#she rises

Sketchbook page featuring the angler fish that went viral a little while ago and a mermaid design inspired by her. She rises. ✨

1700-luvun villeihin satamakaupunkeihin, armottomille purjelaivoille ja eksoottisiin kaukomaihin sijoittuva seikkailuromaani. Lesboromantiikkaa! Myös sukupuolen moninaisuus on tarinassa vahvassa osassa.

Kirjassa liikutaan kahden näkökulman välillä: ensimmäinen on navettapiika-Louise, joka nousee kamarineidon asemaan ja ihastuu uuteen emäntäänsä, keimailevaan Rebeccaan. Toinen on Luke, väkisin kuninkaallisiin merivoimiin värvätty nuori mies, joka pyrkii selviytymään kurjissa oloissa laivalla ja päästä takaisin kotiin rakastettunsa luo.

...Kirjaan on piilotettu aika suuri twisti, joka itseltä jäi kokonaan huomaamatta ennen paljastusta. Tajusin kyllä että jotain tässä taustalla on, mutta en nähnyt sitten metsää puilta.

Louisen ja Rebeccan rakkaus jätti aluksi kylmäksi; inhoan tällaisia romansseja, joissa rouva juoksuttaa palvelijatartaan joka palvoo parempaansa. Mutta kirjan kuluessa suhde saa aivan erilaisen tasapainon, ja lopussa olin jo todella kiintynyt pariin.

Kun tarinassa päästään troopiikkiin Afrikan rannikolle, on edessä joitakin vaivaannuttavia kohtauksia. Vaikka ymmärrän mitä kirjailija ajaa takaa tuodessaan esiin valkoisen päähenkilön ja tummien sivuhenkilöiden dynamiikkaa, ei kellekään mustalle henkilöhahmolle anneta samaa huomiota kuin lukemattomille muille hahmoille, mikä saa lukijan tuntemaan olonsa vain pällisteleväksi turistiksi.

Tämä on sitä historiallista fiktiota, joka edustaa genren brutaalinta päätä. Lanta haisee, rokkopaiseet puhkeilevat, seksuaalista väkivaltaa on paljon. Tämä oli odotettavissa erityisesti Luken tarinan kohdalla, mutta se ei tee graafisista kohtauksista sen helpompia kestää.

Ylipäätään kerronta tulee iholle: kaikki on fyysistä ja kouriintuntuvaa, parhaimmillaan huumaavaa ja kammottavaa yhtä aikaa.

[one] [two] [three] [four] [five] [ TW will be alerted in brackets]

Surrounded by fallen bodies and the color of crimson, Eilithe knew. She understood and she was willing. For over a year, she had tried to find the Harbinger and for over a year-- she’d been to weak to do it. 

“Shal’Khan,” Eilithe said, kneeling before the saber and lifting his face to hers and touched, forehead to forehead. “Turn back.” Around his neck she tied a knapsack which had been stolen off one of the dead men and stuffed with maps, papers, anything she could find that might help the others. “Take this to Reveria-- she’ll know what to do.” She scratched his head and the saber growled in protect of separation, but she turned his face. “You can still get back. You know the way back.”

For a time Eilithe ran, towards the distant howling of her forgotten Loa. The wounds on her body throbbed.

