𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐃𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 | 𝐒𝐨𝐂

𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓.

viii: pride and prejudice

The desire for parem didn't come until three days later.

At first, it was a concern drifting at the back of her mind as indifferent as appetite or regard. Adrenaline was preserving her from her addiction. However, as short days cleared into eternal nights, there was nothing to stop parem from consuming her body.

"I'm fine," Natasha yelled, pinching the bridge of her nose. It was the second time she had been overwhelmingly sick during the night.

Wylen strode backwards, holding a rag and a pitcher of water. "Let me help you," He whispered as Natasha slowly slid to the floor.

He tenderly tucked her hair behind her ears, pressing the cold rag against her glowing cheeks. The effects of Genya's tailoring had faded. Now she was pale and bruised - crimson and plum blossoming across her skin.

"I had it under control," Natasha mumbled. She still allowed him to brush her face with cold water.

Only Wylen and Matthias knew of Natasha's problem with parem. She was adamant about not letting the others know. She despised being the clueless as well as ill passenger.

Wylen tipped water into a glass handing it to Natasha. "You need to tell the others," He said, pouring more water as soon as she finished. "Alessia is a healer. She can help-"

"Don't you think I haven't already tried?" Natasha snapped. "Every day for two months, I crossed from healer to healer, who prescribed me as something that was broken and needed fixing," She struggled onto her feet, wiping a hand over her mouth. "I don't need your fixing,"

Van Eck reached out, endeavouring to hold her hand. "I'm sorry," Wylen crawled beside her, sitting with their backs to the schooner's side. He placed the pitcher of water between themselves, painful silence writhing between them.

Genya Safin had packed her a bag of appropriate outfits - all black. She was wearing a black lacy top and shorts - hair knotted into a braid. Natasha looked older, not corporally - it came from the absence of a smile and optimism in her eyes.

The wind was abating, playing the wooden wind chime Wylen had fastened to the prow of the boat. It was fashioned similar to the architecture of a piccolo with a hollowed inside. It jingled a succinct tune before succumbing mute again.

"What do you remember?" Wylen proposed, turning towards Natasha. His shirt stretched over his knees, eyelids drooping. However, his gaze was intense, and his smile was authentic. "Of Ketterdam and us?"

Natasha shrugged, unsure where to begin. "I didn't even know I had a past in Ketterdam," She spoke after a long moment - tension taut in her throat.

"I remembered certain things - appearances, accents, places. I confided in Zoya Nazyalensky one night. I begged her not to tell; for people to think I was crazy. That was when they started designing those bangles,"

Natasha looked down at her naked wrists with a grievous grimace. The scars still wreathed around her arms. "I knew I wasn't crazy. There are only so many lies you can tell yourself before the borders of existence and mania start to blur. The palace convinced me I was mental. They treated me delicately - called me brittle,"

Wylen didn't speak, anger scarifying at the back of his throat. All he wanted was to give her a perpetual hug. "You might not remember me entirely," Wylen said. "But I remember you," His voice was ardent, and his copper curls shone beneath the moonlight.

"You were a big sister to me. You stole paper and pens for me when I was too afraid to ask Kaz for the money. You threw glitter at Alessia when she tried to make fun of my height. You taught me how to cook meals and always kept your door open at night in case I needed you. You stood up for me when Kaz thought I wasn't good enough for the crows,"