☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - a little wicked
The night had been peaceful, which usually was embraced, for most nights were spent working late hours on her ship or with her father. Now, Yara would do anything to not be alone.
She was still upset with her father, and Deema was nowhere to be found. She'd been working non-stop on the ships for days, and her muscles were too sore to continue into the night. So, it was going to be a night with her thoughts alone.
While she had returned to her ship without Theon, had brushed off the condolences, it affected her more than she led on. She'd had her brother back, only to lose him again. Lose him to a fate worse than death.
Despite trying not to, all she could think about was how that son of a bitch had managed to turn a Greyjoy into little more than an obedient dog. Every thought was worse than the one before, her memory replaying Theon screaming that he couldn't leave and getting them caught.
There wasn't enough damn ale on the island to make her forget what she'd seen, what she'd heard. All she hoped for was that one day, she would be able to close her eyes and not see his face. Not see the way he cowered in the kennel and screamed and got her men killed.
For the third time in just minutes, Yara left her chair once more, pacing through the room. She would have sat back down had it not been for the loud sound of something heavy dropping on the floor. Maybe on the stairs. She waited for a moment, the sound repeating once, twice. She tried to place it, but then it began to drag and came closer.
Curiosity won, and the captain moved to her door, ready to figure out what was inside her home. She'd barely taken three steps when the door swung open, a few candles blowing out by the force of the swing and the wind the figure took with them.
While she didn't look anything like her usual self, she didn't even need to blink twice to know it was Deema. Her blouse was ripped and stained red, her clothes were dripping, as was her hair. "How fucking dare you?" She sounded angry, her eyes were narrowed and her cheeks red, despite the cold she was enduring.
The woman stepped forward, and there it was again, the dragging. She glanced downward, only to see a boulder dangle behind her on a rope. Her wrists were tied, red, and bleeding. She looked like she almost drowned. "You made me like you, trust you," she snapped, the look in her eyes almost scaring Yara. "Just to do this?"
It took a little while before she understood what she was saying. "Right, what did I do?" She tried to remain calm, if only because Deema looked like she'd never be calm again.
Seething, the woman threw her arms forward, showing her bound wrists. "Tried to fucking kill me! You were bad at it, too."
"Tried to kill you?" It was ridiculous. Why would she try to kill her? How would she even do so, when she'd been in her room? "What are you talking about?"
She lifted her hands, flicked her hair aside with a furious flip of her head. Even in the dim candlelight, Yara saw the fresh scar. It looked wrong against her skin, the only scars that she'd saw on her were the ones from before she got eaten by the sea. Small, faded ones. This one was bright against her skin. Nothing should be able to hurt her.
"Your men put me on a boat, slit my throat, and threw me in the sea," her hands dropped again, her shoulders sagged. "Why? Are you that scared of me?" Just like that, the anger seemed to seep from her, as if she was too tired, as if with the water that was rolling from her, her energy glided with her. "I would never hurt you."
While Deema's anger was ebbing, Yara's began to wake. They had tried to kill her. Even after what Yara had said, even after the arguments, the reassurance. "They did what?" That was all she managed to say for a moment. Turning around, she ran her hands through her hair. "I've done everything, I fucking ordered them to leave you alone, and this is what they do?" How dare they? They had went behind her back, and Yara hadn't realized. Perhaps she should have done more to protect Deema. She wished she had.
When Yara turned back around, Deema's eyes were turned to her. They were wide, as if she hadn't expected the captain to react like this. "They said you'd be glad," Deema's voice was barely a whisper now. "I thought..."
"Would you recognize them?" Yara stopped her, then remembered that there still was a fucking rock tied to her and grabbed a knife from the table.
Deema took a step back, and Yara softened, halting. "Yes,"
"I'm going to cut you loose," she took a few steps closer, and cut the ropes from her writs. "They'll pay. You can do what you want to them."
