Chapter Text
“Kippling! KIPPLING!”
There’s several ways one might react to their name being hollered at the top of someone’s lungs, but what your body usually resorts to, in blind shock more so than anything else, is to follow the noise - and so the poor Weathermage’s unsteady feet carry him above deck before the rest of him can protest that course of action.
It’s not a terribly wise one, after all - the storm currently raging everywhere around them is of the rather violent variety, rain and wind whipping the ship’s hull with unceasing intensity, tossing her about like a piece of driftwood, at the mercy of the currents... And the currents currently spell nothing but disaster.
“Do you fucking mind doing your job?!” The Captain hollers, cutting an impressive, stern figure at the helm, tall and broad and solid against the tar-black sky for about the span of one second, before another tremor seizes the deck, and he, alongside everyone else on board, almost topples over the railing.
“Right now!”
And so Ansel Kippling, freshly certified Weathermage aboard his very first officially assigned cloud cruiser, does his level best - it’s just that his best is unfortunately a teensy bit underwhelming.
Oh, he’s practiced enough, he was even lucky to set foot on a ship several times before the real thing came about, not a given for everybody in his line of study, but it’s one thing, anticipating what the weather will do in controlled conditions, with much more experienced mages on board ready to step in if - when - things go awry...
And a whole ‘nother, facing off a storm nobody prepared him for, nobody conjured up to test him, a storm he barely even saw coming, if he’s being honest.
Hiding within the belly of the ship studying and taking notes, when he should have in fact been on board reading weather patterns for the past, oh, couple of hours, certainly didn’t help, but what’s done is done, he supposes.
All that he can do right now, is, against all odds, his actual job.
He closes his eyes. In theory, he's capable of concentrating better that way, reaching out and feeling the weather around him, as well as the ebb and flow of magic emanating from the nearest Source at his disposal... In theory.
In practice, nearly all his senses are assaulted at once - the ice cold shards of rain halfway to freezing hitting his face, the roar of thunder, the smell of lightning like copper coins, and the pull; the pull of the magic itself, emanating from the Source closest to him, which in this case would be the ship herself, and her heart of pure energy captured only as if through sheer dumb luck, how do they keep these things afloat in one steady direction when all they want to do is follow the wind...
He staggers on his feet, then steadies. Time slows down around him. He recalls his training.
It’s an almost physical strain on every single muscle in his body, reaching out for the Source and attempting to steal some of its energy for himself - your job as a Weathermage is, first and foremost, to be one with the ship. To keep her alive, and she will provide you with power in return...
Gods, but it’s so much easier doing this when his feet are touching solid ground.
“Keep her steady!” Ansel hears the Captain’s voice, as if from a great distance, and he really, really wants to tell him to shut up, but he doesn’t have any strength left in him to do that, not when he finally manages to connect - timber creaks and moans as he succeeds at capturing one gust of wind, then two, then half a dozen...
It’s like weaving a tapestry, and despite the elements’ incredible strength, or really precisely because of it, it has to be done slow - this sail meticulously nudged this way, that sail gently pulled back-
“Could you please stop messing with the rigging while I’m working?!”
His voice isn’t his own for a brief moment out of time, coming out rougher, more demanding than it’s ever been, and his eyes fly open to all the proof he needs that he hasn’t found his place here yet - the Captain doesn’t trust him in the least, his people in the ratlines and all the way up the masts, working the sails as they see fit, which really, really defeats the purpose of him even trying at all...
What also defeats said purpose, is him plummeting to his death when his foot slips on a wet plank, but that is fortunately prevented by a strong hand getting a firm grip on his shoulder, steadying him - somehow, even with the rain pummeling them left and right, the Captain still manages to look like that, features like cut marble, hair whipping about his face, like one of those godforsaken paintings in all of Ansel’s godforsaken books...
“Just give us steady wind!” The man hollers in his face, effectively shattering all illusions. “We’ll handle the rest! Do your job!”
And so Ansel does his job. He knows he is theoretically capable of more, can feel it in the wind he only adjusts just so while the crew do their part, can feel it in the droplets of rain already finding their way underneath the neckline of his robe, shit, he forgot a drying charm again-
All things considered, he could be a pretty decent Weathermage, if someone just gave him the time and space to get his mind in order, just a little bit.
But as things stand, he’s running short on both counts there.
‘Piss-poor job’ and ‘Congrats on not getting us all killed’ are his only bits of praise after they’re out of the worst of it, the ship making it out of the roughest of the storm clouds, and finding a comparably clearer patch of sky - she sways in a downward arc so deep it makes Ansel’s stomach flutter, and then the rain is suddenly nothing more than a pitter-patter, the big nasty dark mounds above them now, the cloud cruiser actually, finally, cruising.
