Theo blushed and looked horrified trying to sputter and back pedal even as Fletcher joked. He listened intently and it all certainly made sense. Restarting your life became more exhausting each time you did it and at some point it started to seem less worth it in his experience. 

He stared up at his bodyguard, eyes intense with sincerity despite the dark flush still lingering in his cheeks. "I really want you to be happy. Pirate, bodyguard, or otherwise. You're not one of my books. You're real."

Fletcher cocked his head. The smirk softened and he peered curiously down at Theo as he considered what he'd been asked. There were a lot of answers to that question. Some of them he could say aloud. One of them wasn't wise to think about, let alone tell the man. "You fishing?" he joked before growing a bit more serious. "No, it's...I don't want to work under another captain, that's all. And I'm too...y'know...old to start out again as some arsehole's swabbie. I'd sail if the ship was mine. If I got to pick the crew. But that takes more money than I'll ever see in my lifetime, Theo. And besides, land has its own benefits. Can't tell you how shite it is to ration everything. So as I said: you're stuck with me."

He turned away to cough again, then returned his easy smile to the nobleman. "You really want me to be a pirate, don't you?"

"...why do you stay on land then? There's plenty of ships you can have. Plenty more that would have you. If your heart longs for it that much, what stops you? Or...is it him?"

Theo couldn't ask if he was the reason. He was too afraid to know the answer, to be that which Fletcher resented most, to be what he considered least. It was hard to say what would hurt more; being the reason someone didn't get to do what they most desired or meaning nothing to them. 

Fletcher's eye widened for just a moment. He'd expected jokes and maybe a little argument — the usual. He hadn't expected something heavy and profound and laden with poignant history. And what did Fletch bury? He knew it wasn't what Theo was asking. The man didn't want him to dig up old pains for the sake of casual discussion. Still, it gave him pause as he touched on each and every box that he'd nailed shut and shoved away into the dark recesses of his mind.

But what would he collect until it had gone somewhere to gather dust? No one had ever asked him this. His dreams of excess as a child had been of food. As a young man, they'd been of money and power and women. Now, what did he collect? Besides cigarette butts and empty bottles and new scars, there wasn't much. It seemed strange to think about it so plainly: that he didn't aspire to riches anymore. That that part of him was long gone, and that whatever he wanted now — for the dead to return, for a friend to be free — was both intangible and beyond his reach. And how did you hoard those wants in boxes, and store them to gather dust?

"I don't know," he said truthfully. "If I had the money to own a house with its own storage rooms, I suppose I wouldn't choose to own the house at all...I'd be sailing again. To have something to do, mind. And people to do it with. So there'd be nothing to store, and nowhere to store it, save on the floor of a cramped cabin right next to the piss bucket," he finished with a cynical smirk.

He shrugged slightly and moved onto the next box full of frilly, girly baby clothes. "I imagine when you have a traumatic life event you try to bury it all away and eventually you just forget it ever existed. Except when you're my mother everything troubles your nerves and so everything must be buried."

Theo pointed to each of the open boxes. "A daughter you never actually had. A Yule ruined by a sickly son. A mass exodus of servants over a rumored family scandal. I think if it was me it would just all be crates and crates of books. All because I ran out of shelf space in the entire house for more.

"What would your dragon hoard be?"

"No, no. Stop that rubbish, I'm fine," Fletch insisted. He headed back into the storage room and lugged the rest of the boxes out one by one, though at a considerably slower pace this time, and with a look of irritation etching creases between his brows. He set each one down with a little less care than the last, then leaned against the wall over Theo and caught his breath as subtly as he could possibly manage.

"'S a disservice to rats," he replied as he craned his neck to look into the box. He couldn't say he'd seen so much useless shit packed away in all his life. Shipping crates of food and sundries and ore he could wrap his head around. Flea market collections — sure. They were meant to sell, to go somewhere. But this? It really was a rat's collection. "Can't say I understand it. Is this what nobles do? Hoard things and forget about them?"

"Why don't you sit and take a break," Theo offered gently. "I know it's a lot of dust and you're probably not used to all the pollen and plants and things with you not being from around here. I'll start going through this mess first."

