even the darkness will drown

—roi reaches for him, and his first instinct–or perhaps its one of those who lingers inside of him, pulling at his veins and muscles like the strings of a marionette–is to move, to beg roi to stay away out of the fear that his bones, the thin layer of flesh that covers him so poorly here and now, will not be enough to contain them. you are everything, you foolish bastard, i’m not going to be the reason you fall into this darkness, the reason you never get to go home again. if i am the sea, you must remain the lighthouse. reason, rationality, these things that cyrus has built his life on–they put strength into his spine, but they are useless in the face of roi’s tender touch, the sweeping of a thumb underneath each of his eyes, where he knows that colors of bruising are swept with all the care of an artist’s brush. 

he does not collapse into his best friend’s arms, but its damn close–he digs his fingers into the fabric of roi’s shirt, shakes his head and does his best to swallow down the sobs that threaten to rip through him. he’s safe–even at the ends of the fucking world, the man in front of him makes him feel as if they could be back in kent, embracing after another of roi’s tenures at sea, ready to split a couple of nicked pastries between them. how could he have been so incredibly fucking dull, so willfully blind to what was directly in front of his own eyes, for all the learning he’s devoted his life to? 

“i don’t–i won’t–” he exhales slowly and shakes his head. “i hated when you were away at sea without me, roi–i’m not going through that again. it’s you and me against everyone else–and it always will be–so get that thought out of your mind. i don’t care if i have to fight every bloody ghost on this wretched stretch of earth.” he tightens his grip before releasing, before meeting his best friend’s eyes and smiling–a small thing, a fragile bird still hesitant to flap its once broken wings, meant only to be held in roi’s own hands. 

“promise me, محبوب, if we get out of this–if i’m still–we’ll flip a coin and stay down there or in tehran for a while. i don’t want to feel ice under my boots for as long as i live. the arctic–this place–it’s for someone else to discover, to unfold to the world.” i only want you, now. he rests a hand gently on roi’s chest, and raises an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth pulling more sharply upwards. “taupuhi?” he repeats, drags his teeth over his tongue after his lips form the words. “i don’t know that one–what does it mean?” 

it feels as though cyrus is shaking, some earthquake that only he can feel, tremors that lance through his feet, transfered only at the points of contact, where his hands still cup their face, where their hands twist in his shirt. this is some burden they cannot share and it hurts, to be nothing but a pillar and hope that it is enough, a grounded point even as the rest of the world shakes itself to pieces around them.

the sounds that escape their tightly clenched lips sound near animal, near celestial, gossamer, intangible, spider silk that slots its way into being the only expression of pain the human body knows how to express.

then cyrus is shaking their head and roi lets his hands fall away, slip down to grip at their shoulders instead. it’s a smile, it’s a promise, and he feels his breath once again ripped from his lungs, this time it’s with the sheer - the sheer -

“roi–” jack shakes his head, bites down hard enough on his bottom lip that he can taste blood. he can feel it all rising up inside of him again from where he’d tried to push it down, where he’d been building the walls of a maze ever since, trying to put it somewhere where he wouldn’t have to look at it, wouldn’t have to face it directly–but the clarity of the pain he’d felt on the ice is blackened here, with the knowledge that the last time he’d done this, the grief had been something he’d artfully manufactured, as if he were an actor in a shakespearean drama, richard the third hobbling across the stage. he’d mourned for tamati later, in the abstract way that a killer must think of his victim–but there, with sand and dirt streaked across his face, he’d forced every tear, pulled every wail out of his throat as though they had been attached to strings. 

he feels like less of a human being and more like a vessel for it now–not even present in his body, so that it can pour into him like moonlight through a window. he doesn’t try to fight it, he knows that this is the new and the old ache coming together to bring him to his knees–the bruise on his ribs pulsates in time with the clenching of his heart muscle, his jaw. he wipes a sleeve across his eyes, feels like he’s choking on every word as it all comes up sour as bile. “vladya is gone. there’s something on that island–a doorway, i don’t know–but it opened up and jon was walking towards it, and before i could get to him that prick, that absolute fucking bastard, pushed me out of the way and got pulled through it.” 

he meets the younger man’s eyes and exhales slowly. its as though vladimir stands between the two of them now, his eyes fixed on jack in anticipation. you have to tell him, he says quietly. you have to make this right. let me go with the knowledge that you were the man i thought you to be. jack swallows, before pulling roi into another hug. a last embrace, between two that now stand brotherless. 

