i'm ready to suffer the sea the path from the black sand shore to the cay is a familiar one. he’s walked it many times — long before the pirate crew ever settled here — and hákon has a feeling that he will walk it many more times, too. it is an easy thing, and it makes him feel less guilty about leaving the children behind. he… isn’t sure if saga understands the pull he feels to come Here, but at the very least he does nothing to jeopardize her safety or that of their whelps. it is the least he can do, he thinks. shaking his frame as he goes, he is keen to leave those thoughts behind — lest they haunt him further. the tides are low today but the water still bites, freezing as he sloshes across the channel to the cay beyond. once he’s close enough he chuffs softly for @Calypso — no real expectation in his voice. she has always been a busy woman and he has no intentions of interrupting her day or worse, her healing.

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time moved different than it did in the mist. normally. moments slipped past quickly, of course, but not with the speed they had in the mist. it was not as if she blinked and lost a day -- though sometimes she did sleep through them.

calypso was a healer and thus she knew that time was the best medicine. with enough time even mountains can be moved, so to mend some torn flesh was a minuscule feat. piecing together the shattered fragments of her mind, however, was something that was not so tiny.

there was a ruggedness to her look, a side-effect of the sleepless nights and slept through days, and of the criss-cross cuts that had healed but left lines of bald skin in their wake. the fur would grow back, eventually, and for now she did what she could to smooth it over the shiny pink marks.

the days pass in a blur and she keeps herself as busy as possible, balancing her hours between grit and the crew and hakon and whatever else she can find to fill the time. idleness is when the voices return, the whispers from the mist (from the not-mother and the not-dead strangers) rising to remind her that she was not better, not good, not okay.

it is with her loved ones that she feels like the whispers are wrong and she can tune them out, forget them, even if only for a moment.

so when he calls she does not hesitate, moving quickly to the island edge and stopping at the water. her toes in the surf she ignores the biting chill and watches him draw near, a half-smile on her lips, looking very much like the calypso of before.

UNDER THESE SMOTHERING WAVES

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i'm ready to suffer the sea he is no healer, not like she is. but even he can see the marked differences between when they’d found her bleeding on the beach and now. it is slow going ( far slower than he’d like; hákon, personally, would prefer her be fully healed immediately ) but her progress has been both steady and encouraging. still, though. still… there is something amiss with her. he can see the shadows behind her eyes, only because he knows to look for them. that first night he’d come to the cay to see her, she had been so worried about if this was real or not. he’s not had the stomach to ask ( because he is a coward before he is anything else ), but he has been here the best he can. it isn’t much ( and maybe it’s good, then, that she has others to support her here ), but he is trying. hallå, he greets, the beginnings of a smile on his lips as he approaches. there is always… an awkwardness when they first join. he is never sure if he is allowed to touch her; he is never sure if she’ll let him. so he lingers a few feet from her, an awkward prom date here to pick her up for the big night. how’re you feeling? a shame she has not fallen for a different skagos, maybe one with better bedside manners. a shame she is stuck with him. his ears tip forward, intent — seafoam gaze sweeping over the cuts he can see and the way they’re healing up a pretty pink.

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there, then, is the difference. The calypso of before would not have hesitated — she would have gone to him, easily, and picked up the hammer to knock down the wall. Calypso, before, was uncertain and yet still brave, taking steps forward with him every time they had met. And oh, so many times they had come together!

Calypso now worries, always, about the reality of these moments. Perhaps she does not ask as often but she wonders, always — real?

Until they touch and she can feel his heart beat, a steady drum to guide her home, a lighthouse in a safe harbour. As often as she felt set adrift in a storm-ravaged sea she was grateful for him.

He could always guide her home.

The thought warms her features and softens her smile and admittedly she does not hear his question. It is not significant (to her, for time is her healer and she knows it will work it’s magic) and does not trickle through her ever-shifting thoughts.

What does break through is a simple thought — “I’m glad yer here,” — said with as much sincerity as she can find. Standing shy upon the shore, feeling very much like she should say more but not knowing what to say. Everything that comes to mind (how are you, I missed you, I love you) seems out of place and so she hesitates.

Here, then, is the calypso of after, the one who waits instead of acts.

Real?

