Eight:
Noise

She couldn't sleep. Staring up at the worn wooden ceiling of her cabin, she found no rest. Her thoughts had fallen around her like shards of broken glass. Hopelessly broken. Cutting with every attempt at moving on. What gives him the right, she kept asking herself, to say such things to me? She rolled onto her side, attempting to find a more comfortable position in her cot and only succeeding in tangling herself further in the sheets. Where does he get off acting as though he's ever been in the right?

Their argument kept replaying through her head. Over and over, until the tiniest details made her feel sick. The look on his face when she'd said she didn't need him was seared onto her eyelids. She couldn't get away from it.

Child, the Crawler grumbled, we have not existed countless millennia to listen to your inane prattling.

Then go to sleep, Victoria snapped, shoving a mental barrier between them to further isolate the Crawler from her thoughts. With a frustrated sigh, she rolled onto her opposite side. Her pillow was damp beneath her cheek. She refused to acknowledge the tears that had soaked it had ever been hers. Instead she stared out into the darkness of her cabin, the glow of her tattoos doing little to illuminate the tiny room, and tried to empty her mind. It didn't work. What am I to do?

Her mind was already made up about the Keep. She had no plans to let any of the injustices committed within the Keep stand. But that didn't lessen her problems. Reaver was beginning to be more of an issue than she'd ever anticipated. She wasn't sure what to do about him. Perhaps the real problem was that there were as many good memories of him as there were bad. She shook her head. No, that wasn't it. The problem is that she couldn't shake the guilt that she was, in part, to blame.

The day Walter had told her he'd noticed Reaver was spending a lot of time with Elizabeth had been…alarming. And intriguing. For the next week, she'd kept an eye on them, trying to evaluate their every action. She'd been…quite pleased, actually, to see he was being polite and attentive. Friendly. And Victoria had been relieved. After six months of mourning her brother—three of which had been spent in complete isolation—her work had piled up. Reaver had been bothering her to speak with him, but she just hadn't had the time. "Soon; I promise." It had become a motto of sorts. And then Elizabeth had come to visit, like a bright flower in a dreary room. Victoria had thought it would be a good thing for them to entertain each other. After all, it was Elizabeth's first time away from her family—it was probably thrilling for her to have such an important person so enthusiastic for her attention.

But they'd started becoming secretive. Touching and laughing and whispering in a way that was probably subtly flirtatious if only Victoria hadn't been looking for it. She'd known perfectly well what was happening—oh, Avo, she'd known; how could she not? She'd never had an issue with how many partners he took. During the time they'd lived together, it had been mildly alarming to walk in on him with someone else, but it had never affected her emotionally. This was different. Because, the moment he looked away from Elizabeth's face, the affection and warmth was gone. He'd turn away from her, leaving her smiling over something he'd said, to fix a cold, calculating gaze upon Victoria as though daring her to say something.

And she hadn't. She hadn't said a damn thing, convinced he wouldn't actually do anything to hurt Elizabeth.

She'd been wrong. And everything had ended with her holding her cousin until the sobbing had stopped and arrangements for her return home were made. She'd returned to where she'd left Reaver, not expecting him to still be there and somehow even more furious when he was. Watching her without emotion, or even seeming to understand just what the effect of what he'd said to her cousin would be. She'd wanted to arrest him, but there was no law against being an asshole. Instead, Victoria had grabbed him, shoving him bodily towards the exit.

"Don't you get it?" she'd fumed, barely managing to keep from physically attacking him. It was only then that he seemed to realise this wasn't going to end in his favour. "I don't ever wish to see you again. I don't want you here. If you have a single speck of self-preservation, you will leave before I remove you myself."

But it was very hard to avoid someone she had to work with.

A soft knock on the cabin's door drew her from her thoughts and she lay there, staring at the tiny sliver of light that had appeared under the doorframe. If it was important, they'd knock again or speak. But no one did. And, soon enough, she heard the thud of footsteps retreating down the hall.

