The nightmares had come for him again. They grew more vivid each night, and lately they’d even begun graying the line between waking and sleeping.

It always started the same, with Heathroe dying at his feet. He had proven all but helpless against this cold land and its constant rain, as many imperials from the mainland seemed to. The west was pleasantly warm year-round. Practically a paradise, especially near the coast. A man from there would never have dealt with weather this cruel. Magnus sighed, his breath an icy fog. He had no love for the wet or cold, either, but the sea had hardened him against both.

The quill slipped. He mouthed a silent string of curses. He was struggling to listen and keep pace on paper at the same time, but he tried not to show it. How did you spell that word again? Countless hours of tutoring and his writing still looked like shit. Worse, he kept having to cross out what he had already written to start again. For the hundredth time, he asked himself why he was even doing this in the first place. But his hands moved anyways, and slowly but surely the words took form. “And my son,” Heathroe said. The words were weak. Until now he’d been shivering like a madman, but now he suddenly grew still. “We made a promise. Tell him…I am sorry I broke it. I did not want to. You…you have to explain it. He is too young. He will…not understand. Please make him understand.”

His time was short. He knew it. Magnus knew it. The signs were obvious. Subtle changes when a man’s breathing grew shallow and that last light dimmed somewhere behind the eyes. For a moment, Magnus saw flashes of the others lying cold on the ground beside Heathroe: Daven’s knowing smirk as he bid the men of the Galley goodnight for a rest he would never wake from; Gadius’ terror as he trembled in the rain, the stumps of his missing fingers black with affliction; Truan and Mark’s backs vanishing into the brush on their doomed errand. Before long, they would go from chefs to food for wolves. Part of Magnus had nearly stopped them. Nearly. A colder part had let them go. They were only to be gone a short while, and it was not his place to mother them every moment of the day. If they wanted to live like fools, he had told himself, that was not his business. None of it was his business.

He saw each face, and then they were gone. Nothing but memories and some poor penmanship scrawled in his notebook.

Heathroe grasped at the air. For something. For anything. By now, he was probably blind. Magnus reached, then stopped. The same cold voice inside him whispered the obvious. That the hand might be infectious, and touching it could be dangerous. This was not his business, either. He owed these people nothing. Yet for reasons he did not understand, he took the hand anyway.

“I will,” he said, kneeling down beside Heathroe. “I’ll tell him. I’ll make him understand.”

“I thank you.” The last light faded. Magnus sighed again. The cold mist clouded the air until everything around him went white.

----------------------------------------

The nightmare shifted. The fog on his face went from cold to warm. Very warm. Then uncomfortably warm. Eventually, he realized it wasn’t fog at all, but a steam rising off a dish he was now holding delicately in a bell-style silver platter. The green land of Dreya was gone. He was back in the imperial city of Port Torrington, which he had grown to call his home. Under his feet the deck of the Seaflower, his personal vessel, swayed gently. When he emerged from the steam, his appearance had changed so much that even his old captain might have mistaken him for another at first glance. He was draped head to toe in some of the finest apparel the empire had to offer, personally tailored by the best the capital had to offer. It was a rich man’s style that did not suit him, or really any chef; it couldn’t have clashed worse with his tattoo or his wiry hand scars and burns (one in his palm just beneath the thumb, and another near the end of his ring finger). His long mane of red hair had been tamed with a knot and arrow-shaped pins. These clothes were so stiff he could barely stand the feel of them, but he was grinning like a devil anyways. Tonight, he was serving a very special patron. It was worth it to look his best.

With a little more dramatic flair than normal, he set his platter in front of a woman who would not have looked out of place on a throne beside the emperor himself. She had skin pale as the full moon, ruby lips, and a long curtain of dark hair.

When he looked at her, Magnus was reminded of the old sailing tales. The ones that whispered of sirens and sea maidens. Stern and grim were the warnings of such tales, and dark the fates of those who failed to heed them. Stay away. Don’t listen to the songs, his captain used to say, a bitterness beneath his words. Never let them fog your head, or you’ll be dragged off, never to return. Not as you were.

