I'll  find  you  when
the sun goes black —

you speak the language of love like you know what it means.

they have not been sleeping for long.

he is kept restless by half-dreams and circling thoughts; even if pressed, he’d be unable to put any sort of meaning to them. he simply feels as though something is off and it plagues him in the yawning night. @Calypso sleeps undisturbed at his side and that is just fine, until it isn’t — until he hears an approaching storm. rumbling thunder reaches him and something clicks inside the skagosi’s troubled mind, and suddenly, he is soothed.

he wakes her softly, easily, intent on rousing her with little fuss. it is a big ask, he knows, and one that has come seemingly out of the blue. but still he reaches for her, intent on pulling her by the hand. come with me, he whispers in the quiet of their den, a quiet promise echoing in his words. snälla du — please. hákon cannot remember if he has ever begged calypso for anything, but he does tonight.

like the storm, this need has come on suddenly — but he cannot deny it. it’s how they find themselves here, blanketed by waning stars and the tumultuous sea. the stars above blink out, one by one, disappearing beneath the roll of storm clouds as they come in — he feels the wind pick up and ruffle his fur, and his ears strain as the pressure drops. without thinking he angles himself, placing his bulkier frame between her and the sea, doing his best to block some of the wind from her.

he remembers the strange mist that had curled across the land and taken her with it, but this was not that. it was an important storm, aye, but unlike the one before this one was going to be good. he looks, and feels, fidgety — nerves snapping at his heels like dogs in hunt. but soon enough he curves his muzzle, seafoam eyes seeking out hers — holding her gaze, if allowed, for a moment before he speaks. i want to show you something. i want to share something with you. his voice is low, hoarse from lack of sleep and worsened by the fear in his chest. if she says no, he will respect that — and her. but gods — but vellen — he wants her to say yes.

this was long overdue, after all, but tonight seemed a perfect night for it.

do you trust me?

♥

where you are is where i always want to be

falling in love had not come easily for the peach medic. the unstoppable force had rolled over her abruptly, true, but the path to happily ever after was not without its twists and turns and dead ends.

worth it a thousand times over to reach this bliss, this tucked away happiness that blossomed more with each passing day. no matter the ghosts that lived in their memories; calypso was happy. naive, perhaps, to think it could last forever, that they were through the worst of it, but had she not always been a puppet for her heart?

outside their den the storms roll in and he is restless. even in sleep she knows this, for the small shifts often stir her to that in-between place where dreams and reality mingle. it does not take much for him to rouse her for she is already half there. blinking in the darkness, his face softened by the shadows, calypso hears her heart beat faster.

there is a sense of urgency she cannot ignore and before he can beg she is on her paws, when the please falls from his lips she is already nodding. "of course, aye," whispers as she follows him out beneath the stars and towards the sea. the roll of the ocean has always been a comfort; even now with the wind beginning to rise she is not afraid of its power.

i want to show you something. i want to share something with you.

surprise is beget by warmth, a gentle affection that breaks through the frazzled air between them. warmth that spills from her eyes and traces her lips, her own expression soft. wide eyed and eager, open to receiving whatever it is he wished to share.

do you trust me?

"wit' me life," she promised him.

UNDER THESE SMOTHERING WAVES

table by sentinel / art

I'll  find  you  when
the sun goes black —

@Calypso comes along easily enough — he does not even have to beg to pull her from their bed in the middle of the night. at any other time he might think to feel gratitude at the way they’ve carved out a place in each others lives and hearts that makes this so easy. he’s never had anything easy before in his life, and he is so glad for her. but there is no room for relief or gratitude tonight in his chest, not among the nerves and that big, ugly, yawning thing. the very same thing that’s lived in his veins since he was born. there’s room enough for them both — and maybe, just maybe, there’s room for love, too.

he hopes.

fuck, he hopes.

now that he’s got her here, though, his words fail him. where should he begin? where does he even start? ears tip backwards to lace against his skull, ignoring the thrum of the storm for now lest he get lost in it. the tides, too, roil without his attention; instead, he looks at the dark sands at their feet for a long moment before finally looking up at her.

do you believe in — he starts, voice cutting off sharply, teeth finding his lip and biting down hard enough for blood to well there. anything? other than this? the way he says anything is pained, a whimper curling behind his teeth and hiding in the syllables there.

♥

As his ears fall back against his head the first curls of anxiety unravel in her belly. Small, at first, scarcely more than a whisper that trickles along through her system, firing warning synapses. Her senses clue in long before her mind, the hair standing on edge along the length of her limbs, her heart quickening it’s ever steady beat.

There is a swelling sense of importance, weighted and heavy, and it sets her teeth on edge. Unknowingly they grind together and then part as her tongue curls along them, tracing the jagged piece that mirrors his own. A part of her is thrust back in to the mist, though it is only her body’s recognition of her nerves.