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i'm ready to suffer the sea She stops a short distance away from him and it almost -- hurts. Perhaps he's taken her for granted one too many times, her and the easy way she always presses close. It was better that way -- he was able to just go along with her and be pushed along by her current. That was easier than this,, grappling with the reins of the situation as they stare at each other. But now, thanks to the shadows she wears, everything has changed. Even the simple things like their hellos. She does not dodge his question so much as ignores it entirely -- his brows pull together at that, a little frown curving his lips. With anyone else he would think she was avoiding his question for a reason. With @Calypso, though, there is more at play. His ears flick forward, catching the words she does say and they're an answer in themselves. An admission that almost makes his cheeks flush, blushing like a schoolgirl. He's glad to be here too, and it's evident by the way his smile widens. Only by a small degree, but it's a margin large enough for her to note. He wishes... well. He wishes for a number of things. At least the den he and Saga have is not so very far away from here. At least he has enough free time to manage these visits. ( until, of course, more is taken from saga. Until, of course, the drums of war start up. ) I am too, he murmurs -- an easy thing to say, but a difficult thing to admit. weakness is never easily shown, and it's clearly at war with the way he wants to scoff his paw into the sand and say, aww shucks. his head tilts in consideration, an idea striking him. Misplaced and misguided, maybe, but there's a faint thread of anxious excitement in his voice when he asks: I have something I'd like to show you, he says -- voice a little stilted, but his gaze is even. Even when he adds, if you feel up to it. Despite the pitch of his voice, it's not a challenge. It's a hand outstretched, hoping for hers.

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the space between them feels vast, a distance she does not know how to traverse. odd, really, in the wake of their prior admissions, though it is those very things that leave her hesitant. the words they had spoken left her wondering (in those moments of lucidity that were becoming more common) -- what now?

calypso knows that he lives with saga, she knows that the lagoon has fallen and belongs to another. she knows that he stays with his family when he is not here.

what she does not know is where that leaves them.

it is not something she would dare to ask and so, instead, the question stays locked in her mind despite it's valiant effort to escape. it fights, constantly, beaten back by the lingering whispers that trace through her mind -- better off without you...

the fog settles over her as they stand with the space between them, herself feeling (again) like she was lost. lost but found, and wanting suddenly to find something to ground her. desperate, reaching, and then -- then there is his hand, and she snatches it without hesitation. a step forward, ears perked, eyes bright, masking the inner battle she wages.

"please." a simple enough answer, the keenness clear in her tone. another step and she is all but touching him, her toes in the water and her eyes not moving from his face. "i do." a reassurance, quickly given, as if she might erase any doubt he has.

because more than ever, she needs this.

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i'm ready to suffer the sea Despite their initial blundering, she takes his hand easily. He blinks at the quickness of her acceptance, but then a quiet smile tilts his lips -- lopsided and secret. A jerk of his chin is given, watching her for a moment longer. As if making sure she is truly as ready, and well, as she says. He does not doubt her, but instead it is worry that stays his hand. Only for a moment, though, before he squeezes her hand with his and leads them on. Away from the cay he takes her, an easy ( almost ambling ) pace. He is in no rush if she isn't. The path from the shore inland is less traversed and more unknown; if he had not writ this place to memory specifically for this moment, he would not remember the way. The pollen is not so bad now in the throes of winter, the grass all frozen and buried under snow. Still he steps carefully, ignoring the burn of both the ice and the grass beneath. It is worth it, he knows -- well, he hopes. It's been awhile since he was here; maybe his memory of the place will not hold up. But then the sacred falls come into view, and he thinks it'll be okay. Just a little further now, he says -- glancing to her, shooting her a small smile. Shy, still, and anxious beyond that. He cannot shake the feeling of being a fumbling teenager, he cannot seem to quiet the way his heart pounds in his chest. Not even when he leads her up towards the waterfall then behind it, to the grotto tucked behind the curtain of water. It stretches out just as he remembers -- dark but lit by skylights and home to more lightning bugs than he's ever seen in his life. It is beautiful. Still, he turns his gaze away from it to look at her -- ears pricked forward, a naked and hopeful expression plain on his face. I came here once before, for a hunt. He says, hardly a whisper. Anything louder would disturb the tranquility of the grotto. And I wanted to share it with you.

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For the most part, they walk in silence. Calypso fights the awkwardness of it, refuses to acknowledge it even as the quiet races across her skin and digs in little barbs here and there. Reminders of her time in the mist, of the all consuming quiet that had existed there. She wants to break it with conversation, to ask him mindless and pointless questions if only to fill the silence, but she balks from the idea.

Calypso was hanging on to any vestiges of normalcy that she could, and to suddenly turn in to a blabbermouth was hardly an indication of wellness. There was no real need to wear the mask around him, but she did all the same if only to avoid worrying him.

