call me chaos, call me divine

The Ark

The Ark considers it quietly, the way she’s always considered things that mattered; by feel. The idea settles into her like ballast finding its place, because of course her shape is his. It always has been, long before gods and coins and fire. He’d laid her lines with his hands from the start, built beauty into her bones even when the world around him was ugly. The long sweep of her curves, the handfuls of breast that would match the shape of his palm, the easy balance of her height, all of it made to answer him. Just like her wheel worn smooth where his hands always pressed, the boards dipped where he paced, the scars where he’d asked too much and she’d given it anyway. The maroon of his sails lives in her hair now, thick and unruly as canvas in a good wind. Her skin carries the pale gold of her deck before varnish, warm and honest and marked by use. She smiles at him then—a smile with teeth, but softened by something that’s always been there between them—and says, simply, "Your opinion’s the only one I’ve ever cared about."

At the mention of the Cordillera, her gaze drifts, memory stirring. She remembers the thinness of that air, how it felt to cut through it—sharp and clean and exhilarating—the way dragons tore across the sky like living storms and how she’d thrilled at the chase. She remembers him coming back afterward, too. The heat clinging to him, banked low and controlled, the way it bled through her timbers despite his effort to keep it contained, and how he'd been sullen, quiet, heavy.

Halo draws nothing like concern from her. When he speaks of the soldier, her shoulders lift in an easy, unbothered shrug, her smile unchanged. "Wouldn’t be the first blood you spilled for me," she says softly, matching his tone as if they’re speaking of weather or distance sailed. Very likely, it wouldn't be the last, either.

But as he mentions a banshee, her brow furrows. She’s heard the word passed between crew in low voices, knows enough to know it wouldn’t have been simple, and the way his hand drifts to his throat tells her more than any story could. She reaches out then, fingers sliding around his wrist, guiding his hand away from that old memory. She brings his knuckles to her mouth and brushes them with her lips, wine-dark and warm, letting the touch linger just long enough to give something back, wanting for him to feel that same smooth, radiant warmth he'd woke in her when he'd touch her this way earlier. The Ark's voice drops to a whisper when she speaks again, sincere and unadorned. "Thank you, Jack."

Her touch is like a tempest, her whisper is a breeze,
but when she has a temper, she'll bring you to your knees

Code stolen from Queen Sky