Tides and Bindings (2K)

A firm grip tightened around Olenna’s shoulder, and she startled awake. 

She threw her uninhibited arm out and above her, preparing to disarm her attacker. Something damp met her wrist, and then webbed fingers curled around her flesh, rendering her immobile.

“You’re rusty.” 

She froze at the familiar voice, a medley of shock and thrill churning in her core. 

“Yorick.” His name was a disbelieving curse on her tongue. 

He smirked. “Miss me?” 

“Not in so many words,” she hissed.

Relinquishing her shoulder, he pulled her left wrist closer to his face. Through the darkness, his keen eyes scanned the flesh of her forearm. He laughed, a dark and humorless sound, as he found the palm-sized jagged patch of scar tissue. 

“I should not be surprised,” he said, meeting her gaze. “And yet I find that I am.” 

Olenna sat up, conjuring ice and stone to emerge from her skin as spikes that prodded at his touch. He winced, lunging backward and crossing his arms. 

“Not too rusty, then,” he muttered.

Reaching to the table beside her bed, Olenna lit a candle and then retrieved her spectacles, placing them on her nose. In the dim, golden light, she noted the slight dilation in his glossy black eyes. His hair, though blonde in rare moments of dryness, hung in dampened brown tendrils around his face. He wore the traditional armor of the Phocidae; the spotted gray hide that had once belonged to his forefathers. The tight material molded itself against his body, the expertly honed muscles flexing as he shifted his weight. The sight sent a sickening combination of adrenaline and fear through her. 

“Not only have your reflexes slowed, but you require all of this to see?” He scoffed. 

Scowling, she stood.

“Why have you come, Yorick?” 

He began moving around the room, touching menial objects she had collected. When his eyes fell upon a stone-carved trinket box, his thumb caressed the lid before opening it. Her heart stopped as he unavoidably noticed the golden locket inside – the one thing of him, of them, that she had retained. 

Face unreadable, he closed the chest and turned back to her. 

“I need the Tide Stone.” He spoke matter-of-factly, and she noted the shift from his silver-tongued demeanor to one of ice. This, the cold and cruel warrior, was what the targets of Syndicate Phocidae saw before their demise. It reminded her of her own guilt – that which she felt for her own countless victims, and for the sacrifices made to attain her freedom while leaving others behind. 

“I do not have it.” Her voice quivered, and she cursed herself for it.

Yorick closed the distance between them, his gaze scalding. He smelled like seasalt and samphire and she shivered in the wake of its familiarity. 

A lifetime ago, she reminded herself. 

“Don’t lie to me.” 

“It is not a lie,” she insisted, folding her arms over her chest. “What did you envision was my payment to Undineira for freeing me?” 

“You traded such power so that you might, what? Live in a shack?” He gestured to the walls around them. 

Olenna merely held his gaze.

His jaw clenched. For a mortal, the tension in Yorick’s body would have read as frustration. To Olenna, whose own reflexes had been molded just as his, the stance he took was a symptom; as Yorick’s muscles flexed, his magic, that of their ancestors, was readying.

As if beckoned, her own began to spark within her. 

Yorick’s nostrils flared, scenting it stir. “Perhaps you are landbound, Olenna, but you are Phocidae through and through.”

“It is freedom enough to no longer be a prisoner.” 

For the first time in their acquaintance, Olenna saw hurt flicker in Yorick’s dark eyes.

“I – “ He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter any longer. Where is Undineira keeping the stone?” 

Olenna shrugged and walked across the room to a window. Unlatching the pane, she allowed the night’s cool seabreeze in. It was a practice in exposure, to allow the sea to call to her without granting her body’s response.

“I presented her with the stone and –”

“Which was not yours to bestow, I might add.”

Ignoring him, she continued. “And, in turn, she broke my Blood Tie to the hide.” 

“And the brand? Was it necessary for her to cut that off in order to break the Syndicate’s hold on you?” 

Her arm, where the markings of her rank, her identification, had once been, were now a hideous and convex patch of scar tissue. The discolored ivory flesh nearly gleamed in the light of the small flame. 

“No.” Her voice emerged as a whisper. “That I did myself.” 

Yorick swore, and she whirled to look at him. 

“I granted Undineira the Tide Stone as a fair and just payment. Syndicate claim on it aside, the stone was my birthright. It belonged to my grandsire and its power was mine to confer.”

“You speak to me of birthright when you relinquished any and all claims to being seaborn.” 

“It is done.” And though something isolated and longing fought against the words, she said, “Leave, Yorick. I cannot aid you in this search.”

She turned back to the window, wavering between the hope that he left and the conviction that he remained. A moment passed in quiet, and she believed him to be gone, disappointment coiling through her. 

Suddenly, she felt his warm breath against the back of her neck. 

“Please, Olenna," he said, voice soft and pleading.

“If I do not –” He paused. “If I do not return the Tide Stone to the Syndicate’s hand, my life will be forfeit.” 

She stilled, though his words did not surprise her. It was not uncommon for the Syndicate, an organization born of greed and war, to assign such a task: locate an item or target of interest, acquire or neutralize it by any means necessary, reap the reward or face punishment.

