like the sea touches the soil she knows, of course. has learned well the lines of his face, enough to read most of the emotions that play across it. enough to know that he does not believe her. it hurts, brings a panic to her chest that flutters and pounds against the bony cage of her ribs. “I’m not mad,” she repeats in a breathless exhalation, as if she might chase away the disbelief. could she really fault him, though? he stayed and weathered this storm even without belief — wasn’t that enough? no. yes. a tremble races along her spine and she feels the ridiculous urge to laugh and cry at the same time. an urge to grasp tighter at the flesh of his chest and demand that he listen, that he believe in the impossible. maybe she really is mad. or maybe she needed the impossible to be possible so that she might hold on to the last threads of her sanity. his tongue finds the hole in his mouth, she recognizes the move, and she focuses on this for a moment. instinctively she mirrors him, dragging her tongue across the broken canine she had received in the mist. it is sharp and jagged — fresh — and the taste of blood is sudden in her mouth. sudden enough that her heart quickens and her eyes slid shut and she is transported a million miles from this ocean shore. to another plane of existence, a fog-socked world where blood had been her norm. even still she holds back the begging and pleading, locking the words right behind her lips and refusing to let them ruin this. because this? this — — is real. a part of her breaks, daring to hope, and a shuddering breath racks her bony frame. Calypso is heavier against him, then, lest she slide to the sand and hide from the wash of emotions. she wants to believe him, wants it so badly it makes her forget even the blood in her mouth. “real..” she repeats, the word buried in palomino fur, salt heavy in her nose. salt and snow and everything that makes up the skagos punk she loves in such a consuming way. he mumbles more and that small flickering flame of hope becomes an inferno. raging and devouring everything in its path, erasing the demons that lurk in the shadows and pull always at her mind. nothing else matters, and calypso realizes then that she does not care if he balks from the truth. she had spent too many days fighting for her life to not tell him. “i love ye, hakon skagos,” she says, pulling back enough to look at him. let him run, she thinks, but she is more steady than any moment yet. there is a spark of the old calypso in her eyes, calm and certain and fierce. “whatever may come, ye always have me on yer side…” blinking at him, her eyes clear and earnest. “I jest —“ a pause, a tremble, and a small smile at the corner of her lips. “— I jest needed to say it again.” selfish, maybe, but wasn’t she entitled to a little bit of selfishness? maybe, or maybe she’d tear it all down and leave it in ruins. whatever may come, she was all in.

