DAY 29: DEBONAIR
It was not the first time Bastian oen Valendia had been stolen from the very castrum in the dark of night, nor would it be the last. Now that they finally had a ship again—Bastian would not ask which imperial fleet had been relieved of one of its vessels so that they would tell him no lies—the pirates had an even easier time of it, at least in their escape; in the morning, the duplicarius would alert his pilus to the malfunctioning searchlights on the eastern walls, and all would be well in Castrum Valnaini again.
In the meantime, the pirates led one more successful heist, and their prize had a few hours’ freedom to be no more than Bastian Valendia again. For all their efforts, they deserved better company than he: too long he spent alone up on the deck as they flew together to whichever locale they had chosen for this particular outing, watching the stars pass him by in silence.
He hadn’t always been such a contemplative man; perhaps Stjr remembered this. Perhaps that was why she stole him.
Perhaps it was for the very same reason she had taken up with her young companion—to fill the silences—and why she put herself again and again in Bastian’s path with him: to remind him of what once was.
Asterion had a very particular walk: a determined sort of stride, but never so quick as to seem hurried. He was a man whose every trait was honed towards appearing unbothered, a shield that was desperately difficult to penetrate. Bastian was beginning to have a keen familiarity for so much of him; he recognized those steps coming up on the deck without turning, or a single word being spoken.
He was also no Viera. Stjr, too, was uniquely recognizable.
“We’ll be arriving in Radz-at-Han soon,” Asterion said as he settled beside Bastian. “Stjr’s banished me from the helm of my own ship.”
“Thavnair? How exotic,” Bastian said, unsuited to light-heartedness as he was. He gazed down at Asterion’s hands where his wrists were crossed over the railing, idly spinning the multi-coloured rings on his fingers. “These are new.”
Asterion held up the fingers of one hand to better display them. “They are indeed,” he said with a self-satisfied look Bastian didn’t understand straight away. “Plunder from a monastery.”
When he understood, Bastian straightened his spine, turning his body towards Asterion’s—which only made the pirate’s sly smirk widen. “Not the one in Golmore.”
“The same.”
“That was you?” Bastian asked, like a fool. He couldn’t believe Stjr, of all people, had agreed to such a plan.
“The IVth is aware, then? How did your legatus take it—fuming, I hope? Did he sweat?” Asterion said, managing some impossible balance of smugness and eagerness. When Bastian only gave him a flat look, he smiled again to himself and found some honesty. “‘A day late and ten gil short,’ my father always said of me. If I can make Noah van Gabranth feel that way even once, I’ll sell my ship for parts and retire to a fat and happy life on the coast.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Perhaps not that last bit.”
There was no taming a wanderer from his life—not one to whom wandering itself was the appeal. Bastian knew this of Asterion and Stjr both. But some trace of melancholy lingered in Asterion’s eyes, in spite of all he did to veil it from even himself; that Bastian should make out its shape and colour was in itself a wonder.
He extended a careful hand, still unused to the intimacy the pirates had both welcomed him into, and touched his fingers to the nape of Asterion’s neck. At the brush of Bastian’s fingers along his hairline, Asterion tilted his head, leaning into his touch.