#seabirds' domain

[clove-pinks]

Where Gannets Build, Seabirds' Home, The Fowlers Crag, and The Seabirds' Domain, by Peter Graham (1836–1921).

[sanjoongie]

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔖𝔢𝔞 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔐𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔫 𝔐𝔢𝔱

@pirateeznet 's Secret Admirer event

🏔For @staytinyville, i hope you enjoy this, i had fun weaving this tale for you 💞 sorry it was late once again

🌊Pairing: Njord! Prince! Jeong Yunho x Skaldi! Princess! Reader (f)

🏔Genre: smut, angst (happy ending), fluff

🌊Au: Norse mythology au, njord and skaldi au, mythology retelling au, royal au, medieval au, historical au

🏔Trope: strangers to lovers, opposites attract

🌊Warnings: mentions of parent's death, mentions of someone falling deathly ill, hand kink HELLO, fingering (f), wall sex, penetrative sex with no barrier, nipple play, big dick! yunho

🏔Word count: 5,178

🌊Beta's:

🏔Summary: upon your father's murder, a council allows you to choose a husband as recompense--based on what his hands look like. Yunho, a prince of the sea, and you, a princess of the mountains, are as opposite as you can get, so can you make the marriage work?

🌊Author's Note: the story of Skaldi, a giantess and goddess of the mountain and her husband, Njord, God of the Sea, intrigued me enough to want to try a re-telling. I changed the feet to hands, in choosing a husband, and who is better to use that than mofo jeong yunho

Once upon a time, when the world was young, a woman experienced a father's death and was repaid with a choice of her husband.

"But you must choose by his hands."

The woman chose hands that were callused, for surely a strong husband would come from those hands.

Instead, she chose the man who couldn't be more than the opposite of her. This is a retelling of their story.

You stared intently at the set of hands in front of you. Each owner of said hands were behind a heavy curtain so that you could not pick your future husband based on his appearance but based solely on his hands. 

You were hoping for San, if truth be told. You wanted the happy prince who was also known to throw himself into work with his fellow peasants. You wanted to add his giggles to your empty castle, now with your father gone. 

There was one set of hands that continued to draw you back. They were long and lovely but also they had calluses; they had seen hard work. Surely they belonged to San? Without another thought, you pointed to the hands you had been admiring and hoped for the best.

The curtain parted and… instead of San’s pleased smile that he had been chosen, you were met with the wide eyes of Yunho’s. The two of you stared at each other, unable to comprehend that you were to be wed to the prince who lived by the sea, the complete opposite to your mountainous upbringing. 

“Wait--!”

"No, princess, this is your choice,” The counselor preceding over your choice proclaimed. “The death of your father is repaid. You have a husband now.”

You and Yunho were ushered into an antechamber to sign the papers and a small ceremony made it official. It was clear everyone wanted you out of here before you demanded even more over the death of your father. 

“First, you should live in the domain of your husband,” The priest informed you. “You need to understand who he is before you take him to your home.”

The plan was to spend ten days at Yunho's place by the sea and you were already not looking forward to it. The sea was not your favorite place. And once you arrived, it really just confirmed how you felt. 

Except now there was Yunho.

Yunho was a shy prince. He dined with you in the morning, offering options of how you could spend the hours of your day. The walk along the shore was hardly what you would consider romantic. You struggled under the shifting sands, always managing to carry some home with you. The squawking of the seabirds always interrupted your questions towards Yunho in order to learn more about your new husband and his home. You couldn't even appreciate some of the cliffs by the sea, the closest thing to home for you, because of the bashing of the cursed waves against the walls of stone. You were starting to think the gods were playing with you; that they still wanted you to suffer. 

“Princess?” Yunho brought you back to reality.

You had picnic-ed in the dunes beside the sea with a sturdy blanket and practically everything weighed down so that the hefty winds didn’t blow away anything you planned on dining on or with. 

“Apologies, Yunho, what did you say?” You wondered, sipping the strawberry rhubarb wine.

“There’s a story that they tell of how the first king was found. It was said that he would never become king. The prophecy said that when the fishermen of the area would find a diamond in the sands, then their king would finally be found.”

You scoffed at the fanciful tale. “Sounds like no one wanted a king to be found.”

Yunho laughed. “One would think. But truly, what the purpose of the story is, is that kings can be found but the right king, a good one for the people and for the kingdom, is like a diamond in the sand.”

You thoughtfully ate a tiny sandwich--emphasis on the sand part of the sandwich--and attempted to not wince at the grit in your mouth. “So a good king was found?”

Yunho shrugged, blinking furiously when wind blew hair in front of his face. His hands attempted to push it back and you were momentarily distracted. Those hands had been your downfall. “Oh, we had kings alright, but no one has truly found the diamond in the sand.”

Yunho had yet to touch you with those hands. You hadn't consummated your marriage but you were sure that had more to do with this poorly-worded trial period than anything else. Ten days to learn about your husband and ten days for him to learn of you in your realm. The marriage wasn’t made for two romantic fools, it was a settlement on reparations done to you. The lost of your father still panged in the depths of your heart but Yunho’s ‘love’ hadn't done anything to settle the lose, truly. Perhaps your heart wasn’t truly into it. Perhaps--

Yunho sighed and began to pack up. He was used to you losing yourself in your thoughts. “Back to the castle then? I’m sure your handmaiden could prepare a cool room for you.”

Ah, the disappointment coating your husband’s words. “Yunho, I--”

Yunho shook his head. “Do not worry about it, Princess. You head back. I’ll clean this up.” Yunho held out your parasol with a face that didn’t speak of his disappointment at all. 

The two of you spoke the same language but it always seemed like you never understood each other. Yunho was patient and you attempted to show interest in his world but you compared everything; it couldn't be helped.

Yunho’s world was too windy, too warm, too loud, too much. You were used to solitude, you were used to your halls in the mountains. This world Yunho loved so much was too much for you. You often found yourself pulling back to the comfort of your tower that Yunho had declared was yours. He thought the height would help you remind you of home and it did, but in the worst ways. You simply pinned for home that much more.

Before you knew it, the final night in Yunho’s home was upon you. You wanted to go home so badly but you didn’t want to lay it on Yunho. So you smiled politely as he brought you through the town around the castle, a bustling morning market that had you avoiding the touch of the crowd so much that Yunho knew he had failed you once again.

“Princess?” Yunho offered his hand to you. He had one final plan to enact. 

You cautiously gave Yunho your hand and he protectively pulled you into an enclave away from the crowds. Yunho’s height allowed him to tower over you. Suddenly you were very, very close to your husband but he didn’t let go of your hand. 

Yunho sent a hopeful smile your way and you felt a jolt in your chest. What the hell was that? “If you will allow me one more excursion tonight? I promise, I have one final surprise that I would like to share with you. It is my favorite. I left the best for last.”

You bowed your head. “Of course, husband,” you agreed.

The day dragged by. The food that had been hand chosen by you and Yunho had been cooked for a midday meal and Yunho showed you bright gardens cultivated behind the walls of the castle. You smiled and listened politely but you couldn't help but think of what kind of surprise Yunho had been hiding you all this time. Why not surprise you the first night to impress you? Your husband was still a mystery to you, it seemed.

The sun set and you waited in your rooms for your husband to retrieve you. And you waited. And waited. Then you began to pace. Was this waiting on purpose? Was he looking to vex you? After hours passed, you were about to rip the hinges off your door and storm the castle looking for your husband before he politely knocked on your door. You smoothed your hair back, picking something off the skirt of your dress and let your handmaiden know your husband could enter.

Yunho’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “You will need those hiking boots of yours, Princess, and a change of clothes. This is not a dress excursion.”

Yunho led you to the sea and you were beginning to think that your husband truly didn’t understand you. He was simply taking you to every place in his kingdom and expecting you to love it. You weren’t sure if this was going to work, if at all. You couldn't simply throw away what was given to you. It somehow belittled your father’s death. But could you take a lifetime of this?

With a hand raised with a lantern, and your hand in his other, Yunho led you inside of a cliffside cave. For a while, there was only the soft sound of the water dripping down stalactites and the squeak of the lantern on its handle. Yunho didn’t feel the need to fill the air with conversation and you were stewing in your thoughts, if you were being honest.

But when the tunnel through the cave opened up into a larger room, your jaw couldn't help but fall to the floor. Inside was a pool of calm water that almost perfectly reflected the night sky through an opening in the roof. You could see the moon, the constellations your father had taught you, even some fluffy clouds as they floated across the night’s sky. It was beautiful.

“They say this place used to be the home to mermaids. One of my great grandfather’s married one apparently. This place has been kept sacred ever since.” Yunho’s eyes had been raised to the sky but then he lowered them to yours. “Do you like it?”

You opened your mouth but found that you had no words. At least, you had none of the easy words that had been tearing down Yunho and his home piece by piece. “It’s lovely,” You managed.

Yunho allowed himself to smile hesitantly. “Do you know the story about the god who froze their toe and it became a constellation in the sky?”

You moved towards the pool and sat at the edge of it. You were completely comfortable looking at the sky through the portal of the water. “That one always made me laugh as a child. Now I shudder at freezing a toe and breaking it off.”

Yunho sat beside you, dimming the lantern so you two could see the sky’s reflection clearly. “Ah, I suppose that’s a worry from where you’re from.”

You nodded, pushing some hair out of your face. “Yunho…”

Yunho shook his head. “I know we leave for your home tomorrow.”

Yunho’s soft world was not like yours at all. You worried for him. “I don’t expect to find it beautiful,” You admitted.

Yunho smiled somewhat bittersweetly. “Like you didn’t find mine?”

You sighed. “Your world is too much. Too much sun, too much noise, it’s not what I’m used to.”

Yunho's hand beside yours twitched. His pinky moved but his hand did not. “I tried. I shared with you everything I love. I wanted you to be happy, if that means anything.”

“It’s not your fault, Yunho,” You allowed. “I did pick you, after all.”

“You didn’t want me though,” Yunho said.

“You didn’t want me to pick you!” You retorted with a laugh.

Yunho half-laughed with you. “Well, I didn’t expect you to pick me, that’s for sure.”

You cocked your head. Your hand moved a little closer to his. “You’re the one with the pretty hands that are also callused. It’s your fault really.”

Yunho chuckled. His hand moved until both your pinkies were touching. “I still work the fishing boats every Manadagr morning.” He looked at you through the corner of his eye. “And what do you mean my hands are pretty?”

You winced. You had not meant for that to slip. “You know…” you let the uncertain air hang between you two.

Yunho nudged you with his shoulder. “No, I really don’t.”

You sighed again but picked up one of his hands. You played with his lithe fingers, feeling birds thrash against your ribcage. “They’re hard working hands but they’re pretty. I want…” If only your father could see you now, your courage failing you simply because your heart was betraying you right now.

Yunho grasped both of your hands between his. “You want?” He prompted you.

You swallowed hard, not sure if you had it in yourself to tell your husband you lusted after his hands. “Yunho, I--”

“We haven’t kissed since we became husband and wife,” Yunho blurted out. His eyes widened at his own words and then you watched as redness crept up his ears.

That was the second time you were speechless tonight. 

Yunho let go of your hands, dropping them like they were hurting him, and mumbled about going back now.

“Yunho, wait!” You stood up to stop him.

“I’m sorry you don’t feel the same way, but I really like you!” Yunho blurted out again. “I’ve planned all these outings and every time I only seemed to annoy you or let you down. I’ve felt your bad mood darken and develop like a storm in the middle of the sea get worse as it came closer to the coast. I won’t apologize for trying to woo you but I want you to love me!”

It was as if an arrow from Ullr hit your heart. So instead of speaking, since you were failing in that regard, you let your body speak for you. You wrapped your arms around Yunho’s neck, pulled him down and you kissed him. You didn’t kiss him with passion and lust but rather with a need to tell him that he had been enough. 

Yunho looked so confused when you released him that you had to giggle. If you had thought his ears were red before, they now appeared as hot as iron in the forge. “Your ears get red when you’re embarrassed, Husband. Do my kisses embarrass you?”

Yunho’s eyes avoided yours but a smile he couldn't fight was pulling at the corners of his lips. “Your kisses do not embarrass me.”

“No?” You teased, leaning to the side to capture his gaze.

Suddenly, Yunho went from an embarrassed man to a dangerous one. His eyes were dark. “No.”

You raised your chin defiantly. “Then prove me wrong.”

Yunho cupped your head between his beautiful hands and then kissed you. His kiss was different. It was soft but it was deep. His tongue sought out yours and you met him halfway. His kiss pulled the lust that was bubbling deep in your womb. You pushed onto your toes again, meeting his kisses with lust of your own and Yunho moaned into your mouth. 

His hands steadied your hips and he broke the kiss. With his forehead pressed to yours, he panted against your lips. “Will you let me make you mine?”

“Only if you’ll let me claim you,” You countered.

Yunho’s eyes traveled over your face. You didn’t know what he was looking for but whatever he found there, it seemed to satisfy him. “I didn’t mean to lure you here to seduce you,” He admitted, as if he was half apologizing that your first time together would be in a cave.

“I may be a princess, Husband, but I am no soft woman. I’ve fucked in worse places,” You snickered.

Yunho’s eyes widened before he half smiled at your boldness. “Then let me have you by the sea and the sky and let the gods witness our consummation of our marriage.”

You impulsively grabbed Yunho’s hand and sucked on his middle and index fingers. Your tongue swirled around his long digits and you said huskily. “Show me why I picked these pretty hands, husband.”

Yunho’s now slick fingers reached under your pants and pressed to your clit. You tossed your head back in ecstasy as he easily rubbed you, warming you up from the inside out. 

You guided his other hand to grope your breast and you watched in awe as his fingers nimbly pulled at the tie at your chest in order to spill your breast out for him. He neatly tugged and pulled and played with your nipple. 

His fingers became bolder as they dipped lower to find your own slick dripping from between your folds. “Wife of mine, why are you so wet?”

You moaned. “You, Yunho, it’s all because of you.”

“Do my fingers give you that much pleasure?” Yunho teased you lightly.

“They look so pretty against my body,” You admitted. 

Yunho whirled you around suddenly, your back to his chest. It gave you an easy view of Yunho twirling your nipple in one hand and his other playing with your cunt. You swallowed hard, suddenly very tempted by your own husband’s hands.

“Will you come undone simply from my hands playing with you, princess?” Yunho wondered, his voice husky against the shell of your ear.

Your mind was silent and empty, with only one voice chanting ‘feels so good feels so good feels so good’ over and over. You had a one track mind, and it was coming against Yunho’s fingers. You gyrated your hips into the motions of Yunho’s fingers. Your first orgasm came easy, tempted from the nimble hands that had condemned you to your current fate. 

Your hand went behind you, behind Yunho’s neck, for support as you trembled against his chest. “Oh Yunho, oh gods, it’s so goddamn good, Hel’s left tit.”

“I'm not sure if I should be proud of that,” Yunho laughed behind you.

“Oh, you should be proud of that,” You assured him. “I can’t brag of many men that could get me to climax that fast.”

Yunho pulled his fingers from you and you turned your head and watched as he cleaned them diligently. He hummed as if he had a taste of honeyed wine and you pressed your lips together. “Will you take me now?”

With Yunho’s other hand, he cupped your face and ran his thumb against your lips. “I would see your face when I bring you to your next peak,” Yunho informed you.

You nodded and immediately Yunho’s hands went around your waist to hoist you upwards. You had no choice but to wrap your legs around Yunho’s waist as he sought a section of cave wall that wasn’t dripping with water. 

Yunho's hands dived into your hair to hold your head in place as he kissed you again. Yunho was hungry for you. His lips went from pink to red as they became swollen from the kissing. His tongue twirled around yours, looking to intertwine with every part of you. He only set you down so that you could strip your pants off and he could push his down to his thighs. You pulled at the rest of your shirt, giving Yunho complete access to your chest. 

Your back was pressed up against the wall again, legs around his waist, except now Yunho’s curved, glorious cock was pressed up against you. “Yunho,” You cooed his name.

“I’ll go slow; so slow. I’ll be careful,” Yunho promised. 

Yunho's hand tilted your head so that he could place kisses along your neck as he rubbed the underside of his dick against your wetness. His kisses continued along your jaw as his cock slid downwards. You held your breath to wait for him to penetrate you but Yunho simply fucked his cock between your thighs, the top of his cock now getting a good coating.

“What if I don’t want it slow?” You growled.

Yunho laughed, his shoulders shaking under your hands. “I must. You can endure it, surely?” He tilted his head flirtatiously, although it was still a challenge directed to you. 

Yunho didn’t wait for you to answer, he brushed the head of his cock against your hole. You cocked your hips to give him easier access and you both moaned loudly as he entered you. Yunho spent equal time watching your face as he watched his cock make its way into you. He slid inch by precious inch with dedication only a man with grace could manage. You wiggled your hips and whined, but Yunho simply cupped your face and pushed a thumb into your mouth to silence. 

Yunho braced himself against the wall with his free hand and reached under one of your legs to cock it so that you were spread even wider for him. “Let’s make the motion of the ocean jealous.”

“Gods, Yunho,” You cried out.

His hips worked between your legs that were stuttering at best. Your cunt fought him for every inch he could manage. Yunho was soon sweating and stuttering. “You’re so--gods, so tight! I--” He moaned, biting down on his lower lip. “Your warmth encompasses me so completely.”

“I never imagined being with you would be so consuming,” You whispered to him.

“I have needed you for such a long time,” Yunho told you, kissing you sweetly. “I thought you would never let me touch you.”

“I would never let these hands not touch me, husband,” You informed him.

Yunho paced himself inside of you. He didn’t pound into you until you indicated to him that your climax was approaching. “I’ll not last any longer than you,” Yunho admitted, “I’ll follow your lead.”

With that said, Yunho reached under your other leg and you had nothing to brace against except the wall behind your back. Yunho had complete control of the pace and it was grueling. He fucked you mercilessly, the slapping of skin against skin echoing against the rock walls. With a scream, you came hard, and Yunho was good on his word. He came as soon as your pussy walls fluttered around him. He gasped, high pitched and desperate. 