Almost sure his knees won’t buckle under him now, Ansel makes it to the railing, and looks down, where the roofs of the hamlets along the main stretch of The Ribbon resemble beads scattered around the aptly named trading route, snaking its way through the countryside this way and that until it disappears in a distant fog, that’s how high up in the sky the ship’s still sailing...
At least he can see solid ground - not for the first time and certainly not for the last, he thinks of his counterparts serving on sea-bound ships, and resolves that he still has no earthly idea how they do what they do, with all that water underneath them.
“Hey. That was pretty good.”
This voice doesn’t immediately seek to disparage him, and he relaxes a little bit - it’s the First Mate, in all her tiny glory, jumping off the ropes right next to him, always surprisingly nice to Ansel where no one else seems to be even distantly familiar with the concept.
“Yeah, right,” he huffs, raking his hand through his hair, finding it miserably drenched. “Not like I did much.”
“You did enough,” she winks at him, then follows his line of sight towards the helm, where the Captain is currently conversing with his officers. “Don’t worry about him. He’s just used to doing everything his way. He doesn’t like deferring to anyone, much less... you know.”
“I know,” Ansel pouts, and she attempts to appear at least a little bit apologetic - which, on her sharp little Arra face, all big eyes and now-damp crown of crimson feathers, looks more like she’s teasing him still.
“I just mean he’ll get used to you. He doesn’t have a choice.”
“Even better. Thanks, Dee.”
“That’s First Mate Dae-Rin to you, chump,” she frowns at him, then giggles, slapping his arm. “Come on. Let’s get dry-”
“Kippling! With me!”
“Rats,” Dee snorts, while Ansel pales - the Captain’s voice booms above everyone and everything else, and already he can see other sailors side-eyeing him, sniggering to themselves.
“Come on, then,” the First Mate ushers him on with as much compassion as she can probably muster.
And so he goes.
“Captain,” he nods after they’ve climbed up to the helm, the small deck a bit overcrowded now, the man’s stern glare far too close for comfort.
“I thought that went pretty well,” Dae-Rin declares cheerfully, and the Captain rolls his eyes.
“It went shit. Don’t cover for him, Dee. You.”
“Yes,” Ansel sighs, sudden exhaustion weighing down his bones - not to mention the rather pressing need for a dry change of clothes.
“What the hell was that, huh?” The Captain demands - up close, Ansel is reminded that he probably isn’t that much older than him, a couple years at best, which is fascinating in and of itself, but the firm set of his jaw and the perpetual frown overshadowing his frankly rather striking almond-shaped eyes, not to mention the slightly intimidating scar bisecting one entire half of his face from brow to cheek, all make him look much older, and much more, uh... unapproachable, for the lack of a better word.
“I thought I was just doing my job,” Ansel replies, his legs a bit wobbly now, but not with nerves, not anymore - asking for so much magic so quickly has left him a bit drained, as it always does, his heart beating slower, his very muscles worn out.
“You and I must have very different ideas of what your job entails, then,” the Captain snarls. “You do not tell my people how to work their goddamn sails.”
“Well, to be fair,” Ansel gestures, feeling just lightheaded enough to be stupid enough to talk to the man this way, “if your people actually let me steer the ship the way I was supposed to, we could have saved everyone a lot of legwork...”
Next to him, Dee snorts discreetly, or maybe that’s just Ansel’s mind playing tricks on him - he is pretty dizzy at this point.
“You can’t even tell a storm is coming, and you want me to leave you in control of my ship?” The Captain says deceptively quietly, but no less sharply. “Do you know why you’re even aboard? ”
“Kazan, come on...” the First Mate butts in gently, but the Captain ignores her.
“It’s because I’m required by law to have a blasted Weathermage on my crew. Doesn’t mean I have to listen to you. ”
Ansel wants to say something constructive, smart even, he really really does, but his words mostly fail him, and what actually comes out, is a very irreverent: “What happened to the last one, if you don’t mind me asking? The poor sod who had the misfortune of working for you before me?”
“Oh boy,” Dee winces, and Ansel immediately knows he’s misstepped - the storm returns, in the ferocity of the Captain’s glare, and it doesn’t set Ansel ablaze where he stands only because Dae-Rin saves him in that very moment, physically pulling him away.
He stumbles after her, completely at her mercy now because his feet are really starting to betray him, until she pushes him below deck and into his cabin.
