deep down the hollow

SUNJATA

the flood

all the drinkin' and the druggin' and the black and the red
the achy skin and all the sweat in my bed

He’s glad too, unsure of where he would be without the witch. But at the same time, the man doesn’t know where he’d be without Melita, too, and it’s that thought that has him fracturing. Because if he lost Nate, if he lost her, what remained? All he can do is fixate on something, breaking and shattering, inhaling and piecing it together again.

“I thought he was.” Sunjata says quietly, thinking of the alternative where it had been a facade, a facade so well done that he couldn’t see past it. But there’s no logic here, not in the way his mind is shifting and moving. And he takes a shuddering inhale, finding her hand on the table and lacing his fingers through it, staring at the wood.

But he does have Melita, at least, until something happened. Because it inevitably would. So he tries to cling to her here. “I’m sorry the house burned down.” Because they’d been trying to avoid the shadows of their past and it had ruined the place he’d given Melita, a place for herself for her things and her alone. A home that was now destroyed and left in rubble atop the hill. “It was an accident.”

i think i'm losin' too much
but there's just never enough

every time she burns to ashes

If Sunjata required reassurance, she’d give it. She’d grant it. She’d will it from the enamel lacquered and stuck to her bones, from the grit fortified in her limbs, from the reel of tenacity clawing at her ribcage. “He is.” She would ignite it in a wall of fortitude and might and sheer, damned endurance, too audacious and emboldened to care about the cinders and embers at her feet, too idiotic to wonder if it was all too much or not enough. The youth laced her fingers with his and squeezed again; she was here, she was present, she was real, she was tangible, she was family and friend and flames, and the world wouldn’t scorch this, take this.

Her sorrows weren’t with the house, or the potential memories of it. Perhaps she’d had so little sanctuary or shelter in her lifetime, that she never thought they’d last, or she’d moved so often that the inevitable plunged its way down her spine. “It’s okay. We can build a new one, all together.” And her smile bloomed, little rhapsodies of crimson blossoms, sprigs of fortune rather than the hellhole they’d buried themselves within. “It’s the people inside that make the home. Not the structure.”

she knows how to rise again

Melita

SUNJATA

the flood

all the drinkin' and the druggin' and the black and the red
the achy skin and all the sweat in my bed

“He is.” Two simple words and yet Sunjata can’t figure out why he’d left. It burns something deep down that has him unsure of the truth to the words, but he repeats it internally like a mantra — Haai whining her agreement from the corner of the room. She’s perched on the edge of the bed, wings wrapped up tight around her as her head buries itself into the blankets, connecting the scent with Nate. Just in case they needed to track him.

But Sunjata focuses on Melita instead, on the hand that squeezes his, and he lets his gaze drop to their intertwined hands, brows furrowing as he recalls him and Nate saying something similar. Had it been real? Had it been a dream? Did Nate actually get out of the fire? Or had he simply imagined it?

A shaky inhale of breath is taken, his freehand lifting up to run through dark curled hair flecked with navy feathers. “You’re right. You’re right a lot of the time.” He manages, his hand lowering to rub at his temples and the bridge of his nose, unsure and still terrified.

i think i'm losin' too much
but there's just never enough

every time she burns to ashes

Fangorn followed after Haai, vines intertwining or dragged along the floor, hastening to do the same as the griffin, despite lacking the proper structure (a nose) to do so. Perhaps it’d be by mere senses, far superior to humans, how he’d survived all these years before Melita conjured his soul into companionship. Determination had been instilled in the gourd too, and he grumbled at Haai, offering to help in some way.