Sniffling, Victoria rolled onto her back. Maybe it would be better to let it go. That was the only way continuing to work with Reaver would be tolerable. She'd been faking contentment with her lot for two years now; it wasn't so difficult any more. If she couldn't get away from him, then at least she could stop being angry all the time.

If you wish to be rid of the thief, then why not strip him of his title and his property and cast him out? the Crawler enquired idly, apparently unable to not listen to her thoughts. If rolling one's eyes could be condensed into a voice, then his would have been a perfect match.

A part of her grinned with savage delight. That would solve everything, wouldn't it? She would be free of him and able to return what he'd stolen from so many people. The look on his face if she did so…. Some of the joy she'd felt withered. If she set him up like that, he wouldn't be humiliated…he would be furious. And the first people he would target would be the people closest to her. She didn't want to spend the rest of her life worrying that Reaver was going to kill anyone she cared for. Of course…if she was going to set him up, there was nothing stopping her from forging information to also have him arrested. Locked away from the world in a warded cell he would never be able to leave.

Her stomach twisted and something deep inside her cried at the thought. To never see him again, ever, in any context. To essentially kill him without even having the courage to do it with her own two hands. How could she do that? How could she speak against the way the Keep treated its prisoners and then turn around and advocate for it when it suited her? It was immensely cruel.

He's always brought out your need for blood, the Crawler purred almost affectionately.

No, that's not true, she countered. Or…it wasn't always true. Yes, sometimes he brought out the worst in her.

The crowd in Blackholm calling for blood. She'd barely been able to keep hold of Droogan's bloodied collar. She was supposed to be choosing his fate, but she didn't care. He was loathsome and repugnant. A pitiful man attempting to be a warlord to hide that he was utterly powerless. She should have sentenced him to death and taken him into custody. But the Crawler had been more active than usual that day, threading its venom through her veins, and the crowd's rage was infectious. So she threw him to them. She stayed just long enough to watch as they began to tear him apart.

She'd known perfectly well it was time to return to the castle, but Reaver's home was closer. She couldn't fight the urge to break the news to him in person—if only because she knew the loss of a business partner would hurt him and she wasn't thinking clearly. However, when she'd finally arrived at the manse and spoken to him, he hadn't been hurt or angry.

"Tell me what you did," he'd breathed, voice thick with pride and pleasure. Walking toward her, he drank in the details like wine. Intoxicated by the violence and wrath she'd wrought. And, when he finally touched her, it was like a devotee to their divine.

Cursing under her breath, she brought both hands to her face. That wasn't the man she missed. Not the one who gloried in misfortune and suffering. She missed the man who had fought beside her. The man who had, in those three terrible months of isolation, crept into the castle more nights than not to lay beside her. Who'd held her to his chest until the shaking stopped. Who'd whispered stories against her brow in languages she didn't know to keep the nightmares away. Who had not mocked her when the liquor bottles she'd kept for guests were the only things that helped her sleep…nor when she'd decided she couldn't take being a slave to the drink anymore. The man she…

…cared for. Once. Who she thought, maybe, she could be friends with. But she was starting to think that man wasn't real. Just a figment of a lonely, lonely mind. Someone she would never meet again.

Swearing off sleep, she sat up and tried to untangle the blankets from her legs. The linens had wrapped around her like serpents, tight enough to chafe and make getting up a proper mess. It was a few minutes before she was free and able to light a lamp. I may as well research, she thought grumpily, reaching into her bag for one of her books.

Curled up with the large tome propped against her knees, she tried to focus on the page's words. But it was impossible to read about Old Kingdom rituals when she was becoming increasingly aware of an emotion that made her almost feel sick. Guilt. It seeped through her veins like poison; traitorous and unwelcome. But it had every right to be there.

For all she'd said about Reaver betraying her, she'd never told him about the Crawler. He'd gone out of his way to comfort her and she'd never thought to trust him. And this journey…how many times had he saved her or listened to her instructions when she needed it? Certainly, he'd been a child the entire time. But he'd also made an effort to work with her. Her hands tightened against the book cover. He'd come of his own volition when he'd heard she had been attacked. Had that been…concern? For her wellbeing? Despite all the terrible things she'd said to him?