The question he poses is a precursor; he cannot look at her and desperately she wants nothing more than to sink in to the comfort of his ocean eyes.

“I believe in de sea,” she answered honestly, even if she half believes that is the very “this” he refers to. “My mot’er told me many stories of de gods d’at call it home.” Gods. plural. For there were many, plucked from a thousand myths and legends scattered all across the lands.

Amongst all those stories there must be threads of truth, aye?

UNDER THESE SMOTHERING WAVES

table by sentinel / art

I'll  find  you  when
the sun goes black —

@Calypso believes in the sea.

that is an easy answer, but also a reassuring one. they’ve built their lives by the seaside — it is the one constant in their life together. seafoam eyes shift to the sea when she mentions it, noting ( as if for the first time ) the way the waves crash upon the shore. he looks from the dark water to her, and when he sees the concern there, he frowns.

the sea is important, aye, but — there’s more. isn’t there always? i think there’s more. he adds, much quieter, words almost lost in the gust of a storm breeze. it’s a small admission, but one that means the world to him — it’s not often he voices such personal things, if he ever has. but she deserves the truth, doesn’t she? he doesn’t have much to give, and his honesty isn’t worth much, but it’s hers if she wants it.

my clan’s god finds power in the storms, he says, head tilting slightly — feeling strangely naked as he stands before her, between her and the sea ( and the storm beyond ). as if he can physically block her from these things, even as words pour from his tongue. unbidden, unshackled — paws trembling, just a little, where they sink into the black sand. there is power in them and there is power in him. these are not his words but his mother’s and his mouth forms strangely around them; he is no prophet, nor does he speak with an oracle’s tongue.

but the words sound right.

stunted and stilted, to be sure, and certainly unpracticed.

but there is power in them, too, even as lightning streaks the sky behind him.

they — we — believe in him, in vellen. some might even love him, hákon knows, his mother is certainly among them. he is not, yet he's still brought her out here in the middle of the night. this means something to him, it has to. his gaze remains fixed on hers, ignoring the way the wind is starting to pick up. the storm creeps ever closer and if he stands here, stumbling over his words like a child for much longer, it will be upon them and this will all be for nothing. and so he swallows, thickly, before continuing: skyskon — do you know this word? has he ever said it to her? doubtful, but maybe.

♥

there’s more.

Isn’t there always? Isn’t it impossible for there to be anything less? Life is not a simple thing; the sea is not a simple beast. As certain as she is of the air in her lungs she knows there is more — but the abstract knowledge of more does not matter.

What matters is the more that is important to him. They balance on a precipice, walking a sharp edge, and she has the growing feeling that this night will be a milestone in the tapestry woven between them.

@Hákon speaks — stilted and stumbling, sure, but with a certainty she cannot ignore — and Calypso listens. Silent in the face of the storm and her eyes do not leave his, comfortable despite the weight of his words.

Vellen he says, and suddenly she is a thousand miles away. For a second her eyes unfocused and she is thrust in to her past, to a conversation in a den scented by blood and sickness and herbs.

Who is de fat’er?

Vellen. And Hakon.

Calypso blinks and is back in the storm, the wind tugging at her coat, now. Her gaze focuses on the other half of her heart, then, in time to catch his last question through the howl of the brewing chaos. “No, but I have heard of d’is Vellen.”

Without pause she implores “tell me.”

why are we here?

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I'll  find  you  when
the sun goes black —

he notices the shift in @Calypso's expression but doesn’t have the context for it, doesn’t have access to the swirling memories she’s revisiting. if he did, it might make this easier; if he did, it might make this impossible. as always hákon only has his fumbling words and half-hearted belief, the very same that sparks in his veins — it’s own brand of electricity to rival that of the static in the storm-heavy air. it puts even the lightning, crackling across the sky, to shame.

still, he pauses — teetering over a cliff’s edge, the ground crumbling at his feet. she has heard of his god, and for some reason, that is both surprising and… a relief. they’ll get to that soon enough. he swallows thickly, tasting the sea-salt on the air and relishing the burn of it on his tongue. then, he answers. siblings — it means siblings, but it’s more than that. in nethelus, we all had skyskon, even cubs born alone. my home wasn’t safe, so it was practical — you protected them and they looked out for you. he pauses, a faint frown furrowing his profile — wishing, not for the first time, that his own were still here with them. i hated my brothers, but my skyskon — they kept me alive, they made me me. and so did vellen’s love — and his hatred. ultimately it was the same thing.

this is not… how we do things. you get them when you’re young and you stay with them, and we do not share these things with outsiders. but i… want you to be my skyskon. he pauses, storm eyes looking to her, frowning still. he holds himself tight in self-defense, muscles tight — looking more like a cornered animal than anything else. you keep me safe. he adds in a quieter voice, little more than a whisper — words whisked away by the crashing waves.

