bottom line, we made it out the first time still in love and half alive
The Ark only nods at the mention of Flora’s letter, because whatever advantage had come of them doesn’t change the shape of it; the fact remains that as Queen, Flora can reach for him whenever she chooses, can summon him into her orbit whether he wants it or not, and the reminder of that sits in the Ark like something heavy and unwelcome.
His compromise settles just as heavily, though for different reasons, and she feels it immediately, the way it sits wrong against the grain of her, the way it sounds—reasonable, measured, fair—when all she can hear beneath it is a careful attempt to balance two opposing tides without being pulled under by either. It is a good plan. It is a smart plan. It is also, unmistakably, a plan that leaves space for Flora to continue existing in the margins of all of Jack's ledgers, and that alone is enough to sour it.
The sand gives way to wood beneath her feet, but she doesn’t stop to put on her boots; for however soft her skin, her penchant for walking barefoot had made the souls of her feet remarkably tough. She makes a quiet sound in response to him, something low and noncommittal, not quite agreement, not quite refusal, if only because she does understand; she understands the instinct to pull away from something that won’t leave you be, to choose distance where proximity only invites trouble. But understanding it doesn’t make it easier to accept, not when she has been made to push forward, to take, to win, and now finds herself forced to step back while Flora continues to hold ground that should not be hers.
She tries, for a moment, to turn her thoughts elsewhere, to consider other directions, other ventures, wondering if more could be carved out of King’s End, if something greater might be built there with enough time and pressure, but the sleepy region is still in its infancy, and unfortunately, the Ark has no maternal instincts.
In the end, she glances at him, her expression steadier than she feels, and says quietly, "you’re the captain," in a tone that is neither petulant or resentful. He is, and she was made to follow where he leads, to go where he takes her, whether the course cuts clean through open water or skirts something she would rather crash straight into, and stubborn as she may be, she will still go.
His compromise settles just as heavily, though for different reasons, and she feels it immediately, the way it sits wrong against the grain of her, the way it sounds—reasonable, measured, fair—when all she can hear beneath it is a careful attempt to balance two opposing tides without being pulled under by either. It is a good plan. It is a smart plan. It is also, unmistakably, a plan that leaves space for Flora to continue existing in the margins of all of Jack's ledgers, and that alone is enough to sour it.
The sand gives way to wood beneath her feet, but she doesn’t stop to put on her boots; for however soft her skin, her penchant for walking barefoot had made the souls of her feet remarkably tough. She makes a quiet sound in response to him, something low and noncommittal, not quite agreement, not quite refusal, if only because she does understand; she understands the instinct to pull away from something that won’t leave you be, to choose distance where proximity only invites trouble. But understanding it doesn’t make it easier to accept, not when she has been made to push forward, to take, to win, and now finds herself forced to step back while Flora continues to hold ground that should not be hers.
She tries, for a moment, to turn her thoughts elsewhere, to consider other directions, other ventures, wondering if more could be carved out of King’s End, if something greater might be built there with enough time and pressure, but the sleepy region is still in its infancy, and unfortunately, the Ark has no maternal instincts.
In the end, she glances at him, her expression steadier than she feels, and says quietly, "you’re the captain," in a tone that is neither petulant or resentful. He is, and she was made to follow where he leads, to go where he takes her, whether the course cuts clean through open water or skirts something she would rather crash straight into, and stubborn as she may be, she will still go.
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.
