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thespicn​:

WHEN  — ｡ ‘✧ 1845. a few days after the mutiny. WHERE  —  ｡ ‘✧ the bow of the ship. OPEN TO —  ｡ ‘✧ everyone aboard.

They were used to it, all things told: waking to the world having gone arse-up. Lovers, usurpers, things stealing into the small hours, all rushes in at daybreak. When was night ever patient enough not to stretch, and smirk, and finally to bleed all over the morning? Dawn meant a headlong tumble into a barrel of powder: fine, flammable, ground down disaster.

Sebastien takes his stand at the prow. Their body careens ever so slightly when gripping the rail, and a grimace passes over them, a bob in their throat. It’s unsettling, being out onto the water again: that swell of movement, the turning of the wind. It does odd things to their stomach, their vision. And the laudanum does not help. Merde, but they should be having an awful time of it. Short on sleep, on any water that didn’t pour from a decanter, on human touches. On poppy, too, bon sang; the leads which closed before all others. Yet none of that matters, none of it       and the reason why is carved in flesh. The point of faith: the point where it lays its head.

There was a door.

Another turn of the screw, yet this time in the opposite direction. A palm on the knob, a jangling of the keychain. There was a door. It may be there, still. They may be here, still.

Bastien’s gaze falls on the person that ambles near. He moves with great care, eyes polished with holystones, turned sea-shell bright. The eyes of a once church-boy, once doorstep-boy, who is making sure pity is strong enough to draw matters home. Powerful enough to warrant allegiance, warrant answers. Protection, too: after provoking for so long, lashing with mouthfuls of spit, Bastien cannot afford to have that remembered. Cannot afford to have it called into question. A creature whose role must now turn, from stray dog, rabid dog, to something pampered and ready to be picked up. The actor wets their lips, lets colour slip into their cheeks. A blush creeps with the menuet of ballrooms. Pick me up, then, and take me to them.

❝ Say, ❞ he begins, a demure low under the rumble of the ship, ❝ do you know when the services will be held? Will the—Father Laurents, will he make it a joined memorial? ❞ The sound carries, wafted by the tarp battling against the top-mast. The actor runs their hand over their arms to draw out the cold. When they next blink, they make it look like being fogged over; turning fawn-eyed, fawn-limbed against the rail and into the other’s space. ❝ Would you speak to me about what happened? What’s the talk, below decks? Mon Dieu, those days on the island… I don’t recall much. The others do, maybe, but—ah, c’est simple, non? One never wants to bring it back up. Was there really… did they say something opened? ❞  

"My oh my." Nour’s words drench themselves in dizzying, shimmering apathy. In the sweet syrup of disdain. "Such a darling, pathetic creature you've drowned into today, Sebastien. What pushed your head under the water and kept it there, your cheeks are glacial." They tut, their body leans them closer. Hands marginally colder than Bastien’s frigid cheeks rub colour back into pale skin. Unkind hands. Mocking hands. A could-have would-be promise of sharp nails, flowering red petals on white. If.

“Who knows what the good father intends, mon petit mignon.” Their breath is ice across Sebastien’s ear. “I for one have been praying for their poor souls since the news returned. Is it not so for you?” Sweeping Bastien’s curly hair from his forehead, they tuck a strand behind his ear only for it to spring out again. Nour sighs. “You must take better care of those pretty lips, you’ll ruin yourself in this summer cold. How would you go about seducing our darling officers when you dress yourself like a drenched thing.”

“But what can I say for our recent happenings — the word of the lord is a mouth opened in the nightless dark. Toothless. Hands for teeth.” Wistful. Half-mad, but a drowsy madness. The kind of madness that has poppies crushed underfoot, seeds crushed in the mouth. “If only I had gone. If only I could have seen, heard the dark for my own. But perhaps we’ll have the chance soon, hm? That would be —  idéale, non, mon cher?” A thin slit of white in their smile. “Je veux entendre le silence. Je suis immensément curieux, et tu?”

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aylumin​:

2nd August outside sickbay open

She’s paced the hall there many a time, or witnessed Jack do it. The absurd thing is that she wouldn’t wish to go back to it, not if it meant happiness had been missed for other people. Even if it changed the present. For who could tell what horrors would be in place of the ones they suffer now.  Halts pacing, to lean against the wall, hand pressed there to hold. Hold on. Take a breath, close her eyes, count the cracks of ice she can see and hear. Count the seconds that pass as she watches Vladya be taken. Count the times she can see Philippa’s breath or believe she does. 

