“Excellent.” Morkyn’s single word was crisp. “Now then, if at any point this is too much, don’t hesitate to speak up. I won’t be offended or angry,” he tells her, his tone quite serious as he looked her in the eye. Already Dymira was starting to regret her decision, but she nodded.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Just sit there for now. I’m going to kiss you and see how you respond; we’ll go from there,” Morkyn said, the tiniest hint of mischief in his eyes. Dymira had to stop herself from protesting. In her previous life, she would have been aghast at such a forward and casual attitude over the matter. Like many young women, she had specific dreams of what her introduction to romance would be. But she also knew that those dreams were no longer possible. Certainly, she could live the rest of her life without ever being kissed, or more, but there was no benefit to pretending to be a proper young woman in that respect. There were some values she was not willing to give up, but this, apparently, was not one of them.

“This isn’t how I expected my first kiss to go,” Dymira admitted, a bit ruefully. Morkyn put a gentle hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes, his expression sympathetic; all traces of the former mischief was gone.

“I understand. And it truly is a pity that you didn’t have that opportunity before your life took a turn for the worse. You seem like a good person deep down, and deserve to be courted and pampered to your heart’s content.” Then he shook his head. “But for now, the practical must take precedence over the whimsical. Are you ready?”

“As ready as I can be,” Dymira said, though she wished she didn’t sound as resigned as she felt. She wasn’t even sure if she should close her eyes or not, considering this wasn’t exactly a romantic tryst. But as Morkyn leaned in, she found that it was instinctive as soon as he got close enough for her vision to start to blur. And so her eyes were closed when she felt the soft pressure of his lips against her. It took a moment for her to process the sensation: his lips were soft and slightly cool, certainly not unpleasant. But without any delightful thrill, or tender feelings, it simply felt odd. But she didn’t have time to think much more about it. She let out a small squeak of surprise when she felt the moisture of his tongue start to trace along her lip. At first she didn’t move to stop him, but then Morkyn’s tongue brushed against the unhealed wound. And it didn’t merely brush it and move past: the tongue lingered, and then pressed more firmly against the sore.

With that jolt of pain, Dymira followed her impulse. She raised her hand to slap Morkyn, but he surprised her once again by catching her wrist before it reached its destination. He hadn’t even turned his head to see the swing of her hand, nor did his exploration of her lips cease until the moment his fingers curled around her arm. There was nothing rough about the way he held onto her; he didn’t pull or yank her arm, or squeeze tightly to show anger. But there was a firmness in his grip that was somewhat unsettling. Slowly, he pulled his face away from hers and looked at her, his expression unreadable.

“Very interesting,” he murmured. He looked at her arm, then back to her. Finally he let go and took a step back. “Despite claiming you don’t want to fight them, it’s still your impulse to strike out rather than flinch away,” he pointed out. “You’ll have to check that, unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Is that why you prodded my sore?” asked Dymira, putting her fingers up to where it had started bleeding again.

“That was not my intention. The rougher texture was distracting, I suppose. I should have been aware that it may have hurt you for me to press on it that way.” He sighed, though Dymira wasn’t sure if this was contrition or something else. “Let me put something on it; and then we can eat. The food will get cold if we dally too much longer.” Morkyn took a little jar from a shelf and opened it up. A slightly spicy aroma wafted up from it. He dabbed a bit on the tip of his finger.

“May I?”

“As long as you don’t get distracted again,” Dymira said, with a bit more sting in her voice than she had intended. Mentally she berated herself. The moment of pain wasn’t much compared to the kindness Morkyn had already shown her, even if his ideas were a bit on the strange side.

“Ahhhh. Of course,” Morkyn said, not showing any sign that he had been hurt or insulted by her words. Gently he applied the ointment to Dymira’s lip. It felt very warm for a moment, and then the warmth faded into a numbing feeling. She let out a sigh of relief. Morkyn put the little jar away, and pulled out one of the chairs from the table. “Do sit,” he invited. “I’m sure that this is more to your liking than prisoner rations.”

