L

Harrow’s grip stayed firm, but her voice conveyed a calm her twitching expression had not since conveyed. “It will be clean by nightfall. I apologise, it’s not usually like that.” Missing half of Gideon’s unrest with the situation, she tore her arm free, resisting the urge to pick the woman up and shake her again. 

“Harrow,” Gideon warned, begging her to understand. How much worse than the church this was, the danger that even a bone-fucking madwoman was in. “Tell me what he’s doing to people here.”

Harrow paused, again hesitant at the expectation of actually owing Gideon information. “It’s how he creates us.” Her tone was of a desperation Gideon had yet to witness leave her lips. As if she knew Gideon was a second away from leaving. As if that was something that would actually matter to her. 

When Gideon did not reply, Harrow lifted her hands, palms to the sky. Gideon looked at them for a moment, the scars wedged deep within them, until she understood. A drughouse of hand-grown bone. A sword protruding from a sheep’s spine. The eviction of a cop’s brain through the sockets of his eyes.

“Harrow,” Gideon said again. “Harrow, please, you can’t—”

“You want sanctuary, don’t you?” Enough seconds had gone by of Gideon not submitting that Harrow’s expression had hardened, her eyes turning cold. It was only then Gideon realised they had ever been soft, that she had been trying to get through to her before now giving up. “Or do you want to go to jail? Cyrus has been making good work of drawing our hunters astray; Mercymorn has rid of a few that have come too close. Police would be dangerous to us all, Gideon, so we do our best to steer clear of them. But if you so like, we can lead them to you, save us the trouble.” Harrow had gone into her trance again, her insistence of we, her troubled connection to all of this. Gideon was taken aback by her savagery, as if it had somehow escalated from her usual ridicule. 

Running wasn’t an option, not when Gideon could be dead or jailed in an instant by any of their hands. But staying hardly was, either. “No…No drugs, though, okay?” Gideon had no reason to make requests she could be sure would be listened to, she knew this. But it was like she was a kid once more, trying to melt Harrow’s mask of contempt so that she could really hear her. “No…” Gideon looked to the drugged women, all of them now looking at them silently. “None of…that, please.”

For a moment Harrow’s guise altered, and it seemed like she understood. But in words she only offered, “Don’t be stupid, Griddle”, which was so far from reassurance Gideon could have laughed. 

Clutching tightly to Cytherea’s thin robe for comfort, Gideon braved her final question. “What now, bone-blower?”

Harrow hesitated before clearly coming up with the wittiest response she could muster, cracked lips drawn in a thin line. “Clearly there are things here you just cannot understand, so try not following me around like a puppy for once and allow me to see to something, okay?” Her reprimand was an uncomfortable call-out Gideon was well familiar with, forcing her to nod shortly in a frustration that nothing she said or did would make any difference. Harrow spun to disappear beyond the trees, leaving Gideon to wonder of the stories of the only women that remained with her. She clutched Cytherea’s robe tighter to her chest in unimaginable fear of their fate and, despite her walking map having abandoned her, sent off to find its owner.

John’s community had been so shaped around the forest that it was difficult to commit its landmarks to memory; the well, river, and whale all felt so distant from each other, with Gideon unable to pinpoint which direction she’d have to go now to find any of them. The sheer lack of disturbance to the surroundings made it all the more clear that they wished to stay hidden, which would be quite easy to do against outsiders with every tree and slope that made taking any sort of straight, identifiable path impossible.

“Are you trying to head away from camp or toward it?” To Gideon’s dismay, a man’s voice had appeared from behind her, absent of the noise of crunching leaves beneath feet that must have been timed with Gideon’s own steps. She froze, balled her fists tight until her nails embedded into her palms, and slowly turned to face her potential stalker.

He was a stocky man, much moreso than Gideon, with a height and width that dwarfed her. A colour almost that of the deep red dirt of the bush stained his irises and buzzed hair, a standout from the fervent brown of his skin. Most confounding was the strange kindness adorning his face that matched John’s, even more threatening when the man before Gideon looked much more capable of strangling her to death. 

He did not back away when faced with Gideon’s attempt at a stand-off, digging her feet heavily into the earth as she realised she ought to convince this man that she was not lost. “I’m looking for Cytherea.”

“Well you’re about a kilometre westward away from the woman.” The man made work of grinning at having successfully talked Gideon into a corner. “And not getting any closer, I’ll add.”

“Yeah, I got that.” Gideon sneered, still tensed. “Why are you following me?”

“I couldn’t watch you get yourself any more lost.” Large hands disappeared into pockets and Gideon’s breath caught, fathomed that she’d survived this interaction thus far without feeling her essence being drained from her, without her skeleton turning into spikes; until an open palm revealed the weathered brass of a compass, outstretched for her taking. “Here. This helped me with getting around a lot when I first arrived.” As Gideon’s muscles began to relax in anticipation of perhaps being stupid enough to actually accept the offering, the man continued. “The name’s G.” 

The letter, a placeholder for another hidden name caught her off guard, giving her only a small chance to think about it before the compass had fallen into her palm and the letter G grew smaller in the distance, silent footfalls ducking around three trees and over a boulder before disappearing entirely. For a moment Gideon could only look at the contraption in her hand before she braved folding open its casing, spinning on the spot until the small black arrow wobbled to pierce through the letter ‘N’. After a breath, she spun further clockwise until the arrow was pointing directly to her left, and Gideon set off with the confusing standpoint of being unsure how to feel about the man who had gifted her such direction.

She had been walking long enough to no avail that she figured she must’ve veered off course, but her needle still loyally pointed to her left. Gideon pocketed the device as she tried to make sense of where she was, how far she’d travelled from the camp. She’d been walking downhill enough to know she’d be parallel with the river, but how far away from it she could not interpret.

With the next spin on her feet trying to piece the puzzle together of the sun and the slope and the trees, Gideon heard the dry crunch of eucalypts and searched for Cytherea’s face. Beyond an overhang of her slope a figure took shape, sliding through the trees in all blue, a matching cap concealing his face. The same steely guard on his expression as the youth officers who’d disciplined her.

Proof that she was being hunted, that Gideon’s part in this would never have her forgiven in the light of society again—she wanted to feel relief when a lanky figure too agile to be Cytherea revealed herself from a crouched position behind a bush, but she only felt sick with anger. 

Without so much as a rustle, the woman had risen and slinked toward the cop, the dull dusty rose of her hair blending with the dry earth surrounding her. Mercymorn’s body had begun to take on the shape Harrow had the previous night. Like every limb surged with a focus so powerful you could almost feel the ground shake with it. Gideon could sense the electricity about to burst from her fingertips, and suddenly she was hopeful she didn’t end up spotting her, too.

Gideon waited in envious curiosity when distance had closed between the pair enough that the cop’s knees suddenly buckled from beneath him, wordless as he struggled for air. Whatever Mercymorn was doing to him was horribly invisible, a silent torture where the oxygen seemed to be torn from his lungs, his thoughts from his brain.

This is what she’d be permitted to do if she stayed. Being able to ensure the longevity of her freedom. How could any weapon win against these people?

Watching Mercymorn play with his soul any longer began to feel perverted, began to make her too curious in feeling that potential power. She declined involving herself in seeing the inevitable end, witnessing whatever Mercymorn was going to do with the defamed corpse afterwards. G had wanted her to find this, she reminded herself. John had wanted her to find this. To feel greedy for power. The brass compass burned the image of John’s eldritch eyes as Gideon unearthed it, and she tossed it towards Mercymorn, hopefully hitting her in the head before she took off.

The sun stretched high overhead and began to fall once again, its pathway guiding Gideon’s surroundings as she practiced them. Mercymorn would’ve been somewhere near the edge of the forest, meaning she shouldn’t keep heading east. She was horribly far downstream by the time she found the river  just northward and could begin to chase its melody upwards, but the unfamiliarity uplifted by her isolation from anybody else could finally comfort her. 

It only seemed fitting that she soon spotted Cytherea washing herself this time, in a ritualistic and painfully clothed manner that seemed more characteristic of Harrow. Her long curls stuck to her soaked dress, covering her in the most inconvenient places for Gideon as possible when it was clear the water had well and truly clarified her clothing. The day’s events had well worn down Gideon’s charm as she tried to muster a casual “Fancy running into you?” and Cytherea turned to her with a tired smile. A wilting flower had been tucked into the hair atop her ear, a faint purple that almost resembled home—whatever that was to Gideon.

The woman tried to disguise her shivering as Gideon waded into the water to lead her out and sit against the most prominently sun-basked rock they could find. She had nearly forgotten about her borrowed robe, which had crumpled in the tight grip Gideon had subdued it to; she draped it over Cytherea’s wet body and tried to tell herself it helped even as the water immediately soaked through it.

Up close, the flower caressing Cytherea’s temple seemed to open, an aged scent of chocolate emitting from its dying core. Chocolate lilies had grown around the graveyard near the church; when the church’s nuns deemed her responsible for the digging up of their ancestors, Gideon’s only view had been of them while her face was pressed into the dirt awaiting her beating. Now, it was obvious who had been the grave-robber, and Gideon fought back the surge of memories from all her punishments that would’ve been Harrow’s fault. Each time she had been thrown in the garden, the chocolate lilies’ scent had calmed her. Thus Gideon let it do the same to her now, hoping any knowledge she asked for with the woman before her would be more pleasant than being spanked.

When her silence lingered a little too long, Cytherea probed, “Is there a reason you’re so far from camp, Gideon?” Having never uttered her actual name to her, Gideon was taken aback at the possibility of being spoken about behind closed doors. By Harrow. By John. She fought to gain her composure, wishing to be separate from the darkness behind all of this with just one person. Wishing that this particular one was the right option.

“I needed…” Gideon was distracted for a moment as Cytherea tucked a stray hair behind the ear with the flower, caressing its folds so softly Gideon felt as though it were her fingers. “Answers Harrow will not give me,” she quickly finished. “Why John…Those pregnant women…” Gideon couldn’t brave herself to say out loud what she knew, pleading to Cytherea in a desperate look, as if either of them actually knew each other and could entrust any amount of truth arising from this conversation. “Why,” she began. “Did you ever come here? Why has anyone?”

Cytherea sighed deeply as she shifted, resting her head back on the tree. “I believe we all have just happened to be saved from a misfortune by John Gaius,” she uttered slowly, closing her eyes as if recalling a memory. “Maybe he is the one who puts power into our hands, maybe he isn’t. But he is always there.” Her enunciation of her final word mirrored Mercymorn’s initial disgust with herself about her winding up here, like it was a fate that could no longer be veered from. A shame that seemed so distant during her earlier murder. “But, the result is, we are all the same in some way.” A hint of a smile formed at the corner of her cracked lips. “All running from something, all craving protection and community. Which is what we give each other. We are more powerful as a group.”

Gideon supposed this made sense at the surface. What Harrow had already said about the others and their police deterrence. When she repeated her question about the women, Cytherea’s smile faded as she struggled with figuring out what to say. Her tone became mournful, and she refused to look Gideon in the eye. “Not everyone brought here has been…saved, so to speak. They’re planning a ceremony tonight. You will see more then.”

Frustrated with being brushed off once more, Gideon changed paths to ask about Cytherea directly. “So how were you…saved?”

Cytherea’s eyes snapped open, and she turned to Gideon slowly as if just being woken up. “The people here do not take kindly to questions of the past, Gideon Nav. We take each other at face value, accept what we are given. If you stay here, you must do so with caution. Tread carefully, understand?” Cytherea’s words were stringent, but her tone pleading. Gideon nodded quickly. “Do not question his ways. Do not put a target on your back. In other words, be much like the girl that brought you here.” Being asked to be more like Harrow was something Gideon found preposterous, even coming from the mouth of someone with an effortless beauty, who turned away to cough blood into a pocketed handkerchief—it wasn’t just her legs, then—but still turned back to her with a smile. One powerful enough for Gideon to almost agree, to think things couldn’t be so bad, that Cytherea could be right.

“What can you tell me about yourself, then?” Gideon countered. “What is your current life like?”

At this, Cytherea seemed to relax, allowing herself to close her eyes and rest her head once more, now on the shoulder of Gideon. “I await the rest of my days in a body that does not accept me,” she managed, lacking all levels of sadness Gideon would expect from the choice of words. She decided to conceal her curiosity, not wanting to upset Cytherea with another question. She offered a quiet, half-answer as she offered a tight squeeze to Gideon’s arm, leaving remains of cold water droplets on her skin. “Maybe next time…I will find one that does.” It didn’t take long for her fingers to soon relax, the lily coming loose as unconsciousness overtook her and her head fell in Gideon’s lap.

Gideon found Harrow later on when Cytherea led her back to the whale, the sun having almost fully set and darkness being scattered across the thick bone. Before the fourth set of ribs, dressed in a pure white, almost shimmery hooded cloak, was John, and circled around him were Mercymorn and G, their closeness indicative of the planned trickery with that blasted compass. 

About a dozen other people Gideon had yet to meet all stood around John amongst dry leaves and dirt that blended into bone. The danger of each person’s energies was so blatant that Gideon felt alight with fear, almost clinging onto Cytherea in hopes she would protect her.

Harrow was one of the closest to John, turning Gideon’s way for only a moment until she saw who she was with, the disappointed look she gave Gideon and Cytherea both as if their arrival together were something scandalous. Their previous conversation had definitely made Gideon more wary of the woman than she had been, but not enough to squeeze through the crowd by Harrow’s side just so she could scold her poor taste in company.

It wasn’t long after their arrival that the last expected people joined in and John began to speak. His character was shaping to be much more of a villain in Gideon’s mind than their first meeting, something that seemed to twist his words to sound more menacing, that made the glimmer in his eye feel targeted toward her. “Our wonderful Titania, Nigella, and Valancy’s births are soon to bless our little band of troupers here.” The circle had branched out, forcing Gideon to take several steps backwards as she was let into the front to find the three pregnant women whose names she now regretfully knew stood with their backs to each other in the centre, drugged eyes glazed over and hardly able to register all of those that were on them. Everyone waited with anticipation, and Gideon formed a deep sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, a desperate desire for her to be anywhere else. She searched for some level of anxiety among the crowd, relieved to count two people, perhaps the women’s only friends. 

Only one woman had no one genuinely looking at her apart from Gideon. Long hair that would have once shimmered a golden red was now matted, her faint blue eyes that seemed more sober than the others, as if she could notice Gideon looking back at her.

The other two women’s backs were to her and to Gideon in their triangular formation, their faces unclear as their respective mourners gazed longingly at them. One was two people to the left of Harrow, a tall and lean woman with horribly sad eyes that danced occasionally to John, as if looking to reassurance that the one she was worried for would be alright. The other was a young man with such normal-looking features he looked terribly out of place here; Gideon almost doubted that fact he could be dangerous at all. Almost.

Everyone else looked hungry for what was to come, though admittedly less so was Harrow, who bargained glances towards Gideon when she thought she wouldn’t be looking. It was difficult for Gideon to understand how exactly Harrow was feeling—not scared, not excited, possibly regretful? A pensive sadness always adorned her features, so maybe the fire was playing tricks of the light. The fire.

A terribly thick branch tightly wrapped in cotton at the tip had been set alight and slotted behind the backs of the women in the circle, their weak hands gripped behind them to just barely hold it up and out of reach from their flammable heads. Gideon was brought back to Ortus and his mother, their scorched bodies as her lungs filled with poison. Her heartrate skyrocketed—she was about to watch these women burn by their own hands. 

The flames grew, licking at the tip of one woman’s head and making her giggle carelessly. Gideon moved to take a step into the circle before something happened, but Cytherea grabbed her arm. “Wait,” she muttered, and somehow Gideon was compelled to listen as John spoke again.

“We are here to wish luck to their newborns,” he began. “That their gifts are being curated in the womb, that they can be nurtured tonight.” Gideon bit hard onto her cheek, waiting for the tiniest movement from the pathetic grip on that giant matchstick that had not yet begun to run out of fabric to burn. “We are here to await the test of strength from subjects that have done nothing but prove themselves worthy through the process.” The drugs. The fire. The cycle of pain they were being tested on—Gideon’s dread soon turned to nausea. Cytherea was squeezing her hard, warning her not to interfere, just as Harrow glanced over to them, undoubtedly perceiving her hold on her as something else of the matter.

Half of the cotton had fallen as ash to the women’s heels, taking hot chunks of charcoal with it as the thick branch began to deteriorate. People began to grunt and heave with excitement, commencing a chain of whoops from almost frothing mouths, a pack of wolves awaiting the chase of a hunt. Soon, the flames would be quenched by darkness, which by then Gideon would be unable to witness what was happening. In a way the wait was killing her too, just expecting the sound and smell of searing flesh that did not come, John’s wicked patience as she stared down the dying flame.

And the worst outcome prevailed: it only started once dark. The women had enough humanity left in them to wail in pain as their skin came into contact with the hot coals, Gideon heaving in panic as she saw the outline of the cobbles in their grip, the shaking of their hands as they pressed them to none other than their swollen bellies. Smoke all of a sudden was choking Gideon even from a dead flame as her senses spun, her stumbling over to the side and stepping on her companion’s foot. Cytherea let go of her in surprise, and Gideon staggered away from her, delicately around the screams and closer to John.

Harrow’s hand was wrapped around her elbow; she knew it was Harrow’s from the texture alone, clammy sweat shielding the scarred exterior. Her warning voice came soon thereafter: “Gideon, you can’t—”

“Stop!” Gideon yelled, only recovering her voice with Harrow’s reminder. It was deafened amongst the wails of burning women, but John’s eyes somehow glowed in the darkness to find hers. “What are you making them do? Stop!”

A lit match in John’s hand let Gideon see the frightening curiosity over his face before seeing the pile of convulsing women, round stomachs shrivelled and deformed from deep, red blisters carved into them. The sight burned into the very back of Gideon’s brain, making her feel dizzy as she stumbled into Harrow and only didn’t fall because she was able to catch herself.

“Harrowhark, I entrusted you with introducing our guest to our ways.” John’s eyes flicked to Harrow’s for only a moment, but it was enough to cause her to bow her head in shame. John’s dying flame wavered, and Gideon caught a glimpse of steel reflecting the light as he drew something from his pocket. “Perhaps we made the error of not introducing her more formally.” He cocked his head. “No matter. In rectification of interrupting our ceremony, you can join in.” Gideon’s eyes widened as she searched for a way out, a gap in the circle closing in on her. Before she could spit in John’s face and begin punching anything that breathed, Harrow surprised her by beating her to action.

