the scarlet

[scarlxtdrops]

|| closed starter for @thespicn

|| location : hms promethean | fahra’s cabin

|| date : a few hours after the mutiny

When she finds them on the ship, Fahra momentarily believes Sebastien is a ghost or a mirage. Their disappearance, Emma’s disappearance, Jehanne’s leaving with others to rescue or worse and all of the events, the returned being welcomed with weapons and betrayal. Suspicious stares crawling behind her back, fingertips ready to murder someone, Fahra still is in shock that no one has sent the survivors to their death. She finds Sebastien and her first reaction is to grab his hands and slowly walk towards her cabin. Her hands are clammy, a thing that a few days ago would have made her feel ashamed and nowadays the only constant feeling she feels is liquid dread filling her lungs.

Too focused on walking, she doesn’t even notice if she’s hurting Sebastien, if her fingers are trembling and if they will leave purple bruises. Probably not, she could wonder that both of them are fragile like small birds made of glass, physically hurting one would require hurting yourself. This leads to thoughts of hurting, the strange sort of thoughts that make her chest ache with the welcoming feeling of despair.

She brings Sebastien to her cabin (she refuses thinking about Iskender and this gift), opens the door and rudely pushes him into the room. Fahra knows she’s not acting like herself, she’s acting more like a cornered animal, mind becoming a blank space of panic as vultures become close. She could trust Dowling’s offer of safety, the one given by Estrada and Pasha is one she won’t allow herself to feel calm while choking on it. In the end, as most animals do, she hides in a hole, hoping to feel safety in the cabin and knowing that she only will feel safe when near the survivors.

❝ Where were you? ❞ she asks not accusingly, but with voice filled with relief. She knows she is not Noémie, not Nyima, the protectiveness she once had is a thing of the past, it transformed itself into selfishness, and yet surprisingly, she finds herself searching for visible injuries on Sebastie’s skin, searches for purple and dark bruises or any subtle sign of harm done. ❝ Did someone hurt you? ❞ she asks again, the question barely a whisper echoing throughout the small room.

[scarlxtdrops]

|| closed starter for @ofvoron

|| date : pre-mutiny, 1845

Looking at Pasha, hearing the news and the secret that he brings, it brings a bitter taste inside her mouth, as if ink droplets slowly corroded it. She remains seated, perfect posture and blank eyes as the information slowly trickles inside her brain, scenarios of their bodies bleeding all over the ship being the obstacles. If she once feared they would be killed by a creature’s hunger, perhaps now she should be afraid of a different type of hunger.

There was so many justifications as why doing this would be a bad idea, the wrongness and the injustice would have made her cringe with disgust, however she the only thing she can pull from the knotted threads that are her thoughts is how Marcus Estrada is going to use them and kill them. Staring at Pasha’s angelic face, the perfection of it suddenly marred by the way her mind conjures the red contours of her fingers against it.

❝ This... this is insanity. ❞ she mumbles, turning her face from him, her mind trying so hard to produce a sound argument than simply scream “no”. ❝ Pasha, don’t, please. You will kill us, you will kill all of us. ❞ and she pictures Jehanne and Emma, their lives cut short by a monster, by the cold, by musket wounds.

[scarlxtdrops]

|| closed starter for @sweetsunflora

|| date : 1st of August, 1845

Waiting for them is very similarly to holding her breath, the agony in her chest is very similar, the eternal seconds ringing inside her ears, counting each heartbeat before it’s too much. The knowledge twisting inside her guts, that perhaps they only survived to be soon killed makes every attempt of breathing even worse. She misses them, Jehanne she had the opportunity to slowly watch as his figure disappeared into the horizon and Emma? Nothing, only a ghost made of memories. She almost starts praying again, almost, but she doesn’t trust her prayers to be listened by nothing than other things. This place did not belong to men.

And then they return and Fahra watches silently as they are threatened, watches their eyes and asks herself what she should fear the most, men or their killer. Perhaps someone whispers near her ear “Do not move” and she obeys, she does not move even as she stares at the figure of Emma and her haunted eyes, does not move when the mutiny happens and Pasha signs their death with a flourish.