Melita hummed under her breath, a steady song her mother used to sing; and though the melody likely wasn’t just right, it was meant to be soothing, assuaging, a way to mend confused, rattled souls. At his statement though, the glint of a rhapsody dropped, only to be replaced by a laugh. “Of course I am.” Mischief glimmered along her features, even if her heart ached for him, even if she had no other way to fight the terrors, the onslaughts, bridging over his mind. Nothing but reassurance, and tangible hooks. “Can I get you anything?” A repeat, a rendition, an offering to do something else, something more, hoping for an answer away and lifted from the anguish. Food? Water (if he took it at all?)

she knows how to rise again

Melita

SUNJATA

the flood

all the drinkin' and the druggin' and the black and the red
the achy skin and all the sweat in my bed

Can she get him anything? His mind tries to wrap around it, tries to figure out what he needs and wants, and it all ends up back on Nate. There is, however, the sudden realization that his lips are dry, his throat parched, body a dirty mess that he should have showered off if the fear of being encumbered by the water wasn’t so strong. “I’m thirsty I think.” He murmurs before his hand is squeezing hers tight and his gaze focuses on her face. “But no water, please, it’s… There’s something wrong with the water.” The feathers in his hair and shoulders flex as if to accentuate the point, but his gaze gives away the fear of it all.

Haai meanwhile makes room for Fangorn to join her in scenting the Ascended, in committing it to memory so she might be able to help find the Ascended, and fix whatever was going on mentally with her bonded. But she does extend a wing once she’s finished up, tucking a few blankets in beneath her to make room for Fangorn to join in the makeshift nest.

i think i'm losin' too much
but there's just never enough

every time she burns to ashes

“Okay.” A quick acquiescence, and the bizarre nature of his statement noted. Would she be able to slip water into something, and have him incapable of noticing? She released him for a moment, off to search for other beverages, still close at hand if he required anything else, if another threat loomed in his mind, if the world kept churning and burning at both ends. In the end, she really only found some beer, and frowning slightly, she poured some in a glass – enough perhaps to quench his thirst, and not cause some other predicaments. Would it ease his addled skull, or make everything worse? Melita choked down a sigh, lost in the calamity, helpless to its capricious methods. Just like the rest of them.

Fangorn readily took to the made nest, but his vines were busy too, grasping at things no other creature might be able to sense, to take with him when they went venturing into the unknown again, to seek out the Ascended, to ensure this journey didn’t end up like so many others (broken, whittled, deprived).

The youth slid back to her uncle, placing the resin down. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you my sea stories. Would you like to hear one?” Uncertain if they’d be anything he wanted to hear at the moment – given the nature of her disastrous adventures.

she knows how to rise again

Melita

SUNJATA

the flood

all the drinkin' and the druggin' and the black and the red
the achy skin and all the sweat in my bed

She moves into the kitchen and as she does, his hand flexes from where she’d just been. He pauses long enough until his vision blurs slightly, turning his head down to look around the room, as if he’d simply left Nate here and his fiancé was ready to pop out of thin air. But nothing occurs to him, nothing is out of place, and instead he reaches for Lusea’s lantern to run his fingers along the metal and glass, as if he might be able to see Luci’s spirit within the lantern. He can’t, but he still tries.

And before he knows it, she’s back, placing a cup before him that he’s unsure about, lifting it up to move the amber liquid and set Lusea’s lantern back on the table. He can smell that it’s alcohol of some sort and that’s good enough for him, taking a small sip and letting it flood all the spaces that were dry and parched within his mouth. His gaze lifts to meet hers again and he nods with a soft smile as he sets the glass on the counter. “I do.” Whether or not he remembers it is another story, but he’s sufficiently distracted now.

i think i'm losin' too much
but there's just never enough

every time she burns to ashes

Settling back into the chair, she watched, eyes on the familiar lantern of Lusea’s, breath hitching somewhere between lungs and throat. It was a composition in patience, not something she was familiar with, before he placed it back, taking the alcohol, rendering some notion of sustenance, however weak and ineffectual it’d be. Then she leaned back, feet tucked inelegantly on the wooden surface, hands wrapping around her knees as she pondered which to tell. The dreaded monsoon? The ghost whale? Neither seemed too grand or compelling under the circumstances; and if she was truly clever she’d make one up on the spot. Instead, she settled for the truth, laying her cheek on her knee, gilded gaze solely on him.