You tragic fucking degenerate! she raged at herself, slamming her book shut as the Crawler grumbled a complaint at her. Giving up, she dropped the book into her bag and rummaged about for some clothes. Damn Reaver and Milton and anyone else on this Avo-forsaken ship, but she couldn't stay in this room any longer.

She stormed out of her room and onto the deck, expecting to be greeted by blinding sunlight, only to find night had fallen. On first glance, the ship was empty but for a pair of soldiers drinking and chatting at the stern. But, no, he was there, leaning against the portside bow railing and staring into the depths of the sea as if they were old confidants.

Victoria considered turning around and going back into her room. But she couldn't stand the thought of sitting alone in the dark any longer. And she wasn't about to hide from him. Taking a deep breath, she started walking, only stopping once she had reached the railing beside him and she could casually lean against it.

"What a surprise," Reaver murmured, seemingly to himself. He held a cigarette in one hand, wrist limp against the railing. "How fortuitous to find I'm not the only one still awake."

She didn't immediately answer. Instead, watching him out of the corner of her eye, she tried to figure out just what he was thinking. He looked as tired as she felt. And…somehow lost. Like he felt every single one of his long years and he no longer was a part of this time. Removed. Staring at the smoke curling from his cigarette like neither it nor he was really there.

She didn't know what to say. The silence between them felt loud and heavy. Almost painful. Her throat burned with all the things she wanted to say, but the words died before reaching her lips; trapped as though an invisible hand had clamped down around her neck. Forcing her to keep quiet. This felt wrong.

"Why her?" she finally managed to whisper. Every syllable felt like broken glass against her tongue. "Why did you have to use her?"

Staring at her hands against the rail, she heard him shift, turning towards her. She forced herself not to look at him.

After a moment he, far too evenly, replied: "I used her…because it would hurt you more than anything else I could ever do."

She couldn't help but stare at him now. Words strangled in her throat, choking and painful. Her stomach ached as though he'd punched her. "W—?"

"Why?" he finished for her when the word failed to manifest in full. He gave a short laugh, so bitter and humourless she almost didn't recognise the sound. "You really don't know, do you?"

No. No, I don't. Victoria couldn't seem to say the words, though. She didn't understand. What had she done that was so terrible that it would deserve…that?

"It would almost be amusing if it weren't so—" He cut himself off as though continuing on was saying more than he was willing to. Tilting his head slightly, he enquired, "Tell me: do any of us who don't factor into your grand quest to 'help Albion' actually matter to you?" Heedless of her attempts to cut him off, Reaver continued: "It certainly seems we don't. You use us for your games, you treat us as though we're important to you, and then you throw us aside when you've no more use for us. Though I may be guilty of doing the same, I have never made a habit of pretending otherwise. I'm not your toy, Victoria."

"Nor am I yours!"

"No. You're not. But you certainly like to play like one, don't you?" As she stared, aghast, at him, the anger in his expression seemed to sour with further resentment. Almost too quietly for her to hear, he murmured, "I could have gotten on my knees before the entire court and begged for you to look at me—to spare me five minutes of your time for something that was important—but you wouldn't have seen me, would you? You think I have no agency. I don't exist to you when you don't need me."

Victoria's first instinct was to deny it. However, the more she thought about it, the more she realised he was right. The first time she'd ever considered caring about his thoughts and wants was when it had benefitted her—when she needed an ally. Now that she needed him again, she was open to the idea. "You only keep me near because you want me". She'd assumed he'd meant that as a generalisation—that she only kept him around in general because she wanted him sexually. But…what if that had been wrong? What if he meant it in relation to their quest? That she only was allowing him to stay with her because she finally had a use for him again. Her stomach twisted. "I—I didn't intend—"

"Of course you didn't. That would require a level of awareness you do not possess."

