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moonshine-nightlight · 2 years

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Don't Shoot the Messenger: Part Five

Despite how it might seem, being a messenger for the feared sea-demon pirate, Admiral Satrasi, infamous far and wide for having an entire fleet of raiding vessels who answer to him alone, is a relatively safe job. After all, no one knowingly crosses the Admiral. However, it appears the most recent captain looking to join his fleet hasn’t gotten that bulletin yet.

Fantasy, pirates, male monster x female reader, male demon, M/F, Part 5 of 9

Story Status: COMPLETE

AO3: Don't Shoot the Messenger Chapter 5

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] Part Five [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Eight] [Part Nine - NSFW]

You leave Wicklow with a map, drawn on scrap fabric and tucked into his pants. He didn’t wake up when the stablehand brought him to his room and he’s still out cold in the morning so you don’t bother trying.

You don’t want anyone else to find the map so you hope he can follow it despite the lack of explanation or labels.

At least for the last leg of the journey, you can just head directly for the cave and not worry about trying to find Wicklow. You weigh the decision of waiting until he wakes up and then going with him, but you’re worried you’ve already spent too much time away from Satrasi and that he needs to salt. Besides, once you give that to him, maybe you can go back for Wicklow.

When you get to the cave, it’s as silent as ever, but you aren’t. Due to a growing sense of urgency and some bad luck, you had to take the last leg of the journey alone on foot while lugging all the salt. As a result, you’re hot and sweaty and head directly for the pool because of your thirst more than anything. You fall to your knees and just stick your face into the water to drink.

By the time you’ve had enough to drink to satisfy you and for your breathing to level, you feel a spike of concern, because Satrasi still hasn’t surfaced.

“Satrasi?” you ask, your voice echoing in the otherwise silent cave.

The longer there’s no answer, the more your concern grows. Is he gone? Should you just heave one of the bags of salt into the pool? Would that make it undrinkable? Is it even worth bothering with if he’s gone or too far gone for it to do any good? Maybe he’s in one of those deeper parts of the cave and just can’t tell you’re here? But shouldn’t he be close by, awaiting your return?

In the end, you decide to open a bag, take as large a handful as you can, and then throw the salt as far out into the pool as you can. A chunk of it sticks together and makes a muted splash as it sinks deeper into the water, but the rest disperses over a wider area than you expect, the light illuminating the specks in the air until they hit the surface of the water and become indistinguishable.

You wait long enough to feel foolish, to feel that worry moving through you and start to think about what to do next, when movement catches your eye. You breathe out in relief as Satrasi’s head breaches the surface, but it's a momentary feeling.

His eyes are still red, but they don’t glow as far as you can tell, his skin looks rough and stretched, puffy and bloated. The tendrils of his hair stick out strangely, looking more false in some way than they did before.

He looks exhausted and desperate. That lessens though, when he spots you at the edge. Your heart picks up speed at the gratitude and hope in his eyes because of you. Faster than you expect given the state he seems to be in, he comes right up to the lip of the pool. “Little bite,” he says, his voice muffled and wet, like his tongue is swollen and he has to talk around it. “You came back.”

You tilt the opened bag towards him and he wastes no time in reaching out for a handful of salt. “Course I did. Got the salt and found some of your people.” One handful he pulls down into the water, no doubt towards that second mouth, and his other hand comes up to take some to shove into his more human mouth, though with those teeth there’s no mistaking it.

You eye the limp, fragile and nearly colorless fins that are on his forearms with dismay and concern, wondering if there’s anything other way to help. It's not until he’s taken at least half the first bag that he looks beyond you. “Where…?”

“Navigator Rietha wanted to get more crew and verify my story—found her in the port a few days ago. First Mate Wicklow I found yesterday, drunk practically under the table,” you can’t keep some of the disapproval to yourself. “Gave him the message, though I’m not sure how much he’ll remember.”

He blinks at you, seeming to truly focus on you for the first time since you returned. Maybe it's just wishful thinking that the salt could be helping so quickly, but some of the glow appears to leak back into his eyes. “You found both of those two?”

“Yes,” you reply, unsure in the face of his surprise but not wanting to show it. “Rietha at a tavern in the port. She had known it was taking you longer than expected to come back, but not that anything had happened to you because no one who’d gone with you had returned. Wicklow was in a tavern in Halletburg, having tracked you that far, but lost the trail once arriving.”

