The Ark
She gives Jack a look that is all salt and offence, one brow lifting as if he’s just suggested something profoundly offensive. Of course she knows the ladders, knows the weight and scrape of them against her sides, the familiar clatter as boots and bare feet descend her flank, but what happens after—what happens once people are no longer on her—has always been a blank stretch of water she’s never had to chart. The rowboats earn a thoughtful glance, her mouth twisting slightly. They feel to her like detached pieces, useful, familiar in weight and balance, but not her in any meaningful way; tools rather than limbs.
When he asks about swimming, she hesitates just long enough for the truth of it to surface. In her mind there is speed and resistance, the way water parts for her prow, the deep satisfaction of momentum, but none of that translates cleanly into arms and legs and breath. Still, the uncertainty doesn’t slow her; it sharpens her smile instead. She shrugs, loose and daring. "Guess we’ll find out."
Without waiting for approval, she eases them to a stop where it feels right, the decision made by instinct rather than sight before nodding to Jack that the anchor could be lowered. Then she drifts toward the railing, hands bracing on it as she leans out over the side, peering down at the inviting blue below, the hem of Jack's shirt riding dangerously high on the back of her thighs. The distance is nothing she hasn’t felt a thousand times before, but now it’s framed differently. She glances back at Jack, lips curved with mischief and challenge in equal measure, then looks down again, gauging the water the way she always has, only now with knees and toes instead of keel and draft.
When he asks about swimming, she hesitates just long enough for the truth of it to surface. In her mind there is speed and resistance, the way water parts for her prow, the deep satisfaction of momentum, but none of that translates cleanly into arms and legs and breath. Still, the uncertainty doesn’t slow her; it sharpens her smile instead. She shrugs, loose and daring. "Guess we’ll find out."
Without waiting for approval, she eases them to a stop where it feels right, the decision made by instinct rather than sight before nodding to Jack that the anchor could be lowered. Then she drifts toward the railing, hands bracing on it as she leans out over the side, peering down at the inviting blue below, the hem of Jack's shirt riding dangerously high on the back of her thighs. The distance is nothing she hasn’t felt a thousand times before, but now it’s framed differently. She glances back at Jack, lips curved with mischief and challenge in equal measure, then looks down again, gauging the water the way she always has, only now with knees and toes instead of keel and draft.
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.