“What do you suggest?” Olenna asked the question for Yorick’s benefit, drawing out the inevitable, for she anticipated his response. 

“Join me to find and retake the Tide Stone from Undineira. If it were to come to a fight, I cannot handle her alone.”

Almost as if to herself, Olenna murmured, “One last task.”

She twisted to look at him and, nodding, he smiled at his own triumph. 

Yorick watched as Olenna retrieved her hide from a cabinet, stripped down unabashedly, and slipped it on.

She had not yet destroyed the skins, though a majority of the few landbound did. They were a relic of her people, and their destruction was ritualistic; a symbol of Liberation, though not the only one. On occasion, seaborn would do so without having severed the Blood Tie.

Such an act was suicide. 

Olenna’s home was meters from the shoreline. As they approached the sea, she took one long look at Yorick, who gave her a weary smirk. He arched a brow in inquiry, and she merely shook her head before wading in. This, she thought, would be their final silent exchange. 

There was an initial rush as she plunged into the cold waters, followed by the desperate desire to return to air and earth. Yorick’s mockery had been well-founded; Olenna’s eyesight had declined in her time landbound. Even with the weakening of her Phocidae senses, she could endure being underwater for long enough, and she knew the path to Undineira’s lair well. She led Yorick to a land shelf a few miles beneath the surface, the rocks covered in the algaes she loved so well. It was not enough to make her homesick. 

Undineira lived and worked in a network of underwater caves; it was a solitary existence, but one the sea witch had carefully curated, along with her reputation. 

Olenna almost admired her. 

From afar, the depths of the sea around them concealed the magnitude of the witch’s keep, but its shape began to take form as they approached, as did a scent of rot and decay.  Once, there was a time Olenna would have felt the early onset of regret and anguish when approaching such a job. This night was different. 

Nearing the cave entrance, Yorick halted, whispering, “I am stronger and you are out of practice. Allow me to enter first and disarm her.”

“Fine,” she said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

Yorick began to conjure, his magic gathering and flooding his fingertips. Advancing, he moved with a manicured stealth through the entrance of the main cave. 

Olenna watched as he entered, pausing briefly before following. 

Undineira was waiting for them. 

She nodded to Olenna in acknowledgment, and then evaluated Yorick, licking her lips. 

“A striking young Phocidae here to pilfer my wares? These come at a price, boy.”

Olenna nearly giggled at the witch; a cat toying with its prey. 

Yorick froze. 

“Where is the Tide Stone?” He called out, voice echoing against cavern walls. 

Undineira peered around him to meet Olenna’s gaze, eyes narrowed in confusion. 

Yorick whirled to Olenna, his own befuddlement evident. 

“I knew they would send someone,” she said, easing towards him. “I just didn’t know it would be you.”

She watched as Yorick’s face fell, the countenance of determination shifting into resigned realization. 

“The Tide Stone was never here, was it?”

“No.” She shook her head. “It remains safely stored away in my shack.”

Behind him, Undineira chuckled, her shark-teeth gleaming, and when he turned to look at her, Olenna struck. Conjuring chains of stone and ice, she ensnared Yorick where he stood. 

The shards of rock dug into his hide, and Olenna contracted her hand, willing the chains to tighten until the skin of his forebears, too, became punctured and weakened. Yorick’s blood began to seep through. 

“Olenna, please.”

Sure-footed, she approached him, nearing enough to smell the mix of salt and samphire and now iron. 

“Why? Why me?” It was a question and a plea. 

Olenna laughed in surprise. 

“It was never about you. It could have been anyone, but it was you they sent.” She shrugged. 

“Olenna, I am not the Syndicate. I am not at fault for what you endured. Please.” 

Yorick’s voice was thick with fear and grief. It was a disappointment, really; to see one break so easily in the face of his fate. 

“This was my promise. Consider it recompense. For her.” She looked to Undineira before turning back to him. “And for me.”

“Good girl,” Undineira purred. 

“May I?” Olenna asked Undineira, who sketched a bow. 

Olenna rolled up Yorick’s left sleeve and he began fighting against the chains binding his torso and limbs. Summoning a knife at her fingertips, she took the blade to the circle of indented tissue, his own Syndicate brand, and dug. As she carved, he screamed. 

Voice gentle, soothing, she said, “Now you, too, may die freely.”

The discarded, bloody mass fell to the sea floor. Undineira knelt down, running her thumb along the heap of flesh before lifting the reddened tip to her mouth. 

She grunted in approval and then asked, “Who was he to you?” 

Somewhere in her mind, Olenna registered the question as one might register a shadow: of little consequence and not requiring an answer. 

“Is this done, then?” Olenna said to the witch, who granted her a solitary, distracted nod. 

Olenna stepped back, watching as Undineira approached Yorick. She clenched his face.

Her sickly blue-tinged fingers, long and pointed, began to draw blood. 

The screams sharpened, mutating into howls. Swiveling where she stood, Olenna did not look back and, staring at her own scar, she smiled.