THE ARK
His honesty is as welcome as it isn’t, if only because there is no room between them for easy lies. No idle reassurance would hold against the state of him, not with blood still darkening his skin and swamp filth caught in every line of his body, so The Ark only nods, accepting the truth as he gives it that no, he isn't really okay.
His next words have one of her brows arching as she straightens slightly, her gaze dropping to the cut along his side. It has knitted itself into little more than an angry pink line, and with a wry twist of her lips, she reaches out to brush her fingertips over the fresh skin. "Are you sure it isn’t Safrin?" she murmurs, her smirk deepening as her eyes flick over the celestial serpent curled there, the goddess’s mark sitting bright against the place the swamp had tried and failed to keep open.
Whether or not she is the one responsible, the small warmth of possibility does not last, not as Jack’s ruined sleeve finally gives way and his arm is exposed to the light. The Ark hisses in a low breath. "Gods, Jack," she mutters, the words dragged quiet and grim from the back of her throat. The puncture through his forearm is ugly enough to make even her composure still, and when she reaches for him, saltwater beading at her fingertips, she stops just shy of touching the wound as her blue eyes flick up to his. Whatever brief spark of elation had risen at the thought that she might be able to heal him is thoroughly drowned now. There is healing in her, yes, but not enough for this, and given their heading, none of Torchline's healing water will be forthcoming. For one sharp moment, she considers turning herself around, orders be damned, but the thought is too slow for what is immediately in front of her.
So she bites the inside of her cheek and reaches for him somewhere she knows she can touch without making things worse. Her damp hand cups the Captain's cheek, thumb brushing a clean streak through the grime there as she looks back down at his arm with a long, controlled sigh. "You’re going to need a lot of liquor," The Ark says at last, her voice dry because the alternative is letting him hear how badly she wants to be wrong.
His next words have one of her brows arching as she straightens slightly, her gaze dropping to the cut along his side. It has knitted itself into little more than an angry pink line, and with a wry twist of her lips, she reaches out to brush her fingertips over the fresh skin. "Are you sure it isn’t Safrin?" she murmurs, her smirk deepening as her eyes flick over the celestial serpent curled there, the goddess’s mark sitting bright against the place the swamp had tried and failed to keep open.
Whether or not she is the one responsible, the small warmth of possibility does not last, not as Jack’s ruined sleeve finally gives way and his arm is exposed to the light. The Ark hisses in a low breath. "Gods, Jack," she mutters, the words dragged quiet and grim from the back of her throat. The puncture through his forearm is ugly enough to make even her composure still, and when she reaches for him, saltwater beading at her fingertips, she stops just shy of touching the wound as her blue eyes flick up to his. Whatever brief spark of elation had risen at the thought that she might be able to heal him is thoroughly drowned now. There is healing in her, yes, but not enough for this, and given their heading, none of Torchline's healing water will be forthcoming. For one sharp moment, she considers turning herself around, orders be damned, but the thought is too slow for what is immediately in front of her.
So she bites the inside of her cheek and reaches for him somewhere she knows she can touch without making things worse. Her damp hand cups the Captain's cheek, thumb brushing a clean streak through the grime there as she looks back down at his arm with a long, controlled sigh. "You’re going to need a lot of liquor," The Ark says at last, her voice dry because the alternative is letting him hear how badly she wants to be wrong.
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.
