk of rock that serves as ground. There is, indeed, a cave, wide and dark-mouthed, and two more crew members stand outside, visibly agitated, too afraid to get close, but straining their necks trying to peer through the impenetrable darkness.

The 'something' turns out to be a shadow, stretching jagged limbs briefly outside the darkness of the depth in flashes of overhead–or, sometimes, side-of-head–lightning.

"It’s obviously just a rock formation," the Captain says and steps inside, lantern held aloft.

Their crew members wait anxiously outside, making no move to follow.

"It’s not a rock formation," the Captain calls out after a moment. "Bring more lanterns."

The Taciturn Prisoner is pinned and splayed like a butterfly under glass, tattered wings spread to either side. It makes no sound, doesn’t move, but one liquid, fathomless eye stares them balefully down through long, matted fur.

The Captain gingerly sets their lantern on the ground and gestures for the crew to do the same, until a loose half-circle of them lights up every inch of the creature. The Captain grimly inspects one of the countless blades that speckle the creature’s body; it’s dark with a dried substance that resembles a suggestion of blood. For a moment, they swear they see a spatter of it shiver, dark dust flaking off.

"So," they say seriously, "do you want to talk?"

The creature doesn’t move, but its eye is filled with contempt.

"Right. Figures." The Captain turns to the crew. "I’m not going to force any of you to volunteer in here, but I’m going to need a watch set outside. Whatever did this, I want some warning if it comes back and catches us stealing its trophy."

A crew member coughs nervously. "Couldn't we just leave it?"

The Captain looks politely questioning.

"I–I mean, what did any of them ever do for us? Isn’t it bad enough that we already have one prowling around the engine?"

The Captain puts a friendly hand on the crew member’s shoulder and smiles with such benign grace that several of his fellows abruptly step back, leaving space in a loose circle around the two.

"Tell you what, Vaille–"

"–It’s Baille, Captain–"

"–If that’s how you feel, why don’t you go back to the engine and tell the quartermaster that I’ve ordered an extra round of whisky for tonight’s dinner? And while you’re at it, I’d like you to take the opportunity to explain the discomfort you’re describing, in complete detail. Tell it every grievance. There’s nothing like complete honesty between crewmates to clear the air and resolve conflict, don’t you agree?"

Baille looks deeply ill. "Sorry, Captain. Forget I said anything."

"Good man. Don’t let me hear of any more crew in-fighting, now." They turn away from Baille and wave another crew member closer. "Thompson, take a few people and clear up space in the cargo hold. Find some blankets to put down."

Thompson glances at Baille, and wisely opts to nod without further comment. The crew begins to shuffle out of the cave, though the Captain stops a member briefly. A few whispered words, and a small jar changes hands. Eventually, however, they’re left alone with the cave’s tormented inhabitant.

"Don’t look at me like that, please," they sigh, bending to examine a sword plunged straight through the middle of one of the Prisoner’s wings. "I’m getting to it. I don’t suppose you’ll promise not to immediately try to kill us the moment you get down from there."

They wait for what seems like a polite amount of time.

"Didn’t think so." They crack open the jar and swipe rouge onto the pommels of a few of the swords. "I’m marking these for last. They seem like they’ll be the least likely to do more damage when they have to hold all your weight."

They kneel to examine a stiletto driven into a joint that could charitably be called an elbow. The forearm below hangs limp and useless like a stringless puppet, and when they pinch its thumb between their fingers and experimentally move it, it offers no resistance, though the creature draws a rattling breath that might be a warning. Or just more pain than discipline can withstand.

"Whoever did this really didn’t like you, huh?"

After a moment’s thought, they add smaller dots to a few more pommels, radiating out from the designated load bearers. They tuck away the jar and shake powder off their gloves.

"Guess there’s no more putting it off," they say, wrapping their hands around the first dagger, at the very edge of the Prisoner’s wing. The reluctant scraping of steel against rock is terrible, but the prisoner is deathly still, though the movement must be painful against the scabbed-over wound. The Captain grits their teeth and sets one foot against the wall, and this time the blade pops out, with enough force to hit them in the gut.

The Prisoner does not look sympathetic to their soft 'oof'.

"Right," they sigh, and drop the knife to the ground. The gash in the wing leaks sluggishly where the membrane had previously healed onto the blade. The Captain looks away, and moves on to the next blade.