“This was my error, Teacher.” Her head was still bowed, so low her short mess of a haircut crookedly parted to reveal scalp. It was the first time in Gideon’s life where Harrow was actually taking the blame for her. “Not hers. She such does not deserve to be made a public spectacle. Let me handle the matter privately, and it will not be a problem in the future. I promise.”

John thought on this for such a short moment, that Gideon figured it must have been his idea for this to happen the entire time. “Very well.” He repocketed his weapon, and Gideon let herself exhale. “Excuse yourselves now and be done with it, will you?”

Harrow nodded as if she had any room to bow her head lower, before whisking Gideon away into the darkness, away from the screams, the scornful eyes burning into the back of her head. Even when they faded completely Harrow held her tongue, and Gideon in turn her own for fear that it might escalate a fight. 

In sudden memory of her torch, Gideon tore it from her belt and lit the way in front of them, not that it changed much about Harrow’s memorised footsteps. She moved cautiously as if wary of being followed or cornered suddenly, but still with intention of bringing them to safety. Safety. Why would Gideon think that? Harrow didn’t do anything for the burning women—why would Gideon’s fate be any different?

Well, Harrow had done the opposite of throwing her under the bus as she usually did when they were last together. Dragged herself down with Gideon as if they were equals. It made no sense; for Harrow to go from making Gideon a wanted criminal for life destined to hiding away forever, to now save her from the danger she had gone and stupidly brought her into. 

But maybe that was it—maybe Harrow wasn’t saving her at all. Let me handle the matter privately. Gideon saw it now, how stupid she was. Gideon had just let Harrow be officially granted permission to hurt Gideon as much as she wished. To tear her apart, limb from limb, and have it deemed necessary in order to regain John’s approval. This was only ever about him—Gideon of course did not matter to Harrow in the slightest. Gideon was letting Harrow personally escort her to her torture dungeon, maybe Gideon’s final resting place, dying as Harrow’s sick plaything. She could picture John’s excitement at seeing Gideon’s injuries in the morning, if she dared to survive the night. His success in raising a prodigy of death, the pain that echoed inside of him now festering brightly within Harrow.

Gideon was meeting her demise. And knowing that wasn’t enough to prevent it.

Admittedly, Gideon was terrified. When she had been finally brought to Harrow’s personal hut of bone, she examined its exterior, the dozens of corpses of foxes and sheep no doubt taken from Pyrrha’s farm, now eternally entwined as an equal to their once-predator, having never expected to have to face Harrow. The bones were clean, odorless of the death that they were made of, and they were knitted together enough that a tarp was not even needed, the mass of bone forming such a thick sheet over both Harrow and Gideon’s heads as they crawled inside.

Gideon had numbed her trembling, placed her torchlight to the side as she sat across from her captor. But Harrow didn’t look right. Not excited, not domineering. Still that same composure she always held. “Griddle,” she sighed. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

Gideon was disgusted at the empathy attempt. Harrow deserved to be proud, if anything, at being able to get what she’d wanted the whole time with her. “You bitch, don’t try and guilttrip me with that shit. You clearly had no care for them, so do not pretend to have any for me. Be done with it! Brand me with your death, torture me, do what you’ve gone and convinced yourself you have to do. But do me a favour and enjoy it.” Spit had flown from Gideon’s mouth onto Harrow’s front, teeth gritted as she snarled each word at the confusing mess of a girl before her.

But Harrow’s expression remained unchanged at Gideon’s words. Damn her. “Torture you,” she considered, so quietly Gideon could barely hear it. Realising how lowly Gideon thought of her scorned her face in shameful fury. “You should be thanking me.” Gideon scoffed, though she was glad Harrow’s expression looked less like the tortured puppy it had moments ago. “You’re lucky I was able to convince him to leave you,” she snarled. Some convincing it took.

“You didn’t do anyone a favour except yourself,” Gideon sneered.  

Harrow’s nails dug into her palms as her balled fists tightened. “Fucking ungrateful prick. One cut, okay? That’s all he will require. It will be deep enough to hurt, and in a place you cannot reach so he will know it was me. I’m not doing this to be sadistic, Griddle, no matter how easy you make it for me to want to slit your throat each second.”

How charming. 

Harrow seemed thankful that Gideon had chosen not to reply, jumping the gun with her order of, “Turn around and remove your shirt.” 

Despite the request shocking her, Gideon only listened so she didn't have to reap the consequences of the only other option: Harrow removing her shirt for her. She begrudgingly shuffled around on her butt to face deeper into the hut of bone and tried to unbutton the worn work shirt as quickly as possible. The silence that hung in the air apart from each of their breaths was unbearable, making Gideon feel to be in a far more intimate scene with Harrow than she would like. The burn of her face would be apparent in the torchlight, making her grateful she was faced the other way. With her bare back now visible to Harrow, unlike the front of her body she’d had the pleasure of seeing earlier today, Gideon resisted the urge to start flexing.

Until she heard the rattling of bone as Harrow dismantled shards of it from the base of her shelter. It scraped against her unkept nails as she inhaled, and whilst Gideon could not directly hear the stretching of it into a blade, the catching of Harrow’s breath ever so slightly made it apparent.

She first tested it against another bone, a dull echo vibrating through it that made Gideon obviously twitch. Which made Harrow entitled enough to be gentle. The flat side of the blade was slowly ran from the bottom of Gideon’s spine to the top, making her involuntarily shiver and Gideon hated her for how sensitive Harrow was making her seem.

Once at Gideon’s nape, Gideon’s breath shook with the anticipation of blood, a lifelong scar clasped to her body from Harrow. If Gideon ever managed to brave bedding a woman again, Harrow would fucking be there. At the very least, it was better than John. Better than coals—Gideon had the privilege to have escaped their fate.

Harrow twisted her makeshift knife, the belly of it pressed consciously against her skin. Harrow’s hand did not shake, but she did hesitate. “Just fucking do it, bitch,” Gideon breathed, ready to escape this vulnerable situation. Harrow obeyed, pressing the point of her blade down and through her skin, her grip so light it barely tore through. Knowing it wasn’t enough, Harrow continued pressing, ever so slowly that it hardly hurt. One wrong move could sever Gideon’s spinal cord, yet Harrow’s movements were as precise as her other works that Gideon lacked the need to be scared. Now more than ever, this exercise required trust from either person to ensure Gideon’s life.

The spill of blood outran the pace of Harrow’s incision. Another tickle down Gideon’s spine that forced her to tense so she wouldn’t shiver. Harrow chased it ever so slowly, an unimaginably flawless line being traced down the very centre of her back to ensure Gideon was not left with imperfection. Gideon’s skin gave way so easily at Harrow’s hand; she almost urged her body to resist, to not relax into the hand now at her shoulder keeping her in place, pushing Gideon ever so slightly forward as Harrow reached the lower half. 

The sensation seemed to triple, Gideon unable to suppress trembling as her breath shook, but Harrow kept both Gideon and her grip steady, waiting in place until Gideon’s body allowed her to continue. Gideon didn’t know what was coming over her now; this utter submission at none other than Harrow’s hand. A wordless ritual between them where Gideon was promised pain, the cut of flesh, only to feel something so strange happening with the beating of her heart and pounding of her head—she felt almost drunk, the lack of light from it being focused on Gideon’s back making her start to picture figures before her. Pyrrha trying to soothe her, to stay awake, to not let herself be dragged in. 

The forest was claiming each drop of blood that spilled from her onto the earth, Gideon could see it now. Why Harrow all of a sudden felt so close to her. She was turning into this place, into the people that served John, as that was exactly what Gideon was doing. It may as well have been John’s hand on the knife.

But still Harrow held her shoulder as she finished, sliding it over to her neck before fingers were suddenly inserted into her wound. Gideon gasped, her first true sting of pain shocking her before it muffled, wetness seeming to dry. Harrow was clogging the bloodflow with something. She felt the sharpness of what felt like a rock at first, before it began to spread, and soft clusters of bone trailed down her spine. It restricted her movement, but Harrow insisted it would only be for the night.

Gideon’s surrender had definitely impressed Harrow, for she got up to retrieve spare clothes for them both hanging in the trees outside, having redressed herself before coming back. If Gideon weren’t dazed with confusion about what had just happened, she would’ve laughed at the ankle-length nightie that swallowed her small frame. Her laugh would have been cut abrupt when she saw that an identical copy of it was outstretched for Gideon to take.

But Harrow’s rage could be nothing compared to Gideon’s. She’d never see Pyrrha or the farm again, never see Champ or Noodle or the sheep, even the chickens that had just come around to letting her hold them. Being criminally tangled up with Harrowhark Nonagesimus of all people was somehow even more crazy than whatever kind of demon that girl had running through her veins.

Gideon could only mirror the dance of Harrow’s steps in the dark as they discarded their outer garments dripping a bloodridden trail in the wake of more sirens erupting from the outskirts of the forest, Harrow taking an impressive lead of knowing her way around far more than Gideon had taken her for. When they came to a steep drop-off, Gideon had no time to skid to a stop before Harrow had hauled them over the edge.

They were able to skid down on their asses for a few seconds, Harrow still grasping onto Gideon’s arm, before Gideon’s weight had her sliding faster and they separated, the sudden imbalance causing them to unravel and begin barrelling down the rest of the way. The world came in spun-out flashes of darkness and spots of stars through the trees as Gideon coated herself in dirt, scratching desperately at it to try and find purchase to no avail. She ended up just squeezing her eyes and mouth shut and bracing for the eventual impact at the bottom, limbs catching on stray roots and rocks embedded into the soil.

When at last they hit the bottom, Gideon’s head was still spinning almost enough to stop her from clumsily getting to her feet with a winded groan, fishing for the knife in her pocket only to find it now missing from the rough and tumble—just great. Deeming her hands as threatening enough devices, Gideon moved to hoist the nearby Harrow up by her shirt as soon as she landed, her feet dangling in the air. “What the fuck is your problem, huh?” Gideon spat a wad of dirt onto Harrow’s face as she spoke, to which the moonlight illuminated her scowling like a baby gremlin as she reached up to wipe it off. “Do you have any idea of what you’ve done? You’ve fucked me, Harrow! Who do you think you are getting me involved with your shit?”

Harrow only stared her down with as much intimidation as she could seem to muster, a boiling hatred for her she’d let herself collect over the years. As if she weren’t even at fault at all. “Fucking bitch, you haven’t even changed a bit.” Gideon dropped her from the fistfuls of her shirt, Harrow falling with a thud and ankles buckling with the force of it. Eyes trained on her accomplice, Harrow stood up straight and dusted her front off before spinning on her heels to head the other direction.

This time, Harrow did not run. Even with the circling sirens, the crunch of leaves beneath her feet were steady, though still as methodical as before. Not daring to use her torchlight, Gideon could only follow the sound and faint shadow of her, a blind faith that Harrow was at least leading them to something apart from the empty bush.

The night lay awake as ever, the roaring melody of cicadas and flapping of bats making the sirens almost seem pathetic, the pitch black against the flashing red and blue in the far distance somewhat of a comfort in that it was not penetrated by the chase of accompanied torchlight. 

Gideon did not ask Harrow where they were going again, giving Harrow no reason to speak at all, which was somewhat of a relief. Gideon tried to make out the outline of her fingertips by her side, searching for a twitch that would send Gideon’s own skeletal structure puncturing her brain before she could even think. Something about the fact that Harrow had not done so already made her feel uncomfortably on edge.

It somehow felt not so long ago that the pair of them were following each other around like this, stretching the bounds of what lay beyond the church grounds; the town, the bush that they have never travelled this far into. At least not together. 

Gideon trusted she would find whatever had compelled Harrow to venture this deep, whether it had existed when they were still kids or only in the years between then and now. It seemed strange that they hadn’t seen Harrow’s parents by now; they had always ended up finding them in the end. 

When wood not of the surrounding eucalypts’ interior became stark in the faint moonlight, Gideon squinted to try to understand its shape. The planks stretched maybe two metres upwards, forming the outline of a terribly small cube housed by a pathetic attempt at a gabled roof Gideon was surprised had not crumbled with the rot eating away at it.

Still unsure of why Harrow had a hut in the middle of the forest, Gideon struggled with holding her tongue as she followed Harrow inside of it. It smelled damp and uncared for, a lack of floor save for a thin bedsheet still causing a crunch of grass beneath her feet. At least the poor construction made for cracks in between the planks to let in enough air and light for Gideon to not feel completely suffocated as Harrow shut the flimsy door in on them.

Gideon felt movement at her hip and gasped, before Harrow flicked on the torch to illuminate them both, Gideon having to blink away the sudden brightness sending spots in her vision. She detested seeing Harrow’s bloody face this close, her sweat dried to every inch of her she could see, plastering tufts of her short hair to her scalp in thick chunks.

“We shall wait for him here,” Harrow told her, not making an inch more sense than usual. “And it will all be okay. You have my word.”

“Who is him?” Gideon retorted, not even bothering with the confession of Harrow’s word that felt like poison to her ears.

“Our Emperor Undying,” Harrow muttered, her pupils dilating to sink into the slightly less black surrounding them. The way she said it almost drunkenly, the sharpness of her cheekbones relaxing ever so slightly for a moment…Gideon was come to, thrust back into her childhood with a sickly tightness in her throat.

“No,” she warned. “Do not tell me all of this is just some religious bullshit, Harrow. Do not tell me you are deemed some miracle—did you see what you did back there?”

Harrow bit her cheek, expression hardening once more without blinking, pupils still swollen. “You’re in luck. I am no miracle, and this is no religion any longer, for I have broken it just by existing. Once Mother and Father realised this, they too succumbed to the fate dear Ortus and Sister Glaurica chose.”

In another life, Gideon might have felt bad for the woman confessing she was the root to her family’s suicide pact, but now she bit back a laugh. The pastor’s perfect child deemed an embarrassment—an abomination. The way Pelleamena and Priamhark Nonagesimus had treated Gideon all her life, just for existing. And all this time it had been Harrow instead—Harrow who had been the one to summon death everywhere she went, who brought shame to her church, who went searching in basements for lost children that had been sent away or killed just for being like her.

Still, Harrow had it too easy. “At least you were left alive,” Gideon pointed out, snickering as to not mistakenly convey an attempt at empathy. “At least you were given a choice.”

Harrow annoyingly ignored her. “It is because of him I am alive,” she spat. “This is far bigger than you realise, Griddle.”

“You are so completely and utterly full of shit,” Gideon growled. “Don’t act so ignorant as to act like you are not the most religious person alive. Like calling someone the Emperor Undying can be explained, like you weren’t indoctrinated into the church so easily, that you didn’t hate the fact that I wasn’t.”

“Talking with you is pointless,” Harrow said flatly. “Maybe I was stupid to think I could trust you with this.”

Gideon was appalled at Harrow’s sheer misunderstanding of the word trust when she’d dragged her into this whole mess. “Hardly,” she scoffed. “I’m itching to see this new daddy of yours talking about how you’re oh so innocent and perfect, Harrow. I haven’t laughed in a good while.”

Harrow shook with a rage so similar to at the church that Gideon half-expected the sight to be her last before her eyes shot out from their sockets onto the ground below, but she only flicked the torch off and pressed it roughly to Gideon’s chest to take back. Gideon’s eyes had barely adjusted to the darkness again before there were soft sounds of rustling, followed by silence. Harrow’s stench now wafting up from below, Gideon realised the girl had just curled herself up on the floor like a dog in search of a nap. Gideon would’ve laughed if she did not think it would kill her.

Harrow’s silence made way for Gideon’s imagination as she slid down the wall to perch on the ground opposite Harrow, not daring to let herself sleep as she listened out for police. With no light to announce morning, she entrusted herself to keep watch until Harrow’s waking, wondering if the police had come knocking on Pyrrha’s door with Gideon’s description and bloody jacket and beat her for information she didn’t have. Because Pyrrha had actually come to trust that Gideon wouldn’t do something like this.

And no cop came, nor Harrow’s beloved Emperor. Hours of darkness faded into warm morning light trickling through the huts’ gaps, lighting the space up enough for Gideon to realise they were still alive. Harrow awoke with a disappointed grunt, bashful of the fact that they were still alone.

She mirrored Gideon’s position against the wall, persistent that they still wait for him.

The kookaburras had long grown tired of their morning chants by the time Gideon braved to ask, “Who is this guy you’re talking about, Harrow?” She tried to be gentle, to not provoke her with her usual sneering, but it took hardly any effect, for Harrow still scowled.

“You think I’m lying,” she croaked, voice almost a growl as she drew her eyes to slits. 

“You haven’t told me anything, Harrow.”

“We’re waiting.”

“We’re sitting ducks begging to be caught is what we’re doing.”

“I don’t get caught.”

Gideon had to laugh, not caring about the sinister nature of Harrow’s implied…experience with murdering people with her mind. Harrow was a cocky, naive bitch who was far less frequently correct than she believed; another moment with her would only be the means to Gideon’s end. With a scoff, Gideon got to her feet and shouldered her way through the door, welcoming the unfiltered light across her face and trying to ignore the stench of herself.

She decided to follow the slope of the earth down, desperate for running water in all its forms; she most definitely did not need Harrow for that. As she did, however, she saw movement between the trees, a shock to Gideon that she had seen it before hearing it.

To her dismay, it was a man—one who looked rather meek and unthreatening as it was, but a man nonetheless. In the middle of the bush, and staring bullets through Gideon with eyes that she supposed were somewhat reflective of her own: sunburnt  rims outlining flecks of yellow and gold. “Harrow?” Gideon called, not caring for the fear in her voice. She had never hoped so badly that this was the man Harrow knew, the one she somehow cared more about than the religion and home that had raised her with open arms—well, mostly it seemed.

Harrow’s footsteps were soon behind her, stopping as she took in where Gideon’s gaze was focused. The man smiled at her, coffee-stained teeth a few shades lighter than the warmth colouring his cheeks. “Lovely to see you, Harrowhark. I heard you made excellent progress last night.” Gideon was shocked how normal he sounded. Dressed in all black, congratulating the absurdity of Harrow’s abilities, and he somehow sounded like just some guy, like it was all normal to be meeting in the forest in such a manner.

At the praise, Harrow beamed—or rather, her version of beaming, which was her eyes opening ever so slightly wider and the corner of her lips twitching before withdrawing to her resting expression of distaste. 

