Full Title: blood is rare (but as sweet as cherry wine)

Title from a Hozier Song (Cherry Wine)

---

"I want them to tell the truth of it all. The Wraith and Sankta Inej are the same, driven by her own past to end the slave trade. Dirtyhands is not a demon, there is no cruel King of Ketterdam, just a man who would do whatever it takes to bring his justice upon the world."

"But those stories aren't simple or easy for those who put everything into the Saints to know. You know as well as I do that the Saints weren't all good, that they were living and breathing long before they were put into red books of religion."

---

Trigger Warnings: Anger, Arson, Blood, Discussion of Corpses, Dismemberment, Drugging, Gaslighting, Graphic Injuries, Implied Torture, Manipulation, Mentions of Sex, Mentions Slavery, Murder, Nudity (Non-Sexual and Non-Consensual), Rape, Religion, Sexual Assault, Swearing

For anyone who cares: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

---

10,747 Words

---

This fic contains spoilers for Rule of Wolves

---

Names are power.

He is called Dirtyhands, for the senselessly precise violence, for the sins that his hands were born to enact. When they are alone, and when he allows her to wash him with the tide of her breathing, they are clean, as curious as a child in an entirely new world. His moniker willingly crumbles, and his pained truth is for her to take.

She is The Wraith, a girl of smoke and mirrors whose true name is whispered in prayer by those in chains. She knows the whispers of her sainthood stemmed from a forked tongue, from a man who is all too aware of the protection reputation, good or ill, gives people. So he spreads the words of his only Saint, whose altar even he wouldn't stain with blood.

Their love, the love between a saint and a demon, is not a love story that the poets and the faithful will document. Their stories will seldom intertwine when put to books, and it will always be a story of the saint bringing the demon to his knees that does. (They won't know he would willingly do it for her, no matter the presence of her command.)

So they live separate lives, intertwined only during the cold months where she docks, the waves too choppy for even the best sailors. There, they are no demons, no saints, just Kaz and Inej, once the boy and girl, like the white-haired saint and the boy who her story always began and ended with.

-🂡-

Inej Ghafa, a living saint, stood at the wheel of her ship, eyes scanning the horizon for threats to her, her crew, or the rescued children who rested below decks, guarded by her most trusted. There would be no more harm to the children of the Saint, blessed by her kiss on their gentle brows.

After she rescued them, she would dock at Os Kervo, where they would be taken off her hands and put under the care of the Queen of Storms to the East. The partnership was strong, and the men whose jobs it was to return the little ones home handpicked by the Queen and King.

And when they had no home, Inej, or the Queen's men, would take them south to the home of another saint, the stones bleached white by the sun, who Inej trusted with their lives, and who she trusted with the secret of her power and sainthood. There, the first boy and girl would take care of the lost.

(Sankta Alina, after all, is the patron saint of orphans.)

She had no reason to go this time, Inej knew, but she could not deny she longed to see Alina again, converse over the tea her husband, who had grown quiet over the years, made. But she also knew she could not relax into the countryside for fun, not unless it was the middle of winter, the only time slavers did not sail.

Her Quartermaster, a man whose name was Darren, approached. He was from Wandering Isle but looked as if he could hail from Kerch, with his black hair, so common amongst them. But his green eyes gave him away.

"Hello Inej," He greeted, leaning against the rails that surrounded most of the helm, right in front of her. She nods to him, barely taking her eyes off the waves. "How are you?"

"Have you come to just make small talk?" She asks with an amused smile.

He gives a bashful grin, cheeks reddening but not from the sun. She ignores the man's fluster, the ring that rests against her chest a present fixture in her life. Let the man blush and stutter all he wanted, that wouldn't change her ties to her man.

"Any reports of interest from Specht?" Her first mate, and the only person on the ship who was aware why the infamous Dirtyhands was an ally—beyond his oath of protection to the crew—reasons only she and him knew; their marriage. And thus, he was the only one she trusted to be in charge of overseeing the rescues.

"No. They're pretty much staying in their own small groups, and only one or two have been talkative with him. No fights." She nods along, glad that the children were not so scared of older people that it leads to them fighting her men, or even each other.

There had been one group, most of which had turned to violence or been victims of this turn. It was the only time her crew had to hold one down, as he fought against their Grisha healer, a courtesy of Zoya. The child had given Specht a broken nose in return.

"That's good," she replies.

The bell rings for dinner, and she smiles, calling for her crew upon the deck below her to drop anchor. They scramble up from where they dozed in the dying light of the sun, and she and Darren walk down to the mess hall.

It smells divine as they enter, grabbing plates and food before sitting at the head of the table. He sits to her left, and the crew exchange amused glances as Specht enters, herding in the ten or so children, who always sit closest to her and her top two officers, Specht and Darren.

It warms her heart to see them be seemingly a bit more comfortable eating with the ghost ships crew, who are polite, and only occasionally rowdy. Those who sit next to them always entertain with outrageous stories that have the whole ship laughing. Dinner passes in a blur, and the faces of the kids when ice cream was set in front of them for dessert will certainly stick with her for a good long while.

Her crew trickles out slowly, not keen to end the one time of day they all assemble. Specht takes the kids out, and she and Darren engage in light conversation. They are getting up to leave when she notices a few stragglers towards the end of the table, pouring over what looks like a newspaper.

She approaches, looking over the shoulder of Iyene, their Grisha healer. "What's this?" Darren stands behind her, inches away, a weighty presence.

"The Ketterdam Daily," one of them replies. "Apparently there were a string of robberies, one ending in a gruesome murder. People are pointing towards Dirtyhands." Her heart clenches.

"Dirtyhands," Darren echoes. No one in her crew dares to truly speak out against him, aware of the fact that he is what keeps them alive when they dock in Ketterdam, but there are a select few who find him deplorable, Darren included. Inej cannot hold it against them, and she is aware of her biases when it comes to him, being one of the few in his tight circle of trust.

"And what has Mr. Brekker said against these claims?" Inej asks.

"Nothing." It's as good as a confession, so Inej frowns.

Kaz Brekker didn't need a reason, so she didn't ask. "Who was it?"

