spinning seaweed to selkie skin

selkie / seal themed ceramic tiles

And so Walter stood there, brows raised, hands on his hips, silent as she walked past him to leave the room, waiting for his mind to catch up with his ears.

“Thanks, but that wasn’t necessary,” he said in a rough voice, though with a friendly undertone. He looked at the blood on her kerchief. “I’m just hoping it’ll wash out…” How many times had he been soaked in blood before, and no one had bothered… His body was covered in scars, all of which had faded over time. A few were still visible on his green skin, but they were hidden beneath his tunic. Only his hammer on his back marked him as a warrior.

"I'm Niamh."

His hand engulfed hers, but his grip was surprisingly gentle.

She let go of him and adjusted her basket on her arm. "I live nearby. I'm a healer." A pause, then she grinned at him teasingly. "Good thing I found you. Who knows what else that tree would've done to you?"

Glancing up at the sun, she hummed thoughtfully. It was early afternoon. Still plenty of time to find some of the herbs she needed. No reason to rush. Her gaze flickered back to Thrall.

"If Niamh like Rocky more than Grace!"

"Yeah. That," Grace remarks, unimpressed. Rocky giggles in a series of bird-like chirps. Anyway... "It depends on the mood.

"But I guess there is this one song I always find myself coming back to." He pauses for a moment before typing the title into the search bar. The mood, careful, fragile like a church wafer, like a sugar-melt upon the tongue, feels to hinge utterly on this momentous, world-shuddering reveal. He hopes she wouldn't mind if it didn't pop off with the same chutzpah as an Elvis number. Or Britney Spears. It more tickles across the skin and clings to the brain like syrup or hard-to-wash-off glitter. He plucks the spacebar, and summoned, the lady bird Sarah Vaughan comes on with her molasses-jazz, her voice like silky lattes and smooth whisky. It's wistful. And maybe sweetly hopeful. I'll Be Seeing You begins to fill the belly of their little chamber, Grace leaning his head back against the wall as the piano and cello rock up Niamh's toes.

Tears burn her eyes and she sits up, scrubbing at them with the heels of her palm. Grace's question feels like he's prodding a bruise, one still fresh and blooming. Words tumble from her lips before she can stop herself.

"Home's gone."

Her voice warbles. She inhales a deep, shaky breath. "We...our ship is gone. Home is gone. No one's left. Except me."

I am going to be vulnerable for a moment. I am about to feel hideous asking what I'm about to ask.

On Sunday, when we realized Saber wasn't doing well, I panicked. I paid upfront for her checkup, and I was - until the moment the vet suggested it wouldn't work - fully prepared to put the rest of my funding into paying for a blood transfusion and whatever else.

At the time, all I could think of was: I want to save this cat.

And now I'm on the other side of this having spent money I didn't have on something that didn't work, and I do not have it left in me right now to be precious about asking what I have to ask.

I am going to link a fundraiser for helping pay for private cremation so we can hold onto a part of her, and to recover some of the costs I put into the vet visit. I am going to ask you look at it. I need you to know before I get any DMs about it that I assure you I am angrier with myself for needing the help than you are annoyed at seeing the post, or thinking I'm being mercenary about this. ]