After a while, the work takes on a sort of rhythm. Finding the next angle. The grip. The pull. Inspecting the wound. At one point the Prisoner smacks them limply with the free edge of a wing, and they have to pause to figure out, mostly via guesswork, that they were subconsciously humming under their breath, and the creature found this extremely displeasing.

"Everyone’s a critic," they tell it. Its glare grows more hateful.

They can't say how much time passes. If they strain their ears, they can hear the watch outside, moving and talking, but the cave itself is quiet but for their own clothes rustling and their grunts of exertion. The work continues.

The creature doesn't move much, except to keep its one-eyed gaze fixed on them, so it's quite noticeable when its ragged ears twitch, just once. They pause their work to listen, and hear it too: quiet, shuffling steps. The Captain automatically feels for their gun, but they’re not all that surprised when the imposing bulk of the Chiropterous Hoarder melts out of the shadows, into the gloomy halo of lantern light.

It stops there, at the edge of sight, and takes in the tableau with an unfathomable expression. There is a small bundle in its slender arms.

"You didn't show up for dinner," it says after a time, clearly directed at the Captain though its star-speckled eyes are fixed on the ragged Prisoner.

"And no one wanted to be the one to have to tell you about this," the Captain fills in. "Of course."

"You should take a break. You need to eat."

"In front of a captive audience?" They shake their head, voice firm. "I'm not stopping halfway. Better to get this over with as quickly as possible."

The Hoarder turns its eyes onto the Captain, as dark and impenetrable as the Prisoner's.

"You don't have to do this," it says blandly. "You could leave it here."

"If you're not going to help, go back to the engine," the Captain says sharply.

The Hoarder huffs, then crosses the cavern. The Prisoner turns its ragged head and good eye away when it gets too close, nearly pressed against the emaciated creature's side. It twitches once, a single fullbody tremor, when the Hoarder reaches down and lazily tugs a blade from the creature's leg, carelessly tossing it aside while the wound drips sluggishly.

"You don't have to be so rough," the Captain protests. "Isn't it in enough pain already?"

"Your gentleness only prolongs its humiliation." There is a cool edge to the Hoarders voice. It rips a knife from the other leg and dispassionately watches the Prisoner draw a choked, whistling breath. When it lifts the creature's lower body into its arms, fresh blood wells and drips from one creature's limb to the other. "Hurry up and get it over with. It can take it."

The Captain purses their lips, but at this point it seems too late to argue. With the Hoarder supporting the Prisoner's weight, they don't need to be so precious about which blades to leave to hold it up, so the remaining work goes faster, though they're still far more gentle about it than the Hoarder.

The Prisoner lies deathly still, eye closed, and the Captain quells the urge to ask if it still lives while they edge beneath the Hoarder's arm to get at the last remaining dagger piercing the prisoner's elbow joint. When they duck back up, the creature's eye is open, fixing them with a bleary, liquid gaze. Can such creatures weep?

The Hoarder straightens, hefting the Prisoner more securely into its arms, and their gaze is broken.

Chapter Text

In the weeks since they looted the safe house, the Captain has had little time to spare a thought for the Taciturn Prisoner, now their guest. Since they left it, limp and unmoving as the dead, in the nest of blankets hastily assembled in the cargo hold by the crew, there have been no signs of life from it–it has never stirred outside of the hold, and the few crew members that will occasionally, with great reluctance, agree to deliver meals to it report no movement from the bundle of blankets when they briefly peer in.

As Captain, they should do their part to attend to a guest that unsettles their crew to such a degree, but each time the thought occurs, like clockwork, the Hoarder appears to bring them a late lunch, or to ask a question (never before has it shown so much interest in their sky charts or the course of their journey), or simply to fuss over them, their health, the supposed draftiness of the locomotive.

That it wants to keep them distracted is evident, but it will not be drawn into explanation. It only huffs and sulks in silence when they ask.

In the meantime, the Misery continues its tour of Eleutheria, engaging in the trades and bargains that keep the engine fueled between the more exciting sort of misadventures the sky offers. An impromptu stop at an abandoned homestead or two is no reason to diverge from the planned route - no owners have ever tracked down the Misery to complain. But at Achlys, a crew member finds the Captain at a market stall.

"Er… Captain?" Thompson says cautiously. "Got some news you should know."

