Art made by me :3
Writing by @pixei
A lil message from the writer:
Hi! Pixei here. I will say again that I am genuinely surprised by the amount of support this silly little story has gotten! I really do read over all of your words and critiques. It genuinely helps, and I appreciate all of you. Once again, this chapter is split into this thread, so scroll down to see everything… Have a great day!
The memory came to Lucian as he bobbed helplessly over Vivian’s shoulder somewhere beneath the waves. It was strange, the things one thought about while being kidnapped by one’s Atlantean-mutated-yet-not-insane older sister. His mind drifted backward as he pressed his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to disassociate from the uncomfortable salty wetness.
Five years ago, there had been a rocky shoreline where the sea met the cliffs beneath a pale, early evening sky.
It was an era when Commodore Lucian Arginteum had merely been Marine Lucian Arginteum. He’d been fourteen years old then, short, hopelessly idealistic, and entirely convinced he could single-handedly take on the first criminal he could find.
When he’d excitedly declared he could do so to his sister—the then-lax Lieutenant Vivian—she had merely laughed, a bright, easy sound that the present-day Lucian could scarcely remember hearing anymore.
Back then, she had looked so much different. Younger. Softer. Her skin still holding a healthy warmth instead of the pale, muted, scale-covered look it would later take on, and her bright blue-and-green eyes sparkled with a life that hadn’t yet been buried beneath years of trauma. Despite the tiny scar that lined the bridge of her nose, she was undeniably pretty, carrying herself with an easy confidence that made every smile seem effortless.
She reached over and flicked fourteen-year-old Lucian squarely on the forehead. "Lucian! You only just figured out how to fire mini blasts. Don’t get too full of yourself.”
“I’m not full of myself,” he protested, rubbing his forehead. "Vice Captain Huxley said that I was strong enough to do it!”
Vivian rolled her eyes. "That lazy sop was just being nice to you.”
"It still counts!”
Vivian sighed, shaking her head, but her smile betrayed her amusement. “You’re adorable.”
Lucian immediately puffed out his chest, his lapis blue eyes shining. “I’m a Marine.”
"You’re barely a teenager who just happens to be in uniform. Do you realize the insane amount of paperwork it took for us to convince upper leadership you could join?”
"Exactly!” Lucian protested. “I have to prove to everyone that I am just as worthy of being in the Grand Navy as you are!”
“Sure.” She agreed, resting a hand atop his head and ruffling his hair despite his indignant protests. “But you’ve still got a long way to go before you’re ready to pick fights with anybody. Besides…” She glanced toward the distant coastline.“The War Seas aren’t going anywhere. You’ll get your chance to prove yourself someday.”
Lucian looked up at her. “Really?”
Vivian smiled. “Of course! So stop trying so hard to impress everyone else.” She gave his head one last affectionate pat. “Just focus on becoming the kind of Marine you’d be proud of. The rest’ll come on its own.”
The memory dissolved the instant the two of them broke the surface. Vivian hauled her sputtering brother onto a stretch of a rocky shoreline before unceremoniously dropping him onto the sand. Lucian lay in that sand for a long, long moment, before coughing seawater from his lungs. He opened one blue eye, and gazed at Vivian blankly. She didn’t even look winded at all.
“…I hate swimming.”
“I know.”
"…I especially hate swimming because I CAN’T FLOAT.”
"I know. It’s kinda ironic.”
Lucian ignored her last comment and pushed himself upright with a weary sigh. The first thing he noticed was the dull ache throughout his body. The second he noticed was…
“Oh biscuits…” His eyes slowly drifted downward. “…No.”
The signed copy of The Principles of Maritime Capital Distribution had somehow remained tucked beneath his arm throughout the entire ordeal. And unfortunately, it had lost the good fight with the ocean itself. The leather binding had swollen and split apart. Pages clung together in soaked, wrinkled clumps, ink bleeding into meaningless black and gray smears. Half the cover had peeled away entirely, while Mr. Cutlass’s once-pristine signature had dissolved into an unrecognizable blot of black and blue. Lucian stared. The ruined book stared back.
“No…!”
Vivian glanced over. “What?”
“My…” He held up the miserable remains of the book with trembling hands. “…My… My book!”