He stares at you, going longer without blinking than he should. Usually that would make you uncomfortable, but you feel trapped in his gaze, finding new flecks of black and gold amongst the red of his eyes. He leans closer, reaching out to catch your chin in his hand between his thumb and forefinger. His touch is wet and cold, his skin has more give though than you expect, for all the obvious strength in even those digits.

You wait, barely breathing, for him to say something, to wait for the verdict of his scrutiny.

“Impressive, little bite,” he murmurs, less wetly but lower; you can almost feel his voice like you do his breath against your lips. “Very impressive.”

He eases himself back slowly and you feel an inexplicable pang of loss at the distance. “I’d only hope you might find one, and even that had seemed like a long shot. I’ll not underestimate you again.”

Your eyes are still locked on his and you don’t want to look away, you don’t want to leave this bubble, this moment frozen in time outside of the rest of the world, where someone intelligent and powerful thinks you worthy of respect. Even your thoughts, usually so quick to knock you back down where you belong are silenced by the surety in his gaze, in his words. They feel like the truth, not just opinion, and you find you believe them.

And it doesn’t frighten you, it makes you eager—though for what, you’re not sure, only that it's tied to Satrasi, tied to the way he makes you feel, the way he finds value in you, the way he lets you be.

When he breaks eye contact around handful of salt, you feel the sting of disappointment even as the rest of your surroundings make themselves known once more. The rock underneath, digging into your knees, the breeze on the cooling sweat on the back of your neck, the exhaustion in your bones from traveling too far while carrying heavy things. You slump a little, taking stock of yourself and adjusting your position to a more comfortable one.

While you refill your waterskin and sip from that, Satrasi finishes off the first bag of salt. He seems to need a break, eyes flicking back over to you, drawing along your frame in a way that makes you want to fidget but also doesn’t want him to stop.

“Thank you,” he says, as intense as before, even if he’s a few feet away this time. You don’t know what to say, so you settle for a nod. Amusement seems to creep back into his eyes at your discomfort with his thanks, crowding out the exhaustion. “I’ll need to rest now, and consume the rest of this, but then if no one has come for me yet, I should have strength enough to go myself and return with your reward.”

“Right.” You nod, he’d said as much before you left on your quest. Some sort of demon magic, taxing, but would allow him to turn from a salt water being to a fresh water one. He needed the salt to give him strength enough for such a transformation and it was difficult—especially since he would have to transform back once he’d returned to the sea. “If you go on your own, perhaps it might be easiest if I went with you.” You shrug, only half kidding when you add, “Quickest way to ensure payment.”

He smirks, willing to go along with the veneer of selfishness to your justification although likely seeing through to your true motivation. That you simply want to go with him. “Of course.”

He reaches to pull one of the remaining bags of salt towards him with his arms. Your eyes widen when a thick dark black tentacle flows out of the water behind him to wrap around the other, drawing it behind him. You suppose that answers the question about how strangely his shadow and shape moved in the water.

“Until then,” he says as he sinks back under the water and out of sight.

You feel hollowed out with his presence gone and merely curl up for a nap, satisfied with a job well done and filled with anticipation for what is yet to come.

The next day, when you come back to the cave, it feels emptier than before. You find your crudely drawn map on how to get here under a rock where you usually sit to talk to Satrasi. You hope that means Wicklow managed to find his way here and not someone else—there’s certainly no sign of a struggle and only another sea demon could have gotten him out of the pool, if that. You feel bereft, even if this is potentially an ideal outcome.

You decide to try to get temporarily hired on at the inn as the easiest way to run into people from out of town. As luck would have it, after the first day of general chores, right as the innkeeper is thinking of sending you on your way, a group with plenty of coin comes into town. They’re demanding and intimidating enough that they could only be mercenaries and the innkeeper makes the decision to primarily have you serve them, not one of her own children. You understand her caution even as you resent being the sacrificial lamb.

You’re grateful when you figure out they’re here for a bounty—one for a demon pirate you quickly deduce is Satrasi. Now you keep your head down and try to draw as little attention so you can learn what they know, what they have at their disposal, so you can warn him.

It’s easy enough to skirt their notice at first, you’ve done yourself up younger as you always do in your hometown and they pay you little heed as you refill mugs and bring them food while they discuss their plans.

