ON NE VOIT BIEN QU'AVEC LE CŒUR @dawndusted - Tumblr Blog

emprcsario:

lower deck; near private cabins / open to: everyone ig do whateVER u want with this

“so, what d’you reckon? how long until captaincy shifts back around?” the coin flips up and down kane’s hand, balanced over his knuckles; a family heirloom, believe it or not, he’s neglected it, though, it‘s filthy now, lost all it‘s shine. he’d throw it away but his fingers are so used to the weight of it, kane wouldn’t be able to pull the trick with a different one.

his fist closes around the piece of metal. kane cracks a grin at the other. leans back against the wall, arms crossed in front of him, ignores the weight of the knife stuck into his belt. perhaps it risky, to go about without a gun—everyone seems to have emptied out the armory. but then he doesn’t really stick his nose out of his cabin these days, unless he absolutely has to. even now, there’s about ten steps separating him from the safe haven of his quarters. “nobody’s stupid enough to think there isn’t going to be pushback. dowling has way too many hounds ‘round here. miracle, that none of them haven’t tried anything yet.”

she has seen dozens like him in paris; men with sharp suits and sharper grins. they make it so easy for her to distrust them, trying to turn the acid of their words into honey you lap without thinking twice.

“and should captaincy shift, will we see you crawling to the side with power again? pretending your loyalty was sure all along?” tones are not yet harsh, but there is a hardness to how the words leave red-bitten lips.

“of course there will be pushback. you’ve started a tug-of-war game that won’t end until there’s too many dead to make sides. what was there to gain from this? would it worth our survival?”

her people’s, their own — they blend together in this icy hellscape, and she cannot fathom how ambition has blinding some into believing the lives they have already lost, the lives they will continue to lose — will be justified by the unknown of the maws of whatever beast’s mouth they’ve stepped into.

“i take it you’re satisfied with how everything has turned out in your favour?”

#the empresario.#the empresario 001.#event 006.#[ nyima: i am NOT vibing to this right now and i am quite frankly offended that u r having a good time sir ]

sweetsunflora:

Where: The cartography room because I apparently am too scared to write starters anywhere else in the ship. Emma haunts this place now. When: A few days after the Hunters’ return. Whom: Open to the Agathe survivors.

(tw blood, tw violence) Day has returned, rays of menial warmth filtering in through the windows of an empty cartography room. No one wants to be out in the open right now, and that suits her just fine. She keeps waiting for someone, a guard of some sort, to call her out and force her into a room; but they seem to sense that she is too broken to cause trouble. Too haunted to do human things such as make a fuss.

She watches the sea outside, fracturing and thawing; a white porcelain temper tantrum over a tablecloth of navy vastness. In her hands is a love letter of the final sort. Her former last words. She promised Pasha that they would do it together––destroy them with whiskey, fire, and laughter. She promised a great many things.

Emma thinks of the sun again; how she should be grateful for its presence. It does bring comfort after all, doesn’t it? Illuminates the shadows and demeans menacing figures into harmless objects; monsters into coat hangers. Demons into plain branches.

In truth, it doesn’t matter to her if the sun has deigned to take up its post once more. Even if the light should dip below the horizon and come up again a hundred times, it wouldn’t even matter because what is the point? She closes her eyes and she sees Pippa’s–No, Philippa’s–face. She does not deserve to even think of that shorthand, a nickname reserved for those who hold utmost fondness for the recently passed. Passed. Like she floated away, down a river. Like Emma didn’t bash her head in with a jagged rock until the water turned red, even in the utter darkness. She can still feel Phillipa’s blood on her cheeks.

The naturalist (does she even deserve that title now?) forces her eyes open and is met with a too bright room. She wants to cry, weep for everything she has lost and done, but all she can manage is a sniffle––a sharp intake of breath. A creek of wood sounds, a giving way of floorboards to signify a new presence. She should smile because it is a familiar face; the only family she has on this ship, but all she can offer is a neutral glance as greeting.

“You were never supposed to find out, you know. No one was.” She plays with the love letter between her fingers, eyes meeting paper instead of person. “I always planned to make it home to you but…I made letters just in case. Do you want to hear yours?”

i only ever wanted to give you the sun. it is as plain, as simple as that.

when she sees emma now, it is not the picture of the girl that she has held so closely through the colds they have gone through together — a testament, perhaps, to how what leaves her will not return fitting into her life the same way again, leaving her with nothing but jagged cutouts waiting to be filled by someone long gone.

her heart breaks when she sees emma now, and she thinks that she would give her all the pieces of herself to the girl if it meant having that bright glint in those eyes again.

perhaps it is too late to be wishing for such things.