The man’s gaze came to wander between Gideon and Harrow, filling Gideon with dread at being perceived so closely by an adult; her previous experiences in that only resulted in fallacious assumptions being made of her. “Let’s get you back, Harrow.” The word back rang loud in Gideon’s ears as the man began to walk the way he had come, and to Gideon’s horror, Harrow followed, while her beloved Emperor’s eyes found their way back to Gideon’s. “You can introduce me to your friend here along the way.” His voice was so strangely chilling; out of all the characters Gideon had come up with in her head that could find her here, this guy seemed more dangerous than all of them. His mere existence and power over Harrow whilst being so unassuming put an awful taste in her mouth.

It admittedly made sense for Harrow to follow him without question, but Gideon was surprised when she stopped to offer her a look so brief that quick work was required to decipher it. Harrow knew Gideon thought she was crazy, but for some reason she was begging with her eyes to trust her. As if Harrow had any right to demand such a thing after everything she’d dragged Gideon into, as if she cared about Gideon in any sense, and as if she had any agency of choosing to trust this man in the first place. He’d put her in a trance of faith—Gideon had seen it on her face before. All those years of barely being about to get through to her when her mind was clouded by belief and religion-induced guilt, striving to prove her utmost devotion to her parents while Gideon only had such devotion for Harrow. Harrow being able to reveal some sense of feeling for Gideon she worked so hard for; it wasn’t surprising how fast she’d switched up after kissing her, even if Harrow had claimed her reasonings to be different. Just one among the many secrets Harrow seemed to have.

Maybe the same hurt, desperate child inside Gideon awoke for a second, a side of her with such a deep desire to unravel the confusing mess of Harrowhark Nonagesimus, but Gideon found herself returning Harrow’s gaze with a slight nod, following her more than the man whose name Gideon did not know.

Despite previous attempts at trying to loosen Harrow’s lips—of information, that is—being of no avail, Gideon wished she could speak to her estranged accomplice alone. At the moment, she did not trust offering a single word to be in earshot of the stranger with them; if Harrow was able to manipulate matters of life and the dead, Gideon had no doubt he could be capable of the same. Or worse, he had powers of a different plane. Ones of the mind, where he could brainwash her just like he’d done with Harrow. 

Gideon was positively stupid to have actually agreed to following them off the map for reasons none other than needing to be protected from being plunged back into the legal system. To think herself capable of protecting herself from whatever evil she was letting herself be led to was foolish; she was messing with things she did not even have the means for being able to understand.

The next time Gideon heard a voice half a day’s walk later, it came from yet another stranger, and they uttered Harrow’s ruler’s name. “John.” Him having such a biblical name was an awful sign, causing such a deep unrest in Gideon’s stomach she thought she might be sick.

She tried to focus on where the new voice had come from, locating a woman between the trees of an age lying somewhere around John’s and his greying, wrinkled evidence of a life half-lived, long hair of a muted pink hue somehow tamed, unlike her battered clothes evident of her…what could Gideon call it—camping? But when her bare feet were weathered from the rough earth, her legs and arms covered in dirt and her sheer cowl torn, Gideon knew her residence here was much more permanent than a weekend trip. The same was clear for John, too, yet he was much…cleaner.

Reluctantly, the woman lowered her gaze to Harrow, then Gideon, with equal levels of disdain. “You really had to waste your time chauffeuring her?” she scoffed. “And you let her bring in a stray.” Gideon stiffened as her dark eyes were back on her. 

“Mercymorn.” John clenched his jaw. “Would you care to go with these ladies to the creek? Seems you could do with a wash yourself.” The change in his demeanour that revealed he was even capable of being even slightly demanding only made Gideon all the more nervous, but she was thankful to at least be relocating away from him for the time being. And have a bath. Even if some sort of ritual drowning would follow.

Mercymorn, like Harrow, nodded in submission following John’s request, though allowed herself to roll her eyes as she turned eastward to the increasing sound of flowing water. When they reached the three-metre wide waters, its gentle flow interrupted by hefty rocks that perfected its tune, Gideon’s mouth was so parched she felt she could have drank it dry.

“This water is not for drinking,” came Mercymorn’s scolding voice almost immediately after Gideon’s eyes met the creek, and she cringed with embarrassment. “We have a well Harrow will show you, if she’s capable of remembering.” If only Gideon was capable of speaking and informing Mercymorn that she was not as affiliated with Harrow as she assumed, maybe they could bond over their tendencies to demean her. I mean, how could anyone resist when Harrow made that scrunched-up face like an angry cat? 

“I’m going downstream. Do not follow,” Harrow announced, only making eye contact with Gideon, which revealed some sort of mutual dislike with Mercymorn that possibly transcended her own thoughts towards Gideon. The realisation was frightening, and quite frankly offensive. What did this fully grown woman have that was so much more vexing than Gideon?

Mercymorn in turn went upstream, leaving Gideon’s assigned spot in between the women in direct eyeshot of anyone heading the same way they’d come. Despite the possibility prying into Gideon’s thoughts, or the fact that she had not been given clean clothes or a means of drying herself, Gideon cautiously began to undress herself. 

Bloodstained cloth struggled to peel away from her skin, splashes of it having soaked into the tape on each side of her chest. A thick stench Gideon had begun to accustom herself to throughout the night unleashed with each removal of clothing, reluctantly indulging in dipping each item in the water to wring out the blood. Once the hot air was running over her bare skin, Gideon was basically running to submerge herself in the murky water, releasing small pools of blood herself as she began to scrub her skin and painfully tug off the bloodstained tape—she’d have to go bare. 

Once Gideon had gone as far as to pry the dirt and blood from beneath her fingernails, she let herself sink below the water’s surface to scrub the roots of her hair, clumps of it knotting between her fingers. She surfaced half a minute later to the unmistakable crunch of footsteps and cringed as she covered herself as much as she could in the turbid waters.

At the sight of Gideon’s surfacing, they gasped, a sound too sharp to have come from a man’s, which Gideon was thankful for, but the fact a woman was witnessing her in such a state was almost worse. She braved herself enough to spin around and face her, and Gideon may as well have drowned herself in the waters at the sight.

A wooden crutch sinking into the dirt was doing more to hold the woman up than her flimsy legs concealed by a sheer dress of lilac, somehow untouched by filth. Atop her head was that comically large hat adorned with frills and patterns of so much more wealth than appropriate for a stroll in the forest; Gideon wished it bathed more of her face in shadow once she took in Gideon’s features and recognised them immediately. “Tavern girl,” Dulcinea mused, leaning further forward on her post to shamelessly look over Gideon’s vulnerable frame below.

It was only appropriate that the perfect woman from three nights ago would be wrapped up in all this; that she was just another one of the freaks like Harrow and whatever Mercymorn was and was probably aiming Gideon up to swallow her whole. But with Dulcinea, Gideon didn’t know if she really minded.

Gone was Gideon’s height and her booze to will a sense of confidence in her to avoid seeming a complete mess. All she could sputter out was some pathetic attempt at asking if she could toss the wet clothes currently at her feet, to which Dulcinea gestured to the dry cloak around her shoulders and turned around without a word.

The implications of it all heated Gideon’s body immensely despite whatever sick ulterior motives Dulcinea might have; if it involved finally bedding her, Gideon might not mind. She unwrapped her arms from around her body to take her first naked steps toward the offering of Dulcinea’s back profile, eager to remove the cloak in anticipation of flimsy straps of her dress falling off her shoulders, the thin skin over her back where moles poking from it could lie—

Harrow appeared from the bushes in her dirty clothes steeped with her moisture, unleashing a horrified look of disgust at the scene before her. With no time for savouring the moment, Gideon, still as gently as she could, reached to tear free the clasp holding Dulcinea’s cloak together between her collarbones, swinging the fabric clumsily around her shoulders as if a towel.

Silence hung in between the three of them, Dulcinea seemingly unphased as Harrow’s eye twitched in attempt to relinquish the undoubtedly eye-opening sight of Gideon’s shredded and wet nakedness—she wouldn’t be surprised if it had arisen some sort of cause of internal conflict for the prude. Still, Gideon wanted very much to die.

“I truly cannot fathom your infatuation with her, Griddle.” Harrow’s dislike of women was seeming a common occurrence so far; a pity when she clearly had so much to provide in female friendships. “Thank you for your charity, Cytherea, but I’ve got it from here, if you don’t mind.” Gideon had been given a fake name? Hot. She was disappointed for her maiden’s abided leave of absence, but at least thankful she had still stunned Harrow into only being able to look at the dirt rather than her own face.

“Do spare me and dress yourself, Griddle.” Harrow remained frozen and staring at the dirt, so Gideon settled with pulling her wet clothes onto her damp body, taking care to not let Dulcinea’s—Cytherea’s?—robe touch the ground. It smelled wonderfully of lavender, so foreign to Gideon’s senses acclimatised to that of sheep and shit and the like.

Which Gideon was now smelling like once more dressed in her wet clothes; touching Cytherea’s cloak felt like a disgrace. 

Harrow wasted no time waiting for the return of either women that were bound to piss her off more, and surprised Gideon with the charity of leading her to the drinking well. It was an awfully old looking thing, grime worked between each curved brick that made it up. Whatever colour the water might’ve been was ignored once Harrow’s skinny arms hauled the metal bucket to the surface and Gideon dunked her head in it like a horse. Harrow let loose a disgusted remark of her manners that didn’t even hold up in a forest, waiting impatiently for Gideon to be finished and not taking a single sip herself; either scared of catching Gideon’s cooties, or having simply no need for water when she was the undead bone-freak she was. 

“Harrow,” Gideon found herself saying as she let herself be blindly led to another location unfamiliar to her. “Can I just ask—”

“What, Griddle?” Harrow’s temper was not something that had been pushed aside for Gideon, which was unsurprising. She had even stopped in her tracks to face her, testing if Gideon’s curiosity would be deemed worth her time.

There were a thousand things Gideon yearned to ask. How Harrow had ended up here, why she thought it would all make sense once bringing Gideon here, but for some reason she knew no answer would come that would satisfy her. When Harrow’s fingers twitched at Gideon’s hesitation, she braced for death, but after a breath it did not come, and she watched Harrow’s furrowed expression simmer. Gideon settled with a “Where are you taking me?” but Harrow couldn’t even be bothered answering that, turning back around with a scoff. Gideon dreaded the tour going on any longer, her witnessing event to the community she knew would be coming. It all seemed so odd and misplaced, an indefinite amount of what could only be some level of superhumans, concentrated in the bushland of Gideon and Harrow’s hometown. The darkness awaiting them that had somehow not immediately come only made the wait more excruciating. Why had Harrow brought her here?

More people began to reveal themselves in this unnatural place of gathering, Gideon counting three new figures before she was completely distracted by the structure towering above them. In the centre of a clearing, a couple hundred kilometres inland from the closest beach, were the undoubtable remains of a whale. 

Its rostrum and spine were practically buried on either side, anchoring thick sheets of black fabric to curl over each side of the otherwise uncovered ribcage. Each scrap was woven tightly between each bone, and Harrow’s talent revealed itself when Gideon noticed extra bones uncharacteristic of whales: a trifecta of branches at the root of each rib, spirals and columns that bridged metre-wide gaps and secured the cloth. Dead proof of Harrow’s existence sat unnoticed in the middle of the bush, weathered by the seasons with dirt and rain. 

The more Gideon looked at it, the less it resembled the skeleton of something that had once been a living creature. The growths of bone increased with each rib she studied, and with it increased Harrow’s skill. An eventual symmetry between pairings had formed by the time Harrow had reached the end, bone thick and poreless, with shards fine enough to weave fabric around. Gaps in unzipped tarp at the skull made way for an entrance, where a quiet darkness revealed rows of foot-to-foot sleeping bags—at least ten of them.

Gideon’s adjusted eyesight revealed a mess of syringes scattered in the dark, thick, discarded needles among them. When Gideon’s breath caught in her throat and she itched with the memory of her altered states she had chanced in detention, instinct had her looking into Harrow’s eyes for a moment in search for intoxication, and when only clear black against a white canvas met her she redirected to the others she had seen earlier.

The three figures outside the whale’s pathetic attempt at living quarters. Three women, one leaned against a rib smoking a joint, with loose white smocks that outlined their shrivelled bodies ever so slightly in the wind. Three identical bumps swelled against their clothes, sweat-soaked and bruised bodies, track marks of needles coating the depression of their elbow. 

The Palomino vibrated below Gideon in a snort at her silence, and Pyrrha deafened her chuckling. “Hey, at least Champ’s putting up with you,” she offered, which Gideon assumed was her attempt at comfort. She offered a dry laugh in return, ruffling Champion’s ash-blonde mane. “For once.” 

It was only early in the day yet so Gideon didn’t want to speak too soon, but for the first time, the brute hadn’t bitten or kicked her as she was tacking him up. Gideon didn’t even know why she kept choosing him over the well-established chestnut thoroughbred Pyrrha rode. Then again, there was something she detested about Wake’s boastfulness, how she kept her head up a little too high—at least Champ knew he was a jackass and ran with it, didn’t try and act like he was better than anyone when he knew he wasn’t getting any outstanding awards anytime soon. Being rough around the edges wasn’t all bad, as Gideon tried to will herself to believe.

The sun had risen above the treeline by the time that the pair reached the west border, a gaping sheep-sized hole in the fence where the timber posts had rotted and fallen. A long trail of disturbed dirt ran from the flattened patch of grass from the sheep’s body all the way out into the bush. “Are foxes really that strong to drag a whole sheep into the forest?” Gideon questioned at the sight. Noodle shared her curiosity, speeding up from his lazy trailing behind them to sniff out the evidence.

“Hmph,” Pyrrha coughed in response, seemingly unconvinced herself. “Just help me fix the fence.”

When Gideon had first started out, Pyrrha had always gotten too frustrated with the way she handled manual tasks like this and nudged her out the way to take over; she found it endearing that now she barely looked over at Gideon to check the quality of her work. Instead, she let them hammer synchronously the timber posts Pyrrha had tied to her saddle, the clean edges and paler finish stark against the dull grey of the rest of the fence.

For a moment as Gideon lined her nail to her edge of the third plank, a rustling in the bushes beyond the trail of dirt caught her attention. A flash of black was all she saw until the vegetation settled, only moving with the wind. 

“You right?” Pyrrha asked, and since the normally alert woman seemed to have taken no notice of anything other than Gideon’s hesitation, Gideon nodded. Noodle hadn’t reacted either, far too preoccupied with rolling around in the trail of dirt, which didn’t help much. Drawing her attention back to the nail staining her fingers with the scent of rusted nickel, Gideon drew her hammer back before driving the nail home. When the bushes rustled once more, she only kneeled down to retrieve another nail from Pyrrha’s sack.

And when she took hold of Champion’s reigns to mount him once more, it was only inevitable she was met with a snap of his teeth that stabilised her that nothing about today was wrong after all. 

“Wanna check on the crops for me?” Pyrrha asked before Champ could even take a step. “There’s another spot that needs fixing on the other side, but I should be okay on my own.” Gideon held back a groan at the simmering of the sun on her skin indicating the imminent dry heat to come, but nodded firmly as she pushed down the cream rim slipping off her head, thankfully bringing shade over her face. Pyrrha clucked her tongue as she veered off in the opposite direction to where Gideon was now headed, dreading the hardly-thriving harvest awaiting her. At least it would be easy to pick out the winners from the rest.

Pyrrha’s sets of produce mainly consisted of fruit, which based on the previous season’s equally dry heat was proving to be only barely profitable. Once Gideon was close enough to dismount Champion before he trampled over the little harvest they would have, she was pleased to see spots of colour among the pale green.

Her trudge through the first row of crops yielded no success, fruits or buds of ginger and onion too underdeveloped to be freed from their lifelines. It was like Gideon’s nightly watering barely fed them, the greedy bastards.

The colour arrived in the crops thereafter, a plump kiwi, a small but succulent orange, other citruses. Gideon’s satchel was almost half-full by the time she was done, the sweat dripping from her forehead debatably sourced from either the heat or anticipation of having to tell Pyrrha they still needed more time.

It didn’t matter for the moment though, Gideon deciding to give in to the kiwi she’d first picked that was so perfectly ripe it was practically rotting by the minute. She dug her teeth into its flesh with a crunch as she tore through the encasing skin, slurping up the resulting drippage down her chin before tossing the remaining three quarters to Champ, who was already snapping and tonguing the air at her. 

“That’s a good man.” Gideon rewarded him with a gentle pat to the shoulder as he caught it mid-air, taking note of his flared nostrils accompanying the sizzling of his coat that he was too hot to be ridden. As they walked back to the barn through the crispy grass with the sun continuing to beam down on the both of them, Gideon considered pocketing an orange for them both with the dry dehydration already settling on her tongue.

Pyrrha never voiced any worry for the farm, but Gideon knew with the rate and quality of her crops, having to rely on the coats of sheep that might keep going missing…Their income was not looking up to be the most stable. Which yes, put a spanner in the works for Gideon’s getting out of this town, but more so on the woman she admired’s livelihood. 

Her boss never would’ve advised it, so when Gideon had finished rounding up the animals into the barn that night, she decided to do one last lap of the fence’s perimeter with her pocketknife in hand in case there was another gap for the foxes. Unless, by fixing the fence, they had trapped one in and just needed to coax it out of hiding.

There seemed to be a certain chill in the air when she was back at today’s spot, even though the new timber was far more secure than the surrounding posts. Gideon found her gaze trailing once more from the succession of dirt leading into the trees, barely visible now in the moon’s crescent. 

Only the low howl of the dry wind disturbed the vegetation now, a promised safety that invited Gideon in to scale the fence. It was as if she still had an ankle monitor weighing her ankle down as her torch lit up not only the path into the bush, but the endless world beyond. Being tied down to Pyrrha was not dreadful, but it was not forever; one way or another Gideon was bound to break her grown trust and run.

Gideon wouldn’t let it be tonight. For whatever stupid reason, she wanted to brave the foxes set to cause them more trouble than she could be bothered to handle.

She followed her torchlight into the bush she’d never braved to touch, the train of dirt snaking out further than her light was capable of protruding; all Gideon could do was follow it and hope the worst that could attack her was a tick or two. 

Soon she was deep enough into the thick of the trees that when she turned around she could no longer see the farm, a daunting realisation that the dirt trail and her faint view of the stars was her only way home. The eucalyptus trees seemed to be closing in on her, the shadowed branches like claws as she walked; there was a scary story in here somewhere that an older sibling might have told her as a child in another life, instilling a forever fear onto her now.