"Uh...the robberies were all related to a merchant. Last name Hoek. You know him?" Outwardly she nods, but she's smiling inside. Hoek had been a frequent visitor of the Menagerie, and of her specifically. Brick by brick, she thought, repeating the mantra he had lived by for years, and they now worked under.

"And the victim?"

"The man himself," Iyene says. "How do you know him?"

She ignores the question, and reads the article over her shoulder, skimming until she finds the part in which the state of the merchant's body was found, reading with grim satisfaction.

"The middle-aged man was found in bed, balls and reproductive organs missing, throat slit. His head which had been violently smashed in had the words 'child stealer' branded into it, and upon his chest. The only sign of the murder, many of whom are convinced is Kaz Brekker himself, was the name 'Peacemaker' painted with what is currently assumed to be Hoek's blood upon the wall. His widow has not yet commented, and her mental state is under careful watch by the stadwatch..."

More names. Dirtyhands was the man who killed for profit, but the Peacemaker was her business partner, the man who used the language of violence for the saviour of the children, who acted like the saint he'd never had to those who would try to do what Pekka Rollings had.

"What does it matter, anyway?" Inej asked. "Hoek was a well-known frequenter of brothels and was involved in the slave trade. The Peacemaker just did us a favour." The group gives a general murmur of agreement, and she parts with them.

She hears Darren fall into step beside him. "Why do you ignore the violence of what the 'Peacemaker' did?" He asks her. "We kill slavers too, but we seldom get that violent."

"I know who The Peacemaker is." She tells him, opening the door to her quarters and stepping in. "You are right to think it is Mr. Brekker—"

"—Dirtyhands." He corrects.

"Excuse me?"

"Dirtyhands," he repeats. "Not Mr. Brekker."

"Darren, do not tell me my business. Mr. Brekker is an ally of ours, and trust me when I say that the 'Peacemaker' and 'Dirtyhands' are valuable assets to our goal. They are different of course, but their help in our work is not to be underappreciated."

"How does one know which one's come knocking?" He asks her. "And how do you know this?"

She did not know how to put it in words, the knowledge that Kaz only slit the man's throat for her sake, aware that violence wasn't always easy for her the way it was for him. The slit throat was a peculiar grace, just for her sake, but the rest was Dirtyhands coming to see the rough work done.

"Pray you don't learn the difference, Darren," she says, sifting through the papers on her desk. Indignation crosses his face for a split second. "Dismissed," she said curtly. He nodded silently, turning on his heel out the room.

She spent the next fifteen or so minutes sorting through paperwork and maps, noting down any new tips in her leather-bound notebook, a gift from Jesper. There was a knock at the door, and she called the person in, recognising Specht's footfall and peculiar knocking pattern.

"The kids are all winding down for bed, the night guards for them and the deck are posted," she nods, reading over a tip, "Is all well with Darren? He looked frustrated earlier, and people saw him with you after dinner."

She sighs, finally meeting his eyes and motioning for him to sit, and close the door. He does just that, looking at her in concern as she massages the bridge of her nose. "You have heard of Kaz's newest murder, no?"

"Yes. Peacemaker is quite the creative name for the boss. Not exactly what I expected. What about it?"

"Darren tried to pry on Kaz's alliance towards us, but I suppose I cannot blame him. He barely knows Kaz beyond rumour, and we know how Kaz has cultivated those to the darkest extreme," Specht nods. "And he's getting bold."

"How?" He says, leaning forward.

"Correcting me on tiny things, prying into places he has no business in. I know he is frustrated with how much he knows he isn't privy to, and I am aware he is loyal enough to me to not be untrustworthy, after so many years, but I'm not there yet." Specht nods along, rubbing his scruffy beard.

"But if you reveal one tiny detail, such as your history, or the fact the name of this ship comes from you being his spy, it'll only whet his appetite," Specht adds. "And soon enough he knows everything, and much more about the boss, which he won't be pleased with."

"Exactly," Inej says with a sigh.

"Just tell him to mind his own business, and pull rank. Take one from Kaz's book."

"I may just." But she could not deny how much she wanted to tell Darren some truth.

-🂡-

When she falls in battle, stabbed in the upper leg, she dispatches the other man on instinct, falling to the floor. She hears footsteps, arms picking her up. She groans, almost muttering her husband's name.

"It's me Inej," Darren says. 

"I'm helping you, I got you, you're safe. Don't pass out on me, or I'll kill you when you wake up." She shifts, discomfort growing in her belly. He brings her to the medbay, and she realises as she sits staring at the ceiling that she wanted it to be Kaz who picked her up.

The conviction in Darren's voice was sincere, but the threat of killing her was strange? What was going on in his mind that caused him to say that to her? Had he not understood that she harboured zero feelings to him after reverting the conversation every time he opened it up to love?

She felt calloused hands brush her hair back, and again, her heart jumped, beating out for Kaz. But it was just Darren.

It was just Darren who was watching her intently when she woke up like he was seeing her for the first time. It was just Darren who, before she left, grabbed her by the wrist and gently brushed a hair from her face, telling her he was glad she was alive, that he would have rather died than be without her.

-🂡-

He climbs up the gangplank, a bag of letters for the crew in hand. She waits patiently for her name, but her heart is crushed when he does. There's only a slim letter from an informant. There should be a letter from Kaz somewhere in here. Not once has he not had a letter waiting for her in Os Kervo.

She frowns tightly, turning on her heel and disappearing into her quarters. She hears someone knock, but they enter before she can reply. When she looks up, she's not surprised to see Darren closing the door behind him.

"You look sad," he says with no preamble.

She sighs, dipping her head with a rueful smile. "I feel alone," she confesses, suddenly. "Someone who always sends letters to me didn't this time and..." another sigh. 

"To be a saint is to be lonely."

She looks up at him startled. "You think I'm a saint?"

"Well...yes," He says with a laugh, "But I also think you're lonely, as you said." Her shoulders bunch the smallest amount. He reaches a handout, resting on her shoulder. He steps closer, and whispers in her ear.

"Because you are alone, Inej. No friends, no one to run to, just Dirtyhands, and we all know where his loyalties lie." His eyes drop to her chest for a split second, and she pulls away, giving him an angry look, but he's already turned to leave, leaving her to sit at her desk.