“did you think you could go without taking a part of me with you? silly goose.” even still, she speaks with a lightness lacing her tone, shoulders gently nudging.

this is the worst kind of heartbreak: the splintering of hurt and the dam of normality that you use to pretend your ache is nothing.

“you will be the death of me one day, emma.” she doesn’t mean for her smile to be a sad thing. she sits down next to emma, pauses in her reaching for the girl. asking for permission.

“you could burn the letter, you could read it to me, we could pretend it never existed — tell me what you need and i will give it to you. please let me.”

#the sunflower.#the sunflower 003.#event 006.#[ brb bAWLING ]#[ u hurt me so beautifully trixie ]

arcticdoctor:

“i can hardly take credit for that,” he returned with a quiet chuckle, always uneasy with the praise toward his profession. ( he had difficulty viewing his work as saving a life; it was always providing someone with the tools they needed to live. )

“yes, he was.” her response filled him with such lightness, he felt disconnected from gravity. it was not the sun keeping them in orbit, it was this, these moments, these words. “and you are someone too, do you remember that? we can do nothing alone; we were not meant to.” he gave it as an offering of sorts, a hand extended. let’s walk this path together, shall we?

“you must be worried enough about your fellow survivors; there’s no need to add me to the list too, miss. doctors are trained to be prepared for anything.”

oh, but there was work waiting for him, wasn’t there? there was a boy in the belly of this ship to cut into. there was a captain pacing nearby who needed an answer. there was the fate of an expedition to decide. he could not think about it now.

one step forward at a time.

“it’s strange, isn’t it? you come to the arctic, and you expect there to be hardship. it’s written into the land. i told my family i was coming on this expedition, and they said, ‘are you certain you’ll survive it?’ i could only tell them, ‘no, but i hope i will.’ we hear about this world of ice, so inhospitable to us, and we think we’re prepared for the inevitabilities that come with it.” he looked to her, to her experience. “a part of me is glad i’m still shocked by the boy’s death — it means i haven’t accepted injury and death as the only path, correct? but goodness – and i do apologize for going on so much – but goodness, it hurts. it hurts that it happened in this way. it hurts that i was never given the chance to even attempt saving him. it hurts that i know it is what you must feel, fifty times over.”

he extends a hand to her and she gladly accepts it; turn this walk into a dance, give it a kind of life that you and i still try to hold on to.

isn’t that all we can do? try to make what we can beautiful? try to pretend it doesn’t take a little piece of you every time you do?

“i think i am still trying to remember what kind of someone i was, or am. sometimes i think i wasn’t sure even before this expedition even started and with everything i have even less to hold on to.” it is easy to speak to the doctor, to spill truths. “but you’re right — we were never meant to be alone. our survival would not exist if we were not a group.”

she listens quietly as he speaks, feels a comfort in the words — there is a familiar language of hurt, of hope — ( is there a difference anymore? ) — that nyima knows all too well, that she sees in her own reflection. it feels like opening an old wound to dig out the splinter under the skin, to let yourself heal properly again.

it stings, of course it does. you bleed, as you should. she is reminded of all she could not save, of all that she misses, of all that keeps her restless; lets the hurt be something that merely washes over her instead of being a drowning.

“thank you.” for empathy, for being the cure to a kind of loneliness in this solitude hoping. “the ice has neither been fair nor kind to us, but the hurt that weighs us down is what reminds us of why we need to keep on going. it’s what keeps us from going numb in a place like this.”

“i’m sorry that you had to know this kind of hurt, doctor. we had... we had hoped that the hurt would stop with us. your people do not deserve what we have brought with us.”

#the doctor.#the doctor 001.#event 004.#[ YOU ALWAYS HURT ME SO DELICIOUSLY KAT I AM LITERALLY CRYING ]

ilvulcanico:

“our home —” the word almost spit at this point, twisted as it had become between them. promises kept and promises broken, promises that had never become promises at all. “— is on fire, and you’re asking me to sit in the flames. this is not hope, this is compliance.” she was right on one thing, at least: what was home but the people that made you feel safe? what was safety but the hope they might not be harmed?

an illusion, all of it. they were hunted things now, and prey did not stop being prey when it cowered beneath the bushes.

“you know who i am. you know what i am. i do not need to answer your question, mon rayon de soleil — you already know it.” her hand settled on his cheek, and he turned his head toward it, his lips on her palm, as loud a confession as he dared. he would not hold them as they accepted this death; he could not do it. ( if a wolf came inside and warmed itself by the fire, if it turned on its back and showed you its belly — was it a wolf still or a dog? ) “i ask you do not stand in my way.”

he takes her hope and blackens it, and she lets him. reminds herself that his anger only comes from a place of hurt, that if his hurting has her hurting then she will gladly bleed out in place of him.

this is not compliance. this is understanding. acceptance. love.

