❝ son of man ❞

                                         ❝ Link … chosen hero !  ❞

                                                            △

                       ➸ independent roleplay for LINK from Twilight Princess ➸

   Her platinum hair, tied back in an easy bun, for she did not have time to attempt to replicate the hair designs her maidens had done when she was princess…

   Her silky violet dress cascaded in ripples, and now rips, buttoned carefully to her throat. It did not resemble what the citizens in Arendelle wore, but she had gotten used to dressing to conceal her true identity.

   Elsa worked at her optimism forcefully as she sat there, bare toes caught beneath the sand and folds of her dress.

   You’re fine. Nothing’s broken. You’re still alive. You’re on an island, perhaps with other people, or… or food that you can harvest, places you can build shelter.

   Of course, she didn’t know the first thing about food harvesting, only snippets collected from books. It couldn’t be too hard, could it? People did it every day! It had to be simpler than it seemed… right?

   And then… there was a noise behind her, a sound she recognized well. Elsa’s hearing was enormously sharp. She had gotten used to listening to footsteps pass her door stoop by, wondering if one of the pairs of footfalls would come in, perhaps help her…

   This sounded different, slugging itself through the sand. But there was definitely some sort of creature. Some sort of… something… behind her. Tentatively, she allowed her gaze, fixed on the darkening of the faded sky and the simmering of the water, edging towards an ebony, to behind her.

   A man. The likes of which, many months ago, she could have clearly declared she’d never seen before; but now, this tanner skin color was not uncommon. The darkness of his eyes were more familiar. His hair was still strange, foreign, but… she was always seeing new things.

   He looked like he belonged here, against the line of foliage beyond the copper shore. She wondered how pale and out of place she herself must appear beneath his scrutiny.

There were times when Tarzan thought that what constituted as "normal", human social customs were simply beyond the realm of his "simple" ape understanding -- one of those moments being right now, as this person, practically transluscent-looking with what he perceived as illness, bits of seaweed strung through her ivory hair and clinging in clumps to her water-logged frock -- which in itself was noticeably different than the vibrant, banana-reminiscent number Jane had dueled the jungle in mere months before -- insisted on saying "Hello" first.

His bemused expression mirrored inward confusion, though, after quickly shaking his head (and acknowledging the relief that she spoke English, as he wouldn't have pegged her as one to know ape) he crouched again, slower this time, leaning forward with a look that was both investigative and concerned.

    The impulse to tears left her almost as quickly as it had come, like a cloud drifting past the moon outside—how odd it was, to think of outside after weeks sleeping in a flimsy canvas tent!—and anyway Jane might have felt ashamed, to grieve for parents Tarzan himself described so dispassionately. A small part of her mind registered that it was certainly Kala to whom Jane ought to turn for an account of Tarzan’s origins, Kala and the objects that were half-obscured by moss and dark where they littered the floor.

    But as Tarzan, too, gazed around the small room, Jane observed the strange expression in his eyes…he did not speak his grief, nor cry, nor any number of things that Jane who had worn a year of mourning for her own mother could understand. Nevertheless he looked it, and somehow that was the worst of all.

    Jane said no word—could not think of anything to say that would not be trite and meaningless, when she could hardly even comprehend his loss, could not gauge whether it would have been better or worse to lose her parent in infancy, or as the little girl she had been. It was very different: she had had Daddy, she had had her Aunt Isabel, whereas he, Tarzan…

     There was no reason to be sad here. 

     And sadness wasn't what he would call this strange feeling, anyway. He did not cry, or feel the need to, nor did he feel the heaviness of grief that had accompanied Kerchak's death. Only a still sort of acceptance, and the calm that came with it only spread like warm water at Jane's gentle touch.

     Perhaps it was worth pondering someday what might have been different if his birth parents hadn't fallen victim to Sabor's nature, but Tarzan knew now that none of it mattered -- not when Jane was here, here to stay with Tarzan, and she was warm and kind and alive -- full of breath and laughter and a beating heart. (He knew -- he checked.) 

   Seriously, Anna. I’m not being delicate this time. That really, really hurts!

   Stop! Stop! Stop stopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstop – “Sto – !” 

   The shout within the queen’s throat died almost instantly within her. She froze, fingers seizing against the sand as she twitched.

   Pain.