  n̷̛̫͓̭͗͑́̄̊͐͌̋͂̈͘͘ȏ̷̢̢̡̮͔͎͓͙̬̜̇͗̅̊̂͊̈́̈́̈́̚͠ ̵̨̥͈͎̫̳̐̈́͛̅̾̅̇̔͗͝m̷̢̢̳͎͕̫̥̯͇̠̀͌͋͠a̷̺̜̓́͌̉̏̉̀͛͘͘ṯ̵̗̰̫͇̭̜̦̜̮́̄̈̓̂͊̿͋͂̌͂̓̍̚͠ţ̵̛̤͉̞̤̻͙̤̝̹̱̲͖͓̇̿̃̀͌̍̋͑͒̀̉̚͜͠ê̷͈̘̗̼̰̣̭͐̀̓̎͛͂̓̑̈́̕ͅr̸̳̯̼̝͕̼̝̤̝̲̼̘̥̅̊̊̈́̃̃͂͘ ̶̛̛̰̹̀̌͋̒̓́͂́̔͠w̶̨̛̯̮͍͚͚̙͙̙̼̰̖̳͈̿́̏̔͘͘ͅĥ̶̢̼̑a̷̛̮͎̖͎̋̋̃̆̀̕̚̕t̶̛̺̋͛͂̎̔̂ ̷̪̪̾́̈́͜͠ÿ̷͍̪̣̼̟͍̬́̉̒̋̎͝o̶̧̧̼̭̳̩̩̱̱̣͋͐̽̽͊͛͑͛̋u̴̡̡͚͖̤̤̲̠̦̻̭͛́͊̈͐ͅ ̶͓̖̺̽̿̎̈̈͗̀̈́̃͝͝d̸̛̹̗̔̋͛̇̀̉̑͂̀̓̾͗̕ơ̴̡̡̝͓̗͎̤̠͖͚̦͔̟͓̣͗̓̑͆̐̈́̊̓̚̚͘̕͠ ̴̧̦̳͕̯̏̓̅̓́́͝͝͝n̵͇͒̀͌̎̌͑̈̈́̄́̄̎͘õ̶̡̡͈̣̺̘̜̜͉̃ͅ ̸̧̙͇͙͉̭͔̙̱͇̰̜͖̂́ͅm̷̨̖̙͔̲͇̌͊̒̾̇̈̍͂̎̐̉̀͐͜͝ä̶̧̛͉͈̺͍̬̗̥̫̖̥̋̏̂͑̈́͗͠ţ̶̧̗͕̰͆̎̿̈́̓̀̀̃̕̚̚t̴̢͇̳̝̗͔̻̄͛̎͒͌͑̀̑̿̋̽̚͝ě̴͕̪͔̪̀̈́r̵̢͓͓̳͚͖̤͉͈̘͍͎͓̎͜ ̷̛̲̬̫̦̝̝̼̒̓̀̈̿͛͆̈̃́̏̀͠͝ț̶̞̭͖̦͉̱͓̪̜̍̊̽͑̈́͒͘̚ḩ̵̛̞̱̩͈̘̙̭̫̳͎̘̒̓̐́̏̔̈́̆̚͘͜͜͜͝͝e̸̙̞̻͎̤͇̠̲̬͓̳̬̫͂͜͝ ̴̹̝͙͈̣̭͙̙̭̓̎̑̈́̈͑̑͠͝ͅp̸̦̜̊͋̀̀̍͘r̴͔̜̿͂̐̿̆͋̂͆̕i̷̢̢̨̡̳̘̤͖͑͛̃̒̿̊́͐̾c̸̲̖̮̺̠̎͘ẻ̷̺͆̃̀̂͂̎̇̂̆̽̔͑ ̷̨̬̞͉̠̥̺̣̻͇͓̺̙͙̊̿̋̉͛̄̌̅͋y̷̲͂̉ọ̷̧͎̮̐̊̽̍̕û̴̘̟̯͊͗͛̇̑͜ ̵͙̗̪̲̮̍̄̽̀̊̋͂̃͂͑̀͂͊p̸̨̢̰͓̮͓͍͖̠̥̙̝͔̭̾̓͒͛̕̕͝͝ͅḁ̷̡͈̊̌̋̇̊͒͒͒̉̊́y̸̡͚͚̺̲̔̌̇͐͛̒͑̈́̈́ ̷̡̹͖̅͆͋͒̏͒̈̌͒̐̈́̊͌h̸̤̱̤̺̪̖̙̝̘̭̳͇̉̃é̵̢̳̺̻͚̫̥͓̞̫͐̕͜͜͠ ̶̡̛̬̤͔͓͙͔̻́́̈́͐̀̒̈̅̓̈́ͅẅ̶̧̧̛̦̹̞̻̤̬̯́̇̅̔͆̍͋͌̃̕͘a̶͙̥̪̲͋̄̍̅̂̿̀̑̒ķ̸͋͠ę̶̛̩̣̤̻̞͙̼͑̐̈́̓̇̑̈̑̋̆̉̑̈́̓ͅs̶̲̭̬̦̮͒͊̑̍͗̇̅́̒͘ ̸̡̧̢̜̦̯̮̘̱͐̒͌́̿͋̋́͒̏͝ͅt̷̢̧̮̜̰͙̩͒h̸̨̟̫̺̪̥͖̜̗͓̫̙̋̆̍͐͗̏̎̍́͠ĭ̸̡͔͔͔͖̑̓̊͑̍̍̕͝ş̸̘̘̟̲̯̮̳̝̲̭̮͋̽́̚͝ ̴̗̘̦̉̌͌̀̀̽͂͐͝w̴̢̛͔̜̦̟̰̹̯̮̒͋̎̓̾̀͌ȉ̸̛̮̐́̈́̏̐͘͜͝l̸̡̩̺͉̤̭̟̺͌͐̓̉̎̒̚͜͜ḽ̵̢̡̻̞̤̼̰̤͓̲̙̒̑͐̓̿͐̓̒͒̾͝͝͝ͅ ̷̨̟̰̄̇͑͋͂͋̊͒̎̓b̷̢̻̗̙̣͚͔͈̮̭̰͖̗͉͖̌̑̊̀̍̅͆̇̄̉e̴͚̤̙̺̬͍͉̗̗̎̃̊ ̶̛͇̳͕̙͑͗̄̌̑͒́̍̈́́͠͝f̴̗̫̠͉̭̋̌̌͊̎͛̊ớ̴̡̗͎͖̥͎̼̙̟͑̑͜ͅr̷̛̯͖̹͖̎͗̏͌́̂̏̓̔̚ ̸̗̜̐͒̌͌͊̉̃̎͘͘n̸͙̆͑͗̒̔͂͋̉̎͐̽͂̑͒̕o̴̳̅̓̓́̀̉̑̔̀t̴̻̱̩̪͙̝̬̫̆̓̓́̐̃̀͌h̴̯̫͖͇͛̃͑̏ĩ̵̢̻͚͚͖̪̻n̸̪͖͇̓̓̔̎̋͑̔̒̐̒͝g̴̼̦̥͒͌̆̽̎̅̒̀̇̅̒͒͠

