THE ARK
The Ark gives Jack a smile that almost manages to be playful despite the blood, the mud, and the ugly hole through his arm. Leaning in as if to inspect him more closely, she wrinkles her nose. "You stink." The thought of open water answers in her immediately, bright and instinctive, a part of her already reaching for river-current and salt-clean relief. Still, as his good arm hooks around her waist and draws her closer, she shifts willingly until her legs are flush against the desk and against him. "Or,' she counters menacingly, the corner of her mouth lifting, "I could hose you down on the deck."
It is hard to say whether Jack’s false bravado is worse to bear than his naked pain. Later, she will remember both with unhappy clarity: the feverish confidence in his eyes, the way it breaks beneath the first bite of saltwater, the clipped groan, the heel striking hard against the desk, the mist rising as his magic wars with itself in the close air of the cabin. For the moment, though, she keeps going because he tells her to, and because she's helpless to do anything else.
When his hand balls in the back of her shirt, The Ark reaches for a part of herself has never used on Jack before, but instinct gives her shape where skill does not, and she lets that inexorable tide of what she is begin to rise. Her hair burns brighter in his field of vision, red as flame without heat. The blue of her eyes deepens into something storm-bright and endless, and the sound of the sea seems suddenly closer than the walls of the cabin, closer than the pain, closer even than the blood slick beneath her hand. She draws him toward all of it, toward herself, hoping the pull will blunt the worst of what her fingers are still doing as saltwater rains steadily through the torn meat of his forearm. Stay with me, Jack, she sings with the voice of the sea, into his thoughts.
Only when she no longer feels the water dripping all the way through his arm does she finally relent; the magic falls away from her all at once, and with it goes the strength she hadn’t realized she was spending. The Ark sways, suddenly pale beneath the grime and cabin-light, and the ship rolls beneath her feet to catch her balance as surely as any hand might have done. Her breath leaves her in a shaky rush as the sea, the siren, and the pull of her all recede, leaving her simply human and exhausted where she stands against him, one damp hand still hovering over his arm before she hesitantly lifts it, suddenly terrified she'll find that she's done nothing at all.
It is hard to say whether Jack’s false bravado is worse to bear than his naked pain. Later, she will remember both with unhappy clarity: the feverish confidence in his eyes, the way it breaks beneath the first bite of saltwater, the clipped groan, the heel striking hard against the desk, the mist rising as his magic wars with itself in the close air of the cabin. For the moment, though, she keeps going because he tells her to, and because she's helpless to do anything else.
When his hand balls in the back of her shirt, The Ark reaches for a part of herself has never used on Jack before, but instinct gives her shape where skill does not, and she lets that inexorable tide of what she is begin to rise. Her hair burns brighter in his field of vision, red as flame without heat. The blue of her eyes deepens into something storm-bright and endless, and the sound of the sea seems suddenly closer than the walls of the cabin, closer than the pain, closer even than the blood slick beneath her hand. She draws him toward all of it, toward herself, hoping the pull will blunt the worst of what her fingers are still doing as saltwater rains steadily through the torn meat of his forearm. Stay with me, Jack, she sings with the voice of the sea, into his thoughts.
Only when she no longer feels the water dripping all the way through his arm does she finally relent; the magic falls away from her all at once, and with it goes the strength she hadn’t realized she was spending. The Ark sways, suddenly pale beneath the grime and cabin-light, and the ship rolls beneath her feet to catch her balance as surely as any hand might have done. Her breath leaves her in a shaky rush as the sea, the siren, and the pull of her all recede, leaving her simply human and exhausted where she stands against him, one damp hand still hovering over his arm before she hesitantly lifts it, suddenly terrified she'll find that she's done nothing at all.
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.