“i am not asking you to sit in the flames.” hands thumb cheeks, gentle in their caressing. she wishes she could hold him close enough for the man to know how he breaks her heart, how she wishes to mend him before her own fragmented pieces.

“i am only asking — no, hoping — that you don’t accidentally set yourself alight in this process of survival. it is so easy to, and that is not a survival i want for you.” smiles are sad, already having an idea of how this will end. already knowing that he will not listen. she wants to believe this time there might be a chance that he does, wants to be wrong more than anything.

“i will never stand in your way, teo. you know that. i’m only trying to stand by your side. tell me what you need of me and let me do what i can. will you allow me that?”

#the volcanic.#the volcanic 001.#event 004.#[ this is thirty years late i am so sorry !!]#[ but feel free to wrap up if you would like my dearest !!! ]

sweetsunflora:

***

Emma colors the air around them with a laugh as light and free as a summer breeze. Her fingers finish the song early, eager to commit full attention to the person before her. “You flatter me, Nyima. I can feel my hubris growing larger with every compliment you give. Soon, I fear it will swallow me whole!”

She scoots over to make a space for her friend, as she has several times before. As she will for many more times. A fact that she is learning: Nyima will always have a place next to her.

“Well of course. How can I refuse? Would you like me to teach you a common tune, or shall we make our own new one? It will be simple, I assure you but beautiful nonetheless.”

“a little hubris won’t hurt you and me — all the men here are fat with it, so why shouldn’t we indulge ourselves with a bite or two?” she takes a seat next to emma and it is as natural, as simple as sliding fingers together in a holding; childhood-clinging and innocent.

people should not be places you make homes out of, i know, i know. but you make it so easy and i have been searching my whole life for someplace where my name feels like it is safe.

“we should make a new one, just for us two — i think i like the sound of that already.” she smiles at emma, fingers resting on keys, waiting for instruction. “if i mess it up, please know that it doesn’t reflect how i feel about our friendship — i’ve just got horrible clumsy fingers and you’ll just have to forgive me.”

#the sunflower.#the sunflower 002.#flashback.#[ i am so sorry that this is so late but !! pls love me ]#[ all this soft has me MELTING ]

DATE & TIME: after the group has been discovered missing, evening LOCATION: devon island STATUS: closed for @captdowling

“it means a lot to me that you would allow me to come.” the curve of lips is something that is still warm as ever even in the arctic, even with the stiffness of the girl’s underlying concern behind it. the wind tugs at a few stray locks of hair, bites at any exposed skin.

a part of her hates to say that she is used to it. she hates how this feels like a reoccurring nightmare; feet upon ice and far from home.

( no longer does home mean paris, but rather, the pieces of her heart that she has given to the survivors in hopes that such a fragile thing could guarantee a kind of safe for them. there is one fracture out there named emma-rose and nyima is not sure how much left of her heart she can bear to lose again. )

“i know i’m not the most trained, but... “ her teeth begin to worry at bottom lips, already chapped from the cold. “i will do what i can. whatever you want me to, captain.”

the word feels strange leaving her mouth, girl still thinking of another face when she speaks the title. she is afraid of replacing the last outline that she has of the agathe’s leader with the man before her but malachy deserves the sincerity that she puts behind the word and she could use the hope of having a captain to guide them once more.

“what first? should we look to see if they left any footprints behind?”

#the captain.#the captain 002.#event 005.#[ I HOPE THIS IS OKAY DEAR AHHH ]

devotedrowning:

he cannot help the touch of mischief in his smile grow at her reaction, glad to see the levity in the moment. ‘ i don’t think it’s just you. i’d argue that half the layers we have to wear to not get frostbite is suffocating, doesn’t mean i can go out without wearing them. there are plenty fools who have tried, who have learnt the lesson and so taught it to those around them. ‘

but at her growing anxiety, he cannot help but regret telling even a part of it, no matter how he knows it would help to have her know now rather than discover it in some other more painful way later. still, she tries for a smile, so he responds in kind, makes it real for the sentiment and reassurance he tries to convey.

‘ i tend to have that effect, though i have had to grow into it as well - there are plenty who take it to mean that i am the one to challenge, and i have learnt to help them regret it. ‘ they wink and shrug. ‘ i have no doubt that i would have liked to have met them as well, for all my inability to truly pick up french. ‘

it is a familiar thing, being with this stranger — friend, soon, she hopes — and having a reason to smile again, no matter how fleeting. such chances were few and far in between, and there is a warmth that returns to her bones at this kind of simple conversation that she once thought she would never have again.