The Captain raises an eyebrow, but follows her from the stall to a less trafficked part of the street. "What is it? Trouble?"

"Maybe?" Thompson shrugs uneasily. "Silje in engineering, she's still close with her old comrades in the Valkyries. They told her things have been strange at the port lately."

"Strange how?"

"More engines coming in than usual, and not ordinary skyfarers like us. Dousers. Lots of 'em, with lots of questions. About recent arrivals, and cargo."

The Captain's brow furrows. "You think they're after… what we picked up?"

No wonder Thompson seemed reluctant to bring it up, after they ran roughshod over all objections to bringing the creature aboard.

"Could be a coincidence," she says, unconvinced.

"Not many coincidences in the sky. Good work. Make sure we don't sell off anything we took from the site here."

They nod Thompson off, and lean back against the building behind them, burying their hands in their coat pockets and turning their eyes to the sky. This is a problem. It's not the Captain's way to kick anyone off the ship for having enemies, for better or worse, but with no communication, it is difficult to tell what the creature even wants. Maybe it's time to beat an early retreat back to the Reach.

Having overseen their departure from Achlys, the Captain ambles the low-lit corridors of the engine to their cabin, stifling a yawn. Things are quiet at this time of what arbitrarily counts as night aboard the vessel, most of the crew either at their duties, or asleep. Maybe that's why they're not on guard.

As they push the door to their quarters open, something vast covers their mouth, and they're shoved inside with a force that nearly lifts them off their feet. The Taciturn Prisoner squeezes its bulk inside behind them, its massive claws still clamped around their face to silence them. Its steel grey fur tickles their nose. The door clicks closed, and their assailant pauses, seeming almost uncertain of its next step. But before the Captain can get their bearings in the brief pause, it moves, dragging them with it with the same ease as if it were holding a doll, stopping at their desk, where the faint starlight just shows the outline of its long limb begin to pull out the drawers.

The Captain voices a muffled complaint when the Prisoner lingers over the drawer full of inventory logs, and it reluctantly moves on to the next, where it pulls out the notebook that the Captain uses to copy down sky charts to make notes and draw up routes. With an air of impatience, their captor flips to an empty page, grabs their pen, and swiftly scrawls something.

It then turns its head expectantly to the Captain. Nudges them slightly with the enormous claws wrapped around their face.

The Captain squints at the creature, turns their eyes in the direction of the dark rectangle on the desk that is their notebook, then looks back at the Prisoner again. They try to speak, but their voice is still muffled by the hand. Seeing no other recourse, they reach up and tug at one long, many-jointed finger–through a fraction of a gap, they speak with slightly more clarity and some embarrassment:

"I can't see in the dark."

The Prisoner stands completely frozen for what might as well have been an eternity.

"I have an oil lamp around here," the Captain offers, moved to pity. "If you could just... you know..."

A shudder runs through the imposing creature's frame. With great reluctance, one finger at a time, it slowly peels its grip off the Captain's head, though its silhouette in the dark remains taut as a wire, tensed to strike.

The Captain moves slowly and carefully, feeling for the oil lamp next to their desk and bringing it up to sit on the desk. Soon enough, they have it lit, though the wick spits and smokes–it could have used a trim, but the Captain doesn't want to know what the Prisoner would have done if they had tried to reach for a sharp implement. They turn the wick adjuster slightly to steady the flame and lean over the desk to study the message written in the open notebook:

DO NOT SCREAM.

The Captain nods gravely and belatedly.

"If you wanted to speak with me, you could have knocked. But I guess it's good that you're feeling better."

The Taciturn Prisoner gathers the notebook in one large hand and writes its next message with a sullen air.

RELEASE US.

"Certainly. You're free to go whenever you want."

The next line is held up to their eyes with emphasis. MY COLLEAGUE AS WELL. RELEASE IT FROM SERVICE.

Well. They might have seen that coming.

"My quartermaster is not a captive. No one is keeping it here against its will."

IT WOULD NOT CHOOSE THIS. The writing is getting messier, agitated by some unknown emotion. And to think how remote and unfeeling these creatures had seemed back in London.

And are they hurt by the assertion? A little, if they're very honest with themself. The Chiropterous Hoarder seems content for now, but someday–when the day comes, nothing they can say will keep it here. The Hoarder says that it will not leave them behind, but the Captain can never quite shake the feeling that the day it attains the goal of its research, they will lose it forever.