A noise scatters her thoughts, as gunpowder streaks across her vision for it too. Imagines it must track back to footsteps, the heavy indignity of those that are armed. And really that means anyone, for the hallway already has her, and she’s set up camp with them. They keep to her head, and her back, and her gaze. The flash of rifles, and the grasping of arms, both types. The welcome home. 

Thinks to walk into sickbay, for she’ll be tortured by whoever approaches, or she’ll be tortured if Pippy is past the doors. At least there she could be some use, instead of standing. Oh, she’s not, she’s.. Oh. Immediately pushes against her hand to stand up, straight, shoulders back, chin up, posture perfect. Fuck if they’ll get to see anything different. Fuck their hair-trigger intimidation. 

“It’s a brand new day, I don’t suppose the whole thing’s been called off?” 

“I’m sure no one would mind.”

"ayla, sweetling. what nightmare came for you in the night and painted you into such pallid complexion come morning.” concern creases in the whorls of nour’s fingertips as they reach for ayla’s hands. careful fracturation of distance. taking the shards into their palms and calling them intimacy.

their eyes are sea-dark and searching. keener than metal thread, flaying truth in wood-chips and slivers from the soft flesh of ayla dowling’s expression. “are you now become the poor maid trapped in the confines of her fairytale?” a glimmer of sharksteeth, white points gleaming bright light. hunger and a promise. “i think you’ll have to call it off yourself, sweet thing. the prince is waiting for you to rescue him, is that the fable we’re in? water a fruitless landscape with your ungrudging blood, hm? all the philosophers say revolution is the natural state of the world.”

is that what the philosophers say? ah, it might as well be.

nour takes a step back. waltz steps, barely touching ground, barely touched by gravity. humming in amusement, as though counter-mutiny passes their lips as easily as talk of bad weather on a sunny day, nothing more than insipid insight into english tea leaves and brewing. “you must retire to my room with me, dear. perhaps we can have a bite to eat to settle these dreadful nerves. lord knows this… excitement has stoked something in me." stoked, yes. then whetted. a pyre of anticipation honed into a fine and bladed hunger. hunger for the spark and flame. nour grasps the girl’s palms. “perhaps we might have a productive discussion there.”

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emprcsario​:

lower deck; near private cabins / open to: everyone ig do whateVER u want with this

“so, what d’you reckon? how long until captaincy shifts back around?” the coin flips up and down kane’s hand, balanced over his knuckles; a family heirloom, believe it or not, he’s neglected it, though, it‘s filthy now, lost all it‘s shine. he’d throw it away but his fingers are so used to the weight of it, kane wouldn’t be able to pull the trick with a different one. 

his fist closes around the piece of metal. kane cracks a grin at the other. leans back against the wall, arms crossed in front of him, ignores the weight of the knife stuck into his belt. perhaps it risky, to go about without a gun—everyone seems to have emptied out the armory. but then he doesn’t really stick his nose out of his cabin these days, unless he absolutely has to. even now, there’s about ten steps separating him from the safe haven of his quarters. “nobody’s stupid enough to think there isn’t going to be pushback. dowling has way too many hounds ‘round here. miracle, that none of them haven’t tried anything yet.”

.

"how long until dowling is back on the prow? — you’d have me imagine it, kane? it’s an ill omen to picture such awful happenstance.” nour exhales, their breath sweet-scented. poppy-scented. “but if it happens i’d like it over with before the main event. i’ll put a shilling atop my tongue and pray they get it done with the least amount of fuss possible.” their gaze moves with kane’s coin, mind’s eye spinning into wilder contortions, stranger imaginings. “all this riveting sea before us and it’s these squabbles occupying hearts and minds.”

they blink, slow. a dreamy sigh crosses their lips, tender as vanilla and crumbled brown sugar. licking their lips in wait of the feast. “it would be lovely if we had something more substantial than human bloodsport to sink our teeth into. wouldn’t you agree?” there’s such a hunger in them, such a bite waiting in their teeth. river-current and sea-wave, running against the dam of unquiet skin. and when it breaks — 

their stomach clenches in anticipation. delight is a bright and wild flickering, sea-glass glittering shoals in their eyes. “it would be so lovely.”

