bottom line, we made it out the first time still in love and half alive
The Ark stands at the bow with her eyes closed as they descend, the wind, Torchline's winds sliding over her skin warm and salt-heavy, combing through the long spill of red hair at her back while the last of the clouds fall away beneath them. The shift from sky to sea moves through her like the settling of something that had been held too long aloft and when her keel finally kisses the water again she feels it deep in her bones; a quiet rightness returning as the harbour’s scent reaches them—tar, brine, rope, heat—and the satisfaction that escapes her is deep enough that it spills from her lips in a soft sigh that drifts easily out across the deck and open water alike.
For a moment she lingers there with the wind on her face, letting the warmth of it press against the open throat of her white blouse, the high leather waist of her trousers snug against her hips as the Ark settles fully into the familiar cradle of the waves. The harbour grows louder with every passing heartbeat; voices from Kaiholo Port carrying across the water, the clatter of rigging, the restless pulse of a place that has not forgotten her. Only when the crew begins to stir in earnest—lines readying, bodies moving with that particular urgency of sailors bringing a vessel home—does she turn away from the bow. Her stride across the deck is slow and easy, tall boots steady against the roll of the planks as she makes her way toward Jack.
By the time she reaches his side the harbour has begun to swell around them in earnest, and the smile that curves across her mouth is slow and luxuriant, the sort of satisfaction that lingers on the tongue rather than bursting free all at once. She lets her gaze wander over the docks and the crowded water for a moment as though reacquainting herself with something that had only ever been temporarily misplaced, and when her eyes slide back to Jack there’s a decadent sort of smugness warming them, the confidence of someone who never truly doubted the tide would turn in their favour. One brow lifts, daring and pleased all at once. "Feels good, doesn’t it?"
For a moment she lingers there with the wind on her face, letting the warmth of it press against the open throat of her white blouse, the high leather waist of her trousers snug against her hips as the Ark settles fully into the familiar cradle of the waves. The harbour grows louder with every passing heartbeat; voices from Kaiholo Port carrying across the water, the clatter of rigging, the restless pulse of a place that has not forgotten her. Only when the crew begins to stir in earnest—lines readying, bodies moving with that particular urgency of sailors bringing a vessel home—does she turn away from the bow. Her stride across the deck is slow and easy, tall boots steady against the roll of the planks as she makes her way toward Jack.
By the time she reaches his side the harbour has begun to swell around them in earnest, and the smile that curves across her mouth is slow and luxuriant, the sort of satisfaction that lingers on the tongue rather than bursting free all at once. She lets her gaze wander over the docks and the crowded water for a moment as though reacquainting herself with something that had only ever been temporarily misplaced, and when her eyes slide back to Jack there’s a decadent sort of smugness warming them, the confidence of someone who never truly doubted the tide would turn in their favour. One brow lifts, daring and pleased all at once. "Feels good, doesn’t it?"
we didn't die, but no guarantees this time, but fuck it lets do it again
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.