Deema closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I just... I always thought no harm could come to me, I guess," she slowly said, her eyes glossy when she opened them. "But all it took was five men."
"But you're okay," Yara said, forgetting about whatever distance they'd been keeping. "You're alive, and they won't harm you again." Deema looked fragile for the first time, a sight she had never thought to see. Yara's hands wrapped around her lower arms, their bodies almost pressed together as she avoided her hurt skin. "I promise." On her watch, nothing would ever hurt her again. Not on the Iron Islands, not as long as Yara was around.
A shaky breath left her lips, but she didn't pull back. "They got to me once," she muttered, eyes falling back to the floor. Deema had never looked quite so small. "Someone else might get the same idea."
"Then we'll rule with fear," she spoke before she could think, angry that a few treasonous men had made her feel like this, had frightened and hurt her. "You'll show up tall and angry and they will fear you, as they should."
There was a slow nod, not really convinced. Was there anything Yara could do to take the doubt away? She would promise right now that Deema would never have to be alone again, if she wished. That there would never be a moment where Yara was not looking out for her, if she asked. She would swear it, would swear anything at that moment if only to make the few stray tears vanish, to make her smile.
Sadness looked wrong on her, Yara realized. All she wanted was for Deema to know happiness and peace, but there was nothing she could do about it. "Do you want some ale?"
It was all she felt like she could do, all she could speak of, anyway. But Deema nodded, let herself drop down on the chair, and drank what was offered without complaint. Maybe for now, that would have to be enough.
Neither of them had words to say, maybe too stunned by the situation, maybe for other reasons. All Yara knew was that she was upset. She truly liked Deema's company, and hadn't even been able to call her men off. That would change, though. Deema would never need protection, but that didn't mean she wasn't going to have another pair of eyes looking out for her. She couldn't save Theon, so she would nothing touch Deema ever again.
***
Apparently, it took almost dying for her to swallow her pride. With her bottom lip tugged between her teeth, Deema shifted her weight from one leg to the other. She should go in, but the longer she stared at the door, the more she hesitated. It had been long, and she didn't even know what to say. Maybe she should have accepted Yara's offer to come with her.
But she could do it. It was just a conversation. She'd apologized before, certainly, it couldn't be that hard to do it again. Besides, she wanted to.
She took one last deep breath before her feet took her forward, towards the door. Inside the tavern, there was laughter. It smelled like sweat, alcohol, and pie. Everything seemed normal. Except Millet was nowhere to be found, even though Maggie was walking around the room.
So, at a little table, Deema sat down, waiting for Maggie to come. It didn't take very long for her to notice her. Despite her and Millet's argument, her eyes still turned soft when she walked closer. "Deema? What are you doing here?"
It was almost unbearable to look into her kind eyes. Instead, she let her eyes travel to her hands. The red of her wrists poking out. Out of spite, she'd refused to heal them. Something to keep her angry. "I just want to talk to Millet."
The woman moved suddenly, and at a choked sound, Deema looked up, thinking Maggie was being attacked. But instead, she'd stepped back, her eyes glossy, and had a hand clasped before her mouth. "Don't you know?" Her voice was strained, tears rolling over her cheeks. As she lowered her hand, Deema could see she was shaking. "He's dead."
From all the things she could have said, that was the most unexpected. Millet had been on her crew forever. He had never even gotten dangerously hurt. Millet had seemed untouchable, always near and kind. He couldn't be dead.
"He never returned from the last trip," the woman whispered, and Deema wished she would shut up, because the pain in her voice was unbearable. "They told me he was killed by the Boltons. That he died a hero."
There was no such thing as dying a hero. His body would rot, and all he left behind was pain. They hadn't even saved Theon.
The rational part of her brain wanted to comfort Maggie, knew she should do that. But the world seemed to be spinning. First, she had almost died, and now Millet was dead. Everything seemed to slip through her finger, and the finality of it all was too much. So instead, she pushed her chair back, surprisingly steady on her feet. "Excuse me," she said, voice flat.