The two of you came down slowly, breaths intersecting each other as you kissed lazily. Yunho’s thrusts came to a stop eventually and he let down one leg, then the other, leaning back to pull his softening cock from your cunt. 

You gathered your pants and tied back up your shirt. “Yunho…”

“I’m sorry,” Yunho squeaked. 

Your head shot up to look at your husband. His ears were red-hot and his eyes were shaking slightly. “Sorry for what? For giving your wife your seed? For giving her a climax? What’s to apologize for?”

“I--I don’t know what took over me!” Yunho said with wide eyes. “I just knew I had to bring you to your climax and you looked so pretty with your eyebrows furrowed and your mouth parted, I simply wanted to come with you as well, I--” Yunho laughed at himself, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m making a fool of myself, aren’t I?”

“Yunho.” You grabbed his hand between yours and kissed it. “You are fine. Everything is fine. You were wonderful.”

Yunho smiled, then wiped his face blank, then smiled again. “You were wonderful,” he murmured, biting his lower lip again.

“Will you escort me back to my room?” You suggested.

“Will you hold my hand?” Yunho replied.

You both knew the answers to your questions.

Your trip to the mountains was a different one from the sea. You and Yunho huddled inside a carriage for the better part of the day. Which was fine between the two of you. You kissed and giggled and acted like newlyweds, finally. You had Yunho and some heavy fur coverings and you were heading to your childhood home, where you would reside for all of the winter months. You had no worries hanging over your head. You had been too drunk on love to realize that as much as you hated Yunho’s world, the same would be true for him.

That evening, in your grand, empty hall the two of you dined. You were at one end and Yunho in your father’s seat. You were so far apart, neither of you talked much. The servants offering each course and the clatter of utensils against plates were the only sounds in the vast space. 

You had a gnawing uncertainty in your gut but it was quickly banished when Yunho came to your bed that night. You rode Yunho in your childhood bed, rocking your hips and making him hold your breasts in place as you coaxed the both of you to an easy climax. You fell asleep in Yunho’s arms and thought everything was right in the world.

Except it wasn’t for Yunho.

It was worse because he always attempted to brush it off. You would watch him smile brightly when you asked him if he was cold, but then he would frown and run his hands up and down his arms. He denied getting lost and insisted he wished to see the sweeping views your castle offered. He told you it was picture perfect but you had a sense he simply wished to go back inside. 

Not that inside was any better. You offered him walks along the long corridors lined with your ancestor’s portraits. He yawned as you explained each of their hard-earned exploits at protecting this castle. He glanced cursory over the fine treasures that your family had accumulated during their reign. 

Eventually, you two spent less and less time with each other. You began to spend long hours in your father's study, writing letters to your vassals to be sent by carrier pigeon. You weren’t entirely sure what Yunho did with his free time, but you often caught him staring off into the air, like he wasn’t even present. 

You watched your glowing prince of the shore fade. It killed you when you made love and could see the tired circles under his eyes. And still Yunho would smile at you and insist that he was alright. Yunho would stop showing up for dinner. When he collapsed on his way to your bedroom one evening, that was the end of the line.

You immediately sent Yunho away. He was bundled up in the same carriage that had brought the two of you to the mountains. Your wise woman traveled with him to inform the doctor’s in Yunho’s land of what ailed the prince. You promised with a soft kiss, careful of how frail Yunho appeared, to follow him as soon as you could. 

The first month when you didn’t show up, Yunho sent a letter. He made plenty of excuses on your behalf. He understood you had to rule in your father’s stead and you had been away for a while by meeting with the council and visiting his kingdom. Then when a month turned into two, he asked about your health, which was fine. Then the third month, your husband showed up on your doorstep, banging on your bedroom door.

“Yu-yunho!” You stuttered, shocked to find your husband in your castle, let alone in your kingdom.

“What have I done now?” He raged. “Why have you not come back for me?”

You were taken aback by his questions and his anger. You had never seen this side of Yunho before. Your mouth opened and closed but you found that you could form no words. Your husband was always making you speechless.

“I promise you I’m not a sickly individual. You needn’t worry about our heirs. It was just a lapse. I can do better!” Yunho informed you as he strode into your room.

You quietly closed your door and watched as Yunho paced in your room. His hands moved around as he spoke and you cursed yourself for always being drawn to them.

“Yunho,” You said his name quietly, gathering up his hands. You kissed the back of each hand and looked up at him forlornly. “Living with me made you sick. It was your love for me that made you fade. I don’t want you to die.”

Yunho blinked at you, a cute moment that you had to push away because of the serious discussion. “What?”

“You can’t live here. It’s detrimental to your health. I can’t live with you, it would drive me insane. We simply aren’t meant to be. I think it would be better if we--”

“No.” Yunho shook his head. “No, I will not get a divorce.”

You frowned. “Yunho, we must.”

“No!” Yunho said more forcefully. He gathered you to his chest, with your head against his breast. You could hear the beating of his heart, quick but firm. “I won’t let you.”

You allowed yourself one more moment in your husband's arms and then you pushed him away gently. “It’s not meant to be, Yunho. We’ll only end up miserable with each other. I don’t ever want our love to twist into hatred.”

Yunho’s lips dipped downwards and it looked like he was fighting some tears. “But I love you.”

You felt your throat tighten. “I know you do.”

“Don’t you love me too?” He pressed. 

“I do but it’s not enough. My love won’t keep you healthy. My love isn’t a sustenance which you can live on. My love--”

Yunho cupped your cheeks with both hands, your head feeling tiny in his large hands. His thumbs rubbed against your cheeks. When had you started crying? “I can’t take care of you, Yunho. It’s all I want and yet I’m not capable.”

“I don’t care what it takes,” Yunho said. “I will build a castle at the halfway point between our kingdoms. We will make every official travel to us to deal with the problems of both kingdoms. But I cannot remain separated from you. I will die from that, that I can promise you. You don’t want me to die from a broken heart, do you?”

You tipped your head up, to see Yunho’s half smile, part somber and part hopeful. You loved him, you loved him with all your heart, you knew that. But wouldn’t your love kill the both of you? Spirit, body and mind?

Yunho shook his head. “Don’t think with your mind, for once, think with your heart.”

“Yunho--”

Yunho put a finger over your mouth. “Husband,” he quietly corrected you.

You admitted defeat. You knew you would also die from a broken heart if you couldn't spend the rest of your days on Midgard with Yunho, with your husband. You barely survived your father’s death, you couldn't handle another loss. 

“I love you, husband of mine,” You whispered.

With a choked sob, Yunho gathered you in his arms once again, hugging you tightly and kissing the crown of your head. The soft kisses turned into hard ones, Yunho desperate for you, hungry for you, since he hadn't been with you for months. You moaned into his mouth and pressed your body even tighter against his. 

 “Will you let me make you mine?” You echoed the words Yunho had once spoken to you in the sea cave. 

“Only if you’ll let me claim you,” Yunho repeated your words back to you.

 “Then let me have you by the mountains and the rocks and let the gods witness our love for each other,” You said, solemnly. “You never know, maybe they’ll write our love story into a saga.”

[turnupswritessometimes]

Just for This Moment - SidLink - Oneshot

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50834488

Title: Just for This Moment

Ship: Link/Sidon (Legend of Zelda)

Word Count: 5,253

Summary: Link turned, feeling as though he was stuck in honey, to look at him. He had to keep staring, his chest hurting, until that grin slowly dropped. Until Sidon tilted his head to one side, and his tone became concerned, "What is the matter?" Link bit his lip. They didn't have time for this, not with everything else happening – everything else was so much more important. And yet, his stomach felt twisted in and around itself, and if he fought like this, he would make a mistake. So, he forced his hands to move. To sign out 'Are you avoiding me?'

Before, Link and Sidon were - something. Now - they're not. They both have feelings about that.

They stood in front of the four great jugs at the temple. One emptied a torrent of gleaming water; the others dripped sludge. There were four more locks to open; to save the domain. The domain was suffering, the Zora was suffering; Zelda was missing; Hyrule was suffering. Link needed to move. He had to stop this, and save everyone.

But he couldn't.

He stood, rooted to the ground, water dripping from his hair down the back of his neck, and under his amrour.

"Let's go, my friend."

It was Sidon, next to him. Perky and grinning and already looking around him for the first lock.

Link turned, feeling as though he was stuck in honey, to look at him. He had to keep staring, his chest hurting, until that grin slowly dropped. Until Sidon tilted his head to one side, and his tone became concerned, "What is the matter?"

Link bit his lip. They didn't have time for this, not with everything else happening – everything else was so much more important. And yet, his stomach felt twisted in and around itself, and if he fought like this, he would make a mistake.

So. he forced his hands to move. To sign out 'Are you avoiding me?'

Sidon followed. Blinked, as though he was stuck in the same honey Link was. "Why would you think that?"

Link tilted his head to the side, his hands on his hips. He was very aware a chuchu was behind them, rolling towards them, and he’d have to deal with it soon.

His hands moved slightly faster. 'You wanted to split up?'

"It was sensible, to cover more ground." And yet, Sidon wasn't meeting his eye. He stared at Link's hands.

'You—' Link faltered. The chuchu was getting closer. Its wobbles were audible, and irritating. 'Didn't want to investigate together.'

"I needed to stay, to purify the water."

‘Others could have.'

"I have a duty to the Zora. My people."

The chuchu was even closer now. Was bubbling and rearing, getting ready to attack. Not really a threat. Yet, Link was growing more and more frustrated, his fingers moving erratically, the frustration in his stomach growing.

He reached behind him, drawing the Zora spear he'd burrowed from the city. He spun, lashing out, swinging it down to whack the chuchu. It burst satisfyingly under the silver.

Link forced himself to take a breath. Sidon had drawn his own weapon, looking between Link and the remains of the chuchu. Confused.

Link put his own weapon back, to free his hands. They shook, and he hated that. But he needed to continue: 'You have a fiancee.'

They stared at each other. There was only the sound of rushing water. A distant cry of seabirds. Everything smelt like fresh rain. The air was cold up here, but Link's cheeks felt hot. He clenched his fists, taking a breath, ready to turn around and start finding one of the locks. If he fought, concentrated on using the powers his new arm gave him; then he couldn't sign. They couldn't talk. That would be better.

Sidon took a step towards him, which felt like approaching thunder. Link stepped a foot backwards, ready to run, or ready to fight.

"I thought—" Sidon seemed to be choosing his words carefully. Clenched and unclenched his own hands on his own spear. "You already knew the Zora custom of arranged marriages."

Link had, of course. But back before all of this, it had felt like a faraway thing. He'd been able to kid himself that it wouldn't really happen. That he had more time.

He had lost so much time. Again.

His arm hurt. Not his actual arm, but the one that was missing. It was a peculiar feeling, to feel something that had already been replaced. But he felt the pain of his own, beneath it, especially when it was cold, like this.

His heart was racing. He wanted to fight something. Needed to fight something, to stop himself thinking about this.

He forced his fingers into words. 'I know.'

"You were gone for weeks." Sidon took another step forward. "You were missing."

Link's hands shook. Too much to keep signing. He looked up. His hair hung in his eyes, but he didn't care. Only met Sidon's eyes through the strands. They were concerned and confused, but mostly sad; betraying everything he felt.

He wasn't sure his sign of 'I know,' was even legible this time. It was foolish to even try explaining further. That he knew the Zora used arranged marriages, that he knew he had gone missing again, that he didn't want to keep disappearing.

That he had known – knew – whatever relationship they had before could never amount to anything, because he was a Knight, Sidon was a Prince.

It was a familiar story. A too familiar one. Because everyone he’d ever loved was royalty.

He was trapped in a story where he could only ever love from afar. It sounded romantic in poems.

A hand grazed his shoulder. He flinched, involuntarily. The hand stayed, as a reassuring weight.

"My friend – Link – I am a coward." Sidon’s voice softened. "I did avoid you, because I was scared of facing you, especially about this. About Yona. I knew it would hurt you."

It did, but did it hurt Sidon as well?

How could Link ask that, especially now, when they were trying to save a kingdom. He was selfish to ask. What were his own feelings compared to Hyrule. He tugged at his scabbard, to feel the weight of his borrowed sword. To remind him of what he was doing here, and what he needed to do. It steadied his hands enough that he could sign again.

'I understand.' He thought about apologising, for bringing it up with everything that was happening. Instead, he signed, 'We need to find those switches.'

Sidon stared for another long moment, examining Link's expression. Could he see behind the mask of determination and practically? Of course Link was hurt; he still cared. And he wanted Sidon too, as well. What had happened between them wasn't insignificant; not something to be ignored.

He held those amber eyes – those eyes that always seemed pinned him like a butterfly – for a moment more, before he turned away. Sidon called after him. Link walked more determinedly, tugging out his sword. That was the useful part about talking with his hands; if they were full, he couldn’t communicate. It put an end to this conversation.

Perhaps that made him as much a coward as Sidon was.

*

It had started after liberating the Vah Ruta. Link had stayed in the Zorra domain on his return from the elephant. Directly afterwards, of course, he'd slept for twelve hours straight in a waterbed. Waking up from that hadn't been dissimilar from waking up after one hundred years.

The world was dark. It was after midnight, and he filled his empty stomach with stew, fruit and honey cakes, before going down to one of the pools. He’d washed the blood from his injuries, but his muscles ached for a good soak.

The bathing pools were beautiful, at night. The silver moonlight cast a halo over the water; glinted off the silver rails of Zora's domain. The sea snails clung to the inside of the pools, like shooting stars that had fallen to earth.

And even more beautiful, thought Link, was the Zora prince emerging from one of the pools. Sidon looked up the ceiling, and sighed. Silver water dripped down smooth skin; dark in the low lighting.

Then he noticed Link, at the edge of the pool. His amber eyes glinted in the moonlight, fangs flashing.

Link’s heart thudded. The Zora Prince had grown handsome, in these last hundred years. It felt impossible to ignore that. He stood here now, remembering how it had felt to ride on his back; feeling strong muscles clench under him. Hearing Sidon’s voice shouting words of encouragement that made him feel like the hero he most certainly wasn’t. (Not anymore.)

"Link – my friend—" Sidon insisted on addressing him like that, as though 'my friend' was a valued position at court. "I feared we'd lost you, once more."

Link found himself smiling. It was easier to smile down at the marble floor, than to think too much about the water trickling down Sidon's bare chest. He signed 'I'm alright. Just tired.'

"Very tired, it seems." Sidon moved through the pool. Getting closer. Link wished he wouldn't, because it would be harder to ignore him; to ignore the heat beginning to grow through his core; ignore that he wanted to stare at the Zora prince, like a fish on a hook. But he also wanted to be closer; was desperate to be closer. "I am glad you are feeling better now - I have so much I wish to show you, now the rains have stopped."

Link could not look up. He could hear the drip from Sidon's fins on the marble. Surely, he was smiling that bright, easy smile; his eyes glinting; ready to take Link by the hand to lead him around. Perhaps even offer to swim with Link on his back, again. His heart seized, just at the thought. If he looked up, he would surely take the offer.

'I have to leave.'

"Surely not." Sidon's hand reached for his, grazing the back of his with his claws, before Link caught shifted away, subtly. That would only make these feelings worse. "I am aware of the dire situation over the rest of Hyrule, but surely you may stay another day. At least until the morning."

It would be easier, to leave now, before anyone knew. It would make this easier. It would make him think less about Sidon, with his muscled arms, muscled stomach, his bright smile - the way his silver jewellery sat on his crimson, smooth skin.

Link shook his head, taking half a step back. His fingers were poised to repeat the signs that he had to go, but Sidon did catch his wrist, that time. Just lightly. He could pull away, if he wanted to.

He should.

He let himself be caught.

"Please, wait until the morning." Sidon's voice was soft, half as though he didn't want to wake anyone else – half as though it was just for Link's ears. "If only so you are not ambushed by stakoblins."

Link looked up, through strands of gold, finally meeting those amber eyes. They were concerned, the polite concern of a friend; but there was something else, underneath. Something deeper. Something that could be desire, as he looked over Link.

Link's breath stuck in his throat, as though he had been hit. There was still that steady dripping from Sidon's bare skin; sea snails casting stars in this private cavern of theirs.

He looked to where Sidon's hand circled his wrist. Bigger than his own, and yet – so gentle.

Link nodded.

Sidon's voice remained soft, "Splendid!"

He took Link's hand in both of his own, squeezing gently. Link couldn't sign properly, with one of his hands trapped, but that was better, in a way. It meant he didn't need to think about what words to use. He put his own over Sidon's. Nodded again, staring upwards. Bit his lip.

Noticed Sidon watching that, his eyes flashing like a shark's.

There was a moment that like it was ready to burst like a ripe berry. Link took a shaking breath, his feet aching to arch onto tiptoe.

Sidon released his hand. Abruptly. Took a step to the side, and said, hurriedly, "But, of course, you wanted to use the pools. I shall not bother you."

'It's no bother.' His hands worked quickly. 'You can stay.'

Another pause that was bursting with - this something. This something that had steadily grown since they'd met, since they'd fought alongside each other, this something that Link wouldn’t allow himself to look at.

"I do not wish to impose." And yet Sidon had not moved.

'Stay.' Link signed. He didn't look away and didn’t let himself think. 'Please.'

So, Sidon stayed. And Link wished he hadn't insisted, when he shed his quiver and sword belt, lying them on the marble. When he was working on loosening his wrist guard, and was all too aware of Sidon watching him.

No. Pretending not to watch him. His eyes darted away when Link glanced across.

His stomach squirmed, and yet he found his mouth twitching. He felt giddy that he wasn't the only one nervous. Not the only one aware of this.

Link pulled off his boots, leaving them in a heap next to his weapons and armour. His hands too oddly light, as he moved them, 'We can share the pool.'

As though there were not three. They didn't have to share the one. But sharing the one meant they would be close.

Sidon's voice was faint. "Very well."

And he stepped back into the water, almost gingerly. Let the silvery water envelop him again.

That was easier.

Link shrugged his tunic, his mail, his undershirt, off. The air was cool, almost moist against his bare shoulders and chest. He hesitated a moment, before stepping out of his trousers too. After all, without a belt, they weren't much use.