“what a lovely way to put it — perhaps that shall be a part of my next lecture for whoever decides to comment on my nagging. don’t worry, you’ll get full credit.” she laughs, finishing with folding the blankets in her arms, hands wrung together as they try to busy themselves in their presence.

“oh, there’s no need to worry when it comes to language — so many of them were brutes who could barely speak french themselves. all they ever did was shout and point — more circus monkeys than sailors, they were.” curve of grins are a little sadder now, though the fondness towards those she speaks of is nothing but genuine. “you’ll find that a few have survived and are now onboard with us. i’ll let you figure out who, if anything.”

#the devoted.#the devoted 001.#event 004.#[ don't mind me trying to slowly jog the braincells into functioning again wejgqoiwej ]

riversoaked:

jules listened, truly listened, letting the words wrap around her, letting herself feel them. she brushed against her own boundary and looked over the edge, looked at nyima standing there. as the woman’s smile turned sad, jules reached for her, touching the tips of her fingers to nyima’s cheek. hardly a touch at all, and then pulled away.

“i think i’m beginning to understand —” by which she meant: i think i understand you, perhaps a little better than i did. at least as close as her nature would allow. jules felt so locked between the past and the present, between the image of nyima in the hotel where jules would boast and saunter and the image of nyima now where jules was tamed and fragile. “i never felt more hollow than i did when it was anger driving me. and god knows when i lost my own crew…” a quick glance at her, a strange dizziness in revealing this to a stranger, to a non-stranger. “well, i suppose it was hope that kept me alive then too.”

hope in the form of malachy, hope in the form of purpose.

“i’ll do what i can for you. but no more than that.”

before there were words, before there was language, there was this: skin upon skin, fingertips chasing the bones of faces, as if to say i know you. as if to say, you and i are real things, and i exist here with you.

a not-touch is enough to be seen, did you know? she smiles faintly at the other, tilts her head just a fraction, just enough for it to be a reaching in return. it is nothing more than fingertips skimming the surface of water, but it is still something.

“i’m sorry you lost your crew. we aren’t made to endure such things, but we do anyways. i’m glad you found your way from it, and found some hope despite the grief.” she knows too well the feeling, has it weigh down on her like a second skin. “it is brave of you to come back from anger. not many can.”

“i thank you for that — it’s more than most. if there’s anything i can ever do in return... here or when we find land again, i hope you feel welcome enough to ask me. truly. i’ll do my best to be of use, hopefully.”

#the veteran.#the veteran 001.#event 004.#[ brb choking on my fucking FEELINGS BYE ]#[ god... soft jules.... i'm literally melted onto the floor... weeping... drowning in my own mf tears ]

sweetsunflora:

When: April 1845, Evening. Where: Dining saloon. Whom: Open to all Agathe passengers.

Towards the latter part of the evening, if there aren’t many people, Jaime ( the head maitre d’ ) allows Emma-Rose to play the grand piano situated in the middle of the hall.

Her fingers float across ivory keys with all the ease that years of practice bring. She sways to the pensive tune, transforming herself into a physical embodiment of the piece. Left to right….Right to left…A tilt of her head, a contented smile playing on soft lips. Her profession is one that relies on careful observation of the world but when her hands are on a piano, the world she so fully loves falls away to accommodate a soothing solitude.

Still, for as much as she treasures quiet moments to herself, the addition of another’s presence is not met with rigidity or reproof.

Instead, she welcomes it with the same grace her hands curl with. Her song and movement continue with little difference but her smile shifts from satisfied softness to a playful smirk.

“ Would you like to make a request? Or is your plan to stand there like a ghost all night? ”

“i can hardly complain about being a ghost if it means i get to haunt you.” she teases, smiles second-nature when it comes to the girl before her. “you play so beautifully, i can barely get used to such a blessing even after all this time on the ship. if only our hotel pianist was half as talented as you.”

a laugh, then a small nudge as nyima tries to squeeze herself onto the piano bench next to her friend. shoulders bump and elbows knock, small symphonies, sweet melodies in their own way. secret songs, they are, notes that they sing that no one else can read.

“i have only one request for the night — teach me? my father would be aghast, an artist with a child who has no inclination to anything creative. he’d thank you for your service if you could coax even the simplest of tunes out of me.”

#the sunflower.#the sunflower 002.#flashback.#[ sorry this is such a late response but i simply Could Not Resist ]#[ catch me WEEPING over these two bye ]

arcancs:

He has to clear his throat, more than once, before anything makes its way out. Not to stop her from talking ( tsk, as if anyone could, as if anyone dared ) but because he himself hadn’t spoken in so long. He can sense his vocal cords, somewhere in the depths of him, taut and bruised with silence. Dry, too; scraped like stone against stone.