“I’ll set the spell up tonight and in the morning we’ll know of any demons in a two league radius. Tiny shithole like this, with jumpy folk just at the sight of us,” he jerks his head at the barkeep who freezes at the attention making him smirk, “no chance there are any demons around besides the ones we’re looking for. ‘Sides, demons always got people who’ll pay well for ‘em. We’ll move onto the next hole in the ground if he ain’t here.”

“That’s all well and good, but that’s not til this morning,” a woman whines, she’d look like a child if it wasn’t for the knives that decorated her entire body. “What are we supposed to do until then? We’re the most exciting thing here.”

One of the other men bats his eyelashes comically at her while you collect mugs and plates as quiet as you can to stay out of their mind. “You could always do one of us.”

She makes a face and throws a roll at him, which he catches and then takes a big bite out of, grinning. She scowls down at her stew. “Proving my point. Nothing else here worth anything.”

“It does seem to just be mice here, scurrying to stay out of our sight while still taking our coin,” an older woman says scowling as well. You hate the way she eyes her ax and shares a mean smirk with the other man. People this strong, used to roaming and fighting and taking what they want are nothing but trouble. “No respect, just fear. Makes me wanna give ‘em something to be afraid of.”

“Y’all are too used to the city, plenty of fun to be had in the countryside—you just gotta be better at finding it. Gotta sneak up on these wary folk. Ain’t that right, girl?” His hand flashes out quick as lightning to snag in your apron.

You freeze instantly, cursing yourself for not moving quicker, for not getting out once you heard about the spell.

“Really?” the one in blue says, eying you up and down, unimpressed. “Her? She’s still a child.”

“No, I don’t think so,” the woman in green replies and you feel as if she can see right through you. You hate how bare you feel under her gaze. Her gaze is cold and dismissive as she continues, “She’s at least legal. Nothing to her though—like as not to break if you try to play with her.”

“You’re all too harsh,” the man in charge, the one keeping you there says to them—still too cheerful by half. “What do you say, lass? I’m sure you’re itchin’ to show someone you’re all grown up.” His eyes drag down your body, lingering on your chest and ass. You hate him even though you try not to show it—that won’t get this type to let you go. He might sound compromising, but he ain’t—he wouldn’t have grabbed you if he was. “I promise no one from this backwater will give you as good a ride as I can.”

Some of the others laugh while you keep your eyes unfocused, not making eye contact with any of them.Your mind races as his fingers tighten in your apron, fisting in the material to keep you close by. It’s time to get out of here, eyes darting to the exits, to who might be in the way. Your fingers twitch to untie your apron springs and flee, but you know you’ll only get one chance and these are hunters.

You just need a…

The door to the inn bursts open, hitting the wall with a heavy thunk because that door is no light weight. Everyone turns to look, a few, yourself included, flinching at the sound, but your fingers are quick because you’ll not get a better distraction. Two quick flicks and all the mercenary is holding is the apron and you’ve moved to the edges of the room, on the other side of the fireplace where the fireplace irons are within easy reach.

Still you’d planned to go out the front door since it’s closer. There’s a greater chance someone could catch up to you if you have to weave through the kitchens. No one had actually come through the door yet so maybe once they came in, you can sneak out past them.

A shadow crosses in front of the door and a woman, backlit by the sun so you can’t make out her features, sticks her head in. “…sure this is the place, captain? Seems rather…” her eyes land on the innkeeper cowering by the bar and she grins, displaying sharp enough teeth you know she must have a demon ancestor. “…quaint.” There’s a threat to her words, as though by her very presence she plans to change that.

“Yer the one who wanted to nab beds afore we got down to business,” a man follows her in, exasperated. Finally your eyes adjust to the light as the pair blocks enough of it and they widen. They’re both clearly pirates—the smell of brine, the fit of their coats, the weathered skin and wind-tosseled hair. You narrow your eyes and then they widen as you identify Wicklow, no slur to his voice, eyes sharp and whole frame tense for a fight. He’s got on a smart black waist coat and blue overcoat—he nearly looks respectable. For the first time, you think you see what Satrasi might in him.