“We did encounter a ghost whale. I think it wanted to swallow the ship.” Who knew the motives of the great creatures, swimming towards them in their terrifying wake, seemingly intent upon destruction and cataclysms. “We all tried various things, but none of them worked very well. The cannons fired back on me, instead.” A light laugh, as if the burn scars were something to be proud of, instead of a recollection of terror and fright. “Eventually though, it went away.” Through illusions, through water incantations, through gunpowder precision. “But the Ark needed repairs, and our supplies had been thrown overboard.”

A shrug followed. “So I summoned Ludo, and it came to fix everything.” Here there was no mention of Jack’s bizarre reactions; or if she’d be asked to return.

she knows how to rise again

Melita

SUNJATA

the flood

all the drinkin' and the druggin' and the black and the red
the achy skin and all the sweat in my bed

He focuses on her as the story begins, his gaze both seeing her and looking through her as he tries to imagine it, zoned out enough that he looks like he’s not fully present. But that’s of course until he stills when she says a ghost whale, gaze suddenly snapping to her with furrowed brows. “A ghost whale ate Maea.” He comments with a frown, turning his gaze away to look back at the patterns in the wood table.

She continues though, and he tries to imagine it, the cannons and the burns, the ship rocked back and forth on open seas, of Ludo summoned and fixing everything.

“I saw Ludo too.” He adds, brows furrowing slightly. “I think… I think Safrin thinks it made me sick.” He doesn’t know why, he hasn’t done anything to warrant it. But his gaze lifts back to hers as if he’s finally come full circle from her story. “Are you okay?” He asks, of the cannon backfiring, though it’s unclear if he means the sickness too.

i think i'm losin' too much
but there's just never enough

every time she burns to ashes

Not the right tale; she knew it immediately by the bite of his words, by the frown embodying, by the statement following. Melita hadn’t cared for Maea; a bit like a ghost herself, wandering down the halls vacantly, useless except that she gave Sunjata affection and love (and he could’ve done far better, in the wild girl’s opinion – and had with Nate). “Mm. But I’m not Maea.” She was stronger, bolder, and braver; had survived along the pinnacles, had remained amongst and amidst the living, had learned to persevere, to grind her mettle into the world.

His next response confused her though, and her brows furrowed, the uncertainty warring along. “Why would Safrin think that?” She couldn’t imagine Ludo purposefully getting them ill – especially if any of them were its followers. The herald was tricky, but not overtly cruel – though she couldn’t help a nagging feeling when it came to the Ascended, because some of them were ailing, and Ludo had always let its sentiments towards them be known…

Her eyes flickered back up to him at his inquiry, snatched back from the musings. “I’m okay.” A bright smile, incandescent, flickered back in place. It wasn’t a lie. She was okay, and all of them would be too.

she knows how to rise again

Melita

SUNJATA

the flood

all the drinkin' and the druggin' and the black and the red
the achy skin and all the sweat in my bed

“You’re right.” Again, she is, and again he can see that she isn’t. “You’re not Maea.” A quiet sigh slips from his lips – the admission that he misses her not passing his tongue, no closure with what Delphia had tasked him with doing in order to receive the results he wanted. And now? Now there wouldn’t be. The items she’d left him with in order to do said ritual were burned, charred, left behind.

He supposes that’s what he should be doing too.

So he focuses on his next statement, of Safrin and Ludo, tattooed shoulders rising and falling in a small shrug. “She asked me… Where I was, what I’d done, and I told her I was here. I didn’t go anywhere. I got struck by lightning and Ludo was there… So, I don’t know.” His brows furrow, he shrugs again – not remembering he just had – and takes a deep inhale before sipping from the beer again. “She thought Frey at first but that doesn’t make sense.” And then he’s trailing off, some words coherent and some not, uncertainty lingering through his rumbling tones.

But then she’s smiling and ensuring she’s okay and he flashes a smile back, distracted again. “Good. Good. I don’t want…” He shakes his head. “You don’t want to get sick.”  Already he's forgotten he's talking about the adventures on the ship, his mind flicking between that and the sickness.

i think i'm losin' too much
but there's just never enough

every time she burns to ashes

Nothing more to be said on Maea, the pale woman with misfortune out on the seas. Her eyes wandered over his features and wondered what went on behind his gaze, if there were other storms and tempests brewing there, lacquered in confusion, or more of reality, of the harshness of the world. Of how much he’d had to overcome, of how much they all seemed quite destined to fall apart.