Her only signs of life and that the world was still spinning were the haunting calls of owls from above, the thick stench of flying foxes as they noisily made their way through the trees. Gideon had begun to doubt the practicality of this venture, to intrude where she didn’t belong, into an environment where she did not belong. Where no one was here to save her. The way she’d lived her entire life until Pyrrha, who was sitting and waiting with each passing minute for Gideon’s return.

She should turn back now, before it was too late to avoid Pyrrha’s suspicion and she found Gideon not only breaching her parole, but breaking Pyrrha's rules of at least informing her of where she was if she did. She should listen to her stupid gut feeling rooted in fear that something wasn’t right here. That the sheep had been dragged too deep into the bush for foxes to have been able to achieve. Too cleanly too, a long and undisturbed trail of continuous motion.

She almost was going to turn back, give into her fear, until there was a movement in the distance Gideon would have thought was from the wind had it not stopped once being touched by Gideon’s light. Gideon mirrored its freezing in response, trying to make out the image before her in the distance.

The wind shaped the shadowed edges of a pale object distinct from the grass, tufts of woolen fur that rippled in the wind. Three small woolen patches was all that was left of the ewe, the rest of it skinned and torn open surprisingly precisely. Unanimalistically, with a clean straight cut down its flank allowing the careless discarding of organs and fat onto the unmarked earth where the dirt trail halted.

Plunged into the now-empty cavity was not a canine jaw or clawed paws, but the unmistakable shape of bloodridden human hands. With a shaky breath, Gideon traced the blood that faded into cool brown skin upwards to a set of familiar slender shoulders, a face cloaked in darkness from an even more familiar black hood that Gideon herself had had as a child.

Harrowhark didn’t breathe as Gideon watched her, who didn’t allow herself to blink in fear the image was just a hallucination. Nothing broke the silence between them—maybe nothing could.

Until the dead thing Harrow was currently elbow-deep in moved. A distinctive twitch of the vertebrae in Harrow’s grip, so violent it twisted and pierced through what was left of the sheep’s flank as an uncharacteristically mangled shard projecting almost two feet from the sheep’s back. With a noteworthy crack of bone Gideon was all too familiar with, the misshapen spine immediately ejected itself from the sheep’s body to the ground quicker than it had appeared, rejected by its dead host.

Harrow was up and gone before Gideon could fully process it, disappearing into the forest in a flash and shocking Gideon into not remembering how to move until a second passed, and she was soon at her wake with her knife pocketed, the rustle of bush ahead her only indicator of the minx she was tailing.

“Harrow!” Gideon didn’t know what possessed her to be chasing her instead of running in the other direction and telling Pyrrha of the horrors of what she’d just seen. She didn't know why her pulse quickened every time she spotted Harrow’s movement ahead, adrenaline surging her to wind around and over fallen trunks of trees, rocks and animal burrows dug deep in her path. Nothing compelled Harrow to look back at her, her draping cloak remaining fixed in Gideon’s vision, bloody hands only being used to push her around clumsy near-misses of trees in her path.

Somehow she was still so agile, slipping through the woods like wildfire with footfalls barely audible above the wind. “Harrow!” Gideon called again, furiously as she realised she was falling behind, unable to slip through the small gaps Harrow maneuvered in milliseconds, gaining her wits by the second as if she’d memorised these parts of the bush. Because why wouldn’t that be the case when it was Harrow, after all.

The movements thereafter caused Harrow to begin to grow fainter, further from Gideon’s torchlight no matter how hard she ran. Now completely unaware of the way back, it was all Gideon could do to continue following her, Harrow now only appearing every few seconds as she encountered an obstacle—a steep downhill slope, a log to slide under if you had enough momentum.

Soon the patches of trampled grass was all Gideon could rely on to continue her chase, following it desperately through the endless wilderness, trying to scramble for just the sheer scent of Harrow to guide her, the filthy sheep’s blood and insides coating each fibre of her clothes, each pore of her skin. It fuelled Gideon to no end, unable to escape the trance of her wild hunt for the girl that had now caused one too many problems. Oh, what Gideon would give to be able to tell her stupid parents that the so-called devil they’d feared had always lived in Gideon had in fact plagued their own daughter. The thought made her laugh witlessly into the night, sharpening her tracking of Harrow’s trail in a promise that maybe she could do just that.

A light ahead interrupted her fantasies, so warm as it trickled through the leaves that Gideon almost thought it was the morning sun. That would be if the sun didn’t crackle, didn’t bend and sway wildly the way this light did.

It was before long that the trees opened, clearing her view of none other than the church she had been raised in as a young orphan, the wicked flames of a fire hanging out the mouth of the upstairs window, latching onto nothing but brick as it began to choke out all that was inside.

Memories of thick cloaks like Harrow’s and sneaking down into basements flooded Gideon’s mind for a moment before she gawked at the sight of Harrow beelining into the flaming church. “Harrow!” Gideon wasn’t necessarily as worried about Harrow’s behaviour as she was annoyed, frustrated with the responsibility she was putting on her shoulders to either follow her run into a burning building or let it happen—Gideon was too stupid to resist the former and Harrow knew it.

The smoke had seeped down the stairwell, forming a thick cloud that stung Gideon’s eyes as she ran in after her. “Harrow!” she called again, wasting her last breath of fresh air before coughing and stuffing her face into her shirt to breathe through as she began to ascend the stairs to the church’s living quarters, rows of twin beds on either side of the attic. 

Except this time when Gideon was seeing them again, the thick smoke and burning gasoline masked the scent of dust and old paint that she was expecting. Her eyes were more flooded with it than her lungs, which she was trying to constrict from inflating with poisoned air. The fire had already engulfed the two beds at the other end, wild and hungry as it lashed out at Gideon’s clouded vision, blinding her for a moment until she managed to blink through it, seeing Harrow knelt on the floor barely two metres from it, cloak discarded behind her as she shook violently, staring into the flames.

At first, Gideon could not see it, only saw the charred bedsheets as they fuelled the blaze to stretch as tall as the triangular ceiling’s apex. Then, she could’ve sworn it was the sheep from the woods, wool now burned away as each layer of skin began to sizzle with it.

But the body stretched taller than a sheep’s length, cooked limbs longer than its torso, thinning out by the second until Gideon was preparing herself to see bone. She counted the appendages in an attempt to ground herself, yet it only filled her with more contempt when she reached the number of eight and then spotted the large head attached to them was in fact two human heads now melting together in their dying embrace.

Gideon forgot herself for a moment, her body forcing smoke into her lungs with a violent cough that made her next breath a wheeze. “Harrow,” she croaked out as she tried to clear the smoke with her hands, her path only clear enough to see a foot in front of her and then the shadow cast of Harrow in the distance. Gideon could only run blindly to her as lack of oxygen began to cloud her vision, practically jumping onto Harrow as the foot of her clothes began to catch alight. At this distance from it, Gideon allowed herself to peer into the flames, noticing in the weak grip of one of the bodies the remnants of thickly bound book, faint engravings of letters she could no longer make out but still recognised.

The Noniad. Its author and his mother burning away with it.

Gideon took firm hold of Harrow and roughly lifted her to unsteady feet, basically dead weight as Gideon moved them back towards the stairs. The flames roared as they stretched toward Harrow’s cloak, crackling in enticement and then violent release as they reached it, swallowing it whole just as they jumped down the stairs. 

The great double doors out were barely visible, and Gideon was relentlessly choking now on her lungs filled with the black air. Her companion however, didn’t cough, welcoming each toxic breath with ease, if Harrow was even breathing at all. Her eyes were bloodshot, her lips deeply cracked so that blood spilled from them, her hand grasped tightly in Gideon’s still caked in innards, in such a fierce grip the blood collected beneath Gideon’s fingernails.

She hadn’t even heard the sirens until now, the flash of blue and red from outside that she hadn’t yet registered wasn’t the fire. For a moment, Gideon looked down at their paired bloody hands, the only two people alive in the building and what they would be walking into, but the smoke didn’t allow her grace to be able to care. 

Harrow seemed to register the sight of what was out there the same time Gideon did, now gripping hold of Gideon’s arm in wordless warning. Gideon ignored her, following the smoke trickling beneath the double doors, heaving them open with a choked grunt in search of oxygen.

They were met with it for only a moment before the cocks of three pistols were trained on them. Firefighters were hauling fifteen centimetre thick hoses from their trucks, stopping in their tracks as they watched the cops’ scowls at Gideon and Harrow, the glances down to their bloodridden hands, rather than their faces painted in ash, their wheezed breaths. Pigs only searched for guilt.

One of the firefighters at the back dropped the hose to approach them, but a cop spoke first. “You two, get on the ground. Now.”

Gideon tried to speak, but her throat burned, unable to make a sound. This was it; she’d be arrested and go to jail this time, or be let go but only on the conditions of whatever these cops really wanted from such a promising position: two vulnerable suspects at the submission of their pistols. Harrow beside her seethed with a silent anger, bloody nails digging into Gideon’s arm as she stared the cops down right back.

“Are you deaf?” the pig barked. “On the fucking ground!” 

The firefighter at the head of the hose had begun to trudge forward to move into the church with the hose at his tail, catching one of the police off guard as they instinctively moved their gun toward the movement.

At first, Gideon thought she’d blinked and missed the gunshot, yet it was not the firefighter hitting the ground but the cop at the front, crumpling forwards in immediate death onto the steps as blood sprayed onto them. As Gideon took in the sight, she saw beneath the top coat of blood two shards of bone protruding from each orifice of the cop’s head now pressed to the pavement. The bone bulged beneath the back of his skull, placed unbelievably accurately to lead through the canals of each ear, the cavity of each nostril, the socket of each eye. From each spiked pair dripped thick pools of blood that had been ejected from his insides, the grey mush of his brain oozing with it.

“Fucking child labour,” the freshly-turned nineteen year old muttered beneath her breath. Gideon’d never say it aloud, but if the fox outbreak meant that there were less sheep to shave than last season, she was almost grateful.

“A lot better than fucking jail.” Pyrrha’s voice was quickly followed by the heel of her leathery palm shoving Gideon in the back and nearly sending her toppling off her stool, thankfully only spooking the ram and not causing her to nick it with the clippers in the process. Noodle immediately took off on him, fulfilling his ‘sheepdog’ role with his long legs outrunning it by a mile. “You’re far luckier than you about deserve.”

Lucky. Her grump of a supervisor being the closest thing Gideon had to a mother she would not call lucky; her ego was never recovering from that day she’d called Pyrrha Mum accidentally and she knew it.

Before Gideon could groan and get to her feet to chase the sheep running wildly across the paddock with two feet’s worth of still-attached wool trailing behind it and being quite the tripping hazard for the dog, Pyrrha’s hand came to cradle Gideon’s shoulder until she looked back at her. “Come in for some meat pies in ten, yeah?”

Gideon let out an amused scoff, but couldn’t push down the smile on her lips that lingered thereafter. “Cheers, Dve.” She offered a nod of appreciation before freeing her body from the comfort of Pyrrha’s hand, the thought of meat pies the only thing keeping her from passing out in the grass after fifteen minutes had passed and she still hadn’t caught that damn ram. 

It was only seven o’clock by the time all Gideon’s chores were done, allowing her to strip herself bare and watch the day’s dirt and blood pool on the shower floor beneath her, the low-pressure and almost freezing water a relieving burn against her blisters and sores.

Gideon debated going out tonight as she scrubbed herself clean; it had been however many Friday nights that she hadn’t been able to—“Willow’s eleven months pregnant, you’ve gotta stay with her, Gideon” or “I think a fox got into the chicken pen, Gideon” or some variant of animal shit being in the worst places at the worst times. Pyrrha was old, yes, but she’d handled this farm by herself for years, before Gideon had come and saved her ass from doing just about any of the chores. Even Noodle had become a slacker, Gideon doing far more productive chasing than he did, who always thought every chore was a game.

Gideon and Pyrrha’s relationship had been a tough piece of work for either of them to trust each other; an ex-cop and ex-felon seemed a recipe for disaster. And it was at first, but Gideon liked to think now that they both trusted each other enough for Gideon to go out at night and not cause trouble like she used to. Yes, she was sore and exhausted, but god she was lonely. The farm and Pyrrha was her every day and night; she hadn’t interacted with people that she hadn’t punched since juvie, and before then Harrow, but even then, those people never stayed unhurt by her in the long run. She deserved a night out, and if not, being flirted and made out with by a hot woman after a cold beer.

So she ignored the breath catching in her throat as she prepared herself, messily combing back her still-wet curls and letting the cedarwood and warm amber of her cologne melt into the damp skin of her wrists and back of her neck. 

There were still droplets of water snaking down the curve of her back as she did up the final button of her long-sleeve, but she knew her hair would be dry halfway through the walk to the pub, so she did her best to ignore it.

“Now where do you think you’re going?” Pyrrha tilted her head down to peer at her over her reading glasses as she was downstairs and slipping on the least-dirty black boots she could find. 

“Look, I promise everything’s taken care of for tomorrow. Troughs full of water, everyone in their stalls—all clean, by the way—doors locked. I even replaced some of the shoes for—”

“Gid.” Pyrrha interrupted her with a soft chuckle, sinking back into the red plush of her armchair as she peered back down at the book in her lap. “I’m just messing with you. Be safe, kiddo. Don’t make me have to fish you out of the bushes in the morning again—you’re up and ready to go by six, you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Gideon flashed her a grin, grateful she’d been right to assume Pyrrha trusted her, and stuffed her wallet in her back pocket before heading out the back door with only a bottle of Speights to her name. God, the air was crisp, the scent of woody pine that was carried with it sending sweet prickles over Gideon’s skin. She could’ve skipped from how much she’d missed it—being free—though this was probably the first time she ever truly had been. 

The pub was nicely bustling as always for a Friday night, not too dead with some old folk already skipping around the creaky dance floor to the blues music vibrating from the speakers up through Gideon’s boots and into her body, making her itchy to move.

Her beer was a long-forgotten warmth in her belly now, Gideon sidling up to the bar and ordering another before she could even register the song playing. The warm lights were a comfort as her vision began to sway ever so slightly, and when she heard the hum of Mia Dyson over the loudspeakers it was all she could do but get up and let herself dance. 

Undoing a couple buttons of her shirt to let her taped chest breathe in the muggy air, Gideon fell in love with the sounds of footsteps falling seamlessly into the rhythm, pairs of heels and loafers alike dancing around her own. She let herself gaze at the dozens of beautiful women around her, a combination of the sight of them and her third drink bringing tender warmth to her cheeks. Bouncy curls short and long clung to the backs of necks Gideon ached to kiss, the pit of loneliness within her going straight to her head and between her legs.

One of the women in the crowd stood out from the rest—beautifully tall, much older skin thin and clinging to her bones quite desperately. She wore a long flowy blue summer dress almost so sheer that Gideon could see what was beneath when the light shone just right. And what was most intriguing was that ridiculously wide-brimmed hat that concealed her face until she twirled around and Gideon met her deep set blue eyes shadowed in what could have easily been eyeshadow as it could have been just dark circles. 

Just as Gideon managed a shaky step forward to approach her, maybe offer to twirl her, a shorter girl Gideon had yet to see stepped backwards clumsily and knocked into her. “Oh, sorry about that love—” Gideon began to say, holding back a sigh as she watched the woman in the hat be whisked away by some much older man, but her breath caught as the stranger turned and Gideon was met with a face she hadn’t seen in five years and had grown and changed so horribly.

But it was still that blasted Harrowhark nonetheless, her off-duty nun get-up somewhat less extreme than before. She tugged at the dirty and wrinkled collar of her shirt that she had buttoned up to the neck, her face contorting in such discomfort Gideon almost laughed until it settled in that she was actually looking at Harrow. Harrow, after all of these years of fuck all communication—she’d thought the girl was gone forever.

Realisation set into the hard contours of Harrow’s own face, a combination of fear and guilt as she took in who she was looking so far up at—God was she small; what had her parents been feeding her all these years? “Gideon…” Gideon hadn’t fathomed how painful it would be to hear Harrow say her name again, especially the actual full three syllables and not that godforsaken grumble of Griddle she hadn’t imagined her ever outgrowing. 

Gideon’s jaw clenched, unable to let herself be vulnerable when Harrow was looking like that—she’d always liked it better when they had been fighting. “I thought you would’ve left town.”

“Yeah, well…” Harrow trailed off, her eyes darting away. “I’m not actually…supposed to be back here.” In the middle of the dancefloor where the pair of them stood, the wild dancing around them continued, Harrow shrinking into herself the moment anyone came close.

“Yeah, I can see that.” Gideon scoffed, looking her up and down for a moment and wondering how she’d ever been into that. She was going to add how she hadn’t taken Harrow as one to sneak out, but after about a millisecond of thinking she knew she was wrong, and the rebellious carefree kid is all Harrow had ever aimed to be, always letting Gideon convince her to sneak out of church early to head up on the roof and secretly smoke together, lighting each other’s cigarettes with a shared flame. And while Harrow was clearly just as anxious of getting caught as she always had been, unable to stop keeping a lookout from all directions, it only made sense she still couldn’t remain cooped up—even if the happenings of her still-chronic sneakouts meant that she’d been able to all those years and had never once checked up on Gideon.

The sheer anger of that now dwelled beneath her skin, buzzing with heat as she recalled the last time she’d seen Harrow the way she had recalled so many times. “So you’ve really been here all this time, then? Just shut me out outta nowhere?”

“What?” Harrow’s eyes returned from anxiously scanning the crowd back to Gideon’s face, brows furrowed with confusion. “No, it wasn’t like that, I—”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses. You know I went to juvie, right? No, of course you don’t—you never kept tabs on me at all, did you? Just forgot I ever fucking existed as if we weren’t each other’s only reasons for living as kids.”

“You don’t understand what happened after the last time we saw each other, Griddle.” Gideon was astounded as Harrow’s face twisted into a wrinkled up anger Gideon recognised from every time she’d gone against her. “You don’t know what would have happened to you if I hadn’t—”

Gideon scoffed. “Do not make this about me when it was only you. Look, I’m sorry your parents saw us kiss and whatever happened after but—”

“Kiss?” Harrow retorted. “You think this was all about some kiss?” Gideon’s face heated. Some kiss? This fucking bitch. “Oh, Griddle,” she continued. “You’re even more daft than I gave you credit for.”

Gideon scowled, far too flustered about possibly having something so wrong for so many years. What the fuck had it been about then? Why was Harrow the one that had let her be sent away yet now Gideon was the one feeling shameful?