“i’ll tell you, about what happened in egypt–but i also understand, if you need time before you hear it. its not going anywhere, and i’m not certain it will make things better–that’s for you to decide. i’ve–i’ve done more than enough, where you’re concerned.” 

he can see it, the way that jack is wrestling with something deep inside, the way his eyes track through memories, the tears that push through, the connection between them a single thread, but when you look closer, see that’s nothing but loops and knots of twine that gathered, yarn twisting and catching, doubles back, trails that drip before being dragged back in, seeped and salt-dried.

vladya is gone.

first instinct, he scoffs, wet and choking, laugh of disbelief despite the truth he feels settle around him. ‘ of course he fucki - ‘ an exhale, half-laugh, catching, serrated in his throat. but this isn’t it, this isn’t all of it.

there is more grief here to be processed, garrote wire that threatens to join between them, or slive through the connection, tightening around both their necks. jack is looking at him with - roi doesn’t know. has never known, apparently, didn’t know jack well enough until there was a rangi sized hole standing between them that they both pretended he filled.

this time, it’s roi who doesn’t return the hug, for the first second, then clings back, desperate. he wishes to be a child again, curled into an embrace of ignorance, where if he closes his eyes, someone bigger and stronger will deal with the issue. he clings back, hurting, for jack has an air of finality around him and roi doesn’t know why and this cannot be it.

By the time Estrada approaches the armory room, he can feel the angry buzzing like copper on the tongue. That’s the lull & lure of it, anger: that’s how it always comes out to play. He’d been through it plenty of times when he served as a midshipman, for all it was only a lip service to his inevitable climb. On deck, rage had a way of becoming instrumental, a marlinespike of a thing. But down in Whitehall, oh-ho, there anger would carve its own demesne. It was not tool, not placeholder, not catalyst. It was mother and master.

With a jerk of his head, he motions to Violet Bell to stand out, stand down.

The fact that she had obeyed him so far would’ve surprised someone with less experience. Someone simpler, and, perhaps, with heaven already safeguarded. But his cloth for people had never been two-fold. The good ones, the rotten ones, was rarely a tale you got to tell. A battle, or a rank, was not bordered by dangerous mutt and cozy tin soldiers. A battle was sidelined on what you managed to promise. The look you gave, the sight you cut out. The barter of it all. With the seas now open before them, the once-admiral had plenty to sell.

Some people already bought it. Some soon will.

Now, it was about these two. The Maori he once employed, and the river pirate he nearly called friend. What an odd little world. He wished he had someone to laugh with at it.

❝ Knock, knock. Are you two still talking yourselves rabid, or do we have a ground to come and talk on? You should know Dowling is safe. Come next week, when we have crossed the leads, and we are further than Ross and Parry have ever been, I will even take you to meet him. Ayla already has. ❞  A lie, that one: he’d rather have Ayla fretting for sights unseen, as befitted their nature. But Timoti and Rowland would mark it all as lies, anyway; there was no cause to be stingy with it. ❝ You know my terms. No weapons, no conniving. Play nice, and you’ll both get to stretch your legs with the rest of them. ❞

riversoaked​:

“i’ve got my demands too,” she stated, not moving from her spot on the floor. her head still tipped back, her features almost relaxed, almost lazy. what could you say to icarus outside of — look at me, i contain hubris too? what else would he listen to? “because, as i’m sure you’ve put together, you’ve got me a bit upset, captain. put me in a bit of a spot.” 

the best of lies came with a tinge of truth. he wove his lies together with such art that she could not pick up on which was the thread of truth — was malachy safe? had ayla seen him? would he stick to his word? she often thought in too stark of colors to imagine the shades, but she could play along with her own tinge of truth. angry, but helpless. angry, but with bigger things to worry about. 

a glance to roi. remember what we talked about. 