"I don't know what to tell you," they say, batting that unpleasant thought aside. "It did choose. If you don't believe me, you'll have to ask it yourself."

If a nine foot tall, greatly scarred beast can look apprehensive, it might look a lot like this. Its one eye is unfathomably dark as it puts their pen to paper.

IT'S

It pauses. Crosses out the word.

IT DOES NOT

Another frustrated line of ink struck through the words.

IT IS AVOIDING ME.

"How do you know it's avoiding you," the Captain says carefully, "When you haven't left the storage room since we brought you here?" A beat. "Have you?"

The creature turns away, clutching the Captain's notebook in restless claws. Its eye fixes on a shelf where the little ones have arranged fabric scraps into a nest; the Captain half expects it to ask about them, but if it realizes what it's looking at, it doesn't show it. After a long silence punctuated only by its rattling breaths, it finally lifts pen to paper again.

IT COULD HAVE COME TO ME.

The Captain nods slowly. "Well, one of you has to be the first. Maybe it was waiting for you to go to it."

The suspicious squint the creature shoots them in response does not give them much hope of getting through to it, but before they can say any more, the ship alarm sets off in the corridor outside. The creature puffs up in surprise, unfolding to an unsettling height. Its eye gleams, huge and alert.

"That's not for you," the Captain says hastily, "It's the douser alarm. I have to turn out the light. My shutters are broken." That, too, is because of the little ones–having them fixed again had begun to seem somewhat pointless after the third adventurous climbing accident.

The creature stands frozen for a moment. Its next message is written in quick, sharp slashes.

FACE THEM IN COMBAT.

"Well, no. We're not doing that."

COWARDICE.

"We have no conflict with them. This is their part of the sky. We do as they do."

The Prisoner's snout twitches, a sullen glare in its eye, but it does not stop them as they reach for the oil lamp.

In the dark, the silence seems to hold its breath.

"I can take you to it," the Captain says into the darkness.

The Prisoner does not stir, perhaps unsure, perhaps ignoring them.

"You'll have to talk to it eventually. Or did you think you could simply 'free' it from afar without ever facing it? Doesn't it deserve at least an explanation?"

The sullen hiss is more of a response than nothing, so the Captain presses the advantage.

"You'll never know why it chose to be here if you don't ask it."

A long pause. And then they hear scribbling in the dark, before the notebook is pressed into their hands. When they touch it, they feel, not ink, but that the Prisoner has pressed hard enough into the paper that they can trace the shapes of large letters with their fingertips.

TAKE ME.

Chapter Text

They reach the Hoarder's door in the dark–though the individual cabins can be isolated well enough with shutters, the corridors reach too many doors that could be carelessly left open, so their lights are killed during douser lockdown. The Captain knows the path by heart, and the Taciturn Prisoner appears to have no trouble following their lead, though they have been hearing its massive claws clicking nervously against each other for some time now. The Captain could swear they perceive a flinch in the dark when they knock on the door.

"It's me," they call through the door. "Can we come in?"

At the first muffled sound of assent they open the door, catching the Hoarder still in the process of looking up from its work table, its furred head framed by its own shuttered window.

(Is it dissecting a giant slug? Where did it even find that?)

"–But who is 'we'," the Hoarder is asking before abruptly falling silent as the Prisoner squeezes its form through the doorway.

"I brought someone who wants to talk to you," the Captain says, somewhat uselessly.

"I wish you hadn't. Get away from it, Captain."

The Captain holds their hands up and takes several steps back, away from them both.

"I'm just the messenger. Just act as if I'm not even here."

They receive matching humorless looks from both creatures until they duck down and take a seat on one of the pillows in the little ones' play nest. The area appears empty, but a slight stirring precedes a fluffy little head popping out of a pocket on the wall-hanging that the little ones love to stick to. The lone straggler quickly climbs down to nudge its way beneath its–beneath the Captain's hand, settling down for a nap in that most coveted spot. The Captain is glad that it remains hidden. This does not seem the time for that particular revelation.

"What do you want?" the Hoarder asks, steel in its piping voice.

I AM LEAVING, the Prisoner writes after some hesitation.

"And?"

YOU COULD COME WITH ME.

The Hoarder bristles. "And why would I do that."

YOU WOULD RATHER SERVE?