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never once did he think he would end up here. never once did he think there would be room enough in his heart for the love of one — let alone two, let alone six. it hurts in a way he never would’ve expected, a muscle aching after too long of no use. it’s nothing like he imagined when he was young and soft and just-drowned — his god’s song in his ears, the ocean in his veins, godhood on the tip of his tongue. he did not need to be an oracle to see the way forward, now. he was blind once but now he sees, and it is this cay and the nearby black sands that call to him. it is her and it is him, it is the smell of blood and the press of her warmth against him. she’s always been healing him, always been piecing him back together from being broken. maybe it shouldn’t be any real surprise that their pieces had mixed together and aligned in the process — some of her ending up with him. he treasures the piece of her he carries around with him. but he treasures her, too, and — she still loves him. she says it, easy as anything. she says it and her eyes go sharp, a whispering of the woman he knows and that he loves. it is a small glimmer but it fills him with — hope? is that the right word? it is a strange emotion to wrestle, and he is tired of wrestling with giants. she says she loves him, still; she says she will always be on his side. it a quiet oath, something meant from a skyskon. it is a gift, he thinks, to find someone like her — to have her, to be able to hold her. the fresh smell of blood in the air reminds him, though, just how close he may have come to losing her. it would’ve been a horrible thing, to lose her without knowing — to just never see her again, and to be left wondering forever. he knows, then. he knows what he needs to do. ( it does not make it any easier. ) you said before… he begins after a long moment of terse silence, a deep frown cutting across handsome features. a typical expression but there’s an unfamiliar tightness to it now. visible even in the lowlight, if she’s keen to look for it, crowding at the corners of his eyes. it is — fear, bald-faced and evident, hiding in the corners of his eyes, the severe turn of blackened lips. it is an active battle against that very fear — visible the way he swallows, his throat working through the words he wants to say and the ones that are keen to get stuck there. because they’ve been here before. they will be here again. he knows this yet can do nothing about it — nothing except speak the words that have haunted him for months now. you said before that i felt like home. the words seem easy but actually saying them is not. it feels like a tooth being pulled, it feels like these words are being yanked from him with violence. the smell of metal hangs heavy from the still-healing wound in her mouth and it’s an easy enough thing to pretend its his blood, his wound. still, his mouth is soft and his words are even softer — hardly above a whisper. a quiet melody against the ocean’s rolling waves. anything else might disturb the peace of the morning threatening to dawn around them. anything else might dislodge the one, tiny, single speck of courage in his chest — the very same that he clutches tight with white-knuckles. he is scared and it shows, but he begins speaking nonetheless. it takes him a moment or two or five, but his mouth still opens. i… did not have a home, not really. it feels strange, alienating, to speak of his homeland. his home was the north, tucked up in a bay built on rocks and bone and ice. there, spring was short-lived and the winters eternal; the nights were dark and full of terrors. hard places bred hard men and he was a product of those surroundings, tall and sturdy. a survivor. he loves nethelus as he should, but there is no real affection in his chest for the cold island. nethelus was not a place to celebrate but rather a place to survive. hákon does not miss it but he does; he does not care for it, but he it made him who he is. that has to mean something. you feel like home to me, too. more than that, he thinks. it’s more than that. @Calypso is nothing like nethelus — she is warm where it was cold, bold and full of life where it is plagued and riddled with ghosts. in her, he thinks, he could make a home — thinks that maybe he’s already laid the foundations for one. if saga is the sea ( and she is, and the moon to chart a course by ), then calypso is the land. she is solid ground — she is the spring thaw after a long, terrible winter. she is beautiful and she is bloom; she is everything he dreamt his home might be like when he was younger, before vellen had whispered to him what life was truly like. he never understood how his mother could love vellen and her husband both. but maybe, just maybe, he is starting to piece it together. i don’t know why it took me so long to realize, but.. saga had said it had never been a secret, but to him it had. he might’ve noticed the feeling dwelling in his chest without calypso first mentioning it, but their meeting in the tunnel had truly opened his eyes. and then, when she’d vanished on the cusp — ? it had only cemented them, the thoughts taking root. he feels reckless, he feels raw — and suddenly, his muzzle twitches up, wanting to snarl against the whisper-soft feeling crowding forward. his muzzle turns from her but he stays put where he is, bronzed claws digging uselessly into the cay’s sand. he is a coward, remember, and so looking her in her eyes seems a bridge too far. he does not even touch her, scared that it is a bridge too far. still, seafoam gaze lingers just shy of meeting her eyes — staring down at her feet, attention caught on her missing toes, as more words fall from his mouth like a fountain. quiet, rolling in like the waves that lap at the sea; words that feel like an inevitability, even as they will change the course of their lives forever. i am... i’m glad you’re here. i’m glad i got to tell you that. and i'm sorry it took me so long. i'm sorry i didn't say it before. slowly, with the same seriousness of a man at the gallows, his gaze slides to her. a frown still fixed onto his features, but a blossom of hope glimmering in his eyes. he wants to give her more, he wants to give her everything. but this... this is what he offers, today.

