Chapter Text
The salty sea air sends new flames across Jester’s arms, where her skin is still covered with blisters and weeping burns. Still, she doesn’t retreat back below decks. Just bites her lip and leans over the bow, breathing deeply until the pain recedes to something manageable. What are a few burns, after what happened today?
They didn’t mean to do it.
She squeezes her eyes shut, but it isn’t enough to stem the tears. They drop, one by one into the ocean, as she leans out over the bow.
It’s late and she should be sleeping, or the burns won’t heal. And neither she or Caduceus can do anything about them after bringing Nott back from the brink. The pain and the anxiety won’t let her rest though.
Of course, the Nein didn’t mean to leave her. They’re her friends and more than that, they’re heroes, and the Mighty Nein wouldn’t just abandon one of their own to a horrible, agonizing, death all alone in a dragon’s lair. But then they’d never faced a dragon before.
They didn’t abandon me to the Iron Shepherds. Even that dick Lorenzo hadn’t kept them away.
Nott runs into her cell and pulls her up into a hug, before taking off those awful, awful manacles, and she’s finally safe and free again.
But those reassuring memories quickly fall beneath the brutal reminder of what had come before. Hours and hours of lying on a cold stone floor, listening to people screaming and screaming, desperately fighting the urge to throw up into her gag as she waited for her turn on the table. Even Shakaste had been waiting, just like her, and he was a much stronger cleric than she was. Not to mention, he'd been doing this hero-ing thing for a lot longer.
Maybe sometimes the risks are just too bad for heroes. Especially if the only one at risk is a stupid, useless, cleric, who can't even heal herself let alone— A sob catches in her chest and she coughs, as more tears stream down her face.
“Why are you crying?”
Surprise shudders through her like another cough. The voice came from the water.
Hand on the hilt of her ever-near axe, she peers over the side.
Below the bow floats a strange figure with a girlish face. Only her head and shoulders are visible above the dark water, but they’re a strange silverly grey. Not like fishscales. Like clouds grazed by moonlight. She isn’t smiling, but her gleaming green eyes are soft and wide and curious. Black hair hangs around her shoulders in a froth of slick strands.
The strange girl cocks her head. “I said, why are you crying?”
Jester glances over her shoulder. She should get the others . . . But they’re all sleeping, and she doesn’t want to bring the crew into this and maybe cause a panic over nothing. Besides, the ship's docked. And bad guys probably don’t always hang around busy harbours.
So she just leans over the bow a little further. “Who are you?”
The girl gives a small, folded-at-the-corners smile at last. “An answer for an answer.”
Fair enough I guess. “I . . . had a bad day.” Jester manages through her raw throat. “But I’m fine. And I’m Jester. Who are you? What are you doing in the water?”
“My name’s Arla. And I live here.” The shoulders hitch in a shrug.
“You live at Bistaff?”
“Not the island, silly. The ocean.”
Oh. Thoughts of her dad, her maybe-Dad, drift in unwanted. Probably a bit early in the conversation to broach that subject. “Is it nice?”
She regrets the stupid question the second she asks it, but Arla doesn’t scoff or laugh at her. Her luminous eyes just dart up and down Jester, and when she speaks there’s a strange warmth to her voice that smooths over Jester’s nerves like creamy milk and thick honey. “Do you want to find out?” She drifts a little closer to the boat, right under Jester now. “Come in.”
The water is oddly inviting, like a shimmering dark blanket. But . . . Well, why shouldn’t she? She bites her lip and glances over her shoulder once more. “My friends will worry where I—”
Maybe not, something whispers cruelly in her mind.
Arla’s gaze hasn’t left her this whole time, and there’s a slight edge to her voice as she replies, “Some friends if they left you out here to cry in the middle of the night. All alone.”
The final words are like a brand to Jester’s raw skin, and they burst through the strange peace the conversation had filled her with. A sob is wrenched out of her.
“Hey,” Arla’s tone is soothing once more, and when Jester blinks, she can see only concern in those strange eyes. “I’m sorry. You just seem like a nice person, and you’re hurt. I could help you. Just come down.”
Again, the words are like a verbal salve that smothers Jester’s grief and fear and hurt. And if anxiety still thrums like another burn beneath, then maybe getting away from the ship for a little while will ease it. Besides, she likes new friends, and a sea-person would sure make an interesting one.
“Come on,” Arla urges, right underneath her, eyes glittering. “It’ll be fun.”
Just for a little while. She hurts so much. She needs help. She needs a friend, safety— something.
Jester takes a deep breath, hops over the rail, and jumps in.