i settled my grievance by crafting a mask

Burn asunder, Make an edit Make apologies a tithe along the way When you keep the credit You’re a thief, but it’s ok edward boyne. THE PURSER. hms promethean.

[edwardboyne]

@fatherfoxhound: "the ones we love have the power to inflict the greatest scars."

( flashback; 1844 )

as they leave the orphanage together, edward lets himself get a little distracted—he only half listens to laurents and what he’s got to say, feeling awfully tired (but at the same time, awfully grateful) thanks to the day he’s had. but a sentence like this was bound to catch his attention so he turns his head to face the other, with questions arising behind his eyes, coming through in his expressions, questions he isn’t sure he’s allowed to ask. they aren’t friends, after all. they’re friendly, but they aren’t friends. 

but then again, ed isn’t particularly known for sticking to rules, social customs included. he almost stops walking but the second-long hesitation in his step soon dissolves; stopping would make this conversation feel to serious, too solemn. and besides, it’s too cold.

“and are you speaking from experience?” he asks; for a second, edward hopes that the answer is yes—they should have something else in common then. because if their roles were reversed, that’s what his answer would be. he thinks about his family, his past love, both lost—and that’s possibly where most of the hurt comes from, from the absence of them.

[edwardboyne]

@ofcoeurbrise​ : “i am ensuring my own future. because i know in my heart i know that there is no one else who ever will”

“what—what are you planning to do?” the words fall carefully from the purser’s lips, as if he wasn’t sure whether he wants to hear the answer. he must, no matter what it is and frankly, he’s prepared to hear the worst of it. he studies tristan’s face, struck with tragedy—it’s always been like this, since the very first time edward has laid his eyes upon the man, but now it’s even moreso. the hurt spills from his eyes, from the curve of his brow; the tension in his face almost urges ed to match his expression. but then he isn’t all that far off himself. what happened has left a mark on him as well.

but it’s the anger he can sense in tristan in particular that makes him ask the question. people ridden with grief and fury so often decide on things that will only hurt them in the end—the purser knows from experience. he doesn’t want the same to happen to his friend. “i care for you, tristan, you must know it by now. and i only ask because i don’t want to see you do something you’ll regret. or see you get hurt.”

[edwardboyne]

THE DOE-HEARTED​:

She nods toward the paper, the docile little attempt to hide it, “I believe it’s spelled S. O. S. if that’s too taxing for you, Edward.” Quirks a grin at him, and for the first in a long time it doesn’t feel hollow. Tragic, really, when the rest of her does. Devoid- there’s another good word for it.  No, though, apparently making fun of her claimed family is enough to bring some sense of comfort, some warmth, make her look like herself. Feels like she’s missed him, though they’ve barely been apart all things considered. Feels like she’s missed him because of all the distance, all the secrets, all the idiotic attempts to handle things alone. 

“Maybe it’s your age catching up with you. Maybe the sun and moon are having a quarrel, Goodness knows they had one for days back there.” Endless night. Only it had found its end, hadn’t it. Endless day might make a change, welcome or worthless. 

Casts a glance outside herself. “I really don’t know what time it is. It feels like it moves differently in this place, like we do too. And i don’t know if that’s just because we’ve been tricked into thinking its someplace to rest after everything.” 

a faint smile passes through his features when the voice he recognizes so well—and always longs to hear in times like these—reaches his ears. “i was hoping to fill the page with something more cheerful than a cry for help,” he jokes; but the truth is that there isn’t anything happy to write about and said cry for help makes most sense. but then again, whom do they send it to? how?

he tucks the letter into his pocket, looks to ayla and smiles again, tries to look at least a little bit comforting. he can tell, how hard they’re both trying for one another. “i’d rather they made peace. there’s been too much fighting going on around us already.” and with terrible outcomes. edward can’t help but think of tristan’s face, twisted in both anger and despair. this is what it’s come to, people who don’t deserve to suffer, suffering even more. 

“what do you reckon, this place?” the purser asks. he’s nervous, this land makes him so, and he’s hoping he’s right in feeling like this. “i’m terrified, really. it shouldn’t exist. it doesn’t make sense. i know plenty hasn’t been making sense for weeks now but this—it’s insane.”