But not her. No. She’d make sure their seams and strands were tightened, taut, tethered to her strength and mettle; they could have some of her might. They needed it so desperately.

Melita bit back a score and scorch of other nuances behind her teeth, left them in the enamel, listening to the statements he had. She didn’t quite understand them, beyond being struck by lightning and Ludo’s presence, uncertain how the two were tied together. When had Ludo ever employed such abilities?

And then she thought about her own quiver, and what she’d asked it to do for her. About the sparks flowing through the arrows, and she swallowed down the uncertainty, the inquiries, saving it for a day at a shrine, where she’d bow her head to pray for some semblance of luck on this misguided earth. “Maybe it was none of the heralds. Maybe it was something else.” Maybe it was out of their hands. Maybe it was right under their noses. Maybe everything was tired and torn.

I don’t want you to get sick traversed over her mind, and the blight’s potency reared its length, traversing down her spine in quick, swift, blistering memories. “No. I’ve been ill before.” The smile faded for a moment, stare on the table, on the way wood etched and scraped. “We’ll get you better. We’ll find a way.” Gilded gaze swept back up to him, another promise and conviction entangled into the air.

she knows how to rise again

Melita

SUNJATA

the flood

all the drinkin' and the druggin' and the black and the red
the achy skin and all the sweat in my bed

His fingers run along the grains of wood in the table, eyes following it as he considers the idea that it wasn’t even the gods. What if it had been the sea panther? And if it had, why was he the only one sick from it? He doesn’t know about Deimos’ fate, doesn’t know if he’d somehow managed to get Nate sick from it too. All he can do is just furrow his brows, puff out a bit of air as the fever spirals in his mind. “Maybe.” He agrees, continuing his idle movements.

But he tells her he doesn’t want her to be sick, and he means every word of it, listening when she tells him she’s been sick before — that they'd get better. That they’ll find a way.

His hand returns to the beer, downing the rest of it before he’s staring at the empty glass in his hand. “Ascended’s aren’t supposed to get sick.” And he can’t figure out how Nate’s gotten it. “I want to get better, Melita, and I can’t. I don’t know how or where to start and all I feel is like the air is crushing around me every day.” Imprisoning him more and more with each passing second. “I thought… I thought you were your father when you found me.”

He still doesn’t look at her, as if he doesn’t want to find out if he’s talking to her or Gaal. “I thought he was coming to finish what he started.”

i think i'm losin' too much
but there's just never enough

every time she burns to ashes

The maybe dropped along the wood grains, the empty glass of beer, the unknown frightfully close to a paralyzing juncture. The truth was that she didn’t know anything either – didn’t know how to make this right, didn’t know how to cure them, didn’t know how far this stretched or if it would ever end. For some reason it felt worse than the blight, because everyone could be infected (and how were the Ascended, when they’d always said -)

“I know. I want you all to get better too,” coiled from her mouth, and she went to pour him some more beer, sliding the glass out of his hand. “I’ll see what I can do.” It might have been very little, but if she kept searching, kept broadening the horizon, kept asking, kept looking, then perhaps there was something or someone who comprehended a little more. She felt like they were an island now, presently floating amongst their ignorance, and the threat of drowning under it all-consuming.

But his next words slammed against her heart, stuck a dagger deep within the organs, so much that as she returned to him the glass in her hands shook; the reel of a hiss clustered behind her teeth, the monumental rage suddenly building and bursting behind her eyes. I’m not my father’s daughter echoed in her mind, bestial and not at all quiet. It was a deafening roar, a billowing howl, and she wished she could’ve shouted it from the rooftops, from the inner sanction of this freshly laden hellhole, so he’d never say it again. Instead, it came down with a loud slam of the resin against the table. “I’m not that piece of shit. And I never will be.” Then she sat down, curling back up again, not here to be thwarted and mauled by such agony. Still, it twisted around and around and around, contorting and choking, wondering just how far blood traversed into actions. “So don’t say that ever again.”

she knows how to rise again

Melita