She flinched, staring down at her hands. Her cheeks and eyes burned. She refused to admit that the dampness on her face was anything other than sea spray.

He cursed, stepping back from the railing. She snuck a glance in his direction just in time to see him press a hand to his face as though he hadn't intended on saying that aloud.

For a time, they stood in silence. This time it felt hollow; no longer painful, but broken all the same. The words were gone. Language had abandoned them for shores that would use it with kinder intent. Victoria couldn't seem to stop the tremors running through her. She wanted to sit, but was afraid that, if she moved from her spot, her despairing tears would no longer be silent. And still everything felt so empty.

We fucked everything up. "So what happens now?"

Her words came out in a lost, hopeless sort of whisper and hung on the cool breeze longer than they should have. She didn't expect an answer. If anything, she expected Reaver to leave. And then, very quietly, she heard him reply: "I don't know."

Somehow it was both agonising and comforting to hear. To know they both didn't know where to go from here. She supposed she could tell him she didn't want to speak with him or see him anymore—that their business would now be conducted via middle man and that he would no longer be allowed entrance to the castle. But that didn't feel right. It didn't solve the actual problems. All it would do was help her thoroughly avoid them.

And she…missed him. She didn't know if it was wrong, but she felt it nonetheless. It didn't excuse anything, but at least it helped her to know where she stood. And maybe it made the options available to them seem more appealing.

"I'm so tired of us fighting," she finally said, turning away from the rail to face him. "Why do we always have to fight? Why can't we just—" she broke off, momentarily looking up to the starry sky as she sucked in a deep breath— "Can we stop? Please, can we…can we have a truce?"

This time the fear his silence inspired wasn't that he'd leave. It was that he would refuse her. Mock her. Laugh and say she'd brought this upon herself. Instead, he dropped his cigarette onto the deck and casually stepped on it though it was long burnt out.

He didn't seem able to look her in the eye as he enquired, "Are you suggesting we start over?"

Surprised, she simply stared at him. As appealing as she would admit it sounded, she hadn't expected him to be the one to suggest it. She'd expected to either be ignored or to have to fight over it. Her mind didn't quite seem to know how to catch up. And, when it did, she tried to think it over as thoroughly as possible. On one hand, if she agreed, then they could actively ignore all the stupid and terrible things they'd done in the name of peace. On the other….

"No," she replied, pleased to hear her voice sounded almost normal and not distraught. "If we ignore it…starting over won't fix anything. It's just more playing pretend. We'll sit here, acting like all the fuck ups never happened, but they did. No, I was suggesting we accept what's happened and we take it…and we build from there. That we grow from it and we learn, so that one day we might move forward as part—allies."

"That sounds very avant-garde for us, doesn't it?" he said, a touch of cautious cheer seeping into his tone. "A ceasefire sounds…yes." He paused as though considering saying more, only to give a short nod. "Yes."

It's not going to be easy. But there was a quiet sort of peace filling her. Making her feel light and calm. From the back of her mind, the Crawler scoffed, but she paid him no heed. There were still things that needed to be addressed. Problems she and Reaver would have to work on. Perhaps they wouldn't be resolved overnight, but the fact that they were both aware…she hoped they could make something good out of it. At the very least, a friendship. Maybe even…no, she didn't want to get ahead of herself. This was enough for now.

In the absence of sadness, the exhaustion she'd been trying to deny had crept back in. And a flush was beginning to work its way up her neck the longer Reaver stared at her. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

"I'm going to—" she gestured vaguely back towards the door below deck— "if you…are open to us discussing this further in the morning?"

Smooth; really smooth, you great fool, she thought.

With the closest to a dignified snort he'd managed, Reaver held out a hand. Curious, she accepted it. Hand-in-hand, he led her back towards her cabin.

They'd just reached the door opening below when he abruptly began: "Victoria, I—" He didn't seem able to get the rest of the words out and, after almost thirty seconds of lost silence, he finally grimaced, sighed, and said, "I stole the singing fish."