 The pang of the shadow-- whom she had come to believe entirely was the Sleeper himself clawed into her mind. If she, or any of her passengers had thought to deem her free of it, they would have been so terribly wrong. 

Tired and with the weight of all of her decisions, she walked. “How will we know when we get there?” “We’ll know.”  “But how?” 

i̶̡̨̛͚͙͖͍̯̮͓̠̥̾͑̀̎̊̾͒̑̽͐̊ͅ ̸̪͈̜̣͉̮͎̪̬̯̼̰͎̊̎͐̓͋̎̿̈́̕ͅc̷̡̛̫̻͇̳̗̟̲̟̲̈̌͌́̽̓̅̅̑̑̓͘͘͜͠a̸̬͈͚̒̎̿͆n̶͙̠̈̅̇͜͠ ̸͍̯̠̼͈̲̆̊́f̶̬̹̲̣̠̤̹̳͉͛̐͗̓͑̉̀̍͐̒͋͘͠͝͝ŕ̴̢̪̘̙͎̤̳̰̪̰̠͐̓͐͑͛̌́́̇́̓̀é̶̩̻̇̑͂̎̈͗͑͜͠͝e̶̥͖̒̈̐̈́́͒͘͜ ̵̝͕̜̳̼͉̬͌͋̋̓͂́͂̈̈́͊͒͊̌̚͜ͅỵ̸̧̨̡͖͈̱͙̪͔̓̿̏̔̀̐̃͒̑͜͝͝o̸̡̯͖͍̻̱̞̙͜͠û̵̢̟̗̖̂͊͝͝ͅ ̶̳͖̖̳̰̭̞̜̥͌̒͆̀̎̃̅͐͑̏ͅͅḯ̴̛͙̯̠̮̤̩͉̭͖̘̺͇̘͐̐͌̀͗̒̓̏ ̶̢̨̡̢̞͈̖͓̹͌́̄̈͛̇͒̉͠ͅc̴̜̋̐ḁ̶̡̢̛͚̟̜̓̍́̈̀͑̇̑́̂̈́̕n̴̩̦͇̻̾̒͂̓͒͌͑̀̚̚̚̚͘͠ ̵̺͑̆̔͒̇́̈̔͒̋͘f̴̨̛̝͖̯͕̣̎̍͊̊͝r̵͓̻͖̫͙̤̖̻̪͍̣̟̓̽̔̑̃͜ͅȇ̶̖̎̋̋͛͆͑̔͂̄̀̕ȩ̸̪̤͎̬͍̣̍̀̉̂͝ͅͅ ̵̮̼͚̘̑̏̈́t̴̖͓̦͇̠̣̮̘͕̖͚̲̦̀h̵̥̍͗̏̽̓̐͆e̸͓̪͎̝͍͔͍̭̊́̓͒͠m̴̺͙͍͔̃̑͑̕ͅ ̶̡̞̝̳̤̙͕̣̜͚͇̈́̌̅̆̆̿͐͑̄̈́͜͝͝͝͝a̸̧̧̨̧͇̖̻͕̦̫̣̫̯͒̆͐̐̚̕l̸̡̛̞̤̯̰̠̗͓̺̟̠̠̅̉̊̐́̀͂̀̓̚̚͠ͅl̶̜̓͌͆̈́̽̈́̓͂̄̎́̉͝ ̸͉͂̅̆̅̎ṩ̴̡̤͉̜̬͈̭͔̻̎̓͌̉̍͑̈́͆̎̀̽̕l̷͉̐̎̉̄̀̓̉͂̓̋̋e̸̥̫̘͔̲͖͚̞̠͚̥̤̱̋́̇̒͗̎͝ͅe̵̢̡̢̞̠̯͌̍͛̌́̍̐͝͠ͅp̴̹̩̱̮͔̯̲̩͕̹͌̓̍̂̍̓̈́̈̉̀̀̅͆͝ ̷̯͚̝͚̟̥͋́͒͌̋̔̚͠s̶̜̳̱̪̥͓̭͇̱͆̋̈́͗̐̐͆͗́̌́̕l̵̞͉̜̄̅͗̿̕ē̷̢̪̳̲͚̘̻̻̖̪̞͇̐ę̴̛̳̟̾̒́͂͐̂͑̔̓̂͝͝p̷̧̳̱͉̀s̶̢̨̱͔̠̜̝̺̲̈́̓̃̀͑̈̃ͅl̸̡̡̟̹̠̝̼͇̺͖̩̯͍̭̰͐̎̈́͒̽̋͋̒̈́ḛ̷̛̛̬͎̝̿̐̾̌̔͑͋̂ę̴̛̹̥̯͖͉̞̩̟̩̰̪͎̟͐̂̾͂̉͂̏̍́ͅp̴̦̰̠͉̯̰͎̪̼͋͗̅̑s̶͖̞̭̠͎͍̪̩͇͚͇̊̽̎̿̀̒̓͂̽͌̔̓̓ͅl̸̨͇̼̺̰̻̩̘͚̮̻͍̓̏͌̂̈́͛ͅͅe̶̛̞̯͉͓̘̤̙̜̹͖̬̥̹͆̇̓̔́̀̇̈́̾̔̕̕ͅé̴̫͔̩̝͒̽̀̃p̷̻̹̻̗͚͈̋̿͜ͅ

Her eyes blinked slowly, vision rattling-- the shadow followed her, always on the peripheral taunting her; luring her elsewhere. It was louder and louder with its demands to for her to sleep, creeping up on her back as though the moment she stopped moving it would spirit her away for good. 

