They don't come back the same.

Archer stood in a field of glass.

Everywhere he looked, glass lay against the deck. It was piled at least six inches high, sharp edges up to his ankles. The hot sun burned against his face and skin, but there was nothing on the miles of ship deck except fractured glass.

Then, suddenly, there was the balcony. The steps, the door to the captain's quarters of the Avourienne. Archer glanced at it, then took a step forward. His feet were bare, and they sliced along the glass as he walked, drawing blood. He stepped onto the first stair. On it, there was a faded bloodstain that he'd never noticed before.

He made his way up the steps, finally free of the glass. His feet still drained blood as he reached for the door.

He never had to twist the knob, for the captain's quarters was now all around him. It didn't look like it usually did, just the desk and the chair, and Bardarian behind it.

He watched Archer come through the door, navy eyes sparkling. His facial hair was neatly trimmed as always, his jaw still that sharp, perfect line. He smiled, face twisting into the same expression that coaxed those around him into compliance.

"Good evening, Kingsley," Bardarian said. "Have a seat, lad." He gestured to the chair in front of the desk, which hadn't been there before.

"Evening, Captain," Archer heard himself say, even though the morning sunlight was streaming through the windows. He sat down on the chair as Bardarian clasped his hands over the wood.

"You know, Kingsley, you're rather brilliant," Bardarian said. His stare was icy but friendly, simple but intuitive.

"Thank you, sir."

Bardarian waved his hand. "Don't take facts as compliments, lad. Makes you look like you don't agree with them." He leaned back.

"Yes, sir."

He smiled. "Good lad. Look, Kingsley. I'm a smart man as well, but it's not an easy thing to tell. It's something I've been doing for ages. I'm the brawn, not the brains. That way, my crew will tell me more, confide in me more—people are more inclined to trust those by which they aren't intimidated. Not to mention how powerful an underdog is. It's a strategy, this dumb façade."

"A brilliant one, sir."

"Yes. But see, Kingsley, I think you've pulled apart that charade. So why don't we converse like the smart men we are? You know how much I despise politics."

Archer's feet continued to bleed. "If that's what you prefer, sir."

"It is. I'd like to talk about a little problem."

Archer's feet still bled, pouring out onto the black wood.

Bardarian sighed, leaned forward again. "Look, lad. I know you want her—that's no crime, everybody does. The problem lies in the fact that there's something about you that she wants."

Archer searched his expression, watching the way the wrinkles around his eyes changed depending on what emotion he was feeling. There was a scar above his eyebrow that disappeared into his perfect hairline.

"I'm not sure what it is, Kingsley," he said. "Could be that you're younger—she always hated being the younger one. Could be that she feels like the powerful one, the one that calls the shots, which she never got to do with me. Could be that she likes the excitement of something new. Could be that you're Myrian, and a good-looking man at that." He brought a hand to his chin. "But I don't think it's any of those things; I think it's your mind. I think she likes the feeling of someone that follows her thoughts better than I do. She's always explaining things to me. Why this is a better idea than that, why I can't play the reverse card because that captain is playing the reverse reverse card, things like that. Things I don't think she would have to explain to you."

"I have no intentions with her, sir," Archer replied, his voice warbling. No other man made him feel so small, even after all his successes.

"You can't lie about something that's already happened, lad," Bardarian said, amused.

Archer looked nowhere but his eyes. He couldn't see anything else to look at. It was just those compelling eyes.

"Here's the situation, Kingsley," Bardarian continued. "You're going to walk down the hall tonight, and you're going to open the door to her room, while I'm up here on my own. I know you're going to do it, because that's what you did."

Archer's feet continued to bleed.

"I'm not going to stop you from doing it," Bardarian said. "But when I run into her on the deck the next morning, and she gets all talkative and flustered like she does when she's done something I'm not going to like, I'm going to tell her that I'm not playing dumb on this specific matter. I'm going to tell her that it's me or you. I'm going to make her pick. I won't give her first mate, and you won't convince her with anything you may have been convincing her with. She's going to pick, either me or you."

He paused, frowning slightly. "She's going to pick me, but I'm going to be able to tell if she's picking me because she wants the power that I can give her, or because she loves me. And if I find it to be the former, I'm going to drop you both off at the next port. And if it's the latter, I'm going to drop you at the next port. I just think it's simpler this way, Kingsley, than the mess we created last time."

Archer thought for a moment, but he didn't really. "I agree, sir. It's fair that way."

Bardarian smiled, his teeth white and perfect. "Good lad, Kingsley. Off you go, then."

