Ensnared

Phrike likens being banished from the Shadowfell as a similar experience to coming back from the dead. In that respect, she has much in common with the Captain of the Discourteous Rose. While they have been hiking through the woods, she has imagined the ship often. Recalling better times. Putting the ship back together through collaborative effort. Moreover, how much easier it was to travel with it rather than hike through the woods. 

The first time Phrike saw Madeline, she was still in the midst of overcoming the challenges presented by the material plane. Phrike had no idea what her place in this world was. Not to put too fine a point on things, but she was scared of her shadow. 

The silent presence looming over her actions. Judging her from on high. Hoping for her to fail and thereby be persuaded toward the side of evil. 

When Phrike met Madeline, she tried to imagine herself at the helm of a ship. Being in charge of that many people. Sailing for parts unknown. Perhaps even beyond the realm of Rhódania. 

From then on, Phrike tried to emulate Madeline during battle. Staring enemies in the eye, and charging forth to defend what was precious to her. Relying not only on her prowess as a warrior, but the charms afforded to her as a female. To this day, whenever there was some success in those endeavors, she thought of Madeline. 

Perhaps she should be fitted for a pirate’s hat.

~*~

Phrike’s name echoed in her ears, the one-word response from Eamon. Here was proof that one of her only other friends in this world was still alive. Her brother had not lied at the behest of their father, after all. 

Phrike grit her teeth in frustration, gripping the now empty sending stone until her bones ached. Magic was a powerful tool when wielded by the right spellcaster. And yet, it was so stubbornly finite at the same time.

There had been many times when she had wished for the ability to use magic. When her friends were hurting. When the intentions of potential adversaries weren’t readily apparent. Most of all, when she wasn’t fast enough in battle. 

Using her ancestral shadow wasn’t quite the same. Phrike loathed the thought of being responsible for similar senseless destruction. Clinging to this belief helped her separate her identity from her father.

Picturing Eamon’s face wasn’t easy for her anymore. The years between their last meeting grew more pronounced with the passing of each day. There were simply too many details to share when—if, they ever saw each other again. 

Memories of her family had irreparably shattered when faced with the reality of their deception. Although she didn’t believe Eamon to be capable of evil, she didn’t want to become similarly disillusioned if she saw him again. Else she feared a piece of herself might wither away forever.

Phrike’s heart warmed when she thought about Conall. 

Love was a fantasy she had read about in books. After reading as much as she could, Phrike concluded these authors’ ideas of love were mere flights of fancy. When she met Eamon, she responded to his caring nature. This consideration had not been given without conditions in her family.

When she first met Conall, Phrike was intrigued. Much like Rhys, Conall cemented her fledgling belief that friends could be as trustworthy as family. Eamon and Conall elicited similar feelings of warmth and safety, though as individuals they were quite different.

What she struggled with was how she truly felt. Part of her still believed that if love was real, then there were people far more deserving of love than herself.

While Phrike took first watch, she picked up a stick and began to draw in the mud. Writing a two-columned list, along with the initials E and C. Both were compassionate and brave in their own way. Clearly these were attractive qualities. She added more details as they came to mind.

Some of these were easy to forget, when she hadn’t seen Eamon in years and Conall had become a part of her life in no time at all. Seeing the details written in black and white only confounded her conundrum.

Phrike hesitated. Drawing a third column. Which initial would feel sufficient? 

Telling herself she would erase the evidence at the first sign of trouble, she wrote a single letter in the mud. 

M.

Being attracted to women was a new experience. This was to say nothing of the way her heart fluttered whenever Feronia called her Mommy. Phrike hardly knew where to begin asking questions about her visceral reaction to that word. 

Phrike hummed into the quiet evening air. “Mmm.” She could hardly bring herself to say the word in question out loud. Trailing the back of her hand over her cheek, her eyes somewhat hazy as she tried again.

“Mmm…Mommy.” 

Whispering the word into darkness managed to flood her face with heat. It felt…not wrong. Taboo? Dimly she recalled Bob explaining the nature of what was considered taboo over a few pints of specialty ale.

Far easier to say it in her mind.

Mommy.

The face that lingered at the forefront of her mind was familiar. Flowing red locks. Impeccable dress sense. Phrike blinked slowly, almost as though she wanted to close her eyes. 

After leaving the Shadowfell, her imagination more than made up for the absence of space to create. There were moments when her daydreaming interfered with her ability to focus on her real life. 

Phrike silently promised herself to stay alert for any unusual sounds from the forest.

Meanwhile, she closed her eyes. Flexing her fingers, as they slid through a combination of leather and velvet that made up a handsome jacket. Such was the power of her imagination, Phrike could slip the bonds of the present as easily as leaving one room and entering the next. 

Soon Phrike imagined herself unfastening the updo, releasing endless waves of incandescent red hair. She let out a soft gasp, which she tried to hide behind her hand. 

Surely she was a simpering fool, breathless at the thought of brushing a woman’s hair. Yet the intimacy of such an idea left her wanting more. 

What would Phrike find, in those emerald eyes that sparkled with an untold myriad of emotion? Surprise? Pity? Horror? 

She flinched, perishing the thought. 

In this fantasy, Phrike allowed herself to imagine Captain Madeline Crowley as she had never seen her before.

