stage one

Summary: Serra/Matthew. He's aware he's becoming the personification of angst.

a/n: There's a couple of inconsistencies in this; I hope you'll forgive me. I'm aware I've played around a bit and there may be some continuity issues – the supports have been rather twisted, I think. Rather disjointed. I just can't seem to write normally at the moment. I'm working on the rest of it, was going to post it up in one, but I'm taking too long. If I don't post something, I think I'll never finish it.

'I love you, I always have, and I always will.'

He practices his speech daily in the shiny, broken sword he found on the outskirts of town. He doesn't think anyone hears him – Guy is such a heavy sleeper he could sing and the boy wouldn't stir; Erk has long since learnt to shut out unwelcome noise; Oswin – well, perhaps Oswin hears, but he doesn't say anything.

Over time, he thinks that maybe, he gets better.

If she could hear him now, she'd take back her words. She'd say, 'My, quite the ladykiller, aren't we?' and it would be a poor joke, because her eyes would be trained on his lips the whole time. He'd smile, just a little bit, and clap his hands over her eyes. And then...

She'd fall, limp in his arms.

Because she'd be dead.

No one quite knows how to talk to him after it happens. He's not quite sure they ever did know – ever had any idea, ever attempted to know him before – because no one seems to talk to him at all, and it feels normal.

When he's reassigned to Serra, it feels natural. They're both outcasts – her, because of her mouth, and the consequent noise; him, because of the silence. They're both unwanted, even if she doesn't know it.

Sometimes, he catches her in a strictly un-Serra-like moment, sitting, staring at the sky. He's reminded of the girl in the convent, the girl who wouldn't shut up, the girl who cried herself to sleep three hours after everyone had retired.

He's past wondering if it was Serra. Somehow, it doesn't seem like it matters. Nothing really seems to matter. Not anymore. And he's beginning to wonder – did anything really matter? Did he make up Leila? Was it all a figment of his imagination? Was she an illusion? A perfect illusion, but perhaps – perhaps no one could ever have been that perfectly perfect for him.

He doesn't believe in soulmates. Because if there were such a thing, Leila was his. And if one dies, so does the other. And he's not. Not dead enough.

He's never talked to Serra when she's quiet. He never will. It scares him. He doesn't want to know her secret, he doesn't want to know more about her, because it's starting to dawn on him that she's fragile, and he doesn't want something else he touches to break.

Serra still doesn't know what happened – he thinks she might be the only one who hasn't been told, but he's not about to be the one to do it.

No one is talking; it's easy to see that she's bored. She's the only one out on deck that isn't part of Fargus' crew, staring into the sea, humming and picking at the wooden rails around her. He sees one of the pirates stealing glances at her and suddenly wishes he could just palm her off on one of them.

Then go back to Valor and...

'La, la…'

She's too loud.

'Hey.' Then he realises he can't just tell her to shut up, and he's out of words to say.

'Oh, it's Matthew!' He tries to go for below deck, but one of the pirates has decided whatever is happening is sufficiently entertaining that it must continue. He's pretty sure there's no way of getting back there besides through the big man.

If they all disappeared right now, he wouldn't mind. Even if that meant he would never be able to get back to land.

'…Hector… you…said… THAT!' Serra is still shouting at him. She takes a breath between each word; as if she wasn't already deafening.

'Cripes. What's wrong with you?' He's pretty sure she can't hear him over the waves, but it doesn't stop him from coming up with a tiny jab.

'Hey! Where are you going?' The pirate is grinning at him, nodding toward Serra. He grits his teeth to stop himself punching the guy and turns around.

It's a mistake. 'Come on! Over here!' She's flailing her arms as if he's likely to miss her otherwise.

He wonders if she's deaf. Perhaps she just has no idea how loud and annoying and useless-

'You have to protect me!'

'Protect you?' From what? Leers and seasickness? 'I'm a thief!' The rest of the pirates are openly looking now – probably the most entertainment they've had on board since they last raided some place in Eturia. The grinning pirate is still looking at him. It's probably a good thing he didn't punch the guy. He's much bigger than he first thought. 'I don't get into brawls…' Not when he has no chance of winning.

Serra bounds up to him and pulls him to the side of the ship. He's not entirely sure why, until he realises what she's actually been doing with the railing – she's chiselling some words into the wood. Saint Elimine MAKE ME RIC. She starts on the 'H' as she beams at him. 'That's fine! I can heal you if you get hurt!'