Archer didn't move. Bardarian leaned back in his chair, watching carefully.

"What is this?" Archer asked him. The words came out differently, like something had changed.

Bardarian tilted his head. "It's what could've happened," he replied. He tilted his head further. And further. And further and further until it was no longer connected properly. It bent, more and more and more and more—

Archer tried to back up, to move, to flee, but he couldn't. Instead, he just watched as Bardarian's neck bent further and further.

"It didn't happen this way," Bardarian told him, his voice crackled and wrong from the severing of his vocal cords. "You did this instead."

Archer finally was able to move. He backed up his chair into free space and stumbled out of the captain's quarters, running into Denver.

"Denver!" Archer's voice came out surprised and joyful all at once.

"I'm not finished," Denver snapped. "You received no training from anyone, but you nearly beat the Champion. And speaking of which—while the rest of us fought for our status, you slept your way there."

Archer searched his surroundings, confused. The walls of the Kingsland were clearly etched out in front of him, but when he looked down to his feet, he was still barefoot and bleeding.

"That's not what I did," he heard himself say.

"Isn't it? The rest of us tiptoe around that woman, and you have her pulling strings for you. The point is, Archer, you got noticed by Bardarian—whether it was in a good or bad way. And we're pirates. I don't blame you for taking advantage where you could. But the truth is, I don't know who the fuck you really are. And it doesn't matter. You just don't get it."

"Denver, I wish you would just think straight. None of that matters. Your life does." Archer heard his own words spill from his mouth.

"I'm leaving, Archer. That's the end of it." Denver turned quickly on his heel and headed the other way.

No. Not again.

Archer lurched forward, his arms outstretched. He caught Denver's collar and pulled him back.

"You're not going," he said. "You're staying with me until we find somebody. Lyra's around one of these corners. I'll get you to her. I'll get you back to the boats." His heart was thundering away, the blood pouring from the cuts in his feet.

"No, Archer." Denver pulled away from his grip and back out into the hallway.

"I'm following you, then," Archer said, his heart strumming. "I'm coming with you."

Denver turned suddenly, his blue eyes focused. "What is this?" he asked.

Archer felt himself shiver. He felt cold air run down the back of his shirt. "It's how it could've happened," he whispered.

Denver stumbled back, something forming on his forehead. It grew bigger and bigger until blood began to pour from it. Despite the bullet wound, Denver stayed standing. He looked at Archer with glazed eyes.

"But it didn't happen that way," Denver said. "It happened this way." The blood poured from his forehead and into his eyes, but he didn't seem to mind. He didn't move. He looked right at Archer until his eyes were covered in blood and Archer had the sense to back away.

He backed into Silta.

She stumbled away from him, her fingers finding the blade in her. Blood dripped from it onto the marble floors.

"No," Archer whispered. "I—I didn't get the chance to change this one."

She looked up at him, her golden eyes light with disappointment and betrayal. She touched the knife hilt and tugged it out with no sound of pain. She handed it back to him, her long fingers shaking.

"This is the chance to change it, love," she murmured. She pushed the knife harder into his hands, stumbling back from the effort. Archer helped her to the ground, his hands red with blood again. He looked down at his feet, red and bloody.

"I—I wouldn't have done it a second time," Archer said. "I want to talk to you. I want to go back. Let me go back. Let me change it."

"This is the way you change it," she repeated, her voice soft. She touched his jaw with fingers that had never been so nice to him.

Archer found his cheeks staining with tears. He blinked them away, desperate to go back. He wanted to change it. He wanted to do it differently. Talk, fight—anything but this.

Her fingers covered his over the knife, guiding his hands over her heart.

"I don't want to change it this way," he whispered to her.

"This is the way it should've been," she told him. "This is what needed to happen."

Archer shook his head. "I won't do this again."

Her hands were over his still, her strength impossibly strong. She pushed his hands—and therefore the knife—into her chest, as slowly as she could manage.

Archer tried to pull away. He tried to make it less painful. He tried to do everything while none of it worked.

The knife buried itself deep in her heart, and he could feel his own mirror hers. It slowed, until it almost stopped. And then hers stopped, and his continued.

He shook her, tears streaming down his face. He screamed until he couldn't scream anymore, and he held her until he couldn't hold her anymore. Her eyes rolled back and her head sluggishly moved behind her.

He screamed until his throat was raw. He wouldn't leave. The Kingsland could blow into bits, and he would go with it. He would not leave her here again, dead and alone.

