[[WARNING: This one-shot fanfic tells of a character's death. It contains bloody descriptions and an overall violent content. If you are easily impressionable, do not read this fanfiction and just ask me in-game who died and why. It's just a secondary character anyway.]]

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Silence in the Reef is deafening.

Marekh hated silence, and hated the Reef. Every time he ventured there, even before the Phatrie's wreck, and way before those damn marks appeared on his face, he cursed himself and the whole world for forcing him to be there.

He had lost count of the times he had questioned himself what was pushing him to fight for the Dolphin. For such an hellhole as the islands of Arrapago, rotten bones of a fallen Kingdom, of which the beauty he had never seen… Nor ever heard of from his father, or his grandfather before him. He was born on a ship, in a world surrounded by the lapping sound of waves, where silence had never existed.

And now there he was, in that place with no sun and no life, carefully walking over slick rocks, wet only from the humidity of the eternal fog and from the blood of an occasional victim, because there were no waves in the Reef, nor wind…

And in that dreadful, noisy silence… he felt his ears invaded by that music… he felt it sinking into his bones, shaking him from the inside. It was like an entity itself, "something" devouring everything, as if trying to cancel everything but him. It made him hear things that he didn't want to hear… His heart racing at each step; the sound of his feet on the stone and rotting wood, inescapable traitors that would eventually revealed his position to the enemy; his breath fighting to not grow any shorter; the downpour of water moved from the sea bonzes lurking between the flotsam; the ticking of the haunted bones that once belonged to his ancestors, now enslaved to the khimeras; and the Lamiae themselves, their harps and their whispers; completing the horrible orchestra was the draft slithering in the hundreds of tunnels in the Reef: an endless final breath.

He had called that the Music of Death.

Since when he had been branded, Marekh had always scoffed at the possibility of dying there. It was more of a mere act, he didn't need to show off to the others to let them know he was a tough one… They knew he was. But deep inside, in a remote corner of his head, Marekh wondered if to be dead meant to feel that music the whole time, an eternal doom of insanity and dreadful wandering in that place… And feared it. If his father had so kindly showed up from the otherworld and assured him that the afterlife was nothing like the music in the Reef, he would've stopped worrying and probably suicided there and now.

Anything to not hear that shit anymore…

Shaking his head, he focused back on the road. He was the crew's Tracker, and a master in intel gathering. Finding traces of the red-haired Immortal should've been a walk in the park for him. He was sure some of the traces he had found were his, and yet he was doubting himself. The rate at which he was finding signs of the man was irregular, nothing like his usual chore when chasing someone. Either that blue mage was very good at hiding, or something was interfering with his search.

Stepping on another wreck, Marekh looked around warily. There were no signs of Lamiae, which was unusal… Someone had been there to make them move, that was certain. However, there were no signs of a recent battle. Not above-deck at least.

With a snort, the corsair cursed again at the Midlander for being so hasty in dragging him back to Arrapago… even though he had immediately agreed to it. Anything was safer than the capital for him, but when you're in a place like the Reef, change of hearts are easy to come. After locating the door to the hold, he walked to it and peeked in from the dusty, cracked porthole.

His heart skipped way more than a beat when he saw a black-haired child sitting on the table across the room behind the door. He was swinging his legs playfully, staring straight at him with his golden eyes and a grin that only a small corner of Marekh's mind couldn't help but find terribly similar to Flame's. Suppressing the urge to yell, he jumped away from the door, one hand immediately pulling out one of his knives.

When Flame had returned to the Phatrie holding that disturbingly muscular woman in his arms and had told him what he had witnessed, Marekh almost laughed out of joy. To know that the Mist was controlled not only from a human being, but a crazy mid-aged man showing clear signs of an advanced stage of lung disease, had been of great comfort to him. If the Mist-Maker was someone he could kill, his death didn't look so imminent after all. Maybe deep inside it had been the very desire to get immediately rid of that guy and claim revenge for all the nightmares and stressful days to push him to offer himself to go find the woman's Immortal friend. No one of the other corsairs would've accepted to go find their potential assassin.

And yet… the sight of his 'guide' had managed in the blink of a second to revive an horror he had believed to be gone forever with the news of the Mist-Maker's identity.

He had two brands… He wouldn't have waked up somewhere with a bleeding cut this time. He would've disappeared. And he would've found out how all the others had gone before him. He would've seen the truth and not be able to tell anyone.

Not even by a long shot.

