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a-gal-with-taste · 2 years

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Yours | Prologue

Or, a saga detailing the complex, and peculiarly prolonged courtship, between a Captain of Zaun, and his Lady of the Isle Promenade.

Silco X F!Reader - Regency/Persuasion AU Slow-Burn

3979 WC - AO3 - Next

Warnings: Regency AU, arranged-marriage, slow-burn, romanticism, courtship, family-dynamics, pining, some humor, some fluff, future angst, slight world-building, captain!Silco

You did not weep at the loss.

What good would it do? Certainly, tears didn't stop anything... it would not stop this rain from the bursting-heavens above, or the wind that allowed every droplet to patter against your skin, drenching your hair and your dark clothes. Unsightly, but the occasion allows some relaxation against common-courtesy, a respite against the properness that a lady of your standing should evermore display in the public eye.

Crying, however expectable it might be in the gaze of those around you, would do no-good against the blasted weather, nor would it bring the last of your family back. It certainly never brought your mother, nor your father home - your tears would not bring your brother back, and so you did not weep at the loss.

The water from the heavens above, thankfully, provided more than enough wetness to scatter across your cheekbones, granting you enough of a cover for the fellow mourners to murmur sympathies.

Murmur in theory, at the very least - in practice, they had to often sheepishly shout over the rumble of thunder overhead.

Eyes downcast, you were able to pass for the despairing younger-sibling of your two-person family with ease - stoic in your grief, hardened by previous agonies, and firm in your conviction to weather this recent tragedy, and this physical-hurricane besides. Truly, you had become a pillar of strength against the tide of life's pain, and death's constant touch.

A pillar that so, so desperately, wanted to return to the manor.

Of course, you held affection for your brother - oafish as he was, and ludicrous he proved often to be while he had been home, you loved him dearly. With a smile like sunlight and a warm, all-encompassing laugh like a hug within sound itself, how could you not?

But you had warned him the sea was treacherous. That a bright spirit, however glorious, could be smothered out by the blackest of waves. Sickness had taken your parents, making you both weary of life’s plagues, but you knew those calm, crystal waters of the Piltovian sea were many times more deadly... They were only playing at an innocent nature. When their nature, in truth, was anything but.

"Sweet sister, you mustn't fret so much!" Edmund had insisted, then reached over to prod at the space between your deeply-furrowed brows. "Wrinkles are the bane of women's existence, or so I am told... and you're younger than me!" He grinned, and you had little sympathy left to tell him he had a smear of food staining his upper-lip. "By the Gods, what will that say about me, if I have a little sister who's already gone gray...!"

You were the younger, true, but you were also assuredly the smarter. Even in youth, the tutors had claimed you to be the brighter of the two, a star pupil shining bright against your brother's, bless him, dull nature. While he collected an education of swords, physical prowess and the makings of a man in this modern time, you carefully cultivated an education of the mind.

But not even your practiced, keen-mind could persuade him from his journey, a path he seemed set to go on despite any warnings, or pleas.

"Fortunate lies in the line between sky and sea, sister!" Edmund had claimed amongst your warnings, protests and finally, pleas. Pointing a finger onto the horizon, and an arm wrapped comfortingly around your shoulders. At the time, the very horizon that had then hosted dark-clouds, was almost as dark as the ones that deliver the tempest onto your brother's funeral, today. "What fool am I, if I do not go to where fortune lies!?"

The biggest fool of them all, you thought, glaring down at the symbolic box before you. It held no remains - wherever its owner was, though, you imagined the coffin, wrapped in decorative-linen in the color of your aristocratic house, would soon find its owner at the bottom of the sea.

The biggest fool of them all, my sweet, stupid brother, who has now left me all alone.

And so, you did not weep at the loss. Not with the passing whispers, or shouts, of tender words meant to inspire comfort from the fellow mourners, nor as you gave a short, firm nod to the group of well-muscled men, who took hold of the copper-handles along the sides of the coffin.

You were surprised - you thought an empty coffin would provide little struggle, but there was some strain in the movements of the carriers. Enough pause given for one in the crowd gathered at the jutting-cliffside, to walk up to you, bending low to catch your ear.

"Mistress..."

"My lord," Tone flat, for pleasantries had been allowed to be bygones, you greeted him with all the properness that was expected, save for your physical attention. You kept your eyes on your brother's coffin. "I do so wish it were under kinder, drier circumstances."

"I agree. Such circumstances call for misery, I suppose... not the jokes," The Lord's voice bordered on a scolding at your dry remark, making your jaw twinge under the dark veil shrouded around your face. A pitiful blanket against the torrent, though it allowed you to eye the man from the corner of your gaze with fewer critiques on your lack in etiquette. "Still... we all must mourn in our own way. You have my sympathies, of course."