Then there was nothing else. He slipped into the water, and felt goosepimples burst across his skin. It was cold, but the cold was welcome on his flushing cheeks and chest.

He had to keep an elbow on the side to keep himself comfortably above water; the pool was too deep for him to stand properly in. He rested his chin on his arm, and pretended not to be staring at Sidon. At how the moonlight made his profile look; the shape of his dorsal fin. He looked like a prince.

Sidon pretended not to be looking at Link, in return. He didn't want to think about what he looked like; at how visible the scars lacing across his stomach and shoulders were – did they also shine silver?

"My sister—" Sidon paused. "You and my sister, I understand you were close?"

Link's stomach clenched. He pressed his lips together, an aching pain washing through him, as he thought of Mipha. The feelings were all fresh and raw. His fingers hovered, as though they were reluctant to sign.

'We couldn't act on how we felt.' The water lapped at him, punctuating the silence. 'She was a princess, and I was – am – a knight.'

Their relationship could not happen. Mipha would not let it. She was a future ruler, and would always act like one. It was refined to letters and longing stares. Refined to afternoons together, to hands grazing and imagining something more. Probably because imagining left the idea of the romance perfect; something from a poem.

"Of course." Sidon ducked his chin, and his jewellery sparkled like stars. "That's understandable."

'I miss her,' Link continued.

"As do I." There was another one of those pauses. Sidon shifted closer, in the water, and a drip from his fin fell in the water between them. It felt loud. "But I have had longer than you to mourn."

It still hurt. All of the friends he'd lost left a raging wound inside him. If he thought about it - them - for too long, then he would sink to the ground and be unable to fight. He allowed himself a measured sigh, then tugged the tie from his hair. He let it fall, just grazing the water, before pushing his hair back.

Sidon shifted even closer, and Link did the same. Found himself taking Sidon's arms, just for something to hold on to. And Sidon stiffened under him, but didn't pull away. In fact, his hands twisted, to hold Link in return. A reassuring hold.

He pressed himself closer. Even without the hundred years of sleep, it had been a long time since Link had been close to someone. Had been held by someone. He missed that feeling. His palms trailed up Sidon's forearms, his gaze watching the moonlight on his pale chest. His skin was smooth, and warm. His heart raced.

Sidon's hand curled under Link's chin, gently tilting it upwards. He was examining him, with awestruck eyes. He moved again, very slowly, brushing Link's hair from his cheek. His claw grazed the shell of his ear, and sent a tingling shiver down the side of his neck.

"You are beautiful," Sidon murmured. "Link."

And the way Sidon said it made him believe it. He barely dared to breathe, but tilted his cheek into Sidon's touch. Did dare to touch his fingertips against Sidon's chest. This something was on the very verge of bursting, of overflowing, and he didn't think he could stop it now. Not now that he’d lost his armour.

He pressed his other hand against Sidon's forearm, pulling himself further out the water. It ran off his hair, down his back. He was fixated by those amber eyes – by the suggestion of fangs in Sidon's mouth – by Sidon's mouth. Kissing someone. Someone allowing him to kiss them.

Sidon caught Link's waist, to help his journey. Lifted him until he was a hair's breadth away, and then paused.

Link continued. Kissed Sidon, and felt that something between them burst. It was a warm, exciting something, that sent sparks to chase away the goosebumps. And it was easier to focus on that than the hurt inside him.

When they pulled away, Sidon whispered, "We were discussing my late sister."

Link pulled away enough to look at him, his hands settling on Sidon's shoulders. He raised his eyebrows and nodded. Trying to convey the complicated feelings in him with that look. He knew. He mourned her. He needed to be touched. To feel something other than grief. Needed to act on this, whilst he was allowed.

Perhaps Sidon understood. He searched Link's eyes, then focused on his mouth. He pulled him close again, kissing him gently – gingerly. As though he would break. Link kissed him more forcefully in return. He wrapped his legs around Sidon's waist, opening his mouth against him.

He felt warmth, thawing him from the inside out. Felt Sidon's hand in his hair, tangling it in his fingers, his other hand firm on the small of Link's back. A fang caught his lip, not quite breaking skin, but enough to send a shiver through him.

That was how it – they – began.

Link didn't sleep that night. Neither of them did. They stayed wrapped up in each other; entangled; entwined. When the sun began to rise, turning the silver to gold, and the horizon to gold, they sat and watched the sky from the pool room. Sidon leant against a pillar, with Link in his lap, his cheek against Sidon's smooth chest. Sidon's arm was around him, and their legs tangled together. He could hear Sidon’s heartbeat under his ear; reminding him they were both alive. He loved that sound.

"Can we act on this?" Sidon asked. His voice was soft, and it made Link think of the sounds he had made whilst they had been entangled. The low keens that sent sparks through him. "Have matters changed enough to allow for this?"

Link took a moment to answer. Traced another pattern over Sidon's forearm, before he sat up properly, to sign.

'It's your decision.' Because Sidon was the prince. It was his reputation; his father who would take issue. Because Sidon had everything to lose, and Link was just a knight. 'The court may not approve.'

Sidon caught Link's hands. They were trembling, he realised. Because surely this couldn’t happen. But Sidon was smiling. A beautiful smile, in the dawn.

"Then the court do not need to know, my dear."

It made Link grin, like he was struck by a shooting star, and he squeezed Sidon's fingers in return, almost giggling. He ducked his chin, but it was caught. He was led back to looking at those warm, amber eyes. Eyes like a bonfire.

Sidon opened his mouth to say more, but whatever it was didn't make it past his lips. He leant forward, instead, and kissed him. His lips stung; a few cuts had been left in their wake. It was the same kind of sting from bathing wounds in salt water; it felt purifying.

So he kissed Sidon back.

And it seemed wonderful.

*

Now, Sidon was king.

Sidon was king, and Link had stood at his side during the ceremony. On a balcony that overlooked the statue of the two of them; with a ring on his finger that showed their bond. But he wasn’t Sidon’s fiancée.

She stood next to him.

They'd saved the domain, again – had fought side by side, again, would likely have a statue built, again. And things would go back to the way they were before. Professional. Link was an ambassador, an advisor, a knight of the realm, sworn to Princess Zelda’s side, whilst Sidon was king of the Zora.

So things wouldn't go back to the way there were before this latest calamity, because Sidon had to rule. With his fiancée. Another aspect that wasn't the same.

He could not have an affair with a knight.

Link smiled and clapped and bowed at the right times in the ceremony. Smiled when Sidon's fiancée, Yona, took his hand and said, "I'm so happy, aren't you, Sir Link?"

She had his hands in her grip, so he couldn't use words. He could only nod. Sidon was determinedly not looking at him. Avoiding him, again.

There was, of course, a huge celebration, over the whole domain. A great feast with music and dancing and displays of skill. All Link really wanted to do was sleep and wait a few days for his wounds to stop aching quite so much, before he moved on. It was clear that whatever they had before was over. But he had to attend this, as a final farewell. So he stood by the silvery rails, in his reclaimed armour, trying not to collapse from exhaustion.

Yona found him there. She smiled. "I must thank you again, for helping us. For helping Sidon. You gave him the courage to take his spot as King."

Link looked over at Sidon. Taller, even than the other Zora, the moonlight glinting from his crown, and his fangs. He was laughing, conversing congenially. Like a comet had landed in the middle of the domain.

'It is my duty,' Link's hands replied for him. Smiling felt like too much effort, but at least that made him seem solemn, and serious. Like a knight of Hyrule should be.

"Of course." Yona dipped her head. "But you're so busy, with searching for the princess…"

They had seen Zelda, at the temple. The Zora had seen her. She'd seemingly been behind the pollution. It didn't make sense, and it wasn't the only strange event she seemed to be behind. Link saw Zelda everywhere, but was no closer to finding her.

'Zelda would want me to help those who need it,' Link signed. And that was true. Whatever else was happening, she would want him to help everyone else first. Zelda would wait. She always did.

"Yes, I'm sure." Yona still smiled, and her voice was soft. "I hope you find the princess soon."

Link nodded his gratitude. He didn't like to think too much about the larger situation; about the days which were slipping by without her. It was worse than knowing she was waiting for him at the castle. Instead, she was everywhere and nowhere and his stomach twisted into tourniquets if he truly thought things through. It made him want to dash out on his horse now and keep searching, but his body needed rest.

Sidon noticed them, of course, and his gaze was measured. Didn't linger on either his fiancée, or on Link. Smiled at them both. Took both their hands, but kissed Yona's knuckles, whilst only squeezing Link's. Yona was "my dear," and Link, "my friend," said with the same amount of measured warmth.

He was much too good at this, Link thought – much too good at communicating with both fiancée and – whatever Link was. Whereas Link could barely look Yona in the eye. She was much too nice and much too sincere.

Sidon danced with Yona, to sighs and claps and shining smiles. A perfect couple.

Link leant against the rails, and half-dozed. Until Sidon reappeared in front of him, amber eyes shining like jewels, and offering his hand. Link's hands moved jerkily: 'I can't dance.'

Not at all. He could fight; he was born to fight, and it was as natural as breathing to him, but when he tried to dance, he became a muddle of clumsy limbs. King Rhoam had used him as a partner for Zelda for all of one day before he realised Link was a hindrance, than a help. Since Zelda's return, she'd occasionally pull him to his feet by the fire, and insist on trying the latest trend with him. He'd stumble, clutching her hands for balance.

She'd only laugh at him.

Sidon smiled, now. "In fact, I was offering to show you to your chambers."

Link could have laughed. He was too exhausted. Instead he smiled and nodded. He grazed his palm over Sidon's, but didn't take his hand. There were appearances, now. How would it seem if the King of the Zora left his own coronation with the knight of Hyrule on his arm?

Link indulged in that fantasy; the fantasy that things could change.

It didn't happen. He doggedly followed Sidon from the festivities, through the chambers upon chambers of polished silver and marble, water sparkling as it flowed in waterfalls and fountains.

And, eventually - 'These are your rooms,' Link signed.

"I am aware." Sidon's eyes gleamed. "If you wish to, you may stay here. It would be more comfortable, and more befitting of Hyrule's hero."

A rush of warmth went through Link's chest. He didn't know what this was, this time, or what it would lead to – if he even wanted something now Sidon had a finacee. But he didn’t. Just nodded,  and allowed himself to be led to the water bed, sinking down into it. It felt like it would swallow him as surely as a like-like. He sighed so deeply that it hurt his ribs, and left his throat raw.

'Thank you.' Though he didn't know what he was thanking Sidon for. He let his hands fall to the water mattress, where they bounced, then landed still. His eyes were already half-closing.

He heard Sidon chuckle, which seemed like a lullaby. Felt clawed fingers brushed tangled hair from his face.

"I cannot permit you to sleep in your armour." Sidon's voice was as soft as his chuckle. The bed bounced, as he settled onto the end. Link made a sound in response. Lazily opened his eyes to watch Sidon lift his ankle and ease his boot free. And the other. His touch left sparks in its wake.

He raised his hips when Sidon's fingers found his belt. He tenderly eased it open, putting it all to one side, in the same pile as the boots. Lingered, palms over Link’s hips, and he felt a surge of desire. Lifted his chest as the same was done to his scabbard, running a palm up Sidon's arm. It was smooth and cool under his fingers.

They didn’t speak. They let their touches linger and their gazes speak for themselves.

One wrist guard was removed, with that same, gentle touch. Sidon took his other hand, then paused. He stared, at the dark skin, the malachite veins, the ridges of metal inherited from Raoru in the forms of rings and bracelets.

Link twitched his borrowed fingers. He could feel, numbly, through it. Could recognise that it was his, now, even if it didn’t feel like it was.

Sidon cradled it, as though he was still injured.

"I was aware you had new abilities, but I was not aware that was because…"

Link had to slip his fingers out of Sidon's grip, slowly, because he needed both hands to reply: 'I lost my arm, in the battle under the castle. This was—' How could he even put it? 'Given to me.'

"Oh." Sidon took the new hand again. "Oh, my dear friend."

A ball of emotion welled up in his throat, so large that he could barely breathe. He took Sidon's forearms, trailing his fingers down to his hands. Didn't quite take them, but just grazed his fingertips over Sidon's palms, swallowing painfully.

"Are you in pain?" Sidon asked, closing his fingers over Link's hands. He leant over him, seeming closer and closer. Link wanted him closer, he thought, if only so he didn’t feel alone. It was just like last time, when this begun – he didn’t want to be alone. He wanted to be held.

He shook his head. Couldn't help arching his back slightly, just to be closer to Sidon.

"I am sorry."

Link didn't want to think about it. He wasn't thinking about it. If he thought about it for too long, then he felt the pain of the demon-blight crawling up his arm. Then he felt about how strange it was to wake up with an arm that wasn't his. That his own arm was gone. That this was his arm, now. He'd lost one. Forever.

There wasn't time to get stuck on that, because then he'd feel so much. He wouldn't be able to continue on this quest; he wouldn't be able to find Zelda. He wouldn't be able to play the hero if he was lost in despair.

He shook his head at Sidon, his hair falling back into his eyes. He squeezed the hands that held his, with one of his own, and one borrowed hand. Watched Sidon's eyes soften, and a small, fond smile on his features.

Link's chest ached. He'd missed this. He wanted this – whatever they had before – he felt something with Sidon. Something they couldn't gain back, because of Yuna. Their chains had only tightened around them.

But Sidon leant closer. Leant over him until he could feel warm breath against his cheeks. His hands were pressed down, against the sheets, with tenderness. Link's lips parted of their own accord, anticipating a kiss.

It didn't come. Not to his mouth, at least, but to his forehead. Sidon placed his mouth there, paused, for a long moment. Then pressed his own forehead in the same spot.

"It is good to see you again," Sidon whispered, and there was another apology in his tone. His hand cupped Link's cheek, and he took a breath. Held it, swelling with emotion, his chest arcing up.

"Sleep well, my friend."

There was no further kiss.

Sidon pulled away. Claws catching on Link's shirt as he did, very slowly, as though he wanted to linger. The glint in his amber eyes suggested he did.

Link wanted to follow him. If he wasn't so tired – if he had more strength – he might have. Might have wrapped himself around Sidon and tugged him back down to the bed. Might have kissed every inch of smooth skin that he could. Might have bit down on him, leaving patterns and marks that showed he'd been there. That he'd staked his claim.

But he didn't have the strength. It already felt like he was sinking into sleep, trapped in his own body.

So Sidon left.

And Link stayed.

*

Before (!!), Link paraglided into the Zora Domain. He'd just fought the lynel on (!!). He'd needed the materials to upgrade his armour; needed to upgrade his armour to save Zelda.

Perhaps he was strong enough to save Zelda, now. He wasn't sure. But he knew that he couldn't chance it; not again; he had to be strong enough, without a doubt. If he could practice fighting lynels in preparation for fighting Calamity Ganon.

He landed just in front of Mipha's statue. It was almost midnight, and the stars shone on the stone of her. She practically glowed, like a Goddess statue.

Link let his arms fall, the paraglider fabric fluttering to the stone floor. He stared at her, that heavy feeling returning to his chest.

He had forgotten. When he was in the middle of battle, he forgot about the calamity, and forgot how many friends he'd lost. Forgot about Mipha.

Now that he'd stopped, Link felt exhausted. He was covered in blood. It had dried in his hair, and up his bare arms. His thigh was bleeding; he heard the drip of blood on the floor.

The worst part was, he didn't mind forgetting. Forgetting felt easier. If he could fight, then he didn't have that pain in his chest. He didn't need to remember that he'd missed out on one hundred years; it was a miracle (!!) was still alive. Everyone else was…

That was why he wore the barbarian armour. It made him feel like a warrior; he could lose himself behind the skull he wore on his head. It wasn't like returning to being a knight; it made him feel more brutal, feral, animalistic. A creature just to attack and kill.

Now Mipha stared down at him, with her gentle gaze. The same gentle gaze she used to give him.

Link's wounds hurt. They stung. His chest felt heavy, and just as important. He blinked, and felt hot tears in the corner of his eyes.

"Link, my friend!" Sidon's voice sounded distant, like he was underwater. He heard his footsteps, as he ran towards him. "I saw you flying in."

Link forced himself to blink. To look away.

There were other Zoras. Only a few, but still a few that were staring at him, wide-eyed. It was only when Sidon said his name that they relaxed; as if they hadn't recognised him before. Now they had, they came forward too.

"Link?" Sidon paused, before him. It felt like an effort to turn his head back to him. "Are you alright?"

He blinked, and took a breath. Came back to himself, and tried to smile. Though, he didn't think that helped his case.

'I killed the lynel again,' he signed to Sidon. 'I know it bothers you.'

"Oh, thank you!"

"He really is a hero, huh?"

"Thank you, Link." Sidon bowed his head, his eyes softening. "But please do not trouble yourself. You must have bigger problems to worry about."

Link did smile, then. 'It's the least I can do.'

Because Mipha was dead. Because he needed lynel hooves and horns for his armour. Because he needed to fight so that he wouldn't feel anything.

"Thank you, Link!"

"How can we repay you?"

'I don't need anything,' he signed. But then, he glanced to Sidon. He thought about the last time he had stayed the night.

"Please, Link, you've come all this way."

"I'll let you have a waterbed for half price."

"No, that's alright," Sidon said. He held up his hands. "Link can stay in more luxurious quarters, tonight. I will take care of him."

Link met his gaze. He felt his gaze soften, as he nodded. There was a moment, where it felt like they were the only ones stood there. Link wanted to sink into that; did sink into that, as he allowed himself to be led away by Sidon. His hand was a heavy, reassuring weight on his shoulder.

He found himself returning to Sidon's rooms, with the silver starlight streaming through the windows.

Sidon turned to him, stopping him by placing both hands on his shoulders. Then cupped Link's face, turning it upwards.

"If I may? You push yourself too hard, Link."

He was probably right. But pushing himself too hard made him feel alive; kept him alive. He took Sidon’s wrists, and nudged them down, with a shrug. As though it was nothing. As though he really was the untouchable hero the rumours made him out to be.