Worrying him and, maybe, pushing him away.

Eventually she settles, stepping more easily beside him, and when he turns and informs him that they are almost there she gives an answering smile. Hers is brighter, more keen, almost as if she is afraid for it to be less than brilliant. A half smile, she fears, will show the cracks beneath the surface.

Then the reach the grotto, and all of her fears disappear.

Calypso is nothing if not enraptured, ocean-storm eyes wandering over the walls of the grotto, and then the ceiling. The rays of light that pierce the gloom, and the blink-blink of lightning bugs that create a magical atmosphere. A soft exhale breaks the silence when she finally turns her eyes back to him. There is a shine in them that had not been there before, a glimpse of overwhelming contentment and joy.

Simple and pure -- and she ignores the pang of something when he mentions a hunt she had not been at in order to press abruptly closer to him. Her head seeks to duck beneath his chin and rub against his neck, a quiet purr rising in her chest as she does so. "it be perfect," she murmured, her voice as hushed as his, feeling the weight of the sacred ground.

"It... it means a lot..." pulling back just enough that she can look him in the eye, "d'at ye t'ought of me." the swell of emotion in her chest almost threatens to choke her, and she hopes he knows just how special it is.

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i'm ready to suffer the sea he isn't sure why he wanted to bring her here, of all places. she is born from the sea like him ( no, not like you ); surely it would've made more sense to take her there. maybe even to the big iced over lake out in the tundra, if she is sick of the ocean. but for some reason, this is where his mind immediately went to. this place. it is secluded and well-hidden ( and therefore safe ), off the beaten path. it is a quiet place though firmly in the grasslands he always hates, but it is worth suffering through to see the look on her face. because — he takes one look at her and knows he's made the right decision. her face goes soft at the edges, mouth a little slack, as she takes it all in. he cannot say he felt the same amount of wonder when he'd first laid eyes on this place, but he'd been busy then. too busy worried about a hunt to realize take note of his surroundings, before saving it for later. here, though, it's far easier to get lost in the storybook charm of it all. and at the center is @Calypso. and when she looks at him, her eyes seem to shine in the lowlight. this was definitely the right choice. she steps forward, slotting herself into his embrace as she's done plenty of times before. it feels different this time — the weight of her admission and his own weighing heavily upon his shoulders — but it also feels right. his muzzle twists, easy as anything, to brush his chin to the stripes she wears on her forehead. a familiar touch ( it is electric as always ) but one that feels like home. love, says the beat of his heart, the fragile beat it pounds against his ribs where her chest pushes into his. she pulls away and he is loathe to let her go, especially when she looks at him. her words meet his ears, flicking them forward, as his shoulders roll carelessly. Hákon is quiet for a moment, mulling over the words, but finally he says i think of you often. a quiet mumble, as if he is shy admitting this. and maybe he is. because when he continues, it's in his own language: mer än jag någonsin skulle erkänna. (more than i'd ever admit.) a quiet aside meant for himself, though his tone tells her everything she needs to know. love.

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once more she is reminded that she could easily stay forever in this moment. it was not like the repetitive hell of the mist, living the same experiences over and over. time with him was a balm to her soul, a caress that reached beyond the layers of skin and tangle of veins. his touch was more -- and she knew she would never have enough of it.

for all the moments and all of the time they had spent together she was starved, still, and presses almost desperately in to his touch. needy, wanting, and a little bit anxious; it had been too long without. too many weeks (even if they had not felt like weeks to her) without, thinking that she had ruined it, thinking that she was not wanted.

calypso worries that is the truth even now, even as he tells her over and over again that she is wanted. needed, even, or maybe that is a step too far.

nonetheless the scales are not so widely tipped with their recent confessions (hers less recent, perhaps, but no less significant). they come to a near balance, now, and calypso can feel the shift between them even if it is shadowed by some measure of fear.

the hushed words reach down and pluck at her heartstrings, and if it were possible her features soften even more. "and i you," she murmured, and even if she cannot understand his words she feels the gist of them. calypso presses closer again, feeling more confessions rise to press against her teeth and trying to bite them back, trying not to ruin this delicate balance they had found.

"i... in de mist d'ere were voices, aye. ones d'at told me ye were better off wit'out." whispered words, shifting scales, and she tucks closer (as if afraid he would back off, now). "i do not want to be wit'out you." heavy, perhaps, but ringing with truth even in her quiet tones.

real..

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