"Of course," You murmured in assent, some tension leaking from you when one of the grooms finally found purchase in the muddied earth beneath him, and the lengthy box was lifted from its stand.

A hesitancy, rare and brief, from a good Lord of the Isle Promenade - whose name you couldn’t be bothered to recall, though you imagined it included ‘the Third’ somewhere in his lengthy list of titles - and then he soon speaks again, with that same bland, presumptuous tone you had known all your life. If not from his lips, specifically, then from the mouths of a hundred other men, of his standing and his absurd self-assurance, "You also have my company, at your discretion. We've been neighbors for many, many years, my lady. I implore... I insist you reach out to me, should you ever have such a need for me."

A need. For him?

You didn’t even want him.

Gods be good, you sent a silent prayer above, just as lightning cracked overhead. "Forgive me, my good sir, for a fear I have little understanding. What sort of scenario were you envisioning, that would require me to have need of you?"

You did not have to look to know his face was as dark as the clouds at the flat tone, one you gave without bothering to hide the layer of dryness amongst the rain. The man seemed to despise humor, and despise his pathetically-underhanded attempts being called upon for answers even more so. Particularly, when you do them.

Still, by the time the carriers made it to the cliff's edge, bracing to heave your dear, foolish Edmund’s coffin from earth, and into the endless ocean below, the man softened for you. Just barely, and just enough that the hand he placed at the small of your back was, almost, acceptable.

"Comfort, my fair lady. Companionship, something which I believe is only a benefit for you at such trying-times... something I must insist upon, as you go through this dark, dark storm that is your life, all alone..."

Alone, indeed.

Miserable, you watched as a final shove, a shared grunt between gentlemen, and with a final burst of lightning across the sky, the mortal realm released the symbolic coffin of your brother tumbling down, into the greedy waters far below.

The last of your family, swallowed up by pride and by the waves.

The bones weren't even dry yet, and already, there's a man plotting out your future without a single thought or idea of having your own input - such a fate is far, far crueler than that of a simple ceasing of existence, courtesy by the thoughtless sea. It’s more painful, the idea of a conscious creature capable of thought, decides your future with so little regard to your own consultation, your own expectations and desires.

A common fate, but no less cruel.

You had always been content with the idea of a scholarly pursuit in life, in the familiar comforts of home. Though adventure had always prodded at your mind, a lap-full of pages and words had called to your consciousness far louder, and the presence of home, of Isle Promenade, was so sweet a song, that you shuddered to part-with.

But the good gentlemen beside you, whispers not of your life in decent comforts and familiarity. Much like his own character, he speaks of a stifling, boring existence before you - framed in a manner of suggestion, but the just-polite hand on the small of your back is forward enough for you to understand it’s what he’s chosen to be fact. A fact that you, unmarried, alone and the single remainder of a worthy family, are likely powerless to do anything but accept fact into truth.

It’s a life, methodically mapped out, as per his expectations of a gracious suitor and a future wife, a role he’s unsubtly casting you in as he speaks. Such an existence includes a secondary home in the grand, pointedly remote Piltover, proper summers at court, excellent boarding-homes nearby for children to come...

Misery.

It’s not a life - it’s a woven tale, full of misery , one you have never wanted, one you had never desired, and one that is being forced upon you like a wedding-ring made from a collar of obedience. Never, have you wept for the loss of family.

You could almost weep from this.

"Sister!"

At the sound of your brother's voice - impossible as it was, but the sound of gasps around you proved it was not some phantom or trick of the mind - you very near did weep, as you whirled around, your veiled hat becoming askew. In the wind, it tumbles to the ground in a flutter of dark shadows, but it matters not that the rain now soaks your face freely.

Rain now acts like a balm to your hot eyes, and the chill of an everfree wind now acts like a relief to your heart, and the sight before you, acts as a salvation to your mind.

Because there, at the road leading up the cliff hosting his own funeral, your brother half-hops, half tumbles off the fish-cart that offered him a ride, and grins. A man, bearded now, with a streak of gray near his temple, but a bright gleam in his eye and, oh!

Oh, it's your brother! And he's alive.

He's alive, and you no longer have any need to weep for loss, when you feel you are about to cry from the regaining of your family.

Cry, or forgo all aspects of proprietary and respectably, as you hike up your skirt well-above your needs, and abandon your stuffy-suitor in the pursuit of racing to be at your siblings-side.

A living wind, whipping through the throes of mourners, some of which are on the verge of fainting, others in pure-shock at the unsightly sight of your brother, dearest Edmund, still clad in the messy uniform of a sailor. But like the wind, you care not for a single living thing.

Nothing, except your brother.