‘I’m bleeding,’ he signed, instead. ‘Do you have any bandages?’

“Somewhere, I–“ It distracted Sidon. At least enough to send him searching in his cupboards, whilst Link limped to the bed. He sat on the edge of it, twisting his leg to see the damage. It was an angry gash on his thigh, half-clotted. Not too deep, he didn’t think, from the fact it had clotted at all. His arm stung with pain as well; he’d been caught there. He pressed down on the cut with the balls of his fingers, feeling the ache spread down his arm.

Sidon stepped back in front of him.

‘I’ve had worse,’ Link signed quickly. ‘This is fine. I just need to patch it up.’

“Of course.” Though Sidon didn’t look convinced. He handed the wooden box of supplies over, then knelt by the pool to fill a bowl with water. It was so fresh that it looked blue; like a child’s drawing. It was brought over to Link as though he was the prince. He signed a thank you, taking a cloth from the box and dipping it in the water. He cleaned the wound, wiping away the congealed blood. Cleaning the cloth by squeezing rust red from it, and into the pure water. And again, until he could see the clean cut in his skin. No, not as bad as he thought.

Sidon watched him work, silently.

Link smiled at him, as he dried his leg with a fresh cloth. His hands moved on instinct, adept at wrapping wounds now. He tied it, tightly, then begun on the cut on his arm. There were a dozen more grazes, he knew, and by tomorrow morning, he’d be covered in bruises. But for now, he wasn’t bleeding. He breathed out, and felt his ribs ache. Met Sidon’s gaze where he knelt before him.

‘I like being here,’ he signed, then realised that sounded so little for what he actually felt. He tried again. ‘Here feels like home.’

“Truly?” Sidon couldn’t keep the smile from his features. “I know Hyrule castle is…but not Kakariko village? Hateno?”

Link shook his head. He’d spent a lot of time in those places; he loved those places; those places were full of Hylians, like him. Maybe he used to feel home there, before it all. Now, they were mostly full of strangers, and he didn’t feel like he belonged there. He didn’t truly belong in the Zorra’s domain, either, he knew. But he did feel at home, here, in this room. This room made him feel like the ocean on a calm day. Drifting.

“Then, I am honoured.” Sidon dipped his head, as though bowing.

Link smiled. ‘It’s because of you.’

Then, before he could think too much, he slipped from the bed, leaving the medical supplies and the water there. He settled himself in Sidon’s lap, instead, a hand caressing his dorsal fin. It sent a blush across Sidon’s cheeks.

[enddaysengine]

Zephyr Hawk (Paths Beyond)

One of 2e’s many small adjustments that I love is no longer categorizing elementals by size. Instead, this edition gives us a variety of elementals of each type based on their niche. None of them get a lot of word count individually, but we can extrapolate from what we know.

Ptolemaic wind deities. We'll come back to them. Image is from THE ICONOGRAPHY AND FUNCTION OF WINGED GODS IN EGYPT DURING THE GRAECO-ROMAN PERIOD by Sara El-Sayed Kitat, which you should absolutely read.

Zephyr hawks are low-level elementals that travel the Plane of Air in large flocks. While they have “hawk” in their name, don’t get fooled - they could represent any small flying animal, as long as it has wings. Owls, vultures, bats, pterodactyls, and stranger beasts out of your imagination are all fair game. While elemental animals don’t need to feed and mate the same way as their mortal counterparts, they can still mimic some of their archetypal behaviour, giving you ways to get some personality.

This one on the other hand, is mine. And a fair shake better than the last time my art featured on the blog.

The other thing to remember is that these elementals don’t necessarily have to come from the Inner Planes. They could also arise from deities or realms tied to air or flight, so don’t limit yourself.  They could be spirits of the wind, like the Ptolemaic deities above, especially on the Golden Road. The four-headed goat would be a better fit for a different elemental species, but the winged goat-headed scarab could work well. Its an excellent way to both play up the weirdness while sneaking in some bonafide mythology as well.

While Gozreh doesn’t have many elemental servitors, the Wind and the Waves is fond of zephyr hawks. These elemental birds serve as their eyes and ears on the Plane of Air, keeping the God apprised of plots from the Elemental Lords and djinn that threaten to spill into the mortal realm. Others arise from the Goddess directly as she travels the material world. Such seabirds are blessings when sighted by Gozreh’s clergy.

In the depths of the Abyss, Isph-Aun-Vuln commands flocks of bizarre zephyr hawks. These fiendish elementals are little more than two wings that unite in a singularity of tentacles and teeth. Many spawn directly from the Feaster Within’s domain, but others result from her poison winds possessing and corrupting elementals or even mortal’s breath. 

Natul is a ghoul sorcerer within the Cenotaph Society who seeks to turn Nex’s use of planar allies against them. He has perfected summoning zephyr owls from the Plane of Air’s Sea of Night’s Embrace and now seeks more information on the darkened expanse. While his society creates planar havens where undead are accepted by the living, Natul is under no illusions that the plane’s benthic undead will embrace him with open arms. He will need adventures unafraid of death and the endless expanse to accompany him or act as his proxies. 

[encyclopika]

Animal Crossing Fish - Explained #207

Brought to you by a mar- quack! Quack! Quack quack quack!

CLICK HERE FOR THE AC FISH EXPLAINED MASTERPOST!

I’m going to talk about the Duck villagers today, because I should have covered them during my original fish explained series since I was covering everything associated with the water anyway. Forgive me.

Pic from https://www.sporcle.com/games/Exodiafinder687/animal-crossing-new-horizons-duck-villagers-picture-click

I have covered birds in here before, all of which were seabirds - the penguins and Gulliver who is a gull. But, we all know there are many many birds that take advantage of watery habitats. To list some: seabirds - birds that live out at sea, some of which never see land except when it’s time to nest (ie. albatross and shearwaters); there are shorebirds - birds that rely on beaches and shores to make a living, typically of the saltwater variety (ie. sandpipers, plovers, etc.); wading birds - birds with really long legs and beaks that “wade” through marshland looking for little fish and other small animals to eat (herons, storks, egrets, etc.); and there are waterfowl, the freshwater birds that are famous for floating at the water’s surface (ducks, geese, and swans). 

Birds are super unique, and ducks especially - they are some of the few animals that do it all - swim, walk, and fly. They belong in the Order Anseriformes, a group of birds with “pseudo teeth” in their bills (seen most famously in geese), that include 180 known species, though the vast majority (about 170 species) belong to a single family, Anatidae, which are the ducks, geese, and swans. Despite this diversity, many of the AC villagers don’t look like real ducks, which can sport incredible feather colors, patterns, crests, and bill shapes for a myriad of specialized aquatic endeavors. It looks like Molly and Drake are two that are definitively the female and male Mallard duck, (Anas platyrhynchos) (also funny his name is “drake” which is what a male duck is called in the same way a male chicken is a “rooster”)

By This picture was realized by Richard Bartz by using a Canon EF 70-300mm f/4-5.6 IS USM Lens - Own work, CC BY-SA 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6449086

The mallard is perhaps the most famous duck, being naturally widespread throughout the Northern Hemisphere and introduced to Australia and New Zealand. They, especially the female, make the archetypal duck “quack” we all learn as children. These are the ducks you see and feed bread at the park (please stop doing that - bread is so bad for them!!); they’re your average “wild duck”. But ducks are so much more diverse than you’ll initially realize if you only focus on the Mallard.

The mallard is part of the “dabbling ducks” in the subfamily Anatinae. They are the species you would most recognize as ducks and most likely the group all the duck villagers come from. Females are typically very drab to help them camouflage their nests which they often lay on the ground. Dabbling ducks are mostly omnivorous, eating mostly anything they find when they “bottom-up” and use those flat bills to rummage around in aquatic vegetation and sediment. The males are often brilliantly-colored to attract females and some sport patterns and crests that rival birds of paradise. Like, look at this bastard:

By Adrian Pingstone - Own work, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=592287

This is a mandarin duck, Aix galericulata, and damn he look like he was painted.

Still - there are also diving ducks, like this Greater Scaup (Aythya marila),

Calibas, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

...and wouldn’t you know it, there are also sea ducks that live in saltwater. These are your scoters, eiders, and other friends in Tribe Mergini, like this King Eider (Somateria spectabilis).

By Ron Knight from Seaford, East Sussex, United Kingdom - King Eider (Somateria spectabilis), CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=32940131

Okay, we’ll be here all day if I show you every duck I think is cool. But like, my point is that AC missed a great opportunity to go wild with their ducks. At least they picked some great ducks for the wooden Decoy Duck item you can customize: https://nookipedia.com/wiki/Item:Decoy_Duck_(New_Horizons). Of course I made 7 and spread them all over my island. 

And there you have it. Fascinating stuff, no?

[dmcfaroeislands1]

Discovering the Faroe Islands' Natural Splendor and Cultural Heritage

The archipelago of the Faroe Islands in the North Atlantic is a tapestry of the most magnificent manifestations of nature, making the faroe island visit an experience of unparalleled beauty. This destination offers a unique blend of rugged coastlines, lush valleys, and quaint villages, perfect for those seeking a serene yet adventurous travel experience. As you embark on your journey through the islands, you'll find each turn on the winding roads reveals a new, breathtaking view. The allure of traveling to the Faroe Islands lies in its untouched natural beauty, where the air is crisp, and the landscapes are as dramatic as they are enchanting. It's a place where nature reigns supreme, and visitors are mere guests in its vast, wild domain.

Cultural Richness:

Delving deeper into the heart of the Faroe Islands, visitors discover a rich cultural heritage that complements the natural beauty. The islands are home to a tight-knit community that preserves ancient traditions and a unique way of life. As you explore the villages, you'll encounter colorful houses, grass-roofed churches, and friendly locals eager to share their stories. The Faroe Islands' travel experience is not just about seeing; it's about immersing yourself in a culture that has thrived in isolation. Amidst the modern world's hustle, these islands offer a peaceful retreat where time seems to slow down, allowing travelers to connect with a more straightforward, more grounded way of life.

Adventurous Exploration:

For adventure enthusiasts, Faroe island travel presents a playground like no other. The unpredictable climate and rugged terrain of the islands provide the optimal environment for a wide range of outdoor activities. Hiking trails wind through breathtaking landscapes, leading to remote cliffs and hidden waterfalls. The surrounding seas offer opportunities for kayaking and boat tours, where you might spot seabirds and marine life. Visiting the Faroe Islands becomes an adventure of a lifetime, where each day brings a new challenge and an opportunity to witness nature in its most raw and unspoiled form. Whether you're scaling a mountain or navigating the Atlantic waters, the thrill of exploration is a constant companion.

Sustainable Travel:

In recent years, the Faroe Islands have become a prime example of sustainable tourism. The local community, aware of their fragile environment, has taken significant steps to ensure that tourism benefits the islands without harming their natural or cultural integrity. A visit to the Faroe Islands is more than a vacation; it's a lesson in sustainable living and responsible travel. The islands' commitment to preserving their environment ensures that their beauty remains unspoiled for future generations. By promoting observance of indigenous customs and environmental stewardship, visitors can ensure that their time in the Faroe Islands is both enriching and socially responsible.

Conclusion:

The Faroe Islands are a destination where every aspect of nature and culture comes together in a harmonious blend. It's a place where adventure, tranquility, and sustainability coexist, offering a travel experience that's both exhilarating and humbling. For those planning their next journey, the Faroe Islands are a must-visit destination, promising memories that will last a lifetime. To explore this incredible archipelago and plan your trip, visit dmcfaroeislands.fo for more information. Here, the journey of a lifetime awaits in a land where the beauty of the earth meets the warmth of its people.

[theghostweddeduniverse]

The Unseen Oceans

The Unseen Oceans stretched across a vast expanse, a realm teeming with wonder and mystery. It was a world where the boundaries between reality and imagination blurred, and the ebb and flow of life danced to the rhythm of the currents. Within this sprawling domain, countless landscapes and vibrant ecosystems coexisted, each with its own unique allure.

The Coral Gardens, an ethereal realm of vibrant colors and delicate beauty, unfolded beneath the waves. Luminous coral formations adorned the ocean floor, their intricate shapes and hues creating a breathtaking tapestry. Schools of iridescent fish darted through the coral maze, while graceful sea turtles glided through the currents, their shells glistening in the sunlight.

Farther down, the Abyssal Depths held secrets that were as ancient as time itself. Here, in the darkest reaches of the Unseen Oceans, eerie bioluminescent creatures illuminated the inky blackness with their otherworldly glow. Massive, grotesque anglerfish patrolled the depths, their luminous lures dangling like beacons of both danger and curiosity.

Moving closer to the surface, the Kelp Forests emerged, a realm of towering underwater trees swaying gently in the current. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting enchanting patterns on the seafloor below. A myriad of creatures, from playful otters to curious octopuses, found shelter and sustenance among the swaying fronds, creating a delicate balance of life.

As one journeyed towards the coastlines, the crashing waves gave rise to the Rocky Shores, where jagged cliffs stood tall against the relentless assault of the ocean. Pools of water trapped between rocks became miniature ecosystems, hosting resilient creatures adapted to both land and sea. Seabirds soared overhead, their cries echoing in harmony with the crashing waves.

To the east, the Dead Sounds held an air of desolation and mystery. A barren expanse devoid of life, its eerie silence seemed to defy the pulsating energy of the Unseen Oceans. Few ventured into this enigmatic territory, where whispers of forgotten tales and ancient creatures lingered in the stillness.

And in the western reaches, the Shifting Mountains stood as guardians of the Unseen Oceans. These majestic peaks, crowned with vibrant corals and swaying seaweed, appeared to be in constant motion, their ever-changing forms a testament to the dynamic nature of the realm. Deep crevices and hidden caves concealed treasures and secrets that beckoned the brave and curious.

Beyond these distinct regions, countless other landscapes and microcosms thrived within the Unseen Oceans. From the mysterious Floating Isles, suspended by a delicate balance of air and water, to the teeming metropolis of the Sandbanks, where tiny creatures constructed intricate sandy abodes, the realm was a symphony of diversity. Amidst the ever-changing tides and currents, the Unseen Oceans offered endless opportunities for exploration and discovery. Its vastness was a canvas upon which the wonders of life painted their stories, inviting intrepid souls to immerse themselves in its beauty, unravel its secrets, and embrace the awe-inspiring wonders that lay beneath the surface.

[mypetmycat]

CAN CATS FIND THEIR WAY HOME?

“When I feel bad I just look at my cats and my courage returns.”

-Charles Bukowski

Indeed, felines can view their way home.

What amount of time this requires will rely heavily on the distance away from home they meander.

Felines can see course yet it stays a secret how they explore their direction across the new landscapes to get themselves back home.

Speculations incorporate everything from attractive geolocation to olfactory signs yet specialists don't know which hypothesis is right.

Cats Tend To Stay Close To Home

Felines are regular drifters, something that can make uneasy feline guardians while letting them out interestingly.

Luckily, felines have a fair of bearing and don't will generally head excessively far away from their homes.

Felines ordinarily will remain nearby home

There have even been instances of felines voyaging home subsequent to getting lost during an outing or house move.

The longest reported distance a lost feline has ventured out to return home is around 200 miles.

This feline got lost while on a family occasion yet figured out how to get back following 2 months.

Utilizing Sights and Scents

“Cats are mysterious; they have more on their mind that we could never imagine.”

-Walter Scott

At the point when near and dear your feline will make its own region utilizing fragrance.

Felines who invest energy outside can likewise comprehend encompassing domains rapidly.

The domain is undetectable to people however is clear to felines so in light of the fact that you can't see any conspicuous indications of your feline's region doesn't mean they aren't there.

As indicated by VCA Emergency clinics, felines have between 45 - 80 million aroma receptors (people have 5 million).

Having such an incredible feeling of smell implies felines can find faint trails that might have the option to assist them with viewing as their way home.

Felines will quite often meander a brief distance when outside, with numerous not wandering in excess of a pretty far from home.

Felines in generally populated regions will more often than not have a more modest domain as there are in many cases various different felines in closeness so remaining nearby home is more secure.

Felines may likewise utilize unmistakable milestones to assist them with getting around an area. These could be normal milestones like waterways or trees or different tourist spots like huge structures.

While there is restricted examination of felines homing capacities, there are many fascinating investigations about different creatures and these could give us pieces of information regarding how felines can track down their direction.

Studies have uncovered that a few creatures explore by the stars, for instance, night-time fertilizer scarabs can move in an orderly fashion just when the Smooth Way is in view, and caught seabirds can find their direction home as long as the sun or stars are noticeable.

Perhaps felines have comparable route methods when they are bridging significant distances.

Utilizing Earth's Attractive Fields

“Cats have it all: admiration, endless sleep, and company only when they want it.”

-Rod McKuen

One of the famous speculations is that felines can detect the World's most attractive fields.

The presence of iron in the inward ears and skin of felines might go about as a characteristic compass.

The iron assists the creature with deciding bearing thanks to the normal attractive fields in the ground.

Similarly, as compass needles line up with the World's attractive field, various creatures can utilize this as well so it is surely potential felines do this too.

During tests, the turtle swam the alternate way when they were placed into an attractive field that switched north and south, showing that they are utilizing Earth's attraction to guide them.

The recently incubated ocean turtles orientate themselves in view of the World's attractive fields and this is the sort of thing that felines could detect as well.

How Does A Feline Become Use To A New Area?

Felines investigate new domains in an efficient manner which permits them to make a guide in their tops of the area.

This includes investigating consistently expanding circles or square shapes until they are known about the area.

Assuming that a feline is lost, they might utilize a comparable framework that permits them to examine the region until they either go over their own domain or identify recognizable scents in the breeze that they can use to return home.

What Do Felines Do When Away From Home?

“There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats.”

-Albert Schweitzer

On the off chance that your feline hasn't returned home yet, you might be stressed over them.

In the event that a feline can, it will see as its way home and, as may be obvious, many elements assist them with doing this.

It's difficult to say what amount of time it will require for a lost feline to find its direction home as there are countless factors to consider (for example the distance away from home they meandered).

