Ardaik 7th - Central Ocean

Sitting in the cells was an experience that forced Rowan to reevaluate what the term "uncomfortable" truly meant. Firstly, there was water; or at least what Rowan told himself was water, making everything just wet enough that it soaked through pants or anything else that came into contact with it.

The bars on the bottom of the cage made the floor uneven and more uncomfortable than just sitting on wet wood. They were impossible to sleep on, yet some of the prisoners had already dozed off. Artus and Flann still weren't back, and Rowan was starting to wonder if they would be back at all or if they'd either struck some sort of deal or been given better accommodations. But then his worry began to take over; what if there was a more sinister reason for their delay? What if Artus needed help? The thought kept him awake as the ship began to roll more noticeably.

"Storm's coming..." a voice beside him noted, coming from the cell with only a single prisoner. Rowan hardly gave him a glance; he wasn't in the mood for conversation.

"You and your friends don't look like the standard fair..."

"We're not criminals, if that's what you mean," Rowan shot back.

"No, you're not...then one has to wonder how you ended up detained as one?"

"Why should I tell you?" Rowan wondered defiantly.

"Because I'm an innocent man, and I thought we might help each other." The man had shifted a bit closer now, his tone hushed. Rowan looked him over carefully. He was dressed decently, no beggar for sure, a tradesman if he had to guess.

Rowan glanced at the guard before scooting a little closer to the side of the cage nearest the stranger. "How so?"

Rowan's reply seemed to spark excitement in the stranger's eyes. "I can open the lock on this cell anytime I wish to, but it's not just a matter of simply walking out. I'd need help."

"A distraction—and how's that any help to us?"

"I can open your cell as well...and—"

"We'd just be captured and brought right back. If you haven't noticed, we're on a ship and heavily outnumbered."

"This ship, yes...but you had a ship of your own, yes?" the man wondered, and Rowan's eyes widened a moment as the stranger's plan began to sound more reasonable by the second.

"We did! A ketch, in fact—"

"Shhh—shhh," the man said, glancing past Rowan at the guard, who tossed a gruff "quiet!" at them. Once the guard turned back around, the man let out a breath and began to speak in a whisper.

"When the moment is right...remember that the weapons are stored on the second deck, behind the stairs," the stranger explained before leaning back away from the bars to avoid drawing any more attention to them.

Rowan mirrored the action. Despite having so many new questions and problems for his mind to work on, he continued to go back to Artus and how long he'd been gone. Suddenly, a crack of thunder made Rowan jump.

"The storm's here..." the man noted as he closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, feigning sleep.

A few minutes later, Flann and Sebastien were returned to the brig. Some twenty minutes after that, warm food was brought to Rowan, Kenton, and the other two guards—an offering that very quickly drew the attention of the other prisoners. Edna was even chained just outside of her cell for a short time to eat, courtesy to her so the other two women wouldn't be a bother.

***

"Admiral, the lightning is getting bad," the captain said after poking his head into the admiral's office, rain pouring from the brim of his hat. "I've raised our main sail and may raise the aft one soon."

Laurent nodded, looking up from the ledgers he was pouring over. "Would you collect our prince as well? He should still be bound at the forward mast."

The captain coughed out a laugh before nodding. "Right away, Sir."

When the door opened again, the prince was escorted in. Laurent immediately felt a pang of sympathy for the young man. He was soaked through. Several sections of his hair had been wind-whipped loose from its braid and ponytail, plastered by the rain and the ocean's spray to his face and the pale column of his neck.

"Did we learn our lesson?" he asked, his tone light.

Artus remained quiet as he was led to a chair. Once he was seated, the captain removed the manacles from his wrists and excused himself.

"I don't seek to make an enemy of a Viotto, your highness, but you must understand the importance of order on my ships," Laurent explained as he poured an amber liquid into a cup that he brought to Artus. "Here. It'll warm you," he added.

"Thank you," Artus murmured, sniffling while he took the drink in hand.

Laurent removed his jacket and draped it around the shivering prince's sloped shoulders. "I have some dry clothes for you to change into as well."

Artus's gaze followed the admiral's gesture to where the neatly folded outfit sat on the table. "It's just going to get wet in the brig."

"It will, but it'll keep you warmer than clothing that's soaked through," he said, pacing back toward where he left his own pipe. "Depending on this storm, we may need to change our heading."

"I don't want to go to Causter."

"Nor do I wish to bring you there, your highness," Laurent said, taking a drag from his pipe, smoke rolling across his features. "The marquis there is not a friend of mine..." His voice got softer then, as he pointed the end of his pipe toward Artus. "Nor of your father...it concerns me that his own adviser would want to bring his only son to port in a place like that. Particularly if La'Trest has been accosted, like you both claim."

Artus stared at the admiral for a long moment before taking another drink. The ale was strong—the warmth it conjured did wonders to combat the chill, just as the man claimed it would.