"I serve no one," the Hoarder hisses, whirling to face down the Prisoner with wings writhing under its cloak as if trying to spread, to encompass and defend its territory.

The Prisoner leans back, straightening to what would clearly be a taller height than the Hoarder, if not for its head subsequently colliding with the ceiling with an audible thunk. The Hoarder starts, distracted from its anger, while the Prisoner rubs its head, a whistling hiss escaping from it. After a moment, the Hoarder gathers its cloak and its dignity around itself.

"I'm able to do my work here. What you would have had me abandon."

The Prisoner grimaces, reluctantly removing its claws from its bruises head to grasp the pen again.

THE PROMISE WAS BROKEN.

NOTHING HAS BEEN FORGIVEN.

YOU WILL BE HUNTED AGAIN.

"Unlike some, I haven't been caught yet."

IT WILL NOT BE FEBRUARY THAT CATCHES YOU.

"That," the Hoarder bites out, "Is not. Your concern."

IT COULD BE.

The Prisoner's claws click against the floor as it steps closer to the Hoarder.

COME WITH ME.

Another step.

I CAN

A claw slices through the air, ripping the half-finished page out of the notebook from beneath the Prisoner's pen. The Hoarder's voice has the chill and edge of an icicle run through a pencil sharpener.

"Did February's ministrations shred your memory as well your wings? How dare you? Did I not–" It draws a sharp, whistling breath–"Make it absolutely clear to you that I never wanted to see you again? That you are not my flock?"

The Prisoner hunches, ears folding back uncertainly in the face of the Hoarder's anger. It puts pen to the notepad again, but seems at a loss for what to say, its eye warily following the Hoarder's agitated movements.

The tension could be cut with a knife, but for some time now, something has been nagging at the Captain. Something that should be happening, other than this extremely uncomfortable conversation.

"Hey," they say slowly, bracing themself against the two intense gazes that instantly swivel their way. "Have either of you heard an all-clear signal?"

The Hoarder blinks and tilts its head. "No. The Liberationists must be following us."

"I don't like it. I should get to the bridge." The Captain makes to stand; at the last second they scoop the sleeping little one safely out of view into their pocket.

"You're leaving me alone with this wretch?" the Hoarder protests, horrified. "You brought it to my door!"

"Come with me, then." The Captain looks past it to the Prisoner. "Both of you, if you like. Or you can go back to your quarters."

The Prisoner shuffles uncertainly, but when they file out of the Hoarder's cabin, it follows. The Hoarder stiffly turns away from it.

"You can't see in the dark, Captain," it says and offers them its sleeve until they grab hold of it.

It is, in fact, a lot easier to get through the corridors with someone who is actively invested in not letting them walk into the walls.

"Captain!" the Fortunate Navigator exclaims when they walk onto the bridge. "Where have you been?"

The Navigator's eyebrows shoot up at the sight of the two towering figures following them, and he gives the Captain an expressive sort of frowning look that usually indicates that he absolutely does not want to know the details of whatever is going on here.

The Captain gives him a lopsided smile and a shake of their head. "What's the situation?"

"Two dousers on our tail. They're not doing anything, but at this point they're definitely following us."

"Guess they're not in the mood to entertain outsiders. Can't we shake them?"

"I did," the Judicious Driver pipes up, not looking away from their instruments, "The first few times. More scouts keep popping up. I can lose these two, but..."

"More will come. I see. They're not attacking," the Captain says, arms folded, "But what happens when we try to leave their territory?"

"Maybe they'll board us," the Navigator suggests glumly. "Or try to herd us towards the Berrenger. If they're looking to inspect us for stolen goods."

"Morello would be devastated to lose that ugly chair she snagged," one of the bridge crew chimes in. "D__n thing takes up half our cabin."

With visible effort, not one person on the bridge turns to look at the Prisoner. It, however, peers cautiously around before shuffling closer to the Captain, shoving the notebook in front of their eyes.

FEBRUARY?

"Maybe," they shrug. "We didn't think the safe house was so important it would be discovered so quickly."

NOT THE SAFE HOUSE.

"I know. I'm not throwing you off the engine, if that's what you're worried about."

I WANT TO GO.

"You don't have to do that," the Captain says at the same time as the Hoarder snaps out a shrill "No!"

The Hoarder falters momentarily when every eye on the bridge turns to look at it, but then it draws itself up in its cloak and steps up on the other side of the Captain.