“you need a quartermaster still, and i want to make sure my crew gets through this. i love them more than i hate you. so let me keep my title, and i’ll keep them in line. i’ll play nice, do my job, and make sure this ship stays together.” let him believe the thing that was true: she did not care where they ended up, only that the crew was alive at the end of it. 

the door opens and it takes everything roi has to shuffle to the side, still seated infront of it, one leg up to his chest. at this angle, it’s almost as though he’s baring marcus entry, rather than their own exit. at long last the door has opened to him but there’s nothing he can do about it - the actions still cordoned off as effectively as if the door was still there.

angry, but helpless. he takes his cue from jules in this, stays sat, stays indolent. she calls him captain, and his fist clenches, thumb on the outside of the fist to push into the broken skin of the knuckles, doesn’t know if the lie could come as easily to him, if at all. the flash of her gaze is a reminder, cracks back the resurging anger and render it helpless.

his jaw clenches, his eyes close, breathes in. he could kill marcus here, destablish the ship once again, mutiny the mutiny and restore the correct order.

it came about in a fit of sudden clarity: i am a doctor, you’ll let me see dowling’s steward. gathering his bag out of habit more than worry that he would find someone sick, jonathan made his way to the empty armory. he only faintly held the authority that allowed him here. 

someone accompanied him, bored and content to wait far enough away. just to make sure the mad doctor did not let out the equally mad prisoner. they need not worry; that was not jonathan’s role. 

“it’s dr. bhavsar,” he returned, stepping nearer to the door. strange how his voice sounded hollow here, but it was easy to step outside of himself, to step into the role he had long since filled. there was a need. there was something to do. words from his mother when he felt the world threaten to swallow him up: take a breath, and do something for someone else. “are you alright?” 

the doctor - it was good to see the faces of those who’d gone to the island slowly filter back, the rescue party evidently having succeeded in its task. of course, not all, or even many, had passed his door, trapped down here for the time period as he was, but still, it was a bit of brightness, a bit of hope. they didn’t all have to die out here.

jack doesn’t know what he expects the younger man to do, when he steps towards him suddenly–he feels himself flinch, in the distant way that he feels most things now, as if he’s watching himself from somewhere else, as if his body is just another uniform that he can slip in and out of–but he does not expect roi to wrap his arms around his shoulders, to fold his tall frame nearly in half to tuck his face into jack’s shoulder like they’re boys. like brothers would, like he would have if tamati had been standing here, and jack was half-buried under sand like he should have been, like he deserved to be. the thought makes him want to shove roi away, tell him to keep his kindness for the memory of his real brother, his real family–but the sergeant’s voice, an echo from a thousand years ago, tells him to stand still, to play the part while he still can, while roi will still appreciate the facsimile. 

“tall bastard,” he laughs quietly, a watery thing that sounds as if its being dredged up from the very bottom of the sea, from the bones of a wrecked ship. “i’m sorry i can’t do more than this–estrada picked the best shot left to hold the other end of my leash.” he sniffs, scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, but a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “i heard you decked him, yeah? wish i could have seen it. if you’d let me teach you how to shoot a gun properly you could do some real damage next time.” 

he exhales and does his best to keep his expression fixed–not to let the darkness of certainty start leaking through the cracks. there won’t be a next time for you and me, not unless you’ve got christ’s own heart of gold in your chest. instead he rests a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and bites down hard on his bottom lip–he can taste copper on his tongue, when he drags it across the teeth marks, but its familiar to him now. “so, how much do you know–about, everything, then?”

jack doesn’t do much to return the hug but it’s enough, its going to be enough, it has to be enough, and they regretfully untangle themself from the other as they laugh, and roi can’t help but echo it, subdued scoff with a rippling inhale, jagged and gasping as they step back, tuck their chin to their chest.

‘ that’s the rumour going ‘round? ‘ roi scoffs, shakes his head. ‘ hells, i wish i had, but he definitely wouldn’t be walking round intact if i’d managed to get to him. ‘ they smile back, pretend like this is any other occasion of teasing, as though their entire relationship isn’t built on loss. ‘ who needs a gun for that kind of damage? ‘

the smile drops his face as jack gives up the facade, not outwardly, but in the very way his face goes rigid and solid, in the vitality that he seems to lose in an instant. his hand rests on their shoulder and they feel their own breath catch. ‘ what do you mean? ‘

water that trickles between their fingers, reality melting in his hands. he doesn’t know how to even try to hold on.

