THE ARK
"Ahh, so you’ve also got a concussion, I see. " The Ark snorts softly, oceanic eyes narrowing with a satisfaction she doesn't bother to hide when he chooses bread before rum.
At his question, her fingers turn her own glass without lifting it, the rum dark and still inside it, while she bites at the inside of her cheek and lets her gaze drift toward the porthole near his bunk. Outside, her body carries them north, away from the Feverlands, but the shape of the question remains behind like tar clinging to the soles of her thoughts. "Jack," she says at last, her voice low, "do you want to be alone, when you die?" Only then does she look back at him.
There is no performance in her expression as her blue eyes hold his honestly, earnestly. There's no sense in telling him that the reason for it is so she might protect him, or save him, or arrive in time to change the shape of whatever death eventually came calling; that would be a lie dressed as comfort that would surely be ill-fitting. She would die trying, certainly, that much is not in question. But Jack is too clever, too stubborn, and too often alone in all the places danger knows how to find him for either of them to believe her presence would make him untouchable.
If death found him while he stood surrounded by crew, or with her deck beneath his boots, then it likely would not be death at all. It would be an inconvenience, one more bloody and miserable story to add to the collection. But if it found him elsewhere?
The thought has been growing in her since the swamp, quiet at first and then heavier, gathering strength and mass in the deep waters of her mind until she can no longer ignore the pull of it. She had waited half an hour for him in his empty cabin, feeling every inch of herself strained toward a man she could not reach, and now that she knows the taste of that helplessness, she is not sure she can patiently abide the knowledge of it.
At his question, her fingers turn her own glass without lifting it, the rum dark and still inside it, while she bites at the inside of her cheek and lets her gaze drift toward the porthole near his bunk. Outside, her body carries them north, away from the Feverlands, but the shape of the question remains behind like tar clinging to the soles of her thoughts. "Jack," she says at last, her voice low, "do you want to be alone, when you die?" Only then does she look back at him.
There is no performance in her expression as her blue eyes hold his honestly, earnestly. There's no sense in telling him that the reason for it is so she might protect him, or save him, or arrive in time to change the shape of whatever death eventually came calling; that would be a lie dressed as comfort that would surely be ill-fitting. She would die trying, certainly, that much is not in question. But Jack is too clever, too stubborn, and too often alone in all the places danger knows how to find him for either of them to believe her presence would make him untouchable.
If death found him while he stood surrounded by crew, or with her deck beneath his boots, then it likely would not be death at all. It would be an inconvenience, one more bloody and miserable story to add to the collection. But if it found him elsewhere?
The thought has been growing in her since the swamp, quiet at first and then heavier, gathering strength and mass in the deep waters of her mind until she can no longer ignore the pull of it. She had waited half an hour for him in his empty cabin, feeling every inch of herself strained toward a man she could not reach, and now that she knows the taste of that helplessness, she is not sure she can patiently abide the knowledge of it.
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.