Specialists at the College of Georgia examined to figure out what felines are doing around evening time.

They put little cameras on 55 felines and concentrated on the recording to find 44% of the felines chased natural life during this time.

They additionally tracked down that 25% consumed or drank from home.

This implies it is far-fetched your feline is going hungry in the event that they have missed a feast at home.

There are obviously perilous ways of behaving that were seen excessively like going across streets, experiencing bizarre felines, and investigating little spaces.

So For What Reason Do Felines Get Lost?

“Time spent with cats is never wasted.”

-Sigmund Freud

You might be considering the way in which a feline can lose all sense of direction in any case and how logical it is that your cat will lose themselves.

Felines will quite often remain nearby home however on occasion they might need to take off from different felines, canines, or other expected risks.

For what reason do felines get lost this might bring the feline into new regions or mean they end up further away from home than they had expected.

This can make them be lost and need to track down their direction back in an efficient manner.

Finding their direction back can take some time yet the feline will ultimately run over their area or recognizable regions and get back.

Luckily, most felines don't overreact when lost and can in any case support themselves by hunting as they sort out what direction to head.

Assisting Your Feline with Seeing As Their Way Home

There are a couple of things you can do to assist your feline with finding as they would prefer back home.

“The only thing a cat worries about is what’s happening right now.”

-Lloyd Alexander

You have no control over what your feline gets up to however these may assist you with watching out for them:

1. In the first place, you could microchip your feline and put a recognizable proof at any point label on their fast delivery choker. Continuously ensure your data is modern so you can be reached in the event that your feline is found by another person.

2. Furthermore, you can fix or fix your feline. This will forestall undesirable pregnancies and keep your feline from wandering excessively far. It will likewise assist diminish connections with new felines.

3. Put a feline tracker on your feline. This way you can constantly check and see where they are continuous. This is extremely useful on the off chance that your feline hasn't returned for supper or they are away longer than expected. A feline tracker is a basic instrument that can give proprietors inner serenity.

4. Another choice is to keep your feline inside. Many felines love to wander and will give them all to find an exit from the house so entryways and windows should be kept getting. If you are keeping your feline inside, you could make your nursery escape evidence or give them a safe open-air region where they can appreciate time outside without the gamble of getting lost.

[xtruss]

Environment: Humans Are Overzealous Whale Morticians

We hastily dispose of dead whales, ignoring the ecological significance of their carcasses.

By Bob Goldfarb | August 10, 2022 | Nautilus

The Public Domain Review/Flickr

When, at the dawn of the 19th century, Meriwether Lewis and William Clark traversed western North America, they encountered a wondrous bestiary: the “fleet and delicately formed” coyote, the “bear of enormous size” which we call the grizzly. Yet few creatures impressed them more than the “Buzzard or Vulture” their party captured near the mouth of the Columbia River. The bird was massive, more than nine feet from wingtip to wingtip, and garish, with an “iris of a pale scarlet,” a “pale orrange [sic] Yellow” head, and feathers of “Glossy Shineing black.” Just as striking was the bird’s diet. “(W)e have Seen it feeding on the remains of the whale and other fish which have been thrown up by the waves on the Sea Coast,” Clark reported. Marine creatures, he added, “constitute their principal food.”

That Lewis and Clark first encountered a California condor by the sea was no coincidence. Once, condors soared across much of the continent, merrily scavenging dead ground sloths, mammoths, and glyptodonts. When human hunters wiped out these giant herbivores during the Pleistocene, condors nearly went extinct themselves. But they never quite vanished. Instead, they survived along the Pacific Coast, feasting on the last megafauna carcasses still available: marine mammals, particularly the blue, humpback, and gray whales who migrate along North America’s western rim.1 That we know Gymnogyps californianus as the California condor—as opposed to, say, the Kansas condor—is the nomenclatural legacy of dead cetaceans.

We are removing what is natural from a natural place.

Whales, like wolves, elephants, and beavers, are keystone species, animals who disproportionately shape ecosystems. While alive, their fecal plumes fertilize phytoplankton, the microscopic plants that oxygenate our atmosphere.2 In death, whales who settle on the ocean floor attract an astonishing necrobiome, the community of scavengers who feed upon the dead: hagfish, mussels, limpets, isopods, sleeper sharks, chemosynthetic bacteria.3 Some, like bone-eating Osedax worms, subsist exclusively on benthic carcasses. Whalefalls are oases in the abyssal wastes, as enticing to life as a Saharan watering hole. Not every dead whale, however, comes to rest in the depths.

Those whales who drift ashore—buoyed by internal gasses, conveyed by currents—support complex ecosystems of their own. Vultures and seabirds peck at eyes and blowhole; sharks strip blubber in the surf. In Namibia’s coastal deserts, jackals and hyenas gnaw at dead seal pups, dolphins, and whales.4 When, in 2020, a minke whale—nicknamed Godfried, for a beloved local author—washed ashore on a Dutch islet, he was visited by 57 species of beetle, 21 of whom had never been seen on the island before. In Russia, scientists have documented 180 polar bears feasting on a single bowhead.5

When The Going Gets Tough: When Pleistocene-era warming melted Arctic sea ice, polar bears likely survived by scavenging cetaceans. Perhaps that is how they’ll survive modern climate change, too. Photo by FriedChicken99 / Shutterstock.

Once, coastal necrophages could count on a steady supply of whale carcasses. (California’s famously huge grizzlies, now extinct, may have attained their gargantuan size by feeding upon the same marine mammals who supported condors.6) Today, however, washed-up cetaceans are comparatively rare. In part, that’s because industrial whaling—“the largest removal of biomass in world history,” per one researcher—ravaged the leviathans. Blue whale populations have plummeted by up to 90 percent, and sperm whales endure at just one-third of their historic numbers. Scavengers can’t eat nonexistent animals.

But the dearth of whales isn’t entirely responsible for the dearth of whale carcasses. We humans also tend to be overzealous morticians. Rather than letting stranded animals fulfill their ancient roles, we hastily dispose of their remains, depriving coastal ecosystems of nature’s greatest windfall. As one group of scientists put it in a recent review of cetacean carcass management, whaling and whale-removal have together “led to radical changes in the abundance and availability of large marine biomass inputs.”7 In other words: Our shorelines miss their whales and dolphins.

Lately, some researchers have begun to pay closer heed to the value of stranded whales, and to encourage coastal managers to let carcasses lie. Granted, not every beach is an appropriate resting place for a reeking, 50,000-pound corpse. When circumstances allow, however, permitting dead whales to decompose in situ may be preferable to disposal. “Can we do better than the way we manage carcasses nowadays?” says Martina Quaggiotto, an ecologist at the University of Stirling and the review’s lead author. “We are removing what is natural from a natural place.”

In 1979, a pod of 41 sperm whales stranded on an Oregon beach—“hemorrhaging under the crushing weight of their own flesh,” wrote Barry Lopez, who attended the spectacle. The whales, it was clear, couldn’t be saved, and the numinous visitation became a profane exercise in bureaucratic wrangling. What law-enforcement agency should manage crowd-control, which scientists should be in charge of obtaining tissue samples, and how would the state dispose of the corpses? “If buried, the carcasses would become hard envelopes of rotting flesh, the internal organs would liquefy and leach out onto the beach, and winter storms would uncover the whole mess,” Lopez cautioned. (Officials ultimately decided to burn the whales, then bury the charred remnants.) A dead cetacean on a public beach was no longer an ecological cog, but a logistical nightmare.

More than 40 years later, our management of dead whales is no more coherent. As Quaggiotto and her colleagues note, every country, state, and municipality obeys slightly different protocols. Some whales are carted off to the landfill, incinerator, or rendering plant, where their oily fats may be extracted for soaps, pet foods, and biofuel. Some are towed to sea, weighed down with scrap metal, and sunk. Some are buried. Some are cleaned for museum display. In 1970, the Oregon Highway Department infamously dynamited a gray whale, flattening an Oldsmobile beneath a chunk of flying blubber and leaving 75 bystanders flecked with putrescent meat. Detonation, needless to say, is no longer anyone’s preferred alternative.

Each dead whale was a great gift of nature.

In some cases removal is a matter of public safety, given that a dead whale is the world’s most alluring shark bait; even a buried cetacean may leach shark-beckoning plumes of carbon and ammonium into the ocean.8 Often, whales who strand alive are put out of their misery with pentobarbital, a drug that renders their bodies toxic long after death. In one horrifying incident, a 2-year-old Australian shepherd fell into a coma after she excavated blubber from a humpback who’d been euthanized three weeks earlier.9 (Today many veterinarians prefer potassium chloride, which doesn’t leave behind dangerous residues.)

Mostly, whales are removed for a prosaic reason: They stink. The aroma of dead cetaceans has been described as “the worst garbage smell you can think of,” “death in a dumpster,” and “like a dead animal but multiply that by 10 and then add fish smell to that and then feces.” The journalist Sarah Gilman took a more literary tack: “a throatier version of seashore rot that tastes like backwash from a mildew-darkened garbage disposal.”

As a result, authorities seldom let carcasses lie. Some countries, like Belgium and France, actually require officials to usher dead cetaceans off to a waste-management facility. In the United States, Quaggiotto found that just 28 percent of cetacean carcasses remain in situ—nearly all of these, surely, on remote beaches in wildlife refuges, national parks, and Alaska. In heavily developed Florida, Megan Stolen, a stranding investigator and scientist with the Blue World Research Institute, estimates that less than 5 percent of dead whales and dolphins get to stay put. The removal of a bottlenose dolphin can be a tourist attraction as enticing as Epcot Center. “Daytona Beach during spring break on a Friday afternoon, that’s fun,” Stolen says wryly.

Our tendency to remove carcasses, however understandable, is problematic on a few levels. In Australia, disposing of a single small whale costs around $20,000 AUD (nearly $14,000),10 and some large humpbacks have run more than $115,000 It’s also tremendously labor-intensive. Stolen’s team once elected to chop up and bury a humpback on Melbourne Beach. Because heavy machinery would have destroyed sea turtle nests, they dug the immense grave by hand. “It was about eight hours of digging with a five-man crew,” Stolen recalls.

We may wish to restore our coasts, yet our broken world doesn’t make it easy.

The refusal to let bodies be bodies has ecological implications, too. Deprived of coastal carrion, California condors have turned to the gut piles left behind by hunters, which are often tainted with bullet fragments; today lead poisoning accounts for half of known condor deaths.11 Similarly afflicted are Andean condors, the California condor’s cousins, whose 10-foot wingspans shadow South America’s Pacific lip. Like their North American relatives, Andean condors once depended on coastal cuisine, then turned to cattle and other terrestrial carrion after industrial whaling eliminated their preferred repast. But it hasn’t been a smooth transition. To access their inland scavenging grounds on the Patagonian steppe, many condors must wing over the Andes, fight powerful headwinds, and traverse one of the wettest rainforests on Earth. Condors on the Pacific coast, scientists note, “​​expend more time and energy than their historical counterparts” hunting for carcasses, which, along with the coastal development that has overwhelmed prime foraging grounds, is among the reasons that they’re endangered throughout much of their range.12

Nor are condors the only scavengers to get crowded out by humans. This was illustrated by a clever 2012 experiment, in which Australian researchers placed dead fish along two sets of beaches—some near towns, others in more rural areas.13 While fish on remote beaches were quickly claimed by native raptors like whistling kites, the urban carcasses lingered much longer, and were only belatedly scavenged by nonnative foxes and rats. The implications were troubling: Many coastal necrobiomes are too impoverished by people to take full advantage of carrion.

Yet letting scavengers feast can be fraught, too. In California, scientists typically necropsy cetaceans to ascertain their cause of death and collect bone and tissue samples. Sometimes, though, bodies wash up near nesting colonies of snowy plovers, threatened seabirds who lay their eggs in sandy hollows. Cutting open a whale on a plover beach, says Moe Flannery, a senior collections manager at the California Academy of Sciences who investigates cetacean strandings, risks attracting ravens, coyotes, and other scavengers, who might prey on plover eggs and chicks once they’re in the area. Some land managers prohibit necropsies near plover beaches altogether, even if performing one would theoretically benefit scavengers.

Plovers have always contended with predators and the carcasses that enticed them, of course—but today their populations, diminished by development, are more vulnerable to hungry mouths and beaks. We may wish to restore coastal necrobiomes, yet our broken world doesn’t always make it easy.

Millennia ago, we humans were as dependent on whale carcasses as condors. Coastal Indigenous peoples around the planet—the Arawak, the Maori, the Inuit—exploited stranded cetaceans for food and tool material. In one Spanish cave occupied by humans some 14,000 years ago, researchers unearthed barnacles that grow only upon the skin of right whales, a molluscan testament to our ancestors’ scavenging prowess.14 To Patagonia’s Fuegians, each dead whale was a “great gift of nature.”

“For as long as there have been humans,” Rebecca Giggs points out in Fathoms, her meditation on cetaceans, “the whale has been a portentous animal.” Precisely what a dead whale portends, however, has changed drastically. In the Anthropocene, carcasses aren’t always divine gifts; sometimes they’re curses of a sort, the rotten fruits of modernity’s diseased tree. Whales and dolphins are diced by ship propellers, drowned by fishing gear, starved by the plastic bezoars that accumulate in their guts. Pods of pilot whales, agonized and disoriented by the clamor of naval sonar and seismic energy testing, hurl themselves onto beaches. A symbol of nature’s bounty transmutates into a symptom of its collapse. We jettison dead whales not just because they’re smelly shark attractants, perhaps, but to escape the evidence of our sins.

The True Paleo Diet: Until very recently in Earth’s history, the sight of animals feasting upon washed-ashore cetacean carcasses was a common one—and in the absence of these bodies, entire webs of life collapse. Photo by Bob pool / Shutterstock.

Our treatment of dead whales mirrors our treatment of most dead animals. Highway maintenance personnel haul roadkill to the dump, a reasonable safety measure that also disguises the violence of automobility. In Spain, regulations imposed in the wake of Mad Cow Disease require farmers to incinerate livestock rather than letting their bodies nourish vultures. Our “aseptic” approach to carcass management has short-circuited processes, like scavenging and decomposition, that have buttressed ecosystems since the dawn of microbial life. Because objects interred in landfills don’t readily break down, many coastal dumps have become tombs for the unprocessed corpses of whales and dolphins, as eerily preserved as pharaohs in their pyramids. “It’s kind of a joke among marine-mammal people,” Megan Stolen says. “When life on Earth ends and the aliens come down, they’re going to wonder what the heck these humans were doing.”

And the management of dead cetaceans will only grow more vexing. Many whale populations have grown in recent decades, meaning there’s more future carrion in the sea; some groups of humpbacks, for instance, have nearly recovered from whaling.15 Less happily, climate change is already wreaking havoc on marine ecosystems. Along the Pacific Coast, a recent rash of stranded and emaciated gray whales may be symptomatic of dwindling Arctic food supplies.16 Warmer oceans may also give rise to more infectious diseases and, with them, “mass mortality events.”17 For some creatures, the carcass boom may present a grim opportunity. During the Pleistocene, when warmer temperatures melted Arctic sea-ice and left polar bears unable to hunt seals, Ursus maritimus likely survived by scavenging cetaceans.17 It’s some solace to think that the great white bear, the poster-species for global warming, could yet endure the Anthropocene on a putrescent diet of bowheads and grays.

In a sense, says Quaggiotto, humanity’s relationship with stranded cetaceans must come full circle. A dead whale furnishes vital data about the health of our oceans; reconnects us to nature; and nourishes the scavengers whose waste-management services support our own health. A dead whale, as our forebears knew, was both tragedy and gift, an object to be cherished and learned from, not reflexively discarded. “For looking at the future of carcass management, we must also look to the past,” Quaggiotto says.

Our coastlines may be impoverished, yet we can still restore wildness to the processes of death.18 In May 2010, biologists in Alaska’s Glacier Bay National Park spotted a 41-foot-long female humpback carcass sprawled across a beach and, sensing opportunity, set out cameras to monitor her fate. Over the next four months, brown bears and wolves feasted almost daily, inscribing networks of pawpaths onto forest and beach.19 The “blubber bonanza” became a site for ursine reproduction—cameras caught a pair of bears mating—and even innovation. In July, a researcher observed a young bear scrubbing his muzzle with a barnacle-encrusted rock, like a post-prandial diner dabbing himself with a napkin. It was the first time a brown bear had ever been documented using tools.20 “That carcass seemed to be a beacon calling to these huge bears—and, of course, they got huger and huger,” says Tania Lewis, wildlife biologist at Glacier Bay. “We can never underestimate the importance of the marine ecosystem for the terrestrial ecosystem.”

The Glacier Bay humpback was both a cornucopia and an anachronism, a glimpse of the resplendent necrobiome that predated industrial whaling, coastal development, and aseptic carcass management strategies. The feast lasted until early September, when park staff severed the whale’s head to perform a necropsy. Unmoored, the body lolled into the tide and drifted away; later, it would wash up down the beach, where wolves gnawed the bones. As the whale floated into the sunset, observers on the beach noticed a passenger: a seafaring brown bear, still trying to chisel off a few last morsels of blubber before the bounty bobbed away.

References:

1. Chamberlain, C.P., Waldbauer, J.R., Fox-Dobbs, K., & Risebrough, R. Pleistocene to recent dietary shifts in California condors. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 102, 16707-16711 (2005).

2. Roman, J. & McCarthy, J.J. The whale pump: Marine mammals enhance primary productivity in a coastal basin. PLos One 5, e13255 (2010).

3. Engelhaupt, E. After you die, a universe eats your body. Popular Mechanics (2022).

4. Skinner, J.D., van Aarde, R.J., & Goss, R.A. Space and resource use by brown hyenas Hyaena brunnea in the Namib desert. Journal of Zoology 237, 123-131 (1995).

5. Laidre, K.L., Stirling, I., Estes, J.A., Kochnev, A., & Roberts, J. Historical and potential future importance of large whales as food for polar bears. Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment 16, 515-524 (2018).