“roi,” he says on an exhale of breath, as he turns to face the other man. the sight of him, tall against the night sky, as though he could simply reach a hand up and rearrange the stars into constellations only the two of them could understand, makes cyrus feel suddenly aware of everything, all at once–how long it has been since he slept, how hard every muscle in his body has worked just to keep him in control, to compensate for the exhaustion that now sits on his shoulders like stone, the distance he has protectively put between himself and the only person that has ever resembled home in his eyes. his body feels liable to shatter on the ice, to spider and fissure until the ghosts begin leaking through the cracks, begin looking for something bigger and stronger to contain them. 

“roi,” he says again and smiles, shakes his head. is this how sailors feel, speaking of their beloved port of call? just a few more days now and i’ll come to dock at roimata again–the waters are warm and calm, the shore is green and grows wild–there is no more beautiful point on this entire globe than roimata, i think i will live my life and die there, if he will have me. “i’m not going anywhere without you, you fool.” he wants to close the distance between them with a sprint, collapse into his best friend, the arms of his axis–but they hold him where he is. 

he glances at his feet, worries his bottom lip between his teeth. just a while longer, yeah? and then i’ll figure this out–i’ll figure out how to tell you that i’m right shit at all of this, but i’m pretty sure it’s only ever been you for me. i’ll tell you how sorry i am that it’s taken me so bloody long to figure out that you’ve always been my true north. when i’m sure that they’ll be my words. when i’m sure that they won’t hurt you through me. 

just please, please don’t be in love with someone else until then, roimata. wait for me just a while longer–like all of the times i’ve waited for the sea to bring you back to me. 

“they want me to go–the voices.” he feels a burning at the back of his eyes, and drags his hand roughly across them, folds his arms across his chest. “most of the time they howl, and scream–but lately–” he exhales again, shakes his head. “they sound like mama, calling me.” they’re quiet, when you’re around. “the boatswain–the island–he told me to avoid the professor, to tell the captain to avoid her–but i kept my mouth shut, and i haven’t been alone in my head since, roi. all of the people that have died out here, they’re in me now.”

his best friend, his brother, his partner in crime, his partner, turns. a cold wind passes and the chill wrests his breath away from him, freezing it before he can draw it into his lungs. cyrus looks - looks something near unrecognisable. the youth, the life, the curiosity, the hope, the dreaming - the things that made cyrus, the ephemeral that built his bones and inspired roi -

‘ atua - ‘ god. cyrus looks so tired. he looks like he’s about to start shaking, skin paper-thin and lined with shadows. what are they doing here? they’re supposed to be on their way to the south, to the warmth, to the green, to home.

still, though, still, it’s cyrus. the way the smile crooks the sides of his face, the hint of teeth and tilt of his head. and it shouldn’t hurt, but nor should it be such a surprising relief that cyrus promises to stay, stay with me, i haven’t confessed, i don’t know how to confess, i need you by my side for the rest of time. it’s a breath in, it’s a promise, it’s a promise.

but cyrus’ continues and starts to choke on that breath, his hands clenching at his sides. how dare they, these voices, these spectres, how dare they try and take cyrus away from him. how dare they tempt him, make his eyes tear up, make his sleep so poor.

they sound like mama and roi cannot help the half-step forwards, one hand reaching up to cup cyrus’ face, brush his thumb underneath their eyes. it feels like his heart is breaking and he doesn’t know why. they’re in me now and it cracks, shatters.

( they’re standing in a house, empty, labyrinth. there’s a sheet over the mirror, sun-bleached, age-worn. they reach up, pull it away, the white flashes across their eyes.

the mirror breaks. )

A bluster of a sigh, before she laughs. It echoes around the space, between their separate compartments, as something softer than a haunting. The past can still prevail, course need not change. The reminder is there for both.  “You’re here to protect yourself too. Don’t dismiss that.” A full hypocrite today it seems, and there’s the wreckage. Malachy would want them to think to their safety, to not do anything that could exacerbate things.  “I think we’ve reached a cold day in hell, so you have your freedom from it. You have choice.”

Taps her knuckles against the door, distractedly watching, as close as she can be to the other side of it. “Have faith in Dowling, but don’t let your anger cloud your judgement. You have a mind to use just as well. There’s no point fighting a battle that’s already been won, pick yourself up and look to who might be lost if you start a war.”

he cannot help but scoff at the way she turns his phrasing back on him - for if this wasn’t hell, and if this wasn’t a frozen landscape, well, he’d eat his hat if he owned one. still, it would take much more than this for roi to turn his back on either the captain or his niece, but, here, the truth of it :

he has a choice, and he has made it, and he will make this way again.

look to who might be lost. ‘ what are you saying? that it’s better to not try? that this - ‘ friend, fool? ‘ - that we should just allow ourselves to be carted ever further into this passage and this mutiny? ‘ he understands what she is saying, cannot allow himself to understand the truth of it - it tastes too much like defeat. he wants to laugh, to shout, to express in some form the utter helplessness that is crawling it’s way up his spine and planting fangs into his skull, anger the only thing that is keeping his knees from buckling.

