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CHAPTER FOUR: "there are no saints. only men."
MERCY HAD NIGHTMARES - BUT WHO DIDN'T? Night terrors, ephialtes, bad dreams, they were a curse of the human condition and no matter how much she'd tried to become anything else, human would always be the burden she bore.
But what neither Mercy, nor any healer in the Little Palace could explain was how her nightmares were as unknown to herself as they were to the waking world. Night after night, Mercy woke in a cold sweat with the remnants of terror leaving salt lines on her cheeks but the second she left that in-between world of dreams, that's when they left her.
It had been a week since Mercy woke in her own bed with a panic so fierce it almost paralysed her, her limbs taking on the heavy weight of stone and her breath catching in her heaving chest. Which meant seven days since Ivan stopped her heart and seven days for her to nurse an unwavering grudge against the Darkling's Heartrender. Seven days of the eternally jovial Sturmhond recounting how Mercy swooned into his arms like a lovesick princess. Frankly, she'd rather have her heart stopped again.
They had sailed far beyond the bounds of piracy, deep into the eternal frost of the Bone Road. Reckless as she was, not even Mercy had risked taking the Immaculata into these waters. She may be a gambling woman but there was no thrill to be had in ending up as just other unnamed shipwreck on an unnamed island until the frost nestled into her skin like the lover she'd never find.
Mercy was never one for superstitions - but being out there, in the land that even the Saints were supposed to fear - it was enough to make her hold blades close.
Every morning, like clockwork, Alina Starkov was brought to the deck and paraded around for the Darkling's pleasure. Since the altercation, Mercy had made no effort to cosy up to the supposed Saint and thankfully, the Saint made no attempts to breach the gap. Instead, Mercy watched from afar whilst she ordered the sails to be trimmed, or the course to be adjusted or for loud-mouthed Privateers to stop talking.
That was, at least, until that day. Mercy was in the midst of faking sympathy for the Boatswain, who had come to her in a state of both shock and disbelief at the bluntness of his weapons, he was in the midst of an uphill battle to sharpen their steel blades. For this, Mercy struggled to hide her amusement. How unfortunate that if this vessel were to be attacked (imagine the horror!) that their weapons (despite their best efforts) would be in a state of perpetual bluntness, unable to lift a finger if someone were to (oh, who knows) steal a Sun Summoner. It may even be said that any Fabrikator trained in the more underhand methods of warfare would know how to tamper with the density of their enemies' weapons so subtly that if they were to be used in combat, they would simply shatter under the force of impact.
