It was an ordinary day. Uneventful as most were, though she didn't mind. Peace and quiet was a welcome break from the chaos that had reigned before, though she was beginning to miss the hustle and bustle of the crew. Their loss still stung, as much as she tried to hide it from her loved ones. Grit knew, surely. Her boisterous daughter was no doubt feeling the same weight of loss. Hakon, too, though his was a different type of emptiness, one that Calypso did her damnedest to fill. And then -- As if she had blinked and was transported, Calypso stumbled. Stumbled and nearly fell to her knees with a cry, a heavy voice echoing in her mind as her eyes stared -- unseeing and seeing so much all at once. Mist swirled and struck fear in to her heart, an icy and all consuming fear that pulled tears almost instantly to her eyes. Who is in my home "No," she shouts, instinctively, lashing out against this presence even as she is back on the beach. Yellow sand underfoot, the hush of the ocean tide in her eyes -- all of this a brief comfort before... A softer voice, concerned; and then pain. Pain that caused the druid to gasp, to tremble, to shake. Pain and fear and that damned mist. It takes her again. Again. it was mine -- but this is not what she hears. This is not what her mind pieces together, no. Instead she imagines that it is HER he claims; you were mine. "NO." Panic, surging, sweeping her away, pulling her down in to the tortured depths of her own mind. To an outsider she is frozen on the shore, shaking legs barely holding her upright, her eyes moving rapidly from side to side. "Grit! Hakon!" Shouting, frantic, stumbling forward across the sand she can no longer see. Everything is shrouded in that damned mist and she is lost. Lost, and this time she knows she cannot fight. This time she knows she cannot win. This time she will let them take what they want. When she slams back to the present she hardly realizes it at first. Her eyes are shut and she is crumpled to the sand, now, with a fierce tremor that courses relentlessly through her body. It is only the pull of the sea that stirs her, opening her eyes and taking in her surroundings again. The mist is gone -- it is gone -- and all she can do is cry.

code // art // do not use without permission

The scream splits across the cay and turns his world upside down.

At least for that one, terrible moment.

It would not be the first time he's discovered ruin upon the sands -- but today, when he finds the crumpled form of his mate, there is no telltale scent of copper. It does not make him feel better, though. There's still ice in his veins, even as his heart thumps wildly in his chest; a kick drum beating in his chest again.

Paws carry him gracelessly, but quickly, to her side -- seafoam eyes sweeping across her frame. Looking for something, anything. Her injuries cannot be seen by the naked eye, though, and brows furrow as he gently nudges her -- panic still alight in his veins. Calypso? He breathes, and tries not to think about the last woman he'd found broken on the beach.

Please.

Not her.

what makes you think i'm enjoying being led to the flood?

table by sentinel / art

the panic that grips her is slow to subside. even after she realizes it is gone -- for how long? -- her heart races frantically in her chest. the beat is loud in her ears, replacing the hush of water on sand with the rush of blood through veins. hakon comes but she cannot stop the shaking; her mate comes and still she feels the tears upon her cheeks. "it was here. de mist. it was HERE." frantic as her gaze lifts to his, only slightly reassured by the familiarity of its presence. "i was gone... i..." it made no sense, she sounded mad, because here she was... here she was.. "somet'ing happened," the concern, the pain; it was real... wasn't it? "somet'ing..." she shook her head, as if she might be able to deny the reality of what she had seen, or perhaps beginning to question if she had only imagined it after alll.. "did ye hear it?" ocean storm eyes target his again, unsure of the answer she was hoping for...

code // art // do not use without permission

she responds quickly, which is a relief in itself. still, the words she speaks leave him with a strange, hollow feeling. maybe she was okay physically, but clearly something was wrong. it'd been months since this fear had crept up on her; he does not know why it rears its ugly head now, but claws flex into the sand, wishing for an easier target to dig them into than the demons that haunt her thoughts.

salmon-hued nose reaches out to nudge against her salt-stained cheeks, ears pitching forward. seafoam eyes shift from her striken face to the cay around them -- slow, sweeping glances as he tries to find the mist she speaks of. there is nothing, though -- not even a rolling fog -- and brows knit together with worry.

hear what? he asks, voice gruff but almost soft. there's nothing here, calypso -- nothing but you. a quiet reminder that she was real, and so was he. this is a familiar dance they've done plenty of times before, and a paw reaches out to rest gently upon her forearm. an anchor, since she needs it.

what makes you think i'm enjoying being led to the flood?

table by sentinel / art

nothing here. but that can't be right... can it? immediately the druid shakes her head, denying the possibility that it had all been in her head, that it had been some lingering twisted dream spurred on by the lasting effecting of her trauma. "no," a quiet whisper wrenches from her lips as she looks down to the paw he places on her leg. calypso was safe, alive, present -- but still her mind spun with what she had heard. "d'ere be a voice," she admitted, knowing well that he wasn't keen with the idea of voices, "two of d'em." her expression is almost shameful as she again seeks his gaze, blue meeting blue as she struggles to convince him (and herself) that she was not insane. "an' d'e mist, or... it be like i was gone." she shook her head, hating how crazy she sounded, hating that he had not seen what she had. "one was angry and one was... worried. hurt." more details, more details -- maybe that could convince him.

code // art // do not use without permission

his paw rests heavily upon her and after a moment, he moves it. feeling strange to have it lingering upon her skin. she is still lost, he can see that, and the frown is still heavy on his lips. torn between grabbing her by the shoulder and shaking her, and… something decidedly more soft. look, he says, trying again. turning his muzzle up and down the cay — looking, pointedly, at the expanse of empty beach. there was nothing there, no one there. it was only them.