“It’s Ayla.” Says it again, not as identification this time- as prodding instead. They are family, all of them, all who love Malachy Dowling.  The only reason any of them would be locked up is this, it’s a sign of that love. A stupid one, but there’s very little way to avoid it. She hadn’t imagined it would have happened before the announcement. Although she hadn’t imagined mutiny at all.  “The only thing I need is for you to stop. Marc doesn’t need you to prove his point. They’re looking for excuses.”

There’s a noise behind her, probably just the creak of heat expanding and contracting the wood of the ship, but still her gaze swings past her shoulder, still she lowers her voice the smallest amount. Echoes enough with the surrounding.  “The Captain wouldn’t want you being harmed. You know that as well as I do. So please, try your best. Can you do that? I am not the Captain, but I..” Pauses, listening carefully, before continuing, “I can not order you, but there must be no reason for anyone to be locked up. Once you’re out, stay out. Do you understand? Until then, you can ask anything and I will bring it. I can not be sure if I will be able once you’re free. Things might appear out of reach, even when they’re close at hand. Will you say that to Jules?”

he cannot help but smile at the insistence, replies with a worn familiarity that soothes in this torn time, ‘ of course, miss dowling. ‘  fondess and teasing that comes from time of understanding boundaries, when to push them, when to make them a skipping rope. at least she’s still out there, deemed not enough of a threat to keep locked away.

“malachy dowling saved my life. all these years since have been borrowed time. if i’ve got to give it back, believe me that i will. you won’t lose him.” another promise then made to another soul. she wondered if malachy knew the impact he’d had — that he had saved so many of them in so many ways? through purpose, through friendship, through a hand extended. the world owed him too much for it to end like this. i can’t lose him, jules. a memory: she held ayla in her arms, and whispered the same words she thought now. if i don’t keep you and malacy safe, what am i good for? 

“they’ll be waiting for us, so the crew can’t be involved.” here was how it always began — a dangerous spark of thought. “i’ll take care of marc, alright? won’t be now, much as i wish it. but i’ll take care of him. and when it’s happening, i need you to get malachy out of wherever they’ll keep him, by whatever means necessary. we’ve always got to have a captain.” 

a deep breath, and she gave him an honest-to-god sort of smile. “keep your anger. let it lead you, but don’t let it get you killed. we need to get out of this armoury, and the only way we’re getting out is letting the new captain think he’s beat us. let him think we’re mad, but we’re helpless. because roimata, here’s the truth of it: so long as malachy dowling breathes, we’ve got a chance.” 

she promises and if it were any other place, any other world, any other life, there’s a certain in her voice that near demands he believe her. if they weren’t already shades fading beneath the icy sun, where death was all but a full stop at the sentences of their lives, that it won’t just be malachy but the chance of any of them escaping this with their lives?

still, he has to try.

still, he believes her.

and she smiles. he cannot help but give her a helpless smile in response, knowledge and certainity and bonds and promises that link between them now. theirs is a mission and a goal. theirs is a life built on superstition and the ocean and with these two things they are the most equipped out here.

he hears it, among the litany of other phrases his mind conjures up, that make him turn his head to respond to someone who is no longer there. 

you have to tell him, jack. you have to make it right. 

you’re not here, you bloody heroic bastard. i could have done it if you were–i would have done it to make you proud, because you would have been there when it was over. but you’re not anymore–fucking hell, vladya. 

what am i supposed to do? how much more can a man be expected to lose before he no longer can be classified among the living, before he is nothing more than a corpse that somehow still draws breath? 

it only repeats itself.

you have to tell him, jack. you have to make it right. 

you know what it’s like now–to lose a brother.

what is one more pain, what is one more wound and hurt–maybe if he suffers them all now, they will heal before he meets his end. maybe he will have time to get used to living with them, will find a way to love around them–he isn’t hopeful about that, here and now, as he nods his head to the guards around the arms room, too afraid of the pungent stench of grief that radiates from him to tell him to turn around, to leave. 

that poor man, they surely whisper. too fucked up about the boy to pull any stunts. just let him through. 

he exhales, before he steps into the dark room. curls his fingers into the palms of his hands, hard enough to leave a mark. he hardly feels it, and his hands still shake. 