When she’s sure that they will not be immediately killed, that the body disappears into the body of the ship, Fahra gives one step in Emma’s direction, and then another, and another; and when she wraps her arms around her lost once friend Fahra allows herself to breathe. Just a little.

She mumbles whispers mixed with tears, broken english and french words being spoken with almost no cohesion “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry, please, emma. don’t leave anymore”

[scarlxtdrops]

glaciations​:

———

Ephraim, bearing his tray of rations and no small burden on the mind ( the ice, my god, the ice confounded him still, ) only stopped mid-step and blinked at the snap afforded by his would-be table mate. 

Easily, he could turn about and take his pick of any seating in a haunt like the common mess; but for whatever reason, he elects to stand still. Studying the intent of her stare. Noting the shame reddening her ears. Surely, he thinks, this is someone unused to staking their claim and keeping it. And the ice master, well, he’s no intention of taking little more than a seat long enough to scarf his meal. So he rounds the table until he stands across from her, and drops resolutely into the opposing seat with a resounding thump. 

The messaging is clear: I sit where I like. Though, Ephraim reckons it’d hardly hurt to assuage her worries. A testimony is the last thing he’s in the mood for. 

❝ Miss, ❞  One eyebrow drifts a notch upward, ever deliberate. ❝ I haven’t asked a personal question in my life, ❞  he tears his share of bread in two and props an elbow on the table between them, wrist rolling to offer her a share. ❝ And I do not intend to start now. ❞  Keep your terrors, he means. Sure as anything I’ve got enough of my own. 

Feeling the mortification crawling up her face, Fahra lowers her eyes, attempting to make herself smaller. In the middle of shame and regret of her choice of words, Fahra can find the smallest morsel of relief, the man wasn’t seriously offended or feeling stubborn enough to fish for secrets and tales. Perhaps she can hope that this man is one of the few sensible people on the ship ( much likely to be too sensible to believe their words and the danger of staying every minute more than necessary in this forbidden waters, a thought that fahra has left safely locked inside her mind )

Thinking how unfortunate would it be for the remaining of their dinner being filled with awkwardness ( and how they didn’t need more attention to themselves, didn’t need fahra of all people to start fights and create a worse impression ). She looks at him again, voice a little more calm and without the traces of anger or exhaustion.

❝ Please, monsieur, forgive my very poor manners. I assure you that this... behavior is an exception. ❞ the words leave her mouth very quickly and she offers a hand to the gentleman, trying to bring a facsimile of a smile to her lips. ❝ Fahra, monsieur, Fahra Varasteh ❞ she wonders how strange it is to introduce herself again, she was so used to do it a few months ago, and now the words are very strange on her tongue, as if they come from a strange language.

[scarlxtdrops]

sweetsunflora​:

***

Miss Hartfield. She turns a cheek to the person in front of her, pretending to look at something beyond–something in the corner of the room. In truth, she would look at anyone or anything besides Farah’s face. Her voice is enough to bring pain clawing to the surface like a dead, buried creature come back to life. If it was pain alone reanimating, Emma-Rose would have no qualms. Pain is an old friend now, a constant companion. She understands pain. What she doesn’t understand is the anger that comes with it, holding onto pain’s heel like a second-born twin unwilling to be abandoned. 

It burns like pain but instead of harming her, it simply causes desire. The same desire fire has for kindling, for branches, for whole forests. A consumptive want, rooted in the destruction of another living thing. It calls for Farah’s suffering. Her retribution.

As her stomach twists in repugnancy, the young naturalist wonders if it because she is disgusted with Farah…or if she is disgusted with herself. ( Didn’t she abhor hate and those who wished to harm others? Wasn’t her primary goal to love people, even if they did not deserve it? ) She couldn’t remember anymore. 

 “ If I did that, Miss Varasteh, I wouldn’t be breathing the same air as you right now. “

The answer makes her wince, in her mind she imagines herself becoming smaller and smaller until anyone would only see a tiny spot, if only this way she could escape Emma. Once she was a dear friend and now Fahra believes that Emma wouldn’t mind finding her corpse on a random corner ( who would blame her? emma rose had every right to feel nothing but hate and anger after all )

She forces a respectful smile and prepares for making more space for Emma before glimpsing the hateful stare of one of the sailors. Taking Emma by hand and dragging her away from the place would only end badly. The best she could do would be to just, stay and force Emma to share the same air for a little.