"If we must, we'll sail toward Malton," Laurent said just before another clap of thunder startled the prince.

"Where am I to change?"

"Here," Laurent said as if that much should have been obvious; from how the rain was battering the helm above and the deck just outside the door, it probably should have been. "I'm aware it may be inappropriate, but there are over a hundred men on this ship, your highness. Privacy isn't something you're going to come by often." The admiral turned his own chair away from his desk, facing the wall before sitting down. "Take your time."

Artus hesitated only a moment before setting the cup down and reaching for the dry clothing, shrugging off the admiral's jacket before turning away from the man to undress. Facing the door, however, Artus found himself even more uncomfortable. So instead, he again faced the other man as he quickly discarded his boots and the rest of his wet clothing.

There was another matter adding to his nerves, though, besides the possibility of someone seeing him undressed—what to do with the relic. With his eyes glued to the back of the admiral's head and shoulders, he quietly but quickly untangled it from the soaked pocket of his long underpants, where he'd hidden it earlier. Since he didn't want to risk just pocketing the relic in the dark breeches he'd been provided, he decided to hide it in the bottom of the pantleg, cinching the band of his breeches below his knee tight enough to cradle the relic and not allow it to fall out.

With that situated and in place, he hurriedly pulled the billowy, white shirt over his head and attempted to tuck it in. "Stockings?" he wondered, if for nothing other than to indicate that he had almost finished dressing.

"Should be there," Laurent drawled around his pipe, turning his head just slightly to the side.

"Ah. Yes, they're here," Artus replied before snatching them from where they'd fallen onto the floor. He sat down to put them on.

"Finished?"

"More or less," Artus finally replied after getting both stockings on.

With his hair mostly free of the braids it had been put in the night of the festival, it would have almost been too short to tie back. Since it was wet, however, Artus was able to get the heavy waves somewhat managed into a simple ponytail that he resecured with the same wet ribbon—which was still occasionally dripping onto his clean, dry shirt.

Once Artus's boots were on and laced, the admiral turned his chair back around. "You can finish your ale," he told Artus, waiting until the prince had before calling for someone in, which was a feat in of itself, considering the noise from the storm had grown considerably. The soldier that joined them was instructed to escort the prince back to the brig, and to do what he could to shield Artus from the rain until they were safely below deck.

***

Down in the brig, Rowan sat with his shoulders pressed to one end and his boots pressed to the other. It was a position many of them had adopted over the past few minutes to avoid smacking into the bars as the ship pitched between the fierce waves. The moment Rowan heard someone approaching, he sat up so fast that his forehead nearly collided with the iron cage. To his relief, he saw Artus—different attire, but otherwise unharmed.

There was more water in the lower decks than there had been when Artus had originally left, which was concerning in its own right, but the prince looked almost relieved once Rowan's cage was opened and he was shoved unceremoniously inside. He gripped the blond's arm for stability before checking to see that the others were still accounted for—Flann, Sebastien, and their guards. "I've not missed much, have I?"

"No, it sounds as though all of the noteworthy occurrences were at dinner, one of which involved a particularly surly advisor," Rowan said the last part in a more hushed tone before the man in the next cell cleared his throat in an obvious fashion. Rowan's smirk faded before adding, "Ahem, also, we've been propositioned by—"

"Brice, your highness," the stranger whispered cautiously, offering his hand through the bars as far as it would fit. "Your man here was kind enough to listen to my proposition...one that might see us all freed."

Artus looked at the man's hand but didn't reach for it. "I see..." he whispered before recoiling some and looking back at Rowan. "I'd rather you not take any needless risks, Rowan," Artus insisted. "There are too many men aboard, and the storm is getting worse." He'd had far too much time to think while serving his punishment above deck. Watching the waves build into massive peaks and valleys, being pelted by the icy, unforgiving downpour, and jolted with fear every time the sky cracked overhead. Any plans or ideas kept leading him to the same thing. He'd wanted to get back to Rowan. No matter how well executed, an escape plan would be incredibly dangerous.

"So, you managed to reason with them? We're returning to La'Trest?" Rowan wondered.

"If the storm doesn't force us to—"

"Quiet over there!" the guard shouted. "Make me say it again, and I'll drown you in the swill down here!"

Artus glared in the man's direction for a moment before looking back at Rowan. They were standing in several inches of water, it was dark, cold, and it smelled, and he couldn't help but feel like it was his fault that Rowan was being subjected to all of this. Would he resent him for it? Artus couldn't really blame any of them if they did, but... Without a word, he wrapped his arms around Rowan's shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug and burying his face in the crook of Rowan's neck. The ship pitched again, this time at a more extreme angle than before. "Just promise we won't get separated," he whispered against damp skin.

The surprise on Rowan's face relaxed into a warm smile. "Not so long as I draw breath," he whispered back against Artus's hair, for the prince's ears only.