Chapter 5

The song of the sea was one of desperate seagulls, creaking oars and waves crashing against the hull of the ship; it was loud, reaching out to the horizon as if to test if anyone ashore would listen to it. The novelty wore off right at the time she was chased off the deck by the increasing weight of the damp foam that stuck to her when they crossed a particularly choppy section of the sea. She traded the sun and the prickly feeling of the salt on her skin for the vision of a hundred and twenty sweaty men working away at the oars amid sing-song under the deck. There were young and old, athletic, skinny and fat; an international bunch, as one might expect from a crew assembled by parts over successive stops at other ports. Hyperion had assured them they were all very reputable, as much as sailors could be, and that they were hard working, able to carry his ship across the expanse of the sea in only seven days.

She felt a hand on her arm, and turned to see Phobos leading her to the small space he and Aristides had cordoned off at one end of the shed. Much had been said about her safety in the hours before they'd set sail; Hyperion, for the sake of expediency, let the Phrygian men do as they saw fit as he dealt with the Caudicean authorities. She was, after all, the sole woman in a ship full of men, and although by now she'd detected that Phobos and Aristides were on the more conservative side of things by her world's standards, she felt relieved that they had taken the initiative to deal with it on her behalf.

It was all very crude, of course; there was no first class boarding and reclinable seats with on-demand movies. Her self-proclaimed chaperones had arranged racks of amphoras with the ship's cargo along a small line, acting as a makeshift wall to separate her from the rest of the crew. The space wasn't big, but it was enough for her to lie during the night, with Aristides or Phobos at her feet to watch over her. They'd proclaimed to Hyperion that one of them would stay at all times with her; the other could do a shift at the oars, or work as part of the crew – a stipulation from the Chaldean as he made it clear he didn't like idle stowaways.

It was Phobos' time to rest now, and as he had taken to, he used his break to hover over Ophelia. "I thought the Chaldean was with you," he said as the woman handed him some of the snacks she'd packed along for the journey, courtesy of Felicia.

"He was going through the books with Eon, I didn't want to inconvenience him," she showed him the little wax tablet she was practising on. "I've been trying to learn the Akkadian script."

Phobos took the tablet, and asked for the small stylus she was holding. With surprising dexterity, he inscribed the same phrase she had been practising. The signs looked swift, elegant, its sophistication underscored by the rough and wobbly lines she'd produced. "Oh," she caught herself, sighing in admiration. "I suppose it makes sense. A regent should know how to read and write."

"So they say. However, my father always kept a scribe near him at all times. Royal fingers are made for swords; a stylus will not defend a kingdom," he looked up, returning the tablet to her. "I take it it's not common to write in Byzantium?"

"It's the norm, actually," Ophelia answered, and wrote something in English to show him. "This is how most of the folk in my country write. You have this script… and this one."

He marvelled at the cursive, laborious the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. "They look like two different scripts," he commented. "Were you a scribe in Byzantium?"

"No. I worked at a… in something similar to a tavern. I went to university to study law but I didn't finish my studies."

"You studied in a university?" Phobos exclaimed, eyes wide. "Law? Is that how magistrates are chosen in your country?"

"Yes, you need to study law to be eligible to become one. But you can also become a…," she struggled to find a similar word in the language she'd borrowed, until her mind came up with "iuris consulti. A sort of advocate who knows the law well enough to help laymen through legal procedures."

Ophelia smiled bitterly, remembering her time in college. "I can't say I felt very passionate about it. When things became tough, I abandoned my studies, and haven't felt the need to go back. I just didn't have anything else I wanted to be."

Phobos tapped the wax tablet in her hands. "And now you want to be a record keeper?"

"I don't mind it. I need a place to stay, food to eat, clothes to wear."

He locked eyes with her. His gaze felt scorching. "You can come with me. I can provide all that for you."

Ophelia sighed. "I need something to do," she braced herself. "Or I'll waste away."