You want to laugh as you grow closer, and spot the wrinkles he's gained along with the gray along his temple. The elder indeed, but there's a skip in his step all the same, one you recall far too well, and a gleam in his eyes as he jogs forward to meet you halfway. The boyish charm, the gift of a man who will never, ever truly grow up, is almost a joy instead of a headache to see, now that he is in front of you, yards, and now feet away...

And indeed, the urge to laugh in hysteric relief and unbreakable love, becomes too great to ignore.

"Sister!" Edmund says again, and you brace yourself. Brace to barrel into his body, a hug you'll loath to part from for a long, long time. Bracing, for words of sweet reunion, of family rejoined once more. To be braced for whatever comes your way, and knowing that you can weather whatever your dear brother has to offer, now that you can weather the storm, together...

"Sister," He proclaims, spreading his arms wide, and a grand grin upon his face. It's only until he continues, that his smile isn't exactly warm or loving - it's self-satisfied, like he's prepared for you to thank him upon his announcement, like it’s a fact of your life that he expects you to accept, no, rejoice as truth:

"You are to be married! I have found you a husband!"

Any idea of weeping is gone now.

You freeze, mind growing blank as you stare at your brother. At the sole other remainder of your family, and the man who had already plotted one of the greatest details of your life without any prior warning, nor even consent.

Had you been born first, the common-law of primogeniture, regardless of gender or sex, would’ve made you in charge of your estate, as well as your junior siblings’. Though the cards had not truly been in your favor to allow such coincidence, your brother always had been, and just as you never would have dared to demand his hand be given, you had never dreamed he would give yours away so readily, without warning or even conference from you - the marrying party herself.

And yet, here you stand.

Motionless, as your brother beams, arms-wide and ready for an embrace, and the words of your immediate, and unpredicted state of marriage still echoing in the air between you.

And in that windy sky, separating you from your beloved sibling you come to the terrible realization, that you had not braced for every tempest that had come your way.

But, there is some justice at being stuck off-course. It makes your reflexes quick, and your raising even quicker. And, unlike you, your brother had not braced for anything. Let alone your anger, grief, and frustration. Both at the recent restless-nights, the countless searches, preparations, and the far more immediate funeral in his honor.

Edmund is not braced for your misery, the idea of your life plotted out like a biography of simple facts, regardless of your own input, and dismissing the very notion that you might have the desire to take a quill, and write your own tale in verse.

Your brother, bless his foolish, stupid heart, has no knowledge of any of this. He is not a man that is braced for such volatile emotions to take flight, to unveil themselves before man and the Gods. Edmund, is not braced for any storm that comes his way.

Let alone the living-tempest that you have become at his announcement, with your furious fist, rocketing through the air like a bolt from the Gods themselves, colliding spectacularly, and soundly breaking his nose.

"Whom amongst the civilized wouldn’t want to be informed of their potential, upcoming marriage, through a messenger-party?"

"Whom amongst the civilized would want to send just a messenger?" Countering the snarked-reply with a cheeky-grin, co-Captain V. Houndsmen peered over to his fellow-captain. His gray eyes sparkled with mischief and crackled with the light of lightning in the far northern-horizon as he peered at the smaller, wiry man leaning stiffly against the railing, looking out over a familiar deck that was patched with sunlight that had begun to peek through the clouds. "Dear friend, some would think you a coward, for not going yourself."

He is, expectedly, unimpressed with the teasing. "Some, smarter, would think me considerate.”

Overlooking the bustling deck below, co-Captain S. Shimmerson is assured in the knowledge that those under his command can work without direct supervision, and instead levels his focus onto what lies in the palm of his hand, as a frown carves deeper into his face. A frown that not only spoke of a man knowing full-well he was playing the part of a fool, but also a man too deeply engrossed to play any-other role. "Ambushing her with the... good-news, would do little good. For herself, surely, but I fear for myself too, if I am truthful."

The initial impact would not have fared well - he had conquered a thousand seas, but Silco was wise enough to be wary of a woman’s wrath, over any tempest.

"Thought you lived for a fight, Sil."

"Not with her, Vander."

“In love already, are you?” His friend, partner, and brother in all but blood, smiled something bemused, and still endlessly floored by the circumstances that had led them here. And how swiftly they had arrived to the strange, odd new world, in which Silco wasn’t just admiring - the man was utterly, wholly besotted by a woman.

It wasn’t so much a gender that mattered, but rather that there existed such a creature that had captured the man’s attention.

It was not so far into the realms of the imagination, the idea that his co-leader's mind would forever be undivided, wholly encompassing, and entirely focused on the crew at hand... certainly, command and ship hadn't suffered the last several days. Even distracted, S. Shimmerson was skilled at leadership, and took the reins of command with steady, assured hands.

Such a trait gave many, including V. Houndsmen, the idea that the man could be distracted by very little, and distracted only briefly. But for days, S. Shimmerson had barely looked up from the locket he had cupped delicately in his hand.

