Morning came early for the mother, pulled from slumber by sharp cub teeth and youthful giggles. It was the bright spot of her day, the moment that brought her the most joy even as it robbed her of much needed sleep. Once awake she struggled to slip back to slumber, even with Grit having succumbed to a late morning nap.

As it were Calypso found something to keep herself busy, a short swim to the shore with her usually bag clutched carefully in her teeth. It was full of herbs from her garden, dried and ready for use, and her intent was to restock the tucked away den she had first called home in Amaryllis. Calypso kept her own kind of cache, there, for times when she could not spare the minutes to swim to the cay. It was not her only cache, and she was often busy checking and restocking the few places scattered across Amaryllis.

A large nook in the stone den was nearly empty, and she added more from her collection. Removing the old herbs that were no longer usable and replacing them with better ones. When she was done she sat with a satisfied sigh, her gaze sweeping the little cavern as she reflected on the numerous memories sunk in to the stone. Including, she recalled, her first night with Hakon.

The mere thought of him stung, if only for the uncertainty of the future that stretched before them. Saga’s words echoed through her mind, and she mulled over the notion of sharing him. Assuming he even wanted her in the same way.

Calypso knew, then, that she would have to ask him. It ran the risk of scaring him off forever, but the uncertainty…. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could live with that.

Table by Amanda | Reference by Karasu | Background

unlike her, he is not productive.

he is... aimless.

untethered, unmoored, and all those other words for a ship lost at sea. his paws take him forward without a real destination in mind but perhaps it's not surprising that he finds his way along the shoreline, into the caves that tuck along the cove. here the ceiling blots out the sun above -- it reminds him of the hollows, of how miserable he'd been there. cut off from the salt and the sea that he'd built his life upon. here, though, the sea still sloshes at his ankles as he goes -- filling his nose with the comforting smell. a small way to ground him but he takes it readily, passing through some of the tunnels that he knows well enough. he has no real plans to go very far in, until he catches scent of something more familiar than stone or salt.

maybe it shouldn't be any real surprise that that his paws bring him to her.

a chuff rumbles from his throat unbidden, seeking out her attention. and it's not until he does that he realizes why this place, this section of the tunnels in particular, is so familiar. it's her den -- or, well, one of them. one of the many she uses, dotted around the island and packed to the brim with supplies meant for just in case. blinking, he realizes he might be intruding and so his ears tip forward, waiting.

@Calypso has never denied him before, but he knows better than to assume his presence if welcome.

CODE BY LARS

as if summoned by her thoughts he is there -- and should she be so surprised? as the last of the work was done and she sat shrouded in memory he appeared, and she wondered if it was the world's way of laughing at her. or, perhaps, if she wanted to think of it more positively -- giving her exactly what she needed.

whether or not the meeting would go well was impossible to determine, and to turn and see him is to chase away all indecision and doubt in her mind. he stands as if he is unsure and she welcomes him with a tip of her head, a gesture of invitation in to a space that is not really hers but at the same time holds enough of her that she could claim some measure of possession. this tucked away stone den carries enough of her scent that it might give strangers pause, but enough appeal with herbs that a trained medic would recognize its use.

calypso's eyes are not for the tidied herbs or the den itself, but for him. watching as he enters her orbit, and barely resisting the urge to tumble in to his embrace. their precious stolen moments in the aftermath of the death match rise to the front of her mind, chased away by the insecurity that saga's pregnancy and words had planted. calypso teeters on the edge of something significant, but the presence of him has chased away all of the words she had thought to say.

instead she finds a smile touching her lips and a softness in her voice as she finally asks, simply -- "are ye well?" because so much had happened, so much had affected him, and calypso cared enough to wonder.

@Hákon

Table by Amanda | Reference by Karasu | Background

ooc: playin a lil fast & loose with what he'd ""know"" at this point gkmgk

she does not send him away -- a fact he will never take for granted, and one that soothes him regardless. he is weclomed in with a slight tilt of the head and it is all he needs, the greedy man he is. paws scuff against the stone floor as he ventures closer, drifting ever into her orbit -- beckoned by the familiar smell of the spiced herbs she keeps. are ye well? she asks and he pauses before his shoulders bunch up, rolling in a small shrug. he was not bad -- he grew stronger with each passing day, and every dawn brought him further and further from death's door. the sickness that had plagued him for months seems like a distant, fickle memory -- if he were anyone else, maybe that's all it would be. but he is skagos and these things haunt him.

he is not the type of man used to good news and so he takes every healthy day with a grain of salt -- half expecting, at any moment, a cough to churn in his throat. better, he says, and hopes that is answer enough. what of you? he asks, eager to turn the tables -- if only so he does not have to examine his own feelings any further. he's had quite enough of them, thank you very much. peach-tinged ears tip forward as his skull crooks to the side, teal eyes never wavering from her face. and grit? surely the merle girl was still causing a ruckus somewhere. of course, the mention of grit reminds him of children, and his lips thin out slightly -- a small scowl flickering across his countenance as he quickly shoves that from his thoughts.

