she awakens to a clap of thunder; a dimly lit room greets her the moment her eyes open, wooden furniture illuminated by candlelight; she realizes that she is dry, and far from dead - that is the first thought that strikes her odd. then: the clothes she dons are not her own, the cot she lays on, not her own. a feeling of panic washes over her: was it all a dream?
   the soreness in her lungs tells her it wasnât. somehow, fawn finds the strength to sit up, the movement accompanied by a creak in the bedâs framework, and itâs then when she sees pallid skin in the corner of her vision, hears the familiar dripping noise that was much closer than the rain pelting outside.
   âyou made it,â the whale-sound voice muses, in a tone that sounded proud.
   âi thought you would be there to help,â she replies, and raises her head to glimpse at her reflection cast in the glass window beside her. even in the dim candlelight, she can see red welts of swelling scratches â they paint poignant marks against tanned skin.
   âi knew you had the strength to make it, my doe.â his footfalls donât make a sound as he comes close. âi believed in you.â
   the words cause a sob to surface in her throat, so much so that she covers the soundâs escape with a hacking cough.
   âi have a gift for you,â rhys croons as his hands come to fold before him, though his head moves in tandem with her own to the door upon the sound of encroaching footsteps. the knob slowly turns, revealing the sight of a kul tiran woman who possesses an appearance similar to that expected of the outriggers: sinewy and roughened.
   âoi, lass, youâre finally up,â she belts, tone imbued with an uplifting cheer. âbeen out for a few days - found yaâ washed up on the shore, half-dead.â
   âshe is not your ally.â fawnâs eyes dart to the apparition of rhys, who sulks in the corner of the room - barely illuminated by the flickering candlelight.
   âgot into a bit of a rough patch, did yaâ? almost did yaâ in, it seems.â the woman crosses the room to place a tray on the bedside table. a bowl of hot soup, a piece of bread - it is a meager meal, though fawnâs stomach hungrily churns at the sight of it. she opts to stay silent, however, throat still tender from saltwater.
   âi wonât question what happened. yâdonât look the type to tell, if iâm honest.â
   âshe did not help you,â rhys continues, his words going unnoticed by the foreign woman. âmany know your face, fawn holmwood. she intends to poison you - do not eat.â a bony hand gestures outward to the tray the woman had set aside, water dripping from his fingertips and forming small puddles atop the tableâs wooden surface. curious, the foreign woman swipes her finger over the fallen droplets before glancing skyward to the ceiling, a murmur expelling from under her breath.
   âwhat ever will you do, dear doe?â
   a frown finds permanence across fawnâs lips as she meets the womanâs expectant gaze, and she appears to take this as an invitation to speak further.
   âi recall seeing your face âround these parts â helping out with the townsfolk, you were.â the womanâs words make fawnâs jaw clench in suspicion. âi figured the least i could do to repay you was to bring yaâ back to health, yeah? my cookinâ may not be the finest, but i assure yaâ that itâs a better meal than saltwater.â
   âthanks,â is the only word she manages through a roughened throat - itâs delivered raspy and hoarse, and serves as a reminder that sheâd voluntarily almost drowned.
   for good, though, she remembers as her eyes flit to rhys once more. she sees a glimmer of ivory in his grasp: bones, a collection of them. the sight is peculiar enough to capture her stare and hold it long enough for the foreign woman to depart unnoticed.
   âfishbones?â she recognizes the bones instantly- before rhys could even manage to part pallid lips to speak. he simply nods in confirmation, arm extending to offer the strung-together necklace of bones to her.
   âyour father gave it to you when you were still a youth. a tradition, they call it.â something in his tone shifts as he continues; soothing notes recede to allow for something menacing to take its place. âbut this is the age that traditions must be broken. after all, what did traditions grant you? near death experiences, a family that abandons you?â a click of his tongue accompanies the unanswered question. âthe world burns as those who desperately dwell on tradition try to keep their power; you can steal it from them, my doe. vicious, you are - a poppy awaiting its chance to bloom.â
   she holds the fishbone necklace betwixt her fingers for several seconds that pass like hours before her hand curls around it, jagged bone edges and fingernails cutting into the skin of her palm. he was right - it was a new age. time to forget those that had wronged her.
   she breaks bone - a familiar snap that breaks through calcified material. abruptly, the necklace reduces to ash, falling from her palm and captured by a breeze that wafts through the room. when she looks up, she finds a smile strewn across rhysâ features; it is proud, warm â no one had smiled at her like that in a long time.
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