THE ARK
Jack snaps back into existence upon the compass rose branded into the floorboards of his cabin— one perfectly mirrored by a pale, henna-coloured mark upon The Ark’s own skin—and the glass of dark rum she has been holding nearly slips from her fingers.
For the first few heartbeats after she had returned alone, she'd done exactly what he'd have wanted of her: Murphy had been told what happened before she'd even caught her breath, and the first mate's response had rung across the deck in clipped, uncompromising orders: nobody was to leave the ship. Not for the captain. Not yet, anyway. The command had held, but only just. Anxiety had settled over the crew like a squall waiting to break, and through the timber beneath their boots she had felt every restless footstep, every strained silence, every glance cast toward the horizon. Now all of that tension crashes through her the instant she sees him, alive and well...
"Jack—" The name leaves her in a breath as she slams the untouched rum onto his desk, the glass striking wood hard enough to send a dark ripple across its surface. She is beside him almost immediately, slipping one arm carefully around his waist before he has the chance to stubbornly prove he can stand on his own. Blood, swamp water, tar and something fouler cling to him in equal measure, and she cannot yet tell where one injury ends and another begins beneath the grime.
Panic wants to surge outward in great, crashing waves, jagged with every ugly possibility conjured during the last half hour, but she forces it down with visible effort, smoothing the waters of her mind into something gentler so he isn't struck by the full force of it on top of everything else. He'll undoubtedly still feel the undertow beneath the calm, though; the current pulling hard below a surface she is desperately trying to keep level.
"It’s not like you to keep me waiting," she murmurs, steering him with quiet insistence toward the bunk, though she would settle for the desk if he proves too stubborn to lie down. Her eyes move over him again and again, searching through the filth for the shape of the wounds hidden underneath, frustration mounting with every place the mud refuses to surrender its secrets. "Sit," she says softly, though there is enough command in the word to rival any captain, even him. "What the hell happened?"
For the first few heartbeats after she had returned alone, she'd done exactly what he'd have wanted of her: Murphy had been told what happened before she'd even caught her breath, and the first mate's response had rung across the deck in clipped, uncompromising orders: nobody was to leave the ship. Not for the captain. Not yet, anyway. The command had held, but only just. Anxiety had settled over the crew like a squall waiting to break, and through the timber beneath their boots she had felt every restless footstep, every strained silence, every glance cast toward the horizon. Now all of that tension crashes through her the instant she sees him, alive and well...
"Jack—" The name leaves her in a breath as she slams the untouched rum onto his desk, the glass striking wood hard enough to send a dark ripple across its surface. She is beside him almost immediately, slipping one arm carefully around his waist before he has the chance to stubbornly prove he can stand on his own. Blood, swamp water, tar and something fouler cling to him in equal measure, and she cannot yet tell where one injury ends and another begins beneath the grime.
Panic wants to surge outward in great, crashing waves, jagged with every ugly possibility conjured during the last half hour, but she forces it down with visible effort, smoothing the waters of her mind into something gentler so he isn't struck by the full force of it on top of everything else. He'll undoubtedly still feel the undertow beneath the calm, though; the current pulling hard below a surface she is desperately trying to keep level.
"It’s not like you to keep me waiting," she murmurs, steering him with quiet insistence toward the bunk, though she would settle for the desk if he proves too stubborn to lie down. Her eyes move over him again and again, searching through the filth for the shape of the wounds hidden underneath, frustration mounting with every place the mud refuses to surrender its secrets. "Sit," she says softly, though there is enough command in the word to rival any captain, even him. "What the hell happened?"
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.