He smirked. His wife smirked right back, arching a brow playfully. It was a smirk that seemed to ask ’Do you really think you can still impress me after all this time? I’ve seen your tricks, Sir.’ But when he raised the cloche, her jaw fell. Mussels, prawns, and calamari—only the freshest and finest, of course—drifting in a sea of golden rice simmered to perfection with red wine and his custom stock of shellfish, then accentuated by the subtle touch of saffron from his private supplier. She had seen much of his cooking, but not this. Oh no. He had been saving his signature dish, paella, for a special occasion.

Stay away.

She closed her eyes so he could feed her a particularly exquisite bite. He only wished these dreams would have the courtesy to let him taste it when she returned the favor, but he never seemed to be able to. Once they had their fill of his masterpiece, he held out a scarred hand. A slender, flawless hand took it and pulled him close. Rich perfumes clung to every fiber of her black dress. It overwhelmed his senses, but he didn’t care.

Never let them fog your head.

Magnus kissed her neck, right where the dizzying scent of perfumes was strongest. She giggled, halfheartedly shooing him away. Heeding warnings had never been his strong suit, and the more stern the warning, the less likely he was to hear it. That had been his downfall. The day he met her, he had ignored the captain’s tales—dismissed them as petty superstition—and it had cost him everything. Even the name he had given everything to forge. One month. That was all it had taken. In one month, the once-feared Red Serpent who had sworn to terrorize the sea forever, aimless and free, beholden to nothing but pleasure and pride, had died by her hand, replaced by someone soft and foolish the old him wouldn’t even recognize. Someone who only seemed to grow softer and more foolish each day. By the time he had understood what was happening, that he was already in her grip, his fate was sealed. For her, he’d left the old behind to start anew. Given the choice, he would do it again, as many times as he had to.

With another smirk, she pulled him into a dance. Magnus grimaced. He was in for it now. Forward with the left. A full slide. Then back together. It took everything he had to keep pace. She had been teaching him, just as she’d taught him to read, write, and carry himself without embarrassing her father in front of the wealthy idiots he called his peers, yet some of the more difficult moves still turned his legs to knots or sent waves of pain up his bad back and shoulders. He pushed the pain away as they stepped and sauntered, gradually moving from their table all the way to the end of the stern. It was a lovely night, and a good one to remember…had it only ended here.

By the end of the dance, he’d surprised them both. For the first time ever, he’d managed a perfect performance. It wasn’t pretty the way her dancing was, yet he had not made any mistakes, either. But instead of any of the pleasant rewards she might have normally given, his wife fell quiet, resting her head against him. It was only when he raised her chin to kiss her again that he saw the silent tears trailing down her cheeks.

“Talia,” he said, his dismay obvious. If her beauty was the sea and sky, Talia Merriweather's spirit was the rock that held seas and skies aloft. He had watched her shoulder crushing burdens with unflinching grace, and he had watched her raise wrath like a tsunami against those who crossed her. All with hardly a crack in her composure. She was many things; she was not a woman who showed her tears. Yet she showed them now, on the last night they would be together.

“You must not go,” she said, her face flitting between sorrow and anger. It settled on anger. “This…this is outrageous! It’s complete lunacy. How dare they do this! What are they thinking, sending you so far away? To do something so dangerous? You are no warrior. Your place is here with me.”

Magnus said nothing. There was nothing more to be said. They had been over this again and again. He felt no better about the conscription than she did, but he had at least been hoping they wouldn’t have to speak of it tonight. This was time best spent making happier memories.

“I have to.”