“Is this one bothering you?” A terribly pale woman barely an inch taller than Gideon snaked her way through the crowd, and before Gideon could sigh a yes, the woman turned her head to none other than Harrow, snaking a thin arm around her. Harrow began to shrink away, but then looked back at Gideon and managed a smile as she made a half-assed attempt at relaxing into the woman’s touch as if she were at all familiar with anything of the sort.

Gideon could have thrown up at the way Harrow hummed, “Nothing I’m not familiar with.”

“Care to dance?” The woman turned to match Harrow’s glare at Gideon, wicked smile bearing a set of blinding teeth that were somehow whiter than the blonde of her flat and oily hair that looked intentional in a way that was almost flattering.

Harrow didn’t dance, Gideon was sure. “I’d love to.” The worry that had plagued Harrow’s demeanor had completely faded as she let the woman tug her deeper into the crowd, the top of Harrow’s head disappearing quickly and only allowing Gideon to see the blonde one’s gaze linger on her a moment until Gideon tore away first in a rage and stormed toward the bar.

She skulled her whiskey in a gulp, barely setting the glass down again before she began frantically searching for that woman from before. Luckily, her pompous hat stood out in the crowd in a corner opposite to the direction Harrow had gone—and she was now alone, standing but not exactly sulking against the wall as she leaned into a crutch Gideon hadn’t noticed before. Once Gideon’s eyes had found her, the pale blue looked up at her almost immediately, and the small smile she offered had Gideon almost running toward her. The woman’s eyes never left Gideon’s as she made her way over as slow as she herself could manage.

But Gideon was well and truly under her spell the moment the word “Dulcinea,” left her thin lips as she outstretched a hand Gideon took immediately to press her lips to. Every few minutes of conversation she would lock eyes with Harrow from where she now sat at the bar, a pale hand snaked around her waist as she glared over the shoulder of the woman leaning in to whisper into her ear. It made Gideon’s blood boil; she had to remember to relax the hands clasping Dulcinea's so as to not crush them, reminding herself she had a wonderful woman giving her attention now, enough to make between her legs throb with ache.

She didn’t know how she’d let it drag it out so long when she finally had Dulcinea’s lips pressed against her own, hungrily pushing them open with her tongue to trace along the inside of her mouth and press to Gideon’s own tongue, relishing in the praise of the woman’s pleased hums as she let her long nails rake the back of Gideon’s neck, which had her about a second away from dragging her home and laying her down on the hay bales in the barn if she had to.

She let Dulcinea be the first to pull away, letting her take all that she wanted until her hat was close to falling off her damn head. Gideon attempted to blink away the lust she knew was blatant in her eyes, leaving the lipstick that would be marking her lips and chin beautifully.

But she couldn’t help the surge of triumph she felt as she peered back toward the bar and saw that Harrow was already glaring at her, quickly looking away once she spotted her looking back. Gideon managed to sneak a smirk her way before she did, brushing it off to Dulcinea as her just being smug about the kiss. The next time Gideon looked back, maybe ten minutes later, she noticed Harrow was gone—and so was the blonde.

“Okay, who do you keep looking around for? I must know.” Dulcinea’s tone was teasing, but it still shocked Gideon. She was unaware she had even been looking that much, even more so unaware that she had been so obvious about it. She fumbled her words as she tried to find them, and Dulcinea chuckled. “Full of mysteries, aren’t you?”

“You could say that,” Gideon managed, frustrated she’d already caused the woman to start prying within twenty minutes of knowing each other. They should’ve already begun kissing again by now. There wasn’t exactly a sly way of segueing that the pair of them should get out of there, so Gideon just coughed slightly and mumbled something about needing to go.

“Aw darling, I’m sorry. Have I upset you?” Dulcinea reached for Gideon’s hand, which burned now in a way it hadn’t before as she frantically searched for anywhere to look except the woman’s face.

“No, honestly, it’s just getting late. I’ll see you another time, yeah?” Without even realising the pair of them hadn’t exchanged any sort of contact information, that Gideon hadn’t even given the woman her own name, she tore herself free from Dulcinea’s grip and shoved herself through the crowd, the heat of their bodies now suffocating against her.

The cold night air was a relief against the beads of sweat that clung to her skin, the dim street lamps and stars the only light a comfort as she shuffled home, turning back briefly to make sure Dulcinea wasn’t following her.

Gideon didn’t know what had happened, how Harrow had gotten under her skin again so easily, had made her so vulnerable and blatantly pathetic in front of her first chance of fun in years. Another thing ruined. Why did she always seem to care so much?

The plus side of her early night was that she wasn’t drunk enough to be hungover and tired the next morning for Pyrrha to have a go at her. She was already plenty sobered up from being rattled by Harrow’s sudden appearance, making the walk home not as fun as it would have been if she were drunk. Too trapped inside her head with her now-sober thoughts, Gideon couldn’t help but wonder where Harrow was now—who she was with, if she’d actually managed to be invited over to that skank’s place or if her parents had come and scolded her for sneaking out.

Had Gideon really been so stupid to think their sudden falling out was because they’d walked in on them kissing in the abandoned loft above the church? Tangled up in each other’s arms, laughing and so terribly hyper focused on the other that it took them a few seconds to even realise there was someone in the doorway. That was the last moment Gideon could remember with Harrow before her parents had thrown her out to fend for herself. 

Gideon was so trapped in her thoughts she nearly missed the road that turned into the farm, having to skid in the gravel slightly to look around and check she was actually there. She was surprised she’d managed to even go in the right direction and end up here.

Pyrrha was thankfully snoring away at her same spot in her armchair, Noodle only slightly stirring from his sprawled out position on the adjacent lounge. Gideon unhooked her house keys from her waistband and gently rested them on the coffee table in front of Pyrrha so that if she did wake up, she’d know Gideon was home, then she slunk upstairs, peeled her clothes off and crashed out in her sheets ever so slightly smelling of hay and beer.

It was a very rare occurrence for Gideon, but something had her wanting to go out again the following night to redeem herself, unhappy that she’d woken up without the stale smell of sex in the air, coating her mouth and fingers.

So she worked twice as hard on the day’s work, again, not letting loose her plan to Pyrrha until it was nighttime and she was walking out the front door as she buttoned up her shirt. She’d stepped it up tonight with an old vintage find—brown and gold stripes painted vertically down her long-sleeve with the sleeves rolled up neatly. Her pants were leather, untouched by a single scratch so far in their decently long life of six months.

She scraped her ringed fingers against each other in a mallowed state of anxiety as she made the further trek to a much further bar where Harrow definitely wouldn’t be.

Neon lights painted into the shapes of naked women adorned the front of it, the dim pink lighting the doorway faintly as Gideon disappeared into the world behind it so different from the cozy hometown bar of the previous night. The music here she liked a whole lot less, but the women far more—unless Dulcinea walked in with whatever sexy getup she’d conjure to fit into this place; Gideon shivered at the thought.

The narrow hallway painted in purple light led to several lounging areas where the dreadful bassy music was more muffled, already full of women draped over each other doing things far too scandalous for the public, even for Gideon.

Gideon reluctantly resisted lingering for too long, following the deafening boom ahead until someone burst through the swinging doors ahead, holding the door for Gideon on their way out, and the physical embodiment of this place filled her ears, strobe lights striking the ground like lasers as the music completely deafened the sea of people jumping around clumsily on the dance floor, still as tangled up in each other as the people lounging. But there were an obvious few that strayed from the rest, distanced enough from the people they were dancing with to be deemed available.

There were bouncy blonde curls standing out a head above the crowd, even taller than Gideon, and her stomach warmed as she worked her way amongst the crowd toward her. The music was deafening, so there was little room for conversation to be had, but Gideon slicked back her hair and moved her way closer to the woman’s circle, complete with a shorter, impossibly buff man and—oh fucking hell—a paler blonde, tall, thin, face plastered with a bitchy smile when she locked eyes with Gideon. Her little nun was nowhere to be seen, but she remained smug enough for Gideon to know she was seeing right through her. 

“Two night outs in a row?” she shouted at Gideon above the noise. “Must be really desperate for some action!”

Gideon scowled. “Could say the same about you, couldn’t I?” Gideon scanned for the woman’s reaction, hoping for an inch of that smugness to fade, but it didn’t. Goddammit, she’d really turned Harrow into a whore for the night.

The taller, fuller blonde dancing nearby cleared her throat with an awkward chuckle. “Ianthe, stop causing trouble for all the hot ones!” Gideon was grateful for her speaking, trying to soften her expression when their eyes met and Gideon tried to let in that stomach-warming feeling she had felt first seeing her from afar. “Try not to worry about her. I’m Coronabeth.”

Coronabeth, and what Gideon came to realise were her two insufferable siblings, were far too caught up in the noise and taste of each drink to get caught up in feelings and talking like Dulcinea had—and it helped that this time Gideon wasn’t looking for Harrow. Gideon had counted maybe three songs—or was it drinks?—until Coronabeth was leaning down to whisper into Gideon’s ear the words she’d been waiting to hear for far too long of her now well-expired celibate life.

Gideon decided she would rather risk Pyrrha finding the two of them than going to wherever it was that Coronabeth lived and being interrupted by her siblings. Talk of the “quiet farm life” had excited the woman, so she’d have to be okay with the smell.

It seemed she would be, as the moment the two were stumbling out of the club Coronabeth backed Gideon up into a streetlamp and kissed her furiously, vodka lingering on her lips as she twirled her tongue around Gideon’s, gently biting her bottom lip as she pulled away. The way that Coronabeth was looking at her severely lengthened the pair’s walk home, them taking turns pinning each other to posts or trees or fences that came their way whenever they could. It took all Gideon could muster to not strip her clothes and take her right there when she realised just how long a walk it was still, but the thought of having her expensive scent lingering on Gideon’s mattress until she washed her sheets next had her far more excited.

Pyrrha was asleep once more, and Noodle began to wag over to them at the excitement of a guest, but Gideon begrudgingly nudged him away and dragged Coronabeth up the stairs with a hand clasped over her mouth to be quiet. The woman hardly paid him any attention, staring at Gideon with wicked, vibrant eyes, and opened her lips against Gideon’s palm to lick across it in a swift movement that almost had Gideon moan. She trudged quicker up the stairs until Corona licked her again and Gideon picked her up to throw her over her shoulder as she skipped the last few steps and burst into her bedroom, closing it behind her as gently as she could before throwing Corona onto her bed, fingers digging into her waist when she squealed. “Quiet,” she mumbled into her lips before kissing her. “One more sound and I’m stopping.” Unless Noodle beat them to it by waking up Pyrrha.

Coronabeth’s mouth stretched into a smile at this, surprising Gideon so much that she had to pull back for a moment to study her. “Oh, my sweet,” Corona mumbled barely above a whisper, letting her hands currently at Gideon’s hips wander to the first button of her shirt. “It’s so cute you think you’re the one in control.” Before Gideon could realise what was happening, Corona had unbuttoned three buttons of her shirt and gently stroked the two day old, peeling tape on each side of her chest before snaking around to the naked skin of her back. Gideon shivered and tried to play off the realisation she was being touched—seen, but Coronabeth was already smiling, letting her noticeably trimmed nails drag down Gideon’s back as the other hand undid the rest of her buttons and began to push the fabric off her arms. 

Gideon’s heart rate spiked in a fashion unfamiliar to pinpoint as the result of excitement or anxiety, but with the way that Coronabeth moaned at the sight of her arms, Gideon could only crash on top of her, kissing her fiercely in a fit of suppressed moans as she held tight to Coronabeth’s hips and began to rock them into her own. She ached to feel her skin rather than the itchy fabric of her sheer skirt, hiking it up until she could grab it and the waistband all at once and force it down off her hips, dragging what felt like laced underwear with it. Gideon didn’t even bother to look at it, just obsessed with every touch and forbidden noise.

Coronabeth roughly pushed Gideon up off of her as she tackled her belt, unsheathing it and dragging the leather down her legs while not tearing eye contact from her. Gideon slipped off her shoes and kicked her pants off her legs before moving to pounce on top of Corona, but she dodged, moving out of the way as Gideon landed in the bed so that she could wrap a leg over Gideon’s hip and push her onto her back with a hand at her sternum, biting her lip and suppressing a chuckle before letting her hands relax against the back of Gideon’s neck, gently pulling her hair as she leaned down ever so slowly to let their lips meet once more.

Their lips dragged against the others slowly as Corona began to grind her bare pelvis down onto Gideon’s, who quickly recovered from the shock of the woman besting her and landing on top, taking hold of her hips once more and increasing the pressure of that beautiful rhythm of her hips. Their mutual wetnesses combined, turning the dance of their hips into a beautiful wet mess as Gideon moaned into Corona’s mouth, her doing the same into hers.

It was furiously aggravating, the frantic rocking of their hips into spots that weren’t quite right, so close but not enough. It almost made Gideon feel needy, a thought that scared Gideon more than anything. Letting someone touch her. 

“I want to touch you.” Gideon moved to palm one of Corona’s perfect breasts, teasing the nipple with her thumb and breath as she awaited her response.

“Oh?” Corona laughed, slowing her rocked and leaning down to put her mouth to Gideon’s ear, kissing and sucking her earlobe before asking, “How so?”

“Teasing you with my tongue until you cry,” Gideon whispered back to Corona. “While you can’t mutter a single word.” 

Corona chuckled, a sound that was uttered in a way that hurt. “And what if I wanted to do that to you?” That was twice now she was trying to flip the script, Gideon’s hair now standing on end.

Please. Please don’t make me have to have this conversation before the first fuck with her. 

“I, uh…” Gideon let go of Corona’s breast now, pressing her head back into the mattress so she could be face to face with her. She was trying to find a sexy way to say it, but kept being proven upstaged. “Look…I don’t know about you, but I’m usually the…pleaser.” Pleaser? Gideon couldn’t have sounded more like a prude if she tried. She held back a self-deprecating laugh, even though she wanted nothing more than to try humour herself after that. 

“Oh come on, pet.” Corona kept her eyes locked with Gideon’s as she reached a hand up to cradle Gideon’s jaw. If Gideon were anyone else, it might have been comforting, but now it was only insulting. “You can trust me to take care of you.”

It was only then when it hit Gideon that Corona didn’t get it—she couldn’t. Suddenly the feeling of being suffocated by the crowd the previous night had resurfaced, Gideon’s body feeling hot in not at all the right way. Her breath hitched as she gasped, “I…I don’t…” When Corona’s expression dropped, but her hand remained at her cheek, Gideon did the horrible thing and she slapped it away, her chest feeling tighter now that Corona was looking down at her in such great offence. 

The woman sighed and began to remove herself from her lap as Gideon came to realise what was happening, that she’d gone and fucked it up. Corona looked spiteful, disappointed, and even though Gideon was hardly naked, she felt herself sobering at the realisation that she had a stranger in her home. 

“Look,” Corona said firmly, but not unkindly. “Maybe this was a mistake. Don’t worry about it, dear, it was nice meeting you. Thank you for having me over.”

“Oh…Okay.” Gideon felt frozen, body still tense as she tried to get her breath back. It had been too soon. Two years out of juvie and it had been too soon. Gideon became a vessel of herself that faded away, floating above her as Corona began to collect her discarded clothes from the floor and dress herself. Do something, Gideon begged herself, but she could not, not able to even apologise before Corona was out the door, letting in the pervert dog that had been waiting behind it the whole time, and then being so kind as to tiptoe down the stairs and quietly let herself out. Gideon wouldn’t have been surprised if she would’ve gone and woken Pyrrha up to try fuck her instead.

Hot from shame, Gideon buried the heel of her palms into her eyes as Noodle tried to fit his far too large frame on top of her to comfort her, Gideon wishing he could tell her what was wrong with her. Trying to push away the memories of her body being used—on the streets, in juvie, never really getting much chance to explore on her own. Being the pursuer would help her evade the memories, Gideon had thought. By proving to herself she could be gentler than the rest, that she could provide pleasure without pain.

Rin faded into the background as Max shook them, Alexis and Fati joining in on their reprimands, foundations of this family seeming to crack at the seams before Rin’s eyes. She knew it inappropriate to involve herself at this stage, not being able to feel such personal offence the way these guys did. She almost wanted to tell the others to back off and waited until they had all cooled down, saddened by Amata’s expression. 

His initial defensiveness proved unable to hold forever, him switching to incompetent “I really didn’t know”s, trying to explain his negligence before silencing himself altogether.

The others all eventually joined his silence, Max calling the day short as he turned the boat back around towards shore. Gone-cold coffees were sipped in between short glances, Amata choosing to take theirs into the cabin. Rin should’ve thought better of it, but chose to follow them in after several minutes rather than sit amongst the stiff air, down the six-slatted ladder into the bunker below. She wasn’t even sure why she did so, why she felt so affected seeing Amata’s face drop from his team’s reactions, sadly putting himself in timeout below deck. 

Inside, there was a small, rustic kitchen still more advanced than the facilities Rin had available on Blueback, a jug of coffee steaming and half-emptied to top up the coffee Amata now took a loud sip from. His wetsuit was unzipped and rolled down to bunch up at his ankles, sitting at the blue cushioned single mattress by the wall that looked more like a sick bay than a bed. His elbows sank into his spread legs as he fixated on a spot on the opposite wall, unblinking even as Rin made herself known. 

She first disrobed Amata’s jacket to drape it over Amata’s naked and shivering shoulders before she sat down beside him, the seat firmer than she was expecting. The next sip of her coffee was too disgustingly cold to beckon another, Rin choosing to keep it as an item to simply hold as she struggled for words. “You’ve got quite the impressive pair of lungs,” she managed, an attempt at merely letting Amata know she wasn’t here to scold him more. “I’d love to know how you taught yourself to do that.”

Amata drew out their silence for a while, eventually accepting Rin’s presence with a sigh. “You don’t have to do that.” They grimaced sheepishly, the confidence of their usual demeanour now drained out. Beads of saltwater dripped from their hairline down the bridge of their nose, causing their glasses to begin to slip down; Rin resisted the urge to push them back up, to brush away the saltwater as if they were tears. She couldn’t help it—seeing them so unaware and confused by the others being so worried about them to the point of anger, Amata now so engulfed by guilt…Rin wanted to fix them first, worry about the repercussions of what had happened later.

