I caught a glimpse of the future
Who: Tia Dalma
What: Her seemingly random thoughts this night
When: Now
Where: Deck of The Typhoon
Rating: G for Goddess
“I am- I am afraid. Of being taken. From the sea. From you.”
Steps silent, she walks across the wooden planks of the deck. Her right hand runs across the top of the railing lightly, the whisper of her skin against the wood the only noise she makes as she moves. She stops soon as her hand brushes the scratches left by a harpy’s claws. It’s deep and jagged, carving across the wood.
This is hardly what she expected. But she was soon growing accustomed. She’d need to grow used to the whims of this place if she expected to thrive. And not just thrive. Escape.
It seemed like every which way she turned she was newly bound.
The chains of skin and blood and bone hang heavily on her.
She had nearly drowned. Drowned. Drowned in the sea. Drowned in herself. She didn’t swim to shore. She kicked, she fought, she screamed, she broke her way to shore. And when she finally touched land, it was a hand that she saw. A hand. A smooth, five-fingered human hand. She was separate from the sea and she was clothed in her hair and it was cold, so cold, so bitterly cold, and she was bound in skin and blood and bones.
For the first time in her existence, she tasted the bitter draft of horror.
“I am-I am afraid.”
She has had years since to grow accustomed to her ill-fitting skin. Years to know that her fury grows and strikes and washes against her prison walls-vainly. Years to study the black tattoos on her face. Her manacles. Left for all to see on her skin.
But not all understood. They called her “Tia”. Aunt. Their magic aunt. The one who could heal them, the one who could grant what they wanted, the one who never changed, who always stayed. They never knew. The nine who knew had perished. The nine who had greeted her that night at the shore were no more. The nine responsible had passed on the keys to her cell-not destroyed them. She had remained where they left her-a lonely swamp amid the dark and silent mangroves-and learned. And grown. And fed and watered and sunned her hatred. They believed her to be defeated. They believed themselves masters of the sea. Of her.
She smiles, just a dark slash barely visible in the night’s obsidian darkness.
“Fools.”
They call themselves sailors in placid and tranquil waters. They call themselves sailors in favorable winds and soft rains. How far are they from true sailors.
From the sea.
“From you.”
The lack of a weight hangs heavily around her neck. She raises a hand to her chest, but her fingers brush the beads of her necklace, the cloth of her bodice. Her locket is gone. Taken. Used to pay her way into a place she never wished for. And out of everything she wanted.
“Calypso…”
He was a sailor. And he was a man. And he braved her fury as he loved her favor. He grinned into the wind. He laughed into the waves. Even when it closed above his head, he mastered the water. And she loved him.
She clutches at the air over her chest as if it were her locket. She looks across the dark water to the bright city. And she peeks through other eyes to the prison where the others wait.
The wind plays in her ears. Like a lost song. Like her voice of breeze and salt and water speaking to him when she embraced him that first time.
Her other hand tightens around the railing.
“Are you afraid of death…Davy Jones?”
What: Her seemingly random thoughts this night
When: Now
Where: Deck of The Typhoon
Rating: G for Goddess
“I am- I am afraid. Of being taken. From the sea. From you.”
Steps silent, she walks across the wooden planks of the deck. Her right hand runs across the top of the railing lightly, the whisper of her skin against the wood the only noise she makes as she moves. She stops soon as her hand brushes the scratches left by a harpy’s claws. It’s deep and jagged, carving across the wood.
This is hardly what she expected. But she was soon growing accustomed. She’d need to grow used to the whims of this place if she expected to thrive. And not just thrive. Escape.
It seemed like every which way she turned she was newly bound.
The chains of skin and blood and bone hang heavily on her.
She had nearly drowned. Drowned. Drowned in the sea. Drowned in herself. She didn’t swim to shore. She kicked, she fought, she screamed, she broke her way to shore. And when she finally touched land, it was a hand that she saw. A hand. A smooth, five-fingered human hand. She was separate from the sea and she was clothed in her hair and it was cold, so cold, so bitterly cold, and she was bound in skin and blood and bones.
For the first time in her existence, she tasted the bitter draft of horror.
“I am-I am afraid.”
She has had years since to grow accustomed to her ill-fitting skin. Years to know that her fury grows and strikes and washes against her prison walls-vainly. Years to study the black tattoos on her face. Her manacles. Left for all to see on her skin.
But not all understood. They called her “Tia”. Aunt. Their magic aunt. The one who could heal them, the one who could grant what they wanted, the one who never changed, who always stayed. They never knew. The nine who knew had perished. The nine who had greeted her that night at the shore were no more. The nine responsible had passed on the keys to her cell-not destroyed them. She had remained where they left her-a lonely swamp amid the dark and silent mangroves-and learned. And grown. And fed and watered and sunned her hatred. They believed her to be defeated. They believed themselves masters of the sea. Of her.
She smiles, just a dark slash barely visible in the night’s obsidian darkness.
“Fools.”
They call themselves sailors in placid and tranquil waters. They call themselves sailors in favorable winds and soft rains. How far are they from true sailors.
From the sea.
“From you.”
The lack of a weight hangs heavily around her neck. She raises a hand to her chest, but her fingers brush the beads of her necklace, the cloth of her bodice. Her locket is gone. Taken. Used to pay her way into a place she never wished for. And out of everything she wanted.
“Calypso…”
He was a sailor. And he was a man. And he braved her fury as he loved her favor. He grinned into the wind. He laughed into the waves. Even when it closed above his head, he mastered the water. And she loved him.
She clutches at the air over her chest as if it were her locket. She looks across the dark water to the bright city. And she peeks through other eyes to the prison where the others wait.
The wind plays in her ears. Like a lost song. Like her voice of breeze and salt and water speaking to him when she embraced him that first time.
Her other hand tightens around the railing.
“Are you afraid of death…Davy Jones?”