Marekh looked around. The Mist wasn't there yet. Yes, there was fog, but he had learned to recognize the right thickness and the 'smell' of the Mist. Also, he didn't feel any dizzy yet, and the song wasn't echoing in his head. He took a long breath and looked inside the porthole again. The kid was gone.

That's it… He had done it all on his own, it was just an illusion of his paranoia playing with his head. He hadn't slept much since the second brand, even when tied up and assured someone would make sure he couldn't sleepwalk away from his room… It was just normal that his head wouldn't be working the right way.

At the same time though he didn't feel like taking the risk and check inside the ship. Turning away, he located a catwalk and left the shipwreck. After quietly sliding down a rocky slope, he found himself on a small rocky island. There were two paths made with wooden ladders and boards leading to opposite directions. Checking the ground was of no use, as no footprints could be left on the rock, but a hunch suggested him that the Immortal would've chosen the most comfortable direction… The board was much easier to walk on than the ladder.

The board took him to a shore with a sleeping Jnun. The corsair gave the monster but a quick, careless glance before turning away and go back to take the ladder-way. He had seen the insane eyes of the red-haired Immortal. He wouldn't have left a monster to nap.

The ladder took him to two wrecked ships leaning against each other like two aged lovers enjoying a non-existent sunset on a beach. Marekh stared up at the flotsam for a moment, making sure neither was about to crumble on his head if he'd walk along the wooden tunnel the two enormous bodies had created. It looked safe.

Right as he stepped forth and looked ahead towards the end of the tunnel, he saw him.

The red-haired blue mage, the friend of the woman that had given him that nasty black eye, walked right ahead of him, appearing from behind the left ship and disappearing past the right one. He was wearing the imperial silks he had stolen from the Portal Guardian, but not the headpiece.

Marekh opened his mouth for a call, but shut it closed. Who could guarantee that the man wouldn't have attacked him immediately, without even giving him time to speak? And even if he had let him talk, what if he wouldn't let him go back to the Phatrie by himself? No.. a direct approach wasn't the way to go. He needed to leave him the message from a safe distance, from somewhere he couldn't have been followed…

The corsair stopped to give the red-haired guy enough time to take a sufficient distance for him to follow without being tracked in case he looked back. He tried to hear and count his footsteps, but he couldn't hear any. The Immortal had probably applied a silent oil on himself to not be detected by the undead. After fifteen seconds, Marekh walked past the ships and looked to the right. The Immortal wasn't on sight, but there was just one possible way to take in that direction. The corsair quietly followed the slick path on the rocks, staring ahead in the fog.

After about thirty yalms, he started to recognize a shape ahead, and stopped. Had he reduced the distance that much? He was called 'Quickstep' amongst the corsairs, but Marekh thought he had been careful not to go too fast. Narrowing his eyes to see whatever the Immortal could be doing, he almost jumped out of his boots when an arrow hissed in the air towards him, aiming at the head. He moved to the left just in time to avoid the shot, if only barely. The arrow's sharp tip cut the cloth on his cheek, and the band holding the turban still tied under his chin loosened, exposing his brands.

Marekh pulled out his knives again, in a defensive stance. He hadn't seen a bow nor a quiver on the Immortal, which lead him to the only possible conclusion. - Come out, you devil creature!

Another arrow came, and Marekh parried it before dashing forward. An archer had no reasons to come closer, especially with the fog concealing her to his eyes. When the Lamia appeared in his eye-sight, he stopped and parried a third arrow. The chimera shifted slightly on her tail, and narrowed eyes taking aim again. Marekh's eyes darted in the surroundings for less than a second, as he wondered where the Blue Mage had gone.

He looked back at the Lamia, but she didn't shoot yet. He took the chance to explore the surroundings again, one second longer. He wasn't there. The Lamia's arrow still didn't come. After ten seconds, Marekh frowned at the creature, not understanding what was taking her so long. She had still a good load of arrows in the quiver tied at the bottom of her back.

That's when he noticed that the Lamia wasn't looking at him anymore. Her bow still ready to shoot, and her face still towards him, she had though moved her eyes to the left. A trick to distract him? Marekh knew Lamiae didn't have that kind of behavior in their fights. They didn't need to deceive their prey. Still carefully though, he looked in the same direction, to a wrecked ship next to them. His eyes widened when he saw the Immortal leaning against the railing, looking down at them with an angered frown.

- Shit… - Marekh murmured, and then looked in shock as the Lamia relaxed the bowstring and put the arrow back in her quiver, before slowly slithering away. Did she fear the Immortal just as much as him? Marekh looked back up at the ship, but the Immortal was gone. Panicking, he looked behind him, as if expecting the mage to have come down in the blink of a second and be ready to cut him down. Nobody was with him. Allowing himself a long breath to shake away the surprise of what had just happened, the corsair ran along the ship and climbed aboard.