[persephonememes]

* (  𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐎𝐍 /  𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒.

These may have been edited for clarity or length or to better apply for roleplaying.

do it. be bold.

we must continue our ruse until i’ve found my match.

me, unavailable; you, desirable.

i trusted you more than anyone in this world, and you took advantage.

you do not know me, but i know you.

you have no idea what it is to have one’s entire life reduced to a single moment.

is this not lovely? all of us together again.

an expert in the art of the swoon.

i wish to be entertained.

it would be better if you refrain from thinking about me at all.

lovely indeed. we should tempt scandal more often.

the social season is upon us.

your love is an unrequited fantasy.

i cannot stop thinking of you.

i am anything but interested in you.

it is more than just your honor at stake.

i write in my diary which is not the same as writing in my novel.

a pairing like that would be most enchanting indeed.

the season’s diamond, even more precious and rare a stone than previously thought?

stare into my eyes.

is it awful that i’m enjoying it?

if you desire the sun and the moon, all you have to do is go out and shoot at the sky.

we could pretend to form an attachment.

if there is a scandal, i shall uncover it.

must our only options be to squawk and settle or to never leave the nest?

all is fair in love and war.

there is nothing you cannot do.

my honor is not for sale.

if this is to work, we must appear madly in love.

i’m aware of your reputation.

do not tell me that is another scandal sheet.

you’ve always amused me.

we find ourselves seated next to each other. i’d think you’d be happy about that.

marriage has it joys, but it also brings with it its special trials.

it’d be better if you refrain from thinking about me at all.

you do not know me, and never shall.

you do not humiliate the one you love. 

i’m aware of your reputation and i am anything but interested in you.

what if i want to fly?

the ones we love have the power to inflict the greatest scars.

every presumptuous mother in town will leave me alone and every suitor will be looking at you.

you do not trick the one you love.

if you desire the sun and the moon, all you have to do is go out and shoot at the sky.

let it be known that if there is a scandal, i shall uncover it.

you think that just because i’m a woman, i’m incapable of making my own choices?

love, conquers all.

you can choose to love me as much as i love you.

i am tired of pretending.

from the mornings you ease, to the evenings you quiet, to the dreams you inhabit my thoughts of you never end.

i cannot continue acting as if i do not love you. because i do.

i love all of you.

i cannot be your fool again.

the brighter a lady shines, the faster she may burn.

we chose to love each other every single day.

pride, it will cost you everything and leave you with nothing.

i am looking out for myself.

you don’t deserve to breathe the same air as her.

you must simply marry the man who feels like your dearest friend.

i am ensuring my own future. because i know in my heart i know that there is no one else who ever will.

you do not lie to the one you love.

to meet a beautiful woman is one thing, but to meet your best friend in the most beautiful of women is something entirely apart.

circumstances change, ladies. sometimes over night.

her heart is no matter, as long as her hand remains free.

you cannot assure me of everything.

i will always protect you.

i believe i should like to stay.

i believe you should like to go.

what others should ever want such damaged goods now?

you have no idea what it is to be a woman.

you are perfection itself.

what? you don’t love me for my subtlety.

would you rather die than marry me?

i am yours, i have always been yours.

it is you i cannot sacrifice.

i burn for you.

it pains me you should think every compliment a mockery.

i ask you, can the ends ever justify such wretched means?

[edwardboyne]

after landfall / siren’s sorrow / open

at some point—edward can’t tell when exactly, time seems to be running outside his conscious understanding here—he’s given in. though initially, the purser has refused every single offer of a drink (unlike so many of his friends), there’s one in front of him now, the cup half-empty. it was inevitable, really. with the pressure of everything that’s happened, there’s only one thing that can soothe one’s mind enough to go on like the world isn’t burning. 

it doesn’t quite work—not yet, hopefully. edward stares at the piece of paper in front of him; blank, save for the few attempts crossed out with vigour. there’s pencil smudges on his fingers already, a proof of how much he’s struggling to find the right words. he hasn’t written a letter in so long and it feels especially foolish to be doing it now. edward thought it would make him feel better or perhaps it would help him stay grounded. he feels even more shattered when he realizes that there isn’t anything to say—he's rather forget so many things. 