As if summoned by your thinking his name, another, bigger shadow appears and follows them in. “We’re already here,” a new voice grumbles, deep and rolling—like the bells of the church that ring loud enough you feel them in your bones. Without the wet, echo-y quality his voice had in the cave, Satrasi’s voice is so clear despite how low it is. “Just make it quick.”

The first thing you notice are his eyes. You hadn’t realized how used to them being half-closed and dim you’d gotten until you saw these. The vibrant red with pure black pupils are stunning when fully open and fully bright. His main two large eyes a little bigger than yours and then his second set, less than half the size of the first right next to them, are also wide open, both sets glowing in the shadows that fall on his face. They lead your eyes to the red scales, like large freckles except for the fact that they seem to glow too, scattered in clusters near those eyes and the other bare skin you can see.

Speaking of, gone is the sickly pallor his skin had had. Whereas before his skin was a solid dull gray, now his skin is a dark, rich blue which lightens on his underarms and the top of his exposed chest. He seems more solid in this moment than any other previously, more steady—healthy. You hadn’t realized how amorphous he had seemed in the water, although his hair tendrils seem to move more than a breeze would allow them to, given they are no longer in water. Their color improved as well. Only the tentacles on his back, that you know must be there for all you can’t see them, remain dark as ink and meld well with the shadows, leaving them as mysterious as before.

A vibrant red overcoat that complements the rest of his magnificent coloring has no sleeves which reveal the crisp white shirt underneath. The shirt sleeves only go down to his elbows so that the fins on his forearms are left visible. They look so much stronger compared to how limp and colorless they had seemed in your memory, their red and blue streaks bringing to your mind jewelry or tattoos—adornment. You briefly lament how covered his chest is, that maw must be closed, but are fairly confident the rest of him must be in similarly improved shape.

Your eyes travel down to his black breeches which startle you. Yes, he’d said he had legs and yet he had seemed so natural in the water and they seemed so invisible, it is still hard to see them, defined and held in tall black leather boots.

In addition to the physical, there’s Satrasi’s presence. Gone was the skulking predator, hovering just out of your reach, even as you knew you were in his. Now he stands before you, instantly in command of the room, immediately the biggest threat—smug in that knowledge as it sits comfortably on his shoulders. He looks around the room as if searching for anything that might disagree with that assessment and welcoming of the challenge such a creature might offer him. He rolls back his shoulders, almost restlessly, as if he can’t seem to understand why he might be in such a small space so obviously unable to contain him.

How obvious it is that those fools who captured him in the first place never would have been able to keep him caged for long.

He does narrow in on the closest thing to a threat this place has and a hungry grin, his teeth glinting silver and his tongue, black streaked with an almost glowing red, flicks against them. “Well now, looks as though we aren’t the only guests gracing this humble town.”

The mercenaries have frozen where they sit except to put hands on hilts. You see the leader’s eyes dart to the silver in Satrasi’s outfit—the silver braid that goes from his shoulder to his chest, a reference to his self-styled title of the Admiral—and then to his belt buckle which has the skull and tentacles that was his insignia.

He knows exactly who this is.

“Always interesting to meet others passing through the backcountry. What brings you to these parts?” He’s obviously trying to pretend Satrasi isn’t why he’s here, even if he doesn’t bother disguising that he has identified him.

Nothing in his demeanor gives him or any of his band away: they look like uninterested but on guard, as unrelated mercenaries would, but Satrasi is no fool. He smirks and then shrugs nonchalantly. “You know how it is, handling my end of a deal. You?”

“On our way to meet some lord in the port,” the mercenary replies smoothly. “High paying bounty. You know how it is,” he parrots with a bit of a sneer.

“Of course, none that I might know though, is it?”

“We only hunt on land, though I’m surprised to see your like so far from the sea.”

“Deals are deals,” Satrasi replies magnanimously, “wherever they take us.”

“I’ll drink to that,” one of the other mercenaries says.

“Care to join us?” one of the women offers with a wicked glint in her eye that might be flirty but mostly comes across as predatory to you. “I’m sure you’ll prove more interesting than the mudlappers here.”

The woman who came with Satrasi grins and spreads her hands. “Surely they’re not so bad. Small town folks are always so sweet to passers-through.”

“Unless they got cause not to be,” Wicklow says, his eyes flicking to the still frozen figure of the innkeeper, who is obviously fearful of yet more dangerous strangers than she’s prepared for, and the boy whose head leaps out of view by the kitchen door as soon as there’s notice on him.