She looked at it, then at him.
“Lucian…It’s just a book.”
Lucian looked at her as though she’d just suggested that the Seekers of Sight were moral and righteous. "…JUST a book?"
“You can just buy another one.”
“I can’t just buy another one!”
“Sure you can.”
“No, Vivian!” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I can’t!”
She frowned. “Why not?”
"Because it was signed!"
“By…?”
“Mr. Cutlass!”
Silence. Vivian stared blankly at Lucian. “…Who?”
Lucian stared at her in complete disbelief. "He’s one of the greatest economic philosophers ALIVE?!? I thought I already told you?!”
“…Yes?”
“His theories revolutionized how countries approach economics!”
“…Okay.”
“Royal families hire him to tutor their children, and he gets quoted by great leaders sometimes!”
“Good for him.”
“He’s universally beloved and respected!”
“Sounds nice.”
“He almost never makes public appearances!”
"…Cool.”
“The only reason I even knew he’d be signing books today was because Pierre told me!”
Vivian wrinkled her nose at the mention of the Maestro. Lucian knew she had never liked the assassin. She had always insisted Pierre was a bad influence—too crude, too shameless, too comfortable with the fact that he killed people for a living. Pierre, for his part, had never been particularly fond of Vivian either, often referring to her as a “daft ugly bitch” under his breath, or shamelessly in front of Lucian (much to his own chagrin).
“…You’re still friends with that bastard?” Vivian asked flatly.
“Of course I am.”
“Shame.”
To Lucian’s relief, she didn’t push the subject. Instead, she said: “Make him tell you where the Cutlass guy is again, if he’s so smart about what people are doing all the time.”
Lucian lowered his head. “Pierre was sent on a long mission. Last I saw him, he told me to expect not to see him for months…There… won’t be another time.”
Silence settled between them. He wanted to be angry. Gods, he WANTED to be furious at her, because he WAS furious. But as he raised his head to glare at his older sister—as he saw the way she was looking at him: concerned, caring, patiently—the fury instantly ebbed away. He sighed, looking down. “…Just forget it.”
“Forget it?” Vivian echoed.
“Just… forget it.”
Vivian watched him for a moment. “I… Okay. I’m… I’m sorry.”
It was quiet. Dare say, even slightly reluctant. Lucian looked up, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he saw Vivian looking genuinely (but for better word: mildly) upset. For just a moment, he caught a glimpse of the sister from five years ago, before Vivian huffed and turned away. He still didn’t know where that version of her had disappeared to: that lax, older sister who used to laugh and smile at him and tell him that everything would work itself out. Who saw the best in everyone no matter who they were or what they did, and would help someone in need at the drop of a hat.
He hadn’t been there on the day everything changed. He hadn’t seen what she’d seen. Hadn’t lived through whatever had left her skin pale, her ears transformed into fins, and her heart buried beneath layer after layer of cold indifference.
Maybe… Maybe that was why she’d kept her distance all these years. Maybe she realized he wouldn’t ever understand. Maybe she thought he saw her as some sort of hideous monster that replaced the younger, prettier Vivian. Maybe she hated him for not understanding how any of that felt.
Maybe… she was completely right staying away from him.
Lucian looked back toward the ocean before finally breaking the silence. “…So.”
Vivian glanced over her shoulder, her cat-like pupils narrowed into slits.
“…Who’s the poor soul you kidnapped me to hunt?”
“His name’s Stendhal.”
Lucian frowned. "…Huh. Never heard of him.”
(But still…)
(For a split second, that name felt oddly familiar. He couldn’t place why. Perhaps he’d passed over it while reading a newspaper, or maybe Pierre mentioned it in one of his countless stories about the underworld).
(Whatever the reason, the thought escaped him just as quickly as it had come).
“…What did he do?" asked Lucian.
“He keeps getting in my way.”
“…That’s it?”
“He protects criminals.”
Lucian nodded slowly, though he didn’t look particularly excited. “I see.”
“He always appears whenever I’m trying to carry out an execution.”
“You know where to find him?”