- Hey! - He called out once past the railing, looking around. The stealth plan was ruined, he knew that much. All he could hope now was that the blue mage would give him time to talk, and spared him. - I'm not sure if you remember me, but there's no need to fight. I'm here carrying a message about your companion, the female Midlander with all those knives.

He breathed when he finally spotted the Immortal, standing on the forecastle deck. He looked angry, but his weapons weren't out. Not like he needed to pull them out if he had wished to kill him: Marekh knew that much.

Studying the surroundings, the corsair decided to trust his captain's motto and gambled for a risky maneuver. Pulling out his knives in a non-comfortable way, he opened his arms. - I'm going to drop my weapons now, so you can see I'm not trying to fool you… That wound on my chest was enough for this month. - Marekh opened his hands and let the knives drop to the wooden floor with a dull chiming sound. - I'm going to come closer now so that we can talk. I'll do it slowly.

Innerly, he was feeling pity of himself. And he felt stupid too. It was like he was trying to convince Gurfurlur the Menacing to have a tea together.

He stopped at about ten yalms from the blue mage, when the red-head's eyes flashed blue. - Chill out, dude… I'll just say what I was told to tell you and then be off. That's good?

The red-haired hume lowered slightly his head, staring at Marekh. The corsair recognized pure hatred and anger in his eyes, and felt a grip to his stomach when he saw the Immortal's mouth opening, and the sparkles of electric discharges starting to flow out of it. There was no time to be reasonable or dodge, he had to shut the mage's mouth before it'd hit him with his radiant breath. Marekh charged with closed fists, and moved his right hand into an uppercut to the Immortal's head, hitting him and… getting through him, too. Stumbling as he literally jumped through his opponent, Marekh skidded to a stop and looked back… and felt his heart freezing.

There was no blue mage, no angry Immortal behind him.

There was the black-haired child.

Fighting to not stop breathing, Marekh stared down at the illusion, and his eyes darted to the knives just behind the kid. He forced a gulp down his throat to free his respiratory system from the grip of terror.

The child looked up at him, and brought his small, alabaster hands behind the curly dark hair, before tilting slightly his head and smiling playfully. - Found ya!

Marekh refused to look at his own body because he knew he was shaking terribly. How could he have been so careless? So focused on finding the Immortal, he hadn't even noticed the Mist surrounding him. He had probably been in it for a while now; the red-head had been the Mist-Maker's doing, too. However, this time it was different. He wasn't dizzy, there was no song, there was nothing claiming his body, forcing him to go somewhere he wasn't even aware of. He had been guided with deception. Why was it different?

After a few seconds, he opened his mouth to say something, knowing perfectly that there was no talking with the guide, or anything at all in the Mist. He wasn't even sure what he would've said, but he'd never find out. All what came out from his mouth as it opened was blood, and a shocked gasp at the great pain climbing down his back from the shoulder blades. Marekh stumbled forward, and looked behind. What he saw made him want to scream with all his willpower, but he couldn't.

Flame was wrong…

…I must tell them…

Something shaken him up, and one of his hands reached for the pearl in his pocket, but he couldn't reach it. And hiss in the air, something thrown, and then the feeling of something thin pulling. Marekh found himself tied at the wrists and ankles. The ropes pulled, and in the matter of a second he was laying on his back. The violent thud seemed to free his lungs, and he let out a loud scream of pain as the wound on his back touched the floor. He felt his own blood coming out under him at each heartbeat. He yelled again, but the second cry was chocked as a fifth rope wrapped around his neck.

The Mist-Maker hadn't moved at all in the mean time. He was just there, staring down at him, with Marekh's blood still dripping from his two blades.

The corsair frowned at him, at his calm expression. He wanted to say something, to scream, to yell, maybe even to beg for his life to be spared, but there was nothing he could do as he felt the five ropes start pulling simultaneously with a fierce force. Even though he had seen what was truly happening, he failed to understand how could a human possess that strength.

So this is how they all die…?

The Mist-Maker's voice reached his ears. - To the next New Moon… Senn.

The ropes pulled so much, his body was lifted from the ground. The rope around the neck was pulling his chin up, and his head jerked backwards. He had a glance of the floor beneath him for a mere second, and he stared blankly at the drawing of two crimson wings on the rotten wood.

The third brand.

Marekh went unconscious but a few seconds before the snapping sound, followed by six simultaneous thuds. The ropes relaxed.