It didn't at all sound like what she was assuming he'd intended to say—the tone was all wrong and it didn't seem grave enough for his previous countenance—and it took her a long moment before she realised he was talking about the fish in Ms. Godwin's house. Still, she couldn't help but laugh. "Why am I not even a little bit surprised?"

And, together, they descended into the ship.

They docked at the Keep around dusk. Victoria's spirits hadn't been higher in some time. She was actually…excited about the upcoming quest. Finding General Turner, putting things to rights. She had no idea how she wanted to handle him, but she was hoping for a swift, painless resolution.

Reaver elected to remain with the ship ("we go in, we immediately turn back around; it's far more sensible for me to just remain here") as Milton and Victoria made their way up to the prison. Despite Victoria's mood, everything else felt sombre and tense. Ms. Godwin, still unconscious, felt heavy in her arms. Hazy rain followed their ascent up the hill, making their footsteps echo with sharp smacks. It was almost a blessing to finally enter the prison.

"I'm going to see what Hobson's found on General Turner," Milton informed her as the doors slammed shut behind them. He wasn't happy, she knew, that she had gone after Godwin without him. However, Victoria declined to believe there was a problem. Ms. Godwin had been retrieved—though not entirely safely, she was still alive—and that was that.

"Alright. I'm going to get Ms. Godwin to the infirmary," she replied. "I'll meet you both soon."

They parted each other's company. Ravenscar Keep still felt unfriendly and brooding, but she was more comfortable traversing its halls now. She nodded greetings to soldiers as she passed.

The infirmary was quiet and mostly empty when she entered. Mr. Faraday was asleep. Victoria was pleased to note he looked healthier than before—less frail and no longer entirely sickly. Jericho looked up from her book at Victoria's entrance and immediately got up to help her put Godwin in a bed.

"What happened?" Jericho asked, concern drenching her voice.

"She took a potion. I don't know what it was meant to do, but it…did terrible things." The memory of her screams was still terrifying. She shuddered. "She hasn't woken since."

Jericho shook her head. "I'll keep an eye on her and make certain she's well. Perhaps she'll have an answer when she wakes."

"I hope so. How's Mr. Faraday been?"

"Better…I think. When he's not asleep, he's been talking a lot. Explaining his research and creations. It's…fascinating, really. I asked him to keep in contact with me when he's released." She paused. "Personal feelings aside, the nurses believe he has a bout of influenza and they're concerned it may progress to consumption if they're not careful. Mr. Faraday claims it's nothing so serious, but he's taking his medications well."

She fell into an uneasy silence and Victoria frowned. "Did something happen while we were gone?"

"I…don't know," Jericho confided. "The guards talk a lot when they think no one's listening—they're too used to prisoners who can't go spilling their secrets. I heard a few talking about the boiler room and how much they hate patrolling it. Apparently, for at least the last six months, they've been hearing strange sounds coming from there in the dead of night. A few of the guards think it's haunted now. I went to investigate and…I can't say what the sounds were. I asked Mr. Faraday and he said it sounded like some form of current, but he didn't know for certain since he wasn't there."

"Perhaps, once he's better, we can go investigate."

Jericho shook her head. "That's not all. I heard another guard complaining that three of their shift vanished."

"Perhaps they were just having a lie in?" Victoria offered. Concern was coalescing in her gut, though. A painful feeling of wrongness and she knew even before Jericho answered that her suggestion was bollocks.

"That's what one of the others suggested, but he said he'd looked. No one from their shift was in the barracks. They were awake…but not where they were meant to be."

"Could they have been attacked?"

"It's possible, but I'm…worried. I suspect something is happening here."

Victoria considered it—thought over all the strange feelings this quest had given her from the start and all of her misgivings. She considered the ease of which three high security prisoners had escaped and how well set in two of them had been when she'd gone to retrieve them. About how secretive and evasive Milton had always been. Her Will crackled in response. "I was going to see what Hobson had found, but I think I'll have to ask Commander Milton some questions before I do. I'll be back in a couple hours at most. If I'm not, bar the doors and protect Mr. Faraday and Ms. Godwin. Reaver's down at the docks. If you can, try to get a signal or something to him."

