The Ruins

Chapter 3

Mercy

Mercy had a blanket wrapped around her waist, with each end tied to an anchoring post nearby, to secure her to the floor of their cabin. Vincent had done the same. Facing each other, and using sticks built a ship to float in the air between them.

The free sky beyond the pull of the large isles was the domain of Mercy's people. The Wayfarers were often born in free float, and lived on ships that traversed thousands of miles in strange skies. Her people lived as much without being pulled to the ground as they did with it. She had played tag jumping between the hulls of ships, had danced in slippers lined with lodestone. She was born and raised for life in free float.

And now she was losing a game from her childhood to a man who had never played it before.

Vincent was setting a piece of wood in the middle of the floating ship's deck. Somehow --despite the ship's rotation and the fact that he had to navigate his arm through a cloud of other pieces --Vincent set the next stick inside without knocking anything else loose.

"Your move," Vincent replied as he drew his hand out. One of only two constant rules to the game they played, known as Ba'tal to the Wayfarers, was that the next piece played should be set close to the last. The other rule was that breaking the shape being made was an instant loss.

"Pass," Mercy said. She shook her head in disgust and folded her arms. Vincent grinned that cheeky grin he often wore and set another piece inside. When he looked to her, gesturing to the shape they had made and raising an eyebrow, she took her next stick and knocked it into the ship.

Their creation broke in half, and transformed into a cloud of slow-moving shrapnel.

"Cheeky bastard," Mercy muttered, as Vincent reached out to collect the pieces.

"What can I say? Goofy children games suit me," Vincent said, as he opened the box for the pieces. Mercy reached out and began to gather up sticks as they drifted by her.

"Is there anything you're actually bad at, Vincent?" Mercy asked. She was watching the way he snatched pieces, storing them between his fingers until he had collected more than a dozen in each hand. Even in something simple like putting away a game, the fact that he was unnervingly clever stood out.

More than just clever, Mercy thought to herself. Vincent Locklear understood the world with a clarity no one else in her life possessed.

"I can't cook," Vincent offered, after a moment of consideration.

The laugh that slipped from Mercy's lips came out so quickly she wasn't sure if Vincent had even finished speaking. She doubled over, nearly sliding out of the sheet anchoring her to the floor, and slapped at the deck. Tears welled in her eyes, and after a few seconds, she had to force herself to take quick, frantic gasps to replace the air she had spent.

She forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply, to try and calm herself. And nearly succeeded, until she looked at Vincent's indignant frown, and the laughter started all over again.

"Am I really that bad at cooking?" Vincent asked.

"You," Mercy said, speaking with the air she breathed in, between the spurts of giggles. "Burned. Toast. And. Porridge."

"That can't be all that strange," Vincent insisted, as Mercy took another few deep breaths and her mirth began to subside. With one eyebrow raised, wide eyes, and his small frown, he looked genuinely confused over how appalling his culinary blunders were over the years. The sight nearly made Mercy start laughing again.