“I’m not doing anything,” she persisted. “I mean it.” Cautiously, she removed a hand from her cup to gently place on Amata’s knee, causing him to turn his head toward her in curiosity. Rin realised the intimacy of their touch, salty hairs tickling her palm. When Amata’s eyes on her turned a little too hopeful, and Rin almost felt herself about to break, she quickly spoke again. “I’m not excusing you from what happened,” she told him gently, and Amata’s lips pursed and they turned away again. “And I don’t expect to unravel that all now so quickly after it happened but…I do want to extend my praise to your athleticism.”

This got Amata to chuckle, a rewarding sound even if it was pitiful. “I’ve always been in or near the ocean.” Gently, they circled the face of their watch at their wrist. “My mother and I always went spearfishing. I started out so horribly, would come to the surface crying while she was down there ten minutes at a time. You were timing me, weren’t you—how long did I last?” When Amata’s eyes returned to Rin’s, they still had that hint of sadness and guilt, but his spirit had not completely broken, his eagerness to impress seeping through the cracks. 

“Nine minutes, five seconds,” Rin informed him, joyed at the small smile received in response. She ached to press for more, to ask where Amata’s mother was now, to unfold each hardened layer of Amata’s soul.

“Getting closer,” Amata told her as their eyes glazed in thought.

“Do you…” Rin contemplated not asking, regretting having already spoken. “Do you think you could teach me sometime?”

The request startled Amata immensely, though shock soon faded into pride as they asked, “You’d really want that?”

“Yeah.” Rin nodded as she mentally listed all the reasons why, only finding necessity in speaking one aloud. “Someone’s gotta be there to supervise you next time.” Amata laughed.

The silence that followed was strangely not as uncomfortable the third time around, Rin feeling successful in her aim of lifting Amata’s spirits, to make sure they could all stay a team. They could still make this work, Rin would make sure of it.

⊹˚₊‧───────────────────‧₊˚⊹

The crew’s meeting room was one Rin could only dream hers could look like—posters and newspaper clippings adorned the whiteboard, attached by magnets of several sea creatures and surrounded by matching colourful doodles in whiteboard marker Rin liked to imagine Amata had completed. Everywhere Rin looked was the blue of the ocean, tinged with green; the walls, the statues decorating shelves. It was hard for her to draw her attention away, thankful she could be here and not at the all-white meeting room she was familiar with.

“What resulted today was the case of poor planning, which we all need to accept responsibility for, and not just Amata,” Rin opened once they were all seated. Amata offered a thankful smile in response, and Rin directed her next words to only him. “Though, it is very common knowledge to not dive alone, and in a situation with so many variables like the whale mating presented, it never should have happened.” This time, Amata did not drop their head in shame, only nodding in reluctant agreement as they clenched their jaw. “I do need it to be trusted that it will not occur again, as it puts our project and the stability of your well-established team here at risk.” Rin knew she could sound so serious, but she hoped she and Amata had established a level of understanding that he would be able to see her intentions.

“I understand that completely,” Amata said immediately, moving his gaze over the group. “I sincerely apologise for the distress and distrust I have probably put in you all because of this. I know I can be…reckless, and I’m sorry. I thought if I handled it alone it would waste less time getting everyone on the same page as me when you were already worried about me going out there. So yes, planning for every outcome like that would help me too.”

Well said. Rin kept her smile of approval professional, pleased to see it matched that of her peers, who each placed a hand on Amata across the table. “Thank you for saying that,” Max told him. “Just glad you’re okay, kid.”

“I shouldn’t need to remind you that I am in my mid-thirties, Maxwell,” Amata chuckled.

“Start acting like it and I’ll remember.” The older man sneered.

“In other news,” Rin recalled. “Care to present us with the shots you got down there, Amata?”

He was all too eager to flick on the camera placed on the table as the others all crowded around, Amata smug before the first sounds of admiration had even left anyone’s lips.

Amata’s excitement had blurred every third image or so, but real winners were present among them, Rin overjoyed to see so much of her whale through the lens of her underwater world. The sight of the males circling her was still so alarming, but from the way Alexis sighed from the footage she knew it was important.

Just like her drone had suggested, one of the males had indeed turned themselves upside down beneath the water in order to copulate, the water shallow enough for the movement to stir up sand around them, blurring the very last images. 

It made Rin understand why they’d been so desperate to stay down so long. They’d managed to settle remarkably still on the seabed, grounding themself with their knees dug into the sand as the males circled the cow. 

When the first male positioned beneath the female, Amata repositioned. Angled himself from behind, either side, the front, swimming high and low and all in one breath. Rin marvelled at each cluster of callosities and barnacles raised over her whale’s skin, her sheer size in comparison to the male, a difference of several metres of length and width. The asymmetrical divergence of her flukes as they stilled in her submission.

As a result of the day’s chaos, what Rin and the others had failed to notice is that the scene was not over once the male deemed himself done. The two others barged in as soon as an opening presented itself, both now upside down and drifting underneath her.

It was a part of nature that terrified Rin; the violence of intimacy, the solo goal of copulation. It was jarring to witness, even more so given Amata’s proximity to the scene despite their unpredictable movements.

Rin tried to see the beauty in what they’d recorded and what it meant for their mission, but the fact that there could be a little life inside her whale now, one that Rin had promised to protect in proxy to her mother…only scared her more.

She was relieved for them to eventually move on to collating their data from Amata and her own logs, formulating an extensive document that included drone and underwater photographs with timestamps aligning their notes. Amata had it faxed to Joan once it was done, kindly making sure to leave out the part where he went missing underwater for ten minutes.

“Can I talk to you for a moment, Rin?” they asked once Max had slumped in his chair and Alexis and Fati went to make coffee with a groan. It was nearing one in the afternoon, Rin knowing Joan would soon be expecting her to discuss the day with her, but she had no issue staying in this colourful meeting room as long as possible. She nodded, and Amata led them out and to Amata’s equally vivid desk by the window in the main office. Rin caught a glimpse of an aged photograph featuring Amata with who she assumed was his mother—a similarly beautiful woman with their same eyes and hair, Amata’s softened features more delicately aged and pulling on her cheekbones. Rin could only hazard looking at them both for a second until Amata spoke.

“You did really well today,” he told her with a proud smile. “I initially had my doubts in giving you so much responsibility for your first day…but you held up excellently. You’re a great fit with our team.”

Rin was grateful beyond words, but she could see Amata’s hidden self-deprecation, the urge to apologise once more. She raced to interrupt them before they could, but Amata continued.

“And if you were serious about the freediving thing…” Amata trailed off, looking away still almost sadly, not being able to believe if Rin’s words had been sincere.

“You doing anything tomorrow arvo after work?” Rin suggested. Amata turned back to her and beamed.

⊹˚₊‧───────────────────‧₊˚⊹

Rin expected that the rest of the team shared her feeling of relief that the following day proved less eventful, Rin’s logging of whales spotted on Alexis’ drone so much further away from the boat, and alone. It worried Rin slightly that her miracle did not show herself, but Amata tried to comfort her in that she’d just be feeding after a strenuous day previously.

It amazed Rin the uniqueness of each whale, how the flukes of the first spotted female were almost jagged on the right side, the second female with white spots around her blowholes. It was a beauty Rin was grateful they were all watching from afar via the drone, Amata seeming to behave themself in anticipation for the afternoon’s coaching. 

The quiet in between scribbles and checks of Rin’s watch left plenty room for her wondering mind of the afternoon to follow and what exactly she’d signed up for. It was difficult for her to pinpoint precisely if it was a good idea for colleagues to be hanging out one on one, especially via an activity so intimate as asking Amata to be her teacher. They’d be without wetsuits in the shallows, Rin in the green floral swimsuit that was the only one since her pregnancy that fit her still-swollen breasts, Amata in their tape…clusters of hair in all the right places on display even closer up than before.

Even her thoughts were irresponsible, much less the act of their meeting outside of work. If Amata hadn’t looked so happy at Rin’s insistence to teach her, and she didn’t admire their skill enough to ask for it—maybe she would do the right thing and call it off. Keep things professional.

Amata had brought all four of them today, Alexis smiling at this only being their second meeting and Rin had scored them a project. All of them looked to her like a martyr, only filling Rin with more dread in anticipation of dragging these undeserving people all down with her.

“Thank you for vouching for me.” Rin attempted a professional nod toward Amata, nearly faltered by their returned sheepish grin. Summoning her previously rehearsed speech, Rin made sure to direct her eye contact to the others equally as well. “Thank you all for meeting me bright and early. I first need to offer my extended gratitude for choosing to collaborate with me on this matter.” So far, so good. “This is as much my project as it yours, so please treat me as you would to any new crew member. I am open to any and all feedback and ideas, and while I’m on your boat, it’s your rules, so tell me what you need and I can do it.” 

Trying to make sure she was blinking and taking breaths where she could, Rin tried not to pass out with the undivided attention currently on her. Unlike any professional meeting she’d had at work, it was foreign to feel so heard. “I have collated a rough idea of a day plan, but am again open to suggestions, if anyone has any already?” At the shy shakes of heads to Rin’s disappointment, Rin took a breath and smiled, worried she was already overwhelming them with information. “Right, well…” Rin opened her notebook to its bookmarked page from rushed late-night notes and presented it to the group, morning light dim enough to cause Max to need to squint to read it. 

“I’ve recorded the coordinates so far where our whale has been spotted so far, so suggest revisiting them and recording new spots with data such as dive lengths, any interactions with other boats, and any abnormal behaviours. We also don’t know if she has yet successfully bred, so will need to consider factors with that as well.” Rin suddenly felt very insecure in the beat of silence that followed, thinking it foolish to have right off the bat expressed interest in only this one whale. Suddenly seeing herself from these practical strangers’ perspectives, she realised her naivete and childishness for being so struck by one whale; it so clearly looked like she only cared for solely its wellbeing and not the other whales that could be present. Though if she assumed involvement of other whales, was she speculating? She only wanted to first present known data just so that—

“That sounds amazing, Rin,” came Amata’s praise to interrupt her spiral, much to Rin’s relief. “We’ve got all our observing gear in our trunk to load into the boat, so will be pretty much ready to go. Could you go drive the trailer down to the shore, Max?”

The man nodded with a grunt, before giving Rin a nod of approval that mirrored the others’ anticipation as they climbed into the back of their cobalt Ford Ranger towing their boat. As the engine hummed to life and they steered out of the car park onto the beach, Rin became suddenly aware that Amata had stayed behind with her. 

“We’re getting the crew coffees,” he told her, the mention of the liquid making Rin’s throat dry in yearning as she sighed, letting Amata steer them on foot to the nearby cafe. 

At half past five in the morning, the morning rush was yet to come, the pair of them having to only wait in line half a minute before being called. Amata took charge with their colleagues’ orders, speaking confidently and eloquently as Rin struggled to pinpoint which coffee order matched who—soy latte with vanilla for Fati? Black extra hot for Max? 

It warmed Rin’s heart how easily Amata remembered each of their orders, her admiration distracting her for a moment that she nearly missed when Amata turned to her and asked what she was getting. “Oh, an almond cappuccino would be great, thank you.” 

As Amata repeated her words to the cashier for seemingly little reason when Rin had spoken clearly and loudly enough, Rin retrieved her purse from her tan beach bag in an attempt to sneakily cover the bill. Amata immediately turned to peer down at her over their glasses, pulling their own wallet out of their pocket. “Don’t even think about it,” he chuckled, inserting a card into the machine before Rin could persist.

Amata kept the four-cupped tray of coffees steady through their walk down the beach as Rin greedily sipped her own, ignoring its heat that scorched her tongue. In the distance, Max had the trailer held down the boat ramp as the others coaxed it into the water, before moving contents from the trunk. It clunked against the metal ramp with the engine warming by the time they arrived, Rin being thankful of her choice of shorts as she waded through the water, grabbing Alexis’ hand to help her climb into the boat from the slippery ladder. Amata somehow climbed up himself without the coffees tipping over, distributing them to everyone until only one remained—the black extra hot. Of course. 

Max was at the helm, letting the motor thrum to life and steering with one hand as he sipped his cappuccino, letting them drift slowly out, all of them crowded around and waiting for either Rin or Amata to speak. “I’m your inferior in this field,” Rin reminded Amata. “You know your team best. What do you think?”

Amata had no concern taking charge. “Max’ll keep us going south. Alexis and Fati watch for movement—one of you time dives and the other calls out any surface behaviour. Rin and I can log everything, right Rin?” Rin had no choice but to nod dumbfoundedly when Amata turned to her, thankful for his expertise. She watched as they all fanned out, Alexis and Fati with binoculars on either side of the deck while Amata led Rin to a bench at the rear.

Winter was settling in today, introducing itself in the crisp morning chill that tickled the stubble coating Rin’s bare legs. She noticed how the others did not shiver, much more familiar with boating this time of year than that of Rin.

She was grateful for her coffee, cradling its warmth sat deep in her belly that she willed to the tips of her fingers and toes. Rin craved the make-up of her whale, her ability to endure stark coldness all her life.

But more than anything she wanted her whale to appear, a dichotomy of her previous outings by boat where all she wished was that the whale stayed away from humans like her. She hated that this was seemingly the only way she could help save her from her own kind. 

The silence sat in the air longer than Rin had expected, mostly because she had selfishly hoped her mere presence would summon the whale. It was apparent this silence was common among Amata and the rest of the group, for their demeanour lacked Rin’s level of discomfort, who was unable to patiently settle. Amata, clearly already optimistic, carefully placed his coffee down beneath the bench and drew a notepad from inside his jacket as he pushed back his slipping glasses. Wordlessly peering around his shoulder, Rin keenly observed the creation of a messily drawn two-columned table, several whale behaviours scribbled down the left side, so many that the words could be hardly contained within their drawn boundaries. 

From another internal pocket, Amata drew out another notepad and accompanying pen, identical to the first save for its empty pages. They startled Rin by handing it to her and swapping it for her coffee in one hand, dropping their gaze to the gold-plated analog watch at Rin’s left wrist. “Every boat needs a log,” they told her. “You good to record the times of everything?” Rin nodded, thankful for being deemed useful. “Well.” Amata flipped their right wrist to look at their own watch, sleek black leather connecting to a gold-rimmed Hartley face. “We departed around zero-five-fifty hours,” they recited, Rin getting the hint and jotting it down, titling the page with the date. “We’ll be heading due south for around two hundred metres first and make observations. Anything anyone spots, you jot down with the time and coordinates when Max calls them out, got it?” 

Rin had been so worried she wouldn’t feel like part of the team; to be given a job so crucial both to her own and the team’s data collection felt so special. “Yes, thank you,” Rin said sincerely, gaze softening into Amata’s golden brown irises.

Amata’s own gaze lingered on Rin for a moment longer, noticing Rin’s shivering more than Rin herself had, the twitch of her hands as she tried to grip her pen. Amata immediately disrobed their company-branded weatherproof jacket to offer to her; Rin accepted it without thinking, much to the silent amusement of Amata’s colleagues that Rin hadn’t realised were looking, Fati and Alexis exchanging glances that halted once Amata noticed and shot them a look. 

The waterproof material rustled as Rin wrapped it around herself, Amata’s larger frame revealing itself once cloaking her. The thought made Rin blush, exacerbated by the warm scent of balmy oak mixed with sage that washed over her, melding with the sea salt to create an aroma that almost made Rin sigh with pleasure. Amata being so put together, even this early in the morning, was a trait that was close to making her swoon.

“I’ve got something else for us,” Amata told her before disappearing below into the cabin, coming back momentarily with something Rin recognised from his list of equipment in previous studies: a hydrophone. “You know what this is, hey?” they guessed at Rin’s joyed reaction. Headphones were coiled around their neck, which they tapped before speaking again. “We’re going to be going as slow as possible today to avoid tapping into frequency ranges that could confuse our whale friend, but I’ll be listening out for her or any other brave speakers we might get down there. Frequencies from other boats we might hear, too.”

Amazing, Rin admired. “She was very vocal when she came near my boat that first day,” she said mournfully as Amata carefully leaned over the railing to reel the hydrophone into the water, then joined Rin back on the bench.

“You can tell a lot from a whale’s call,” Amata told her excitedly. “Can tell them apart even between families. It’s really exciting work you’ve given us here, Rin. Thank you.” Rin was completely taken aback, thinking it unheard of to have the expert researcher thanking her. Rin was thankful herself, in the joining of their two worlds of environmentalism and legal action—the mixture that could actually help change happen.

The whale presented itself almost as an attempt to shake Rin from her daydreaming. She was around a hundred metres out, Max calling out a string of coordinates from his station for Rin to scribble down. He cut the engine, waves becoming the only noise, and the five of them waited nervously at their individual stations for her to surface again, Alexis having started a stopwatch.

She appeared two minutes later on the other side of the boat, closer to it this time without seeming to approach it too excitedly. When she surfaced once more three and a half minutes later, she let herself drift, the puff of air from her blowholes close enough now to spray water onto the crew with glee; Rin almost missed it, hand quickly cramping from the strings of data called out by Alexis and Max, shared with Amata’s inscriptions from Fati.

She was the one who noticed it first. “There’s a male!” Fati pointed, and Rin lifted her gaze. “Two o’clock.” It was parallel to the female’s drifting, a slow chase that led to her sinking back below again. She surfaced a minute later further away once more, the male right on her tail. “I can hear him!” Amata called out, headphones cupping his ears as he beamed with excitement, tallying marks next to several boxes on his page, telling Rin to scribe the times each occurred.

She began to belly roll, teasing the male with a loud slap of her flipper, as she continued enticing the chase. “Alexis, send the drone out!” Amata instructed hurriedly as the male sped up, but still slow enough to let the miracle in all her grace continue to perform.

To no surprise, the uproar invited other males, Rin growing fearful as she spotted two of them closing in from opposite corners of the bay. The cross-shaped drone soon buzzed to life, Alexis sending it up and out without so much as a wobble in spite of the rocking boat. They all stood to crowd around the screen on Alexis’ controller, the drone hovering over the display still close enough for them to hear—the splash of each limb that showed up on the screen half a second later, the waves lapping all around from their movements.

The two other males had soon caught up, and Rin pushed down the want to protect her from them all, from the insistence of a male’s want. “Oh, that’s it,” Amata exasperated, passing their pad, pen, and headphones to Fati and racing to the cabin, surfacing quicker than the whales with a wetsuit, snorkel and flippers, as well as an abnormally sized Nikon hanging from a thick strap around his neck. “No time for setting up the tanks,” they insisted toward Max, who was frowning upon hearing the excitement in Amata’s voice. 