-🂡-

Inej sits on her desk, bandaging her arm from a small graze she got in a fight, right after the wound in her leg finally healed. She wears nothing but her undergarments up top, and she freezes as the door creaks open. "Inej?" Darren asks, "Oh, sorry!" He says, but she can feel his eyes make a scan.

"Give me a minute Darren," she growls through her teeth, and the door clicks shut. She finishes the bandage, pulling on her loose shirt. Glancing at the door, she pulls off her necklace, putting it in a drawer as she allows him to come in.

"Apologies, Inej," he says as he steps in, the door clicking shut behind him. He walks forward so he's at the other end of her desk. "I was just worried about you, the wound looked bad. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Go check on the rest of the crew. I am not to be disturbed, I have work to do." She turns to face him, cautiously eyeing him. Her knives were on her bed, mere feet away.

"You should rest, Inej," he says, stepping around the desk and closer to her. "Let me and Specht handle the paperwork, or even just me. You deserve the break."

"I am fine Darren. You are dismissed."

"Inej," he says, purposefully.

"You are dismissed."

"'Nej—"

"You are dismissed, sir."

"I'm just trying to make sure you're okay," He insists, voice calmer than hers, "Why are you pushing the people who care away?" He reaches a hand, brushing a hair away from her face. She freezes at the touch, and he smiles, stepping closer.

"Let me handle this," he said softly, leaning his face close. He smiles wider, before kissing her, wrapping his arms around her. She freezes at the touch, her hands somehow having come to rest on his chest. "You're so young, Inej, dear. Let someone older take this off your hands."

So this was his goal? Her body and her ship, the title of The Wraith just for him. She curses herself for not seeing the signs. "Why are you always so angry?" He asks as he tries to push him away, "You need to relax, silly girl, let me help." His hand slides up the side of her leg, and she pushes him away, heart beating rapidly in her chest.

"How dare you?" She hisses, and he looks like he's been slapped. "I strip you of rank," she says, words all but rushing to leave her mouth. "We dock in Ketterdam in four weeks. You will leave my ship then, and never return."

"You need me," He tells her, brushing a provocative kiss over her jaw. "You need to learn, Inej, that this is not your world to demand anything from. You're too young, my dear. Too emotional. Let the me—let me handle this."

She pushes him away for good this time, lunging for a knife and bringing it to the exposed flesh at his neck. "You have disrespected me, my boundaries. You will not speak to me again, or I will feed you to the crows. Find me Specht, and if you don't I will dump you into the ocean, here and now, and make an example of you. Dismissed." He swallows, glaring at her.

"I was just trying to help," he says one final time, "You'll know and understand soon enough. Silly girls always do." He turns on his heel and stalks out of the room. She stands there for a long moment before her legs give out from under her, and she barely manages to steady herself on her desk.

She hears Specht's heavy footsteps outside her door, and he beats rapidly on the door. "Come in!" She calls, sitting down shakily in her chair.

"What happened?" He asks frantically. "Darren said you stripped him of rank and plan to remove him from our crew. He said you were being dramatic and unfair."

Her lip curls and she tells him everything, wincing as his face slowly pales. "Oh, Inej. I'm so sorry, it's not your fault. I'll make sure he doesn't get within range of you, he looked furious when he told me you wanted to speak to me."

"Thank you," She says, putting her head in her hands. "When we get to Ketterdam, make sure we have a runner prepared to get a message to the Slat. I want to talk to Kaz. I need...I need Kaz." She nods, reassuring herself.

"Of course, captain."

-🂡-

She smiles as she feels the anchor drop, knowing they have arrived in Ketterdam, where Kaz is. She finishes packing her bags, sliding in her knives, wrapped in a bundle in her bag before closing it. Knowing Kaz plans to meet her, she has little concern for her safety.

She has one in her boots though, which are piled in the corner closest to the door.

A few minutes later, there's a knock at the door and she tells the person to come in, trusting it's someone coming to tell her that a runner is headed towards Kaz and that they are docked, and like always, there is zero paperwork to be filed.

She realises, too late, that she has gotten comfortable.

She feels a calloused hand slap over her mouth, a strong arm wrapping around her body, hand finding the buttons of her shirt. "Inej," Darren says, lust thick in his voice. She freezes.

"Spect!" She screams from under his hand, and he laughs, removing the hand to caress her face.

"Specht is...indisposed. The entire boat is. I plan to leave of course, but you and I are long overdue for a chat."

"I will kill you."

"I was trying to help you." He says as he undoes her hair.

"I wanted to work with you," He says as he picks up her frozen and terror struck form, the memories of the Menagerie she didn't even know she had paralysing her with fear.

He throws her on her bed, locking the door. She thrashes as he crawls over her, cursing herself for packing her knives away, shielding her body the best she can. "I didn't want it to come to this," he says, brushing a hand over her quivering lip. "But you gave me no choice."

He kisses her forcefully, biting on her lip, hard. His knees dig into the sides of her hips, his forearms into the crook of her elbow. He trails kisses down, slow and methodical, unravelling her slowly. She gasps as he bites her shoulder, right over an old wound.

"You can scream, Inej. No one will hear you." It was true. Her cabin was pretty much soundproof.

Oh, saints, she thinks. Kaz, oh saints, Kaz, please find me. She tries to fight, and she does, she really does, but Darren has all the advantage of size and weight here. His hands are roving, exploring, all over her body, places hands have no welcome to be on her.

She tilts her head away, not willing to bear witness to this crime. But Darren grabs her by the chin, "No, Inej. Watch me ruin you as you did me. This ship was my life. I just wanted to help," he reminds her, "But you are a coward who cannot accept help from those who know better."

His hands are on her, rough and calloused. Awareness was dribbling away, and she felt only numbness fill her, the blankness she had come to know as well as Kaz knew trickery.

"I warned you away from Dirtyhands because I loved you, I love you," he corrects. "He's using us for money, and when the time is right, he will be where I am now. If only you listened..."

He grabs her by her ink spill of hair, forcing her head further back, exposing more of her neck to him. She grits her teeth against the pain, shuddering as his free hand wraps around it. Her eyes roll back into her head seconds later, her grip on the world slipping through nimble fingers.

-🂡-

Please be okay.