❝ Your pronunciation is much better, congratulations, Mademoiselle. ❞ perhaps she is patronizing Emma, perhaps she feels a bit of resentment that is quickly shadowed by pure regret, but the truth is she no longer knows what to say because every word is a mirror that shows the consequences of her failure and cowardice. ❝ Would you like a piece of my dish? While unfortunately you’re being currently forced to breath bad air, at least the food is enjoyable.

[apostata]

open to: agathe crew except emma >:(. date: 30th, early morning.

— what toll does survival take.

of its famine-boned hands one holds the knife, the other cradles a heatsick head. fists your grimy hair and guides the throat as lamb to slaughter or struggling sacrifice. then what? does it lift the flat of its blade and take to its gory work? filing a dozen rows of blunted teeth to needlepoint, holding the soft mouth to mutilate the lips carnivorous — make you into a rictus grin of cannibalism, wet scarlet dripping the gums. or, say, does survival prise its rusted knife-edge from throat-hollow to navel, pull broad cuts lying diagonal to bone. at the navel, broken-nailed fingers pull through vestigial flesh and scrape spirit from muscle. leave a raked corpse tethering a being by its foot. your ghosts of morality and conscience with nowhere else to go.

but at least you survived. at least you can say that. whatever you killed to survive, within or without, at least there’s enough left of you to say it.

and now that idiot is deciding to sacrifice the rest too.

oh, emma. why go in such a pointless way. the laugh is bitter, dwelling in the corners of jehanne’s mouth. the foolishness of it, the absurdity. why go without a word to us. but even if jehanne wants, anger is a word that has lost currency to his body. he thinks: i would have stopped you. he knows, wry: if not, i would have followed you. “is there anything you want me to tell her?”

or, perhaps: is there anything i can tell you. is there anything i can vow that needs to be vowed. is there anything to be said that has not already been said. he bites his lower lip until a familiar red tang slips onto his tongue. any taste of life will soothe, when you’re hungry for proof of it. there’s a list of promises jehanne could say, here: i would kill them all for her; if we die, i’ll make sure it’s together; if we die, i’ll make sure she’s the last; goodbye, if this is goodbye. he opens his mouth and says nothing.

[scarlxtdrops]

When she hears the question coming out of Jehanne’s slips, Fahra hesitates, various answers wanting to spill and yet she only purses her sleeps as if thinking, fingers anxious to find anything to grasp or touch. She had noticed Emma’s disappearance, had noticed how usual it was and when a rescue party was announced, when she finally realized that she wasn’t going with Jehanne, Fahra wanted nothing more than hug him and beg to bring her back. She hopes, she sincerely hopes that everything is going to be okay, but the hint of Emma dissapearing while hating her, of Fahra never asking for forgiveness and seeing her smile again.

This weight shouldn’t be on his shoulders and soul. It was almost too much.

She very slowly closes her trembling hand around Jehanne’s, the warmth only making Fahra see how Jehanne would soon wander into the ice. Fahra wishes she had gloves to gift him, gloves, scarves and warm coats, anything to protect him from the cold. Unfortunately, she has nothing, only a thin thread of hope that is more of a curse than a gift.

❝ Nothing I could say would change anything, but, bring her back, please. ❞ she asks as if merely stating the obvious. ❝ And if... if something happens, promise me you’ll return. ❞ she does not want to imagine anything than Emma and Jehanne returning safe and whole and the unwelcoming thoughts makes her close her eyes. ❝ I don’t want to lose you too. ❞ her voice breaks a little, fear coating ever inch of it and making it small, barely a whisper.

[scarlxtdrops]

ilvulcanico​:

and so he began walking, trusting she would follow in the same way he had learned to trust the other survivors would not let him die while he slept. ( an unthought of trust, one that simply came to exist in the space between breaths. ) he did not offer her even a glance as they moved deeper into the ship, ignoring the expressions of others, focused on his task as if it was gifted to him from a higher authority. find a quiet space. earn her secret. take it, keep it. 

they arrived at the cartography room. deep in the stomach of the promethean, the only noises that lived inside the space were deep creaks. silence did not exist in whole, but it lived here in part. it would have to be enough. 

he stood aside to let her pass, keeping near to the frame of the door. with her but separate, always. 

finally, then: it came time for the payment. 