   Exploding everywhere.

   White area, white world, white fingers, white dress, white pain…

   Up and down, and inside out, and backwards forward, and shallow deep breaths, and… white, searing pain.

   It was the sound of a far off bird, screeching within the leafy confines of its home, that finally dragged Elsa to. Her back ached completely, totally, as she fought for breath beneath what felt like the weight of a few hundred ships, her light eyes fluttering, fighting to stay open. 

   Just her back though. Nothing else was wrong. She had fallen hard.

   Fallen? When did I fall? 

   The memories of earlier replayed in her head, black and white. Her hand gripping the water slick, silver handrail. The crew advancing on her as she stepped backwards. Two hands shoving at her and letting her fall to the safety of air.

   At some point, she must have ignited the frost lurking within the waves to fashion a raft for herself. But she couldn’t remember that. Only the tumbling, head over heels, into the darkness.

   Safe? 

   She was unsure if she was.

   The sands of the shore around her that finally, fitfully came into her view stretched for a length before colliding with forest life, exploding, standing tall and triumphant.

   Forests mean hot. 

   Hot means pain. 

   Pain…

   As much as it hurt, her fingers seeked her spine and felt, ignoring the automatic cringing of her body at her soft touch. Nothing was broken, thankfully. Perhaps only severely bruised.

   Her fingers pulled away from the soft, water gorged fabric to the burning sand stretching around her.

   Wait –

   Soft. Water gorged. Burning.

   Elsa dragged her fingers to her face, horrified.

   Her gloves were in near tatters now. Ripped, broken, damaged beyond repair. She didn’t have the aptitude in sewing, nor the tools to repair this – and all her other gloves lay –

   She pushed herself up into a seated position, groaning as she stared at the sparkling waves yawning before her.

   No… 

If only there was someplace to hide this time. Steel-colored sea (churning almost ominously beneath thick, pearly clouds that replaced most of the sky) sat at one side, wide expanses of pale yellow sand on the other, with the jungle many feet beyond that. Though it wasn't so much he wnated to hide, but to observe -- if only there was a rock on the shore!

The mass moved and Tarzan hit the sand, crouching low -- like an ape -- supporting himself by the strength of his knuckles as he peered out over the beach. He stayed quite still, watching, waiting. All the while his pulse raced, pounding like a drum in his ears and his chest and his throat.

What was it?

Tarzan knew better than to think something so strange was still safe, despite the fact that it seemed rather slow and frail from a distance. Almost...pathetic. It inspired a strange sympathy inside Tarzan, stirring in his chest, pulling him inexplicably forward.

And Tarzan realized rather quickly, step by step (knuckle by knuckle), as he drew closer and closer to the confusing form, that it wasn't a strange, dangerous creature at all -- it was a woman. His insides chilled, and he stopped in his tracks before slowly standing to his full height, wind whipping from the agitated sea. He was ready to face it not as an ape, but a man.

Disney Meme: [2/7 Sceneries]

Tarzan

    Even after the accident, Elsa had not been afraid of the ocean.

   How could she be? It was her birth right, more than the crown was. Up to the day of her parents’ death, she expected her mother and father to walk out and announce their pregnancy and the eventual birth of a bouncing baby boy, there to take the place of a throne she was only to inherit by default.

   But water did not make her fingers shake. It didn’t make her knees weak. When she stood at the edge of the fjord, time after time, or stared at it from the windows of her house, she never felt sick.

   Nor did she on the ship.

   There was a part of her that remembered quotes from two great men, men she’d been forced to read many times as a child, and men she’d enjoyed reading: speaking how “Cowards die many times before their deaths” and “We must neither cowardly nor rash but courageous.” Standing on the bow of a ship, breathing in the salt soaked air and attempting to dissuade the thoughts that swirled like the black, inky water beneath her, Elsa attempted to remind herself that there was nothing waiting for her back in Arendelle.

   Anna had Kristoff. Anna had a whole new life… a whole, new, better life. that didn’t involve her. 

   Running away wasn’t cowardice. 

   It was bravery.

   It was… better.