Phobos opened his mouth, ready to argue, when the men beyond their little cubicle began to raise their voices. An argument had broken out amongst the oarsmen; the loudest spoke in Iberian, shouting at the other to keep their silence. Grumbles and comments flew from all directions, all in different languages. A frenzy took hold of her brain; jumping from a piece of one conversation to the next, it tried to make sense of it all. Without meaning to, the ear tends to search for pieces of meaning in whatever it can capture; when this process is forced to quicken, the results are quite painful to the self. She grit her teeth and covered her ears with her hands, trying to stop the barrage of shouts.

Phobos had jumped to his feet and was on his way to address the situation when she heard yet another voice join in the fray – Hyperion.

"What is the matter?"

The chorus of voices died down as the one question washed over the crew. Relieved at the silence, Ophelia relaxed, and walked out of her little hiding hole to see what was happening.

"A mere argument, my lord," explained the helmsman. "One of the men saw something in the water, stopped his work, and was berated for it."

At that, the young man next to him who couldn't be more than twenty, opened his eyes wide and shouted, "I swear I've seen it! A monster!"

The helmsman shot him an irate look. "Silence!"

As the oarsman was not about to comply, the helmsman looked at who seemed to be the man's friend, and ordered him to do something to calm the hysterical youth. "Please, you need to listen…!" the oarsman continued his please, "this is an omen, it was screaming in the waves…! The monster…!"

"What did you see?" Ophelia asked as she approached them. The youth, delighted to see someone who would understand him, took a step towards her and gesticulated wildly as he answered "I saw a creature with many tentacles, barely visible above the water. It had teeth at the top of its head, and something like a mouth that opened and closed. When it was open, a horrible scream would come out, like the wail of a dying baby..."

"Did anyone else see anything like that?" she looked at the man's friend, who resolutely shook his head.

"It's an omen, lady! A curse!"

"Is there anything we can do?"

The question seemed to agitate the man more, and she asked his friend to help her calm him down. He sat the frenzied oarsman back down on the benches, hands on his shoulders, and began to whisper something to him.

Ophelia turned to Hyperion, frowning. He was looking at her with clear interest, waiting for her to translate what had transpired. "Yet another language to add to the list," he commented pointedly. "I suppose you didn't just pick it up in the two days we've been at sea."

"He talked about a curse," she explained in Iberian for the benefit of the helmsman. She pretended she didn't hear Hyperion's comment; there was no point trying to find an excuse for it. She could delegate that work to the man's imagination. "He said he saw a monster in the water. A bad omen."

"Ah," the helmsman said, almost rolling his eyes. "So that is what it is."

"I'd have thought a helmsman would be able to assemble a crew that knew what the amber line was," Hyperion's ruthless words were soft, dispassionate. It made it somehow altogether more brutal; the helmsman visibly flinched.

"I did tell them about it. Maybe they didn't hear me correctly; their Iberian is very poor."

"Perhaps we should debrief this matter later," Hyperion suggested, although it was clear that his subordinate was in for a very strong-worded meeting. "I suggest you put your crew in order, trierarchos. Ophelia will be kind enough to assist you this time."

Hyperion nodded at her, and left for the upper deck. Phobos, frowning at his retreating figure, walked up to her. "What is he doing, ordering you around like that?"

With a gesture, Ophelia made it clear they would discuss it later, and turned towards the helmsman.

"What is the amber line?" she asked. The man sighed, rubbing his temples with a tired expression.

"Well, you'll need to tell him," he answered, almost as if it was against his better judgement. "The route we're travelling is quite famous amongst experienced sailors; they call it the amber line, as it was used in great numbers by ships carrying amber to the east. It also has an unfortunate number of disappearances, and many strange tales are told about them."

"It is said that one might encounter strange creatures, and all sorts of demons when out in the open sea, in this route," the man continued. "It is true that the sea is a dangerous place; I have certainly seen my fair share of disasters. Most of them I would say had little to do with monsters; yet superstitions make young men fear the unknown more than a regular storm. Tell this man to do as he's told, and to be more wary of gathering clouds than strange visions in the sea: they're far more likely to come to take his life."

