#sweetsunflora

in truth, he was glad it was her to come find him --- she, who knew the secrets of the arctic flowers, who once might have been as delicate as them. ( and she who knew not all flowers were weak things. ) the boatswain would come to the sickbay soon, and the doctor would have to examine the man closer, deeper, to find any hints of what led to his demise. but jonathan did not think he would find answers there. he looked at emma-rose in the doorway of the sickbay and thought answers might rest between the two of them. 

it had become something of a game to him --- he grew aware of the words she hated ( anything that might undermine her, anything that disguised itself as a compliment but cut instead ) and how she might react ( the sweetest rise of her voice, the flush that crept up her neck ). but there were always variables: how quick could he get a bite back from her, how few words did it take? it had been his favorite pastime on the island, a kind and cruel breath away from the terror of their every day. 

with their lives shifted onto the promethean, perhaps it ought to have ended. teo had discovered a dozen other ways, important ways, to stay moving, and yet he came up with excuse after excuse. 

he needed to keep his relations to the agathe survivors normal to avoid suspicion. he needed to practice his skills of digging into people’s lives. excuse, excuse, excuse, all ending with the same result: him, putting his arm across the walkway to trap emma into a conversation. 

“i have to give some respect to you, ma souris.” his expression was just shy of a smile, his voice just shy of true concern. “i did not expect to find you still alive. what have you to offer the ship --- or have you just avoided all notice from our new friends?” 

“I make what you ask me to. What’s your choice of song, choice of poison? Mainland ran out of barley a while back. Good we stocked up on rye.”

“because you, emma, have many years ahead of you whereas i am... ah, how do you say? yesterday’s vegetables. i know you are careful, but let me do this for you, or i will bite my nails off with my worrying. you know how i am. will you allow me this?” 

the timeline in which everything that could go wrong from this point on… does.

it begins with a trek to the island, with chasing a creature that might not be a creature; it begins with your belief in naturalism, and it ends with that belief too. you walk amongst the carnage the creature leaves, and there is no purpose to it, there is no answer. violence for the sake of violence, ruination for the taste of ash. you survive, but not everyone does --- and that is the continuation of this disaster. you cannot save anyone. your healing hands have lost their worth, and you feel your hope stripping away, one blood spurt at a time.

instead of seeing the sparkle of ice, you begin to see its sharp edges.

the witcher starters. 

the days on the island had begun to strip them each down --- layers of joy, of life peeled back until all that remained was skeletal cruelty. and while he might know it well, it was fresh and jagged for the girl. it did not serve her; it would tear her down, and where would that leave him? nearer to being alone. nearer to death. 

no, it was in his best interest to keep her here. 

he holds her by her shoulders, whispering her name over and over again—the girl’s eyes are open, she’s looking at him but isn’t seeing him; her gaze pierces right through the purser as he tries to shake her awake. The words leave her mouth in an almost incomprehensible mumble, over and over again. There isn’t any blood, neither on her hands or Edward’s—he wonders how it's possible for her to dream with her eyes open. 

“miss—miss, wake up,” he says firmer and louder, his fingers digging into the flesh of her arms a little harder and it finally seems to do the trick. She looks around, disoriented, and that’s when Edward finally lets go of her. “You—uh,” he starts off but he isn’t sure what to say. In the end, he turns to the obvious question. “Are you alright?”