( it is always only them. )

but… he knows how it feels, to be haunted. to be haunted and ave no one believe you, to suffer such a thing alone. there is not much he can do; never, he is useless in this as he is with most things. but he can, at least, be there for her. be here, for her. what — what did they say? in all her stories of the mist, he does not remember voices — he remembers stories of figures, torturing terrors, but not just voices.

certainly this voice, these two voices, could not do as much damage as the last ones had.

what makes you think i'm enjoying being led to the flood?

table by sentinel / art

the second his paw moves her own follows it, seeking to place the weight of hers on top of his. foolish though he might have felt it was grounding to her, and calypso needed a physical reminder that she was safe and present. now her eyes lift, moving along the beach, scanning for any indication of what she had seen was real. there is none, of course, and she feels the rush of shame and embarrassment burn her cheeks. had it truly been a dream? he asks a question and she looks back to him, her gaze softening as it finds his handsome features. struck, briefly, by the thought that she did not deserve him, and that she would spend every minute of every day showing him how grateful she was. now, though, she manages only a quick smile, and then her brow furrows as she reflects. "d'e first was... angry. it be like it be in my whole body. asking 'who is in my home'." it sounds foolish and odd, and she rushes on as if giving more details would make him more inclined to believe her. "d'ere was a flash of d'e mist, jest a blink." "d'e ot'er one sounded scared, or unsure, asking who it be." a shiver coursed through her, remembering the pain that followed. "d'e second voice... d'ere was a feeling of pain. and d'en d'e first one accused it of taking its home." calypso shook her head, staring clear in to hakon's eyes. "d'at was when d'e mist came, or... it seemed to come. i wasn't here... but it wasn't really d'e mist eit'er." a sigh, trembling and unsteady, as she tries to release the tension. "it makes no sense..." a dream, of course; that was what the sane one would say. and calypso could not argue because what proof did she have?

code // art // do not use without permission

a part of him, no matter how small, is disquieted by this news.

it is… not a good thing, if she is hearing voices. especially not angry ones, especially not ones that upset her to the point of tears. the frown remains fixed, heavy on his lips, as @Calypso does her best to explain. he has never liked hearing these things — he’s a little tetchy when it comes to women he loves hearing voices.

a quiet thought springs up in the wake of her words, but he is quick to ignore it. refusing to give it any weight, even if his mind keeps circling back to it. worrying a loose tooth.

vellen?

but — no.

this was not his home.

( and it’s not yours, either. )

a memory, then? he asks, when it’s clear she’s finished speaking. either that or a dream, or some strange mix of both. it is an easy answer, a simple one — though the tight expression at the corner of his eyes belays his inner turmoil. calypso has… come so far from when she’d first got spit out of the mist — it doesn’t make sense for her to relapse now. except, maybe it does; her crew’s disappearance, and the beginning of their tense happily-ever-after might be enough to tip anyone over the edge.

his frown deepens, just a little, at the thought.

what makes you think i'm enjoying being led to the flood?

table by sentinel / art

In the wake of her words a new level of exhaustion settles in to her bones. Whatever it was that had happened left her feeling more tired than she had in ages, since she had been spit from the mist so many months ago. Hakon is quiet, pensive, and proposes the very thing she had expected him to propose. A memory. No, she wants to say, the word locked behind her teeth with sheer determination. It would do no good to shoot him down so abruptly, nor to dismiss the possibility that it had been nothing more than a figment of her imagination. A shard of her broken mind. Even though she knows it is not, even though she is certain that it was something more, she has no proof. “Must be,” she admits, even as she screams no a thousand times in her mind. Every fibre of her being demands that she argue and rail against the very idea, but in the surface she is calm, composed. Calypso seeks eye contact and finds a reassuring smile, determined to put this behind, to move on. “I’m sorry, fer scarin’ yeh.” pressing firmly her paw against his, a gesture that she hoped would erase his frown.

code // art // do not use without permission

must be, @Calypso says, and his frown does not lessen any. it should be enough; that should be it. it’s not an easy thing to sweep under the metaphorical rug.. but it’s certainly the route he hopes they’ll take. but — this isn’t just about him, anymore. maybe it was never about him. it’s about her. her features, always so pretty, don’t ripple with anything other than serenity.

he wants to believe her, even if he doesn’t want to believe her words.

she apologizes then and it makes something ugly in his stomach churn. because it sounds — wrong. wrong coming from her mouth, at a time like this. even the pressure of her paw against his doesn’t do much to lessen the worry that blooms in his chest. quiet but incessant, weeds spreading to cover the wildflowers.

are you — alright? his voice now is quieter, but certainly not meek. instead, it’s almost soft — questioning. he doesn’t quite have the words to ask the question he really wants answered, so instead he offers: it’s okay, if you’re not. there is no one here to judge her aside from him.

and he is certainly not going to belittle her here, for this.

what makes you think i'm enjoying being led to the flood?

table by sentinel / art