“Kiddo, you’ve got a death wish,” Dee announces the second they’re alone, and Ansel, feeling all his leftover energy swiftly deserting him, can do nothing but agree silently, half sitting, half collapsing into his cot.
“If you want to stay alive a day longer on this ship, you do not mention the previous Weathermage, you hear?” The First Mate continues, perching close to him, her large round eyes gleaming in what little light makes it into the tiny cabin - Ansel frowns at her, trying to concentrate, and she takes it to be a sign of defiance, slapping his arm. “I’m serious! The Captain isn’t a bad person, but he’s got his... stuff, alright? Baggage.”
“Don’t we all,” Ansel sighs, currently trying to gauge if he even has enough magic left within him to charm himself dry before he drifts off to sleep.
“Yeah. We do. And just as yours isn’t my business, you leave his alone, yeah? You’ll find your place here, if you just keep your head down and do your job properly. Kazan recognizes a hard worker.”
“Don’t know that I want to,” Ansel mumbles, hugging his arms around his torso tight, feeling the tremors of a proper chill coming, the result of ‘oh I really should have worn my warmer clothes’. “Find my place here.”
She watches him mutely for a moment, her head inclined to the side at an angle only the bird people are really capable of, before sighing so heavily it’s as if she’s suddenly decades older.
“Right. Because you have so many other cloud cruisers to choose from right now. Because the Captain has a dozen other Weathermages lining up to work for him...”
“What?” Ansel perks up a little bit at the distant implications of that last sentence.
“Nothing. Baggage, remember? At the end of the day, neither of you really has a choice. And if that ain’t why we’re all up here in the first place...”
He wants to say some more, but the chills seize him then, so powerfully they make his teeth rattle, and she rolls her eyes at that display of human weakness - the Arra simply don’t get cold. Something to do with being half bird, or what have you.
“Unbelievable,” she judges him. “Get changed, get a cup of hot raftak from the cook, I’m sure he’s already got it boiling. Weather should hold for now, so if you do make it above deck again, just try and avoid making the Captain too angry...”
And really, Ansel absolutely plans on doing all of that, but by the time he’s managed to change, and get warm, he’s also succeeded at becoming so thoroughly sleepy that when he weighs the pros and cons of staying awake just to feel the Captain’s wrath, and the crew’s ire, the only logical conclusion is to give in, and fall asleep.
He dreams of the Academy, because when does he ever not, when do his dreams ever offer him peace - he wakes up in what looks to be the middle of the night, a desperate apology to all his teachers of old still on his lips, and finds that he’s not doing much better by way of getting warm. He wraps his blanket around his shoulders like a cloak, and stands up, sending light into the nearest lantern - as if offended at being disturbed for such a menial task, the ship creaks and groans under his feet, and he almost apologizes to her out loud.
Instead of doing that, he makes his way over to his desk, and considers what Dae-Rin told him, or didn’t tell him. The Weathermage who worked here before him must have left a while ago, or that’s what he’s surmised so far, based on how understocked this cabin is - no notes on the ship’s performance were left behind, no ledgers, nothing to assist him in getting to know the vessel...
Lumm’s sakes, if he hadn’t brought his own pen and paper, he would be carving his findings into the ship’s very timber by now.
His fingers a bit like icicles still, he unwraps the binding of his large leather notebook, and sets about writing down the misery that was today’s attempt at steering the ship - if he closes his eyes, he can still feel her reluctance, the sluggishness with which she lent him her magic.
He can’t really blame her for that, though - he’s studied long and hard enough to know that the fault is always, always with him, not the Source... And what a Source she is. Her name is The Nova, and she’s one of the Emperor’s cloud cruisers, one of the older ones, built way before Ansel even stepped foot in the Academy hoping he might see the likes of her one day - three masts on her, steering sails at her sides sharp as daggers, long, sleek hull meant to not only withstand, but outrun the elements, and her core...
Her core can hold more magic than Ansel could ever hope to use up in one trip, and when they next stop at a proper Source to refuel, it will be embarrassing to watch just how little extra she’ll need, how little she actually let him use.
“You deserve much better than me,” he mutters, scribbling down letter after letter, and a series of crackles reverberates in the walls, as if she’s laughing at him.
As if she agrees.
“I don’t have time for this, Dee. I need someone who can actually handle the ship.”
“Oh, give me a break. We’re not at war anymore. What you need to do is relax, and let the poor kid do his job.”
“As if he’s any good at it,” Kazan huffs. “The damn ship won’t even let him touch her.”
“Wonder why that is,” Dee says meaningfully, and when he glares at her, she only shrugs. “All I’m saying is, maybe if we at least tried writing to Wren-”
“We are not writing to Wren. We’re not even saying her name out loud on this ship ever again. She’s gone, and that’s that. Her loss, remember?”