the paper barely makes a sound when edward balls it up in his hand. he holds it in his fist for a few seconds before he changes his mind—he unfolds it, straightens it across the table, stares at the page that wasn’t ruined by his hesitation. then he starts writing about the search party and by the time he has them back on the boat, about to find out about estrada’s plan, he realizes he’s got company. he folds the paper in half, covers it with his hand and looks to the other, catches a glimpse of the outside through the window. “i feel like the sun should’ve set hours ago yet it still refuses to give way to the moon. i’ve lost my watch and whenever i ask someone for the time, i get conflicting answers. it makes me nervous.”

[edwardboyne]

THE IDOL​:

WHEN | AFTER LANDFALL WHERE | A NONDESCRIPT STRETCH OF BEACH, A SAFE DISTANCE AWAY FROM THE PROMETHEAN  WITH | OPEN TO EVERYONE

this is not his rifle. 

here, in this mirage of a place, conjured by the grief stricken minds of mad men out of seawater, this purgatory made of mist and blood, he still thinks of the old adages tossed around by instructors at sandhurst, old soldiers holding court around campfires in the field. the nature of the beast is this, they would say. eventually, you come to know the body of your gun like the body of a lover–your hands get to tracing every curve tenderly, you know the exact location of every knick and freckle. then they would grin, elbow the nearest boy still too green around the gills, the one who they deemed still too quick to flinch, and mutter under their breaths–’fraid that’s what passes for tenderness out here, lad. 

the rifle jack settles against his shoulder is heavy, hard bodied as every firearm is–but it isn’t his. his is warmed by the hands of another aboard the promethean more than likely, or perhaps it sits prisoner in the gun room–the j and the f carved into the stock obscured under layers of gathering dust. another casualty he failed to prevent. 

he exhales, bites down hard on his bottom lip as he tries to settle the one he now holds against his shoulders, against his flesh and bones. this is not his gun–but he thinks that perhaps that might be fitting, for he is no longer a soldier. he stands yet again with his boots planted in the uncertain earth of foreign sands, only this time he does not shirk the sun–he allows it to perform its work, to melt the flaking gold leaf that covers his skin and turn it into armor, to make him into more. 

let them call me a hero now, he thinks as he gently slides his finger towards the trigger. let me be worthy of it. 

he fires, and the bullet shatters his green glass bottle target. 

he feels the corners of his lips begin to pull upwards. he will not fail again. 

he can hear footsteps sound behind him–they might have been hidden underneath the ringing of gunfire if he had been anyone else. he glances over his shoulder towards them, drags a hand through his hair–he only just notices that it is long enough to tuck behind his ear, to be blown carelessly in front of his eyes with the breeze of the sea. “you haven’t come to volunteer to stand over there with an apple on your head, have you?” he laughs, a quiet sound that sounds rough with disuse to his own ears. “because i’ll have you know i hit that exact shot once, drunk off my ass in the seychelles.”

he takes to the sea, as he always does when he’s lost. but it doesn’t bring the same comfort here—especially here; it’s been like this for some time now. the sound and sight of waves crashing against the ship make edward wonder how long until they turn deadly. unlike the past, when the very same thing would make him enthusiastic and eager about the things to come. right here, right now, he dreads the idea of what’s waiting for them, whatever they choose to do. 

though he does try, here and there to think of a way out of this. and sometimes, when he lets his thoughts become a bit more foolish, not only does he think of a way out of this but of an outcome—of all of them in a safe harbour, not even an english one, just somewhere out of death’s reach. when the hour is late and he can’t control his mind as well anymore, he imagines the ones they’ve lost among them, too. it always jolts him awake and edward curses himself for the naivete. 

so there’s no comfort in the sand beneath his boots, nor in the sound of the ocean which, if he’s being honest—doesn’t sound quite right here. too quiet, like it wants to hide something from them. the way home, perhaps.

the gunshot rings too loud in his ear as he approaches, reminds him of another gunshot, the one that made everything even worse than it already had been. 

