Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I.

James' first impression of the man calling himself Raoul Silva is that he most certainly isn't a botanist. The lynx daemon seated at his feet is a dead giveaway, its tufted ears twitching forward slightly as it turns golden eyes in a lazy stare over to James, then to Vesper beside him; it yawns, showing a sharp row of pointed white teeth.

Silva himself smiles as James pads closer, as inscrutable as his daemon, his elbows resting on the rail of the airship, his hair dyed a platinum blonde several shades lighter than his daemon's tawny fur, leonine face drawn up in secretive amusement. He's dressed too lightly for the altitude, in a white dress shirt and a emerald green waistcoat richly patterned with gold and silver threaded patterns, elegantly and richly dressed, visibly unarmed.

At least his target's handsome and presentable, which might make this particular mission somewhat more entertaining. James sidles close, a fraction too far to be respectable, and puts on his best smile, even as Vesper curls around his feet, the snow leopard daemon's lustrous spotted silver fur catching the last warmth of the winter sun, keeping an eye on the lynx.

"Hello," Silva speaks first, extending a palm, his handshake firm, cool. "I don't believe that we've been introduced. My name is Raoul Silva."

Fake name, James thinks, judging from the faint curl to Silva's mouth. "Bond. James Bond."

There's no flicker of recognition, though James supposes that there wouldn't have been - James and Vesper make a striking pair, likely easily recognisable by the other players in the Great Game. If Silva is a Castile agent as M suspects, then he'll have long recognised James from the deck, enough to make mental preparations.

"You are part of the Court of Records' expedition?"

"I'm handling the security," James drawls. "It'll take us about two or three hours to reach Edynburgh, depending on the wind. An hour or so to clear bureaucracy and the ground crew, then we'll be in the City Under the City. That'll be when the fun starts."

"Have you been there before?" Silva asks, and elaborates, when James tilts his head, "In the City Under the City? You sound like you have."

"Once." It had not been pleasant. "Two levels down - only a little into Three."

"It was not a good memory?"

"Not one that I'm looking forward to repeating," James admits easily, just to see Silva's reaction, and instead of horror or tension there's a crinkle around the eyes. Amusement.

Definitely not a botanist. "You believe in monsters, James?"

"I've seen things there," James shrugs insouciantly. "Seen what the cold and the weight of the stone above in the City can do to Cravens and their daemons who work and linger too long in the dark. It's not pretty. And there's not really any flowers or grass to study down in the dark, Mister Silva."

"Oh, I'm sure there'll be something of interest," Silva drawls, looking him boldly over, even as the lynx uncurls and pads over to rub its cheek teasingly against Vesper's shoulder, sending a buzzing frisson through James himself. James allows himself to let out a soft gasp, and for Silva to lead him down to the cabins.

Their tangle on the sheets is rough and brutal, and allowing himself to be fucked into his bunk turns out to be rather more exhilarating than James had thought. Teeth close tight over his shoulders and Silva huffs out low moans whenever he drags James up and grinds himself deep, their coupling vicious and visceral enough that James finishes faster than he'd intended, messy and wet over the sheets.

Silva prefers to smoke instead of kiss when they finally pull apart, and from the deck, Vesper glances at James as his breathing slows; she's curled carefully against the lynx, her jaws resting against its flank, her thick tail in a sinuous comma against the deck. So far, so good. Vesper runs a rasping tongue in a lazy lick over tawny fur, and Silva straightens with a start, his smile curling and sharp over his cigarette.

"You have a beautiful daemon," Silva notes, without glancing at James. "What's her name, if I may ask?"

"Vesper," Vesper notes in a drawl, never one for James to speak on her behalf, and James grins as Silva's eyebrows arch, his lynx's bobbed tail flicking. It's not particularly unusual for big cat daemons to be strong willed all on their own, but Vesper's one of a kind - even through James' natural personal bias.