   The last night that Elsa would spend on the ship felt like every other night had. It didn’t taste of death, didn’t rock with finality. The sky drizzled lightly, and the long stretch of land that was continually in their sight yawned on, without a care to them, yet the ship never docked. Elsa hadn’t asked why – she’d changed ships multiple times, and the language of the people on this ship was foreign to her. Though it was better to her to be so far from home, where none could report to her obviously anxious sister about the whereabouts of her paled face.

   And then it happened.

   Her few crewmates were screaming in terror, rushing to the deck, pulling large crates with them with wild looks of hope on their suddenly stricken faces. Elsa pulled herself to her feet, slowly, unsure if she should follow – nearly all the others on the ship, save for her, worked here. But finally her feet took her to the deck. 

   They’d crashed into something – the language did not permit much – but it was obvious by the way the ship shook and tilted that it did not have much longer on its own two legs. Elsa’s own knees felt weak at the prospect, and her mind went back to what she had just thought – how she wasn’t afraid of the water, how it was her birthright, as she uselessly gripped hold of the side ship’s railing, slick with the soft, cool rain that she felt slowly coating her own skin and the floor boards beneath her. 

   Despite the gloves, the shoes, the dress, ice seeped out of her like the anxiety stirred below her skin. It was a fear that froze her heart like none other had, one that made everything burn quietly and made the figures of the people in front of her turn into lines, blurs, distant images rather than humans she knew she should help. All she could hear was her own internal voice, wondering if this was what her parents had sounded like, had felt like, had looked like, in their final moments aboard a ship. 

   All she could wonder was why it had been them… and not her. 

   She supposed it was her turn, now.

   Behind her blurring eyes, she hardly saw the ship glaze in an icy sheen intermixed with the light rain, could hardly feel herself breathe, move, as a distant part of her mind decided her immobility was helping nothing and no one and she moved forward, numbly and dizzily, to help one of the sailors who struggled underneath a crate – yet they all moved backwards from her, now, staring in fear, hands held out, speaking to her in words she couldn’t comprehend. 

   “I won’t hurt you,” she promised, her words swallowed by the rushing of the water beneath her and above her, the crackling of ice all around her. Elsa’s violet stained clothes felt as if they weighed hundreds of pounds against her skin, her hair depositing water directly into her blinking eyes. “Please, I – I’m sorry.” 

   But she understood. First, to lose their ship from water… and then, to glance and see it being taken from a member of their own crew.

   They came towards her. Not with swords, but with their hands, and their glares, and their steady footsteps, and it was so much more threatening, somehow, then with actual weapons, because she had no idea what the sky soaked sailors planned to do, and Elsa backed up and up until she felt the hand rail of the ship ease into her back and pink her there and there was no escape, none, and behind them, the integrity of the ship still failing, crackling, fading from beneath their own feet… 

   Someone shoved her.

   For many moments, Elsa was aware of nothing more than the hands that were on her shoulders and her own, rarely slipping feet. 

   And suddenly she was tumbling over the edge towards the waters below, her hands fumbling and failing in a large blackness of no shape or feeling other than terror – and when she hit the water, she hit it with a smack, not a splash. 

   It may have been moments, it may have been hours later that Elsa’s eyes flitted open to see the ship, in the distance, her back aching with a searing throb that was somehow dull and distant at the same time. Her breath was catching in her lungs uncomfortably… nothing felt right… and even as Elsa wished to rise, assess the damage, figure out how she was still alive, she knew her body still needed rest. A heartbeat rustled beneath her, one that caused her half open, gloved hand to twitch, and all at once Elsa knew that it was ice, and not water, that had caught her in its arms, and she was safe. 

   For one of the only times in her life, safe with ice.

Claiming the treehouse that sat atop (or rather, around) a massive marula for Jane to live in ended up being more or less of a complete overhaul. It was a project that launched almost immediately after Jane and Professor Porter elected to stay with Tarzan and the apes in the jungle -- which was useful, considering how happy Jane and Tarzan were to be caught up in the bliss of how nicely everything had worked out and how they hadn't yet considered the details of where exactly Jane would live. (Professor Porter was happy as a fly on fruit to toil away in the camp with his studies -- but it was understood that Jane and Tarzan might have been looking to establish themselves - together.)