He realizes the last time he said anything must’ve been when the vessel made port. Paid the quartermaster, as per agreement, booked a carriage at twice the market price. No one else would’ve let him in, not in such a state. It wasn’t, really, that he was more alive than dead; it was just that he didn’t look overly human at all. Definitely not the right amount. He did this all by rote, somehow, muscle memory that led him to her doorstep. A part of him must’ve expected this: the urgency, the care, the bottomless pitfall of nurture. Gods, this giving.

He raises his hands to his face, doesn’t know why, not really. Doesn’t know if it’s whether to shield it or obscure it; realizes that whatever the reason, it’s futile, all in the very same moment. She’s an unstoppable force, now. Iskender smiles, a bit waxy, certainly a lot more bloody, but warm. He hopes it’s warm, at least. As warm as she deserves.

❝ No, Nyima, listen —- ❞, a slight hiss, when the woman drags the cloth over a cut, alcohol as skillful at finding the depths as any gravedigger. Iskender manages to cull it before it turns into a groan, manages to continue on an even voice: ❝ sevgilim, I know this is the standard line of any idiot in history who’s ever brought a battle wound home, but it really looks worse than it is. ❞ He says this onto a chuckle, but then something freezes: unfreezes.

Home. By home, I must’ve meant, here. By home, I must’ve meant, well, you. Iskender puts this realization down, aside, out. The ancient art of stamping on fires. Generational, that one. He draws back, only a little. Only enough. ❝ Please, don’t trouble yourself; listen to her, death. What a thing to say. It’ll clean up in a second, I just need some—no, wine sounds fantastic, actually. If it’s not… ah, fuck, too much of a bother. Is your shift over? Can I help with anything around here? ❞

“it looks worse than it is? it looks worse than it is? if you weren’t already bleeding out in my arms i would kill you myself, just for that. you’re so — “ words die on lips, girl unsure of which adjective to use. stupid seems like a given, and frustrating would be a lie. she will take in any kind of love, even if it is bleeding over her, even if it isn’t love in the slightest. she will take him, take this, and she will be thankful that he even made his way over to her in the first place.

try hard enough and you can make anything beautiful, worth cherishing. even heartbreak, even heartbreak.

she fetches him the wine but refuses to stop, quick to finish cleaning up the blood and moving onto bandaging what she can from a first-aid kit wrangled from back cupboards. what good are these hands if they are still? if they are doing nothing?

“you are too much of a bother, but you are in my kitchen and you are now my bother, so sit still and drink your wine.” voices are as sharp as they can be for a woman sculpted by softness. “you can help by telling me what happened, and whether anyone is going to finish the job they’ve done on you or if i can have the pleasure of finishing you off myself.”

she sits back, inspects her handiwork. there’s a heavy sigh as the initial shock wears into tiredness, hands outstretched for the bottle. “you better have a good excuse for this, iskender. and you’re sharing dinner with me, so i hope you like salmon — no ifs, ands, or buts. you will eat.”

#the arcane.#the arcane 001.#flashback.#[ my heart really do be feeling things huh ]

DATE & TIME: july 28 1845, 9:32pm LOCATION: the main deck, the promethean STATUS: closed for @ofvoron

“this is not a coincidence, is it?” it is a dark hour, indeed, when ever-smiling lips turn into a worried line as she stares out to the horizon. the chill has inched towards being unbearable, and it reminds her too much of the island, of what they have escaped.

or so it seems. history mocks them; ice cracking and ghosts reminding them that their stories have not yet ended in this arctic, no matter how much they wish to pretend that this chapter has been long finished.

stranded and stuck again. when nyima turns to pasha, there is something set in those eyes that makes her look like the survivor that she wishes was a title worn in past-tense.

“we need to figure out what exactly is happening — i will not live in fear over that... that thing any longer. that apparition of that poor boatswain... it must’ve left behind something. at the very least, we might have something to prove our story if they don’t believe us already.”

