The Ark
The Ark stands with him the way she always has—unflinching, bold, entirely his—only now the loyalty that once existed in timber and iron is carried in warm skin and curious hands. She does not know yet what to do with fingers except let them wander, and so she allows them to explore him without self-consciousness, her palm skimming over the planes of his chest, her fingertips pausing along the ridges of old scars as if committing their textures to memory. For decades she has felt the ramifications left by injury, the way wounds presented themselves in Jack's tone, or lean, or silences; now she learns the difference between raised and smooth, between healed and merely endured.
When he calls himself notorious and dangerous, she gives him a sharp, playful swat to the shoulder. "Very dangerous," she echoes, her mouth curving. Then, because she is still testing the world the way a prow tests current, she lowers herself experimentally onto her knees. This time the sand does not cling the way it had when she was dripping wet. Satisfied, she eases back fully, sprawling in the warmth of it with a slow exhale as the heat presses along her spine and the backs of her thighs. The sun settles across her like a second skin, and she lets her fingers drift idly down the flat of her stomach simply because the sensation still feels astonishing, this constant feedback loop of touch and temperature and texture.
"I am the Ark," she says at last, turning her head to look at him properly. The name is not ornamental, not just what is scrawled in cursive across her hull. "That is the only name I have ever had, and it is the only one I want." It was one of the first things Jack had given her, after all, and she'd not be rid of it without a fight. "If we call me something else, it feels like..." Her nose wrinkles faintly, searching for the right word and discarding what little she can come up with, having no real vocabulary to describe what it means to hide. "We don't need to hide me, do we?" Her blue eyes find his, her curiosity genuine; there is much in Jack's mind she is still too new to the world to understand, and keeping her a secret might yet be one.
When he calls himself notorious and dangerous, she gives him a sharp, playful swat to the shoulder. "Very dangerous," she echoes, her mouth curving. Then, because she is still testing the world the way a prow tests current, she lowers herself experimentally onto her knees. This time the sand does not cling the way it had when she was dripping wet. Satisfied, she eases back fully, sprawling in the warmth of it with a slow exhale as the heat presses along her spine and the backs of her thighs. The sun settles across her like a second skin, and she lets her fingers drift idly down the flat of her stomach simply because the sensation still feels astonishing, this constant feedback loop of touch and temperature and texture.
"I am the Ark," she says at last, turning her head to look at him properly. The name is not ornamental, not just what is scrawled in cursive across her hull. "That is the only name I have ever had, and it is the only one I want." It was one of the first things Jack had given her, after all, and she'd not be rid of it without a fight. "If we call me something else, it feels like..." Her nose wrinkles faintly, searching for the right word and discarding what little she can come up with, having no real vocabulary to describe what it means to hide. "We don't need to hide me, do we?" Her blue eyes find his, her curiosity genuine; there is much in Jack's mind she is still too new to the world to understand, and keeping her a secret might yet be one.
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.