"I will."

Bidding her farewell, Victoria left the infirmary behind. The halls had regained a sinister quality. She tried to rein in her Will, but it was erratic and almost angry. The shadows seemed to twitch as she passed. The Crawler was blessedly silent, but she could feel it, alert and lurking, at the back of her mind.

The records room, when she reached it, had been ransacked. Papers had been pulled from the file cabinets and spilt across the floor like snow drifts. The longcase clock had been pushed over, glass shattering across the floor. One of the bookcases had been ripped from the wall, revealing a tunnel into darkness. Hobson lay unconscious on the floor and she crouched beside him to wake him up.

"I…Your Majesty? When…what…what happened?" he slurred, slowly getting to his feet.

"I was about to ask you the same question," Victoria replied. "What do you remember?"

He sat down on the edge of the desk, rubbing his forehead. "I-we were discussing what I had found on General Turner. The Commander gasped, I…I don't know what happened next."

Victoria searched his face for signs of deception and found none. Commander Milton's not here…was he taken? Did he get away from whoever attacked them? Or…has General Turner been here all along? What's going on? She looked up at the tunnel, so invitingly open and not blocked by smashed furniture. "Hobson, are you fine to walk?" She waited for him to reply in the affirmative and added, "Reaver's at the docks. I need you to tell him to find me, and then I need you to go seek refuge with Jericho. Can you do that?"

"But, Your Majesty, what—?"

"I'm going to take care of this. Please go, Hobson."

She waited for him to toddle off and stepped into the tunnel. It was dark and cold—eerily still. The tunnel sloped into a staircase, winding deeper and deeper under the prison. All sound was gone. Her fingers were numb with cold and the steep steps were slick and narrow. She reached out to steady herself on the stairs and found the stone was damp and icy. Where on earth did this lead? Why was it even there? Did a prison really need a secret passageway to the centre of the earth?

It felt like hours passed, despite how impossible that was, before she finally reached the bottom of the stairs. She came out into a meagrely lit storage room with crates stacked nearly as tall as she was. It was still oddly still and silent. Curious, she pried open a couple of crates and peered inside. They were full of strange, mechanical-looking bits and bobs. Strange, she thought, that the Keep would have such things if there wasn't anyone with mechanical know-how stationed there. Carefully replacing the lids of the crates, she moved towards the door.

It opened into the boiler room and, almost immediately, she felt on edge. Perhaps the storage room was where the strange noises had come from to make the soldiers worry it was haunted? Someone had to have been using it. Jericho's right; something's happening here. The boiler clanked and groaned loud enough to mask her footsteps and, as she entered the room, she became aware of an odd hum. It lingered gratingly beneath the other noises.

"What is that?" she murmured. It was almost annoying, the electrical equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. She shook her head, trying to clear it. The volume was growing louder. There was a split second of alarm as she realised she needed to move, and then everything went black.

AN: Getting close to the end! D: I just wanted to say: thank you to everyone who's supported this series so far. It means a lot to me. You're literally the reason I keep posting and it means a lot to me. Thank you again.

Dev. Notes: I actually rewrote the entire first scene of this chapter this week. Originally, it was 900 words and wrapped everything up nice and tidy and neat, but I decided I really didn't like that. It didn't feel realistic for them. It also didn't really tell the reader what all was wrong between them. So I decided to rewrite it with the intention of 1) addressing all the mistakes they've both made-mainly because I feel like a lot of writers are quick to put the blame on Reaver solely and remove all of it from their HoBW-and 2) give them a firmer foundation to work with. Sure, they both fucked everything up, but now they're both aware and, if they want, have ground to move forward. Is it messy? Yes. Is it unpleasant? Yes. Is it better than ignoring the problems? Yes. Sometimes things have to be messy before they can get cleaned up.