“i don’t doubt you abilities mister fox but even now, i’d rather not tempt fate.” edward can’t bring himself to mirror jack’s laugh, the sounds just isn’t there. he walks closer, hands folded behind his back. edward looks to the sea again—maybe if he stares at the waters long enough, a change will come. “have you been into the city at all? to explore?”

[edwardboyne]

quotes: mary oliver / kate baer / john berger / template cred. 

+ PLAYLIST

— HAPPY HOLIDAYS, LIA!!! / @aylumin

[weltenwellen]

Susan Sontag, As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh

[edwardboyne]

THE VETERAN​:

jules took her time to get to his question. she put away her supplies, piece by piece, appreciating the ritual of it all. turned her arm over so she did not have to look at the very thing she just immortalized on flesh. edward’s presence was accepted, appreciated even — but it felt small. changed. like he was standing on the tall edge of a cliff and she was calling up to him from the bottom. 

“i’ve always heard the stories. just never thought i’d live it myself.” it was his question that seemed to piece it together for her, the wrongness of this place. “islands that can only be found by sailors not looking for them — sailors that are lost. always met with different creatures, but always creatures of the gods.” 

( we have your hearts’ longing; all we ask in return is every memory, every piece that makes you up, every bit of your future. )

“and by the end of it, there’s only ever one sailor left alive. one to tell the story.”

she reached for her glass, wincing at the slight tug on her skin. at least that meant they were still alive. “we’ve been marked by death since we began,” she stated, sliding her glass to him instead. “so enjoy a fucking drink, edward. if this is the end of us, do you really want to die a miserable sack?”  

his eyes follow jules’ movements with close attention — he wonders what it would feel like for him, to ink the people you’ve grown to care for and lost right into your skin. in edward’s case, there would’ve been plenty; letters curling around his arms, getting lost in the crease of his elbow, a name right over his heart where it belongs; if it were possible, a name on the inside of his eyelids so in his dreams, he knew where he came from. whom he came from. but he doesn’t like the permanence of it, of the pain — he can only live with it, if he can take breaks from it. ink is too real. it wouldn’t let you forget.

“i think we were looking for it. not for this place specifically but for a place nonetheless.” this is no coincidence. this isn’t luck. this place is so odd, it can only be something they conjured up themselves. out of tragedy, out of rage, out of desperation; red sands to match their spirits, their grief, perhaps their future.

edward still refuses the drink. even if this is the end of them, as jules predicts, he doesn’t want to take anything from this place unless he has to. a drink is an indulgence he can go without, even though his body and mind would surely benefit from it. “did you have a feeling? before we left, did you ever feel like there was something bad waiting for us out here?” it would be easier to deal with the outcomes if she said yes. never a superstitious man, he’s willing to become one now. it would be easier, to think that the tragedies aren’t by their own making but because it was their destiny; because it was planned for them for the start. 

right now, it’s a hole they dug themselves. while the others died because of something superhuman, nyima was killed by a bullet, as real as they come. but there’s no point in blame, not anymore. not when death looms over all of them. still — while jules has no issue speaking of their own deaths, edward has an aversion to it. maybe it’s foolish, to keep running away from the thought but he’s only human. “is there any other way to be right now? anything other than miserable?”

[edwardboyne]

THE VETERAN​:

location: the siren’s sorrow.  time: after landing.  with: open to all. 

( tw needles )

this was the true jules, the real one, jules cut and splayed like a tortured albatross set as a tortured omen. sailors, be warned — this might be you one day. children, be frightened — this is what you never want. the grief of it, the accepted anger. i will never be more than this. jules nursing a glass of something ( didn’t ask for specifics, just asked the strange barkeep for the deepest cup they could find ) and jules wallowing in the guilt of a failed ship. her present running parallel to her past. 

a statement, nyima’s soft words, something cruel now: hope led me to you, to this. a question, jules’ harsh voice, something that was finally answered when nyima leaped for the gun and made her choice: why don’t you fight?  

jules finished tying the needles together, dipping them in the mixture of ink and gunpowder. the tattoo would come out black, which seemed wrong for nyima. it ought to be red, maybe green, maybe every bright and brilliant color that reminded someone of warmth and summer. but no, it’d be black. jules lay out her arm on the counter of the bar, nudging her glass to the side and sucking in her breath as she brought the needles to her skin. 

gradually, slowly, the tattoo took form. a reminder, the only thing from the woman jules would allow herself to save. a moment. a thought. a gift. 

hope   1845. 

as she finished, she noticed someone had taken the seat near her. sentiment hardened, and she pulled her arm back. cleared her throat of the tears that had lodged themselves there. 