He resists the urge to rub his temples and sits down, trying to prep his ears for her next onslaught. Or maybe it would be better to attack first.

'You know…' She's already written something on the lower rail.

Saint Elimine please make everyone worship me.

'…Are you really one of Elimine's clerics? Are you sure you're not actually the follower of some dark, evil god?'

Serra doesn't miss a beat. 'That was v~ery, ve~ry me~an, Matthew! Are you trying to hurt my ten~der feeeeelings?' He's tempted to tell her whatever tune she's sing-song-ing along to sounds suspiciously like a demon summoning chant.

'…Tender. Right.' The pirate that was looking at her earlier now looks as if he's ready to kill him.

'Let's get going.'

Serra blinks at him for a couple of seconds, and says, 'Oh! You're right, I didn't think about the sun at all! Am I burning?'

He's come to the conclusion that if there is anything more to Serra than what's on the surface, he'll never see it.

'Ahhh…Ahh! All this time in the sun – hic – is doing…'

She's briefly distracted by the coin he's playing with – he's tempted to make it disappear and watch her reaction. Then she hiccups again and grabs his mug, totally unaware to do so she's moulded herself to his side.

Priscilla looks mildly horrified – he's noticed all her expressions are mild, and he's starting to wonder whether she's actually a double agent, a morph sent to make Guy just that little bit more useless as a tactical advisor.

He needs to stop drinking.

He needs to stop thinking about double agents.

'Terrible! Terrible, terrible, terrible things to my SKIN!' He can feel Oswin's eyes on him, heavy with disapproval, but right now he's too exhausted and jaded and weary to bother appeasing Oswin. Besides, a couple of drinks in him, and Oswin will be cake.

Leila had found that out.

'Lord Hector needs to take better care of his vassals!'

For a second, he thinks she might have read his mind.

Then she throws up and he's too wrapped up in his thoughts to avoid it. Guy snorts and chokes on his drink. Hector sends a look his way that says, Clean up. Maybe Hector thinks two drunken vassals won't make a good impression on Lady Lyndis.

She catches his eye as he gets up and Serra pitches forward.

It's pity.

He grabs Serra's arm and executes a perfect glare at Guy. The kid shuts up.

'Come on.'

She mumbles something that sounds a little too much like a curse, but she follows him much more easily than he thought she would.

Erk gets when they pass him, 'I can-'

He gives a curt nod and pretends he didn't catch the offer.

He can't get drunk with all the sombre Lords and Ladies in attendance.

What if he gets fired for this?

Ah, screw it.

'Hey, hey, Matthew!' Serra's apparently regained her control over her speech.

Perfect timing.

'Wouldn't it be great if we had our own vassals?'

If he could have ordered Leila to stay behind…

She wouldn't have listened anyway.

Serra stops walking and pouts. He thinks his sigh resounds around the room.

'Hm?'

She narrows her eyes. He sighs again.

'Who needs 'em. You don't need partners to swipe treasure and unlock doors.' But it's better together.

'And too many people means too many footfalls.' Too many being just one other person, where Lord Hector's concerned. He extends that category to Serra as she resumes walking.

'But I want my own vassals!'

There is literally no difference between her drunk, tipsy or sober thoughts.

'Oh please, not again. And what exactly would you have your vassals do?'

He can see a well further into the distance, but the trough is right next to the door. May as well use that – it's not like she's some great noble lady. She's still in her tangent when he takes her cloak and starts pouring water on it. 'And massage my feet and shoulders every day… I would also require their absolute submission to my every whim, of course…'

It's easy to get it out of the cloak – it must be made of better stuff than he thought. But he's the one that got the most of it on him – at the rate they're moving his clothes will probably smell of it for weeks.

'I don't need much, just a faithful servant who would slave away for me until death!'

'Oh, is that all? Well, then…' He's about to tell her she should get on her way, when she turns to him and beams.

The problem with washing the cloak and immediately giving it back to her is that her clothes are white. And a little dampness renders them virtually see through.

'I wonder if someone has misplaced his vassals recently. Maybe there's one just lying around here somewhere…'

He feels breathless.

'Not… bloody… likely.'

But looking like that, possessing a loyal slave doesn't seem like so unlikely.

It sneaks up on him.