“was it worth it?” he asked. the reason his eyes found her again and again, the reason he had noticed her aboard the agathe — before death found its way to them all, she lived with her past stamped on her, as visible as bubbles trapped in ice. “ — to let love ruin you?” 

She isn’t surprised with his question, however she wonders why he desires an answer so much. To the point of leaving himself vulnerable, Teodoro always had been a closed man. Feelings and emotions so deep underneath his skin that when the words finally left his mouth, Fahra though she could almost see a hint of something.

Turning away from him, not failing to notice how he had positioned himself near the door, not knowing if afraid of her trying to escape or to protect this small and quiet haven that was found. The windows were an awful thing to glance at, however she allowed herself to close her eyes for long seconds, her selfishness making sure that she had her own peace of mind ( or perhaps it was an attempt to avoid the answer she dreaded ).

Allowing the seconds stretching into minutes, trying to see how long before she could avoid it, the question bringing forth more and more questions and doubts.

She hated them, this was certain, the bitterness of betrayal being similar to drowning in ash, it coated her lungs and mouth, it coated every inch of her soul. And she knew the hate came from the hurting. She loved them still and perhaps it was the cause of her suffering. Because if her feelings were nonexistent, she wouldn’t be in this situation at all.

And yet it had been a beautiful thing. For all the damage, for all the pain, it had been beautiful and sweet.

❝ It was, Teodoro. ❞ she confess saying his name without the formal honorifics, the lack of them almost making her words vulgar. Refusing to look at him, confessing to a man she knew he wouldn’t understand why and this perhaps it’s why it fascinated him. And while finally releasing her secret, her own body trembling with the effort of holding tears and ugly sobs inside, not only because she thought crying something unsightly, but to shed tears in the presence of someone, desiring their companionship and soft words while knowing they would never give them. This she would never feel again.

❝ I thought... I very foolishly thought I had a family. That I had found love, that I would grow old with them, that I would watch my children grow. ❞ the words slip through her clenched teeth and throat. ❝ I was truly happy for a long period of time, and in the end I paid the price for it. And I can’t throw it all away, I can’t erase them. I can’t. ❞

[scarlxtdrops]

|| closed starter for @arcancs

|| location : Orlop | Cartography Room

|| date: 25th of July, 1845

She had known that Monsieur Iskender was currently on the ship and had also known that avoiding him was temporary solution at best, still, she had a mixture of proudness and shame of her accomplishment of not engaging in a conversation while still being respectful. Currently inside the cartography room, fingertips desiring the sensation of texture of paper against them, eyes avoiding the windows and how close the sea was to her. Fahra had become distracted and consequently the next moments would be filled with the terrible awkwardness she hoped to avoid.

Fahra glances at the figure of Monsieur Iskender, lips already forming a respectful and distant smile that one decorated their mouth with it when propriety demands. It was, after all, unseemly and rude to frown at the sigh of someone you would rather avoid seeing.

❝ Hello, Monsieur Khodja. It’s such a pleasure to meet you again. ❞ she lies very pleasantly although she doesn’t offer her hand. Fahra wonders if this is how Emma feels when near her, even if the circumstances were very different and Iskender instead of a epic betrayer, is more akin to a heavy disappointment.

[ferroustype]

location: london - an unspecified gala. time: 1843 with: @scarlxtdrops

Past a certain point, it’s all just vapid pageantry. Chin up, spine erect, gentleman at the hip. An extending of the hand for a greeting, so expertly poised so that the receiver can admire each and every bloody massive jewel on the fingers. Or, nose upturned, waistcoat splendidly adorned, lady on the arm. ‘I’m up for tenure soon.’ ‘Fair weather in Marrakesh, old chap?’

It’s vapid pageantry, and Sohrab Khosrow is a renowned expert. Only with a twist of added flavor to it ( to the occasional envy, to the occasional scorn. ) A gentleman at each hip. Chin up. An extending of the hand so expertly poised so that the receiver cannot ignore the proof of ink stains beneath the embroidered sleeves. ‘I’d be up for tenure at the moment of hire, if the Academy so much as glanced at my work.’

