#fallingoars

@falling-oars / @returned-to-the-sea

She shouldn’t be surprised, to be asked. They’ve seen each other a heavy handful of times now this past year, whenever Esther’s ship makes port and she can come inland to visit the one person on this G-d forsaken island that doesn’t make her feel more exhausted than she already is after a long, fruitless voyage. Esther loves her crew. She does. But sometimes a night of drinking, fucking or fighting is the last thing she needs. 

So she’s here, sitting on a half-crumbled wall alongside Alma, so far inland that she needed a horse to get here and she’ll need one to get back to the beach, too. “Eh,” she shrugs, and pushes tumbling black hair back from her face. She doesn’t like to lie - not to Alma, not to anyone. She’s said she’s part of a merchant crew before but she can’t be sure if Alma believes her anymore, or if it matters either way.

“I assumed if you had something to say about it, you’d have said it already.” 

James’ voice is calm, but the wariness in his eyes remains. The tightening in his gut at the word husband in someone else’s mouth, someone he doesn’t know, someone that might--use that. 

He realises, with a crawling sort of icy feeling, that he would kill this man with only a moment’s hesitation if he felt it was necessary. A moment’s hesitation to consider what Thomas would think, and then.

Flint has already stirred, has been lurking in the low parts of his mind since Jacob arrived. James feels it shift restlessly in him, feels himself itching for the familiarity of his hand on the hilt of a sword, the press of a pistol tucked into his belt.

“Do I need to be worried?” 

Samson edges inside, a dark shadow shifting towards him. He murmurs into the dark cavern, feeling the bump of that tall mutt nudging at his thighs. “Thunder’s finished.” He shuffles closer, hand soothing at the dog. “All over, my friend.” His voice is too quiet. He hums a little, waiting for those glittering eyes to peek out and see his familiar face. “You’re right now, Oisín. Come on now.” [2/2]

They drown the voice from him, these storms; he tries to hum his way through them, tries to out-sing the screaming of the wind and the crying of the rain to soothe himself. But always he finds himself shrinking down small and covering his ears, the humming slipping from music to a constant, animal whine, an unintelligible plea for the storm to stop, to leave him and his be. The tall mutt will whimper and soil itself and tremble too hard to move, and the runt will snarl at the creaking trees and tear off up the hills; Oisín will pick up the big one, follow the smaller to the caves, and there the three of them will stay until it’s all over. This is how it always goes.

The storm is over, but Oisín remains hidden, silence still aching at his head. The runt has already scampered off, streaking back into the woods, leaving the other two alone. The tall mutt is the one that first notices Samson’s arrival, seems glad to see him, pressing its snout into his legs.

Oisín, shrouded in shadow and crouching with his shoulder against the damp, mossy wall of the cave, peers through his hair at his friend, feels a heavy drag of relief tug through him at the sight of him. Slowly, he starts to uncoil, to push himself upright, all spider-limbs, loose clothing still damp and clinging to him. 

His head still feels horribly quiet. But he moves towards Samson, and the light of the day behind him, feels the hound start to circle them both eagerly. 

"It’s bad down there?” His eyes flicker towards the mouth of the cave. The deep slope beyond. He knows there will be hurt things down there, in the woods. Some dead, some dying. Death for all things is an inevitability that does not usually bother him- but the storms always set something off in him, some deep, upsetting sentimentality for the creatures he spends so much of his life around. “There’ll be flooding. The rain. Riverbanks.” 

He shifts closer again, into the first rays of proper light, the world swimming into focus. Samson, solid and real and here. Oisín reaches out, wondering, and touches the man’s hair very gently. Real. 

Oisín hasn’t questioned it, the odd little nest by the hearth. He’d known it was for him the moment he’d laid eyes on it, and despite his lingering unease around the man that made it, had settled into it without a fuss. 

He tilts his head at Jacob’s question, has to think for a moment to remember their last conversation, the reason behind it. Remembers Samson, eyes dull and spirit far-off, unreachable. The long, upset trek through the woods and out, thinking, thinking, of how many times this had happened before and how many times it might happen again. 

@falling-oars // yes i absolutely CAN believe it

It still took him by surprise, these intermittent displays of affection, though he had known Samson for a fair length of time he’d never bothered to measure. Whenever Samson withdrew into himself again, it was hard to remember that he had ever not been withdrawn. 

Oisín had been sitting on the floor by his feet, the hound’s head in his lap and a half-remembered song just-barely on his lips, when Samson’s face was pressed unexpectedly into his hair. It didn’t startle him- he only blinked, tipping his head back a little like he was trying to look up at his friend, then felt himself grin, bright and delighted. 

Silver’s eyes narrow the moment she comes towards him, intent plain as day to him; he makes as if to get up, gives up when she speaks. 

“This mop,” says Silver lightly, seemingly unaffected by the fingers in his hair, “is a cultivated mess. It’s taken me a good month to get it this filthy, and now you’d like to destroy my hard work.” 

For all his deflection and refusal, though, he leans his cheek into Alma’s hand a little, can’t quite muster the appropriate level of annoyance to glare at her properly.

Silver doesn’t look like he’s watching him intently, but he is. He’s been keeping Jacob in the corner of his eye this entire time, and that doesn’t change when the man moves away to occupy himself with making tea. Silver watches that much more carefully. He didn’t come here to be poisoned. 

It does catch him off-guard, though, when the man speaks to him. Do you need something for the cuts? That’s new. Gates and his crew could hardly have cared any less.

Silver takes the mug from him, isn’t subtle about sniffing it. “I’m fairly certain I won’t die without it,” he shrugs, indifferently. His face hurts. “But since you’re offering - yes.” 

Silver is deeply uncomfortable with this plan. He’d tried to argue against it, truly, but eventually he’d realised that being out here away from a town full of people that want him dead might be safer than lingering, no matter how much he desperately dislikes being shunted off onto someone like an unwanted stray. 

Besides- this man doesn’t look like he wants Silver dead. Yet. He probably will by the end of these two days, but he’ll deal with that when it comes.

At Gates’ side, Silver smiles, wondering what the fuck he’s expected to say here. ‘Want’ is a strong word.