6. Miller, J. Awakening the grizzly. Pacific Standard (2018).

7. Quaggiotto, M., et al. Past, present and future of the ecosystem services provided by cetacean carcasses. Ecosystem Services 54, 101406 (2022).

8. Heiss, J.W. Whale burial and organic matter impacts on biogeochemical cycling in beach aquifers and leachate fluxes to the nearshore zone. Journal of Contaminant Hydrology 233, 103656 (2020).

9. Bischoff, K., Jaeger, R., & Ebel, J.G. An unusual case of relay pentobarbital toxicosis in a dog. Journal of Medical Toxicology 7, 236-239 (2011).

10. Tucker, J.P., Santos, I.R., Crocetti, S., & Butcher, P. Whale carcass strandings on beaches: Management challenges, research needs, and examples from Australia. Ocean & Coastal Management 163, 323-338 (2018).

11. Puper, B. California condor deaths are rising due to lead poisoning—again. Kcbx.org (2021).

12. Lambertucci, S.A., et al. Tracking data and retrospective analyses of diet reveal the consequences of loss of marine subsidies for an obligate scavenger, the Andean condor. Proceedings of the Royal Society B 285, 20180550 (2018).

13. Huijbers, C.M., Schlacher, T.A., Schoeman, D.S., Weston, M.A., & Connolly, R.M. Urbanisation alters processing of marine carrion on sandy beaches. Landscape and Urban Planning 119, 1-8 (2013).

14. Álvarez-Fernández, E., et al. Occurrence of whale barnacles in Nerja Cave (Málaga, southern Spain): Indirect evidence of whale consumption by humans in the Upper Magdalenian. Quaternary International 337, 163-169 (2014).

15. Zerbini, A.N., et al. Assessing the recovery of an Antarctic predator from historical exploitation. Royal Society Open Science 6 190368 (2019).

16. Wolfe, D. Gray whales are dying along the Pacific coast. Cnn.com (2022).

17. Sanderson, C.E. & Alexander, K.A. Unchartered waters: Climate change likely to intensify infectious disease outbreaks causing mass mortality events in marine mammals. Global Change Biology 26, 4284-4301 (2020).

18. Kaminsky, I. Rewilding death: The plan to restore the necrobiome. bbc.com (2021)

19. Lewis, T.M. & Lafferty, D.J.R. Brown bears and wolves scavenge humpback whale carcass in Alaska. Ursus 25, 8-13 (2014).

20. Deecke, V.B. Tool-use in the brown bear (Ursus arctos). Animal Cognition 15, 725-730 (2012).

— Ben Goldfarb is an environmental journalist whose work has appeared in The Atlantic, The New York Times, National Geographic, and many other publications. He is the author of Eager: The Surprising, Secret Life of Beavers and Why They Matter.

[bubonickitten]

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: Jon and Basira make their way to Ny-Ålesund; Daisy and Martin have a long-overdue conversation.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 26: panic/anxiety symptoms; brief descriptions of Flesh-domain-typical imagery; discussion of police violence, intimidation tactics, & abuse of authority (re: Daisy’s past actions); mentions of canonical character deaths & murder; reference to a canonical instance of a character being outed (re: Jon’s coworkers gossiping about him being ace); allusions to childhood emotional neglect; a bit of internalized ableism re: ADHD symptoms; discussions of strict religious indoctrination; a physical altercation, including being restrained with a hold; swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 26: Remains To Be Seen

The journey to Tromsø is… uneventful, comparatively speaking.

Almost worryingly so, Jon observes at one point.

You’re fretting because something hasn’t gone horribly wrong? Basira asks.

Aren’t you?

The tension in Basira’s shoulders is answer enough. They’re both on tenterhooks, all too aware of the dreadful species of things that lurk in the margins of the world, any number of which could be waiting in the wings for them.

That’s not to say there are no complications at all. There’s a learning curve to navigating the world blindfolded, but the two of them settle into something of a routine: Basira guiding Jon with a hand on his arm, talking him around obstacles, across gaps, and up and down stairs. An improvised system of nudges and taps develops organically over the course of their travels, starting when Basira realizes that Jon has trouble parsing her words over the noise of a crowd. It becomes their go-to mode of communication with surprising ease.

It’s an exercise in trust oddly refreshing in its mundanity.

Jon finds the blindfold comforting, in its own way: surreal, but somehow not as surreal as the evidence of normalcy all around him. Consistent, straightforward geography is disorientating enough after so long traversing a world knitted together by nightmare logic and allegory. Even more bewildering are the people. Throngs of them go about their day-to-day routines, each preoccupied with their own affairs, taking for granted their relative anonymity against the vast backdrop of the bustling world around them, secure in the privacy of their own thoughts – and blissfully unaware of the alternative.

This is how it should be, he admonishes himself in a weary refrain. People deserve ownership over their own minds, their stories, their secrets. The Archivist in him vehemently disagrees, of course. It’s exhausting, how relentlessly Jon has to challenge that instinctual voyeurism.

Prone to sensory overload, he’s always hated crowds: the noise, the flurry of movement, the press of bodies, the constant threat of unwanted touches, the lack of freedom to move at his own pace. Becoming the Archivist made the experience infinitely worse. The combination of the blindfold and Daisy’s noise-cancelling headphones does little to stem the tide of intrusive knowledge: random scraps of disconcerting trivia, a steady stream of morbid statistics, insights into the deep-seated anxieties of passersby – and, on a few occasions, the whisper of a story to be chronicled. At least the blindfold prevents him from inadvertently locking eyes with anyone.

They try to avoid traveling during peak commuting hours, but not every crowd can be evaded. The first time he wanders into the path of a potential statement giver, Jon nearly causes a pile-up in a congested station, stopping so abruptly in his tracks that the person in the queue behind him crashes headlong into him. Basira manages to catch him before he’s knocked off his feet, keeping a firm grasp on his arm when the panicked urge to flee overtakes him and nearly sends him careening blindly in the opposite direction. When a nearby stranger snipes at him for the nuisance, Jon is surprised at how immediately Basira leaps to his defense.

Back off, she says, the hint of a threat in her tone, before steering Jon out of the crowd and off to the side, where he can lean against the wall and catch his breath. She stands firm between him and the masses, diverting traffic and warding off anyone else who might seek a confrontation, giving him the sorely-needed time to compose himself. He’s certain that she’ll be cross with him after, but… she isn’t.

Tense, certainly. Concerned even. But criticism is bafflingly, mercifully absent.

There are a few more incidents after that, but none quite so dramatic. The instant he senses the Archivist in him stirring, he chokes out a warning to Basira, who turns out to be preternaturally adept at finding (or creating) spaces for him to recoup. With both of them on guard and communicating freely, they manage to avoid being in close quarters with anyone who might have a story to tell.

Tromsø offers a temporary reprieve from all of that. There are people, of course – it’s the busiest fishing port in Norway, the Eye interposes for the fourth time this hour. Jon takes an aggravated swipe at the empty air beside him, once again momentarily forgetting that there’s no pesky swarm of Watchers tagging along for this particular journey. Not visibly, at least.

Still, the open-air piers of a busy fishing port are a far cry from a densely-packed train. There’s a cargo ship scheduled to leave for Ny-Ålesund within the next hour, and Basira is further down the docks meeting with its captain to (hopefully) arrange for passage. Apparently Jon has earned some trust over the course of their travels, because she didn’t object when he requested to stay back and take a breather.

Although the docks of Tromsø bear little resemblance to the beaches of Bournemouth, the calls of seabirds are familiar enough to be meditative. Nostalgic, albeit in an uneasy, bittersweet way. His childhood was riddled enough with nightmares and alienation that thoughts of the place where he grew up are always laced with remembered horror and punctuated by a nebulous sense of grief for what could have been. If he never caught the Spider’s eye; if he never opened the book; if he wasn’t quite so demanding and easily bored and difficult to manage; if his eccentric reading habits were just a bit less finicky, even…

Left to his own devices, Jon could drown himself in what ifs.

A frigid gust of wind whips his hair about. When he reaches up to smooth it down, he finds it coarse from the brine-saturated breeze. Rubbing his fingertips together and grimacing at the faint gritty residue, Jon pulls Georgie’s scarf up over his nose to fend against the nip in the air and he turns his sight to the sky. It’s a stark, pallid grey, the kind of overcast that manages to be blinding-bright despite the sun’s concealment. The sight stings his eyes, but still he does not blink.

It should be exhilarating to look up and see nothing staring back. Instead, the sight fills him with… well, it’s difficult for him to define succinctly. Some peculiar species of dread, mingled with a disquieting, ill-defined sense of longing. Perhaps he’s simply becoming adrift in time again: remembering how it felt to look up at a Watching sky and hopelessly wish for a return to the world as it was, to clouds and stars and void. But he can’t shake the suspicion that it’s at least partly a monstrous yearning for the ruined future from which he came.

He doesn’t know what that says about him. Nothing good, probably.

You miss it, a gloating, sinister little voice concurs from one of the murky, thorny corners of Jon’s mind. You don’t belong here. You Know where you–

Jon’s phone dings several times, yanking him away from that ill-fated train of thought. Grateful for the interruption, he digs it out of his pocket, instantly brightening when Naomi’s name greets him and eagerly opening their text thread.

Jon is too busy smiling to himself to notice Basira’s approach.

“What’s – oh, sorry,” she says when he starts. “Keep expecting you to just sort of… Know I’m here.”

“The Eye doesn’t seem inclined to help me out on that front, unfortunately,” Jon says with an embarrassed chuckle. “If anything, my being jumpy probably feeds it.”

Basira glances down at his phone, then back up at him. “Everything alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Naomi.” Jon’s grin returns. “All her texts from the last couple days just came through at once. She wants to know whether Krampus is real.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“Haven’t replied just yet.”

“Oh.” Basira opens her mouth to say more, then promptly closes it.

A delighted smirk twitches into being at the corner of Jon’s mouth. “Now you want to know as well, don’t you?”

Basira rolls her eyes, but doesn’t deny it. “Later. We have a boat to catch.”

When Jon reaches into his pocket to retrieve his blindfold, Basira shakes her head.

“Best not,” she says. “The captain agreed to take us, but she was leery about the whole thing. I don’t want to give her a reason to reconsider. The less suspicious we seem, the better.”

“Still getting odd stares, then?”

“Getting used to people looking at me like I’m transporting a hostage,” she replies with a tired, beleaguered smile. It fades into a frown as she looks him up and down, taking stock of his shaking hands and the way he leans heavily on his cane. “Alright?”

“A bit sore,” Jon admits, glancing down at his leg. “Probably just been putting weight on it for too long a stretch.”

“We should be able to sit soon. Until then, try not to fall.”

“Or freeze,” Jon says distractedly, glancing warily upwards again.

“Daisy says the cold always gets to her,” Basira says, quietly enough that Jon suspects it wasn’t meant for him. “Seriously, though – you alright? You keep staring at the sky like it’s going to crack open.”

“I’m fine.” Jon shuts his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. “Just… apprehensive.”

“Sense anything?” Despite her carefully bland tone, the crux of the question is clear.

“Nothing concrete.” No statement givers, he does not say – but Basira nods, understanding his meaning. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Come on, then.” She starts off down the dock – at a brisk pace at first, but slowing when she looks back to ensure that Jon is following and observes his stiffer, more deliberate gait.

He grimaces apologetically. Up until Jane Prentiss and her worms, he was inclined towards speed walking as much as Basira is. Always in a hurry to get nowhere at all, Georgie used to say, simultaneously lamenting and teasing. Not everyone is a power walker, Jon, Martin would gripe from time to time during the apocalypse.

Maybe some of us want to slow down and take in the scenery, he grumbled on one occasion, as they traipsed through a predictably grisly Flesh domain.

The forest of pulsating meat sculptures, you mean? Jon replied primly.

Oh, you’re telling me you don’t feel the overwhelming urge to stop and take notes on the ecology of flesh spiders?

Not as much as I want to get to a place where the ground isn’t a spongy skin trampoline.

Flesh domains always had a tendency to bring out the worst (best?) of their morbid humor, Jon notes upon reflection.

In any case, Jon has always had a tendency to hurry, too impatient to reach his destination to appreciate the journey. Internally, that impulse is still there. On good days, he can almost satisfy that restlessness. Today is not a good day.

Basira stops and waits. It’s a practice that has become second nature to her ever since Daisy emerged from the Buried: learning all the unspoken signals and warning signs of a bad pain day, from barely-suppressed winces and cold sweat to waspishness and stifled, winded breaths; gauging all the fickle fluctuations in mobility in real time through careful, constant observation; and discreetly adjusting her own walking pace to accommodate without question or complaint.

“You know, I haven’t spent much time on boats,” Basira says, apropos of nothing – probably to break the silence as she waits for Jon to catch up. “I’m hoping motion sickness during long car rides isn’t correlated with seasickness. Does the Eye have any statistics handy? Seems like it would qualify as terrible knowledge.”

“Let’s just say you should keep the Dramamine at the ready,” Jon says wryly as he reaches her position.

“Wonderful,” Basira sighs, and she resumes walking, this time matching Jon’s stride.

Martin will be the first to admit that, between the two of them, Jon doesn’t have a monopoly on obsessiveness.

Case in point: Jon and Basira have been gone for five days now, and – in between bouts of worrying over their safety and mounting apprehension about Peter’s inexplicable, persistent hiatus – Martin is still replaying everything he said and did in the moments leading up to Jon’s departure.

Or, more precisely, what he didn’t say.

Nearly two months have passed since Jon returned from the Buried. It’s been nice, it really has, spending time with him. He’s changed – How could he not have? – but he’s still Jon. Even more wounded and jaded than he was before – How much abuse can one person take? – but it hasn’t made him cruel or cold. Harder in some respects, to be sure – namely on himself.

Which is saying something, Martin thinks with a pang. In all the time that Martin has known him, Jon has never been kind to himself. It’s always been a struggle to convince him to take care of himself in the most basic of ways, let alone spare a thought for comfort.

But in other respects, Jon has grown softer. More open, more communicative – more trusting, somehow, despite this world and the next piling on reason after reason for him to detach and withdraw. Martin thinks about that every time the Lonely starts to whisper in his ear. The fog is still there, firmly planted in his mind, choking out his thoughts from time to time like an invasive weed. It won’t be easily uprooted. Seeing Jon alive and trying, reaching out, grasping at warmth, clinging to humanity with all his trademark stubbornness… it makes Martin want to try, too. It makes him want to hope, to look forward and see – to fight for – a future where things are better.

So, yes, Jon has changed. They both have.

I’m not the person you remember, Martin said the first time they spoke after Jon came back. I’m not the person you fell in love with.

Jon had locked eyes with him then, and Martin found that he could not look away.

Martin has spent the majority of his life walking a tightrope, striking an uneasy balance between competing instincts. The part of him that excels in flying under the radar takes comfort in being inconspicuous. There are people out there who see kindness as naivety and trust as a weakness to be exploited. The best way to avoid their notice is to avoid being seen at all, and Martin learned early on that to be unremarkable has its own advantages. All too often, to go unnoticed is to survive.

It isn’t enough to just survive, though, is it? Barely hidden underneath all the abysmal self-esteem and the carefully constructed mask of agreeability, there is a spark of indignation and outrage and want. To be seen is fundamentally terrifying; to demand acknowledgment is to welcome exposure. But Martin has always had a rebellious streak, carving out a space for itself amongst all the loneliness and fear and self-deprecation.

Look at me, it seethes. See me.

And when Jon did look at him – Saw him – an unmistakably pleased little voice jostled its way to the forefront to triumphantly declare, Finally.

Martin, I fell in love with this version of you, Jon said. With every version of you.

It was difficult to believe. Martin didn’t want to believe it. He was afraid to believe it. But he did, and he does, and he feels the same way, and he has for so, so long, and that defiant chip on his shoulder never truly let him forget it, even when isolation had him by the throat–

So why can’t you say it?

Since that day, it hasn’t come up again. Jon is affectionate, far more than Martin would have expected. Sure, Jon has always seemed more natural at expressing his feelings through actions rather than words, but Martin never imagined he would be so… well, cuddly. Jon always struck Martin as averse to touch, keeping people at arm’s length both figuratively and literally. He still is, sometimes. But more often than not, Martin gets the impression that Jon would cling like a limpet if given explicit permission. Martin doesn’t know whether that’s a new development, or whether it’s just that he now numbers among Jon’s rare exceptions.

Maybe I should ask Georgie, Martin thinks, only partly in jest.

There’s still a lingering hesitancy there, though. Yes, when Martin invites contact, Jon jumps at the opportunity to be close. Initiating, though… Jon doesn’t quite walk on eggshells per se, but he moves with a gentleness perhaps too gentle at times. Excessively tentative – but not subtle.

Martin long ago perfected the art of stealing furtive glances at Jon. It’s not difficult. Jon is prone to tunnel vision, predisposed to lose himself in his work or a book or his own mind until the rest of the world outside his narrow focus dissolves around him. If he ever noticed Martin’s eyes on him, Jon never called attention to it.

Jon’s staring doesn’t have the same finesse. His gaze is heavy. Concentrated, unwavering, penetrating – and Jon is painfully self-conscious about that. Prompt to stammer apologies whenever he’s caught watching, quick to avert his eyes. According to him, most people find the Archivist’s attention unnerving. Martin supposes it can be at times, but he’s long since become acclimated to it. Endeared to it, even. It’s grounding, despite how ruthlessly being Seen clashes with the Lonely aspects of Martin’s existence.

Maybe that disharmony is precisely why it’s grounding.

So Jon’s eyes flit to Martin whenever he thinks Martin isn’t looking, and cautious glimpses stretch into riveted, unconscious watching, and Martin graciously pretends not to notice. This has been the status quo for weeks now: faltering not-quite-touches and longing, not-so-surreptitious gazes, interspersed with understated handholding and a few sporadic sessions of what Martin can only call cuddling. All of it has been underscored by three simple words dangling in the scant expanse of empty space between them, waiting for acknowledgment.

Jon is waiting – waiting for Martin – and Jon… Jon has never been good at waiting, has he? Not like Martin. Jon’s directionless fidgeting and bitten-short declarations and absentminded stares betray his buzzing impatience despite his best efforts, but still he’s waiting, with as much valiant restraint as he can muster.