Wash, rinse, repeat. Gentlemen traded for new editions after each drink or hors d'oeuvre, and then eventually discarded in favor of the nearest unaccompanied gentlewoman.

Leaning on a cloth-draped standing table, Sohrab lifts their flute of champagne to the stranger’s. “Blowing nothing but hot air, every one of them. Isn’t it grand?” They clink glasses in cheers and sip, before gesturing to the mingling crowd. “Which one’s yours?”

[scarlxtdrops]

How fool she had been, thinking that because she knew how to deal with the aristocracy, she would feel at ease while mingling with them. Even Etienne’s reassurance sprinkled with Cecille’s teasing hadn’t been able to calm her nerves. Her insecurities didn’t lie with her appearance, Fahra knew that she looked the part because Cecille had been determined to make sure everything was perfect ( in the end Etienne joined them and all the lace and expensive fabric was thrown away once again ).

Looking away from her glass to realize that Sohrab Khosrow herself was walking towards her. Being away from her lovers, Fahra subtlety glanced at the room, searching for a escape. Her insecurities were product of her being around scholars, professors, scientists, most of them being academics that would tear apart her not so educated words.

And Sohrab, was one of the most infamous, Fahra could see the sharp mind and sharper tongue focusing on her and the desire to run was very much strong in her mind. She would hate to be seem as a simple minded woman, a pretty toy, even if Etienne and Cecille assured her that this was not the case.

The sound of clinking champagne lutes and the fact that the woman was at her side and actually speaking to her eventually brings Fahra back to reality. She slowly sips the drink, buying time before answering, pretending to not understand the question probably would end with Fahra receiving the end of Sohrab’s wit.

Her eyes instinctively search and find her lovers, Etienne with an arm casually wrapped around Cecille’s waist, the two laughing at some joke. When accidentally their eyes met and he waved in their direction, Fahra decided that the bottom of the champagne flute was suddenly very interesting.

❝ A shame we didn’t bring balloons then, Madam. ❞ the poor joke makes her wince a little.

'Dear Lord, please protect me from making a fool out of myself in front of this woman'

[scarlxtdrops]

ilvulcanico​:

what a simple thing it was — she shifted their positions, drawing herself nearer to him. closer, closer. it might have been anything, the cutting wind or the softness of his words, but he caught sight of the other sailor and he understood. ( and so the rabbit hides under the belly of the wolf, fearing the circling hawk above head. and so it works. the rabbit lives. for a moment, for a moment. ) all it took to cause the sailor to tuck his head and turn away was a look from teodoro, the look of something dead that had forgotten it was dead. black eyes and a closed fist. 

“silence it is then,” he said, gaze returning to her, as if he was answering a question, as if she had made a request. 

hadn’t she, by placing him between herself and another? two small steps. closer. 

and then he reached for her, not in the way those from the agathe had reached for one another ( survival, warmth ), but in the way one reaches for a shadow — brushing against the end of her sleeve, a touch there and then gone, so quick it might not have been there at all. knowing it would not last, knowing it could not. 

“if i find you a quiet place, will you give me something in return?” they were not on the island anymore, but he needed that red string between them to be made of iron, not thread. “one truth.” 

She quietly watches the sailor walking away with hurried steps, the Teodoro’s unspoken threat surrounding them. Fahra wonders what would have happened if the sailor had decided not to retreat into the comfort of his crew. What would be Teodoro’s reaction. She hopes she never knows.

The request makes her freeze in place, eyes widening in shock and face burning of what is possibly being said in so many indirect words. The gentle fingers quietly grasping her sleeve are noticed although she doesn’t mention them and when he finishes his request, Fahra doesn’t know if truth is such an easy thing.

She should have known that Teodoro wouldn’t easily accept silence as an answer.

The promise of silence, of a quiet place when surrounded by so much noise is enough to make her hesitate for long seconds, the various consequences and possibilities of her choice being thought upon.

❝ A truth for a quiet place ❞ she pauses as if savoring the words. ❝ Very well, I accept. ❞

[scarlxtdrops]

dawndusted​:

it is as plain, as simple as this: bones are curved things, shoulder to elbow, forearm to wrist  —  they bow ever-so-slightly, meant to encompass something. meant to hold. when nyima pulls fahra closer, bodies are meant to fit. it is built into our bones to be this close, to not be alone. 