Dee is now looking at him almost like she pities him, and it makes his blood boil.
“Don’t. She made her choice. She thought she could take Nova away from me, and look where that got her. Never again, Dee. I’d much rather suffer an incompetent Weathermage who’s, I don’t know, barely along for the ride, than... that. You hear me?”
“I hear you,” she sighs. “Just give him a chance, yeah? He might not be as useless as he looks. I feel it in my-”
“If you say in my bones, I swear to god,” he cuts her off. “Your bones are hollow , Dae-Rin. I don’t trust ‘em.”
“Don’t be a dick,” she tells him fondly, patting his shoulder as she leaves him, and he almost, almost turns right back around to apologize to her, but then...
But then, if anyone knows it’s not needed, it’s his good-for-nothing First Mate, who’s also, by some trick of the fates, actually his best friend. His only friend, probably.
It’s not his fault that nobody taught that Weathermage what it’s like on an actual ship, though - Kazan doesn’t know what the lessons look like at that damn Academy these days, but they clearly don’t cover what it’s like to be a part of a living, breathing crew. What it’s like to follow orders, and what happens if you don’t.
Could you please stop messing with the rigging while I’m working...? For a second there, Kazan could swear it was Wren back on board, ordering everyone around like she was the only one in charge, the ship happy to bend to her every whim, as was her crew, as... As was Kazan himself...
But that was then, and this is now - now he’s got some jumped up, skinny little Academy kid on his hands in her stead, and the irony of it all is enough to bring him to his knees, on a bad day.
But without a Weathermage, The Nova doesn’t fly, and without her, Kazan would truly be lost.
He can play nice. He thinks. Correction, he can play nice long enough for them to follow through on their current orders, and then, when the Emperor is oh-so-happy with his exemplary service, Kazan will be able to officially request a proper Weathermage. No harm done to the current one, of course, Kazan was more than happy to show him the ropes, it’s just that he’s not a good fit for the ship, surely you understand, sir...
There. Just gotta weather it a while longer, pun absolutely intended.
First, they have to handle Ammar, though. If it were up to him, he’d never set foot on solid ground except to restock here and there, but it’s where their next orders are, and their next paycheck alongside them...
It’s just that out of all the ports in Wallastera, Ammar stinks the most.
Sitting on the confluence of three different trading rivers, one of them leading all the way to the scorched dirt of S’surkada, makes it an indisputably important trading hub, but it also makes it smell of fish, day in and day out. It doesn’t help that the cruiser port itself is so uncharacteristically low to the ground that the ship risks cracking her hull on the town’s rooftops just approaching it, and people down there are already pointing and talking, talking and pointing.
Been a while since a cloud cruiser was last seen here, Kazan knows, and it’ll only make his job that much more difficult.
“Remember, we’re not selling anything, we’re not buying anything, and we’re definitely not hiring.” He addresses his crew quickly and sternly, all of them, unlike him, eager to get off board for a precious few hours, and receives a chorus of assent for his troubles. He can see the absence of the Weathermage among his people, and although he can’t altogether blame him, it still only adds to his annoyance.
“Dae-Rin has got your shifts,” he sighs, more than happy to hand the word over to his First Mate. “ You know the drill - we leave at sundown, that’s less than eight hours from now. Be here, behave, or we leave you behind.”
“Any chance of some proper shore leave any time soon, Cap’n?” A lone voice hollers from the crowd, and Kazan doesn’t have to look too hard to recognize who it belongs to.
“When our orders allow for it, yeah,” he says casually, adding ever so bitterly: “Don’t know what you’re getting so worked up about anyway, Erik. We all know Ammar doesn’t have any good whore houses.”
Crude but effective, the remark sends the crew cackling, many of them slapping the incorrigible loverboy in question on the shoulder, and it’s enough - enough for now. They like Kazan well enough, but it’ll be short-lived if ever he stops keeping them in check, ever stops challenging them.
That’s what you get, though, for forcing a bunch of pirates to turn into soldiers.
Still, serving on a cloud cruiser is a point of pride for any sailor, no matter their past, especially if you’re allowed to boast about it over a tankard of something strong every now and then, and so he’s reasonably sure that he won’t be losing any people today.
“Oh, is this it? Are we going?”
Certain other members of his crew, though, Kazan could easily see himself saying goodbye to.
“Nice of you to show up,” he grunts, barely accosting the Weathermage with a fleeting glance before taking off, not actually caring if the man follows. He shoots a look Dae-Rin’s way, his First Mate currently in charge of the main deck, and could swear he sees her mouth a pointed ‘Play nice’.