“it’s jack,” he says quietly, upon entering. “how are you faring? i brought you some things–from your bunk. think you can hide them?” 

they’re opening the door for the visitor, and roi knows well enough to step back, out of immediate threatening distance, but the person coming through the door isn’t someone who he immediately wants to punch, instead, it roots him to the ground, panic and sorrow and confusion wrapping lead around his limbs.

The way it happened. The real story. He’d promised.

what had happened to vladya? what had happened to rangi? what had happened to marc? what was happening?

‘ well enough, thanks. ‘ the man looks as though he’s wearing a shroud of death, grey tint to the skin and it fed off and flared his own until it felt like they were standing in the middle of darkness and sorrow.

You have to ask him now, here, at the end of it all, what happened to your brother.

jules was sitting on the floor, head tipped back against the wall, watching through half-closed eyes as roi beat against the door. as he sat on the ground too. as he gave up. she had one foot in the past and one in the present — betrayal came with so many shadows. she was on the promethean, she was on her own ship years ago. she was sitting in the armoury. she was sitting in a cell, waiting for the gallows. 

“well,” she finally said. here was what she knew: the mutiny would catch malachy by surprise because she was meant to stop it. she had stayed behind, let all those she loved walked to their death, because she thought she might keep the order. here was what she thought: marcus would not kill the captain. not yet. not unless the mutiny went wrong. if he killed mal, he’d have to kill jules and roi and ayla and — her hands twisted to fists. “i’m going to fucking kill him first.” 

she closed her eyes, tried to see it. “he’s who they’re rallying around. he’ll die, and people will slink back to their work. if they don’t, they die too. there’s no room for forgiveness in this.” here was what she didn’t know, not at all: how many aligned themselves with marcus? “they’ll keep malachy locked up, so it’ll be up to us. you hear me? it’s up to us.”   

kill him, kill him, kill him? he feels angry, this righteous rage, this burning fury unlike - exactly like what he’s always known he has, volcano lying dormat, frissures and pressure that he has always surpressed, pushed down, pushed down. but the anger has always been that of helplessness, uncertain, pushing against the whole crust of the earth. here, it’s targeted, single point of pressure that the entirety of his emotion is flaring out of, red hot rage that arcs over the sky and promises ash and death.

ko taranaki te maunga taranaki is the mountain. he is born from the ocean and the volcano. ko patea te awa. patea is the river and here he can come into these elements in fullness. ko whetu toku whanau. whetu is my family. he was formed from fire and death. it haunts him and he can redirect it.

Moves to tiptoes in the attempt to see, even raises her chin to peer for it. “It’s Ayla” Ayla, who can not see in, nor dangle a hand to take, who is useless.  Ayla, who has not even proved threat enough to be locked up, or smart enough to fix anything. 

Always suspected that Roi or Eli or Jules or Ephraim, especially bloody Edward, would be the ones to do something. Dangerous, or stupid, but at least an attempt. Jaya too. Keeps slipping on names, keeps going over it in her head- who’s likely to do what, who’s likely to endanger themselves. When truth is it doesn’t really matter. Whoever’s on the other.. on Marc’s side, is going to find excuse or cause excuse to aggravate or worse. 

“Do you need anything?” She means comfort, or water, or food. Doesn’t mean what all of them need, doesn’t mean a way to get Malachy back. Doesn’t mean all the things Roi is bound to think of needing. “Why did they put you in here?”

the footsteps hesitate, and he looks down to the top of ayla’s hair - the captain’s family. his heart breaks again and he hates that any of this was allowed to happen while he was still on the ship, that he still could do nothing. they were facing threats that none of them could understand ( it can’t be ghosts, not yet, not yet, but there is something unknown ) and estrada wanted to lead them further in? here, the risk far outwieghs any reward.