“You do not!” she said, raising her voice. “Not you. I will speak with Father again. This time, I will make him see reason and set things right. There are ways. I know it and he does, too.” Her anger only seemed to flare as she spoke. “That man. That…coward! How could he be such a spineless fool!? He should have placed that bureaucrat in chains the moment he delivered the summons. Or at the very least, bribed him. All his boasting about owning the richest port in the empire, and what does it amount to? What good are his precious wealth and influence if they cannot help us now?” He kissed her hand the way he knew she liked, and she stopped short of whatever fiery words might have come next, her shoulders sagging. That sort of thing soothed her, at least a little. He’d learned to pay attention to things like that.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“Your father can make many problems disappear,” he said. “This is not one of them. He will give you the same answer no matter how many times you ask.” It was still strange, being the one who spoke reason for a change. He wasn’t sure it would ever feel natural. Him, of all people, calming someone else when they were heated? His crewmates would have laughed themselves hoarse at the idea.

“What are you saying? You’ve heard something, haven’t you?”

Magnus squirmed a bit. “Rumors, mainly.”

“Of what sort? When were you planning on telling me this?”

“This battalion I’ve been assigned to is not like other stations. The man who leads it…he’s another sort. It’s him your father fears, not bureaucrats. If even half the whispers of these red raiders are true, he was wise not to trifle with them. They belong to the emperor himself. No man can influence them. Not with all the wealth in the world.” What was left of Talia’s confidence withered at that. He held her hands. “Do not fret. I will serve and then return to my place.”

“But…”

“Just what is there to fret over? If it’s a contest of lunacy, you know I would never lose.” She laughed, despite herself. Her laughter was nearly as rare as her tears, but Magnus took pride in each time he forced it to appear.

“True enough,” she said, reaching within the layers of her dress for something to dry her eyes. “Two weeks together on the road, and they will surely turn around and toss you back like some ill-tempered fish.”

“Two weeks? Give your husband a little credit. I’ll be aiming for two days.”

Apparently, Talia was only in the mood for so much japing. She seized his necktie and pulled, her expression icy. “Swear to me, Magnus. Swear you will return. That you won’t leave me alone in this world.”

“I swear it. I’ll come home without a scratch.”

Her grip relaxed, and she held a hand to his cheek gently. “See that you do.” She composed herself, standing in that straight and dignified aristocrat way. She stood taller than most women…though she was still a head shorter than him. When she cleared her throat, the iron wife he knew—the one who gave orders, and the one who was swift to correct false presumptions or ill manners—had returned. “At the very least,” she said, pausing to carefully dab at her tears with a dark blue cotton cloth that wouldn’t disturb her makeup. “They had the sense to station you in the kitchen instead of on the battlefield. It’s the only good news in all of this. I have faith in few things, lately, but I have faith in you. You are strong, and you will likely have the most experience and skill of any man there.”

“More than likely. They placed me in charge for a reason. I’ll be taking as much of the Seaflower’s inventory as I can,” Magnus said.

“I see. Lead well then. And though it is not your nature, you are not make trouble.”

“I’ll be the picture of principle, my lady.” She frowned at his less-than-convincing tone, then softened a bit. “What is it?” he said.

“The conscription. Is it true they send boys as well as men? Did you hear anything of that in your rumors?”

That caught Magnus off-guard. “Not as often, but sometimes they do, if there’s a shortage,” he admitted. “Why do you ask?”

“Horrid,” she said, shaking her head. “Just horrid. They are not even born yet, and already I fear for our children.” Had Magnus been enjoying a sip of their earlier wine at that particular moment, he likely would have choked on it. Thankfully, Talia had turned toward the open bay and took no notice. “I would have anyone who came for them thrown into the sea.” She faced him. “I would ask for one more promise from you.”

“You need only name it.”

“Could you look after them? Your juniors?”

“...my juniors?”

“The younger men. Or One Mercy forbid, the boys, should they truly be cruel enough to send eleves into a hell like that. Their women will be waiting for them, too. Will you?”There were several seconds of silence before Magnus gave her a quick “Aye” and a nod, promising to do so, but he quickly embraced her after he said it.

He did not want her to see that he was avoiding her gaze.