“In my defense,” the mage hurries to say, somehow matching pace with Kazan almost effortlessly, even though he does have trot to keep up, “you didn’t actually notify me we were about to go anywhere. ”
“My mistake,” Kazan says drily, bracing himself for the very real impact of making it off the bridge connecting Nova’s deck with solid ground, and suddenly becoming a part of the crowd.
“I’m not that stupid, you know!” The Weathermage proclaims, all but pouts at Kazan. “And you actually do need me by your side in the blasted Emperor’s Office- oh, excuse me-”
Clearly much less proficient at navigating the aforementioned crowds, Kippling has succeeded at colliding with about half a dozen people in the span of the blink of an eye, and Kazan finally takes pity on him, if only to stop him from making fools out of them both, and grabs his elbow to steady him.
“Could have fooled me,” he growls. “That guy almost had your purse.”
“Wha-” The mage huffs, turning back around to look at the foiled robber, long since seamlessly disappeared into the mass of people.
“Yeah. You need me more than I need you, looks like.” Kazan allows himself that, just a bit of teasing, before he’s pulling the short sprout of a man by his elbow in their predestined direction. “When we get to the Office, don’t say a word. Seriously, just stand there and look the part. They’ve got your papers, same way they’ve got mine, and once they see we’re both who we say we are, they’ll lose interest in you.”
“Why, uh... Why wouldn’t we be who we say we are?” Kippling wonders, and Kazan almost, almost leaves him to be devoured by the streets right there and then.
Cushy life at the Academy up until now, he has to remind himself. Petty crime never makes it past those marble walls.
“Just smile and nod,” Kazan almost pleads with him. “You can do that, yeah? No matter what the new job turns out to be, do not comment. Keep your little opinions to yourself.”
“Oh, I’ve had practice, believe me,” the mage utters, and when Kazan shoots him a scorching glare, he has the gall to look a picture of perfect innocence.
“Don’t test me. I can still leave you behind right here.”
“I’d like to see you explain that one,” Kippling counters breezily.
“I have my ways,” Kazan growls.
“Ooh, well color me terrified.”
“I said not to test me. You’re testing me right now.”
“Oh please. I haven’t even started testing you, believe me, you’ll know-”
“Alright, that’s it.” It’s far too easy, reaching forth and grabbing the little whelp until he doesn’t have a choice but to stop, Hey!, the two of them ending up chest to chest as the crowd parts around them like a river around a rock.
“Don’t mistake me for someone who has a sense of humor about this shit,” Kazan says firmly, his earlier mood for teasing dead and gone now. “You have one job here, and you can’t even do that right. I told you when we picked you up that you needed to prove yourself, otherwise you had no place in my crew, and remind me how long ago that was?”
The mage only stares, eyes damnably huge. Kazan won’t be falling for that ever again.
“It’s been weeks. Weeks, Kippling, and it doesn’t look to me like you’ve proven yourself just yet. Doesn’t look like you’ve been doing much of anything, actually. And I don’t have enough room on my ship for dead weight.”
He knows that last blow landed before he even really finishes the sentence - remarkably composed up until then for someone so squirrely in general, the Weathermage flinches at that final sentence, and his eyes (still so huge, still so blue, damn him) glaze over with... oh, great, now Kazan has gone and reduced yet another person to tears. Serves him right.
Deep down, he wishes the man would fight him, argue with him, do anything aside from very clearly swallowing his feelings, his jaw set tighter than Kazan has ever seen it in the aftermath.
“Fine,” he says, voice cold as ice now, looking Kazan up and down with something approaching levels of disdain so piercing it almost gives him pause. “Good luck finding a new Weathermage, then.”
And he walks- no, runs away, quick as the wind he’s so horrible at conjuring, and leaves Kazan standing there all alone.
“Fuck,” he utters, pinching the bridge of his nose, but doesn’t, against what the sensible part of him is telling him to do, break into a run to go catch the man and bring him back.
All that he said was right - he doesn’t have the time or space to mollycoddle this kid, and if this is how they part ways, then, well, he’s just going to have to come up with an acceptable explanation for the Emperor’s Office as to why he’s going to be requesting a new Weathermage much sooner than anticipated, again.
At last, he takes off in the opposite direction than Kippling bolted in, towards the Office, towards yet another boring job, and all the way, he tries and largely fails to silence the little voice in his head that tells him in no uncertain terms that maybe he should have tried a bit harder this time.
Oh, Dae-Rin is going to have a field day with him when he gets back.