Ophelia did as she was told. It was a strange experience to have someone else's words in her mouth, trying to convince the young oarsman about something she had no personal experience with. It took several tries and more one-liners from the exasperated helmsman until the youth finally accepted the inevitable truth that no one else in the crew cared about his vision, and that no one would do much about it. The increasing aggravation from the strict Iberian man made it clear that at some point the suggestion would be put out to throw him off the ship, and that was always a good persuasive argument that could not be won against.

Once it was all resolved, she climbed back upstairs to get some air.

"What do you think he saw?" she asked Phobos. "Are there monsters in this world?"

"None that I know of. But strange things may happen. Those who spend their lives at sea are quite superstitious."

"The trierarchos seemed like a very practical man."

"A leader has to see beyond such things; it matters little what's real or imaginary. As you can see, regardless of whether the monster or the curse exists, he believes in it, and that should be enough."

Ophelia considered Phobos' words; outside of what could be taken at face value, they were quite telling of who the man beside her was. There were moments were he stopped existing as a warrior, when she caught glimpses of what he might've been like as a prince. The blood and the grime faded away, and she could see him walking through a hall, court following his every move.

She felt voyeuristic; removed from the scene, almost. Contemplating how that man's destiny, which was so literary, so mythical, had clashed with hers. A mundane profile, a set of descriptors of a birth date and a college career and likes and dislikes, the storylines of modern life contrasted against the high fantasy epic of an exiled prince looking to take back his throne. She realized, once again, how dream-like it all was.

"What would you do if one of your men became crazed like that?" she asked, intruding in that dream to interview her character, try to unravel the real out of the myth.

"If we were in the palace, dress him as a jester and let him rave and rant to his heart's content," he said. "If we were in a battlefield, strike him down before his madness infects others."

"You will run out of men at some point."

"To err on the side of caution, one should always bring more than what is needed," Hyperion's voice said from behind. "Especially when it comes to men, one should account for some of them falling prey to some folly or another."

They both turned around. Ophelia frowned at the merchant. "Humans are not things that can be replaced when they're broken."

"A philosopher says," Hyperion quipped. "I'm a merchant, and the exiled Phrygian is a prince, neither of us have the luxury to speak in absolutes."

The lazy smile on his face didn't falter as Phobos surged forward, alarmed at his words. No one in their party had revealed to the Chaldean the true identity of the stowaways he was trafficking; it was too dangerous a secret to divulge.

"Who told you?" the prince muttered through gritted teeth, hands grabbing tightly onto the other man's shoulders. "Speak!"

The merchant rolled his eyes.

"A mercenary does not hold themselves in the way you do; that you were a nobleman, it was easy to tell. And lastly the men you killed could've only conspired against you; and who would put such an effort, if not for a prince?"

Phobos narrowed his eyes, but let him go. "You should know better than to speak of this to others."

"I am nothing if not opportunistic, your highness," Hyperion smirked. "I simply hope my good deeds are remembered."

The warrior relented, and the royal stepped up. "You will get as good as you give, that I can promise," he said calmly as if a moment before he hadn't been threatening the merchant. "When we arrive in Arqa I will arrange it so that the road to Raqmu is always open to you."

Hyperion bowed his head, closing his eyes for a second as a sign of acknowledgment. "If only you were this charming before. I should've known that you prefer my company as a man."

It was clear that regardless of whatever arrangements he could get out of their acquaintance, Hyperion would never pass the opportunity to get a raise out of Phobos. The prince visibly controlled himself, and simply looked away. "Your deceitful ways will always be distasteful to me."

"Oh? I must've misunderstood. I thought you enjoyed a little trickery, as long as it came wrapped up in a dress," Hyperion turned towards Ophelia. "Right, lady Iceni?"