"Ah, Mister Bond, you are full of surprises," Silva chuckles, trailing sticky fingers down James' bared thigh, to curl them lightly over his calf. "Careful. Sévérine and I might want to keep you both." The lynx huffs at that, though it nuzzles Vesper with mock affection, against her jaw, and Vesper glances briefly at James before rumbling into a purr.

So far, so good.

II.

Edynburgh is as tedious as James remembers; save for London, he's never had much interest in the rest of Brytain and its Isles, not even the stretch of rangy old country that he'd grown up in. He suffers through landing procedures in silence, gives M a brief update with the dockmaster's office phone, and catches up with the mixed group of scientists at the Bastion.

The Court of Records had sent a pair of three scholars, mostly ageing men past middle age, with curling moustaches and silver hair, their crow and raven daemons fluffed and hunched on their shoulders. The Anglian scholar is slightly younger, but not by much; a pale woman with no humour in her eyes and mousy brown hair, a small emerald tree snake of a daemon curled warm under the sleeve of her greatcoat. And then there's the Castile 'botanist', looking far too comfortable in the snow drift, gloved hands tucked into his thick coat, glancing around with practiced curiosity at the squat iron facility that was the Bastion.

At least the Court had thought to send guards; there's a pocket of six assigned to James, all hard-faced men, veterans, by the look of it.

The Bastion exists with one purpose only - to keep visitors out of the City Under the City, and to keep the City's usual residents in. It's heavily guarded and armed, though its two reinforced gatling gunnery ranks face inwards towards rather than out, and the captain of the guard within looks grim as he takes James aside into the guardhouse.

"It's no' a good business, going Down now." Captain Carmichael is a florid and painfully honest looking man, thickset and hulking in his greatcoat, his daemon a Great Dane, lanky and huge in the small confines of the guardhouse. "There's been movements down Below. Something's got the Cravens all stirred up. We've already withdrawn all Rangin' ops up to the top level. None of our Searchers are gonna be willing to go down to Two, no' even if you give them all the coin in the world."

"I've been down past Two," James drawls blandly. "We'll be fine."

"It ain't you I'm worried about, sir," Carmichael notes gruffly, if with a touch more respect, "You've got the look of someone used to taking care of himself, if you don't mind me sayin'. Those scholars you're guarding, though, they're soft. Old men used to their books - pah! The City will break 'em."

"They're capable of making their own decisions. But I'll make them aware of your concerns." James hadn't particularly been looking forward to babysitting, on top of having to venture down into the City and deal with a possible Castile agent on top of it.

Still, M had made it clear that she had no real interest in the lives of the Court of Records' scholars, and that James' mission took precedence, so he supposed that getting everyone out alive was just going to be a bonus. His business was in espionage, not bodyguard work.

None of the scholars bow out when James discusses Carmichael's warning with them, though the female scholar's free hand flies up to her neck, and behind her, Silva smiles, inscrutable and dangerous. James avoids his eyes at the stir of answering heat that wells in a slow pulse within him, and takes a slow breath. Navigating the City is going to be complicated enough without distractions - at least for now, while he's still top heavy with actual scholars.

Carmichael's escort takes them through the broken streets and crushed rubble from the top level of the City, picking their way past a rotting city that had existed only a decade or so before Edynburgh. Time isn't still yet, not here, perhaps not until Edynburgh itself becomes the new top level, its people building ever above it, relegating their mistakes and their construction of the past to the stone beneath their feet. The smell is one of rust and damp and rot, and Vesper picks her way delicately over the dry ground, looking searchingly into the dark.

The scholars are huddled together, for warmth or emotional support, perhaps, but Silva stands a few steps apart, looking inquisitively around the ruined city, Sévérine occasionally leaping up onto cracked rubble to peer around and behind it. Definitely a Castile agent, James thinks. Here in Edynburgh for the same reasons, likely. M would have to search the Court of Shadows for intel leaks again.

James is studying a line of broken fences, likely hauled to be part of a last minute defensive barricade that was never finished, when Silva pads up beside him. They've stopped for lunch, a cold one, unpleasant in the steady underground chill, but Carmichael's men are too skittish for fire and the carrying scents of cooked food.