“i miss them too. remember the first night, when we all thought something was coming for us? only to poke around and find that it was only him, open-mouthed and drooling?” she laughs quietly, though her heart wrenches at the other girl’s words. all of their open wounds have re-stitched themselves into things connected to one another, and this separation feels like a severing of self. she runs her hands absentmindedly across fahra’s back, quiet. 

“we won’t hear their screams because there will be none. we are safe here, fahra. safer.” she turns to the girl, finds her in the dark. “we are still together, even if we aren’t side-by-side. we always will be, and nothing will change that  —  no doors, no sea, nothing. tomorrow, we’ll ask if we can all share this room, but for now, let me try to be enough. is that okay?” 

Remembering the way how fear quickly turned to a rare hilarity, she had to hold her laughter and how a difficult thing it was. To think the man who was so somber would be the one to bring a slice of enjoyment in dark times. Although Fahra herself had avoided giggling at his back in the morning, not wanting be poor mannered, it was a good thing to be reminded that even Teodoro was human.

The memory forces her to repress a laughter and instead, she accidentally snorts, the rather thin pillow muffling any loud laughter she could make.

❝ I never knew someone could snore so loudly ❞ she mumbles, allowing herself to relax and feel safe while close to Nyima. She closes her eyes, a small smile adorning her lips. ❝ Thank you, Nyima. For everything. ❞

[scarlxtdrops]

thespicn​:

THE SCARLET.

                                                          ⁎⁎⁎

                  —  No, they want to whisper, no, we cannot. But they already know, with the infinite intimacy lent only to mourners and lovers, that the words are going to splinter something in their throat. He can feel the chords pulsing with tears, as jarring as if someone were plucking them, running their thumbprints to wring out a song. But there’s no song to loving and losing. There’s just this constant question, open-ended like ache itself: do you let go, or lose yourself? do you bleed this romance dry, even through death, even through whatever worlds they reached? do you sap and sap and sap, a stalk draining out the earth it grew in? what’s better, what weighs down the choice of it: to wither from the inside out, or rot from the outside in?

                 ❛ Fahra, ma belle. I will be your twin in this grief, tu sais, we know what no one else will know. But you mustn’t think… ❜, a pause, here, a slight loosening of the cords, and then Bastien swallows and sinks deeper into the touch, ❛ you mustn’t think our crosses look the same. You are young, you’re split from the very sun - any soul would be lucky to have you. Don’t give in to this lullaby of the irreplaceable, d’accord? This hugging your body around what you lost. It’s nonsense. You are a lot of things, without them. You are a lot of things without us, too. ❜ Their eyes turn serious, grief dispelling from the pools of teal and gray - implication begins to shine in them. Seduce some poor fool here and make it out alive, you lamb, you harmony, you hymn of a woman. 

The warmth of embarrassment of her silly words returns as a wave, the strange nature of it being a comfort, the momentarily drowning of other emotions with only shame. Still, Fahra doesn’t immediately remove her hand from Sebastien’s cheek and retreats, she chooses instead to rest her head on his left shoulder and hide her face. The way he sinks deeper into her touch reminds her of a puppy desiring a morsel of kindness ( even his and clear eyes with depths of mischief and vulnerability are enough to kindle a strange protectiveness on an incautious person )

❝ Things would be easier if we both listened to your words ❞ she attempts to paint her voice with the small hints of playfulness and realizes that they’re only ended being tainted by bitterness. ❝ I would feel relief knowing that yourself believe your own words. That you’re a beautiful and precious thing without us, without them too. ❞

[scarlxtdrops]

astowsway​:

–

it’s a relief to pause the woman in her tracks, arm already extended towards katja, though the closeness between the two still twists something uneasy in their stomach. they track the woman’s expression, looking for a sign that they’ve been caught out, but it seems she’s too taken aback by her own embarrassment to notice if something’s amiss, a lovely sort of flush rising up her cheeks. ah. “not to worry ma’am, i’ve a refined palate. sour shall satisfy as well as sweet. and thank goodness for that— half the comforts of the world are a savory sort, non?” 

they pluck the canteen from the woman’s hand and take a long drink, the bottle’s mouth disguising their smirk. ah, wine. now they do grin. “oh, dear, now i am beginning to understand.” they slip their foot down the last step to the floor, sliding away and back from the woman, the canteen still in their hand. “returning to hide the evidence?” they widen their eyes, theatrical. in their head they hear their father’s voice, a warning: mathilda, you’re always pushing it. they hear: always dangling a carrot over the mark’s head. always trying to see what you can get away with— as if that isn’t half the point. 

