#aylumin

jules had taken to walking down to the sickbay a few times a day, excuses turning more feeble with each turn --- hoping, always hoping, to come across the girl. she had caught only glimpses of ayla since the return from the island. enough to know she was alive, enough to know she had suffered, enough to know jules had not kept her safe. and as jules finally saw ayla after all these tumultuous days -- the full sight of her, each of them there in the hall outside the sickbay -- it all swelled inside her suddenly. 

“you stupid, hopeless girl ---” 

she pulled her close and let herself feel the soft animal of the girl’s body. ayla dowling was breathing. ayla dowling was alive. that was her heartbeat, right against jules. that was her warmth, jules could feel it. 

“I’m glad we can forget the little hiccup in the brig but I just can’t stand this anymore. Sit down, Dowling. I’m going to tell you a little story.”

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆?

You were fourteen years old and set to board your first collier ship. Your father was seeing you off, tagged along by the middle Greene son.

Deckhand’s a fitting title, your older brother jeered as he cuffed the back of your head affectionately, your mitts are about the size of one! And looking down at your hands, you recall thinking he had a point. They’d been just as gangly in proportion as the rest of you in youth. ( You, this wobbly-fawn thing with legs too long for your trousers. ) But before you could splay your fingers and whop him in kind, your Father planted something in your palm. You could recognize it by weight alone. An heirloom pocket watch. The very same always swinging from your Father’s trousers like the sun on a string. You’d coveted it enough times, hard enough, to know just the feel of its brass without even having touched it once. It was perfect in every way, except for the fact it ran two minutes fast. All the more perfect for it. Make them work for their ways to doubt you, he said. You'll never be late in your life.

Your brother greened with envy but you, you grinned so wide your smile could’ve cut ear to ear and kept going.

—

The saddest truth she has ever heard comes from the lips of the softest soul. She remembers that she was once like Ayla, a child of the summer sky and the warm glow of an incandescent sunset. But now, when she reaches into the depths of her mind for that person, all she grasps is an empty space.

“No, there is not, doux amour.” She takes the other’s hand, a gesture made of assurance and kindness. A silent way of reminding another person: you are not alone. “The walls are closing. So we must be better. We must be stronger. We must be ruthless, for the ice will show us no mercy.” 

When the captain made his announcement, he might as well have said “In one month’s time, Violet Hale will be dead”. She felt her lips part in disbelief, as all her efforts dissolved before her eyes. All at once, she felt an unbearable weight crash onto her shoulders—as if Atlas had left his post and cursed her to bear the world instead. She could feel the palms of her hands tingling, itching with nervousness. Her tell-tale sign of distress, one that she’s had since she was a child. Panic rises from her chest, a spreading disease that crawls up and up. It has her throat now, choking the life from her. Scream. She must scream to keep it at bay, to keep herself alive.

But not here, not in front of all these prying eyes. Her intervention with the troublemaker has brought enough attention.

She pushes past the small crowd that had gathered for Malachy’s speech, her hands burning now. Unable to resist, she scratches at her palms. While on the upper deck, she attempts to be subtle about it but as she descends deeper into the Promethean, her scratching becomes more erratic. By the time she reaches her wanted destination, the Brig, ( away from watchful eyes ) her fingernails are digging into her arms and hands, causing red angry streaks in their trail.

She has failed. She has failed herself. She has failed her brother. They will be dead in less than 2 months. She doesn’t care much for her own death, its been a long time coming. But her twin…To lose the one thing in the world that you allowed yourself to love…What did she do to deserve this fate?

A question with an immediate answer: What hasn’t she done to deserve this fate?

the ship was turning around; salvation had come in the form of sense. at last, at last! teodoro should have felt that happiness as something freeing, he should have sank to his knees and thanked god. ( mercy and love, blot out our sins, let us live through mortal weakness for a little while longer. ) but the news rang hollow, uncertain. none of it felt real, and even the crew seemed to whisper: what does this mean? they looked to teo as cause and effect.  

but, to the ice-maker, the announcement only seemed a warning. he might turn the corner and find the silent one still, head tossed back and noiseless laughter on its tongue --- it had gotten a taste, and a taste would only settle in its belly as want for more. he felt the hunger reflect in him, not as the feel of sharp teeth in his mouth or the desire to tear into flesh, but as a deep mistrust of all other possibilities. 

( he did not yet believe in the hope of a happy ending. )

teo wanted assurance their path would remain steady; he wanted assurance the captain would keep his word and return them home. home, such a dangerous word! home, the only thing that could drive a righteous man to bend to another’s will. 

home in the form of family, in the form a girl --- ayla, the captain’s niece, the captain’s heart. teo approached her and saw his assurance. 

pre-expedition setting, AU idk bro, HAPPIER TIMES

“oh for God’s sake, Ayla,” he says; it’s somewhere between trying to sound like he’s scolding her for saying something like this and laughing—if anyone were to overhear them, he can only imagine the stares and whispers (though they get those plenty already, it’s like they can never escape the rumors these days). 

“he could not have been that bad,” Edward continues—he turns his head to catch a glimpse of the gentleman he’s just, well—rescued Ayla from. This is why he doesn’t enjoy these functions, sooner or later he ends up either bored out of his mind or verbally assaulted by men he barely knows, their wives and their daughters and all the uncomfortable questions one doesn’t like being served with their glass of wine; or Edward spots Ayla across the room, looking as miserable as he does while some young man talks her ear off, mouthing help me when she sees him looking. It’s a dance they’ve danced before and they seem to have got proficient at it. It’s quite amazing, how beneficial each other’s presence has become at these things.

“what was it then? I can’t possibly imagine what kind of conversation made you think of strangling the poor man.”