It didn't so much as worry Vander, as it did bemuse him to no end. And confused him a bit more, besides.

"Careful, Silco," He teased once more, leaning to jostle his friend with an elbow. "Some will start to think you care. And then where will we be?"

Chuckling to himself as he turned, Vander was eager to get on with his own work, and escape before the piercing glare of the dark-haired man could stab through him like a blade. Only just-missing him, Silco still glared after the back of his friend and partner, before two eyes, the color of the slim space where green-seas mingled and danced with the cloudless blue-skies, returned to the locket at hand.

The locket, with a picture inside.

A picture of you.

Silco's face showed none of the twisting, uncertain and unfamiliar nerves coiling deep inside of him as he gazed at your miniature. Tracing over eyes that are captivating and intelligent, a smile that is faint, reserved in practice and yet earnest in truth...

A face lovelier than any other he had ever seen, and there was no uncertainty in his mind, that this picture didn't do justice to your stunning visage.

What had come over him was nothing short of an enchantment - something of a child’s fairy-tale. Something foolish, but like words of old comfort, it lingered annoyingly in every open-facet within his mind, sneaking in like a stowaway amongst his thoughts.

Unwanted, at first. Certainly, unneeded.

But since the moment the locket was pressed to his hands, a gift in response to the rescue for your quite oafish, quite clumsy sibling, Silco had been loathsomely drawn to the image, as he had once been drawn to water. It was a calling, like a siren to a hapless, doomed sailor - and certainly, with how quickly Silco’s fondness had groomed, he knew that he was entirely, and utterly doomed.

All consequences, thanks to the picture of you.

With great reluctance, and with an even greater necessity, Silco thumbs the gold-piece of jewelry shut. Round and round, the chain becomes wound around his palm as it's secured onto his person... though, in whatever remains of his heart, Silco knows the locket was already secured in his mind the moment he saw it.

Bringing it up to his lips, sighing heavily as he fogs the surface of the plain gold-piece, Silco looks back on a stormy horizon. Both riled and resigned, Silco gazes out into open waters and clouded skies, and tries not to think of the Isle they sail from. More residential than the ports he is used to traversing, but regardless of the lack of experience, the fight against the urge to land had been fierce and, even now, Silco wrestled with the idea of turning the ship back. A stupid, asinine idea, but an idea that tempted him nonetheless.

Closing his eyes, he attempts to wield such thoughts away - the thoughts of you are stubborn, and will remain, but the focus on his ship and its inhabitants must override any thoughts, any temptations, or desires that remain.

He had already been called to sea, tempted by the ocean with a desire to navigate the world by water.

Any other ambitions, even the ones that would lead his path to you, had to be put aside.

You.

Never before had Silco felt a desire for love, nor even affection or infatuation. Such flights of fancy were far-more Vander’s style, and Silco had never before played the part of a fool, not ever, and certainly not enough to give-away his heart.

His heart already had an owner besides himself, and once given, Silco had known that whoever was in possession, was destined to never part with it.

With his heart already belonging to the sea, body to the ship, soul and mind to the Sons and Daughters of Zaun aboard his ship, Silco had not planned to give anyone anything more. Not when he had nothing else he could afford to give.

Nothing but words he hoped would explain, or at least bring awareness to its reader. Privately praying that your witless sibling didn’t come close a second time to drowning, on the row from ship to the Isle Promenade, but also that he spared a thought for the letter that Silco had pressed with urgency into his hands, in equal vigor that Edmund had pressed the locket into his own grasp.

It was all that he could afford to give you, at this time. And he hoped it was enough to explain, or if not, at least free him from what plagues his mind and heart, and release him from his hold the moment you release the wax-seal from folded-paper.

It was all that could be allowed.

Straightening, Silco loops the locket over his head as the wind catches, long dark locks brushing past his face before he smooths them in time with a thumb catching over the smooth surface of the locket -the only act of affection he dares to perform, before duty overtakes his role of the besotted fool, and he strides towards the deck.

It’s not allowed, and unacceptable for him to turn away from his standing as co-Captain - and so, with some great reluctance, greater necessity, he turns from the horizon to face his crew, taking the steps two at a time to begin barking orders onto those populating the deck.

All he has, as ridiculously idyllic and fantastical as it was, was a locket and a desire. A locket he has loathed to part with, and a desire that refuses to leave. Privately, co-captain S. Shimmerson knows he doesn’t really want it to.

Certainly, a resolution is far more appreciated, but an entire fleeting of the foolish, but fantastical notion of his private desire - such was as unacceptable, as it was for him to try to follow the desire.

Desire of you, the desire of chance, the slim and too impossible prospect of being called yours...

Indeed, it is a siren’s song, and a call to his doom.

And one Silco fears that he would go all too willingly.

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