His eyes squeezed shut until sunlight forced him to open them. Water drifted under the boat he was sitting in.

Farley grasped the sides of the boat, looking deep into Archer's eyes.

"You can do this, kid. It's what you were born to do. The world will thank you for your service. Jeanne understands that. It'll be hard and then it'll be over, and you'll have to forget about it. Understood?"

Archer shook his head. He didn't want to change this part. He wouldn't have changed this part. If he changes this part, then he never meets Silta. He won't change this part.

"Archer, you have to stay focused. Don't let anything—or anybody—distract you," Farley shouted to him.

Archer picked up his oar, cutting it into the water and stepping out of the boat. He didn't want to change this part, but he was changing it anyway. He felt the salty ocean seep into the cuts on his feet; he looked down to see the blood drift from the slices.

"You're a liar," Archer heard himself say. "I won't do this for you. I won't be your pawn. I won't become a murderer for your selfishness."

Archer told himself to stop. To stop talking. He didn't want to change this part. He wanted to meet Silta. He had to meet Silta—or nothing in his life would ever be okay again.

"Jeanne, get out of the boat."

Jeanne got out of the boat.

"You used me," Archer told Farley. "You used me, and you twisted me into a murderer for no reason."

Farley took a few steps closer, the ocean swirling over his knees.

"Do you know what this is, Archer?" he asked.

Archer didn't move. He looked him deep in the eye. "It's how it could've been."

He woke with sweat glistening his forehead. He sat up in the bed, the white covers no longer red. He'd washed them, of course. He'd long ago washed them. That was just a dream. But still, he had to check. He tossed away the covers, glancing down to his bloody, bruised feet.

His heart began to fail. It beat faster and faster until he was sure it couldn't beat any faster. It was all he could do not to panic.

He slid off the bed and out into the hallway, the dark corners whispering as he fled past. He sprinted up the stairs and onto the deck. The night was calm and silent, the sky dark and the ship invisible. He didn't waste time thinking. He took the steps to the captain's quarters three at a time, throwing open the door. He stumbled towards the door to her room, twisting the handle so hard he was sure it would snap off. He lost his footing as he tumbled through the door, gasping for breath.

Archer couldn't breathe. He felt around for her, nothing but blankets. She wasn't here—she wasn't here she was dead because he'd killed her in the Kingsland with that knife—

"Kingsley?"

Archer spun around, finding her in the doorway. She was holding a candle and a book, and she searched his gaze as she walked over to the bed. "You ran right past me, love," she said.

Archer reached out to touch her arm—to prove she was real. He felt the warmth of her skin, and when he looked down, his previously injured feet were smooth and clean. He sighed, sitting down on the bed.

She set down the candle on the nightstand, crouching down to look up at him. "Dreams?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded. "I thought it was real for a moment."

She placed a hand on his knee as she stood again, then sat down on the bed next to him. "Anything helpful?"

Archer shook his head. "It was just a replay of all these moments in my life—"

"Where you made a different choice?"

"Yes," Archer said. "Just like that. One of Bardarian, telling me that we're not going to fight over you, one of Denver right before he died, one of you in the Kingsland, one of Farley right before I left Orphano."

She ran her finger over his forearm. "One of me?"

"You told me to kill you—you made me kill you, instead of leaving you like I did."

She sighed deeply, then leaned back and took the covers with her. She looked up at the ceiling, leaving Archer perched on the side of the bed alone. "It's always like that. Making a choice you didn't make, but you wish you had."

"That's not the choice I wish I made," he insisted.

"Some part of you thinks it is," she said. "I get one of you and I in the strategy room all the time, where you ask me to leave with you, and I say yes. It's not a choice I wish I made, but I guess some part of me wishes it was."

"What do they mean?" Archer asked, turning around to face her, his knee twisting onto the covers.

"I don't think they mean anything," she replied. "Maybe they do. Maybe they don't. I don't know anymore."

Archer watched the candlelight flicker on her face. The bruises had almost faded, but they were still there. She brought the blankets up to her neck, curling up for a sleep she wouldn't have. She looked so small, so young.

"Stay, please," she whispered through the darkness. "I just want to sleep."

Archer watched her for a very long moment. He looked at the candle, then blew it out. In the darkness, he shifted to his back, moving beside her. She wrapped her fingers around his arm, holding tight like she didn't believe he would really stay.

"I just want this to be over," she breathed, the words warm on his neck. "I just want to be me again."

"You will," Archer told her, even though hedidn't believe it one bit.