Dymira didn’t hesitate; the smell of the food had been hard to ignore entirely, even when she was mostly focused on Morkyn. But she knew she was owed nothing on the ship, so she had not asked about it. Once she was seated, Morkyn pushed in her chair gently and walked around to sit opposite to her. Now that it was certain she would be dining, she actually took a good look at the food present. There was a good mix of breads, meat, and vegetables across several dishes. There was even a pie. It felt like forever since she had eaten a desert. Such things weren’t on the menu for prisoners.

With her focus shifted on the food, Dymira barely noticed Morkyn at the other end of the table. She took a generous, but not greedy, helping of everything. It smelled so good, and she didn’t know when she would have another opportunity to eat decent food again. Prisoner food usually consisted of watered down soup and plain bread, which was often stale, and sausages once a week. Her nose did not lead her astray; the food was as delicious as it smelled. It took a great deal of effort not to eat it all too quickly; she didn’t want to waste it. But she also didn’t know how long it would be before the guard came to fetch her again, so she couldn’t take her time to fully savor it either.

By the time her plate was empty, her stomach was decidedly full. Perhaps a little too full. Morkyn had been silent the entire time she was eating, but she didn’t even noticed the lack of conversation until she was finished. Feeling a bit hazy and sleepy from the meal, she peered across the table at him. He smiled faintly, and stood up, offering her a hand to help her rise. She accepted it, and was dismayed to find herself a little slow and wobbly. Maybe she should have shown even more restraint.

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“Sorry; I guess I wasn’t a very good dinner guest,” she said, feeling a bit sheepish.

“Nonsense. They obviously don’t feed you very well. You were so enthralled by the dinner, I couldn’t bear to interrupt you,” Morkyn says, a little of the earlier mischief returning. “Don’t look so offended; I’m not mocking you. I understand a little what it’s like to go without,” he added when he saw the expression on Dymira’s face.

“Is that true?” Dymira had only seen signs that Morkyn was well off; he certainly was treated better than anyone else on the ship, including some of the higher ranked guards. But, she supposed anyone could fall on hard times.

“It is true, and no jest.”

“Then I will take you at your word.”

“Good.” There was a brief pause while Morkyn picked up the box he had retrieved from the cabinet earlier. “Now, for the last bit of our deception.”

“I hope I won’t have to do too much.” Dymira put a hand on her stomach, which was protesting the idea of any sort of work or physical activity.

“Not at all. You just have to sit still. Again.” Morkyn opened the box. Inside were several small, round containers of what looked like paint. It was not what Dymira had been expecting.

“What are those for?”

“For you.”

“But I can’t paint.”

“They’re for your face. I’m going to paint some bruises on your face.”

“To convince Egaire that you’ve been rough with me?” Dymira asked as she put the pieces of this strange encounter together.

“Precisely. Though, not just Egaire. Anyone who might try to use the fact that you’ve been singled out against you. Now, just sit on the couch and relax. This might tickle a bit.” Morkyn pulled up a stool to sit on and got to work. At first Dymira was tense, though she was thankful for the warning. The cool wetness of the paint and the feathery tip of the brush were definitely making her want to laugh or squirm, but she kept herself still. Eventually she got used to it and allowed herself to relax. Morkyn worked quietly and deftly, starting on her face and then moving to her arms, though she didn’t know how good his work was until he was finished and handed her a mirror.

Dymira nearly winced when she saw her face. It really did look as though someone had harshly mistreated her. He had even painted a little around the cut on her lip to make it look worse. She had to ball up her fists to stop herself from touching it, because that would ruin the effect. At least until it dried. With any luck, nothing would disrupt the paint before she could convince others. She pulled a few faces in the mirror to show discomfort or fear. Although she was not particularly skilled with deception, the paint made up for the deficit in her skill.