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theghcstwriter​:

WHEN – AFTER THE MUTINY WHERE – THE TOP DECK WITH – OPEN 

how transformative is light. 

had it not been days ago, that this place had seemed something brought into being by the lips of dante himself? had they all not gazed out of windows, stood upon the top deck in the darkness, and expected to hear the moaning of cain carried across the empty space by the eternal wind? had not estrada, in all of his endless wisdom, looked cassius and brutus in the eyes as they dangled above the mouths of the devil and pretended he did not see them there, before he enacted their final crime? had he not looked upon the spidering cracks of ice and imagined himself as that very angel, cast out of heaven, fallen to this place to be trapped? 

he looks upon it now, cast in sunlight, and such things feel like moments from a dream, poorly remembered upon waking. it’s almost beautiful, in such a way that exists in complete opposition to the terror that the darkness had inspired–the ice has now given way to homer’s wine dark, black blood sea, strong and promising movement in every rolling wave, the sun casts light upon every rock spire on the island, making it appear more like a fortress, a castle a maiden might emerge from, beckoning weary travelers inside with the promise of rest. even the cold somehow feels more gentle in its bite, like a puppy that has not yet grown teeth, or chooses not to use them while engaged in play with a littermate. it laps gently at the exposed skin of his cheeks with rough tongue. 

he inhales it deeply, feels the corners of his mouth pull upwards–before he hears the approaching footsteps behind him. he does not speak, in the hopes that the person will think him engaged in serious contemplation, or overwhelmed by the events of the past forty eight hours–but they are undeterred. so he exhales and turns his gaze towards the rocky shore, shrugs one shoulder with a clipped gesture. 

“i keep thinking about ozymandias.” he says quietly. “that the wind will blow away the sand and there they’ll be–his trunkless legs of stone.” he shakes his head, does not meet their gaze. “at least then it would all make sense–he warned us that if we looked upon his works we mighty would despair.” a breeze forces him to tuck his hands into the pockets of his coat, and he finally glances over, to meet the gaze of his new companion. “it’s a poem–shelley. percy, not mary–though i think mary is the superior author.” 

.

"is that said in jest or sobriety now, victor. if it’s shelly one would rather prefer to think of his elegy for keats." in the tranquil air nour’s drawl moulders, suspended between dust motes. the sunlight is such a liar. the afternoon sweetens with gold, surfeit of goodness. between their fingers the cool metal railing drools with molten yolk. how could terror ever gorge itself beneath this calm. “stanza fifty three, love. if there’s a copy at hand on the ship, perhaps you’ll be of a mind to peruse it.”

nour chooses to lounge on the taffrail, chooses to bathe in the pleasant light. they hardly have eyes for victor, dripping bleakness in a puddle of his own poetic distress. “does this environment put you in a mind for despair? i find it all quite droll, this... habit of funerals, all the tepid inaction. nothing about it whets the appetite.” in a different time, nour would have their palm resting on a notebook, would be fixed on the crease of victor’s brow, his working mouth and industrious palms, poised for a pen to weep ink onto a blank and waiting page. the apathy has sapped them of even that. their questions are rhetorical, their interest grown lethargic.

“in the absence of wind, perhaps we might dip under the water to find those trunkless legs of stone, hm? water as sand in this metaphor. perhaps that’s the way to go, all the answers lying on the chalky seabed. all the bones of the dead marking up some ancient tablet beneath our promethean’s narrow hull, some… flat tombstone where every letter can be taken, dissected and dated down to the marrow.” they’re uttering nonsense. eyes shut and soaking warmth. “perhaps that’s the lock and the secret.”

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@aveaugvstus @wilccard ( 2 / ? )

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@wilccard @aveaugvstus ( 1 / ? )

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intrepidim​:

                   — The thing about Nour was: they talked like they owned the human language. Marc had caught onto this rather early, or just about earlier than most, but hindsight is always a damn scoundrel. It took him months to realize the full magnitude of the other’s prowess; something beyond penmanship, beyond bon mots. Something you don’t glean from a scratched out desk in St. Andrews, but reap with your teeth, your talons, from the world. Something that allows you to uproot the balance between fact and fiction as easily as pouring cream onto an islet of jam. Oh, he’d learned—but not after having his world swept from under his arse several times.

