THE ARK
Though Jack’s magic pries the wet black sludge from the soles of her boots, The Ark doesn’t mistake the relief for safety. The magic moves over her leather with the same familiar surety he uses to swell her sails full-bellied against a reluctant wind, or to fracture the thick collars of ice that sometimes fasten themselves to her hull in colder waters; practical, precise, enough to get her moving again. But beneath it is the knowledge of how little would be required to make that kindness necessary in the first place. One misplaced step, one patch of ground giving way beneath her weight, and the tar would have her as surely as it might have taken a ship too far aground. It isn't a fear she lends any real shape to, not with Jack at her side. Still, her breath pulls a little shallower as she follows, and she lifts her chin as if putting a fraction more distance between herself and the mud might accomplish anything at all.
"Being wet is hardly the problem," she says, her voice free of innuendo, but the grimness in it softens as her boot comes free with a final wet drag. She sends Jack a small, appreciative smile over her shoulder, fleeting but warm enough to acknowledge what he’s done before her attention is drawn outward again.
The cache itself earns only a brief glance; leather bag, dead branch, all the usual signs of something meant to look too forgotten to be worth noticing. Her eyes fall immediately to the pit beneath it instead, black tar rolling sluggishly under the sparse debris on its surface, the bubbles breaking with a terrifying and patient sort of appetite.
Rather than move to Jack’s side, she eases onto a handful of thick, gnarled roots near the edge of a tree, bracing one hand against the trunk. The Ark keeps her balance there, uncharacteristically distant from Jack and the cache and more distant still from the thing waiting beneath it. "Well, it certainly looks untouched," she says at last, skeptically, her brows lifting as she studies the bag again; this was precisely the way all of the caches Jack had sent Finch to fetch had looked as well.
"Being wet is hardly the problem," she says, her voice free of innuendo, but the grimness in it softens as her boot comes free with a final wet drag. She sends Jack a small, appreciative smile over her shoulder, fleeting but warm enough to acknowledge what he’s done before her attention is drawn outward again.
The cache itself earns only a brief glance; leather bag, dead branch, all the usual signs of something meant to look too forgotten to be worth noticing. Her eyes fall immediately to the pit beneath it instead, black tar rolling sluggishly under the sparse debris on its surface, the bubbles breaking with a terrifying and patient sort of appetite.
Rather than move to Jack’s side, she eases onto a handful of thick, gnarled roots near the edge of a tree, bracing one hand against the trunk. The Ark keeps her balance there, uncharacteristically distant from Jack and the cache and more distant still from the thing waiting beneath it. "Well, it certainly looks untouched," she says at last, skeptically, her brows lifting as she studies the bag again; this was precisely the way all of the caches Jack had sent Finch to fetch had looked as well.
everything I want you know i'm going to get it
whether it's your fame or your cableknit sweater
you might've done it first but I know i'll do it better
whether it's your fame or your cableknit sweater
you might've done it first but I know i'll do it better
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.