"Desperation," Silva murmurs, gesturing at the skeleton of the barricade-to-be that stretched in a crooked line almost across the plaza that they're resting in. At the centre, what had once been a circular bronze pool sat shattered and dry, its cupid fountainhead strewn in several unseeing pieces. "They were overrun quickly."

They're still close enough to the outpost that the lanterns here are anbaric, affixed at even intervals down the cleared route. It's almost charming, if one is given to ruin.

"The creatures in Two are manageable," James murmurs, pretending to study the faded stamps on the crates shoring up the fence, trusting Vesper to watch Silva for cues. "It's down in Three when things are likely to get difficult."

"I'm sure that we'll be fine in your capable hands, Mister Bond." James glances up when Silva slips fingers under his wrist, uncomfortably intimate, but he's careful not to jerk away.

"You seem like you'll be able to keep up. The others, I'm not so sure," James retorts, and Silva doesn't bother to refute the statement - instead, he laughs in a short, sharp bark.

"Oh, I'll try my best."

"You're not really a botanist, are you?" James decides to try his luck. He doesn't think that Silva would be the sort to panic and start shooting, especially with Carmichael's and the Court's escorts at James' back.

Silva merely smiles slyly at him. "I'm known to dabble in other matters now and then. What about you, Mister Bond? You don't quite strike me as the usual flavor of Court security."

"I have a few hobbies of my own here and there." As evasions go, it's a poor one, but Silva laughs again, with that unsettling sharp bark, and claps a hand on James's shoulder, hard enough for him to flinch.

"Then I hope that both our… 'hobbies'… have given us enough practice to survive down in Three, Mister Bond." Silva tips his chin towards the dark. "I am looking forward to it."

"I'm not," Vesper retorts with frank honesty, and Silva blinks briefly at the snow leopard in surprise; the lynx, however, is the one who snorts. "We barely escaped with our lives the last time, and there wasn't anything stirring up Two and Three. If there's something worrying Carmichael and his men now, then this mission is going to be suicide."

"So it will be," Sévérine murmurs, with a pointed glance at Silva, but he only shrugs at her and looks further into the dark edging closer around the corners of the harsh anbaric light.

III.

The entrance to Two is marked by another barricade of stone and sandbags, with another gunnery team facing the dark, and Carmichael's men would take them no further, even when one of the Court of Records' scholars - Professor Gillespie - pleads with, then threatens them. James ignores the minor, futile fracas, concentrating instead on helping the rest of the security team load up supply packs onto the draycart. It's clockwork run, wind-up craft, old-fashioned, but anbaric and even intention craft don't run well in Two, in James' experience; particularly the closer one got to the entrance to Three, where they're headed.

"Last chance to back out," James announces, when he's tired of the bickering, and the scholars huddle together for a moment before one of the Professors - the one with the raven daemon - reluctantly steps out, shuffling behind the gunnery team. There aren't any accusations from his colleagues, though they don't look at each other as the draycart gets wound to full and starts its putter into the dark, down the winding slope where the only light left will be from their lanterns. Anbaric for now; James will have to conserve matches and oil.

A rat patters across their path in a frantic scurry, and the woman - Professor Meyer - squeaks briefly in startled fright before a nervous laughter ripples through the scholars. James fights the urge to roll his eyes, padding forward to take point, even as he waves Court guards to take flank and rear.

The cleared road curls through a sprawling ruin that bars in the entrance to Two; perhaps once an administrative customs building of sorts, its sturdy, stately pillars shattered over its broken slabs of stairs, joined high to the walls. Under its archway are rooted the last maintained anbaric lanterns; as before, James stiffens once they step past, into the stifling gloom, and Vesper sniffs, padding away from James quietly, to look further ahead by herself.

There's a gasp from the scholars and a murmur ripples through the guard, but James ignores them, taking in a slow breath as the separation tugs at every edge of his being and soul before settling against the bulwark of his training. Court of Shadows operatives had to learn to function with separation; particularly those whose daemons could be useful at scouting and at war.