"February isn't–there has been a change of guard," it hisses, low as if to keep anyone else from hearing. It is still perfectly audible to the entire bridge. "The one you want isn't February anymore. She is out of favour, or dead. Provoking these patrol vessels will not give you your duel."

The Prisoner goes very still for a stretch of time that feels like an eternity. Its ragged features are impenetrably grave when it raises the pen.

FORCES WERE ROUSED.

SHE LIVES.

SHE WILL COME TO ME.

"You don't know that. Her successor may simply wish to stake a claim on her old trophies." The Hoarder gnashes its teeth, glaring holes into the Prisoner. "And in the unlikely event that she is alive, she'll kill you this time. She'll actually kill you."

SHE WILL NOT.

"You don't know that! She doesn't think of you the way you think of her. She does not pursue you to share in knife and candle with you!"

The Hoarder is leaning forward over the Captain's head, its claws on their shoulders and worrying at the fabric of their jacket in a way that, for as much as they have confidence that it wouldn't let them be hurt, makes them somewhat wish they were not currently sandwiched between these two sharply endowed creatures. The Prisoner's laconic shrug does little to mollify its agitation.

YOU FOUND ME ALIVE ONCE.

"And now she knows not to leave you out in the open. If she does keep you alive, she will hide you somewhere we will never find you!"

YOU WOULD FIND ME. IF YOU WANT TO.

Before the Hoarder can do more than sputter in response, the Prisoner whirls around and swoops back out the door.

"You! I wasn't done speaking to you!" the Hoarder exclaims and rushes after it, both of them disappearing into the darkness.

"Uh," the Fortunate Navigator says eloquently, "Is it going to attack the dousers?"

"Maybe. Or lead them away," the Captain suggests with projected confidence. "You saw what it had to say. It wants to be seen. It wants them to report back to their leader."

Or former leader? Was February a leadership position? Maybe they should have paid more attention to the conclave at Winter's Reside. It just had never seemed that important to the Misery's occasional dealings at the Berrenger. And where had the Hoarder even learned of the change in leadership? Not from them. Just what sort of information gathering did it get up to when the Captain wasn't looking?

More importantly, what was it going to do with the Prisoner?

They glance at the dark doorway behind them. "I should..."

Make sure the Prisoner does as it implied and go after the dousers? Stop it from doing that? Find either of the two creatures in the dark? Not likely. But the normally aloof Hoarder's agitated state worries them. What the hell happened between those two? What is happening right now?

"Here, Captain. Catch," the Judicious Driver calls, tossing them a glowing chunk of scintillack. Ah. Forget the pretense. The Captain flashes them a grateful grin and immediately heads for the doorway to follow their wayward quartermaster with the faint light of the scintillack to guide their step.

They find the two creatures by the ship hatch, as they suspected they would.

"You're being ridiculous," the Hoarder is insisting, its back to the Captain. "You impress no one with this reckless action. You don't impress me."

There can't be enough light between them to read by, but the Prisoner does–something. Some stirring, some gesture that the Captain doesn't see. The sort of communication, perhaps, that can only be understood between very, very old acquaintances.

"I know what I said," is the Hoarder's bitter response. "I didn't mean this. You should have–" It falters, and when it speaks again, its voice is low. "You should have never appeared before me again. This is precisely what I despise about you. When we were in bonds, and when we had just escaped–you always think you know best."

The Prisoner reaches for the Hoarder, pushes its hood down and runs deadly claws through its fur, settling at the back of its head. Their faces are very close.

"I know what I am," the Hoarder says at last. "I know you think that my pleasures in our servitude was a temporary state. A bad habit that would be shed the moment you would persuade me to be better. But that was always me. I am and have always been myself. That was why I had to go. Why I could not allow you to stifle me. You would make me small."

It shakes off the claw, and the Prisoner watches its cloaked form brush past it and vanish down the corridor, only turning back when the Captain comes to a halt in front of it.

"You really don't have to do this, you know," they say. "You could stay, rest more. Get dropped off wherever you want. We'll shake them off eventually."

The Prisoner shakes its shaggy head and lifts the notebook into the gloomy scintillack light.

NOT SAVING YOU.

"If you say so."

DO NOT LET IT HURT ITSELF.