“We’ve been nothing, but polite,” the mercenary leader lies as easy as he breathes.

“That true, little bite?” Your eyes flick to Satrasi’s face in surprise to find his locked on you. He smirks and you feel any lingering anxiety settle with him here. Of course he saw you and saw these folks for what they are. And he’s here to hold up his end of the deal.

Your trust in him solidifies into something strong and powerful at his look.

His eyes turn back to the lead mercenary, not bothering to watch you cross the floor to him—not pausing as you draw one of the fireplace irons from their stand just on instinct—skirting the mercenaries’ table with a wide berth to be by Satrasi’s side. “Because I’d bet a pretty penny on that being her apron in your hand.” He nods at the material the mercenary has clearly forgotten is in his hand.

“It is,” you say, speaking clearly to Satrasi alone because no one else here matters. His eyes drop down to you as you fit yourself comfortably next to him. You neck tilts up to look him in the eye. You’re so used to him being below you in the water and now he stands nearly a head taller than you. It makes you feel safer. “They were starting to push, but no, hadn’t done anything yet. You should know they’re here looking for you.”

His eyebrows raise in interest. He asks, his voice somehow even more darkly amused than you’ve ever heard it before, “Oh, are they?”

The thud of a mug hitting the table makes you twitch, but Satrasi doesn’t give any sign he heard anything, eyes still on you. “This fluffhead girl doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” the leading mercenary growls, obvious threat in his voice before you can see him lean back in his chair in the corner of your eyes. “Why would we be looking for you?” he asks, trying for casual but that facade is cracking. “Besides, you just got here and we’ve been here for more than a day.”

“Why are they looking for me?” Satrasi asks you, paying the man no mind, his smirk inviting you to be in on the joke they’re going for.

It’s warming, to be listened to, to be part of a group, to know he’ll believe you above others—you feel nearly drunk on the confidence it gives you. “A page did escape you and the forest demon. Governor offered them 100 gold for you alive, half if dead—each.”

“That’s up from last year,” Wicklow says, amused. “Getting frustrated it seems.”

“They have a spell map, finds demons in a two league radius they said—were about to set it and find you in the morn,” you continue to explain, ignoring the muttered curses from the mercenaries who are clearly giving up on their paper-thin ruse with how much they didn’t realize you heard.

“Well now, isn’t that interesting,” his eyes flick to the mercenaries, who are getting to their feet, “Seems I owe you even more than I thought. Why don’t you fetch the rest of my people from right outside so we take care of this annoyance and relieve them of their oh-so-intriguing map?”

That’s too much for the mercenaries, who are over their shock and pretense, and lunge for the pirates. You nod to Satrasi, sliding out of their way. You find Hayleth, the half-demon from the tavern in the port, leaning by some horses with three other pirates. “Fight broke out with some mercenaries looking for your captain,” you tell them. Even Hayleth, who hadn’t seemed to like or trust you previously is moving as the first few words leave your mouth without hesitation—or maybe he can just hear the sound of furniture being knocked about.

You feel full of energy, wanting to help with the fight but knowing you’d only get in the way. Instead you get down on one knee by the still open door to the inn, iron rod in hand. Sure enough, just as the fighting seems to be dying down, someone rushes out. After the split second it takes you to identify the lead mercenary, you bring the iron up with both hands just below his knees. He roars when it hits him and the force nearly throws you to the ground, but you’re able to right yourself and get back as he goes sprawling.

Before you can worry about where the best place to be is, a long black tentacle whips past you, wraps around the mercenary’s belt, and drags his prone form back into the inn. You look up to see Satrasi in the doorway, a full blown grin on his face displaying those sharp, sharp teeth. He pulls the leader behind him, tossing, “find out where he’s got the map,” over his shoulder. He barely looks like he’s been in a fight, clothing in fine order, no blood or injuries on him—only his unsheathed sword in hand as a cue.

His eyes land on you. “You simply can’t help being impressive, can you? I’ve got your payment,” he pats his breast pocket, “but more than that: how’d you like to join my crew? I could use a messenger like you.” He holds out a hand to help you to your feet.

You don’t even think, you don’t need to, as you clasp his hand. “Yes.”

[Part Six]

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