The three words echo in his head as he tries not to break into a run as he heads to where her slim warship should be lying in wait. He stops at the edge of the harbour, right before the crowd, when he sees it, asleep and quiet.

The people who pass by and give it wary stares don't understand, do they? Something is wrong, the ship had been docked for almost two hours and his eyes on the harbour said that no one had left the ship. Not many can resist the pull of the staves for so long. Dinner was two or so hours out. And yet, no one noticed and no one cared.

He steps out of the shade into the crowd, and he smiles grimly as all eyes snap to him. He doesn't push through, the sea of people part for him and his clicking cane. People whisper.

Let them whisper, he thinks sagely. Let them, as long as Inej is alive.

He steps onto the boat silently, moving slowly so that anyone who may wish him ill was not alerted to his presence. He was no spider but he knew how to tread lightly.

He had to pick the door to the belowdecks open, something he never had to do. Inej did not keep much under lock and key beyond private rooms. He froze as he saw Specht, slumped on the floor, bleeding from a small cut on his cheek. Crouching next to him, he shook the man awake.

His eyes were wide and he tried to speak, but Kaz put a finger to his lips, shushing him. The brush of skin was almost unbearable, as he had not grown used to touching Specht, even with his gloves, but he managed to mouth the words Where is she?

Darren, he mouthed. Kaz, vaguely recalling a letter Inej had sent a few weeks before, where she spoke of the man's unwelcome advances, felt his heart drop. The demon thrashed within, filling him with images of her that threatened to make him lose control of it. He swallowed and slowly rose. "Do me a favour." He spoke lowly.

"Yes?"

"Find the corpse witch, and get us a carriage."

Specht nodded, and spoke softly, barely enough for Kaz to hear, "No mourners."

"No funerals," he replied in turn, trying to convince himself that it didn't feel like a lie. He steps through the ship in silence, and stops in front of her door, pressing an ear to it. Someone is talking, then, muffled by the wood between him and her—her scream. His shoulders bunch.

Forcing himself to breathe, he slips into the weapons supply room, where he loads and pockets an intricate dark wood pistol. Then he stands by the door, pressing his ear one more time, and he hears nothing. With careful precision and utter silence, he picks the lock.

He kicks the door open, pistol in hand, the bullet flying the second he sees the man pressed over his wife. He screams as it tears into his leg, rolling off the bed. He walks in slowly, heavily, grabbing the man by the front of his unbuttoned shirt. He can't even look at Inej, sprawled out on her bed, as he drags him into the attached bathroom.

"Who are you?" the man in his arms growls.

"I don't think I've ever introduced myself to you, Darren. The name's Kaz Brekker, and that, you son of a bitch, was my wife you were just over." Darren's eyes widen, and he struggles against his iron grip.

"You regret it now, don't you?" He whispers with a small trace of amusement. His voice is as cutting as the shattered black glass he was made from. "Had a lapse of consciousness, now did you?"

"It's not what it looks like!" He cries. "It was Inej's idea! You don't give her the pleasure she wants and I'm right here—" He stops as he feels the cool edge of a blade against his cheek. Kaz drags it down, pushing it between his lips, forcing his mouth open as he turns it.

"Do not lie to me," he says. "Do not tell me of my wife's needs or desires. Or I will cut your tongue out," the blade presses into it, "And feed it to my crows."

The man whimpers, as Kaz removes the knife with tantalising slowness, pocketing it. His green eyes watch the blade in fear, making sure he knows where it is at all times. "I'm sorry. Please don't kill me."

"I don't care," Kaz says with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulder. "I don't care what choices led you here because as far as I'm concerned, you signed your ticket to slow death when you touched my Inej. My motherfucking wife."

"Dirtyhands," Darren says with a growl.

Kaz smiles, jostling him a bit more. And with a smile, the demon was set loose, Dirtyhands coming to see the rough work done. Darren lost his tongue. His fingers are hacked off. His teeth and knees were shattered before Kaz plunged the knife into his chest with aching finality, releasing his soul.

Shakily, he stood, slowly turning to look over his shoulder at Inej. Her face was blank, staring up at the ceiling. There was the barest shake that held her body in its hold, and he sighed, stepping over to the door, which he locked and put an additional lock; he made the habit of carrying around extra locks, that were incredibly hard to crack, even for him. For good measure, he put a chair under the handle.

Tentatively, he stepped over to the side of the bed where she lay. She had hidden her bare body beneath the sheets while Kaz dealt with Darren, but he could see a slip of her bare bronze shoulders.

"Are you hurt?" He asks, his voice impossibly soft when compared to how it was mere minutes ago. He longs to brush away a hair that had stuck to her face from sweat, but he chooses to curl the sheets beneath his hands instead. She nodded, and his heart broke.

"I'll get you a nightgown," he told her, hand reaching out before he could stop it. He caught it a hair's breadth away from the slick curl, breath caught in her throat. 

"Go on," she told him, voice hoarse. He did as he was told, brushing it back from her face immediately, and the others that had flown loose. "Kaz," she whispers, but he shushes her, getting up to get the promised nightgown.

He hands it to her as she sits up, clutching the sheets close to her chest. Then he turns, for her sake, not his. He couldn't care less if Inej was stark naked in front of him, and she's aware of that. He's giving her the privacy she deserves.

While she dresses he organises her desk, eyeing the fully packed bags in the corner, her boots slouched in the corner closest to the door. She had been preparing to go when Darren had arrived. Somehow, it makes the tightness in his chest worse.

"You can turn around now," Her soft voice reaches his ear, and he turns quickly, dark eyes scanning her face, taking in the details that only his thief eyes had ever picked up. He reaches her side in three long strides, dropping to his knees next to her bed.

He takes her by the hand and she gives a small gasp as he kisses the scar on her wrist, cradling her hand as if it was a priceless glass vase. He looks up at her, rising from his prayer at her hands, towering above her. He casts her in a comforting shadow, a shadow that has kept her alive for so long, but she looks away in discomfort.

"Treasure of my heart?" he whispers, crouching down again. She knows this must be torture on his bad leg, but when she looks at him, his eyes are focused on only her. There is no sign of anything but honed concentration on her. "There you are," he says, a boyish smile stretching over his face.

It disappears into a sombre frown. "What hurts?"