“i suppose you’ll want me to keep this between us?”

Fahra quietly listens as the woman plays with words in front of her, perhaps the indirect threat weaved into playful words. She should feel scared or angry at being a mouse toy between a cat’s claws and yet, the situation is so absurd that Fahra finds herself amused of all things. She is not a skillful player, she never enjoyed the maze-like world that words could cage you in, however, this situation brought a slight glimpse of familiarity and her weaknesses was so great that it was enough to make her dangerous careless.

❝ But mademoiselle, savory things are dangerous when you’re surrounded by a sea of salt, aren’t they? Or at the very least, they lose their uniqueness. ❞ she takes two or three steps away from the woman, bringing space between them. She skillfully brings her mouth to cover a laugh that threatens to leave her lungs, not knowing if it’s her nervousness or amusement.

❝ Yes, please, I would be eternally in your debt, your capitaine is a merciful man, however I don’t believe his mercy extends to people who enter forbidden places. ❞ raising her eyes to the shelves the woman was close when she entered the provision’s room. ❝ Do you... enjoy sweet things too? ❞

[sweetsunflora]

When: a few days after the aftermath. lunch. Where: common mess. Whom: closed for @scarlxtdrops​

The tension is palpable now. It’s charge hangs in the air, like the moment just before lightning strikes. The only difference: she would prefer lightning over a riot. Over all the disdained looks and silent fury of the Promethean seamen.

She is sure that the only thing that safeguards the survivors’ lives ( her life ) are the Captain’s orders but the resentment leaks out in other ways, like poison through a cracked bottle.

Emma-Rose looks around the mess hall for an empty seat, rations in hand. Suddenly, a hard shoulder hits her from behind, knocking her forward as the culprit continues to walk on through—as if she was never there to begin with. Her feet catch her but it doesn’t stop the burning on her face, the flush of embarrassment mixed with anger.

She spots Farah, sitting alone, and decides that it is safer with company. Emma sits directly across, deliberately avoiding the other’s eyes.

“We don’t have to talk. I’m just here until its safe.”

[scarlxtdrops]

When she sees Emma approaching, Fahra feels her heart lurching forward or backwards. The regret boiling to the point her tongue is almost burned by it, that she has to maintain the control she so carefully maintains or else regretful words would slip through the cracks.

Seeing the childish behavior of the sailors, however, makes her look around the room, searching for a known face or a doorway.

She wonders if things were different, if her selfishness weren’t so evident, if being by being better, she wouldn’t have remained quiet when her only friend was suffering the threat of death or worse. Something had broken inside her and all shards reflected the nature of her soul, cowardice.

Was this shriveled characteristic always there, quietly rooting or Fahra had accidentally acquired it by being tainted? How lovely and easy it would be if the source of her cowardliness was fruit of Cecille and Etienne’s betrayal.

She makes quickly makes space for Emma, removing the few objects she had carefully place upon the table.

❝ Stay as long as you would like, Miss Hartfield. ❞ once she called her by simply “Emma”, embracing the friendship and with it, its informality. Currently, however, formality was the best decision, the distance that it caused being a balm to her regret and yet, sometimes it wasn’t enough.

[scarlxtdrops]

|| closed starter for @glaciations

|| location : hms promethean, common mess

The not subtle staring had the same sensations as winter chills, pin needles all over her skin as the cold temperature bit her skin. She never had become used to be a novelty, the focus of curious eyes and sharp whispers. The desire to hide behind the survivors, the desire to just hide inside a hole was strong.

Unfortunately, Fahra was tired.