At the time of the cleaning neither Tarzan nor Jane knew exactly how or why Tarzan's parents had come to the jungle before their death, but there was no arguing that they brought with them piles of things. Most of the challenge was in sorting out the useful from the useless, determining what ought to be tossed out and what could still be salvaged. All of the books and loose papers - no matter how water logged - were stored neatly on the bookshelf for later perusal; the massive amounts of moss and greenery that claimed the interior walls over the last twenty years were torn away and tossed out; in one heart-warming instant Jane and Kala both sat in the middle of the newly cleaned floor sorting mounds of fabrics in to piles -- one for clothing, one for blankets or curtains, and one for shredded fabric to be used for dusting.

Though the task was seemingly impossible, with two days, three humans, two gorillas and one catastrophic but well-meaning elephant, the treehouse was transformed from a jungle warzone in to something that was not only livable, but actually quite comfortable.

But despite all of the home-making behaviors that Tarzan and Jane had participated in, and despite the true finality to their situation together, the couple remained at an odd sort of peaceful impasse. Due to Tarzan's committment to his herd as leader, Jane seemed reluctant to ask Tarzan to stay with her in the treehouse permanently, for the same reason that Tarzan couldn't ask Jane to join him and live with the gorillas -- neither were selfish enough to ask that the other give up too much of themselves. Which, in retrospect, was quite silly given the evidence that both of them were willing to risk everything in their past lives in order to be with one another -- but nevertheless, for the last few weeks Tarzan contented himself with frequent visits to the treehouse where Jane would often sit with him and show him some of the books from the recently dusted shelf. She had said that one of them was a journal from his birth mother, but Tarzan, for one reason or another, was not keen on reading it himself. Not right now, at least.

However, when he gazed out at the gray sea churning from its depths, he thought about the sand beneath his feet and marveled at the idea of how both his parents as well as Jane and Professor Porter had crossed the same shore. And beyond it's tumultuous waves lay a whole world that no amount of photographs could help him fully fathom. And he wondered if he, too, had come from London, and if in another life, where his parents were both alive and established in civilization, if he and Jane would have still found one another. And he wondered if it was worth pursuing the painful journal in order to uncover the answers.

    But after all there were only so many occasions on which one might go to the trouble of having a photograph taken, and realization had already begun to take root somewhere deep inside of her by the time Jane’s eyes fell on the picture.

    “This is—?”

    It was impossible to mistake the seated family. The man at her side and the one in the photograph were nearly identical, in feature if not coloring; indeed if not for the latter’s whiskers, she might have taken them for one and the same and she lifted a hand to her mouth, as if that would check the sudden tears that threatened to well up in her eyes. Jane could recognize the fashions of some twenty years previously in the gown of the woman seated beside him—the sort of gown Jane could recall on her own mother. Dimly she could observe (and appreciate) the nerve the lady must have had, to wear her thick hair loose at a formal sitting—in that respect, perhaps, the babe in her arms took after her.

    Now, Jane looked up at him and managed a watery smile.

"My mother," Tarzan replied vaguely, still watching the tear that collected at the corner of Jane's eye, almost reaching out to her as if he would catch it on his finger -- "Kala. She found me here."

He looked then, automatically towards the tilted bassinet, eyes following shreds of torn fabric, scattered paper and glass, bits of feather, dark paw marks dried on the floor boards -- 

"Sabor."

Tarzan thought it both strange and appropriate that he didn't feel all that uncomfortable standing in what was essentially his parents' grave. His childhood had been filled with such torment - knowing he didn't belong, knowing he was something else - and when Kala had showed him the treehouse for the first time, and told him the truth about his parents, the truth about him, he didn't only feel grief, but an overwhelming sense of relief. For, at the time, he had finally had all the answers he needed. The details of his parents - why and how they came to the jungle, who they were, and where they came from - seemed trivial when he was preparing to leave it all behind in the face of a new life overseas with Jane and Mr. Porter in London. 

    Part of her was a child still, wide-eyed at her baba’s wonder tales. Mulan felt small as a mouse in that forest; she knew in her bones there might be magic in a place like this, although it was the last thing on her mind. Because the other part of her was recalling other stories about great forests, stories that were true and terrible.

    Everyone knew that the forests of the Middle Kingdom—vast green expanses, where the Emperor had only begun to turn the trees into forts, where unwilling colonists sent terse letters home—were as dangerous as they were profitable. From those wooded wilds came tribute, kingfisher feathers and the sweet-smelling wood of cinnamon trees; but they were dangerous too. Everyone knew that the dark green depths were filled with large vicious beasts, every poison-bright creature that crept of slithered—and, worst of all, the wàirén tribes that leapt from the trees and set imperial palisades ablaze.