A steel grey expanse momentarily overtakes the Captain's vision as the Prisoner leans close, and–before they're sure what has just happened, dexterous claws dip into their pocket and extract a chirping ball of fluff. The Captain freezes, scarcely daring to breathe. It holds the little creature in its massive claws for a moment, then drops the pup into the Captain's hands. They immediately pull it close, their heart still thundering in their ears. For a moment, there, they thought it would give out entirely.

STAY VIGILANT.

This time, it holds their notebook and pen out for them to take. They deposit the pup on their shoulder to sniff around the strange situation outside the warm, safe pocket it's found itself in to free up their hands. They grasp the notebook, but before the Prisoner can release it, they say:

"When you were both in the Neath. Were you–"

The Prisoner hisses, as if to fend off the word that was about to leave their mouth. The Captain breaks their gaze from its deep, liquid eye. It was foolish of them to hope for an answer.

As the Prisoner turns to the hatch, studying its opening mechanism, something stirs in the corridor beyond. The Hoarder melts out of the darkness, a large sword and scabbard clutched in its claws. It looks unsurprised to see the Captain there.

"This no longer fits in my collection," it says cooly, tossing the massive weapon to the Prisoner as if it weighed nothing at all. "You may as well discard my detritus when you go."

It comes to stand at the Captain's side as the Prisoner examines the piece curiously. At the wayward pup's excited chirp, it offers a claw for it to climb. It disappears up the Hoarder's sleeve in search of its siblings.

The Prisoner turns its eye to the Hoarder, studying it for a moment, then nods once and turns away. With the sword in one hand, it grabs the hatch with the other, and twists the mechanism open. The Hoarder wraps a sleeved arm around the Captain against the freezing chill of the Wilderness–the Prisoner ducks out the hatch, its body unfurling, unfurling, still unfurling–it drops away, a shape too large to fathom–and it is gone, nothing but the empty gap of the hatch and the empty sky beyond.

The Hoarder reaches past the Captain, flicks the hatch closing mechanism, and even that is gone from view.

Chapter Text

The Chiropterous Hoarder doesn't look up when the Captain enters, too deeply focused on its study of a row of colorful vials. An air bubble lazily rising to the top of the pinkest liquid, then drifting slowly back down garners a flurry of note-taking. On the dinner table, five of the pups are engaged in an inscrutable game involving stacking wooden discs atop a sixth sibling until it gets bored and starts squirming, scattering the discs everywhere.

"Good evening," the Captain calls. The Hoarder makes a sort of distracted gesture with a claw that might pass for a greeting, but doesn't look up from its project. A chorus of chirps from the pups necessitates a round of kisses atop fluffy little heads and scratches behind velvety ears, and it is quite some time before the Captain can extract themself from such demands.

By the time they make their way to the Hoarder's worktable, there is a sulky tension to its shoulders. The moment they're close enough, it hooks a nimble claw around them and tugs them close.

"Hello," they say, giving the claw a fond pat.

"Hrmm."

"Feeling better?"

The Hoarder sniffs and straightens a bit. "Did you only come here to speak nonsense?"

"Maybe. Would you answer my nonsense questions?"

"Are they boring nonsense questions?" It brushes the Captain's curly hair aside and scratches gently at the nape of their neck in a way they know it knows they find distracting. Their eyes fall half-closed.

"Did you buy that sword at Achlys?"

"Hrm. New question."

"Do you regret letting it go?"

"Ugh. New question."

"Do you love it?"

The scratching pauses. A moment later, the Hoarder wraps both long arms around the Captain, and its soft, wrinkled snout presses against their neck.

"No more questions, Captain," it sighs against their skin. "Curiosity is a dreadful thing."

"Alright. I'm sorry."

"If I was angry, you would know it." the Hoarder abruptly lifts its head. "Who is chewing something?" It releases the Captain to follow a guilty peep. "We do not eat wood!"

The Captain watches it pry a wooden disc from the teeth of a fiercely protesting pup, suppressing a sigh against the loss of its warm bulk. They knew it wouldn't want to talk about its feelings. They knew, but still.

"Would you make me dinner?" they ask, idly circling the table and scooping up another excitable pup driven to running and jumping back and forth by the ruckus. It squeaks happily when they rub its belly.

"What was wrong with the dinner served in the mess?" the Hoarder asks suspiciously.

"I don't like soup."