Ophelia raised an eyebrow and shrugged; it was clear the Chaldean was fishing for information, trying to get the impulsive Phobos to reveal something in his haste to defend her. When the prince opened his mouth to speak, she barely touched his arm; the gesture, somewhat more intimate than she'd intended, made him flinch.

"If you want to know something, ask your questions," Ophelia said with a stern tone. "You will know as much as you need to, and nothing more."

"I'm afraid I've been too rude when I simply was trying to have a little fun. I apologise," the merchant conceded, bowing his head towards her. "Perhaps when we arrive and as we go through our business together I will get more chances to earn your trust. I will be looking forward to that, certainly."

He excused himself, and made a tactical retreat. Ophelia sighed, and knew she'd have to pacify an irate Phobos, although she couldn't quite understand what about Hyperion's playful manner bothered him so.

"Don't mind him," she said, "he's trying to get a raise out of you."

"A man like him is given a stone, and after grinding his wheat with it, squeezes the thing until water comes out," the prince said with narrowed eyes. "It's best to only deal with him as much as one has to, and no more."

"True," Ophelia conceded simply, before turning back. "Should we go back downstairs? The sun is starting to come down, and the breeze is turning chilly."

They both made their way back into their little space; the chat moved away from Hyperion and his ways back into Ophelia's world. She shared with Phobos more about universities; in turn, he told her about how such things worked in Phrygia, and what was the custom in those lands. She noticed that his manner had noticeably changed from the initial stoic ambivalence and the later hostility; he seemed to have warmed up to her. He certainly made for very entertaining and interesting conversations, in spite of his very rigid world view.

Aristides came to join them a few hours after sunset, and they both enjoyed dinner together. The oarsmen had been called off, as a good wind had begun to blow and the sails had been let loose to catch it. The helmsman came around to thank Ophelia for her help, and also to remind them not to walk on the deck during the night.

"One of those seamen's superstitions, my lady," he explained. "We all follow it. The rule is that we're either all together after dark, or we stay hidden. Otherwise, bad things start to happen."

Any objections that the three passengers might have had were left unsaid. After the man had gone, the conversation turned towards other topics; as the stars rose their voices died down. It wasn't long until they all turned in for the night.

Around midnight, Ophelia emerged from her dreams covered in cold sweat and a racing heart. Desperate to understand why her body had responded so, her mind clawed at the darkness, trying to retain whatever images it could of the things that had been revealed while asleep. Yet like water, it all escaped from her grasp: the only thing that remained was a vague feeling of trepidation.

She opened her eyes and stared at the dark. Slowly, her breathing evened out and she began to relax. The oarsmen all rested in makeshift beds beyond the wall of amphoras that Aristides and Phobos had set up; their snores echoed softly in the large hull. Amidst their noises, the sound of timid footsteps emerged. Slow, unsure, they wandered from somewhere in the back closer to her; bare feet striking the wooden planks, looking for the stairs to the upper deck. Ophelia's mind was delirious, half asleep and half awake, and it didn't think much of it – it played around with its significance, part placing it into a completely unrelated scenario before submerging it into irrelevance as she plunged once more into slumber.

It wasn't until the next morning that the footsteps would be plucked from her memory to escort the words the helmsman had said to her the day before. A commotion in the upper deck greeted all the late risers when a group of sailors began their tasks at dawn: shouts and laments began to be heard as the body of a man was found lying next to one of the sails' masts. Ophelia was roused from her sleep by an anxious Aristides, and it was at the mid point of her climbing the flight of stairs leading to the scene of the crime that her mind was coherent enough to put two and two together.

Someone had broken a taboo.

"It happened, it happened!" she heard the helmsman say through gritted teeth as he grabbed at his hair. "This damned kid...!"

Aristides opened the way for her, moving curious and disturbed oarsmen to one side or the other as he walked closer to the centre of the commotion. Hyperion and Eon were already there; Phobos was with them, crouched next to the body. One look at the victim, another for the young man who was being sternly stared at by the Chaldeans; that was enough for Ophelia to understand what was happening.