“You don’t dive alone,” Max scowled, and Amata shook their head firmly. The tension between the two made Rin dizzy with nerves.

“We can’t afford two people to abandon their posts,” Amata insisted. “Come on, Max, when have I ever let anything bad happen? When are we ever gonna get the chance to photograph whale courtship again?”

Max paused before sighing in defeat, an exasperated noise equivalent to a growl. He reluctantly moved to help drag the wetsuit up onto Amata’s dry body once they’d undressed, Rin trying to not let her eyes linger over the bundle of hair at and below Amata’s belly button, the two thick squares of tape pulling their chest to either side. 

At zero-six-zero-two hours Amata had scaled over the railing to confidently leap into the water with his mask now replacing his glasses, taking a deep breath through his spout before diving, kicking powerfully towards the spectacle less than fifty metres away. Fati’s workload now doubled and Max’s stress levels tripled, Rin unpocketed her own stopwatch she’d brought from Blueback, logging Amata’s time spent below the surface as she struggled to still scribble down what was being called out left and right around her. 

“You got eyes on them, Rin?” Max called worriedly over his shoulder from the control panel between shouts of breaches and times by the others. Rin was shocked how fast her new, perhaps deranged associate was moving, spotting them surface for a short breath twenty or so metres away before disappearing. “Yep!” she confirmed with relief, looking to her stopwatch and trying not to marvel at the four minutes thirty she went to note down.

The female was beginning to slow down, Alexis narrated, two of the males fighting for dominance below the surface as they tried to wrestle themselves beneath her. Amata hadn’t surfaced again, knowingly entangled in photographing the display. The other male circled them, searching for an opening, and Rin strained to spot Amata, hoping they hadn’t swam too closely.

Five and a half minutes had passed. “How long does he usually stay down there?” Rin tried to conceal the worry in her voice. 

“I think eight minutes’ the current record,” scoffed Max. “But in all this excitement they’re bound to do less. Why? How long has it been?”

“Five minutes forty-five and counting.”

Max clicked his tongue. “Right.” He was trying not to sound worried too. “I’m sure they’ll be up soon.”

When it hit seven minutes Rin was sure she had to have missed seeing his head come up for a breath of air. Alexis called out that a male had flipped over to press himself underneath their subject, but Fati and Max’s expressions faltered, the latter having abandoned his post at the helm to search for Amata too.

Eight minutes. The male still below just as Amata was, the other two calling out in envious groans. The frantic circling and moving in toward the cow had Amata possibly surrounded, the surge of water they’d emit certainly powerful enough to send Amata crashing into the sand bank below, knocking them unconscious into a quick drowning.

“Can you see him from the drone?” Rin didn’t care for hiding her panic now, causing Max to grip tightly onto the railing as he cursed under his breath. “Damn kid,” he muttered. “What was I thinking?”

“There’s too much movement, and the vis isn’t great.” Even the composed Alexis had concern in her voice now. “How long has it been?”

Rin refused to say, unable to accept that this was happening. “Should…” she started, turning to Max. “Can we start the engine, move to him?”

“Too dangerous,” Alexis insisted. “We don’t want to piss either of those whales off—that’ll just get Amata killed regardless.”

“Alexis, don’t!” Fati hissed. “Don’t say that, come on, there’s got to be something we can—”

“Damn it, kid!” Max banged his fist down hard on the railing, and Rin was lost for words, still unblinking as she searched the scene desperately.

It wasn’t until over nine minutes had passed when a head breached the surface near the whales and stayed there, the faint outline of a thumb pointed up in the air and accompanied by a pearly grin. Max had just about nearly fainted, now muttering curses more than ever. 

The whales had separated by the time Amata was back at the boat, the crew falling into a numb silence as Max helped haul the soaking wet diver up the ladder, dark lines etched into their face from the squeeze of their mask. Amata clutched his jacket tighter around her, almost not believing that he had actually made it back. They had recorded something monumental, potentially photographed proof of the shallow breeding ritual of the right whale; it was an integral piece for their research, something Rin should be feeling so proud of being able to have part in recording.

But when she peered around, the crew all looked at Amata as if they were a stranger, and Rin couldn’t help but feel this was all a huge mistake.

She was antsier than she had anticipated in the meeting room, Joan tapping away at her laptop as people continued to trickle in. Rin’s own notes were at the ready, all that she could focus looking at as the meeting started and Rin anxiously waited for Joan to say—

“Now, did anyone have anything they wanted to add?”

Rin’s hand immediately raised to bring attention to her, all heads turning her way. “Well, yes,” she said. “First of all, hi everybody, nice to see you all again. I wanted to bring up an issue affecting near my very home that I think is well worth looking into. Noise pollution from boats along Venus Bay and several other shallow bays has arisen some problems for the shallow-breeding right whales this time of year. With no regulations on engine shut-off in whale proximity when so close to shore, I believe it’s worth looking into a policy brief that could—”

“Rin? Sorry.” Rin turned to find Joan with her fingers interlaced, trying to conceal a pitying smile. “With all due respect, it is your first day back. Let’s get you a bit more settled in before we start thinking about big projects like that, okay?”

Rin choked on her words, taken completely aback at the immediate rejection. Her colleagues’ faces grew even more pitying, and a pool of frustration began to swirl in her stomach. She bit her words of defence back as Joan talked down to her, knowing it useless. As if Rin hadn’t worked here for years, hadn’t had every one of her ideas shut down. And now again she’d humiliated herself. “Of course, Joan,” she managed. “My apologies.”

The rest of the meeting faded into the background of Rin’s mind, unable to tear her eyes from her notes in an attempt to understand where she went wrong. The unused sources—should she have mentioned Amata right away in an attempt to communicate an already established circle of interest? The statistics—the fact that she had researched, that evidence of decreased quality of life was already happening. The whale that had almost beached—Rin seeing it with her own eyes how her own curiosity had nearly caused that beautiful creature’s demise.

Joan didn’t understand; she couldn’t. Even if it weren’t for Rin’s recent predicament, still she would underestimate her. Never give her the time of day.

But Rin had always kept it to herself, had never bothered fighting back.

So the moment they were all dismissed and Joan had closed herself back in her office, Rin was at her door. At the sound of her knocks, Joan sighed before directing her to come in.

“Have you got a second to spare to talk about the meeting, Joan?” Rin asked her as politely as she could, but Joan already looked about ready to shut her down again.

“Rin,” she warned, before Rin could even sit down. “It’s promising source material, okay?” At this, Rin’s heart fluttered, but it wasn’t enough, and Joan wasn’t finished. “But this is your first day back. It would be unreasonable of me to trust you with a large-scale project—your first one, in fact—when you haven’t even submitted the report I’ve asked you to complete.”

Shit, Rin thought, thinking of the half-assed fishing quota summary she'd stared at blankly more than put effort into. “I understand, Joan, but if you could just look at what I’ve collated—”

“No, Rin.” Joan’s gaze was colder than Rin was familiar with coming from her. “Finish the report. Keep up with the daily tasks asked of you. Prove you can do that before you even think about asking for more.” 

The whales will probably all beach before then, Rin thought. She was about to say more, but stopped herself, because even she knew she would be crossing a line now. “Of course, Joan. I apologise.” She made her exit, ignoring the eyes upon her as she returned to her desk, and she finished the report.

⊹˚₊‧───────────────────‧₊˚⊹

It was the best and worst outcome of all that by the time Rin parked her car at the beach and began her walk along the sand that she spotted the boat with the seal logo wedged at the shore. Despite the day’s failures, Rin found her path diverging to approach it, heart racing when she saw Amata in the flesh for the first time.

Their LinkedIn profile must have been slightly dated, Amata’s hair now cut much shorter, clipped along the sides and tamed in beautiful curls that ended just off the edge of their forehead. He was beginning to unpack the vessel, hauling four life jackets onto one shoulder and a first aid kit in his grip as thick biceps flexed and shimmered in the warm light. Max and Fati were with him and unloading as well, both pausing when they noticed Rin.

“Here’s the hero!” Max hollered, catching Amata’s attention as they followed Max and Fati’s gaze. Their eyes were hard to make out in the bright afternoon light shining in their eyes, the light the most remarkable when emitting from the sparkling teeth of their grin as they realised who they were looking at.

“Rin, I assume?” they asked, their voice far more pronounced than over the radio, his alluring accent much more so now with that damn grin and salty hair that their profile picture had nothing on in comparison. “How’s that proposal coming along?”

Rin looked away for a moment, biting her cheek in frustration as she briefly planned how she would break the news. That she had pushed too hard and too fast, that it was doomed to fail now.

 “I never should have gotten your hopes up,” she said begrudgingly, knowing it was no one’s fault but her own for being so ambitious. “I got rejected, it’s not going to work out. I…don’t know how to help you. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Fati’s shoulders dropped. “That sucks, Rin, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah that’s…” Amata’s smile was fading. “That’s really too bad.” The only noise for a beat was the cawing of seagulls, then Amata mustered a smile. “You never know. Things could change.”

“It’s unlikely now. My boss knows I’m not ready.”

“And why’s that?” Amata asked, innocently and curious, though taken aback when Rin swallowed and struggled to find the words. She couldn’t be like how she was with Joan and her doctor with these people, watering Ronan down to just a miscarriage that she had gone and accepted. Talking her way back into a job was one thing; there was nothing she could gain here, only raw vulnerability.

Raw vulnerability Rin couldn’t handle, not with Amata and the others all looking at her like that, like her coworkers had. Trying to figure her out, look into her soul to places Rin didn’t want just anyone digging around and seeing. 

“Will I see you guys here tomorrow?” she choked, mustering a dry laugh.

“Uh…Yeah!” Fati replied, exchanging looks with Amata. 

“Cool.” Rin’s chest was hot, her throat tight, and she knew she had to wrap it up now. “See you then.” Rin turned and hiked through the squeaky sand until the south-easterly wind drowned out their share of mumbles. Her pier waited in the distance, so rooted in the sand you couldn’t see where it started and the sand ended.

The clunk of her sand-filled boots against the wood grounded her as she eyed Blueback, desperate to let her take her out again but knowing she needed to eat first. She’d managed to walk to the shops the previous day in preparation for how she’d feel at the end of her first day, eyes heavy and back sore, almost relieved she was only doing part-time hours.

On autopilot, she brewed a cup of English breakfast tea in her mother’s old teapot featured in a tattoo on the back of Rin’s left arm. Once she added a generous heaping of honey, she sat on her balcony’s bench chair with a sigh, chowing down two slices of banana bread she’d purchased in her mission to replace the portion of her pantry that had expired.

She expected the sweetness to provide her the warmth and comfort she craved, but it only reminded her of her solitude, the memories of shared pots of tea with her parents now cold and unsettling. It sat uncomfortable inside of her, an itch she couldn’t scratch, making her pier below all the more irresistible. With a final chew of her banana bread, Rin was racing down to meet her father’s boat, the clear waters ahead overshadowing her thoughts. 

The noise of her brain was mellowed by the rock of the boat as she climbed aboard, so unlike the stability of the ground, so much more she could focus on and think about instead of being stuck inside her own head. The sails danced against the wind with each flap, leading her out to her home of water as if of their own accord. She grasped her tiller with more confidence than she felt, letting it lead her with her sails into a clear path free of boats, down toward the promise of Tasmania past the horizon’s haze.

Rin guiltily felt she had summoned her when she saw her, the rhino-like clusters at the end of the whale’s snout, a short puff of water releasing from her blowholes as if in greeting. She was so innocently curious still, unaware of her previous dangers that matched the demise of so many of her kind. Rin anxiously watched for other boats, thankful to hear only the gentle lap of waves rather than motors.

It was unthought of that she was still alive, Amata’s daily monitoring showing no signs of her getting dangerously close to the shore again. Rin thought back to the word Amata had used that day…himala, the late-night research she’d done whilst in bed wondering, how her body had warmed at the sheer astoundedness of being called none other than a miracle.

But that was all Rin could see now as she gazed upon her whale, not her own reflection in her water as she leaned into the railings. The miracle exposed her black belly as she rolled, not zigzagging towards the boat and only interested in putting on a show for now. She twisted and slapped against the waves before diving down below and resurfacing on the other side of the boat half a minute later in an almost jump as she breached, falling onto her back and twisting until only her tail was visible, then nothing else.

Her himala, Rin thought. She could only prove of being one herself if she managed to help save her from getting hurt again, making it until October and heading back home with a full life ahead of her.

When the wind picked up and the sun had almost disappeared, Rin’s mother’s creamy tomato soup was all her body ached for, and she made the regrettable decision to go back home, where it was warmer but lonelier. 

Call log still guiltily empty, cooking her dinner only made her think of her mother more. Alone at the family farm where Rin had left her, when her father’s death and each other had only caused them more pain. And now moving away might have not been worth it at all, no children to show for it, and definitely no work achievements to make up for the fact.

As her cream melted into the puree she’d created, the overwhelming aromatics of her childhood kitchen made her whoozy. Outside, Rin looked at the sun’s creeping path down towards the city, the light cast on the beach now cool. 

And with the first burning sip of her soup, Rin was overwhelmed with such a rush of home that it was all she could do but call her mother.

It hurt that she picked up before it even began the third ring. “Corrine?” Her mother sounded more tired than she had last time Rin had called, as if she’d given up on waiting for her. It broke a crack in Rin’s own numbness that almost brought tears to her eyes.

“Mum,” Rin croaked. She inhaled a shaky breath, her mother audibly doing the same on the other line, unreasonably patient until Rin could muster her next words. “I’m sorry I haven’t…" Rin inhaled. "I had another miscarriage, Mum.”

It was like Rin was in the hospital again with all the feelings she’d kept buried now bubbling to the surface. The tightness of the scar on her belly, the tender surgeoned skin beneath it. Rin was crying into the arms of her nurse, a lady who had heard her for the half hour that Rin had required until she felt able to pull away, the world that was closing in on her feeling ever a smidge brighter in her arms.

She wished her mother could be holding her now, the sob stuck in her throat making Rin feel ill with the emotions of that day. “I don’t know why my body keeps letting me down. Why it won’t let me…” A choked breath cut her off, Rin wheezing for air as her hands shook trying to keep her phone to her ear.

Her mother was still breathing steadily, her own attempt at trying to disguise herself. “I wish you’d come home, honey,” she managed, and the pain of her words only cut Rin deeper. 

“I know, Mum. I’m so sorry, I know you’re not well and I’m not there. I just thought…” 

“This won’t fix you,” her mother told her, and it broke Rin’s world in two.

Four years she’d been gone. Four years and the both of them were in the exact same spot since the light of their lives had died. “I…I know,” she admitted. “I—”

She was interrupted when her phone shrilled against her ear, making Rin jump as she pulled it away to look who it was. To her shock, it was Joan. Hurriedly, Rin stuttered into the phone, “Mum, I’m so sorry, I have to go.” Her rushed I love you was muffled by her mother’s confused protests, and Rin hung up to answer Joan’s call before her heart could break any more.

“Rin.” Joan’s voice was firm. “I’ve just received a call from an Amata Ramos to inform me a bit more about the…matters discussed early today.” At this, Rin’s heart jumped, unable to predict what Joan was about to tell her. If she’d kick her while she was down to back off from this crazy idea, if she’d call her crazy and insist she needed more leave time. Instead, Joan said, “I was wrong to underestimate you. I officially grant you my approval to work alongside them regarding your project—starting tomorrow. Congratulations, Rin, you’ve just landed your first project.”

“That’d be me.” Rin tried her best to smooth her soaked pajamas out in an attempt to look more presentable and conceal her shivering, trying to remember the last time she had spoken to a person face to face.

The girl who had spoken was a tanned blonde with thick plaits sitting on each shoulder. “We heard about how much you helped today. Thank you. Want to come aboard and uh…” She looked over Rin’s body. “Get warmed up?”

Rin would’ve loved nothing more, thanking the woman before joining her and the others with her—a rugged-looking man with a patchy, greying beard and leathery skin like Rin’s father had, and a dark-skinned woman with her braided hair clipped back, a khaki baseball cap atop her head. It was her who offered Rin a blanket to drape over her shoulders, before the woman with plaits spoke again.

“I’m Alexis,” she told Rin. “And that’s Max and Fati. You need a cup of coffee?”

“Fuck, yes please,” Rin sighed, the realisation she had nothing in her system currently settling in. Alexis disappeared into the cabin below and came back with a steaming thermos of coffee and four mugs, pouring a cup for everyone before all sitting down with Rin at the silver bench seats on each side of the boat. As Rin sipped her coffee, the other three began to quarrel.

“Damn right whales.” Max’s voice was as gruff as he looked. “They’re so hard to spot.”

“Damn lack of boat regulations,” Fati added mournfully, before gulping her coffee so quickly her hat fell off from the tilt of her head backwards. 

They soon delved into discussing the policies of what to do from here—which seemed to not be able to be much more than continued monitoring. From their end at least. 

Rin had been on maternity leave for only a considerably short while. She was most definitely not in the most ideal physical and mental state at the moment, and had yet to be trusted with a project of her own…but she’d worked on policies for bycatch mitigation, alternatives to shark nets—prominent issues handed to her team by her supervisors. Only people that had been there for years longer than Rin were given support on solo projects, the majority of them men without pregnancies to impact their quality of work.

But with people as experienced and well-respected by each other like Amata and their crew, it just might work. She took a brave gulp of her coffee and said, “I’d like to help. My work presents cases to legal stakeholders, so if there’s enough coverage of issues like this…”

“We can get some regulations made,” Fati finished, and Rin wasn't sure if she was relieved or regretful at her excitement. “Who do you work for?”

⊹˚₊‧───────────────────‧₊˚⊹

For a while, Rin walked through past CSIRO projects she’d assisted with that could prove she had experience, but the team seemed so desperate to remedy this issue they hardly took any convincing. The morning’s enlightening conversations led to several other passionate works the others had done, from Fati’s studies on weedy seadragon populations in Port Stephens to fur seal and dolphin rescues from fishing nets; Alexis’ work with prototypes for absorbing and removing oceanic oil spills and rehabilitating animals stuck in the process; and Max’s previous fishery job enlightening him to attempt to incorporate sustainable fishing policies and raise awareness for the debilitating impacts for practices such as trawling.