#the ambassador.#the ambassador 001.#event 005.#[ I HOPE THIS IS ALRIGHT DEAREST <3 ]

DATE & TIME: january 5 1845, 9:30pm LOCATION: the hotel that nyima works at, paris STATUS: closed for @arcancs TRIGGERS: blood, injury

a lovely surprise, and an excellent way to end the night, she thinks, seeing the familiar face with her own expression brightening despite the late hour after a full day shift. easy to be enthused with the presence of one she is so fond of, until —

“iskender! oh my god — oh my god — what happened? are you okay? jesus, sit down, here — “ she immediately rushes over, seeing the red tainting clothes, the grimace on his face. there is no hesitation in looping the man’s arms over her shoulders, careful to maneouver him to some backroom where they will not be seen, where there will be no questions but hers — unanswered, most likely.

she tries not to think of it, focuses on the bleeding man before her instead. hands are quick, gentle, pressing damp cloths to the wounds and unbuttoning shirts to clean the stained skin. “and what, pray tell, has gotten you in a state like this, hm? disappearing for weeks and all of a sudden, you just show up like this! dear god, iskender... hold on, there’s wine somewhere. you’re going to kill me with this if you die, i swear.”

#blood tw #injury tw #the arcane.#the arcane 001.#flashback.#[ i hope this is okay !! SHE IS FRETTING AND TALKS MORE WHEN SHE IS STRESSED ]

lijinmarked:

she smiles at the obvious enthusiasm, feels the conversation fall into it’s place - easily classified. perhaps it’s not drawing rooms or dining tables, but every person has similar questions, similar curiosities - she could hypothesis about human nature or something more, note the differences between the bland curiosity of nobility and the human envy in this kitchen, but the answers stay the same.

‘ i was born on a boat, so i say all my life - no matter when you think it starts. ‘ lijin smiles without her eyes, before shrugging, and the light returns to her eyes as she leans forward to take another bite. then the food tastes like ash in her mouth and she drops her head to play with the piece of vegetable between her hands instead.

does she regret it? does she regret leaving her door that first time, or any other time after that? does she regret the struggles for schooling, or the adventures with james? does she regret the first time she walked out the door without james at her side or back? where does the regret start and where does it end? ‘ why do you think it’s stupid? ‘

there is a bravery to wonder now — to have seen all that the girl has seen in this ice and to still be enchanted by the unknown — to look at terror in the eye and say you will not take this world from me. you will not take the hope out of me.

“a clever answer.” she praises, continuing to cut the vegetables without looking, choosing instead to meet eyes with lijin. “i was born not on a boat, but from someplace that i have never called home. something about that always makes me feel as though i always belonged to somewhere that i won’t ever be able to name. strange, how places work, don’t you think?”

there is a moment of nervousness, lip bit and contemplating the words thrown back to her in the form of an innocuous question. she turns back to her cutting board, all too fixated on her fingers again.

“it’s stupid because... i think, even after all this loss — even with all we have been on the agathe... pardon me, for it sounds horrible, but — i would do it again. redo it to save all those i cannot, and do it to save all those i did again and again. sometimes i wonder what kind of person that makes me.”

#the marked.#the marked 001.#event 004.#[ DO NOT MATCH ME I AM RAMBLING AHHH ]

ofcoeurbrise:

—

what would it hurt? a question loaded like a musket ball, as likely to tear through flesh in its quest to be answered, to be fulfilled. it would hurt a whole hell of a lot, if tristan were to open his mouth and give voice to every idle thought he’s had about the life the two of them could build upon the sea together–never tied to any coastline or societal idea of where their happiness should come from, kissing salt from skin and letting the sun turn the skin of their shoulders and arms differing shades of gold, like wild and ancient devotees of poseidon–only to have laughter and scorn returned. only to stuffer the loss of the one person who has ever accepted tristan as he is, given him purpose and made him better.

it would hurt more than tristan would be able to bear, and so he continues to clench his teeth, to turn his gaze quickly in the other direction when he feels it has settled for a fraction too long. it is much better to suffer in silence, to create whole lifetimes in his mind and live them during the spare moments he has onboard, than to allow want, in all of its bare bones and teeth, to consume him from the inside out.

he levels nyima with a look and rolls his eyes again, though he knows such a gesture will not deter her from her line of questioning. she cares about tristan, for reasons he will never be able to fathom–and though he is grateful, he wishes she would care about a different aspect of him. his stomach perhaps, or the wounds that come from a life spent at sea–things that could be easily healed. “a captain and a second falling into bed together is the worst idea–a disaster waiting to happen. i’ve already made the mistake of–admitting, to perhaps feeling more for him than i should. i don’t need to compound it by acting. what would happen if he decided he no longer wanted me one day? or if i should die suddenly, it would affect his ability to captain with his best judgement.”

he sighs, and though he would never admit it, the action weighs heavily on him. “besides–i’m no lover or great seducer of men and women. i’m–the one they tell of such things, after they have already happened. the one who pats them on the back in congratulations.”

she does not miss it, the clench of jaw, the look in his eyes — almost immediately, she softens, pulls back just a touch to give him the space he needs. she has learned from the ocean; how to push and pull and match what surrounds her. ebb and flow.