The one who had broken the taboo was the young oarsman from the day before.

"Ah, lady Iceni," Hyperion greeted her. "I'm afraid we're having a hard time trying to piece together what happened. Would you care to speak to this man?"

Ophelia nodded. "I heard someone walk up to the deck last night," she said to the dead man's friend. "Was it him?"

"I was asleep," he replied. "I don't know what happened. He'd calmed down by the time we all retired for the night. He went to sleep early. I woke up at dawn, and he was already gone."

Hyperion showed no sign of disappointment after Ophelia recounted the exchange. If anything, he seemed almost bored, as if the whole ordeal was an inconvenience he would've rather avoided. "I agree with you," he said, after the woman had shared her thoughts with him. "Something unsettled him yesterday, and he thought he'd disregard the warnings to try and find an answer for it. It didn't quite pay out for him."

Ophelia took a look at the body. Three people had been called to search any signs of life; save for the slight discolouration in the lips the corpse looked for all intents and purposes as fresh as any of the sailors staring fearfully at it. "How did he die?"

"I can't tell," Phobos answered. "There are no wounds and no marks on his body. I can't detect any evidence of poison, either."

"I'll call the men to dispose of the corpse," Eon said. He looked just as bored as Hyperion.

Ophelia, used as she was to the procedural nature of a life time of crime shows, felt horrified at the thought. "Wait! We need to find out what happened!" she cried.

"It's clear what happened: his own indiscretion killed him," Eon replied. "This will only distract the crew and fill their heads with nonsense."

"But what if he was murdered? What if there is something dangerous out there? We need to know!"

"There is danger everywhere, my lady," Hyperion replied with a condescending smile. "That is an accepted fact by everyone in this crew. The nature of it doesn't concern us; we know it exists and that's sufficient. Paying too much attention to it only creates more trouble."

"But… but doesn't it bother you? That he's dead?"

"I have other seventy men to worry about."

Hyperion gently laid a hand on her arm to move her to the side; he was clearing the way for two of the crew to walk in to take the corpse. Their faces were inscrutable; concentrated only in the task they'd been given. If they were afraid, they didn't show it. One of them took the body by the arms, the other by the legs, and both carried it towards the edge of the ship. Their bodies were bulky and their arms looked strong, but even they struggled with the weight of their cargo.

As they tried to swing the corpse out into the sea, both sailors screamed in surprise, dropping it heavily onto the deck. The majority of the crew had gathered outside at that point, and their curiosity made it difficult for Ophelia to see what was happening. She caught a glimpse of greenish fingers twitching, and heard more surprised shouts.

Then, all hell broke loose.

The corpse had sprung back to life. A half-lidded wet stare that looked at nothing faced one of the sailors that had tried to throw it to the sea; its mouth was open, slack and dumb. Legs and arms twitched horribly as it struggled to stand upright; animated by an unseen force, it then reached out towards the nearest living thing. Horrified screams rang around the scene as, before anyone could make sense of what they were seeing, the corpse grabbed one of the crew men with enough strength to shatter his fingers. Forcing the panicking man's face next to its own, it opened its mouth with enough violence to dislocate its own jaw. The cracking sound of bones coming apart was met with a deep wet rumble, signifying what was to come.

Crawling out from within the corpse's throat, worm-like creatures reached out towards the sailor, landing on his face, his neck and his arms. Small tendrils extended from their bodies to attach themselves to the man's skin; once they had made contact, they embraced the exposed flesh, and violently began to burrow themselves in it. The sailor's screams silenced everyone else's: the creatures were tearing him apart, and although he cried desperately for help, everyone was too terrified to take action.