“what?”

it’s been a very long time since he’d seen her like this last — so destroyed with tragedy, so brutally turned inside out, so exhausted with their circumstances. and edward hasn’t felt like this in a very long time either. except right now, he’s trying to hide it; keep it together, for his own sake. he’s fallen apart too many times already in the past few weeks, he doesn’t want to show any more weakness. especially here, in this place — he doesn’t trust it. every step he takes feels like a risk but where his family goes, he follows. so he follows jules; stares at her from a distance for a moment before approaching her. when he takes a seat next to her, he still isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. it’s an odd feeling to have around your closest friends.

instead of the dead, he focuses on the living. judging by the looks of her, by the harshness of her voice, jules wouldn’t want to talk about the lost anyway. “what do you think of this place?” he asks; something tightens in his chest then — as if with the question, he was going against his own decision to talk about the living, instead of the dead. this place, wherever and whatever it is, it doesn’t feel quite alive. “how lost are we, to have found land here?” 

[edwardboyne]

THE DOE-HEARTED​:

If she had the heart for it, it would be soaring. Indeed she does know. Indeed she physically aches at the thought of it. At the fact Edward stands there and the distance, this time, is not put there by him, nor by her uncle. The distance is caused by things beyond their control, by plans set in motion, by the island, before even that.  Despite how dreadfully she wants to see Malachy safe, she wants even more for Edward to witness it. They can encourage hope for one another more than she has managed, or could ever. 

He squeezes her shoulders and she thinks he understands. For he hasn’t sent her away, hasn’t dismissed her. Smiles at it, but it’s scarcely there. Barely available for Edward to see, never mind whoever else might be watching, whoever else suffers a different angle of perspective. Just a small thing, an unreasonable cheer, softness tugging at her lips. And it’s the fact he says I’m a reasonable man, more than anything else. More than the fact he understands.  She wants to scoff at it, wants to laugh; remember how you punched someone for apparently no reason at all?  As soon as she thinks to it, truly remembers it, the smile drops. For that’s exactly what they need to avoid, that’s exactly the kind of thing Estrada had warned about, threatened with. 

Lifts her hand to cover one that settles on her shoulder. A slow incline of her head as a nod, as a confirmation, as though she believes it. “We should do what benefits the passage. Calm, no trouble from those who disagree.” Slants her gaze to the corner of the room, tries to catch sight in reflection, tries to guess whether the deckhand still stands. If they’ve done enough to send him away bored. “I believe anyone who causes trouble is being locked up, and I’d rather see them out. Jules, Roi, my uncle. We can’t afford for anyone to be in a cage, not when it’s simply a smaller one than the ship. There’s nothing to be done except hope they all see reason. Hope it’s listened to. Talk, not violence.” 

he knows it’s going to be difficult—to remain calm in the face of this entire ordeal. he’s already had the chance to say plenty to marcus, though edward supposes it could’ve gone worse. and he knows he isn’t alone—he thinks of jules and how her hands itch, devoid of a weapon, one thrust into her back instead. he thinks of all the rest of them who still remain faithful to the captain. he isn’t exactly sure how he’ll go about this, but he trusts ayla. as ridiculous as it sounds, after everything that’s happened—he still trusts her to know better than him right now. he really hopes he doesn’t regret it. 