Vesper only reappears when they've stopped to take a break for lunch, hidden in an old granary set against the cavern walls, away from the road and up a slight hill, defensible. She slinks up into the light behind James, and waits until he reassembles his pistol before rubbing herself heavily and affectionately against his back.

In his peripheral vision, James seems the guard assigned to keep watch cross himself fervently, and he smirks to himself. Most people would be unaware that separation could be trained, though not to the distances that the witches were known for. This, more than most of the other aspects of his training, had served James best over the years.

"It's quiet up ahead," Vesper murmurs. "Hardly a peep from our friends the Ferruvites."

"And we're making enough noise to call down their High Ferrum himself from Ply Aven," James agrees, glancing out past the flickering anbaric lamps and the rewound draycart. "Was there some sort of border conflict?"

"Corpses have been left where they fell. Ferruvites and some others, unmarked, tattered rags for clothes, filthy twisted things. If you ask me, it looks as though they had a scrum with the Scavs, but-"

"The Scavs aren't this organised or violent," James finished, recalling the thankfully brief memories he had of sneaking through Scavenger territories, of observing the bent and twisted men and women who made their living scrabbling through the ruins of Two for any food or water that they could get. "And they certainly don't have the strength to band up against the Ferruvites. Something's wrong."

"What is?" James stiffens, his hand almost jerking to the pistol that he'd hidden under his coat, but Silva merely smiles politely at him, even as Sévérine pads over to sit next to Vesper.

"Nothing for you to be concerned over," James retorts shortly, but Silva sighs and settles down beside him on the dusty bench, his hands demurely in his lap. James glances at the scholars, who have huddled further away, their fear of Two briefly overcome as they study a stack of rotting books filched at passing from an old Court of Records registry that they had passed on the way to the granary, seemingly absorbed.

"Let's try this again, Commander," Silva's voice drops to a murmur, and he extends his palm. "Tiago Rodriguez, of the Corte de Noche in Castile."

James glances at Vesper for a moment before he shakes Silva's hand. "James Bond. Court of Shadows. Why the sudden honesty, Mister Rodriguez?"

"'Tiago', please." Silva - Tiago - purrs. "Secrecy seemed pointless. Better to go… 'all in', is that what you Brytonnians would say? I think we will need each other, perhaps even before we descend into Three."

"Will we?" There's a curious, attractive confidence to Tiago's demeanour that may or may not be originating from how their daemons are sizing each other up, Vesper using her superior height to glower over at Sévérine, their whiskers almost brushing.

"You've said before that your experience going past Two was not a good one. Yes? You will need my help."

"I have the benefit of experience this time round," James retorts, though he smiles faintly as Vesper flicks her tail over his shoes, curling thick fur possessively over his feet.

"Do you think that the rest of them will last?"

"No." Even the veterans of the Border Wars assigned to them would have had no real preparation for what was to come. "We're only a barely a quarter through Two. Soon we'll be near the heart of the Court of Ferrum. I managed to skirt around it before."

"But now our party is bloated." Tiago flicks his gaze over to the draycart, and purses his lush lips for a moment before letting out another soft, harsh laugh. "Protecting them isn't the real reason you're here, is it, James?"

"Just as I doubt that you're truly that interested in non-existent flowers."

"We might need their help," Vesper cuts in on cue, her tail curling and uncurling. "At least, to get through Three to Four."

James makes a show of considering this that he knows that Tiago sees through; the Castile agent grins at him, even as Sévérine rubs her cheek with mock affection against Vesper's thick mane. "A truce, then," James offers.

"A truce," Tiago returns, and the lazy dangerous gleam in his eyes meets a brief bared arc of teeth; arousal pulses quick and unwelcome through James even as he pulls in a slow breath. Whatever Tiago is here for, he does mean to terminate James at the end.

That's good to know, even if the conclusion likely won't be as foregone as Tiago might think. Besides, where James' missions are concerned, someone usually dies.