I love you. It’s a truth so obvious that speaking it aloud would hardly qualify as a confession. I love you, Martin thinks, and he feels it down to his bones, woven into the very atoms of him.

It’s difficult to pinpoint when it began. Early on, Martin only wanted to appear qualified to his new supervisor, then to impress him, then to prove him wrong – and then, eventually, to genuinely take care of him. Jon was in need of care, and resistant to receiving it, and that was familiar, wasn’t it? Maybe some desperate, stubborn part of Martin just wanted to be useful for once. To be seen. To succeed with Jon where he had failed with his mother.

Then Prentiss happened. Martin had been certain that Jon would dismiss Martin’s story, reprimand him for his prolonged absence, and snap at him to get back to work. And then… he didn’t.

Your safety is my responsibility, Jon said curtly, showing Martin to his new, hopefully temporary lodgings. I failed you, Jon’s contrite grimace read. I won’t fail you again. Then he immediately strode off to meet with Elias, leaving Martin loitering idly in Document Storage, speechless and bemused.

Maybe that’s where it started: Jon barging unannounced and uninvited into Elias’ office with brazen, unapologetic demands for safe haven and fire extinguishers and heightened security. He even went so far as to persistently badger Elias for customizations to the building’s sprinkler system. That tenacity may have been partly driven by guilt and obligation, but Martin swore he caught glimpses of something more from time to time. Something deeper and more personal, sympathetic and kind.

It started, as so many significant shifts do, with the small things.

Martin retired to Document Storage one night that first week to find extra blankets folded neatly at the end of his cot. I thought you might be cold, Jon admitted upon questioning. It can get chilly in here at night. The pressing question of exactly how many times Jon must have slept here overnight in order to know that was promptly crowded out by a vivid mental image of Jon wrestling a heavy quilt onto the Tube during the morning commuter rush. The thought brought a smile to Martin’s face. He said as much, and Jon immediately fabricated a clumsy excuse to exit the conversation.

On another occasion, Martin opened the break room cabinet to find his favorite tea restocked. He’d been putting off shopping, too anxious to leave the relative safety of the Institute’s walls. I noticed you were running low, Jon mumbled. And I was already at the store anyway, he added almost defensively, eyes narrowing in a stern glare to discourage comment – as if drawing attention to Jon’s random acts of kindness would destroy his curmudgeonly reputation.

Those circumspect displays of consideration were touching in their awkwardness. Jon was gruff and reticent, to be sure, but he cared, in his own unpracticed, idiosyncratic way. And one day, when Martin looked at him, he thought, I’d like to kiss him, and then: Oh no. Oh, fuck.

Jon never seemed to pick up on Martin’s feelings back then. But he knows now – not Knows, just knows – and, impossible as still seems, he returns those feelings. Jon said the words in no uncertain terms, left them in Martin’s care – and now he’s waiting for Martin to make the next move.

So why haven’t you? What are you waiting for?

“Want some tea?”

Martin jumps at the sound of Daisy’s voice.

“Sorry,” she snorts. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I –” Martin clears his throat, recovering. “Tea. Right. Uh, I can get it–”

“Let me. I need to stretch my legs anyway. And I wouldn’t want to interrupt your pining.”

“Wh-what?” Martin sputters.

“You haven’t turned the page in at least twenty minutes,” Daisy informs him, nodding at the statement resting on the table in front of him. “Liable to burn yourself on the kettle while you’re spacing out, fantasizing about snogging Jon or whatever.”

“Wh– I – you – I’m – why would–”

“Don’t know why you’re being so coy about it.” Her blasé shrug is offset by the devious grin on her face. “Not like it’s a secret you’re on kissing terms.”

“We… we haven’t,” Martin blurts out, heat rising in his cheeks. Immediately, he kicks himself. Given what he knows of Daisy, there’s no avoiding an interrogation now.

“You – wait, really?” Daisy raises her eyebrows. “Why not?”

“It just hasn’t – I – it’s really none of your–” Martin huffs, flustered. “I don’t even know if he does that.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“B-because, he…”

Because Martin has a tendency to fade into the background, and people will say a lot of things when they assume no one else is in earshot.

Do you know if he and Jon ever…

No clue, and not interested! Although… according to Georgie, Jon doesn’t.

Like, at all?

Yeah.

Martin cringes at the memory. He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He still wishes he hadn’t overheard. Jon was always so tight-lipped about his personal life back then. It felt like a violation of his privacy, knowing something that he would in all likelihood have preferred to keep to himself and share only at his own discretion. Martin tried to put it out of his head, to avoid thinking too hard on the specifics of what Jon “doesn’t” – and, conversely, what he maybe, possibly does – but, well…

Martin shakes his head to clear his thoughts before they can meander any further into the realm of imagination. In any case, he certainly isn’t about to repeat that piece of gossip to Daisy now.

“I – I just don’t want to assume,” he says instead.

Daisy tilts her head, considering. “Well, have you asked him?”

“W-well, no.”

“Why not? Sure, some people aren’t into kissing, I guess, but I doubt he’d mind you asking. Even if the answer is ‘no,’ I guarantee he wants to be close in other ways.” At Martin’s lack of response, Daisy heaves an exaggerated sigh. “He reaches for you every time you’re not looking, you know. Always fidgeting with his hands, like he wants to touch but he doesn’t know how to ask. He’s as bad as you are, pining face and all.”

“I do not have a ‘pining face,’” Martin says. “If you must know, I was worrying just now.”

“You definitely have a pining face, and it’s different from your worried face. When you’re worried, you get all scowly and you chew your lip bloody. You’re focused, intense. When you’re pining, you get this faraway look to you, like you’re not taking anything in. And you touch your fingers to your lips a lot – yeah, like that.”

Martin yanks his fingers away from his mouth as if scalded, glowering indignantly at an increasingly smug Daisy. “What are you, a mentalist?”

“I’ve gotten used to reading people – picking up on openings, weak spots, stress signals, you know. Don’t know whether that’s a Hunt thing or a me thing. Both, maybe.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, you went from worried to pining about ten minutes ago now. And Jon, he’s even easier to read than you are. He’s so far gone for you, I can tease him mercilessly about it and never get a rise out of him. Even when I can get him to bat an eye, he never does that… that flustered denial thing he usually does when you hit a nerve. He just goes all… soft and wistful. Retreats into his own head, gets that smitten little smile – you know the one?”

“Yes.” Martin is blushing furiously now, he’s certain. Daisy flashes him another knowing, unabashedly victorious smirk.

“Point is, our lives are messed up, water is wet, and Jon Sims loves cats and Martin Blackwood, but he’s terrified of crossing some invisible line, so instead he’s just openly pining and it isn’t even fun to tease him about it because he’s too lovestruck to be properly embarrassed about it.” Daisy pauses for a breath. “So, if you want to kiss Jon, you should ask him, because I doubt he’s going to make the first move anytime soon, and it’s getting ridiculous watching the two of you tiptoe around the elephant in the room. So what are you waiting for?”

“How is any of this your business, anyway?” Martin snaps.

“Well, seeing as Jon’s my friend–”

That strikes a nerve, and Martin is reacting before he can properly evaluate the feeling.

“Okay, yeah, about that,” he says sharply. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Well, all you wanted to do before was hunt him down and hurt him.” Instantaneously, Daisy’s playful demeanor evaporates. “Even after Elias blackmailed you into working for him, you still looked at Jon like he wasn’t human. Not even a monster, either, just – just something you wanted to tear apart, just because you wanted to see him afraid. And now all of a sudden you’re friends? I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Jon’s willing to overlook a murder attempt. He… he has so little respect for himself, his standards are so…” Martin captures his lower lip between his teeth and bites down until it aches. “He’s so used to being treated badly, the bar is six feet below ground.”

“Yeah,” Daisy whispers.

“But – but what I can’t figure out is what your angle is. You wanted to hurt him, you did hurt him – he still has a scar from where you held a knife to his throat. You would’ve killed him if Basira didn’t stop you.”

“I–”

“He was so afraid of disappearing without a trace, did you know that?” Martin interjects, his face growing hotter as over a year’s worth of pent-up fury boils to the surface.

Martin has read enough statements to know that even one of the encounters representative of the Institute’s collection is one traumatic experience too many. Even so, it’s only a small fraction of the horror stories that have plagued humanity throughout history – that continue to unfold in the present day. How many people suffer something horrible and don’t live long enough to tell the story? The Archive, chock-full of terror though it may be, is an ongoing study in survivorship bias.

“When Prentiss attacked the Institute,” Martin fumes, “Jon was more afraid of that – of leaving nothing behind – than he was of dying. You were going to bury him where no one would ever find him, and no one would ever know what happened to him, and now… now you say you want to be his friend, like nothing ever happened? And I’m supposed to just trust you?”

For a long minute, the only sound is Martin’s rapid, heavy breathing. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Combativeness, maybe. For Daisy to get her hackles up, to defend herself against Martin’s implications, to take offense to his accusatory tone. Instead, her entire posture wilts and her shoulders curl inward. It’s as if an invisible weight is pressing against her on all sides, crushing her into something small and taut.

“I guess we’re doing this now, then,” she mumbles.

“Guess we are,” Martin says stiffly, one foot tapping frenetically against the floor as his agitation continues creeping ever upward.

Daisy nods and releases a heavy exhale. “This isn’t just about Jon, is it?”

“I…” Martin trails off as he considers the question. “No. I guess it’s not.”

“Well.” Daisy rubs at her upper arms, eyes fixed on the floor. “Go on.”

“When you questioned all of us – when you interrogated me, you didn’t – you didn’t actually want to find out the truth. You just wanted to get to Jon, because you assumed he was guilty, and…” Martin huffs. “No, it wasn’t even about guilt, was it? You didn’t care about solving Leitner’s murder, you didn’t care about finding Sasha – she could’ve still been alive for all we knew at the time, but you didn’t care whether she was in danger, whether she could be saved. And – and even if we did have proof that she was dead, we deserved to know what happened to her. She deserved better than to be a mystery.”

“You’re right.” Daisy’s soft agreement does nothing to temper Martin’s burgeoning wrath.

“She was my friend, you know that? She was my friend, and you just – dismissed her, like she wasn’t worth remembering, like her life was some – some trivial detail. I didn’t know whether to be afraid for her or – or – or to mourn for her, and all you had to offer was, ‘Jon probably killed her, tell me where he is or else.’ You were a detective, you were supposed to help, but all you cared about was getting to Jon, and you – you – you threatened me because you thought I could tell you where to find him. That you could use me to hurt him.” Martin breathes a bitter chuckle. “I guess Jon was right not to trust the police to figure out what happened to Gertrude.”

Daisy doesn’t deny it.

“So… yeah.” Martin shrugs as his rant tapers off. “That’s where I am, I guess. I know you’ve changed – haven’t we all – but… every time I see you near Jon, there’s a part of me that panics. Maybe I’m not being fair, but I – I can’t forget. I don’t know how to feel.”

Daisy is quiet for a long minute, fingers digging into her arms now, a pained expression lingering on her face.

“I’ve done… a lot of things I’m not proud of,” she says slowly. “Hurt a lot of people. Most more than they deserved. Many who didn’t deserve it at all. Can’t even make apologies to most of them, let alone make amends. I don’t even know if I could make amends. Some things are unforgivable.”

It doesn’t undo what I did, Jon’s voice plays in Martin’s mind. I can’t erase it.

“You should know,” Daisy says, “complete lack of self-respect aside, Jon doesn’t… he doesn’t overlook what I did.”

“What?”

“He knows what I am. What I’ve done. He doesn’t pretend I’m something I’m not, he doesn’t lie to me about what I could become, he doesn’t offer me forgiveness that I don’t deserve, but he still… he still doesn’t expect the worst from me, either. He expects me to make the right choice, even though I gave him every reason not to trust me.”

“He’s still too forgiving,” Martin mutters.

“That’s another thing. I… I don’t think he does. Forgive me, that is.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No.”

“Because you’re afraid to know the answer?” Maybe that’s uncharitable, but Martin never claimed to be an easily forgiving soul. Most people wouldn’t assume it at first glance, but he’s always had a tendency to nurse a grudge.

Daisy hunches even further, her shoulders drawing in tighter.

“Because if he did forgive me, he would tell me,” she says, her throat bobbing as she struggles to swallow. “But he doesn’t. I know he doesn’t, and he shouldn’t, and I’m not going to put him in a position where he has to justify himself, or sugarcoat it, or comfort me for what I did to him.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that.

“And the same goes for you.” Daisy steals a quick glimpse at Martin before lowering her head again. “I won’t ask you to forgive me. Ever. But I am sorry – for how I treated you, for what I did to Jon. I’ll never stop being sorry. That doesn’t make it better, I know. But I want to do better. I’m trying to be better. Too little too late, maybe, but I won’t go back to how I was before. I can’t take it all back, but I can at least make sure I don’t hurt anyone else.”

“You sound like Jon.”

“First and second place for guiltiest conscience, us,” Daisy says with a tired chuckle. “And I don’t know which of us is in first.” She sighs. “Look, I know you have no reason to trust me, but I do see Jon as a friend. Not just because I’m sorry, or because he saved me, or because I owe him, but because he… well, he sees me as I am, and he sees me for who I want to be, and he doesn’t see those as mutually exclusive, but he also doesn’t deny the contradiction.”

“Wish he could apply the same logic to himself.”

“Yeah. He’s an absolute mess of double standards. Best we can do is call him on it at every opportunity. Maybe eventually he’ll get it through his head.”

“Yeah,” Martin scoffs. “Maybe.”

“Anyway,” she says, “I care about him, and he cares about you, so…”

“So you thought you’d appoint yourself his wingman?”

“Maybe a little.” Daisy gives him a hesitant, sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Martin sighs. The resentment is still there, but he does feel a bit lighter after getting it all out in the open. Besides, he's so emotionally drained from his outburst, he can’t quite work up the energy for mild annoyance right this moment.

“Well, in that case – if you want to kiss him, you should ask. That’s all I’m saying,” Daisy says hurriedly, holding up her palms in a placating gesture when Martin gives her a tired glare. “I’ll drop it now. I meant it when I said I wanted tea.”

Daisy winces as she rises to her feet.

“And I meant it when I said I can get it,” Martin says.

“I’ve got it.”

“Then at least let me come along and–”

“Uh, no.” Daisy gives him a quelling look. “Jon warned me about how you are with tea.”

“What?”

“Says you’re a micromanager.”

“He what?” Martin demands.

“Okay, he didn’t say it like that. Actually, I think the word he used was persnickety.”

“Oh, as if he has room to talk,” Martin mutters. “He’s just miffed that I caught him microwaving tea once and I refuse to let him live it down.”

“What’s wrong with microwaving tea?” Martin recoils, affronted – and then Daisy snorts. “Settle down. I’m just messing with you.” She starts to leave, pausing only briefly to glance over her shoulder. “I won’t be long. Yell if Peter decides to finally show his face.”

“Will do,” Martin groans, reluctantly returning to the statement in front of him. Yet another alleged Extinction sighting, courtesy of Peter, for Martin to dutifully pretend to research.

Stringing Peter along is the best way Martin knows to keep in check. In that sense, it’s an important job – one only Martin can do. Nonetheless, it’s reminiscent of how it felt to be left behind when the others went to stop the Unknowing. Distracting Elias was important, sure, and dangerous in its own way, but it wasn’t exactly on the same level as storming the Circus to stop the apocalypse. Comparatively, Martin felt useless.

Now, with Basira and Jon off on their mission, Martin is beset by a similar sense of futility. There’s certainly enough work to keep him busy, given that Peter delegates most of his job responsibilities to Martin. (Martin is fairly certain that, fraudulent CV or not, he’s more qualified to run the Institute at this point than Peter is.) Performing routine administrative duties can be a boring and demoralizing enough endeavor in the context of a mundane underpaid office job; doing so in service to an unfathomable cosmic evil is, to put it mildly, soul-destroying. Perhaps in a literal sense, as far as Martin knows.

That’s not to mention the customary gloom that comes with reading account after dreadful account of senseless, indiscriminate suffering.

Martin wishes there was something practical he could do, is his point. Patient though he may be, indefinite waiting is less tolerable when what he’s waiting for is the other shoe to drop, so to speak. He has no desire to interact with Peter in any capacity, but the longer he remains scarce, the more Martin’s trepidation soars.

There’s no way Peter has conceded his bet with Jonah, but there’s no telling whether he’s simply biding his time and observing how events unfold, actively plotting his next moves, or already enacting an revised scheme from the shadows. Regardless, he’s a clear and present danger for as long as he’s around. He may not be hasty, but he’s still a wildcard. Jon told Martin about the last time: how Peter released the NotThem to rampage through the Institute, solely for the sake of causing a distraction. As long as he has The Seven Lamps of Architecture in his possession, he–

Oh.

Martin smiles to himself. Maybe there is something more he can do.

The warehouse is, unsurprisingly, dark. Even with the door propped open, the daylight filtering through illuminates a radius of only a few yards before it’s swallowed by unnatural gloom. As Jon and Basira move further into the cavernous space, the beams of their torches barely penetrate the velvety murk.

“Any idea where she is?” Basira whispers from Jon’s left.

“Waiting in ambush, I assume. I can’t See much of anything.”

“See or See?”

“Either. Both.”

“And you’re certain that applies to Elias as well? He won’t be able to See us here?”

“Positive,” Jon says. “The Dark has–”

An enraged bellow sounds out from behind them. Basira’s torch clatters to the concrete floor, its light promptly extinguished as the casing cracks and the batteries come loose. In a flash, Basira is on the ground, locked in a furious scuffle with–

“Manuela Dominguez!” Jon says. Manuela looks up reflexively, surprised to hear her name. It’s all the opening Basira needs to gain the upper hand, grappling Manuela into a prone position on the floor and pinning her in place with a wristlock. Manuela cries out in pain, but her wild thrashing continues unabated.

“Jon,” Basira grunts, increasingly winded as Manuela attempts to break the hold. “A little help?”