Dinner is a routine affair. Kent, Lyn and Canas make some signature dish of Bulgar – some deer in green mush. He passes on the main, and goes through his own rations – takes a slice of bread and drips a small fortune of honey on it. He's getting sick.

Everything tastes better -

'Everything tastes better with honey!'

His throat goes dry. There are butterflies. He can feel them, weaving knots in his stomach – and suddenly, Serra is there.

And dinner doesn't seem quite as unappealing as before.

'Matthew! Is that all you're eating?! Eat more! Here!' She shovels some of the green mush into his mouth which he didn't realise was open, and sits next to him, like it's the most natural thing in the world. To Serra, it probably is.

She isn't alone. She never is. He knows that now – he thought before that she truly was an outsider; that they had more in common than anyone first thought. But it wasn't true. She's everything that he isn't; loud, social, outgoing, truthful. And he knows, in spite of Erk's constant complaining. He's used to it. They don't mind the noise anymore.

'Serra, you shouldn't go around doing that...' Priscilla has come along for the ride. Perhaps Serra isn't quite as possessive as she makes out to be.

'Oh, shut up! Some people think they're so special, but a fallen noble is a fallen noble – what a title! In fact, that really says more about the bad blood-' Or maybe not.

He's never relished talking with Erk, and so instead of acknowledging him as he sits down, he waits for Guy – or, to be more precise, Priscilla's lackey – to come stalking over. He doesn't have to wait long. Priscilla leaves Serra in an instant – how she manages is beyond him; he wishes, not for the first time, that she could teach him that – and is crooning over his arm in a second. There's no blood, but it is Guy, so he assumes that it probably hurts anyway. The boy's too thin for his own good.

It's a cold night. Hard to know if anyone else will join them. Probably not – Serra's main crew is all here-

His thoughts stop for a second. Serra's main crew.

'I should turn in; my hearing's starting to go...' Erk covers a snort, and Guy cringes in a strange imitation of a smile – he doesn't want to talk to anyone other than his new master, apparently. Priscilla looks concerned – she'll offer to heal him in a moment, better to go before the awkward sexual tension comes over – and Serra-

'Are you alright, Matthew?'

It's ridiculous. It's the stupidest thing that's happened to him in years, the most unreasonable, most nonsensical thing that he can think of-

Serra's face is too close.

'Fine. I'm fine, just had a bit too much of your-'

Her face crinkles. 'Lord Hector denied you another request, didn't he? Elimine! This is so typical of him – he just doesn't understand our needs! Some people – think they can treat people any which way, don't you know – really, I don't see what Lord Eliwood sees in Lord Hector – how can he think, even for a second, that Hector could ever possibly be the Marques of Ostia, what a notion-'

Erk's eyes seem to have rolled into the back of his head.

Matthew isn't sure what he's thinking – or rather, what's absent in his head – common-sense for one – but in a second, he's pulled Serra up, and his heartbeat is sounding in his ears, and her lips look so pink – pink could be his favourite colour –

What is he thinking?

'I have to go.'

Serra's staring at him. Erk's staring at him. Priscilla's giving him a weird look. Guy's blinking, as if he can't believe what he's seen.

His face is starting to burn.

He's sick.

It's stupid. It's a waste of time, and energy, and there's a million other things he should be doing – he should be mourning Leila properly, he should be out doing the dirty jobs, ensuring they aren't tracked, haunting the pubs and inns, undermining...

He doesn't do any of that stuff anyway, so maybe it's just as well he has an excuse.

It's a reality check. Right now, he's useless. It's confirmed when Serra as good as tells him so.

'You can't do anything! Really, where would you be without me – nowhere, obviously – lying in a hole, a ditch! I'm so kind it's ridiculous! A noble lady having such empathy for commoners; you should be thanking me-'

'Thanks.'

'-and the nerve! It's such an insult to authority! Lord Hector really doesn't know what he's started – no, he can't start anything – Lord Eliwood, he just doesn't understand the difference between classes. How can he be content to sleep outside, hunt, cook for himself, when there's an inn not more than ten miles away! A warm bed, proper sheets, no lice – LICE! Honestly, a nobleman with lice. It's disgusting. And to think that Hector shows them off! A staff can only do much... I will burn those sheets! I will burn them!'

For the whole day, she doesn't stop once. But she doesn't talk about the war they could be starting.

After the third day, he's not sure he's sick, but he doesn't say anything. She doesn't mention it, either.