    The light that sifted through the treetops was as golden as peace; the only sound was that of bird and monkey calls. Peering into the branches from under a furrowed brow, Mulan’s grip on the sword grew firm. She scanned the foliage around her for the flash of armor and steel, the tiniest scrap of red—nothing, for as far as her eyes could see.

    Was she foolish, to judge a foreign land by the tales she’d heard growing up? Or would it have been still more foolish not to take care as she searched for Shang? Mulan hated to take even one more step.

    When she did, something sprang out of the undergrowth directly in front of her.

    “Waaaa!” Even as she yelled, Mulan had swiftly drawn her sword, shifting back into a practiced and capable stance. Her heart had quickened, beating like a hummingbird’s wings, but even as she stood there Mulan watched a gnarled, dry branch sink comfortably back into the green froth of leaves—she’d walked onto it by mistake.

It had been fascinating, watching the stranger from the trees, and though the green of their clothing somewhat matched the surrounding growth of plants it was clear to anyone - not only someone as keenly observant as Tarzan - that this person was not at all familiar to the jungle. 

Person, and not something else entirely Tarzan was also sure, because no matter how subtly different the individual looked to the likes of Jane - particularly about the hair and face - the bumbling, stumbling, awkward way that they went about traversing the disagreeable jungle floors upon their first entrance was nearly identical. From his hidden perch among the shady branches and foliage, Tarzan almost smiled appreciatively. 

Still, he was forced to wonder; where had this person come from? Were they like Jane, hailing from London where the buildings were as tall as shady canopy? Or were they from a place entirely different, from wherever else the great, churning salty sea led?

Λ(tlantis)

▏This gentleman wasn’t wearing any pants. ▕

Instead he whipped his head upwards, locks whipping accordingly, and he spoke in a matter of fact tone: 

Send me ‘☯ + a scene from my characters canon’ and I will drabble itfrom my character’s POV.

    “I will miss you, Jane.”

    Tarzan spoke very matter-of-factly, as he was wont to do, and never more than when he was speaking of her. He had never dissembled, where Jane was concerned; not the pleasure he took in her company, nor his sentiments concerning her return to London. Jane, he’d always greeted her, with a warmth that brought a flush to her own cheeks but left Tarzan apparently unselfconscious of his regard for her. Jane must stay with Tarzan, he’d proposed, in the same tones that he might have used to ensure she carried an umbrella on a grey day. And I’ll be with Jane?: the only really important thing he had wanted to make sure of before they departed, for London, together.

    She had known before she saw him today that things had changed. Upon the death of Kerchak, the gorilla who’d so frightened her before, Tarzan had assumed the duties of leader, naturally, as he seemed to do everything, and the band of gorillas had followed him where Jane and her father could not. She would not have asked him to leave them now. Surely they needed him, more than I do.

    Jane swallowed, which was unfortunate, as her throat tightened. Immediately the tears sprang to her eyes, and she opened her mouth to say—what?

    “Miss Porter!”

    She whirled with the reflexes born of politeness. “I’m, I’m—I know, I’m coming.” Or going, rather.

    Turning back to Tarzan, Jane found that for once, she was at a loss for words. The silence seemed to expand between them, like some grim ravine, and she could not go to him. There was very little she could say, to bridge that chasm, other than I’m sorry.

    And if she tried to apologize to him, she was very likely to cry.

    “I suppose,” Jane said instead, “we should say goodbye.” After all of the times she’d found herself borne through the trees in his arms, the hand she extended to Tarzan to shake seemed as pitiful as weak tea.

    There was one wild moment where she imagined—watching his face—that Tarzan was thinking the same, before he lifted his own hand and, gently, turned hers upward so that they met: palm-to-palm, fingers in complete tandem. Not for the first time, she reflected on how strangely intimate the touch of their hands was. Only before, of course, it had never made her want to collapse on the sand and weep.

    “Goodbye,” Tarzan said.

    Jane was wearing her corset, for only the second time since she’d first come to the jungle, but it was the expression on his face that seemed to paralyze her. Breathless, she turned away, she ran, she clambered into the rowboat with little regard for her skirts and balanced herself on the hard bench, reeling.