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like the sea touches the soil yet here they were. here they were, and calypso could hardly make sense of it either. while she had known for some time how she felt she remembered how much it had confused her. fear had gone hand in hand with the growing emotion -- she had been raised to steer clear of love, for the place she had lived had not known it. family love, yes, but that between a man and a woman? it simply did not exist there, in the blood-soaked cove that had been her birthplace. instead there had been passion and posession and selfishness. taking what was wanted without regard for the other -- the very reason she had scars buried beneath her fur long before the mist had made its mark. so love? love had been a dream, a fantasy, a wistful thought for the innocent children. the first sign of it was stamped out in harsh fashion and the younglings were taught that it was wasteful and useless. they were taught that it made you weak. the only love calypso had known was at home in the herb-spiced den of her mother. that was her home, not the cove that housed so many other cruelties. that den where she had known tenderness, gentleness -- "it's all yer fault calypso, ye caused d'is." -- the harsh tones echo in her memory, reminders from the mist, and she visible flinches as she is pulled back from the past and to the present. because really, the past didn't matter now, did it? now that she was here, tucked in to his embrace, breathing in his scent, did it matter how she had gotten here? with the ocean washing over her toes she listens as he speaks, blue-grey eyes focused on the minute lines of his face. she sees the fear, the struggle, and she is patient. even with the echo of her not-mother in her ears, she is patient, waiting, feeling hope flutter more insistantly in her chest. hope is a dangerous thing, but she places hers in him all the same. how long has he had the power to ruin her? you feel like home to me, too. hope swells, expands, fills every cell of her body. it grows and grows and grows and she is powerless to stop it. powerless to fight the trust piecing itself back together, as much as she is powerless to stop the tides from changing. they are doing that now, a small part of her observes, for the water is higher on her paws. washing away the blood and the grime and the pain, clensing her on more than just the surface level. he does not touch her but she touches him, unable to resist reaching out with a ocean-foam paw, pressing it back against his chest from where it had fallen. she hopes it can ground him, give him a place to anchor to, even as she can hear the not-mother in her mind they are better off without you are they, though? here, now, she is not so sure. here she clings for truth among the lies, scrambling to decide what was real and what was not. with his chest beneath her touch she does not think he would be better without her, even if his life might be less complicated were she to have disappeared forever. if she was home then what was saga? could he have two? calypso fights against the turmultous thoughts, the zig-zag way that her mind seems to be working. it is shattered, broken, and yet... "i would not want to be anywhere else," her voice is just as whisper soft and no matter her worries she keeps her gaze on his, keeps her paw on him, pushing aside the echoes of her not-mother. "or wit' anybody else." for the first time in months calypso begins to feel whole again. "ye are enough," she murmured, and she hoped he would not take it the wrong way. she hoped that he would hear the earnestness in her voice, see it in her eyes. "ye are more d'an enough." a faint smile, again, playing at the edges of her lips. "real." a pause. "home." home.

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he would never guess that she would exclude him from the list of possessive and passionate. he would never guess that she would not think him selfish. he’d felt it the night she had returned from the mist — bloodied and broken, as he’d had to step back and let the medics work on her while calhoun crooned softly to her. an edge of jealousy there, aye, but selfish for he’d wanted nothing more than to steal her away. even here, even now, he feels it still — curling wantonly in his chest, a desperate cry for something more. she flinches as if she can hear the churning of his thoughts and it gives him pause — seafoam eyes watching her, sharp and keen. he almost looses his nerve but fortunately, this moment comes to pass. as it was always meant to: beneath the moonlight, by the sea. ( wouldn’t vellen be proud? ) the tides creep up the shores, wetting his paws and the sand alike. it brings with it the familiar smell of salt and it’s almost enough to wash out the herb-spice scent of her fur. she’s been gone for so long and she’s been back for only a brief time that the familiar smell hadn’t quite returned just yet. it lingered like a ghost though, like one of her phantoms, small glimpses between the salt air. her paw reaches out towards him, wetting his chest with salt water and loam this time instead of blood. his muzzle turns, looking down at the paw, and then slowly looking up to meet her gaze. teal meets blue, and something shifts in his chest. it feels — it feels exactly like coming home, and the exhale that slips from between his teeth feels like it’s been punched from him. if he was not desperate before, he is now. delirious with the relief — both of admitting this secret and having it be accepted. it is like a vicious victory like the rush of endorphins after a battle well-fought. but there are no fangs or claws used tonight, just soft words and softer affection. strange, then, that he doesn’t know what to do with his teeth. men born from violence hardly ever do. her acceptance is quiet and he treasures it, holds it gently in his hands. her voice, too, is soft but firm, and there is no room for doubt in his chest, now. not until she continues, saying that he is enough. an ear flicks, an immediate reaction, but he says nothing. he does not need to, for his face says it all. but there is no argument on his tongue tonight, just — quiet acceptance. he needs to learn how to listen to others, to her; it is no secret, saga had said, and he is desperate to know what else he might have missed. home, he repeats, her echo — soft and sweet. a whisper, a pledge, a vow. i love you. if he had not realized it before, he realizes it now — his heart clenches tight in his chest, as if the paw against her chest is Squeezing. it is not a bad feeling though, he thinks, even if it feels a little like drowning. he wants to say more, to ask more. what did any of it mean? what would change, now that she knew? what would change now that he knew? but he is a coward still and does not press. instead, he offers her a smile — small, shy, pulling at one half of his mouth — and he leans forward to kiss her.

