THE ARK
The Ark snorts a quiet huff of amusement, even if the sound is thinner than she’d like. "With all this mud on you, how can you even tell?" she murmurs, though they both know he’s right. Safrin would have left some celestial clue behind, some shimmer or star-bright signature to make the source of the healing unmistakable, and she doubts very much the goddess would have done either of them the courtesy of subtlety.
Her hand remains gentle against his cheek, but the rest of her feels far less steady. This inadequacy is unfamiliar enough to make her want to reach for something delicate and smash it, if only to turn the feeling into a sound. Jack had made her more than timber and sail, had given her this body, this voice, these hands, and yet when he is sitting in front of her with a hole through his arm and infection already threatening in the angry colours of his skin, she is left with saltwater and instinct and no promise that either will be enough.
Even so, she draws in a slow breath and nods, letting her thumb brush across the last lingering curve of his smile, amusementless though it is, before she lets her hand fall from his face and turns fully to his left arm. For all that he trusts her, there is no pretending she has any real mastery over what is newly moving beneath her skin. Her gaze flickers back to his face, apology and warning both held in the blue of her eyes. "This isn’t going to feel good," she says quietly before she sets her hand over his forearm, palm cupped so that she does not press directly against the puncture. Saltwater beads beneath her skin and gathers there, bright and clean, before it begins to fall in a steady, stinging rain over the wound. It runs into the torn flesh and through the ragged edges left by the creature’s leg, washing away what filth it can reach and biting hard where it cannot.
The Ark keeps her hand steady even as her jaw tightens, watching for any sign that the water is doing more than simply hurting him. If healing answers her, it comes slowly, reluctantly, not with the certainty she wants but in fragile increments, skin and muscle remembering themselves beneath the salt. "I'm sorry," she murmurs in a low, breathy voice, and this time she absolutely does mean it despite how her hands remain where they are.
Her hand remains gentle against his cheek, but the rest of her feels far less steady. This inadequacy is unfamiliar enough to make her want to reach for something delicate and smash it, if only to turn the feeling into a sound. Jack had made her more than timber and sail, had given her this body, this voice, these hands, and yet when he is sitting in front of her with a hole through his arm and infection already threatening in the angry colours of his skin, she is left with saltwater and instinct and no promise that either will be enough.
Even so, she draws in a slow breath and nods, letting her thumb brush across the last lingering curve of his smile, amusementless though it is, before she lets her hand fall from his face and turns fully to his left arm. For all that he trusts her, there is no pretending she has any real mastery over what is newly moving beneath her skin. Her gaze flickers back to his face, apology and warning both held in the blue of her eyes. "This isn’t going to feel good," she says quietly before she sets her hand over his forearm, palm cupped so that she does not press directly against the puncture. Saltwater beads beneath her skin and gathers there, bright and clean, before it begins to fall in a steady, stinging rain over the wound. It runs into the torn flesh and through the ragged edges left by the creature’s leg, washing away what filth it can reach and biting hard where it cannot.
The Ark keeps her hand steady even as her jaw tightens, watching for any sign that the water is doing more than simply hurting him. If healing answers her, it comes slowly, reluctantly, not with the certainty she wants but in fragile increments, skin and muscle remembering themselves beneath the salt. "I'm sorry," she murmurs in a low, breathy voice, and this time she absolutely does mean it despite how her hands remain where they are.
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.
