The Ark
The Ark tips her head, considering Jack with that slow, tide-measured curiosity of hers. "Oh?" The sound slips out light and intrigued, like a wave testing a shoreline it hasn’t mapped yet. Introspection isn’t something she’s ever needed before—currents told her what she was, pressure told her where she stood—and the idea of new strings waiting to be found isn't something she can wrap her thoughts around. Still, she fixes him with an eager grin, eyes bright and hungry in a way that has nothing to do with food. "Not since you taught me to fly," she says, greedy anticipation sparking there, "have you had the chance to put me through my paces with something new." If not for the way she knew that, restless or not, Jack would need to sleep, she'd have suggested that they go right then and there.
At Jack's quip, the Ark lifts her chin, dismissive and amused all at once. "You all and your feelings," she says, but the humour softens as it passes. A thought drifts in behind it, quieter, and she glances back at him with something more searching in her gaze. "Do you think I’ll feel everything you all do?" The question isn’t fearful, just curious, as if she’s sighting a distant horizon and wondering what sort of weather waits there.
When he moves, she moves with him, her long stride falling into his without effort, matching him beat for beat, the rhythm familiar because it was his to begin with; the cadence of boots on deck she’s known so well she learned to walk by it. She mirrors him instinctively, looping her arm around his waist as his curls around her, the fit immediate and unremarkable in the way only long practice can make it.
A gust sweeps the deck then, playful and sudden, scattering cards from sticky tables and ruffling Murphy’s hair at the helm as if in fond approval. The Ark laughs softly and leans into Jack as the wind runs through her, sails snapping overhead, body and ship answering together as they always have, already moving away before anyone can decide to blame her for the trouble she leaves in her wake.
At Jack's quip, the Ark lifts her chin, dismissive and amused all at once. "You all and your feelings," she says, but the humour softens as it passes. A thought drifts in behind it, quieter, and she glances back at him with something more searching in her gaze. "Do you think I’ll feel everything you all do?" The question isn’t fearful, just curious, as if she’s sighting a distant horizon and wondering what sort of weather waits there.
When he moves, she moves with him, her long stride falling into his without effort, matching him beat for beat, the rhythm familiar because it was his to begin with; the cadence of boots on deck she’s known so well she learned to walk by it. She mirrors him instinctively, looping her arm around his waist as his curls around her, the fit immediate and unremarkable in the way only long practice can make it.
A gust sweeps the deck then, playful and sudden, scattering cards from sticky tables and ruffling Murphy’s hair at the helm as if in fond approval. The Ark laughs softly and leans into Jack as the wind runs through her, sails snapping overhead, body and ship answering together as they always have, already moving away before anyone can decide to blame her for the trouble she leaves in her wake.
Her touch is like a tempest, her whisper is a breeze,
but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees
but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees
Code stolen from Queen Sky
Siren's Wake | After she leaves a space, traces of her presence linger briefly: a faint scent of salt, the sound of distant water, a restless feeling in the chest. People rarely notice it consciously.