A single soul was ready for action: a sword cut through the corpse, which finally relented his hold on the poor sailor. The victim fell to the floor, writhing in agony as the parasites still tried to take hold. The reanimated body, however, continued to twitch. From within the wounds no blood sprung forth: only tendrils, small and swirling like those that the worm-like creatures used as hands and feet, and they folded in on themselves, attaching to the exposed flesh and bones and twisting it into strange poses.

Phobos swore after swinging his sword two more times: after each time, the body became more distorted, but hardly less animated. Ophelia, who had seen too many movies not to know that blunt force would not be effective against such dangers, stopped him from continuing his folly:

"I have an idea," she said, before pushing her way towards Hyperion. The Chaldean merchant was just as unsettled as the rest of the crew, looking genuinely fearful this time.

"Send the crew under the deck," she said to the merchant. "We're all in danger if this thing tries to grab someone else. It will keep multiplying."

"We need to get rid of it," Eon snapped. "We'll get some sailors to throw it off board!"

"No! You'll put them at risk! This thing is looking for hosts, whatever it is."

As she said it, another sailor's panicked screams joined the tumult. "How many more men do you want to waste?" she pressured them.

"And what do you propose we do?" Hyperion asked her. "Are we to wait below deck until the creature gets bored and jumps off ship?"

"No, I can get rid of it."

She received two equally disbelieving stares. Phobos, who'd just ran to them, seemed to understand what she was about to do. "No! Forget it! You can't do that," he argued. "I'll take care of it."

"How? Your sword seems to be no good."

"I can try to throw it off the ship with my spear."

"There's an easier solution, and you know it. Let me do this."

Ophelia's eyes flashed with something; Phobos' jaw twitched, as if he wasn't quite used to having to swallow an argument. However, he was no fool: he had little faith that his brute force would be better for handling the unknown creature than the strange powers of the woman from Byzantium.

The Phrygian's reaction picked Hyperion's interest, and he finally relented. "Eon, give the command for everyone to take shelter below deck. You will remain with them. Lady Iceni, our Phrygian friend and I will remain on deck to sort this out."

The Chaldean merchant's second-in-command attempted to protest, but a stern stare quickly convinced him to give up. Phobos prepared his fight as well, convinced that it was a danger for Ophelia to reveal her powers to a man so untrustworthy. The woman, however, swiftly quieted his concerns with a dry "ultimately, my secrets are mine to reveal or conceal".

The sailors were more than happy to comply with their new orders: the evacuation was swift, almost desperate as everyone quickly poured back downstairs to seek shelter from the strange happenings that were going on deck.

Hyperion stayed back, happily keeping his distance from the corpse and the two screaming sailors fighting off the dangerous parasite creatures. Phobos, on the other hand, naturally braved the danger by putting himself between Ophelia and the source of all the trouble, sword in hand. His strong frame was comforting; the woman would gladly admit that his gentlemanly ways were slowly winning her over.

Concentrating, knowing what she was doing without really knowing how, she thought of one too many scenes of bio-horrors being frozen into fragile glass-like ice. Something stirred, but it wasn't quite enough to do anything, and despite her best attempts she failed again and again at manifesting anything.

Just when she was about to doubt whether her powers were still there, the corpse somehow understood that she was now his greatest threat, and lunged at her in all its twisted, deformed glory. It wasn't in any form that could move with any significant speed; it was, however, so grotesque that it made up for the lack of menace with a sense of horror so profound, that it triggered something within her. She rejected it so utterly that she manifested her powers only to get rid of such unnatural a thing. Extending her arms, rays shot out of her fingers; tendrils of electricity flashed and rained down on the corpse and the creatures, embracing them tightly until they were burnt to a crisp.

Finally, silence took a hold of the deck; only the waves were heard, softly singing in the background. Whatever miracles Ophelia was capable of working were almost surgical in their precision: the sailors had been spared from the shock of her thunder, which had only attacked the worm creatures. It had all been too much for them, however, and both had fainted from pain and exhaustion.

"Elysian," Hyperion whispered then. He maintained his distance, eyeing Ophelia with a stare full of mixed feelings. "I'd have thought that to learn any secrets of yours would make it all the more clearer to me, but it only creates more questions."