d̷̤͓̦̠̬̰̯͈̹̪͓̤͋̈́̑ơ̵̧͇̯̝̗̲̜͈̯̖̫̆́̅́͑͌̀̄̿̍͋̂̚̚ͅý̵̗̰̠̲͎ò̴̡̖̝̹̗͚̲͉͎̬̝̳̈̔͋̔́̂̉́̈́̿̈u̶̻͈͖͖͇̒͒͒̾̀́͆͋̽͑͠͠r̵̨̨̙̥̣̺͔̜̱̂̏̋͂̓̾̉͒̋̕̕͜ȇ̴̢͇̩̥̬̟̟͑͌̃́̈́͒̚m̴̨̩̰̜͙͍̼̙̝̭̥͔̮̌͌̈́͂̾̐̾̌̚͝͝ê̸̢̱̮͙̬̯͉̫̳̭͉͈͙̭̅̀̃̐͗̈́̊͗͐͑͘͘͝͠ͅm̸͍̯̊̅̆̓͌̑͝b̸̧̛͚͚͇̺͈̪̖̌̀̈́̑̈̉̈́͋́͠e̷̱̱̼̥͈̎͋̓̎̾̈̈́́̽̚r̴̡̦͉̻̹̖̼̥̺͉̘̹̙̽̍͆̈́͗͒̒̃̓̓͑̇̔͝͝ ̷̢̥͓͂͑͗̄͆̎̆̎̀́̀̓̎̀̚ȟ̸̭̜̝͖̖̼͍̘̾̐͒͆̌̍͘̕͝o̸̙̯̟͓̫̳̠̗̹̭̲͑̌̈́̾̍͒̕͝w̸̧̛̹̠̯͔̺̫̓̃̐͆̂̚ḯ̸̦̥̆͝t̷̛̰͉͇̪̠̅f̴̛̝̲͛̊̈̊̈́̆̌̀͂̾̓̄̄̚ę̴̦̖̟́̅̉́͌̑͊͂̆l̴̪̟̺̰̯̲̥̀̾́t̷̨̢͓̙͔̠̮͍̹̣͔̦͓͐́̉́̈́͂̚ͅ ̴̖͚͙̱̻͈͔͐͆̿͛́̒̆̀̎̒͗̍̈́͘t̷̢̠͔͒̿̆̀͝ỏ̸̢̻͈̜̺̫̃̏̌͆̈͛̈́h̶̫̫̞͂̊̇̍͑́͂̚̕ò̷̫̳̌̿̓̓͝͝l̸̡̧͚̳͍̙̱͉̱̇ḑ̴̧̨͓̞̭̭̩͔̰̣͈̼͈̈́m̸͚̠̭͙̭̻͔̠͙̐̍͐̀̐̍̉̆͋̈́̈́̏͊͂̚ͅͅý̵̨̧̲̰̲̥͓͚̱̤̱̓͛p̶̢̭̬̣͉͔̦͈͙̅̆̓̒̋̿̂͒́̄͋͂͜ờ̵̺͇̥̜͔͓̘̳̯͍̼͖̹̲̒̐̃̀̐̀̽̿͜w̵̺̳̄̐̕ḛ̴̗̯̱̞̙͙̳̝̻̺̏͌͌̅̃̎͘r̷̨͕͓͙̭̩̰͈̲͊͗̈ͅ

“Stop.”

ḑ̷̠̼͕̰̓̿͆̊̿̀͋̀̋̔͘͝ǫ̶͓̭̼̤̯̀́̈́̈͜ỵ̵̡̨̩̞͍̝̳͍̪͕̗͖̏̌͛͌̈́̂̓ͅǫ̶͈̘́̾̇͂̑͑͆̚͠u̸͈̻͑̐̍̈̉̾̒̀͠͝r̷̹̣͈͕̱̟̣͙͊ę̵̗̺̩̼̲͚̻̪̪͓̱̠̒̂̽̍̀̉͊̀͘ḿ̶̡̛̦̖͔̭̽͑͛̒ͅe̶̊̓̊̍͗͐̋̃̉̂͋͜͠m̷̗͙͎̂̓̓̊̐͛͊́̌̔̓͘͝b̶̧̡̝̫̯͕͍̹͔͖͎̉̈́̄͑̔̐̑ͅȇ̸̡̺̦̟̾́̓̇̍̊̾̚͠r̷̢̧̤̠͎̤̖̀̈́̈̏́̐̃̓̓̌̂͂̿̚ ̷̡̤̝͇͕̪̓͐̉̄̔̿͊̈́́̔̓̈́̚

“STOP.”