“we’ll, i don’t fancy being locked up either.” that’s genuine, not for show—even with eyes on him, there’s more freedom walking around the ship than being held hostage under lock and key deep in the vessel’s belly. he thinks of malachy again and anger starts bubbling under the surface. he contains it, suppresses it as soon as it makes itself present—practice makes perfect, he should start early, if he’s supposed to make himself come off as cooperative rather than antagonistic. 

he takes a deep breath, lets his arms fall to the side. hope. that’s all he’s been doing lately and it got him nowhere. but this is different; the word means nothing when she says it out loud, it’s nothing but a veil. hope they all see reason. we’ll make them see reason.

a look over her shoulder, the guard relentless. it’s probably too early to let them go unsupervised. “you should go, take some rest.” they won’t achieve much like this. “we can talk again some other time.” he doesn’t specify when so the guard doesn’t get any ideas. he and ayla will have to figure out a way to go around this. 

[edwardboyne]

THE VETERAN​:

we’re fucked — not great, all things considered, but something to work with. half wasn’t all of them, after all. ( christ, when had jules become the optimist? it was necessity more than belief, she supposed. they had to be successful because there was no other option for malachy, for her, for any of them. ) edward pushed her, and she fell back, the sounds of the crowd gathering ‘round heard as something distant, something unreal. 

oh, this would spread fast enough. and just as quick as she fell, edward was there again. she let herself get yanked. “teaching you a lesson,” she announced to the room, grappling him but not moving, not yet.

what’s your plan? the full weight of his trust, the full weight of knowing this was why she had been brought onboard, all those years back, why she had been given this second and golden opportunity in her life. she would do what edward could not; she would do what malachy would never ask of her.  

“people need to lose faith in marcus estrada.” they could not simply rise up. they could not simply kill him. the crew needed to want it, the crew needed to ask it of each other. they needed to believe marcus had fully lost himself to this place, and then she could put a knife in his yellow belly. they needed to turn the haunt on one person, on one scapegoat — the sailor that killed the albatross. she pulled her head back, and in the split second before she headbutted edward, she summed it all up in one word: “sabotage.”  

the pain is almost worth the whole ordeal — maybe perhaps not even almost, it is worth it. edward’s convinced that out the two of them, jules is definitely more in control right now; she’s got the fight in her while the purser has given up on it for the time being. the issue is that they don’t have the time. and thank god for jules making sure that edward knows it.

he stumbles back, brings a hand to his face immediately following the impact. his nose and forehead pulse with pain but he can’t tell if the hit was hard enough to make him bleed. apparently this was the last straw and there’s finally someone separating them; ed can feel an arm on his shoulder; when his vision clears up, he sees jules with two ABs on either side of her. he catches her eye, gives a nod that’s barely there. he understands. he trusts her. he’ll do what she needs him to do. edward shakes the hand off his shoulder, mutters an i’m fine; when he takes his hand away from his face, there’s a trace of red on his skin and he almost wants to laugh. they’re really committed. 

[edwardboyne]

THE DOE-HEARTED​:

“If your stupidity doesn’t kill you, I’ll have a go.“ It’s infuriating that he lies at all, never mind makes it seem so obvious. It causes her to feel ridiculous, worthless to him, as though she hasn’t proven time and time again that his safety, his happiness, is the most important thing in the world. “So no, you’re not fine. It’s not nothing.”

He pulls away and she tacks about the room, a sweeping search for things she knows are there somewhere. Busies her hands so she’s not holding on. Presses them to a bottle, to cloth, to pitcher instead, each in turn, calculating steps and offering reprieve. It might be why he speaks at all, or so she thinks, with back to him and attention half-scattered.  “Did you lose control, or did you take it?” There’s a significant difference. Two separate investigations, at least lines of enquiry. 

The handkerchief is steeped in water. Not much, but she’s not leaving. Especially at his next. Keeps her head bowed in the return, so she’s not staring him down or trying to read his expression, despite the imprint on her vision. “You are your own.” There’s no drifting, but there’s not a full stop to it either. A hope, more than words. Gently lifts his hand with one to pat at it with the cloth in the other. Soft movements, that make her trudge the raise of her head, the determination of her gaze as she looks him in the eye again, finally.  “I recognise you, but what are we to do if you hide away? There will be no hope for it then. You have been unrestrained once this evening, so why not now, if you’re to find blame in it anyway. Tell me. All of it.”

he sits down, lets ayla do what she’s set out to do because he knows better—that she isn’t going to take no for an answer. regardless of the fact that his skin barely broke, she’ll tend to his wounds because she knows how to do it. because she can tell that there’s another wound that needs healing and that can only be achieved by making edward talk. she’s done that in the past and she’ll probably continue to do so until he dies. the thought makes itself a little too comfortable in his head, as if he were thinking about near future. he isn’t. he can’t.

he takes a deep breath, unsure of what there is to say. it would be easy to say that he was provoked and that none of it was his fault; but he stuck the pin in first, teo just followed his lead. he’s not without fault here.