CODE BY LARS

can he feel it? the tension? the live-wire strung between them that was not there before? or, was, but has changed, now? or is this all in her mind -- is she imagining it?

calypso could not say, and a thousand words rush to her lips and then are swallowed down again. questions and statements and echoes of her own insecurity, held back by sheer will and a deep-rooted fear that he would not choose her.

does there have to be a choice?

were saga and her fooling themselves for thinking that there didn't? maybe, or maybe not. of what she knew of the chimera, though, she did not expect that sharing was something that came easily to her.

his physical health was no longer a concern to her, though she always found herself listening to his breaths and confirming that his lungs remained clear. this is not what she wanted to know about, but then she wondered just how much he knew. surely more than she did, considering that he lived in the lagoon and was close to the queen.

"well enough," she answers when he turns the spotlight back on her (as he was always inclined to do) and grit. "i t'ink she'll be de cause of many grey hairs soon."

but this is not what she wants to talk about, not today. while grit was an important part of her life it was not the child she thought of -- at least, not that one. so, unable to stop herself, she takes a step off the edge and waits to see how far she falls -- "saga told me." and surely he would know what she meant. afraid though she may be her gaze does not stray from his face, watching for his reaction, ready to be what he needs her to be.

even if it is only a friend.

Table by Amanda | Reference by Karasu | Background

ever eager to place the ball in her court, he is -- almost surprised at the way calypso side-steps his question. she did not say much of grit, or the girl's current antics -- instead she barrels on, as if she is eager to get to something else. as if there is something else she wishes to talk about -- as if he has stumbled into her while a question dwells on her tongue. the walls did not seem to press in before, but now they do. cornered, the sensation rises up suddenly and without warning -- caught, as if in a snare, by her pointed gaze.

suddenly, inexplicably, the skin at the nape of his neck pinches together. the fur, too, threatens to rise -- it's the same feeling he gets when he is being watched, when he is being hunted. tension brews between them and hakon -- he misses the obvious clue. even when @Calypso mentions saga, alludes to one of their conversations. hakon -- he misses the clue staring him straight in his face; he misses the strange churn in his chest.

instead it is fear, not worry, that rises like bile in his throat -- even if they now worry for different reasons.

and what did she tell you? he asks, brows furrowing together as his paws flex uselessly against the soaked stone -- as if trying to fight the strange, restless feeling rising in his chest. it's hard, nearly impossible, to ignore the tension that snaps between them -- even if he cannot figure out why it has raised its ugly head here today.

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

table by sentinel / art

the tension morphs, changes, and calypso feels the goosebumps that race to consume her flesh. her heart thuds heavy in her chest -- can he hear it? -- and there is a sudden urge to run from this. to run and leave behind this god-forsaken cave and all that it meant or will mean.

it is only the small voice in the back of her mind that stays her paws, the one that reminders her that she needs to know even if the answer will close the book on.... whatever this is.

"of cubs," she hurried to say as if she might lose any and all nerve (as if it is not long gone, fleeing from the cave in the face of this turmoil), "of y-yer cubs." would he deny it?

the first niggle of doubt wormed in to her mind. even while she knew of cubs coming in to existence with only two father's, was it all some lie? had saga fed her an untruth in the hopes of deterring her from his path she walked with him? the doubt grows as the seconds tick past, and she struggles to swallow them back and face him, horrified to feel the prickle behind her eyes that threatens to bring tears.

a slow breath, steady, as she attempts to find a smile and tilt her head, feigning a casualness she does not feel (it should be obvious to him, for he knows her so well). "are... are ye happy?"

because that was all that mattered, in the end. his happiness.

Table by Amanda | Reference by Karasu | Background

ooc: again bein a lil loosey-goosey w what he knows/how he feels since that thread hasn't progressed :*

the tension snaps and flares, a live-wire that connects from him to her -- that keeps him in place, even as his hackles raise. defensive, a cornered animal ready to bear his teeth and gnash them together. but she is calypso ( she is home ), and he... he should not feel this way around her. or about her, even. he'd expect it from brigid, of course. but not calypso. never @Calypso.

and -- ah. it might be the question he was expecting, but still hakon misses the point of it. the needle-sharp point she is trying to make, the obvious sign that lays out before them. saga is pregnant, but with his cubs? doubtful. they are not mine, he says, because he knows this to be true. she should know this to be true, too -- they've lain together before. more than enough for her to realize what he might be lacking in that department.