With one last thought, she took up her dagger and aimed the blade at her face, with two cuts, she made Saakes’ crossroads across her head, just below the Harbinger’s mark.

“Ukenda..” she whispered through her teeth, “Imiligo.” 

Magic seeped from the air, the pressure, too from her mind. The voices from her ear were silenced, and for a time she stood there feeling entirely alone. It was dusk, and the Harbinger’s call had not ceased it was only more urgent.

It wasn’t until a moonless night sky had risen that she reached her destination. The Harbinger existed in places of stillness-- much like that which followed a final moment. She was here, but the God was not.

The offshoot of water was barely a foot deep, a dirty catch for rainfall and flooding. Much to Eilithe’s utter emotional destruction, the place was empty and her eyes pooled with tears.  “I cannot walk any further... I cannot go any longer,” she spoke aloud in a hope that the Harbinger would answer, that Saakes, and Mueh’Zala himself it it must be him. Anyone. “I need you to tell me-- I need to know how to fix my son-- I need to know how to BEAT THIS!” She screamed, and thrashed, and wailed. Her fit went unanswered. 

For the longest time she stood there knee deep in water, one hand washed over the bands on her arm. Each one was another dead and over her entire body, there were dozens. She started at her right arm, and she named them. 

“Father. Mother. Ara. Mavene. An’Ece.” Night was in full swing by the time that Eilithe got to the final band, “Elsennia.” 

[TW Self harm, Death]

With her dagger in her left hand, Eilithe pierced into the band she’d taken when her parents died, and she cut down-- through her grandmother, An’Ece’s band, all the way down to her wrist where her Aunt Elsennia’s band was the freshest of the black ink. Relief had never replaced pain so quickly. The other arm was just as straight a cut, a sharp blade which split the flesh down in a straight line. 

She took her first breath and caught tears in her eyes. “Cyhiraeth, hear me.” The only disturbance to the water was Eilithe’s form washing into it. She had chosen a slow death, as the voices said-- she was seeking hurt. 

“I offer it all,” she said, “My life, my future, my eternity, my soul.  Undo me, for my betrayal, for my weakness-- send my soul to the Crossroads to wander. Feed me to Mueh’Zala if you must. I am at your will in my death if you grant me one last peace.”

Her soul twisted-- leaving a body where it no longer belonged. “Save my son--save all of them from whatever stands at our border.” 

It was quiet then and she thought that at least the heaviness was gone. Perhaps this was an excuse-- something to make her feel like a martyr, something to let her go into death, without guilt. Without excuse, she was just selfish. 

 Laying in the water, she breathed in, one big-- final time.

Drip... ...Drip .......Drip

The right of the sands (my heart in your hands)

Give it a try, his brother had said. It’s meant to be good for you. Healing, I guess.

“You’re new, right?” It’s the guy. Up close, Yoongi can see him clearer. His hair must have been clean in the morning but it’s covered in dust now, from paddocks and hay and the arenas. His shirt was white originally but there’s great big smears of brown from the same sort of places. He smells like hay and dust and horse, but his smile is warm, his teeth as big as the horses’.

“Y-Yeah,” Yoongi swallows hard. “Yoongi. Nice to meet you."

The guy doesn’t have any accent—his Seoul dialect is perfect, because he must have heard Yoongi’s—and he isn’t at all a hick, Yoongi supposes. Maybe he is and he just has manners. Whatever. “It's Hoseok," he replies. "Nice to meet you too."