                   This was the fifth year since they struck a deal together, and so far, Nour had upheld it honorably. As much as that word can apply to either of them. Which is why the vice-admiral grins, now, with the assurance that ethics and morals do not exist at this table. They are hovering somewhere at the doorstep; eager for an in, of course, like tiny, disgruntled saints.

                  ❝ You got your hooks in something good, Villiers? Careful, it might pull us both in - his past is a creature, and there’s some force in it yet. I’d say look to the present. No, rather: I’d say, look to the second. ❞ A thick pause before continuing, a chance to slip the cigar back in his mouth. With his free hand, Marcus slides the pack over the table towards them. ❝ You’ve seen how Montgomery prowls the deck like a vulture. The poor fellow is all but barred from entering Dowling’s quarters, an embargoed worse than we had in Turkey. And it’s undeserved, really; I know his ilk, but he’s a sound sailor, all around. Word is, Dowling envies him the promotion - it took the old curmudgeon years to get where Montgomery is now. But what do I know? The Discovery Service is like a religious sect. No one knows just what the bloody hell goes in.  ❞ 

“My — the captain, a past? How sordid. Really now, one pictures the good man materializing fully-formed,” Nour flicks their wrist, fingers spreading mid-air, “Springing out from some mythic wellspring of tedious heroes with stalwart dispositions.” A breathy sigh. Their hand falls. They palm Marcus’ cigar box, briskly drumming a pulse on its white rim. “Would you believe this excerpt of a legendary ballad — some years ago in an unnamed Irish hamlet, a debilitated mother was expecting a red-cheeked, bawling babe. Picture the shock when she gave birth to a man uniformed out of the womb, tall as a door and with the phlegmatic complexion to match. Not a thread of history to this newborn gentleman and rumour has it, my dear, the Royal Navy snapped up this phenomenon of the modern world within a breath and a half. Why, enough time for a sparrow to blink and miss an earthworm.”

Their eyes grow dark as coal tar. “Sheer goodness is simply… insipid. Mundane. The same tale for centuries, older than cuneiform.” An armoured insect crawls on the wall behind Marcus, silent scratch of barbed legs against damp wood. Barely conscious of it, their nails mirror the delicate motion. “I’d enjoy discussing our Captain’s unspoken past in further detail. Only ballroom gossip — we might even fit a waltz between it all, all the better match the mood.”

When Nour looks down, paper-thin curls of wood are nestled between their fingertips. Smeared to dust as Nour sits back, dithering between cigars and selecting the one with an embossed label facing front. “As always —” they flip the lid shut, raising a cigar to their mouth. “I appreciate your discernment in all things of luxury and commodity, Marcus. Might I pardon you to light it for me.”

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“Construct, within the heart, mystical cathedrals.”

— Iwan Gilkin, from “Litanies and Prayer,” written c. February 1885

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Odysseus Elytis, tr. by Athan Anagnostopoulos, from “Maria Nephele: A Poem In Two,”

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your fist can split a mirror into 1000 hungry knives, they are singing your name. will you answer them back? we are always singing

— torrin a. greathouse, from “Ablution with Violent Intrusive Thoughts” published in Ghost Proposal

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The darkening brilliance of dreams that drowned. Painful water.

Alejandra Pizarnik, from Extracting the Stone of Madness (tr. Yvette Siegert)

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Mary Reufle, Madness, Rack, and Honey: Collected Lectures

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(You who were my only country: where should I look for you? Maybe in this poem as I write it.)

Alejandra Pizarnik, from ‘Cornerstone’, Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962-1972 (trans. Yvette Siegert)

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Cure me of this void, I said […] Cure me.

Alejandra Pizarnik, from ‘Continuity’, Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962-1972 (trans. Yvette Siegert)

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The wind and the rain erased me as they might a fire, or a poem written on a wall.

Alejandra Pizarnik, from Extracting the Stones of Madness: Poems 1962-72 (via heartshop)

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What I want from this poem is the loosening of my throat.

Alejandra Pizarnik, from “Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962 - 1972,” Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962 - 1972 (New Directions, 2016)

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I will praise your madness, and in a language not mine, speak of music that wakes us, music in which we move.

Ilya Kamisnky, from Dancing in Odessa; “Author’s Prayer,” (via pairedaeza)