♥

there are times that she has wished she could read minds. moments when she had ached to know what was not being said, to untangle the riddles and mysteries that spilled from so many tongues. it was a desire that had sprouted when she was a babe, her mother speaking in a way that created more questions than answers, and there were moments that she wished for it even now.

this was not one of those moments.

as much as calypso knew she would unravel exactly what weighed on hakon's mind, untangling all that intricacies that he spoke of, she knew it would not serve her well. this was an important story and if she could merely blink and know everything it would take away form the telling. the sheer fact that she was here and he was telling her things meant more than anything.

siblings, he says, and goes on to explain that it is not blood that makes skyskon but something more. a bond formed even among those that did not have blood-born brothers or sisters. calypso cannot piece together what this had to do with vellen, but she sets aside those questions to merely listen.

i want you to be my skyskon her eyes widen ever so slightly, ocean-storm eyes riveted you keep me safe.

oh.

oh.

a gentle warmth infused her, chasing away the chill of the storm and spilling from her softening gaze. this is a gift -- this is more important than becoming husband and wife -- and she feels clumsy in her acceptance of it. "i be honoured," she breathed in to the space between them, and the words feel too small for what he has given her.

"i will always look out fer ye," a quiet promise with a half smile. "so.. how?" because she had a feeling there was more to this... something that he had not said yet.

@Hákon

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I'll  find  you  when
the sun goes black —

despite his age, and despite their familiarity, he still feels like he is failing at this. he fumbles with this, all of it — his words are too big for his mouth and the meaning still dwarfs them both. he wants her to know this, but — how do you explain everything?

especially when he doesn’t believe?

but he does, of course. that much is clear — if not when he was younger, then certainly now. there’s something about being alienated that makes him cling tighter to what he knows to be sure. there are two constants in his chest — his love for calypso is one of the main ones. and so it feels right to bring the two together, even if he feels as though he’s failing.

regardless of how awkward he feels, the urge to swallow his tongue down ever present as the moment stretches on, they linger. here in the before of the storm, weaving slightly where he stands as he’s rocked by the wind. her features are… almost soft, as she speaks, an answer and agreement both. there are still things left unsaid and so his ears twitch forward, heartened by the fact that @Calypso did not immediately leave.

there is a ritual — we all do it when we’re young, and when we’re ready. he says slowly, cautiously — as if she will interrupt him. he doubts it though, and he continues in the same disconnected sentences. fumbling as he tries to explain with the respect it deserves. it’s not — i wouldn’t ask you to do it. a pause, breathy and sharp. thunder claps behind him as if in mockery, a cruel thing to hear and a worse thing to witness. her features light up from the corresponding lightning, and his head tilts to the side. not everyone survives it. it’s important, though; he needs her to know that.

it wouldn’t be the same, but — he says at length, head tilting slightly as he finally looks from her to the sea behind them. he looks to the black water, unknowable, as it crashes into the shoreline — looks to the horizon line, obscured by the storm’s darkness. hearing a melody that isn’t really there, a calling that pulls at his veins. i could show you, if you want.

she might not ever hear the song, not like he had.

but he could sing it for her; the ocean could sing it for her.

his gaze returns to her, head tilting slightly — do you still trust me?

♥

calyspo knew of rituals. those of her home were not meant for happy occasions, though. they were rituals born of fire and blood, of death and sacrifice. rituals to steal the breath from lungs and leave the body an empty husk -- she had played a part in them, before. after all, she was well trained in the art of poison, and those skills were valuable beyond measure in a land where chaos reigned. especially if the poison left no trace and did not taint the carcass...

@Hákon speaks carefully, slowly, and she does not rush him. even as the storm swells she is patient, aware of the weight of his words. her trust is written in to every second of this moment, for she does not run when he mentions rituals. it is likely not visible to him, those parts of her past are yet to be unearthed to the skagos, but tonight... tonight is a start. without even realizing it he has broken the ground to move them ever forward, to press deeper in to the bond that had forged between them on the shore so long ago.

when we're ready he says, and she clings to this, trusting that it will be important. when we're ready implies consent, and so it is a ritual already vastly different than the ones she had known, once upon a time.

not everyone survives it he says, and she knows her eyes have widened. shock jolts her to her core, and it is all she can do not to fumble and drop the prior assurances he has given her. calypso has known of many rites of passage in her life and travels; this, then, must be another. a new one, birthed of salt-water and an ancient belief.

calypso's gaze follows his to the sea and she knows. while she scrambles to think of a question to ask or a demand to be made she does not need to; the pieces connect without much nudging. does she need to know the exact guidelines? is it necessary to know what he will have her do?

no.

all she needs to know is that he has chosen her, and that she loves him. enough that she would do this for him; enough that she would do anything for him. because he has chosen her, he has named her, and calypso would lay down her life to be his skyskon.

"show me," she whispers in to the storm of his eyes, her own holding steady. there is no swell of apprehension, no fear -- there is only acceptance and understanding and love.

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