“Don’t have to.” Vivian said. “He always finds me. He’ll show up if I try doing anything.” She said it with such certainty that it gave Lucian pause. Her expression hardened as she looked down at the ocean, her hand unconsciously tightening around the hilt of her sword. "I’ve failed too many executions already, Lucian. If this keeps up… I could get kicked out of the Knights Proxy. And if that happens…” She trailed off, her expression looking sullen.
Lucian studied her for a long moment. Then he quietly stood. “…All right. I’ll help you.”
“…Really?”
Lucian gave a tired smile. “Sure. I mean… you already have me here. What other choice do I have?” but his eyes narrowed. “I’m not going to kill him, though.”
To his surprise, Vivian nodded at that. “I don’t expect you to.”
Lucian brushed the sand from his clothes, straightened what remained of his loungewear, and adjusted the ruined book beneath one arm out of habit before remembering there was no saving it. Still, he clung stubbornly to it. With a sad little sigh, he said: “Lead the way, Viv.”
____
Vivian wasn’t entirely sure why she’d brought Lucian all the way to Sameria.
Well… she knew why. She needed him. Or rather, she needed someone Stendhal couldn’t simply dodge. Lucian’s Light Magic was notoriously fast—blindingly so. The young warlock hadn’t become the Grand Navy’s youngest Commodore through intellect alone. If anyone could corner that infuriating Vagabond, it would be the person whose attacks were said to move at the speed of light.
Whether that plan would actually work remained to be seen. It was… incredibly obvious her younger brother wasn’t exactly the happiest about the whole arrangement. But not even he would deny her if she came to him for help.
The rocky hills of Sameria stretched before them beneath the late afternoon sun as the two siblings climbed through uneven wilderness, scrambling over weathered stone and nettles and hot sand and weaving between stubborn shrubs that somehow managed to grow from solid rock. Behind her came a sigh.
“…Remind me again why we’re climbing this mountain?”
“Because that’s where my target is.”
“…Couldn’t they have committed ‘crimes’ somewhere flatter?”
Vivian ignored the way he had spiritlessly said “crimes”,
Another sigh followed after a few moments. She didn’t blame him. Her brother was in a pitiful state. He was still wearing the loose loungewear she’d kidnapped him in several hours earlier. His trousers were heavy with half-dried seawater, his sleeves were rolled unevenly after snagging them on bushes, and somewhere between escaping Shieldguard and swimming across half the coastline, he’d lost both his sandals. She had watched the young man quietly go through the five stages of grief before accepting his fate and trekking with her barefoot. He’d complained exactly twice, which Vivian considered remarkably restrained.
“…You know,” Lucian said as he carefully stepped around another sharp rock, “this would be significantly more pleasant if I had SHOES.”
"Maybe.”
“…Or socks.”
"Socks wouldn’t really do much.”
"…Or free will.”
“You still have free will.”
Lucian gave her a look. “Your lack of sympathy is more painful than these rocks jabbing my FEET. That kind of HURTS, Viv.”
Vivian almost rolled her eyes. “Just hang in there. We’ll be there soon."
The two crouched behind a jagged stone outcrop overlooking a narrow valley, where the pair of siblings saw a lone man knelt beside an old wagon more than a few dozen meters away, unloading several wooden crates while a handful of exhausted, emancipated-looking people gathered around him. One after another, he handed them neatly wrapped bundles of medicine and dried food.
Lucian frowned. "…That’s the ‘criminal?’" He whispered.
"He violated the Samerian trade embargo,” Vivian whispered back.
Lucian watched as the last of the medicine changed hands and frowned. "He’s… giving medicine and food to refugees."
“He broke the law.”
“…He’s saving lives.”
"He still broke the law.”
Lucian was quiet for several seconds. For a moment, it looked Iike he wanted to say more, but he seemed to have thought better of it “…I see." He didn’t sound convinced, Vivian picked up on that. But instead of commenting on it, she slowly drew her sword.
“As I told you,” she murmured, eyes never leaving the man below, “Stendhal will come.”
Lucian looked around instinctively, as if expecting the man to jump out from anywhere. "I’m not sensing anything. Aside from all those people over there, we’re the only ones here…You’re absolutely certain he’d come?”
"As certain as the setting sun. Stay here.”
