![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
to the lonely sea and the sky // for Saoirse
July 7th, 2020
As the days grow almost warm enough to seem familiar, Anne finds herself more and more returning to the shore where she and Jack washed up so many months ago. It is a difficult thing, looking out over a horizon that once represented freedom and finding only the wall of a cage. She had thought it might get easier at some point, after so much time, but it hasn't.
The other difficulty is that the beaches have become crowded in ways she's never seen before. To these people, the sea is little more than an afternoon's diversion. A few times she's stalked the perimeter, just watching, all of it seeming so foreign to her: everyone in ridiculous little clothes, basking like animals in the sun, children shrieking with delight, scampering through the sand and splashing in the surf. It isn't that she doesn't recognize the appeal, especially when so much of the year here is spent bitter fucking cold; it's just that it's a world apart, a place where she doesn't fit. There's no room for her among all those happy people. In the end she always wanders further down the beach.
She's found a fairly reliable spot, at least, rockier and thus less appealing to those looking for fun. She hunkers down, half-hidden in a little outcropping, and sets her eyes on the impossible edge of the world. She stares at the line between ocean and sky for a long time, trying to empty herself. Too many thoughts lately, too little action to occupy her attention. Jack and Eliot, and the growing sense of being here as something interminable, all the things they left behind, the unfinished business and unspoken words. Max, still, and Greta.
Anne grunts softly as if to reject all that, and turns her eyes from the water, focusing instead on picking through the little lunch she packed herself, unaware for the moment how incautious she's become; too caught up in the small task and her own head to notice the approach of someone else.
As the days grow almost warm enough to seem familiar, Anne finds herself more and more returning to the shore where she and Jack washed up so many months ago. It is a difficult thing, looking out over a horizon that once represented freedom and finding only the wall of a cage. She had thought it might get easier at some point, after so much time, but it hasn't.
The other difficulty is that the beaches have become crowded in ways she's never seen before. To these people, the sea is little more than an afternoon's diversion. A few times she's stalked the perimeter, just watching, all of it seeming so foreign to her: everyone in ridiculous little clothes, basking like animals in the sun, children shrieking with delight, scampering through the sand and splashing in the surf. It isn't that she doesn't recognize the appeal, especially when so much of the year here is spent bitter fucking cold; it's just that it's a world apart, a place where she doesn't fit. There's no room for her among all those happy people. In the end she always wanders further down the beach.
She's found a fairly reliable spot, at least, rockier and thus less appealing to those looking for fun. She hunkers down, half-hidden in a little outcropping, and sets her eyes on the impossible edge of the world. She stares at the line between ocean and sky for a long time, trying to empty herself. Too many thoughts lately, too little action to occupy her attention. Jack and Eliot, and the growing sense of being here as something interminable, all the things they left behind, the unfinished business and unspoken words. Max, still, and Greta.
Anne grunts softly as if to reject all that, and turns her eyes from the water, focusing instead on picking through the little lunch she packed herself, unaware for the moment how incautious she's become; too caught up in the small task and her own head to notice the approach of someone else.
no subject
no subject
The water is familiar, and she is a perfectly capable swimmer, but the idea of doing it for fun doesn't hold much appeal. If she's in the water it's to get somewhere — to another ship, to shore. But a ship is home a place to stay, to work, to thrive. It's Jack's home, and wherever Jack is home, so's she.
But she doesn't know how to articulate this to Saoirse, so she just shrugs and asks, "You been on ships much?"
no subject
It's a fuzzy memory, and getting fuzzier the longer she's here. She stares off into the sea, like she'll remember it better, if only she looks out there. Then she shakes herself and looks at Anne.
"How many ships have you been on? Is that rude to ask?"
no subject
"Not as many as you might think," she says. "Mostly just the one, that's where we got our start. The Ranger, she was called." Those aren't particularly happy memories, considering how it all ended, but she still feels the tug of fondness, thinking of those early days, her and Jack struggling to carve out a space for themselves.
"Only a few others after that," she says, a bit vague. Not sure she wants to talk about the Colonial Dawn, which wasn't hers at first. Not sure she wants to talk about anything that followed, either. Or the ship where she might've met her end, if they hadn't been brought here.
"They are cool," she adds, the slang still feeling a bit unnatural to her. "Never felt so free as on a ship." She misses that most of all, more than anything; the open water, the curving horizon, the possibilities, Jack at her side. Being near the water helps, but it can only help in small pieces. She wonders if Saoirse feels the same, in some way.
no subject
She looks back out at the water again, imagining being on a ship, able to jump overboard whenever she wants, to play in the sea and dance in the wake of the ship as it sails on.
A few of Darrow's wild seals bob their heads above water, and she smiles small to see them.
no subject
"Friends of yours?" she asks, not sure if she's joking or not, smiling gently either way.
no subject
"Yes, actually," she says, very maturely. "I try to spend time with them when I go swimming, but Mum doesn't like it when I go out too far." Saoirse's fairly certain that Greta worries she won't come back, even though she doesn't think that'd ever happen.
At least, right at this moment, she doesn't.
no subject
Of course, she can imagine just as well how frightening the idea must be for Greta.
"You're important to her," she says after a moment. There's nothing stern about it; it's not as if she thinks Saoirse doesn't know that. It's just that: a fact, an observation, something that leaves Anne faintly wistful, as if nostalgic for something she never had, that is far, far beyond her now.