Passionate. Receptive. Full of understanding, for Phrike’s limited experience in matters of the heart, and thereby pleasures of the flesh. 

Mommy. 

At last, a glimmer of understanding as to why that word made sense. 

Despite how much time had passed in her travels, there were moments when the material plane felt as murky as the Shadowfell. Having another soul that understood when hers needed to be nurtured was…appealing. 

Perhaps Feronia had been astute in her repeated observations. A smile played at her lips. What was the role of a mommy, truly? Curiosity compelled her to have this conversation with Feronia in the future.

Caring for her friends had not been a conscious effort. Phrike had looked for opportunities all her life, to show others the concern that was withheld from her adolescent years. At long last, she knew what it felt like to have friends that cared for her in return. 

What would it be like, Phrike wondered, to be regarded in a similar fashion by a lover? 

The second that thought entered her head, her imagination carried her away into a fantasy. 

~*~

After the battle in Madeline’s quarters, Phrike could only recall passing glances of the most personal space on the Discourteous Rose. Under normal circumstances, she assumed the door would only be open to those expressly invited. 

Phrike had theorized that the note left in Conall’s room aboard the ship was secretly from Madeline. It had made sense to her at the time. 

Now, Phrike imagined another hastily scrawled missive. 

Captain Madeline, inviting her for an after-hours drink. 

She passed by the speakeasy, stealthily moving through the halls. Careful not to disturb the crew, or her friends. She lifted her hand, poised to knock, when the door opened.

Phrike gasped.

Gone were her signature hat and coat. 

Instead, Madeline was a vision in green. She wore a silk robe, parted enough to offer a peek at the bodice underneath.

“Close your mouth, dear. Unless you’re one of the fish we’ve caught for dinner.” Madeline winked.

A burst of nervous laughter from Phrike. “Am I…late?” It was an odd thing to note, as the promise of an after-hours drink seemed to imply the lateness of the hour. She still hadn’t gotten the hang of appearing more put together than she really felt.

Madeline’s boisterous laugh was one to remember. “No, Phrike. You’re right on time.” She stepped back to let her through, closing the door once the two of them were well and truly alone. 

Phrike tensed. This wasn’t the same anticipation she felt before a fight was about to begin. The nervous energy in its place was palpable. 

“Have a seat. I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I sent for a bottle of the good stuff.” Madeline sat in the opposite chair at a small table near her bedroom window. 

Phrike perched on the edge of the chair. It felt impossible to look at Madeline, so her eyes moved to the label on the bottle. It was written in a language she was unable to comprehend.

“It’s a personal blend.” Madeline takes her time pouring two glasses. Without the possibility of magical side effects, this drink was bound to be on the tame side. 

Phrike took a polite sip, enjoying the blackberry flavor with subtle hints of vanilla. 

“Must be a relief when nothing strange happens after a sip.” Madeline’s smile widened, as she swirled the contents of the glass. 

Phrike laughed. It was good of the Captain to be able to joke about Wild Brew, given the infamous incident. “This is delicious.” She offered a non-committal response.

Madeline lifted her glass. “To the sea. May she remain calm, but never satisfied.” 

Phrike tilted her head, but clinked their glasses together all the same. The warmth of the alcohol with the flavors dancing on her tongue settled her nerves. 

“And what about you, Phrike?” Madeline finished her drink. “Are you chasing your satisfaction?” 

She blinked. Considering the question for a moment. There was that truth lingered at the edge of her consciousness. That no matter how much of life Phrike experienced, there would still be moments where she felt out of her depth. 

Like right now.

“Yes.” Perhaps there were other, better ways to find satisfaction beyond this relentless pursuit of knowledge. 

“I am, too.” Madeline’s eyes held a sparkle of promising intent. Phrike felt her heart miss a beat. Downing the rest of her drink, she pushed the empty glass forward on the table. Some part of her still struggled to relax, her spine ramrod straight in her chair. 

“You’re thinking loud enough for the both of us, dear.” Madeline stood, her movements lupine in their precision. 

“Wh-what do you mean?” Phrike hated how obvious the nervousness in her voice was. 

“I could tell you. Or, I could…show you.” As she spoke, Madeline rounded the table. Before long she was close enough to sweep a strand of silver hair behind Phrike’s ear. 

“I…” The gentle scratch of the Captain’s nails on her neck sent tingles down her spine. “I’m afraid I’m not…” The right word briefly left Phrike’s mind as she struggled to keep her thoughts in order.

“Experienced.” She finished lamely.

Instead of the derisive scoff Phrike had expected, Madeline’s answering smile was warm. “I believe I can help you there. If that’s alright.” 

Phrike’s eyes widened. It was an invitation, if ever she had heard one. Her breath caught in her throat, heart hammering loudly in her chest. “How would you help m-?” Madeline leaned in, tilting Phrike’s chin up and pressing their lips together. 

Phrike’s eyes widened. Madeline held her fast, her lips gently coaxing Phrike’s to part. 

Despite the drunken slipup that led to her first kiss with Eamon, Phrike had never known a kiss like this. The intimacy in their embrace was breathtaking. Phrike’s eyelids fluttered closed. 

Phrike’s fingers found the collar of her robe, before she gripped it tight. Madeline tasted like fire whiskey, in a way that seared into her memory.