just like they did not see their god, saga is not pregnant with his cubs. a lie, even if he doesn't realize it.

calypso's question is both pointed and vague -- and he, the coward, does not voice the fear that brews in his chest. a ruinous thing, a stormcloud on even the brightest days. aye, i am happy for her. he says, at length -- words thick in his throat as he deliberately does not remember the way the air thrummed from a voice far deeper than his own. you will be rewarded, said the vision, you will both be rewarded. deliberately othered, even in this shared delusion of theirs -- one that saga embraced and he had shied away from. to find calypso here, voicing it, is upsetting in a way he hadn't imagined, and his brows furrow still. why? he asks, voice defensive but not sharp. what else did saga tell her? did she tell her of how the ocean had ran dark? of how the birdsong had quieted until it was nothing but them and him?

he is more worried about the vessel of this truth than what it might mean for them -- he is too busy being a scared little boy, shying away from the crashing waves to realize just how delicate a situation he's found himself in. edging towards a cliff blindly with naught in his chest but love ( misguided though it might be ); a drowning man who's lost sight of the surface and instead finds himself swimming deeper into the depths.

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

table by sentinel / art

she balks in the face of his anger (if that was what it was), in the face of this tension that storms between them. a proverbial hurricane and she wonders what will be left when it is over. will there be ruin and destruction, will there be any hope of rebuilding?

they are not mine.

the ocean roars in her ears, the blood rushes through her veins, and she feels suddenly faint. for a second she sways before she catches herself, grounds herself, spreads her toes across the stone floor of the tucked-away cavern. was it really only minutes ago that she had been alone, tending to wilted herbs and emptied stores? it seems impossible, as her mind races, running over and over those words.

"i..." a pause, a stumble, and she tries again. "roarke and cupid had cubs, just d'em, spittin' images... i t'ought...." he probably did not even know who she meant and on some level she knows she is rambling, afraid that she has angered him with her assumptions, her belief. calypso is in damage control mode, even if she believes it to be impossible to mend what she has torn. "i do not know d'e way of d'is land, d'e gods..." a weak smile, a small shrug, and her gaze is suddenly downcast. calypso feels small and wishes fervently that she could take it all back. bite back the words, the feelings, or perhaps wake to find that this had all been a dream.

wake to find herself curled in his arms, again, and the thought brings a lump to her throat that she struggles to swallow.

the energy has shifted, and she knows it is too late to take it back. she knows it is too late to stop the flood that has started, that this moment has broken the dam she has carefully built over the past months spent with the skagos. a small leak, first, with the peach druid scrambling to plug all of the holes, to keep her construction intact. but then a torrent in the form of feelings as those damned tears prick at her eyes and a whisper falls from her lips.

"i love ye, ye know."

and she cannot bear to look at him and see the rejection she fears.

Table by Amanda | Reference by Karasu | Background

her peach frame sways, as if under an onslaught, but all he had done was answer her. answer her in the simplest terms he knew how, imparting this small ( sad? ) truth. if saga was pregnant ( which she was ) then the cubs were not his ( yes, they were ). was that not the conclusion @Calypso had come to? did she not realize the differences between them -- and the similarities?

her answering smile is small, timid at the edges -- almost cowering in a way that sets his teeth on edge. she speaks of lions he does not know and impossible things, cubs pulled straight from the ether. she speaks of gods, as if there are multiple -- as if it is not just the one, terrible and bloodstained and waterlogged. a defensive noise rumbles from his throat, a half-choked snort of derisive laughter at her comment -- needling and pointed, a man in the throes of grasping for a religion.

whatever objections he might've had, whatever needling he might've done ( what do you know of gods, calypso? ), they die on his tongue. strangled and withering with a soft murmur -- a whimper following her confession. it is soft and her gaze skitters away from his as she says it, as if she is ashamed -- and he is, cowardly, glad for it. she does not need to see the soft look of surprise flicker across hardened features -- she does not need to see the way his features smudge at the edges. something almost delicate bleeding through.

she says this thing so easily, as if it is not world-ending. a nervous feeling thrums in his chest, edging ever closer to that cliff's edge. hakon does not think he has ever felt so... lost as he does in this moment. her words, tiny and quiet, pull the rug out from under him -- blood rushing in his ears, a distant echo of the ocean. a quiet roar that does nothing to drown out the drumbeat of his own pulse, loud against his rib-cage, terrible and thunderous. -- why? he says, though this isn't the question he means to volley her way. it is housed in teeth and fire, even as he weaves where he stands -- one good wind gust from toppling over. defenseless, maybe, as she's finally given name to the thing lurking in his chest.

(
what do you know of love, hakon?

you know it is terrible and bloodstained and waterlogged.

you know you do not deserve this.
)

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

table by sentinel / art