“i really don’t know what came over me. i—i said something...that suggested the agathe survivors could bring us harm. that they want to bring us harm.” he looks down, embarrassed. clouded judgement is one thing but this was too much, even for him. especially for him. “and then they followed suit. except—more cruel, i think. i don’t think i could ever say things like that.” i do not care who i hurt. i will drown them, hold their head under until their body twitches with the last breath. he shudders at the memory. but he still regrets his reaction. there’s no denying that.

“i don’t take kindly to threats, i suppose.” he tries to make light of it but it falls flat. “especially when they concern malachy.” i will start with the captain, push my blade into his throat. he swallows hard, the words echoing in his head cause a phantom pain pass over his neck. “regardless, i still think my reaction was uncalled for. it shouldn’t have happened. and i’m the one to blame for it.”

[unearthly-angel]

ilya kaminsky / leonard cohen / within the wires / mary oliver

[flowerytale]

John Keats, from a letter to Fanny Brawne - August 1820

[edwardboyne]

THE MARAUDER​:​

She takes to the bitterness in his voice like an alcoholic takes to the sting of whiskey; which is to say, perfectly well. She ingests it smoothly, not even a flinch on her features. She’s spent her whole life steeped in hostility; surviving–no, thriving! Blooming! In its toxic space like a poisoned rose.  Does it matter that just a day before, the purser and her were having a friendly drink? Discussing the crew. Their crew. Caring over their well being. Now there was no ‘their’. The only thing in existence now is a line carved in the sand: yours vs mine. 

In truth, she has better things to do. A rabid woman to guard, lest Jules escape and decide to color the walls with her ruby insides. But she does wonder, how deep does Edward’s devotion to Malachy Dowling go? Would she have to cut him down too…if it comes to that? So she prods on, if only to discover if he is worth drawing a target across his back. She offers a shrug, nonchalant and impassive; his embittered tone just a minor inconvenience. “Sure. We’re doing it now, aren’t we?” A small pause. “You know, I told Mal this would happen. Not this exactly but––I told him that most of the crew here…They don’t have anything to go back to. That this, the Arctic passage, just might be the only grand thing they ever get to do in their life. You don’t just take that away and expect people to be happy.”

it’s brutal. to risk them dying here, at the end of the world. edward’s never been particularly afraid of it, of death, but he seems to dread the idea of losing his life to the ice. maybe because he’s always liked to consider sea his home and your home shouldn’t want you dead at its door. “do you really still believe we’ll get there? that we’ll get to find it?” that we’ll be allowed to find it? malachy wasn’t taking anything away in the first place. it’s already been taken from the before he made the decision.

he knows that—he’s spent hours talking to the crew, all the boys dreaming and hoping for the discovery; he knows that for some of them, thi is all that matters. this ship. this place. but some of them do have things to go back to. edward has plenty to go back to—friends, a home, possibly a jail sentence, if his fears from before—of being found out—are true. even with the latter, he’d still rather be on their way back to england. but making marcus see reason is impossible when they don’t share the same idea of it; not when edward thinks it’s reasonable to run away, to escape; not when marc thinks that it’s unreasonable to let the sacrifices made already go to waste. 

once upon a time, the purser dreamt of the passage. it was all friendly seas and a safe return; no person lost, not like last time. but the second they left godhavn, every wave would become malicious, every night would take a life. everyone should want to run away from this.

“it isn’t worth dying for.” especially not when it’s in service to england. that country’s glory is never more important than a man’s life, no matter how grand they frame the mission. they deserve to come back, even when they have nothing to come back to. they deserve to stay alive.