"Everything," She breathes, and he nods.

"Miss Zenik should be here soon, and a carriage is awaiting us if Specht did his job," He tells her, longing to caress her face, hold her sharp jaw in his hands, "It will all be okay soon, my treasure."

"Specht?" She asks, shivering and stammering from the winter chill, "Darren, he said that he was indisposed."

"Your crew was sedated. He has a small cut on his cheek, but he's had much worse than that. Remember when he killed a Dime Lion while managing a broken arm?" He asks.

"It was a Razorgull," she tonelessly corrects, causing him to almost grin. "And yes. I remember."

"Saying Dime Lion is much more therapeutic for me, my darling Inej," he tells her. She cracks a grin, "That's the smile," he whispers. 

They hear footsteps approaching loudly, and they look up in a panic, him standing up and putting an arm to bracket between her and the door the best he can. The doorknob jiggles and he hears a familiar voice complain, "Let me in Brekker, or I'll kill you and make your corpse do a dance."

Inej cracks a smile as Kaz gives her and the door a pointed eye roll, pulling the chair away and unlocking his lock with the key in his pocket, and turning the latch for the others. He opens the door, and Nina immediately pushes past him into the room, towards Inej. Specht remains in the hall, and Kaz tells him to check on his crew and wake them up.

"Yessir," he says, before disappearing down the hall. Kaz glances over his shoulder at the girls, who have turned away from him for their own private conversation. He closes the door, locking it again, but this time with no extra additions.

"Nina dear," she looks up at him. "Darren's corpse is in the bathroom. Do me the favour of disposing of it."

She bats her eyes at him, "Of course. Inej, there's a window in your bathroom, right?"

Inej looks at her. "....Yes?"

Nina nods. "Give me a few. Make yourself helpful, dearest Kaz, and get some cleaning supplies. We don't want to leave a mess."

"It's fine," Inej says. "I'll get someone else to do it, and Kaz doesn't have the legs for it." He can't even give her an offended glare, because he wasn't keen on the idea himself. "And Kaz, you said there was a carriage waiting?"

He nods, "Nina, go dispose of the body, and then we'll go up together." Nina passes into the other room, while Kaz stands by her side. He offers a hand to her, and she gently takes it, allowing him to help her out of bed. He pulls her coat from the back of the door and pulls it over the lithe slope of her shoulders.

He helps her into her boots, hands her loose pants to wear, again turning away as she pulls them on. When he looks back at her, she's trying to tie up her hair, but her hands are shaking, from the cold or from the shock he doesn't know. He just knows that he wants to help.

So he stands behind her, grabbing her hands and slowly, carefully, pushing them away. He takes her hair in his hands, and she hands them a hair tie to smooth it back. It's messy, and she certainly needs to wash and detangle it, but he manages, and soon her hair is in a messy bun at the nape of her neck.

In her coat and nightgown, she looks a little silly, loose fitted pants tucked into high boots. She pulls her collar up to hide the dark bruises and the illusion shatters, and he forces himself to look away.

Nina, not a hair out of place despite it all, appears a moment later, unlocking the door and heading up. Kaz gives Inej one last cautious glance as he places a hand on her back, watching and gauging the reactions he's come to know well. When she shows no discomfort and his own waters don't rise, he leads her out, cane in hand.

She frowns at the horizon, where dark clouds approach. "Let's go," Kaz says, and that they do, cutting through the harbour, which has grown sparse in the past hour as it nears dinner time, and Ketterdam moves on.

-🂡-

She sinks into the bath with a blissful sigh, the hot water a nice feeling against her skin. Closing her eyes, she sinks further into the water, until her chin is just grazing the sudsy water. She smells lavender and vanilla and smiles to no one in particular.

A knock at the door comes and she cracks her eyes open, "Who is it?"

"It's Kaz," he says. "I have some clothes, a towel, and your knives."

"Come in."

He opens the door with his foot, and she catches a glimpse of his cane leaning against the wall before it closes behind him. "You're going to hurt yourself," she tells him sternly.

He puts his items on the table near the tub, eyes only on her face. "I'll survive, and it's only a few feet. I'm fine, and I'm much more concerned about you. What did Iyene say?"

"It could have been a bit worse," she tells him, eyes drifting away. "But it wasn't good. Darren...he wasn't...he wasn't a lot of things."

He hides his anger well, the only sign a small tic of his jaw. She closes her eyes, trusting him completely. Her breath catches as she feels the pads of his bare fingers press against her face, his thumb wiping away the non-existent tears under her eye.

She turns her head to him, and he only barely adjusts his hand. She can feel his weighted gaze on only her face, and only there. "Thank you." There is no map for this intimacy, no training for the genuine rush of love that fills her when he cradles her.

He whispers something to himself, to her maybe too, but she isn't paying enough attention to catch it. "Hm?" She asks him, and she hears him lean closer. She opens her eyes to see his coffee black eyes staring at her like a puzzle, like a safe of secrets and comfort.

"Sankta," he whispers again. "Stronger for having been broken."

His eyes are wide, lost in some distant and hazy dream world. She stares at his face as he scans her, and she knows he sees everything. Every scar, blemish, birthmark, things she knows in him too. She knows how his jaw feels when he needs to shave, she knows what the cut of his cheekbones feels like. She knows where he is scarred, the places that blood has landed, and she knows the shadows under his eyes.

"Just like you," she replies.

"I'll leave you be, now," He says in the silence that stretches, standing up. He winces as he puts weight on his leg.

She can ask him to stay, the way he once did. And her tongue aches to form the words, but they are not children making grand promises of golden kingdoms and thrones to one another. They are not tied by blood and bone, just simple gold rings.

So she asks him to come back when she is dressed and proper. Take her somewhere where it was always dawn, whisk her away to the land in the story of the soldier prince, a toy come alive, forged by a demon, not unlike him.

"I cannot whisk you away, but I will come for you. Always, my treasure, I will come for you. Remember?" Of course, she remembers. The scenery has long since blurred in her memory but beyond his words, it was the intensity in his eyes, a peek into something more, that had stayed.

Her reply is to close her eyes and tilt her head further into the waters. When she opens her eyes again, he is gone.