They were all such talented, likeminded people Rin felt she could talk to so easily, each with their own stories of how they had gotten where they were. She could see a family among them, the weekly dive trips they took together with Amata, the person who had shot up the leagues from being a volunteer to leading several research projects in their field. The crew spoke so highly of him that Rin wanted nothing more than to include herself into this family, to be able to offer her help—it had her jumping the gun of wanting so badly to begin working on a proposal for her boss.

Soon enough Amata radioed in and it was time for the crew to go and do their actual job, but Alexis told Rin to check in with them if she saw the whale again and to keep in touch with her proposal idea, especially to discuss it with Amata and the several cetacea projects they’d ran in the past. Rin shook each of their hands, grateful to have met them, and got back aboard Blueback with a newfound sense of devotion about her. In fact, as soon as she got back to her place and ate her muesli out on her deck, watching for the whale, she phoned her boss.

“Hi, Joan.” Rin gulped, trying to will confidence into her voice. “How’s everything been?”

“Rin, great to hear from you!” Joan sounded shocked to hear her voice so soon into her leave. “Is everything okay?”

“I…” Rin swallowed a sob. “I had another miscarriage a week ago, and I’m putting off trying to conceive again, so I can come back from my leave early. I’d like to come back to work full-time again and be able to dedicate all of my time to that.”

Joan paused for a beat. “Rin, full-time straight away? Has your doctor recommended that you’re fit to work those hours already?”

“I’m back home, I’m off painkillers, I need something to put my time into, Joan.” And some great ideas, too.

“I understand that.” Joan paused once more. “Look, I’m going to need you to get some approval from a doctor about both your physical and mental capabilities right now and get back to me. And I’m only giving you half days, at least to start with.”

Rin chewed on her cheek to fight back a groan at the talk of her capabilities. She should’ve known that wouldn’t have worked on its own. “I appreciate that, Joan. Will do.”

“Take care of yourself, Rin.” Joan’s voice was soft, an inch away from pity. 

“I will. Thank you, Joan.”

After hanging up, instead of booking a doctor’s appointment right away, Rin took to researching the infamous name that had been given by their colleagues: Amata Ramos.

Articles dating back ten years led Rin to their impressive LinkedIn page, distracting her for a moment with a professional portrait shot of their smiling face against a white backdrop. The sheer boyishness of their features so like the voice Rin had heard hours ago made Rin almost breathless looking at them. His warm tawny brown skin and deeper-toned eyes and hair—a curly, almost mullet look that showed off a set jaw and cheekbones, an array of white-gold ear piercings on each ear matching the rims of his circular-framed glasses. Rin could see the hint of a tattoo on the sliver of upper arm visible in the image, almost being able to make out a shape like—

Rin blinked, remembering what she was meant to be doing, scrolling down and looking through Amata’s various projects and works they’d been promoting. Just last year, a post read:

Amata S. Ramos

Marine scientist | Marine life rescue officer

15th August 2004

Boat activity having skyrocketed exponentially each year, the ever-curious humpback whales around Phillip Island have significantly declined in breeding activity over the past two years. Read more about the correlation in my co-authored project below.

When Rin opened up the attached link, she scrolled through to the Results section where several graphs showing decreased resting periods and frequency overtime, variance in the choosing of breeding sites, reduced calf mortality, and a variety of results regarding the whales’ curiosity of the boats; some chose to migrate further away from them to breed, whilst some migrated closer, each choice with their own set of resulting impacts.

Another article compared whale-watching tours’ impact on whale behaviours including hunting skills, choice of breeding sites, and acclimation of humans; similar studies regarding dolphin tours, snorkelling and “feeding” tours, how migration patterns changed, their ability to hunt, boat injuries from getting too comfortable with boats—

Amata had done such a sheer amount of work studying these creatures than Rin had ever expected, proving so blatantly their vulnerability to human processes all in the name of capitalism. There was so much incentive here for regulations regarding boat activity to be made, restrictions that reduced the interactions between humans and cetaceans as much as possible, yet when Rin looked into actual legislations? Nothing since 1975, the Wildlife Act criminalising hunting and breeding of certain species, licenses for tourism activities that clearly are not beneficial for wildlife, and minimising damage to their habitats. Later acts in 1986 and 1988 still lacked boating regulations, even to this day. It was unbelievable.

Rin didn’t stop researching and recording streams of data from Amata and several other biologists’ studies for several hours, collating pages and pages of notes Joan would be stupid to ignore. She briefly considered emailing Amata through the address provided in their LinkedIn, but after thinking about it for more than a second realised that might make her seem crazy. She could call the Marine Rescue line again and hope they’d pick up, but that still fell to the same conclusion.

You have to be let back into work first, Rin, she reminded herself. And she booked her doctor’s appointment.

The weeks thereafter blended into one, as if she were in Norway again like last year where dissociating was more or less how she’d ended up there a month longer than she’d expected. Once more Rin was an empty vessel with another broken promise to her mother that she’d live to see her grandchild.

Ronan would’ve been this one’s name. Gale would’ve been the first, and on the bad days since pushing her dead body out of her, Rin had tried to chuckle to herself that maybe it was a blessing in disguise to have not gotten the possibility to name them that. But Ronan was good, hard to let go of and far too fresh now to picture anything but Rin here, now, staring out at the endless ocean from her lounge chair just waiting for an eventual impossible tsunami to come and swallow her whole.

As her eyes began closing and the blending of time began to shift into the unpredictable unconscious, something disturbed the water in the distance. A burst of water, audible from the shore, followed by the loud slap of a fin. A southern right whale, it seemed, from the broad paddle shape that struck the surface. It sparked a something in Rin that the squawking seagulls from the past days hadn’t been able to. For the first time, she heard her hunger, felt it creep up her throat and push her to stand up as she fought a dizzy spell. 

Everything in the fridge was either outdated literally or because they had been the oddest of pregnancy cravings she felt sick looking at now. Microwaveable mac and cheese in the back of her pantry was all she had effort to make for herself. Some of the almost radioactive looking cheese powder wasn’t melted as she took the first mouthful, but she was too suddenly ravenous to give a shit. A single serving only made her hungrier for another, which she let melt for an extended time in the microwave and was actually almost full by the time she finished it.

It had given Rin enough energy to feel like if she went for a swim she had a decreased possibility of drowning to death, so she slipped off her mother’s favourite striped sundress of hers and leapt off her deck in an almost excitable squeal, not bothering to clutch onto her bare breasts or loose skin. The moment she hit the water and felt the cold rush of water for the first time in weeks, she could only smile into the salt, her arms and legs remembering her unpracticed movement of swimming to be able to keep her head and neck above the water. 

The whale appeared above the surface once more, the smooth black looking more or less like part of the waves, hardly visible among them. But Rin heard her call, felt her, prayed for her that she would find better luck in birthing here than she had. Alone and in the sea like her—someone deserved to be successful, even if thinking about the possibility of seeing a calf in the distance in a few months time made her feel almost spiteful.

She didn’t ascend the ladder from the water to her deck until the day’s warm rays had long since dipped below the horizon and Rin could feel salt begin to clump in the red strands of her hair. Her shower was the first in more days than Rin could remember, the first time she fully took in her naked and empty body, too blatant of her misfortune with the saggy skin left from Gale and deep scar below her belly button now from Ronan.

She was defaced, but still beautiful. Not a mother, but still a woman. Alone, but so blatantly alive. Even if that fact felt like a chore eating her alive at the moment.

How dreadful it was that she’d have to stop trying for her own sake, give up her and her mother’s hope of Rin being able to copulate and raise a child on her own. All she’d done was give her father more company—or responsibility—wherever he rested now; she needn’t give him more.

Rin wondered what her body might look like a year from now without conceiving or trying to conceive, how it might feel. The possibility of feeling young again, how taking care of herself for just herself might fix her more than any child could.

She was gentle when cleansing herself, mainly from exhaustion, tracing over the still terribly tender tissue below her stomach and the sore muscle beneath; her breasts, her aching back. The untamed body hair that decorated her arms and legs, painted over freckles and spots, shallow wrinkles from the beginnings of her aging. 

And her bed was far comfier than the lounge chair on her deck, as beautiful as the views had been. It was cold from being unused, sheets months old but smelling painstakingly like herself to ground her. She swore she could still pinpoint the splashing of the whale amongst the waves as she drifted so quickly into dreamstate.

Ronan would have been so beautiful it hurt. The sharp features that Rin’s mother had always hated on her glowed beautifully in the sunlight. Their eyes blended into the floating sea around them, Rin gently guiding their strokes through the water. But their hair shone an auburn that stood out completely from it, different from the pale warmth of the sun, the sand, and Ronan’s fair skin. Instead it was like the rich maples she’d adored in Japan; a sweet acorn; a childhood teddy bear.

The moment Rin heard the painfully sweet laugh echo from her child’s mouth, the water swallowed them, tearing them from her grip and by the time the laughter turned to screams the depth had muffled it far too much for Rin to even hear. 

The swirling abyss lingered far too long, not freeing Rin from her slumber until the next morning where she awoke with sweat. At least this time her back wasn’t killing her when she tried to get up.

Like most mornings, she awoke dead on sunrise, the light filtering through her blinds in great tall slats. Opening them to let the rest of the sun in was rewarding once Rin’s eyes adjusted; orange broke the blue at the ocean’s horizon, casting an array of amber streaks through the thin bubbles of clouds decorating the sky.

The wind was steady—about 7 knots, Rin reckoned, sending soft ripples of whitecapped water across its surface. It sent a newfound rush over Rin, powering her to not even bother changing out of her thin cotton pyjamas as she tore out the front door and down stairs of pale oak to the cold morning sand that welcomed her to her pier. And there sat Blueback, bobbing in place slow and mournfully from being unused for many years. Barnacles had taken advantage of her docking, adorning her hull, and Rin’s heart ached from the neglect of her dear father’s boat as she began to loosen the bow and spring lines. 

Blueback creaked as the water began to pull her away from the dock, and Rin loosened her stern line before completely untying the others and scaling the railing at the hull to hop in, nicking her foot on a barnacle with a hiss. She let the water’s movement steadily unravel the rest of the final line and moved with the steady rocking of the boat to the mast, taking firm grip of the weathered rope to unsheath her sails, the familiar thump of them falling and catching wind like music to her ears.

The oak wax finish of her tiller was in demand of a touch-up, but was still like sanded crystal against her palm, soothing away her rope burn as wind rippled through her sails and she leaned into her tiller to direct it out of Venus Bay. 

To feel Blueback skipping along the water again, the salt spray in her hair—it almost filled the hollow emptiness in her uterus that still felt like her stomach was eating itself. She had forgotten to eat breakfast, which was definitely not making it better. 

It was early enough still for most of the boats to still be docked in the harbour, only small dinghies and monohulls like Rin’s out. It was peaceful like that, not being able to hear the sound of motors above the soft whistling of the wind. 

It was before long when the sun’s rays crept higher into the sky and Rin’s path ahead cleared enough for her to begin to lean against the wind and pick up speed, heart fluttering as the growing wind hugged her beneath her billowing clothes. She felt like she was sailing for the first time with her father, her mother watching anxiously from the dock, and it made Rin unsure if it was saltwater or tears falling down her cheeks. It had been over a decade since he died, yet it was like time had stopped completely until then—especially for her mother. She hadn’t even called her yet to tell her about her miscarriage out of fear of what the news would do to her; Rin would probably have to do it in person, stay with her in Binginwarri for a few days—see if she’d managed to keep the animals alive this long or not.

As her eyes remained glued on the golden-rayed water ahead, Rin noticed a few waves that didn’t break into the water below, and her eyes widened as she sharply turned Blueback into the wind to come to a stop, eyes trained on the whale in the morning sunlight as she fumbled for her binoculars she’d kept stowed away all this time.

Great clusters of callosities adorned her upper jaw, a large chunk on the very end and smaller ones further back near her eyes, visible even hundreds of metres away against her jet black skin. She was cruising along the surface of the water with gentle strokes of her tail, white and grey smudges along the right fluke. A great puff of water erupted from her blowholes before she sank down below the waves, surfacing slightly closer to Rin’s boat. The next time she dipped below once more, she’d once again zigzagged closer to her boat.

Placing the binoculars down, Rin moved to completely draw up her sails to let Blueback drift, holding tight to the railing and letting the cool metal ground her as she could only watch the whale approach. She began to do barrel rolls through her advancement, teasing Rin with a pectoral flap as she winded her way to the boat. Eventually she stilled, back to calmly drifting along the water until Rin could only gasp at her proximity, counting the white freckles over her skin, laughing when the next spout sent water that rained down upon her.

The whale turned onto her side to show her belly once more, and Rin got a glance of those deep black eyes, glistening and framed by a white almost eyebrow patch of skin. “Hi.” Rin hadn’t heard the sound of her own voice in so long, nevertheless in a tone of such joy. She sighed at the whale’s gentle song sending deep vibrations up through the keel of Blueback into Rin's very bones.

The volume of her song increased, hammering in Rin’s ears until she realised they weren’t all coming from the water. She turned to her right to find a jetski zipping through the water heading her direction, far enough away to not touch the whale but still an eruption of sound all too close to her.

“Watch it!” Rin called, waving her hands in its direction before pointing to the lump beside her boat. “There’s a whale! Turn your engine off!”

Her voice was either lost in the noise or ignored, as before long the jetski zipped past her, the whale knocking into Blueback in surprise before quickly ducking below the surface, resurfacing further away from the jetski and Rin—closer to shore, now slowly drifting toward it.

A few seconds went by and the whale continued advancing to the shore, and Rin decided she couldn’t stand and watch. She rushed down into the cabin, trying to remember where she put her list of important contacts, much less her radio. Her still-unmade bed, her bedside drawers—empty. It wasn’t until she opened her kitchen cupboards of all things and consulted the clipboard bolted next to the doorway that she could phone marine rescue services, rushing back on deck and heart sinking to spot the whale’s unchanged positioning.

A much calmer voice than Rin felt right now answered after the dial, deep and husk. “Victoria Marine Rescue Services, how can we help?” 

“There’s a southern right whale here—at Venus Bay. She’s heading for the shore after this jet ski whipped past us, I…I don’t know if she might be beached.”

“Venus Bay, you said?” the operator confirmed.

“Yes.”

“Copy that. I’ve sent a crew your way. What are your coordinates?” 

Rin rushed to her radar. “38.7383 due south, 145.8314 east. We’re around 400 metres offshore. How far away is your crew?”

There was a pause, a click of a tongue, and Rin’s heart sank. “Could I get your name, miss?”

“…Rin.”

“Okay, Rin, I’m Amata.” The feminine name startled Rin from the sound of their voice, the starkness almost exciting her at the thought of what that might mean Amata looked like. Had it not been such a dire situation, Rin might have indulged in the fantasy. “And there’s a chance they aren’t going to make it in time, so I’m going to need you to listen to me, okay?” The operator’s voice was still so calm, assured, everything Rin wasn’t.

Rin inhaled sharply. “Copy.”

“Are you behind the whale or in front?”

“Behind. She came up to my boat before the jetski came.”

“Are there any boats in your area in front of her?”

Rin scanned quickly, finding all the boats further out to sea. “No.”

“Okay, we can’t deter her, then. We have to entice. That’s trickier, but possible. You said she came up to your boat previously?”

“Yes.”

“So she’s interested in you, that’s good. Do you have sails or oars? Any non-engine mechanism?”

“Yes, sails.”

“Amazing, drop those for me and try to drift ever so slowly perpendicular to the whale’s movements—slightly diagonal if possible and not following so she doesn’t think you’re chasing her.” Halfway through Amata’s message, Rin turned the radio’s volume all the way up and placed it down on the deck as she unhooked and dropped down her sails once more, angling her boat to begin to drift slowly parallel to the shore. 

“Okay, done!” Rin picked up the radio, clamping it between her ear and shoulder as she continued steering. “Now what?” 

“You can swim, right?” Amata asked.

Rin scoffed. “Yeah? I’m on a boat, what—”

“Perfect, get in the water—make sure you can climb something to get back into the boat—”

“Obviously!” Rin couldn’t blink as she watched the whale not steering course, the ripple of water in her wake barely shaking her boat now. “Just tell me what I need to do.”

“Create soft vibrations in the water—just your fingers, rub them together and see if she comes. Usually works best with smaller marine life, but if she’s already been curious with you, it could work.”

“On it.” Rin rushed to her boarding ladder and practically jumped off the edge, her pajamas billowing in the cold water around her as she bobbed beneath the surface and back up again, gently treading water with three of her limbs as Rin outstretched her free arm and slowly rubbed circles into her thumb with her pointer and index finger, all the while the whale pumped her tail, floating toward shore.

“You can do this, Rin.” Amata’s voice crackled faintly from the boat, and Rin inhaled deeply as she continued sending the circular rhythm of her fingers through the water.

“Come on,” she prayed. “Don’t die for nothing, please.” She pictured it so clearly, her beautiful skin drying into a dull mass of blubber upon the sand, the greedy unwanted hands upon her of people like the jetskier, yet the wave of sadness that would make its way over the beach. Amata’s people pushing everyone back as they looked mourningly to the result of Rin’s failure.

Her fingers pruned, friction stunting her circles as Rin teared up watching the whale, begging for her to feel her. Three more pumps of her tail toward her misery. Four more.

And then…a barrel roll. Rin’s heart leapt as she gazed upon the triangular border of the whale’s white freckled fin before it dipped below the surface, disappearing for a short while until she blew a puff of water from her blowholes in her advancement back towards Rin, and her cheeks cramped from her smile at the sight.

“Yeah! Great job, baby.” It was like she was talking to her childhood puppy again and scared of frightening it. Her voice was so low, breath caught from the beautiful sight before her of the whale’s clear path toward her, the jetski long gone. It was just Rin and her.

Her bumpy black body dipped below around 50 metres from her and Rin watched as her shadowy figure drifted below her and under Blueback out into the sea, the strong pumps of her tail sending Rin and Blueback through a shallow bump of a wave, Rin laughing in shock.

She quickly scaled the ladder and fumbled for the radio as she watched the whale swim away, overjoyed that Rin had the privilege of her heart aching as she left on her own, not her life drifting away on the beach. “She did it,” Rin breathed into the radio. “She’s going back out to sea.”

“Fuck yeah!” Amata’s voice was elated, much unlike the steadily cool tone they’d kept previously. “Rin, you himala, you did it!” It was a miracle, what had been done. Rin couldn’t tear her eyes away from the trail of ripples in the whale’s wake until she could be totally sure it wasn’t going to circle back toward her and the shore, and she didn’t. She’d disappeared, away from the shallows of the bay until her next visit.