“You’re quite good at this,” she observed. Morkyn only shrugged modestly. “And you don’t mind people believing that you are the sort of man to inflict such harm?” she asked, realizing that this might affect him in a negative manner.

“I’m long past caring what most people think of me,” Morkyn replied flatly. “Most people are very narrow minded, and far too quick to believe the worst of others if you give them the slightest provocation to. And when it comes to the people on this ship especially, I would rather be feared than admired.”

A pang of envy hit Dymira as Morkyn spoke. She wished she could so calmly discard any worry about what other people thought. But she was too weak, too vulnerable, to do that. It also occurred to her that Morkyn probably learned this lesson the hard way, and that perhaps envying him wasn’t appropriate. She couldn’t help how she felt though. And it did make sense to have the people on board fear him. Among the sailors, guards, and prisoners there wasn’t much of a place for gentility or compassion. Though she suspected that some of the sailors were probably good people deep down, their rough way of earning a living meant they were quite hardened, even if they weren’t cruel.

“So this deception benefits you almost as much as it does me?”

“I suppose that is true, yes,” Morkyn said thoughtfully. “And I won’t pretend it didn’t cross my mind when I came up with the plan. Kindness doesn’t always have to be selfless.” It wasn’t a philosophy that Dymira had actually heard spoken before, though in hearing it, she decided it made sense. Why should kindness always be coupled with a loss on the part of the person doing the kind act?

“I never thought of it that way,” she admitted.

“I think you will find that it will serve you better to not act selflessly from here on in. Neither of us can afford those sort of values.” Then Morkyn smiled. “But there is no need to dwell on that right now. You have to wait for the paint to dry so it doesn’t wipe away. So just continue to relax for now.” The suggestion was quite effective. With her stomach full, and the hour getting late, it was all to easy to lean her head back, close her eyes, and just let her body rest.

The suggestion was so effective, in fact, that Dymira’s next conscious moment was waking up to the sound of a fist knocking heavily on the door. She bolted upright, her mind hazy and confused while she tried to remember where she was. Her eyes slowly came into focus and she found herself lying on the couch in Morkyn’s cabin. She must have fallen asleep. A warm blanket had been thrown over her, and she hastily pushed it off and stood up, looking around. Morkyn was nowhere to be seen. The door thudded again. Cautiously, Dymira opened it.

On the other side of the door was a guard. He took one look at Dymira’s face and snickered, the sound quickly cut off as he tried to maintain some level of professionalism. Sternly he grabbed Dymira by the arm and escorted her back to the main room. Egaire and his crew didn’t bother trying to keep quiet; they laughed at her quite openly, squawking like sea birds as they tried to one up each other in insulting her. Dymira schooled her expression into something more downtrodden, ignoring her feelings of anger; she could deal with those later.

“Looks like someone had a rough night. Next time you see him, give him my thanks. He’s doing such a great job, I can put my attention towards somethin’ more interestin’,” Egaire said once the noise had died down a bit. He gave Allery a leering smile and slipped his hand down the bodice of her dress. Allery giggled and leaned against him. The two of them walked off together without another glance at Dymira. Slowly the rest of his followers dispersed. Dymira held back a sigh of relief; she couldn’t believe the plan had started off so well. She had more than enough reason to think that things were unlikely to turn out in her favor.

The day ticked by slowly for Dymira. While she was not overly harassed by anyone, other than having to deal with a few remarks on the condition of her face, there was still labor to be performed. She and the other women were made to sit in a long, narrow room and patch up a bunch of the sailors clothes and some of the hammocks that they slept on. The women all chattered and gossiped with each other. Their language was frequently crass and made Dymira’s cheeks flush and her ears burn. She kept herself busy with her work, and bit her lip more than once to stop herself from telling them to hush. But at least the work could be done while sitting, and was a little less hard on her muscles than the deck cleaning had been. And this time no one sabotaged her work once it was done. She returned to the main hold with the others without incident.