“hey. i don’t mean to push — you know i’m joking, yeah? consider it me being an old hag needing some excitement of you youths onboard this ship. make nothing of it if it bothers you.” she bumps his shoulder lightly, tones lighter now. “you know i only want for you to be happy, in whatever form you want it to be.”

she purses her lips at his words — self-deprecating, almost — waits for him to finish before speaking. she turns to him, wraps her hands around one of his, easy. as if precaution, just in case words tumble out the wrong way from mouths, then touch will say all it needs to for her.

“listen, tristan — i’m no expert on love — or anything, actually — but i do know that you’re more than the one who merely pats whoever on the back in congratulations. you can let yourself be a lover with the right person, and no one’s asking you to be some... seducer. you’ll be loved as you are. disasters happen. sometimes the right person is worth it.” she says, squeezing his hand. “and if nothing works out, then you can marry me when you’ve given up and at the very least, we’ll have some sort of tax benefit.”

#the judas.#the judas 001.#flashback.#[ r u really friends if u don't have the marriage pact by like 30 or 40 or something if nothing else works out ]

devotedrowning:

he can’t help but let out a small laugh as she puts down her work and begins examining his arms, places his hands ontop of hers to still her. ‘ unless you want me to strip right here, you’ll have to take my word that i am healing quite well. ‘ still, at her frown, he lets the smile turn reassuring. ‘ and no need to apologise. your care is uplifting. ‘

they skate right over the concept of uncertainity, of the shadows and the voices and the hauntings that the rest of the crew seem to have experience. nyima will no doubt hear the gossip as it comes, the ship full of it. if there can be a respite even here, then roi will try to provide it. ‘ i hope i didn’t remind you of memories you’d rather forget. ‘

“oh! no, i — that won’t be necessary. i’ll take your word for it.” she jumps, red dusting cheeks at the other’s words. she laughs, easy, shaking off her embarrassment with it. “i’m glad it’s such and not suffocating. i’m sure many of those in the agathe would agree that it might be the latter at this point. i would argue it’s what kept them warm, but maybe that’s just me.”

she listens carefully as roi speaks, the ship changing with what she learns — it is not a safe haven, but nothing will ever be out here. anxiety bubbles, and she tries to keep it to a simmer as the memories of the agathe are suddenly remembered. things they should’ve seen. things they could’ve saved. people that could have —

“i... no, it’s not your fault. i wouldn’t want to forget, even if it’s difficult to have to carry such things with you. we’ve lost many, and i just.... i wish you would’ve been able to meet them all too. big, strong men, the bunch of them — imagine them being dwarfed by you! it would put them right in their place, i think.” she tries for a smile. it is almost convincing.

#the devoted.#the devoted 001.#event 004.#[ i'm cRI ]

sweetsunflora

dawndusted:

they are nothing but two motherless girls trying to understand a love not given to them; wingless songbirds stretching ghost-bones to the sky, singing for hope still. she has travelled all this way to find her own mother, only to find motherhood blossoming in her chest, in her heart, for those who are left. it only takes loss for her to find it; something taken out of her for this tenderness to grow as much as it does.

tragic, how these things are. beautiful, if you look hard enough.

“oh, you silly girl — why would i need something to remind me of you? you’ll be in my life still, just as i’ll be in yours. you won’t be able to get rid of me that easily. all i need from you is to remember me from time to time and come over for dinner. nothing else.” she presses a light kiss to the top of her head, ruffles her hair a little before smiling softly at the girl she has come to calling her family. “the night is getting to us, isn’t it? come, let us get you back to bed — we’ve been restless for long enough. we’ll finish up tomorrow.”

hands outstretched, unfurling her legs to stand up again. in this little space, they can almost both pretend that peace exists for them, that they are worthy of it.

nyima paints for them a dream made for two, tailored to fit their secret inner wishes. a dream made of warm summers in paris. of mild-weathered evenings on an open terrace. dinners full of laughter, delicious food, and sweet treats. who can resist such a beautiful fantasy? who can to resist the promise to be known and loved in full measure until the end of your days? certainly not her, not when it’s all she has desired since the beginning of her existence.

so, with a gentle kiss on her forehead, emma’s realism crumbles to accommodate the other’s infectious hope. she lets her eyes close and allows the sweet satisfaction of being loved to pull a smile from her pink lips.

and when it’s time, she gathers her journals, her fears, and her worries into a satchel. she rises and her hands fit into nyima’s like they were always meant to be held by her. emma stifles a yawn. “ can we sleep somewhere farther away from teodoro? i am sure he’s already snoring and you know i can’t stand it. “

– FIN –

#the sunflower #the sunflower 001. event 004.#[ this is beautiful thank you !!! ]

wilccard:

⁎⁎⁎

— ❛ No, no, not at all, it’s just… ❜, Vladimir trails off, voice suddenly wrought small. He looks at his hands, down, buried somewhere beneath soap and hoary wash-water. He cannot stop looking at his hands, these days, actually. As if they had somehow been made anew. As if something has hallowed, sanctified them.