His eyes immediately travelled towards Phobos. Ophelia could only imagine what he was thinking; perhaps he would try to fashion a place for her in the war the prince had been involved in, perhaps he'd invent some other strange tale. Between his thoughts and the truth she was happy to leave some distance by not offering much in the way of an explanation. To a certain extent, she knew, it gave her an advantage.

"Let us finish this," the Chaldean said, "and then, I'd like to have sit for some chai with you."

Eon was called back; by the time he'd brought his men to the deck Phobos had already gotten rid of the charred corpse and the remnants of the insidious creatures. The two unconscious sailors were bandaged and laid over their own makeshift beds. Where the tendrils of the monsters had touched, something akin to acid had corroded the skin away, leaving cracked, bleeding scabs behind. The deeper wounds had reached muscle and tendons; those, the impromptu first responders had said, were the bigger concern, as they would easily get infected.

Doubtful and scared glances were shared by the crew as they slowly went back to their regular duties; the helmsman did his best to ran a tight ship, regardless of how visibly nervous he was. Hyperion made a gesture to Ophelia and they both retreated to his chambers, located in the upper deck, while around them whispers of what had transpired began to spread.

Eon nodded at his master as they walked by him; clearly, whatever needed to be said would be shared later. Phobos had made an attempt to follow them, but had been stopped by Aristides, who'd helped Eon lock the crew downstairs. "Not everything requires your presence, my lord," he whispered with a sharp look at his pupil.

Hyperion's chambers were a simple affair. A chest for his belongings sat against one of the walls; next to it, a wooden stand to hang the elaborately silk robes he favoured. There was no bedding except for a pile of animal skins of luscious fur thrown in the centre of the room. A heavy basalt jar stood next to the door and held the fresh water that Hyperon used for his own personal consumption.

He asked Ophelia to be patient with him before walking to the last piece of furniture in the room, an elegant cabinet made of polished dark wood with details in jade that reached to his chest. He opened one of its doors, and pulled out a drawer. From it, he took out an eastern tea set: two cups and a tea pot, with a handle on one side. From another, a small wooden box. He placed them on a small tray, and carried it to the centre of the room; then, he filled a jar with fresh water, and lowered himself over the skins. Every single action, Ophelia had noticed, was carried out with the same charm that a courtesan might have for a host; none of his movements had the abandon of the utilitarian zealousness that a waitress like her would exhibit. It was all very elegant, each swish of a hand or a finger heavy with practice to the point it floated effortlessly across the space. If he hadn't been favouring his male disguise then, she'd have once again believed he was a beautiful woman.

Ophelia was invited to sat down, and lost in her thoughts, she failed to notice that they were missing a very important element in their would-be tea ceremony. "I hope to earn your forgiveness if I'm once again being too impertinent," Hyperion smoothly said as he tapped the ceramic jar that offered only cold water. "But, given how pertinent it is to the conversation, I thought we might save some time if I asked you to warm the water for me."

Ophelia blinked once, and then almost by instinct looked around her to try to find anything she could use to boil the water. It was only after a few seconds and the intense stares of the man in front of her that she put two and two together and realized he was asking her to use her powers. "Oh," she exclaimed. "I'm not used to this."

Placing a hesitant finger on the jar, she thought about the modern conveniences of electric kettles and how much she missed the familiarity of the watery taste of store-branded tea. Her memories seemed to do the trick, and as she imagined the tell-tale sounds of a cup ready to be served, the water in the jar began to bubble.

"Fascinating," Hyperion exclaimed, breaking through all his poise and grace to stare at her with open awe.

"Is this your first time seeing this?" she asked as he opened the wooden box to reveal small compartments full of spices and dried leaves. He put a pinch of two or three different things in the pot before pouring the boiling water in. "No," he replied. "I've had some dealings with Elysians, and I've enjoyed their hospitality. They're rather giddy when it comes to showing off their strange abilities. Any time is a good one to remind everyone else who they are."