-🂡-

She rests in the bed her hosts so gracefully have dedicated to being only hers, trying to sort out her thoughts and come to face what truly just happened. She longs to cry, but her mind has numbed her again, and she can only sit in a revolted silence.

The door opens and she looks up to see Kaz, who looks at her in understanding. The sobs finally escape her, and then never stop coming. He sits at her side, bare hand out in a peace offering and a tether to herself.

She longs to curl into his arms, but she is conscious of him and the waters that he is afraid of. But as if he can read her mind, his arm draped around her shoulders pulling her close with a gentleness Darren never had.

They hear the call for dinner from downstairs and he helps her up, wiping her tears away with an unfamiliar certainty. He cups her face in his hands, pulling it close to his lips, feather-light as they brush against her drawn brow, easing the tension.

"Kaz," she allows herself to whimper his name on the exhale of her breath.

He shushes her, "All is safe, my treasure. Let's go."

Dinner is a quiet affair, Marya taking up most of the conversation for her son and her friends. She tells them stories about Wylan's youth, some clearly embellished for their sake. She is all too aware that no one at the table is in the mood for tragedy.

The best part is the fact that everyone's eyes slide over her hands, intertwined with Kaz's between them, and the mere inches of space she can bear to be away, and the furthest he wants her to be away from him right now. He knows it is no one's fault beyond the corpse in the ocean, but he never wanted her to be thrown back into that hell.

They are the first to leave the table, but as they start to climb up the stairs, she loses her footing, barely caught by Kaz's arms throwing themselves around her waist as she falls back onto him. He hisses at the pressure on his leg, but adjusts quickly, setting Inej down.

"Are you okay?" He asks, and she nods.

"Just startled me. You?" She glances at the leg and how heavily he now leans on his cane.

"I'm fine." Neither of them believes it.

-🂡-

That night, she falls asleep around the fire they've gathered around in the living room. The warmth is beyond inviting, the company good, and she's filled with her favourite whiskey, one Kaz shares her partiality to. As she drifts in the land between slumber and wake, she feels arms slip under her.

She doesn't fight the hold, especially when she recognises him, and his smell. A strangely pleasant mix of his soap, cologne, and ash. He's silent as he limps up to her bed, tucking her beneath the silk covers with one last whisper of 'My treasure' under his breath.

She falls asleep easily, but some time later into the night, she is awoken by the sound of the door opening, and the click of his cane on the wooden floor. She shifts to face him, watching as he strips into his pyjamas. He smiles over his shoulder at her, aware of her gaze.

She dozes off again as he does a few silent tasks around the room, but is awake in an instant when the bed dips beside her. She reminds herself it is just Kaz and resists the urge to turn and face him. She hears him slip into the space beside her, eyes on her back.

"Is this too much?"

"No," she whispers after a moment, finally turning to face him. Silver scraps of moonlight are all that illuminate the room, catching on the sharp planes of his pale face. His eyes, intent as ever, are tethered to hers.

"Come here," he says softly, posing it more as a question than a demand. She pulls herself closer, into the circle of his arms. One arm slips under and around her, pulling her even closer. "Tell me if it's too much."

"It's never too much with you, Kaz."

She sees his soft grin, his white teeth in the dim light. "Glad we're on the same page then." She buries her head into the pillow next to his head. His hand hovers above her head lazily, the other one covering hers, which lie in the few inches between them.

"You, my treasure," he whispers, "Are perfect." Her reply is to curl closer to him, which causes him to chuckle softly. "I've got you, my Wraith."

-🂡-

A few nights later, he reads her a story before bed.

It's interposed with his cynicism and critiquing comments on the characters actions, but it makes the story ten times better than it could ever be alone. The rough burr of his voice sounds good against her resting mind, and when she finally falls asleep, he puts the book to the side.

She is facing him, so he gets down on to his side, and uses this moment where it's just him and her trust in him, to brush the hair away from her restful and serene face, to use his thumb to massage out the tension. He doesn't know what he's doing, he'll admit.

Sleep, he thinks. Sleep until the dawn washes away Darren's sins and mine, and leave me. I will wait if that is what you want, my angel of death. My true saint.

I am sorry for what he did, he brushes his knuckles over the side of her face, I should have come sooner, sweetest storm. Your torment is not mine to know, but I would kill him a hundred times over. I would kill all of them. The Peacemaker is for you. He is yours to command.

I am yours to guide, Sankta Inej, beloved Wraith, treasure.

She does not hear and he falls to sleep beside her soon enough, breaths in tandem with not only each other but the city where they ruled.

-🂡-

Maybe he was the fool to expect perfect clarity from Inej at all moments.

Maybe she was the fool for saying yes.

But no matter what, they sat on opposite ends of the room now, eyes not meeting at all over the vast expanse. His gloves were on, his body entirely covered with cloth apart from his face. She wore the shapeless clothes of The Wraith, rubbing her arms, tear tracks still on her face, illuminated by the flash of lighting through the pouring rain.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words died in his throat quickly. She was staring out at the city, face troubled. She spoke first. "I passed out, early on. He waited for me to wake up before continuing. He spent hours waiting, just because he wanted me to feel it, watch it. He told me himself."

Kaz was silent, waiting to see if she would say more. "He said you wanted to use me for my body, for sex, the same way he did. He said that soon enough, the man above me would be you," the conviction in her voice cut like a knife through water.

He looked away, "He lies."

"I know. But tell me you will not—tell me that is not your desire. Please."

He forced his eyes to hers, and when he spoke, it was the utmost truth he could gather into himself, "I have never intended to use you for anything like that. I will never take advantage of you, abuse your goodness. I can swear on that." She nods, and the storm outside continues, filling their silence.

She stepped off her perch at the sill, padding over to the bed between the two, where this had all started. He takes longer to come over, but when he does, their hands slip into the others with practised ease. It was a bad day, for both of them, and if this was the best they had, it was something still.

"Winter is almost over. The slavers will be out again soon."

She nods.

"I'll miss you," his voice is much softer now, and she looks at him, with his dishevelled hair, furrowed and scarred brow.

Her reply is to drop her head unto his shoulder, pausing as he shuddered. "It's okay," he reassured her softly, and she relaxed against him. Together, they sat, lost in their own worlds and histories before the other, clinging to their last shred of sanity—each other.