The Red Serpent was dead. It had died when he met Talia. He had told himself that over and over again. And yet… it had not quite disappeared. Not completely. Just as a snake’s head can still bite after being severed, some shadow of it lingered inside him, haunting the dark corners of his mind, and every now and then it whispered in his ear. It did so now, reciting the merciless laws of the ocean he had once etched into his mind and soul. Old or young, weak or strong, all men are islands, it said, and they must look after themselves. He would soon be facing unknown storms, and whether it was on sea or shore made no difference. Coming home alive was the only thing that mattered. Do you really think you have time to worry about small fry? He wanted to push the voice away, but the words stuck with him. They were wrong in one way, but right in another. And there was something more that troubled him…

Swear to me, Magnus. Swear you will return.

Could you look after them? Your juniors?

Talia hadn’t noticed the contradiction in her words, but Magnus had. What would he do if had to choose between his safety and another’s? If trouble came (and in his experience it always did, sooner or later) how would he avoid it and take action? He already knew the answer. He would break his second promise to keep the first, even if it meant lying to the person he loved most. His juniors would sink beneath the wake or find the strength to rise above it, as he had. What’s one small lie at this point? the serpent whispered. You’ve told greater ones. Betrayed her trust in worse ways. She still believes you were a simple sailor before you met, after all.

Somewhere in the fog of her perfume, the nightmare shifted again.

----------------------------------------

He sat at a table, offering his arm to Garu of the Ink, the crew’s elderly tattooist. It was a clean and tidy station. A rare sight on a ship like theirs, but the captain always did like things to be clean. He recognized it instantly as the bowels of the Audacity, the greatship he had called home for the larger part of his youth. His red mane was shorter, barely reaching between past his shoulder blades, and there were no brilliant colored scales in the sea serpent on his arm yet. Garu had only completed the tracings of thick black linework implying the shape of the beast.

“Cut it short,” came the voice of his captain. “The jolly roger of the Glowman’s Gift just appeared on the horizon. Ready yourself, boy. Cook or not, you won’t be excused from the fighting any longer. Put what I’ve taught you to use.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Countless battles flashed before him. Different days with different men flying different flags. It was a chaotic blend of everything, yet nothing in particular. The Glowman’s Gift and its crew of anglers. The Marooned Men, flying the banner of a half-rotted skull, pierced clean through with a harpoon above their vessel, Dead Man’s Sanctum. The dark silhouette of the Helljaw, captained by one of the Audacity’s only true rivals, a murderous cripple with a disfigured mouth known only as Viperfish, and the Song of the Scourge, which opened every battle with a melody only the strongest or luckiest heard twice.

But worse than men were the rare encounters with colossal beasts that roamed the deep. Great fish that took a dozen men to pull aboard. Sharks the size of ships and whales the size of buildings. Krakens—or worse, their smaller but more cunning cousins, the hyuken, a creature all men of the sea loathed and feared. Like humans, adolescent males were the most dangerous because they feared nothing. A true leviathan serpent, dwarfing the tides themselves, soaked with crimson from many wounds even as it tore through men like paper.

At first, the noise and blood made his hands tremble, but by his tenth battle they had started to shake with excitement instead. By the hundredth, when he grinned at the start of the fighting he was no longer pretending. At some point after he’d long stopped keeping count, grinning became laughing; he would laugh and laugh, even as men screamed and went silent around him.

When he raised his arm skyward, his tattoo began to change. The blood and seawater drenching it shimmered and warped into many brilliant shades, until rich blues and stark reds flooded the thick black lines. He heard the voice of the captain in his mind. A hurricane raged, and lightning flashed.

Death is what the sea brings.

The last of the black filled in, and the serpent was made whole. He stretched his arm higher. He swore he could hear the leviathan serpent’s roar, almost deafening in its raw power, echoing from the jaws inked into his wrist.

Every corner of it teems with monsters. If you want to survive, become a monster of the sea yourself. If you have no true name, forge one with your own hands.

He reached for the storm-drenched sky, laughing like a madman. The serpent’s roar rang loud across the wind and lightning.