It comes to him in flashes — at the worst moments, which kind of makes it the best moments by the very nature of the intrusion — and then he cannot carry on with whatever he was doing before. The images are like little arrows; points of division. They split the day, the hour, among their arrival and their slow, warm bloom. Their developing into scenes, rather than pictures. August’s lips on his wrist, pressed hard into the bone; his breath washing over the veins, his head moving up, up, higher up his arm, his lips pried open by Vladimir’s finger. The way his hands fit into the crook of August’s neck, as he balanced himself, as he tried to angle their bodies. The way August grasped onto one of them, when he… . And then minutes would pass. Vladimir would blink, heat-filled, a desire he cannot even articulate moving through him in undercurrents. He forgets what he’s thinking about even while he’s thinking about it. Like it lives somewhere at the back of his mind, not inside the bloody skull. Somewhere in the pit of his stomach. And everything time it’s reignited ( everything can set it off, really, a fuse and a red-tinted graphite ) it just becomes stronger, rather than burned through, rather than dwindled. There’s no way to convey that, to her. To anyone, really, except maybe the object of this desire, this two-split madness. He would catch August’s eyes across the room and smile, so far gone with it there was nothing to do, nowhere to go but that smile. That hope that it will be returned. That wonderful, terrifying certainty that it will be.

Right now, he pulls himself back from this heat source, avoids it with a mental sidestep. Vladimir hands her the pan, freshly scrubbed. Purposefully, he doesn’t remark on the set of her jaw. It’s not his place to say so, but he agrees: this area of the cooking quarters has always been under-staffed, under-equipped, and weeks away from going to shit. ❛ Nyima, was it? Call it out, if I’m pronouncing it wrong. It took the lads about five solid months to get Yamatov out. Nearly lost them around the m. ❜ He throws this off-hand, almost a joke in its own right, like solidarity can be as flimsy as this. Like companionship rests on the edge of a vowel. Maybe it does. What else, if not that, have the recent months taught him? The soldier worries at his lower lip, a second, before something has him pushing on. And then suddenly he approaches it, this monumental precipice, this looming chasm that he always thought will be the end of everything he knows. The brink of the map. The brink of the world. He jumps.

❛ Actually, you are far off the mark — just not in the way you think. He’s a lot more than that. He’s… well, I mean, I suppose it makes for about as good of an introduction as anything else, right? But for me, he’s much more. The word is…. narrow. It’s not enough to explain him to you. You’ll have to meet him, to see. But I imagine we’ll need some help with setting this place to rights, before we feed your friends, hm? So it seems like I have to bring him. The boyfriend. ❜

what a horrible, beautiful, terrifying, comforting thing love is. when she looks at vladimir, she is reminded of her father and his heartbreak smile, of feeling such a small word be not enough and too much at the same time.

how can we take something with the ocean’s rage, the sky’s expanse, the earth’s depth, and give it a human name?

she takes the pan from hi, nods her head in thanks and continues setting up her station — how the thought brings a small smile to lips, something being hers again — laughing at vladimir’s words. “they always get lost around the m for me as well, it seems. so close to the end, yet they somehow find a way to crash right before getting there. i completely understand.” an easy jest, nothing more than making a new friend back in the hotel kitchen. if she wanted, she could pretend. believe in it.

whether or not she deserves that luxury is a different thing.

“i think my father would know just what you’re talking about to. i do, but only from an outsider’s perspective. i hope that is enough for you.” fond, she is, of love. snowglobe beautiful to her, fingers always touching glass instead of a reality. she loves it anyway, in whatever way it is that she knows how to. “words are never enough, it seems. but i hope one day i am as lucky as you and your boyfriend.”

a moment of silence, nyima testing out the word to see if it is comfortable with him. to see if it fits in a space that he can be in.

“but yes, i would love to meet him. him, and any friends you can spare. spending all that time with the other survivors has made me horribly sick of them, and i need new friends.” she grins, winking at him exaggeratedly. “are you close with many on this ship? or mostly acquaintances — if you don’t mind me asking.”

#the wildcard.#the wildcard 001.#event 004.#[ nyi ships them and u can't stop her now sorry !! ]

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