Tired and filled with enough annoyance that she snapped at the not the first and, if she was lucky, the last person to approach her ( much similarly to the actions of a wounded beast, or in Fahra’s case, a beast without sharp teeth and claws, the lack of a threatening size being most noticeable )

❝ Forgive me, monsieur, I already gave my testimony to your capitaine. I’m very sure that some of my companions would love to tell a tale or two. Me for instance, wouldn’t. ❞ she sincerely hopes that her intentions are explicit, although her ears burn with the embarrassment of her lack of good manners.

[scarlxtdrops]

ilvulcanico​:

even her smile whispered of it — that hidden past of trust and love. he did not know her story, but he imagined it often. who had known this woman in such a way that it shifted the very course of her life, that it led her here to death and sorrow? what would she become, from the ashes?   

“they do not frighten me,” he answered easily.  

speaking to fahra came down to a single matter: if he was a different sort of man. if he had kept to his family, kept to ideas of grandness and legacy, he might offer her his arm to walk the length of the ship with her. he might whisper to her, to only her, that he would protect her here as he had on the island, that they would find safety soon. ( was that the sort of love she had fallen to, once before? if he was a different sort of man, could he have been shaped to it too? ) but he did none of those things. he was neither gentle nor kind here; he was a cruel man, and his cruelness served him far more. and yet the thought persisted. 

silence fell between them for a moment, but he would not permit it to stay, not with her, not now. “what is it about the ship?” tell me your fears, tell me your truths. and then, boldly, “do you miss your home?” i know you run. i know i’ll catch you. 

they do not frighten me. How easily the words left his lips, its easiness and simplicity made Fahra pause, the surprise and curiosity in her features failing to be hidden. The thought of what would have been like to be Teodoro ( both empty and full of hunger ), to not fear. Did he ever feared? Did he ever clutched something precious in his fingers and felt the despair of it slipping away? Fahra doubted. Thing would be easier, if she was Teodoro.

She attempted to allow the silence to fall over them as a mantle, or a shroud, and in the small gap of words before Teodoro broke the silence, Fahra felt the cold sipping into her bones and skin again. Also, her eyes, so quick to catch anything threatening immediately noticed a sailor moving in their direction. And two simple steps were made by her, her feet closed the distance between their bodies without hesitation.

It was very easy to hide behind Teodoro, she realized as soon as she used the man as a shield.

The movement wasn’t done with any feared motions or scared whimpers, any other soul that had been watching her would have thousands of logical explanations as why she stepped towards Teodoro.

❝ It’s very difficult to sink an island and the ship is... filled with loudness. ❞ she admitted trying to continue the thread of their dialogue without interruptions. Fahra also decided to ignore the last question, the truth being too heavy for her.

[scarlxtdrops]

|| closed starter for @ravenwicked

|| location : hms promethean, upper decks

Fahra initially believed that Rotifer was bringing her strange gifts, because only cats would leave trinkets over her bed. When the trinkets started to have apparent meaning, her thoughts jumped from self made illusions to bad-intentioned pranks. Over the course of a few days, her conclusions from pranks returned to their source of confusion and Fahra took the decision to bring one of the trinkets to Nyima, wanting to know that the objects weren’t only fruit of her poisonous mind.

She had attempted to catch a glimpse of the bringer of gifts, only to be find herself exasperated and filled with apprehension. It couldn’t be an illusion, a twisted joke of the thing below and near them, yet she could do nothing but desperately avoid thoughts that would only led her to a dangerous path.

Trying to feel the warmth of the cold sun while staying quietly away from the sailor and eyes cast downwards, it would be more sensible to turn her face towards the sky, however to do this she would have to glimpse the waters that surrounded the frail wooden ship and this wouldn’t be possible.

What she wasn’t expecting, and Fahra had learned in brief weeks to expect almost anything, was to have her hat stolen.

She would have mistaken the thief for the wind itself, so quickly the hands had grabbed the hat that she hadn’t been allowed to secure with hairpins.

However she hadn’t felt a slightly stronger breeze than the already bitting cold and because she thought to have heard laughter of all things.

Raising her face towards the thief, her lips already forming half apologizes and half demands. Fahra’s eyes caught a face she first thought to be a mirage and then a miracle.

She also wasn’t expecting Wick to be here in this forsaken land.

Her mouth is already shouting their name, the all lessons of decorum and good manners thrown away in face of pure and plain happiness.