"Nonsense. Everyone likes soup." The severity with which it makes the pronouncement is somewhat undercut by the three small bodies scurrying up its sleeves, making a game of setting the fabric swinging and swaying with their weights. "What do you want instead?"

"Do you have any more of those little dumplings with the chewy skin?"

"I might. Very well. I suppose I must look after your nutrition personally," the Hoarder sniffs, as if personally looking after their nutrition isn't one of its favorite things to do.

"What about those little fruit pudding cups you've been bringing me lately?" the Captain asks idly while sliding into a chair. "Why don't you ever serve those in the mess?"

"Those are for the little ones, I'm not sharing with the crew," the Hoarder scoffs from the kitchenette, its enormous head stuck halfway into a cupboard.

"Well, you've given me several."

"You're not crew, you're my Captain."

A position that comes with baby food privileges, apparently. They stifle a grin. Well, it did taste good.

After a spot of rummaging, the Hoarder places a small cup and two spoons in front of them; one for them, and one for the pups to lap out of. The four pups currently perched on the table enthusiastically take to the spoonful the Captain offers them.

There is a silence for a spell, during which the Captain watches tension slowly leech from the Hoarder's form as it settles into the comfortable rhythm of cooking.

"We escaped together," it says eventually, not looking up. "Passed through the gate when Victoria wasn't looking."

"So it was just the two of you in the Wilderness?" the Captain asks cautiously, unwilling to spook it back into silence.

"It wanted to stay together. We had nowhere in particular to go back to. No one who willingly goes into servitude does. But I–" The Hoarder turns a steamer basket over in its hands. "Being near anything else touched by our employer, it seemed as if she might reach me still. That I might simply wake up from–a dream."

"Being with it was too much of a reminder of your past?"

The Hoarder scoffs uncomfortably. Water simmers in a pan. "Yes, well, you saw what it's like. It wouldn't have lasted either way. Sooner or later it would have wanted to go after February. And it called my obsession too dangerous! Hypocrite."

There are a great deal of things the Captain could say to that, none of which the Hoarder would enjoy hearing. Instead they say, delicately: "So what is the situation with February? Or, the former one. Why does it want to fight her? Why did she do... all that to it?"

"If I understood what malignant personality trait drove those two to do what they do to each other, I would immediately endeavor to purge it from my memory to prevent cognitive infection. It's abnormal," it sniffs. "No mere human should occupy that much of one's attention. Try this." It brings them a plump little dumpling on a spoon. "Does this suit your taste?"

"Yeah, it's good," the Captain says around the mouthful. "You always know just what I like."

"Naturally."

It putters around the kitchen a moment longer, then brings them a full serving.

"So do you really think she'll kill it?" they ask.

The Hoarder grimaces. "I think it thinks she left it alive because she wants to keep playing their game."

"You don't agree?"

"I think she's unpredictable. And I think it didn't want my opinion." It speaks with a finality that stays further questions. "Eat, Captain."

They do so, their eyes furtively following the Hoarder as it begins to wash up. It's right: the Taciturn Prisoner made its choice, however little sense it makes to them, or even to the Hoarder. When they consider Mr Barleycorn, Mr Pennies, Mr Pipes, maybe this really is for the best. It seems like living by halves is a slow poison to their kind.

As it would be to the Hoarder. The Prisoner asked them not to let it hurt itself, but the truth is that the Captain would never stop it. The Hoarder will not countenance being restrained; to foist safety upon it would be to lose its trust forever.
Whatever seed of envy the Captain may have begun to nurture watching the two interact, there is a reason that the Prisoner lost its place at the Hoarder's side, while the Captain remains. The Prisoner may have known it for longer than the Captain has been alive, but in many ways, maybe it was never willing to really know the Hoarder at all.

Out of the corner of the Captain's eye, small claws creep furtively onto their plate. They bite back a smile and stay as they are until the pup has snatched a dumpling, then has to turn back and break up the resulting fight with its siblings over the price. By the time tiny egos have been sufficiently soothed and distracted, the stolen dumpling has rolled to the floor, forgotten. As the Captain fishes the lost morsel up with a napkin, they look up to see the Hoarder watching them with an unreadable gaze. They shoot it a mischievous grin and shrug, and it huffs and turns away. Not, the Captain thinks, unfondly.

Yes. The Prisoner isn't here anymore, but the Captain will do better. They're not going anywhere.