Her feet carried her outside, but she didn't feel anything. Didn't feel the ground beneath her feet, didn't feel the cold wind smacking her in the face. Until she tasted the salt, she hadn't even realized she was crying.
The last part of her past had died. The only connection to who she had once been. He'd been too good of a person for this. He deserved to live his life with Maggie, deserved her apology. Maggie deserved Millet.
She hadn't even realized he was dead until days after. So preoccupied with herself and her own pity and pride. He had died, thinking she was still upset with him.
It was selfish, she knew it, but as she stared out over the sea, all she could think about was who she was, now that Millet was gone. Who she would be, with no one to remind her of what it had been like. She hated herself for thinking that.
She hated a lot, it seemed. Especially mortality.
***
As the last bubbles stopped, Deema felt nothing. There was no triumph, Pride, victory. Just... nothing. She hadn't believed everything would be perfect after the men were dead, but there wasn't even the slight joy of her being alive and they not.
Her eyes stayed still on the water, and despite it all, she wanted to apologize to Yara for killing her men, even though she did not quite regret it.
"They deserved it," Yara said, turning from the water first, maybe more for herself. While she had been eager to see a punishment, as the men had entered the ship she had seemed a bit less excited about the matter.
"Yes," Deema turned her eyes away from the water, the scar on her neck tingling as a nasty reminder. Their death had not calmed her nerves. "I hope the others take this as a message."
The captain moved, ready to sail the ship the little distance back. "Certainly, otherwise we'll have to spell it out, won't we?"
Just the word we made Deema smile. Despite what she often believed, she wasn't alone. While that would be a problem later, for now, she relished the feeling of being appreciated.
Yara had moved to the steering wheel, and Deema turned back to the water. Should she have shown mercy to at least one of them? To the skinny man, who had just watched, maybe.
But that was a thought soon banished. No. They had tried to hurt her, there was no room for mercy. No room for a mistake.
"Millet is dead," she didn't know what compelled her to say it, and hoped the wind had carried the words away, yet needing Yara to hear. "Did you know?"
Her back was turned to the captain, and Yara couldn't leave her position. Maybe that was good, Deema wouldn't know what she'd do if Yara had been closer. Anything to forget, probably. Anything to feel.
"When?"
It was a vague question, so Deema said what was easiest. "At Dreadfort," Yara hadn't even known the man had joined her. "Had to hear it from his girl."
She didn't know what she wanted Yara to say. She didn't want condolences, or meaningless words. Yet she didn't want silence either, and certainly no pity. "I'm sorry,"
"We had a fight," she should stop talking. What did it all matter now? Why did she want to tell it? "He died, thinking I hated him." She hoped he knew she didn't. That she regretted everything she said, even the words she'd meant.
"My brother isn't dead," Yara said after a short pause, finally making Deema turn.
"What?"
The captain was avoiding her gaze, looking off far into the distance. "They keep him in a kennel," she talked slowly, and now Deema wished she was closer and had empty words of condolence for her. "He thinks he's some sort of servant. Or a dog. Not Theon Greyjoy, anyway."
What could she even say to that? Nothing would be good enough, so why try? It sounded like a horrible fate, and a horrible thing to see someone go through. "Everyone's fucked,"
Yara chuckled once, as if choking on air, without humor. "You could say that."
But at least she had Yara. At least Deema wasn't really alone. She wished she could say that, if only to lighten the mood. But the words felt too heavy, more meaning behind them than she cared to acknowledge. Maybe there would be a time for that, later. Maybe when she was tipsy on wine again, it would come easier.
"Let's drink to that," She said instead, moving to the ale that had to be around here somewhere. "We both need a damned drink."
☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
(A/n): i have to admit this was fun to write even if i had to rewrite and change pov's multiple times i think it was worth it!! hope you enjoyed and have a lovely day/night <3