"It can be very tiring," Ophelia said. Now that the shock of the morning's events had worn off, she was starting to feel the effects. "I can't see myself doing everything through my powers."

"Every other Elysian I've met would certainly be able to picture it; although I'm not sure if they would be able to pull it off."

Hyperion served the tea, and sat back with a cup in his hands. Something seemed more relaxed about him that way, as if the masks had been peeled away and there was no merchant trying to find a way to make bank, only someone with an interest in what she had to say. "Will you tell me more about yourself, and how you came to accompany the Phrygian prince?"

"Mmh… For what price should I speak, I wonder?"

"I can help; I know many people with many different abilities. For a runaway Elysian that's always a good thing."

"Why do you think I'm a runaway?"

Hyperion took a sip of his tea and fixed her with an honest, mocking stare. Somehow, she felt like she was finally getting to see him for who he was. "You're not locked away somewhere in Elysium, married to some Count or another, raising three or four children hoping they will reach adulthood. There aren't many choices for someone like you in that society; clearly, you've made your escape. Was it the prince who helped you? Perhaps, the result of a tryst during the civil war?"

Ophelia smiled, laughing to herself. "I'm not running away from anyone," she offered. "But I'd rather we keep my powers a secret from the rest. I'd rather this is not widely known. What you can offer me, you've already done. Just give me a salary, and don't mention any of this. That'll be enough for me."

Hyperion leaned forward, his soft, long hair cascading into the air. "Is that enough? A safe space?"

Ophelia nodded. The Chaldean's lips turned up. "You place very little faith in his highness, I see now."

"What do you mean?"

"You think I'm better suited to keep you safe than he is."

"He's fighting a war. You're just trading goods. I'm more used to what you do than what he does."

Hyperion left his cup on the tray, and raised an eyebrow at her. "You've never thought you could end his war very quickly? Elysians are known, after all, for their propensity to stick their noses into everyone else's business. Quite successfully, at that."

Ophelia looked away. "I don't know…" she mumbled. She couldn't explain that she could hardly take part in a fight for a place she had only learnt about a few weeks before. "I don't think he'd appreciate it if I meddled in it."

"He might not… he's rather stubborn, isn't he?" Hyperion shrugged. "It's all the better for me if you'd rather stay with me. Perhaps I shouldn't speak of this. But I'm curious; he seems rather fond of you, and as stuck in his ways as he is, no man could help but notice the immense opportunity you represent. And, having been involved in his business, I wondered how much you wanted to keep digging in…"

Ophelia moved back. "Perhaps I'll change my mind once we're in Arqa. Perhaps I'll feel more compassion towards his plight, and decide to abandon you. I don't know…"

Hyperion moved to fill Ophelia's empty cup. He had a small smile in his face. "You're rather shrewd, I see. It's rather refreshing to see a woman capable of putting a man to test."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what you want; and you're aware of what that Phrygian will offer you. It's obvious that, unless he surprises us all, either of those things will be as distant as the moon and the sun."

Ophelia took her cup and slowly sipped the tea. The spicy taste licked at the inside of her mouth, poignant. She wouldn't have framed it that way, perhaps, but there was a truth to the Chaldean's words. It hadn't emerged as a conscious thought so far, but it was a running theme in the background of her conversations with Phobos. As much as she was warming up to him, she worried about how he saw her; there were certainly points of friction that emerged when she'd try to act on her own terms. If she were to keep going that path, of deepening her relationship with Phobos, where would that leave her?

"I think you're rather early in this discussion," she finally said. "We're not anywhere near a point of inflection for us to be trying to cast lots."

Hyperion acquiesced. "You're right, I apologise. I've been too eager. But, if anything, this conversation should've let you know that I'll always leave a door open for you."

"For my talents," Ophelia corrected him. The merchant nodded with a smile.

"Why not both?"