She stepped out from behind the rocks, sword drawn and spirit energy enveloping her. The refugees froze. The smuggler’s face drained of color as he took in the Proxy Knight glaring at him like something she scraped off her shoe.
“You…” he whispered. “Are you—?!”
Vivian didn’t answer. She simply raised her sword. The refugees, perhaps sensing her intent, scattered immediately, disappearing over the hills and trees, while the smuggler stumbled backward until his heels struck the wagon.
“I… Miss Proxy Knight! I know I’ve been convicted before but—but I’m hurting anyone! I never did!” he pleaded. “Please—” Vivian lunged. Steel flashed. And, just as expected, her blade didn’t meet its target. Because in an instant, the man was gone.
“Mon Dieu…”
The voice came from her right. Vivian didn’t even bother looking.
"…You’re late, Fishsop.”
There Stendhal was, holding the smuggler bridal style. The poor man looked utterly flabbergasted, blinking as he looked between Stendhal and Vivian, processing how he went from being at his cart, about to be beheaded, to being in The Vagabond’s arms.
His long white hair, tipped with pale yellow fluttered in the breeze. His ridiculous triangular glasses caught the late afternoon sun. And that infuriating, missing-toothed grin was already waiting for her.
Stendhal politely set the confused man down on his feet, and gave him a reassuring pat on the back. “Glad you’re still in one piece, Monsieur. Ma Chère—” he said, gesturing to Vivian, “—and I are a bit overdue for our usual dance.”
The poor smuggler still looked flabbergasted, “I… what… You…? A dance? You two know each other or…?”
Stendhal’s smile widened. “Oh, Tout à fait! We’re practically two peas in a pod.”
"We are NOT peas, nor are we in a POD," Vivian snapped.
“We’re not?” Stendhal looked genuinely surprised. "Could’ve fooled me. We see each other almost every day!”
Vivian’s eye twitched. Stendhal pointed lazily toward the wilderness behind the wagon.
"Oi, Monsieur…"
The smuggler blinked.
“…Yeah?”
"I’d recommend skedaddlin’."
“…What?”
“Run. Like, right now. Or you’re probably gon’ die.”
The man didn’t have to be asked thrice. He bolted.
“HEY!” Vivian shouted, stepping towards the smuggler. Stendhal politely stepped sideways, completely blocking her pursuit without ever looking away from her, and Vivian was forced to watch the fleeing smuggler vanish into the trees.
Silence.
Vivian slowly drew her gaze toward the smiling Vagabond. “…I hate you.”
Stendhal dismissively blew a raspberry at her, then smiled again. “You ready to dance, Ma Chère?”
Vivian tightened her grip around the hilt of her sword. This was it. Every encounter until now had ended exactly the same way. Stendhal would dodge, she’d chase, he’d make some insufferable joke or say something borderline flirtatious, and another criminal would disappear over the horizon while she was left seething. But this time was different.
Lucian was here.
For once, Stendhal shouldn’t be able to simply dance around her until she tired herself out. She stole a quick glance toward the rocky outcrop where she’d left her younger brother hidden, intending to give him the signal. Instead, she froze. Lucian wasn’t watching her. He was staring directly at Stendhal, his eyes were wide, his posture stiff, and an unmistakable look of astonished excitement on his face.
“…No way…” she heard him whisper beneath his breath.
Vivian frowned. What in the world was wrong with him? Before she could question it, Stendhal tilted his head, noticing her distraction.
"…Somethin’ the matter, Ma Chère?"
“No.” Vivian looked back at him, allowing a slow smile spread across her face to disguise her confusion. She settled into her stance, sword lowering ever so slightly. "I’m more than ready to DANCE with YOU."
For the first time since she’d met him, Stendhal’s looked genuinely wary. “…Huh.” He scratched at the back of his neck. "Qu’avons-nous là…? That lil’ smile of yours… You’ve been schemin’, haven’t ya, Ma Chère?"
Vivian didn’t answer. She simply smiled wider. Stendhal sighed at her lack of response. He rolled one shoulder, then beckoned her toward him with two fingers.
“Well… If ya’ ain’t gonna tell me, I won’t pry. Show me what you’ve got!”