    She did not look back—but her father, who was facing the beach, did. “Oh, I’m going to miss that boy,” lamented Professor Porter, settling back in the boat.

    Jane put her hat on, as it was rather late in the morning, and already Aunt Isabel would be sure to exclaim over how tanned Jane had gotten while she was away.

    She pulled a glove onto one hand, covering the dryness and half-healed blisters which were not a lady’s wont, and Tarzan’s touch. Impulsively Porter reached across and took her hand in his own.

    “Jane, dear,” he murmured, “I can’t help feeling that you should stay.”

    “Daddy, please don’t. We’ve been through all of this,” Jane burst out, struggling with her glove and wishing she knew where her pocket-handkerchief was. It was if no time at all had passed since the ship had returned, two days previously, and her father had found her sobbing into her pillows.

    He had pointed out the merits of the jungle: how she had come to love it, and how father and daughter had both had very little chance to conduct their research as yet, how Tarzan was clearly amenable to the idea; and Jane had pointed out the merits of civilization: her friends, the little house in Westminster with four sturdy walls and Mother’s roses and most of their library, Aunt Isabel, tea…

    And then she had cried all the harder, because when one got right down to it, Jane Porter had few real prospects in London.

    Now, Jane blinked, hard. “I couldn’t possibly st—“

    Jane, Tarzan had pleaded, the morning the ship had returned. Stay, please.

    “—I belong in England, and…with you, with people…and, oh!”

    As she struggled with the other glove, Jane only barely registered the sea breeze that set the tendrils of hair around her face afloat. A sudden gust of air pulled the glove right out of her hand and don’t look back, don’t, yet she turned involuntarily, only to see the receding figure on the beach stand.

    She could not make out his expression, but Jane could see that Tarzan held her glove as something precious.

    “But you love him,” Daddy pointed out simply. Jane reflected that, while she had never deliberately kept a secret from her father, he had been more perspicacious of late than she might have anticipated. She turned back to the men who shared the little boat with her: her dear, absent-minded father who nevertheless understood Jane utterly; the captain of the Arrow, who would shortly be taking the Porters back to England, where Jane would—

    The young woman was uncharacteristically silent; she had been suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of what she could only term despair at the thought of what awaited her, the old round of sterile social calls, fruitless Seasons, seemingly endless until she inevitably advertised for a governessing post. Aunt Isabel had always said…

    When she caught his eye again, her father seemed to have been thinking along similar lines but, to her surprise, he grinned. “Go on.”

    It crept over Jane gradually, like a sunrise, and the answering smile that spread across her face was only the beginning. She felt the blood rush suddenly into her limbs, her face, and she lurched forward, embracing Professor Porter tightly. Her father, she knew, was proud of her—and that, perhaps, was the final encouragement she had needed.

    Or perhaps it was knowing that there was very little for her at home, less at least than what awaited her on the beach.

    Jane turned, and disembarked from the boat much as she’d gotten in. By that point the water was rather up to her knees, and below that she was soaked, but Jane had the presence of mind to gather armfuls of skirt up out of the way and, stumbling, she went the same way as that glove.

    How long had it been, then, since his parents had lived here? From whence had they come, and how had they perished, exactly? How had Tarzan been fortunate enough to survive, and when had the ape, Kala, adopted him as her own? She half-glanced at the man behind her, a great mystery at their first meeting and, it seemed, no less puzzling even now that she’d come to know him better. Would Tarzan be able to answer her questions? Or was it his adopted mother whom she ought to consult? How ought she to go about it?

    The eyes and feet were drawn almost inexorably opposite the doorway, where a ghostly pale shape seemed to rise from the cluttered dark mass of the room. Stumbling forward, Jane reached out to touch it; there was a sickening moment where she thought she might be putting her hand into some monstrous spider’s web, but then her fingers brushed against the familiarity of mosquito netting. She leaned forward, the rough bark of the tree’s trunk catching on her bodice, and stifled a small cry, realizing she had found a bassinet.

    Jane rocked back on her heels, and turned away. She had only just caught sight of a bookcase—starting towards it almost instinctively, in the pursuit of answers—when a clink behind her diverted Jane’s attention towards Tarzan once more, Tarzan who did not, often, stand up straight. Frowning slightly, Jane hurried to his side, mindful once more of the debris scattered across the floorboards.