"Why 'Peacemaker'?" She asks him after a while.

He swallows loudly. "It's what my name means." She glances at him.

"Oh?"

"I went to the farm, about two years ago," He tells her. "The one I grew up at. It was horrible, sweet Ghezen, but I found-" he stumbles over the word. "A letter from my Ma to my Pa, from about two months before I was born, talking about what they were going to name me. She suggested Kaz because she said it meant peacemaker. I...had to."

"I had to honour my parents in some way. Dirtyhands was for Jordie, and I like to think The Peacemaker is for them. But, The Peacemaker is not Kaz Brekker, nor Dirtyhands, nor Kaz Rietveld. His goals are separate, different."

"What are The Peacemaker's goals?" She asks him.

"To help his Wraith in saving the kids like them. To not only stop the slavers, but the cons. To make sure little kids aren't on the streets when a plague hits, that good men aren't conned out of their family fortune by corrupt doctors playing on devotion to their spouses. To end those who knowingly send faulty machinery that makes orphans. The one's whose choices end lives and build demons." He takes a shuddery breath, eyes and voice hardening to steel. "That is the goal of The Peacemaker."

"Tell me, Wraith," She gives him a wary glance. "What is your goal?"

She meets his eyes, squaring her shoulders. "To stop the buying and selling of children. To stop the sale of kids for their innocence, purity, and naïvety. That men who abuse the power and trust children put into them don't abuse it and rape children!"

She takes a shuddery breath, hands clenching, anger seconds from spilling over into his arms. She feels his gaze on her, "The Peacemaker is hers to call upon then, treasure. It seems to me their goals are aligned."

"Thank you," she says, the deepest thrum reverence corded into her voice. It's the voice she gets when she prays, he knows that. The connection makes his stomach twist but his heart also blooms.

The rest of the daylight is spent with pressed shoulders and a silence older than them. The silence of understanding, love, and a devotion to trust, they barely know. In all the lies, cons, thieves and briberies, trust is a dangerous game, a currency in the world of kings and queens, not farm boys and acrobats.

But wasn't that why they were here?

Trust? Fluid movements aligned with the other's, the knowledge of how the other will move in tandem to you, the pattern of their breaths? Was that not trust? Or was it trust and something more, something that people struggled to name, and the stories always painted in gold?

Was it love?

Neither of them will ever know, their lives undeniably resulting in a twist of the idea of love. Inej had seen countless people come into the Menagerie and babble to the girls about how much they loved the person forced to them, but they all knew it was a lie. If they truly loved these girls, there would be half the people in the brothels. Maybe Inej would have been whisked away long ago by some rich merchant, maybe she would be a dutiful wife at a man's arm.

Would that be love?

And Kaz, slowly learning how to love, outside the parameters of the world that had stripped it from him. It was his weapon, the thing he used to get into heads and minds, to drown out the roar from inside of him that longed to be loved again. Those who did were long gone, and all they left was the shell of a boy who'd loved to read and pray to Ghezen for spring profit. Then she'd come, cradled the roar until it fell into a fitful sleep, and he remembered the sweet taste of the world's gifts again.

As the sun finally leaves them for the day, Inej looks at him, his moon-pale face staring off into some brighter distance, hand pressed flat against hers. "Kaz?" She asks, and his head turns to her, as he hums in reply. "How do you always see me?"

Even in the dark, she can see his lip quirk at the side for the briefest moment. "I don't always see you. But I can feel you enter the room, enter my view. When you trailed me to the slat one time, I knew you were there because you always were."

She grimaces at the memory, at his body black and blue from a beating that even Dirtyhands was not immune to, nor did he truly deserve. Delivered by the men he'd made criminals, but who'd turned on him because he wasn't kind. He didn't slap them on the back, tell them good job, he got the rough work, the hard work, the work that damned his soul done, and their responses were not grateful thanks for his work.

It was violence, and not what Kaz deserved. He deserved some punishment, one she would likely share to their death, and whatever hell awaited killers like them, no matter how holy a cause. Blood was blood. But senseless violence was not to be turned against him.

"I'm not always there."

"I know," it sounds like a confession, and his next whispered words, an actual confession, cause her to pause, "I want you to be."

"I do not deny that slavers deserve to be brought to justice, no matter how violent," he presses on before she can reply, "But I've found myself wondering what it would be like to have you near at all hours, to wake with you every dawn. To share every meal, to share intertwined lives as most married couples do."

His eyes meet hers, a strange watery-ness to them. "It's a fools dream, I know, for a different life, for a different world, different versions of us." Where it's not Dirtyhands and his Wraith, The Wraith and her Peacemaker, boss and pirate, it's just Kaz and Inej. No kings or queens, just common folk living common lives.

"One day, maybe. When we're old and grey and we've passed our legacy onto new names. Maybe faked a death or two," A mischievous grin is quickly taking over his face, the prospect of trouble his favourite daydream.

She looks out over the rooftops. "When we die, Kaz, what awaits us?"

"Hell for me, heaven for you," he says, without hesitation.

"I think I'm going to hell," she tells him.

She can feel his caution. "Why is that?"

"I have killed many men, Kaz. You know that. And while my cause is holy, blood is still blood, no matter who it is from. I try not to kill them, reminding those who deserve anything but death that, they are not above the law."

He's silent. "You're wrong. Blood is not blood."

She gives him a wary look but allows him, the man who knows bloodstains better than she, to tell her his view.

"Most men I have killed I think in some way deserved what they got. There are no good men in the barrel, we all know that. But some, I think others would plead their case, but to me...there is no innocence. Like Filip." The word sounds like venom on his tongue.

"I shouldn't have been allowed to do what I did. Play judge, jury, and executioner in one fell swoop, but I was. I was allowed to torture someone only my eyes could see fault in, and I did it for everything that came to Pekka. Tell me, Inej, if you could get payback for everything Helene ever did, would you?" There's an edge to his voice, one that is desperate for her to say yes, for the most human person he knows to reassure and restore his humanity.

"I don't know," She confesses. "Women like Helene should rot away with their sins like you've let Pekka do. But there are those I would do that to. The men who took me, the ones who killed the friend I made. Those who found their pleasure in the menagerie, who turned a blind and ignorant eye to the truth in front of them for a few minutes of pleasure their spouses could easily give." She meets his eyes, seeing his understanding reflected in them.