[edwardboyne]

THE INTREPID​:

❝ How the fuck, pray tell ❞, he pauses, clamps his hands together as if takes contact to stop him from launching forward, as if takes contact for the sheer act of grounding down, ❝ do you know that? ❞ The Captain bounces back on his heels. Stays to the wall; sticks to it. His spine finds some solace in the cold, caulked wood, in the railing underneath. Some solace: this is not his ship. Never was. But he’ll make it something else, something better. Take it to a place where a ship no longer belongs to men, or they to it. Where it just serves them, instead.

It takes some mettle, staring into Boyne’s eyes. He cuts into the shiver before it starts; pierces it down, tacked to the other side of his chest. Allows it to burn through.

❝ That what I’m really asking you, here. How do you know it’ll be better ahead? What makes you so, so fucking cocksure about it, wiling to gamble the lives of your men? The lives of other people, who aren’t crew, who only came here for their reasons, such as they are: the good, the awful, the tender. None of them warrant this ending. All of them, Edward, all of them wanted an adventure. A getaway. A chance to be both free and safe at once. Can’t you say the same? Can’t I? ❞

His voice shakes, no, rattles. Can no more cover it than an old man can cover the tremor of his hand. Thinks of Sutherland. Thinks of crunching it down, those liver-stained patches that cover his skin, gnashing his hands to the marrow. Wiping his mouth with it.

Stop.

He thinks of Pippa. Thinks of what Ayla said, more importantly: the words that reamed the motion of it all, head and sinew. She had only wanted to escape. Not like this… but still. An escape. From London. From all it represented. From all it took, and takes, and shall take from us. Oh, yes, he thinks of Pippa—even though he knows the cost it will exact. Has to sit down; cannot. The simple truth of it: he’s got to keep standing up.

❝ Is there anything, Edward, other than your dogged will to oppose me… ❞, he has to stop, here. Has to break off just to laugh. Pretends it’s humor. Pretends he doesn’t need the air. ❝ anything at all that convinces you to go back? What did that country ever do for you? What did it give——and how much did it take? ❞

he doesn’t know that. but if this was reversed, if edward were to ask how marc knows that sailing on is the right way to go, he wouldn’t be able to give him an answer either. because none of them know what they’re facing right now. it’s staring right into their faces but they don’t see it, they don’t know it. there is something they' know though—the route that brought them here. it’s something they’re familiar with, something they’ve navigated already, as opposed to the waters ahead of them. that’s surely an advantage. it must be. if it isn’t—well, then whatever they do, they might be doomed. edward wants to pretend that he’s exaggerating, he’s even managed to fool himself in the beginning. not anymore, though, not anymore. 

“how is still pushing on not worse of a gamble than going back? we know where we came from. we don’t know where we’re going.” the worst part is that the second he says the words, he starts questioning them—so much has shifted, who’s to say the world hasn’t. what if the maps aren’t right anymore, what if the sea turned itself into a labyrinth, what if the monster cut the string with its claws.what if they get lost any way they go, what if everywhere is a dead end.

edward always used to have all the answers. he does not have any right now—he isn’t right anymore, either. 

 “if things go to shit even more then at least we’re on our way towards a place that we’re familiar with. we’ve already lost more people than last time.” last time was different, they both know this. but going back saved them. why shouldn’t it save them now, too? “we’re not safe. we’re not free. whatever illusion you’re feeding the people with, it’s not going to work.”

he takes a deep breath, covers his face with his hands; rubs at his eyes because they sting with the effect of many sleepless nights. almost wants to laugh, too, when marcus brings england up. edward hasn’t thought about home in weeks; about what waits for him there, about the reasons why he’s on this ship in the first place (save for the obvious one, now locked up like a prisoner below deck). “you’re right—it never did anything for me. and it took everything from me.” that’s as much as he can say without his throat swelling shut. “but it’s home. i have people there. people i want to see again. many of us do. but we need to be alive for it. and the further we go, the less likely it becomes. fuck the getaway, fuck the adventure. fuck what’s on the other side. i want to see us back where we started.”