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like the sea touches the soil home. it was a simple concept for so many -- a place where childhood thrives and lessons are learned, a place of love and comfort and safety -- but for them? calypso and hakon did not have the most simple of homes or the easiest of beginnings; instead they found it now, years later. now, in each other, no matter if it had been found elsewhere, too. love was interchangeable with this revelation, this realization that he was home and he was the safe place she had to land. her strength -- -- no. "yer weak, get up!" "it's all yer fault. echoes of monsters whispering in the corners of her mind and she closes her eyes and breathes and breathes and breathes. fighting for calm, for truth, for real. on the surface? on the surface she was placid, relaxed, at ease. on the surface the waters were still and quiet and she looked as if she were merely taking it all in. this precious moment that she had wanted for so long; her eyes closed as he might think that she was basking in it. her mind, though? it is a thousand miles from the ocean spray beach, lost in the thick grey of the mist, so that when his lips seek hers she jolts back, reacts with fear and fury and a vicious frightened snarl. forgetting herself, forgetting what was real. home crumbled away and calypso... calypso stood among the wreckage she had created. hackles raised, teethed bared, eyes unseeing. unsteady on her paws as her lips peeled back and she was ready to fight another day. before her was not hakon but a twisted creature of rot and ruin and decay and she clenched her teeth and flexed her claws -- "not again!" a desperate plea through anger and rage and in a voice that begged for reprieve. a step forward, tense and stiff and ready because she would not hide and she would fight and she would live. then... the water washed over her paws, the sea pulled at her fur, and she blinked. she blinked and breathed and froze in her spot. blinked again and looked at him, truly. at him and not through him and her voice shook -- "h-hakon?"

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it is a soft moment, a tender thing. at least, he means it to be. this is what he wants, in his heart of hearts, to be soft and sweet; there is more to him than sea salt and dark stone, damn it yes there is, if only anyone bothered to ever look. if only he was ever given half a chance to realize it. and so when his features soften, when a small little smile curves his lips, it feels a little like coming home. a final puzzle piece slotting into place — an inevitability, that he, they were always meant to end up here. it is supposed to be a soft moment, a tender thing. but as all things in his life, it does not last. his muzzle leans towards hers when her vision seemingly strikes. instead of responding like he thought she might ( like he hoped she might), instead @Calypso pulls back, hackles raising. immediately he stops and leans away, furrowing brow hardening his features. easily chasing away the syrup-sweet expression he’d previously worn. she twists away from him with a furious sound, disgusted and enraged in the same stroke. i — he starts, trailing off almost instantly as she rounds away from him and he realizes she is not just… angry at him for this. she is…. upset? scared? that does little to quell the sudden doubt rising in his chest, a waking dragon as he watches. she moves away from him then, towards the sea and muscles instantly tense — ready to stop her before she gets further into the wake. she stops herself, blinking a few times — before looking at him. actually, truly, looking at him. he stands, shoulders squared and wary. a dog, nervous now that he’s seen the boot. he doesn’t know why but he feels on-edge, nervous now as she looks at him, half-frozen in place on the shore. calypso, he says, a dull note to her voice as he says it — voice pitched low, but not quite a whisper. that seems too soft, too fragile; instead, his voice is strong, albeit apprehensive. a hand extending, even as his paws remain firmly in the sand. ears remain tilted backwards as he looks at her, wondering — sharply — how much of their conversation she’s actually heard.

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like the sea touches the soil it is her name on his lips that jolts her. a shock to the heart, racing along her veins and escape through her toes. set adrift at sea, electric, alive -- returning as all things did to the saltwater and endless tides. "hakon," she breathed and she hurt, shaking her head to clear the echo of thoughts that lingered even now. not good enough... better off without you... fractured, ruined, as her eyes find his and she begs for him to understand without uttering a single word. they were right then, weren't they? the not-mother, the creatures of the mist. they were right. he did not deserve this broken, fragile creature -- this calypso who would crumble beneath a loving touch. oh, and she sees his insecurity, his apprehension, and she sees with eyes that are suddenly too clear. the world is still dark and star-lit and they reflect in her eyes that see too much. bright, everything is so bright and the squeezed first around her heart is worse than the pain of the mist. "'m' sorry," a mumble as shame rises hot to her cheeks and she ducks her head, watching instead as the water washes over her paws and the sand shifts beneath her toes. how could she forget that this was real? how could the line blur so abruptly, so harshly? a jolting step on shaky legs, towards him, always towards him, certain all the while that he will run. and she will be alone. again.