‘ miss dowling. ‘ what is he doing? stuck in this hollow of a room, unable to help anyone, or to annoy anyone, from either side. can’t do the basics of his duties, but can’t even help those he has made a point of helping in this journey. curse his anger, the rage which bloodied his hands rather than any measure of sensibility or manipulation -

he could have sweet-talked his way into becoming estrada’s steward, worked a way to free malachy subtly, if only his forsaken honour and devotion and frustration that had bubbled over the top when he realised what was happening. ‘ i’m sorry i can’t be out there, helping you. mr. estrada - ‘ not captain, never captain, ‘ - knew better than to let me roam free whilst they plotted to mutiny, and i’m afraid i’ve only served to make their point for them. ‘

they’ve been separated, jules taken to some other location where there’s less of a threat of the two of them conspiring some impossible way out of this locked room and into freeing malachy - into reversing the stupidity that has occured here.

the party has apparently long since returned, and it’s only because he knows how painful a gunshot wound can be that he hasn’t done anything when they enter to give him food or take him to the bathroom.

the lethargy has set in by now, some added helplessness ontop of every bit of exhaustion and fear that the whole ship is surrounded in. vladya and phillipa - that’s all he knows. that somethign went wrong and something went right. he is tired - tired of not knowing, tired of not being able to do anything, tired of being stuck in this room, on this ship, in the middle nowhere.

his knuckles are bleeding, and the mostly healed wound in his shoulder is aching something fierce, potentially even bleeding again, and at the least bruised, from ramming himself into the armoury door, to the point where there is a buckle in the center of it, and he stopped only due to the fear that he wouldn’t break it down but merely bend it enough to be unable to open and so leaving them unable to get out.

‘ Teko, tutae, whakianga mai, mai ure iti kai hamuti, ‘ he mutters, sliding down to rest his back against the door, punctuating the end of the sentence by letting his head drop back and clang against the door. ‘ how did i not see that coming? all those questions about malachy - ‘

WHEN / BEFORE THE RESCUE PARTY DEPARTS  WHERE / ON THE ICE

GO, they howl. 

He thinks of Cerberus, with its many heads, mouths filled with teeth snapping at the same time, pulling in opposite directions in an effort to separate one from the other. Ouroboros, the snake fated to forever cannibalize himself. Everything contained within the fragile cage of bone, the worn canvas covering of skin. 

GO, CYRUS HARPER. 

MOVE FORWARD. 

He exhales, his breath a slow moving plume of smoke. He steps forward, the ice does not make sound beneath the sole of his boot. Or perhaps it does, perhaps it shatters like glass and he does not hear it–perhaps he walks on water now, supported by thousands of spectral hands Yes, he thinks. He can feel their fingers wrapping around the slender bone of his ankle, trying to pull him down–Ouroboros, Euryidce’s eyes fall to the ground, before she places her foot in the center of the circle. Before it closes like a snare. 

COME TO US CYRUS HARPER. 

It sounds almost like a song now. 

COME, they sing. COME, COME, COME. DON’T YOU HEAR THE DRUMMING? 

He steps forward again, another time. Ariadne follows the red string to the center of the labyrinth where her brother, where the monster sits in darkness. Persephone sings to Cerberus. Ouroboros. So the end is always self made. 

COME HOME. بیا خانه.

“Can you hear it?” He says quietly, without turning his head to look at the person who stands a few feet behind him. “Sometimes, I swear it sounds like mama. Calling after me.” He closes his eyes, for a fraction of a second, for the length of an eternity–who can be sure, who can find it in themselves to care? Ouroboros, he bites down hard on the tail and swallows. 

“They want me to go. To leave.”

the departure team are packing. malachy has sent him out of the chambers for fussing, no matter that roimata merely wanted to ensure the safety and the best for the captain whilst he went off - though why he thought he had to lead this party personally -

his thoughts were bordering on mutinous, so he clamped down on them, stepped up onto the deck for air, consciously commanding his jaw to unclench, his worry to unspool like thread cut and turned loose - but there’s a snag and a catch and it knots together and cyrus is walking on the ice and a shout half-leaves his lips as he starts forward, one arm outstretched, but cyrus’ voice carries and roi stumbles to a stop behind the other.

‘ cyrus? ‘ he asks instead, half-afraid for any answer.

he’s afraid to reach out the rest of the way, to rest a hand on the shoulder of the boy he once knew so well - this trip and twisted and perverted even the ocean itself and it’s something sick that has crawled its way into all of their lungs, into their blood, their hearts.