    This time Jane did cry out, at the sight of blood, though she couldn’t suppress a heady wave of relief when she saw it could not have been a deep or serious cut. She might have scolded him for his heedlessness—rather as one scolds one’s father for wandering absentmindedly into the thickest jungle without a thought for hungry carnivores—but there was no thought of smugness in Jane’s mind as she stooped, catching the hem of her petticoat and searching for a loose thread. As she’d spent the last months in a jungle, this was not difficult, and Jane soon tore off a considerable strip of linen. There was no water, but she would have to make do, and she took Tarzan’s hand gently in her own.

Wordlessly, Tarzan pulled his hand gently from Jane's grasp, and moved slowly towards the crate, as if approaching a skittish animal. With a good deal of care, he reached outwards, grasping the frame between thumb and forefinger, ginger as if he was prepared for another shard of glass to pop out and surprise him with another cut. He held it gently then, with both hands, staring at the back of the frame with furrowed brow, and there was a moment of tangible hesitation before he turned it over to face what was beneath. 

Familiarity mingled with a sad sort of nostalgia was what came next, filling him like high tide - though as Tarzan's eyes roved hungrily over the faces that were both strange and so familiar -- his mother's eyes, the cut of his father's jaw -- there was small room for solemnity. No, instead the ape man almost smiled, if ruefully, and he looked up suddenly, turning to Jane, and pushed the frame at her gently with an encouraging, ape-like grunt. 

    Killed?

    “Oh, Tarzan—“ Jane murmured, without knowing what she might say next. There were a million platitudes she might have mouthed, thousands of questions to ask; but it had been, overall, the sort of day that renders words inadequate and she reached out, soft-eyed, to touch his arm. They could wait.

    Presently she lifted her gaze once more to the blue-dark doorway, soft as the entrance to a naturally-formed cave in the evening light and (if Jane was being honest with herself) like a cave, not ideal to walk right into in such rum light. But Tarzan would never allow me to walk right into a dangerous situation, Jane reminded herself, firmly, trying not to think of their journey to this place.

    (And that was the rub, really: it had been absolutely imperative before, to admit that she was frightened, but Jane balked at admitting to any caution about the treehouse—what on earth would Tarzan think of her? At worst, that she had made a very grave mistake in coming to live somewhere so alien; at best, he might laugh, and then she would never hear the end of his teasing.)

    Jane tilted her head back, the better to take in the house’s façade. A certain peace seemed to return to her face again: it was, after all, entirely sensible to take an appraising view of Tarzan’s suggestion, and with a little lift of her chin, she went over the threshold.

    Though Jane was well-acquainted with housework, and for that matter gardening, she had never done much in the way of really arduous, manual labor. Consequently, her eye was not very discerning—and well Jane knew it—but she marveled that anyone’s parents, one imagined without assistance, could have built such a sturdy building. And one that still retained its form, despite the years and thick greenery that so obviously covered its walls. Surely, there was a good chance the inside was as robust?

Heeding her warning, Tarzan's steps were cautious, and he sank briefly to foot and knuckle to better navigate through the small piles of scattered home paraphernalia. All the while, his eyes kept moving upwards to Jane for, if she were to live here, and they were to salvage whatever they could of  his parents' belongings, then it was her opinion that he valued most. 

It was then that a thought occurred to Tarzan that hadn't really before. (Perhaps it perched in the back of his mind like a bird, though it never really pecked him until now.) Would Jane want Tarzan to live here as well? Perhaps if he adopted a more British style of thinking he would realize that, by means of parentage, this edifice did technically belong to him - but that thought never really came to him. What he did ponder though, were the "ifs" that the treehouse represented to him. What if Sabor had never killed his parents? What if Tarzan had grown up in that treehouse, educated, upright? Would he be the same? And would it be bad if he changed? 

Caught amidst the existential, Jane's warning apparently entered one ear and exited the next, for his knuckle was met with a sharp pain and Tarzan recoiled quickly in shock. He looked down in time to see a droplet of burgundy meet the floor, his expression a mix of bewilderment and slight comical offense, before he looked back to his knuckle which was now smeared with blood.