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she repeats his name, hardly more than a breath. it sound strangely fragile said like that and his ears tip forward, considering. there is something about the way her eyes sharpen now; now she looks at him, rather than through him. it is… a look he’s seen elsewhere, on a different face, and maybe that helps him understand. she was gone, for a minute there. but she’s back now. and he does not want her to leave, ever again. @calypso’s muzzle ducks away, tearing her gaze from his and — that will not do. his own muzzle follows her, neck extending to bend it down — he does not crane all the way down, but it’s enough to mimic her movement in the hopes of drawing her attention back to him. there is nothing to be sorry about, he thinks, even as he tries to ignore the bristling feeling in his chest — a remnant of a lifetime of being not being good enough. she hazards a step towards him and he leans forward, inching forward a half-step. he does not like this antsy feeling of uncertainty that creeps through his veins — nor does he like the lost, shameful look upon her brow. one of them outweighs the other, and he’s speaking before he realizes it. calypso, he continues as she hazards a step forward — he reaches a hand out, hoping to steady her. this is real, he says in lieu of her apologies, or offering one of his own. that was what mattered, right?

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like the sea touches the soil he is moving, ducking his head, mirroring her. it is enough to draw her attention, as he had hoped, to see the play of emotions across his face. shame still lingers -- guilt that tore at her insides and made her sick with it -- but... he is not gone, and that is enough to rekindle hope. "aye," she murmurs, and she does not look away again. her eyes rest solidly on his face, drinking in the sight of him, reminding herself that he was still here and she was not alone. this was not a trick of the mist. this was real. "aye," again, with another stiff-legged step, afraid both that he'd turn and that she'd trigger another flashback, "real." a breath, an exhale, and then she is tumbling more quickly forward. falling in to him, feeling his solidness beneath her, taking the strength he gives without question. she does not deserve him, but she takes, anyway. "real," she whispers, with eyes squeezed shut, as she buries herself in to his chest and wraps a foreleg around his own. clinging to him, to this lifeline, this anchor. a shakiness has settled in to her body even as she draws from his presence, a physical indication of the emotional toll taken from the druid. there is a smile, though, that pulls at her lips, as her mercurial moods settle again. as she presses ever close to him and is reminded again and again (with every second, every breath) that this is her reality. that this is "home" and nothing can destroy the foundation they've cemented in to place.

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aye she says and then repeats, a quiet mantra between the two of them. real. real. this makes his skin crawl, the idea that he almost lost her to… what? phantoms? hasn’t he lost enough to the shadows he cannot see? it is a cruel fate, he thinks, for them to find her now. he… he does not think there are many he would stay here for. hakon skagos is still here, though, and that has to count for something. ( do you really think it’s going to be enough? ) ( do you really think that you’re going to be enough? ) she stumbles forward a few steps until she’s at him, stumbling into him. a rough little noise rumbles from his chest at the impact though it quiets soon enough. his muzzle brushes across the top of her crown, a barely-there touch that’s more self-indulgent than anything. his hands do not tremble when he touches her but instead they try to stand strong to shoulder her weight and these burdens. she trembles in his arms and he pulls her a little closer, holds her a little tighter. each movement is slow, wary — he is scared she will pull back away from him again. he is worried that he will trigger something in her, break through the flimsy hold she has on herself. he wishes he had any words that might soothe her hurts tonight, but there are none to give. and so he simply stays here, steady as a rock, even as his heart flutters in his chest. he could stand here forever. he could hold her forever. but — she is healing, and she has been out here for too long already. komma, ( come, ) he says, the swedish falling from his mouth unbidden. his tone says it all though, she hardly needs to know his language to understand this. it is getting late, it’s getting early, actually — the dawn creeps ever forward. the fact remains, though. soon enough the entire cay will be rousing from their slumber, the least of all grit. the last thing she needs is to wake up and her mother is not there. ears cup forward, a wary little furrow of his brows — waiting to see if she will relent easily, or if he will have to drag her back to her den to get some shut-eye.

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