The Ark
The Ark walks with Jack in thoughtful quiet for a few steps, the deck answering under her feet the way it always has, until the question finds its way out of her. "Will you help me?" It isn’t dressed up or weighted with expectation. She looks at him as she asks it, open and unguarded, not quite knowing the shape of what she’s reaching for, if only because she has no real context for it. "Feel the things worth feeling?"
When the wind snaps across the deck and he glances at her, she meets his look without flinching, innocent and a little bemused. She hadn't consciously done it, but magic, like weather, doesn’t always wait to be named before it moves, and if something in her had stretched or flexed in delight, well, she lets it pass without apology.
At his question, she shakes her head. "No." She pauses, searching, then settles on the word with a small nod. "I feel...full." Not in the way a belly feels bloated, but the way her hold does when it’s stacked right, balanced, weighted, complete.
The Captain’s cabin, with or without her presence, has always been thought of as the brains of the ship if not necessarily her heart, where plans are made and worries set down, and though she is everywhere at once she feels here in a way that surprises her. When he mentions the Spillwave, she nods without hesitation. "I’d rather water over anything else," she says. "The air underneath me still feels wrong, and the trees—" Her mouth twists as the image of treetops brushing her underside flashes through her mind, and she shudders, the sensation sharp and unpleasant, like a touch in a place too sensitive to bear it.
As Jack moves about the cabin, familiar motions unfolding, her attention drifts downward. She looks at herself then—at pearls and canvas and rope gathered into something that passes for clothing—and lifts her hands with quiet determination. Awkward fingers begin to test knots and ties, mimicking what she’s watched him do a hundred times before; kick off his boots and let his clothes puddle on the ground before falling into bed.
When the wind snaps across the deck and he glances at her, she meets his look without flinching, innocent and a little bemused. She hadn't consciously done it, but magic, like weather, doesn’t always wait to be named before it moves, and if something in her had stretched or flexed in delight, well, she lets it pass without apology.
At his question, she shakes her head. "No." She pauses, searching, then settles on the word with a small nod. "I feel...full." Not in the way a belly feels bloated, but the way her hold does when it’s stacked right, balanced, weighted, complete.
The Captain’s cabin, with or without her presence, has always been thought of as the brains of the ship if not necessarily her heart, where plans are made and worries set down, and though she is everywhere at once she feels here in a way that surprises her. When he mentions the Spillwave, she nods without hesitation. "I’d rather water over anything else," she says. "The air underneath me still feels wrong, and the trees—" Her mouth twists as the image of treetops brushing her underside flashes through her mind, and she shudders, the sensation sharp and unpleasant, like a touch in a place too sensitive to bear it.
As Jack moves about the cabin, familiar motions unfolding, her attention drifts downward. She looks at herself then—at pearls and canvas and rope gathered into something that passes for clothing—and lifts her hands with quiet determination. Awkward fingers begin to test knots and ties, mimicking what she’s watched him do a hundred times before; kick off his boots and let his clothes puddle on the ground before falling into bed.
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.