He sighed and plopped down on the ground, opening the first box in front of him. A flurry of moths shot into his face making him cough and shake his head. Theo shoved the box aside and went for another one instead, albeit a bit more hesitantly. When nothing happened, he began to more fully unpack.

Broken baubles, garlands made of dried orange slices and cranberries, candle holders, and a box of gnawed on candles all came out reverently one by one. Theo chuckled softly as a metal tin came out next and he gave it a shake. A whooshing sound came from within and his face fell some. He placed it back down with the other things and moved onto a worn collection of nutcrackers.

"I haven't seen these things in a very, very long time. I didn't realize we even still had them. Starting to wonder if Mother is a pack rat rather than a noblewoman. Rat in a dress." He snorted and looked to Fletcher, as if to judge how they were doing in terms of dinging each other with accidental emotional bumps and scrapes.

Fletcher did a double take. "Wait. Bed? I think we need to skip town after dark, don't y— "

But the woman left the room before he could finish. He made a grating noise in his throat and stared at the open door. "Unbelievable," he grumbled before remembering Aya. "Don't listen to her, dog. You're a right pain in the arse. Only reason she doesn't see it is you're both the bloody same."

Sighing, he slipped through the door and found a quiet place to wait. When it was his turn, he took his time scrubbing the shit smell off of every part of him, then emptied the tub and refilled it and got his clothes. His trousers he pulled back on damp. There was nothing that could be done there without giving the girl a proper fright. His shirt, coat, socks, and boots, however, he hung up near the fire to dry. He knew they wouldn't get all the way there. If they did leave town that night, he'd be miserable in them...but it beat the hell out of stinking like a sewer.

When all was done, he sat down, shivered, and waited for Olwyn to wake up, resolving to knock if it grew too late.

Ven cracked a wry smile in return. "And all healers are hypocrites when faced with downing our own medicine and heeding our own words, as you well know, I'm sure," he countered while he poured himself a cup of leafy tea. The sediment swirled and danced before settling slowly to the bottom. He found himself drawn in by watching it, as always, like part of his own little ritual. While he waited for it to cool, he returned his attention to his companion. "I think I am used to it. I think. Instructing the living to conserve their food while we travel...it is familiar. Another mystery to add to the long list, I imagine. Though if you take out your notebook again, I shall be displeased," he added with a hint of that same smile.

He watched Mr. Jewel unfurl the map, following the man's finger with hawk-like focus. From where he sat, he could barely see the thing, but he recalled the one he'd pored over in the study and he followed along well enough. Ven's lips pursed at the mention of Connlaoth. "Yes," he muttered with an air of clear distaste. "I have been to Kon-le-ot, I think, if it is north of your town. They are the most singularly terrible people I believe I have ever encountered, memory or no." He muttered a few additional choice words beneath his breath before squinting and focusing on where Mr. Jewel's finger slid next. He stood to get a better look, his black eyes darting from the place they were, to the city on the coast, back and forth, frown deepening all the while.

"If I am to understand just how vast this place is," he said, "Such a journey would take you a month away from your own homeland — at the least." Ven cocked his head, birdlike and strange, and stared at the man down as though he were trying to determine something. "You aren't taking me to a place to sell me for parts to some witch...are you?" he joked dryly. "Because I still cannot understand why anyone should leave his people for a complete stranger. Forgive me my hesitancy to believe. I'm sure it will all become clear in time."

Navigating the narrow confines of the storage room felt less like an impossible dance of avoidance now that he had a little whiskey in him. It didn't stop his heart from starting up again, or his fingers from tingling, but maybe that was just his body fighting the booze. Yeah. That was it. Don't kid yourself, he thought, and got to work moving the boxes.

The chore was a salve for the many dark and forbidden places his mind seemed to wander to as of late. Movement always did help, whether it took the form of fighting, or labor, or something else. Much as he suspected that this busy work was Theo's own way of coping with his fiancée, he'd take the distraction, and gladly. By the end of it, though, the same dust that had affected the nobleman earlier had now settled into his lungs, manifesting as a particularly persistent and wheezing cough. "Fuck me. Seriously?" he muttered as he stopped to press a hand against the wall and lean over until he could catch his breath. Maybe he needed to slow it down on the smoking, after all.