This was a bad day from the beginning, but these confessions lift some of its suffocating weight, the pressure of their failures off of them. They have only ever been able to see each other this way, as the other does, on the good days, but today they see eye to eye.

"We'll burn them all down," he whispers, voice dark. "Everyone who has ever wronged us, those who carved us into who we are. Someone deserves to pay for my—our— blight and stain upon the world."

"Do they? Or will it be our penance to pay when we die? In hell or heaven, or wherever souls like ours can finally be put to rest, that is where we will wash away our blight. Revenge is a temporary high, but hard to wash away."

"I want revenge," he whispers, voice breaking.

"I do too," she agrees after a moment. "I will hunt the ship that took me until I die, and when I find myself in front of the crew, I intend for them to pay for what they did. But I will not let it drive me into my grave, will not let it affect those who had no say, who did what they had to do to survive. But I am willing to wash away my sins in my death."

He looks away, "You and I are different then." They both know it. "What do you want to do to demand their penance? I know there must be something, something you desire to see. I would, I always had that."

She thinks, "I want to see the Menagerie burn. I want Tante Heleen to understand what it's like to be afraid of someone, to not know what they will do next. I want her to rot in her misery until the world claims her again, and she is nothing but dust on the wind, but I have patience for these things."

"I'm glad you killed Darren," she adds. "Unlike Heleen, people like him's crimes are not ones they should have the pleasure to live with the way they have forced their victims to. They deserve to understand swift justice, and their dying moments should be that regret. Victims shouldn't have to continue living while those who hurt them live on beside them."

He nods, once, slowly.

"Want to go burn a cage then, treasure?"

"Always."

-🂡-

It takes three years for them to execute their will against The Peacock. Three years of planning, setting barriers, taking those who very well may be destined for her halls away. Tante tries to reopen every Spring, each grander than the last.

But when Inej finds a shipload of girls, specifically for the Menagerie, things fall into place quicker than they ever had. She returns the girls home and flies to Kettedam, still shaking off the snow as she bursts into Kaz's office.

Four days later, on the last bitter winter night before the turn, they sit on a roof across from the Menagerie, ready to watch the world burn. They're pressed shoulder to shoulder, ankles hooked around the others.

The Menagerie goes up in golden flames seconds later. There are no girls, and while the news will say Tante Heleen was killed in the inferno, she sits in wait in a safe house outside the city, unwillingly, only able to wait for her jury to arrive. The tourists on the stave scream, call for the firemen.

But greed gets everyone in this city rolling. The men, coffers thick with money and slightly drunk, will be slow to arrive.

Kaz looks at her face, illuminated in the heat of the fire. There's a smile spreading across her face, her dark eyes reflecting the sight of her cage being reduced to ashes. She looks hauntingly beautiful, like the Wraiths of the old tales whose name she had inherited.

She looks like the living Saint she has become. The Apparat to the East has spread her word, twisting her into something beyond her, and this is the truth of her. A Saint, yes of course, but one who has no qualms about watching the world burn with her beloved by her side. She is a saint born from the flames of vengeance, not smooth and clear waters as he says.

"Look at them," Kaz laughs, looking down at the men at the street below. "They bellow for help, for answers. But if they dared lookup, examine the shapes in the skyline for more than a fleeting second, they would see their answers. Fools."

"You think most everyone is a fool, Kaz," She has to remind him.

He hums his agreement. His own eyes and face are lit up by the flames, but he doesn't have the same cruel satisfaction on his face that Inej does. He looks, at peace, like he's just crossed off another bucket-list item. But he knows he's given her the world, so maybe that's why his lips fight to smile.

She rests his head on his shoulder after a bit, after they've moved to watch, the embers from the comfort of their bellies. He gives her the briefest brush of a kiss on her temple before turning again to watch as the fire brigade finally arrives.

Down below, chaos reigns. The papers will be all over the end of the most lustrous brothel in the city, if not the world. People will be throwing accusations all over, but none dare utter Dirtyhands or The Wraith. Time has been kind to their legends, and people seldom speak their names. Old stories of drawing the attention of gods by speaking their name are whispered more now.

But the demon and saint don't worry about any of that here, where the smoke barely reaches her or his poor lungs.

"Do people know that the Sankta Inej they pray to," She asks after the flames finally die, "Is The Wraith? Or do they think they are partners, girls intertwined, or do they only work together on occasion?"

"I think some do. Some don't." He says. "But in a hundred years, when we're all dead and gone, who knows? Maybe they're the same to some, different in others. Maybe in some The Wraith is the wife of the cruel King of Ketterdam, and The Peacemaker is Sankta Inej's husband, real name not known."

"Maybe in some stories we'll be wicked kings and queens, in other's devoted lovers. Maybe in some Dirtyhands is Sankta Inej's final kill before dying from the evil she took in when she killed him," His eyes are sparkling. "We don't have to know."

"Oh," she says wistfully, "But I would. I want them to tell the truth of it all. The Wraith and Sankta Inej are the same, driven by her own past to end the slave trade. Dirtyhands is not a demon, there is no cruel King of Ketterdam, just a man who would do whatever it takes to bring his justice upon the world." He smiles.

"But those stories aren't simple or easy for those who put everything into the Saints to know. You know as well as I do that the Saints weren't all good, that they were living and breathing long before they were put into red books of religion." He nods along to her words.

"What does it matter anyway?" He says, the shine in his eyes growing, "Stories about the Saints destroying the devastating demons with a blade are much more entertaining than stories of girls and boys sharing vows."

"We can keep our truth, and let the world make theirs."

She has to smile at him, his words. He is right, and she agrees with everything she says. People wanted epic tales, not silly love, shared whiskey, and berating rants about your husband's unfortunate smoking habit, and his penance of cheating poker. (For someone who was a club owner, Kaz seemed to enjoy cheating when they played with their friends far too much. Maybe that's why he was only allowed to deal now.)

He looks at the ashes. "Have I given you what you want?"

She smiles blindingly. "And much more." 

Inej's trauma needs to be explored much more in this fandom. Anyways, Kaz and Inej ruling the world>>>>>>>>