“Manuela, listen, we – we’re just here to talk–”

Manuela briefly pauses in her struggling to spit at Jon’s feet. Funny, how some details remain the same. A second later, she’s resisting again, now attempting to twist around and bite at whatever exposed skin she can find.

“Stop.”

The command crackles up Jon’s throat and sparks off the tip of his tongue like a static shock, hundreds of iterations of the word coinciding. The air itself seems to quake with the force of it, and Jon is left shivering in its wake.

So, it seems, is Manuela: her voice shudders out of her when she speaks.

“Who are you?” she hisses. “What do you want?”

“To make a deal,” Jon says, the words slightly slurred.

“Why would I deal with you?” In the flickering glow of his torchlight, Jon can see the baleful glint in Manuela’s eyes. “You’re of the Eye, aren’t you? What could you even possibly want? You’ve already taken everything – you lot and your Archivist. Where is she, anyway?” Manuela makes a show of scanning the room as best she can, pinioned as she is. “Too much of a coward to witness the wreckage she’s wrought?”

“Gertrude is dead,” Basira says.

“Stopping us took everything she had, then.” Manuela smirks. “Serves her right.”

“You wish,” Basira scoffs. “She was murdered. Completely unrelated.”

“That’s –” Manuela’s smug expression vanishes. “Who–?”

“Elias,” Jon says. “She was too much of a thorn in his side. Too much of a force to be reckoned with.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I told you,” Jon says. “We want to make a deal. A temporary alliance.”

“An alliance?” Manuela repeats. What starts as a weak, dismissive laugh dissolves into a wheeze.

“We have a mutual enemy.” Manuela’s eyes narrow in something more like curiosity now. “I take it I’ve piqued your interest. Will you hear us out?”

Manuela deliberates for a protracted moment, torn between rebellion and intrigue. “Let me up.”

“What, so you can throw more punches?” Basira says.

“It’s fine, Basira,” Jon says. Manuela is still seething with defiance. The more powerless she feels, the less open she’ll be to negotiation. Better to make a few concessions and let her feel some control over the situation.

Judging from her furrowed brow, Basira is running through the same calculations. She hesitates a moment longer before sighing, releasing her hold, and standing. Manuela staggers to her feet and backs away several steps, brushing herself off and panting shallowly as she catches her breath.

“Did you come here alone?” she asks, massaging her abused wrist as her suspicious gaze flits back and forth between Basira and Jon. “Just the two of you?”

“Yes,” Jon answers. Basira shakes her head with an impatient tsk – which Jon interprets as something like stop volunteering free information to every Avatar you parley with, Jon. “Like I said, we’re just here to talk. And to offer you the opportunity for revenge.”

“What revenge? Gertrude is dead,” Manuela spits out. “Who else is there? Her replacement?”

“I’m her replacement.”

With that, Manuela lunges in Jon’s direction. Basira swiftly moves to intercept her, but Manuela stops in her tracks before Basira can grab her. A tension-filled standoff ensues, the two of them eyeing each other warily. After nearly a full minute, Basira seems satisfied enough that the situation has been defused to take her eyes off Manuela and treat Jon to an exasperated glare.

“Do you have to antagonize every single person who wants to kill you?” she scolds.

Jon ignores her grievance in favor of addressing Manuela directly: “You wouldn’t have any luck killing me.”

Basira dips her head down and plants the heel of her hand on her forehead, grumbling under her breath. It’s mostly unintelligible, but Jon thinks he can make out the words fuck’s sake somewhere in there.

“I could try,” Manuela snarls. Her hands ball into tighter fists, trembling with rage at her sides, but she continues to stand her ground.

“You could,” Jon says mildly. “And you would fail.”

“You’ll just compel me, you mean.”

“I could.” He would rather avoid it if possible, but Manuela doesn’t need to know that. He can only hope she can’t tell just how much he’s only pretending at nerve. “Or, you can listen to what we have to say. Gertrude is dead, and lashing out at me isn’t going to satisfy your thirst for revenge. We can offer up a more satisfying target.”

“Unless you have a way for me to unmake the Power your Archivist served.” When Jon doesn’t deny it, Manuela lets out another harsh, scornful laugh. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Well – arguably, Gertrude didn’t serve the Eye. She followed her own path.” Manuela breathes a derisive huff. “Like her or not, she did. Formidable as she was, none of that was due to the Beholding’s favor. That was all her. She never embraced the power it promised – not like most Archivists do. Striking a blow against the Eye wouldn’t be an insult to Gertrude’s memory. If anything, it would do her proud.”

“Killing it with the sales pitch,” Basira carps.

“But the head of the Institute does serve the Eye,” Jon presses on, “and he’s the one responsible for appointing Gertrude the Archivist in the first place. Hurt the Eye, and you hurt him.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Manuela says, bristling. “Your patron may pale in comparison to my god, but I’m not arrogant enough to believe that I would stand a chance of vanquishing it.”

“We can’t vanquish it, no. But we could destroy the Institute that serves it. Same as happened to the Dark’s faithful.”

“An eye for an eye,” Basira adds.

“Well, you’ve wasted your time coming all this way.” Manuela’s disparaging chuckle gets caught in her throat. “I’m the only one here. An abandoned disciple, guarding a lost cause. There’s nothing left of our former power.”

“The Dark Sun,” Basira says.

Manuela tenses. Then her shoulders slump, weighed down by dawning, solemn resignation.

“Of course,” she says bitterly. “It isn’t enough to decimate our numbers. You need to steal the only remnant of our crusade.”

“We’re giving you the opportunity to reclaim its purpose,” Jon says. “Or would you rather it rot away here, diminishing until it collapses in on itself?”

Manuela is silent for a long minute, a shrewd look in her eye. “Why would you want to betray your god?”

“The Beholding isn’t my god,” Jon says. “I’m not a willing convert. I was drafted into someone else’s crusade without my consent – and you know what that’s like, don’t you?”

Manuela just scowls.

“I Know your story.” Jon’s voice turns sibilant with power as the Archive rears its head. “Indoctrinated into a faith that never spoke to you –”

“– brought up to believe in the light of God, his radiant, illuminating presence –”

“Shut up,” Manuela says in a low growl.

“– deep down they were vicious, spiteful people who used their faith to hurt others, and I fondly imagined them discovering themselves in an afterlife other than the one they had assumed was their destination – I broke with them as soon as I could –”

“Jon,” Basira interrupts. The firm squeeze of her hand on his shoulder is enough to snap him out of his shallow trance. She jerks her head at Manuela, who looks about ready to charge him again. “Maybe not the time?”

“S-sorry,” he gasps. He shakes his head to clear the residual static clouding his thoughts before looking back to Manuela with genuine contrition. “Didn’t mean to do that, I swear. I only meant to say that I – I read the statement you gave to Gertrude. I know that your parents were zealots. They envisioned a perfect world that seemed to you like hell on earth, and you did everything you could to rebel against their arrogance. To spite the god they worshiped. We have some common ground there, you and I.”

Granted, Jon didn’t grow up in a religious household. His grandmother was content to let him explore – and he did.

Even as a child, he had an inclination for research. A topic would catch his attention and he would voraciously seek out as much information as he could. His grandmother didn’t take much interest in the content of those fixations, but she did encourage them as a general principle. Not with overt praise, necessarily, but by facilitating his endeavors: procuring reading material on the obsession of the month, escorting him to the library every so often and allowing him to max out his card. He suspects now that she was simply grateful for some way to occupy his attention. If his nose was in a book, he was keeping out of trouble.

He never told her how wrong she turned out to be.

In any case, one of his many early “phases,” as she liked to call them, was comparative religion. Part of it was simple curiosity. Part of it was a genuine desire to find something to believe: some conception of the afterlife that would resonate with him, some straightforward framework for understanding the world, some sort of certainty to assuage his fear of the unknown. His grandmother never seemed to care whether he found what he was looking for. She never really asked.

It was for the best. He never liked admitting defeat. Not back then.

They returned all the books to the library on the day they were due, and Jon brought home a new haul, this one centered around the field of oceanography. The seas were brimming with mystery, but at least there was a very real possibility of turning those unknowns into knowns. New discoveries were being made every day, newer and newer technology being developed to push the boundaries of that knowledge. There were sure answers, and they could be grasped, so long as humanity could invent the right tools for the job.

Still, Jon found himself envying people of faith from time to time. Sometimes he wished he had someone to point him in some sort of direction, like many other children seemed to have. But hearing of Manuela’s upbringing… well, if Jon was forced to choose between extremes, he has to admit that he prefers the complete lack of guidance he received as opposed to strict proselytization. His grandmother may not have shown interest in his opinions, but at least she gave him the freedom to come to his own conclusions. She may not have had reassurances to offer, but at least she didn’t foist upon him a worldview that made no place for him in it.

“It’s not the same thing as childhood indoctrination,” he tells Manuela, “but… becoming the Archivist – it was like being drafted into the service of a god that I never would have chosen for myself. Had Elias told me the terms, I never would have signed the contract.”

“I take it he didn’t tell you beforehand that he murdered your predecessor?”

“That I had to find out the hard way, unfortunately.”

“So you’re saying you’re not so much a traitor to your faith as you are a disgruntled employee.”

“Elias is my boss. Is that a trick question?” Jon is surprised to hear Manuela give an amused snort. “But yes. I’d like to… tender my resignation, so to speak.”

Manuela scrutinizes him intently, as if trying to solve a riddle. “You would give up your power?”

“I don’t want it,” Jon says truthfully.

If he’s perfectly honest with himself, there was a time that at least some aspects of that power were alluring. There was something intoxicating and liberating about being able to ask a question and not only receive a guaranteed answer, but be certain he wasn’t being presented with an outright lie – especially after spending so many months beholden to unchecked paranoia, distrust, and frantic, futile investigation.

But there was never anything benign or inconsequential about invading a victim’s privacy or compelling someone to surrender a secret, no matter how he tried to justify it to himself. Even if there was, even if it wasn’t both reprehensible in principle and harmful in practice, it still wouldn’t be worth the irrevocable costs.

“I want out,” he says, “and if getting out isn’t an option, then I at least want Elias to know what it is to be offered up to a god inimical to every atom of his existence. I thought you might be able to assist with that.”

“How?”

“The Institute is a seat of power for the Beholding,” Basira says. “If we introduce it to your Dark Sun…”

“A mote in the Eye,” Manuela says, intrigued. Her attention swivels back to Jon. “Do you Know what would happen?”

“No,” he says. “But I imagine it will hurt.”

“And then what? What happens after? You let me pack up my relic and walk away?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I don’t believe you,” Manuela says.

“You don’t pose an existential threat,” Jon says with a shrug. “I have no doubt that the Dark will attempt another Ritual someday, but it won’t happen in our lifetimes. We have no qualms letting you walk away after our alliance is finished.”

“And the Dark Sun?” Manuela presses.

“I don’t know what condition it will be in after exposure to the Eye,” Jon admits. “But you’re free to do as you wish with it after. We won’t stop you.”

So she can hurt more people, Jon’s battered conscience chimes in.

“And if I say no?”

“Then I walk in there right now, Behold it, and destroy it entirely.” It comes out sounding more menacing than Jon had initially intended, but maybe that’s not a bad thing, given the way Manuela freezes up.

“You wouldn’t survive.” Manuela sounds far from certain.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But your Sun certainly wouldn’t.” Jon pauses for a moment to let that sink in. “Do you want to see its potential wasted here and now, or do you want to make all that sacrifice worth something?”

“If you’re so certain you have the upper hand, what’s stopping you from just taking it, then?”

“I’m not its engineer or its keeper. I wouldn’t even Know how to safely transport it. Too many unknown variables.”

“So you need me.”

“Yes. Beneath the Institute, there’s a… a sanctum of the Eye. A place of power, like Ny-Ålesund is for your patron. If you can bring the Dark Sun there, I… well, I’m hoping it will sever the Eye’s connection to that place. Destroy the Institute.”

“How would that work?”

“I’m… not certain,” Jon confesses. “Call it a… a hunch.”

“There’s precedent,” Basira says. “We found a statement that hinted at worshipers of the Dark destroying a temple to the Eye in 4th century Alexandria.”

Manuela’s eyes light up with interest. “How?”

“We don’t know,” Jon says.

“Oh, right. Foolish of me to ask,” Manuela says pertly. “Why would I expect you to know things? It’s only the entire point of you.”

“I never claimed to be good at my job,” Jon retorts. “Look, maybe I don’t Know exactly what will happen, but a focus of the Dark should hurt the Eye in some capacity, I think.”

“You think,” Manuela mutters under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear the derision in her tone.

“Whatever happens, it’ll be more satisfying than anything you’ve got going on here,” Basira points out.

Manuela barks out a contemptuous laugh. “You don’t even have the shadow of a plan!”

“We… haven’t ironed out the details, no.” Jon rubs the back of his neck, chagrinned. “We figured that if you did agree to an alliance, you would want to be part of the actual planning process.”

“And if you don’t cooperate, it’s a moot point,” Basira says.

“Also, I was… I suppose I was hoping you could offer insight,” Jon says. “The Dark is something of a blind spot for me, shockingly.” Manuela shoots him a withering look. “So even if I had any clue how to wield the Dark Sun, I wouldn’t be able to channel its full potential. Not like you could.”

“That much is obvious,” Manuela sneers, teeth gleaming in the torchlight as her lips stretch in a taut, wolfish grin. “You Beholding types always assume that knowledge is synonymous with control. Putting yourselves on the level of Powers greater than any mortal, assuming insight into things you could not possibly understand… you fly too close to the sun and then have the gall to indulge in outrage when you burn.”

We didn’t come here for a sermon, Jon almost says, but he bites his tongue.

“But I accept that I am a supplicant, not a god,” Manuela says, reverence seeping into her tone to supplant the reproach. “It’s pure hubris to assume that you could wield the Black Sun like a tool. It’s a communion, and only those with true and dutiful faith could ever hope to win its favor. Approach it with anything less than respect and devotion, and it will devour you.”

“If you’re done pontificating?” Basira says. She doesn’t give Manuela an opening to respond. “We’re well aware that we stand no chance of wielding–” Manuela looks up sharply, and Basira hastily corrects herself. “Fine – communing with the Dark Sun ourselves. That’s why we’re looking for an alliance rather than just taking it.”

“Do you think you could–” Jon pauses as he searches for a way to phrase his question that won’t unleash another tirade. “Would you be able to arrange for the Dark Sun to be brought into the Eye’s stronghold? Expose them to one another, let them… I don’t know – have it out with each other?”

“I’m capable of bringing it to London, if that’s what you’re asking,” Manuela says primly. “But it would be at a disadvantage on the Beholding’s home turf. If – if – I were willing to test this hypothesis, I would only do so on the condition that I could level the playing field as much as possible. Wait for ideal circumstances, as it were.”

“Which would be…?” Basira asks.

“The winter solstice. The Dark Sun will be the strongest on the night of the winter solstice.”

“That’s months from now,” Basira protests. “Can’t you just –”

“Ideally, I would insist on a total solar eclipse,” Manuela snaps, “but it will be quite some time before London witnesses another. Not until 2090.”

“Looking ahead, are you?” Basira asks.

“It is likely the soonest opportunity for another attempt at a Ritual.” Manuela pretends at nonchalance with a shrug, but she can’t quite conceal her profound disappointment as her voice grows measurably more subdued. “It gives me ample time to study our failure. To discover what went wrong.”

“To refine your Ritual, you mean.”

“There will always be faithful to take up the mantle,” Manuela says, her chin lifting marginally in defiance as she stares Basira down.

“But you won’t be around to see it.” Basira meets Manuela’s eyes with equal nerve. Jon remains silent, looking from one to the other as they face off against one another.

“No,” Manuela replies evenly. “I’ll have to settle for passing on my findings to those who come after. Leave behind a legacy to guide their steps.”

“In the meantime, the Dark Sun will stagnate,” Jon chimes in. It’s a bluff, of course: he has no idea whether or not it’s true. Judging from the unsettled look on Manuela’s face, neither does she. Jon latches onto that uncertainty, carefully twisting the knife just a little further: “Or, you could let it serve a purpose.”

“Its purpose was to usher in a world of true and holy Darkness,” Manuela says acidly. “You’re proposing I give it scraps.”

“Like it or not, you can’t give it the apocalypse it was promised,” Jon says.

Manuela’s fingers flex and clench back into fists. Jon suspects she would love nothing more than to wring his neck. She’s a truth seeker at heart, though. Ambitious, rebellious – idealistic even, albeit in a twisted sort of way, harboring an aspiration that most would rightfully find horrific. Adept at detecting and exploiting the more malleable aspects of material reality where possible, infusing the scientific method with just enough magical thinking to bend natural laws.

However, there are some truths that even she cannot deny, and she isn’t the type to ignore a certainty when it’s right in front of her face. And so, despite the unconcealed vitriol in her eyes and the contrariness sitting at the tip of her tongue, she does not deny his assertion.

“But it can still pay tribute to your god,” Jon coaxes, striving to stop short of needling. It’s a razor’s edge he’s always struggled to walk, but Manuela is still right there with him, toeing the line. “It’s better than nothing at all.”

Manuela directs a venomous glower towards the floor as she vacillates between summary dismissal and the temptation of vengeance. Basira side-eyes Jon as the standstill stretches from seconds into minutes, but all Jon can offer her is an awkward shrug. The ball is in Manuela’s court, and it seems she has no qualms leaving them in indefinite suspense as she painstakingly examines all the variables and weighs her options. The best they can do is wait and hope that tangible revenge will prove more enticing than spiteful noncooperation.

Eventually, she lets out a sharp exhale, raises her head, and breaks her silence.

“The winter solstice,” she repeats, her voice teeming with tension and lingering aversion. “Barring an eclipse, I would have to settle for the winter solstice. The longest, darkest night of the year… it’s second best, but it should suffice. Shame about the light pollution, of course,” she adds, wrinkling her nose with disdain, “but the power is in the symbolism.”

“Jon?” Basira prompts.

“Dream logic,” he says, massaging his forehead wearily. “It tracks.”

“Fine,” Basira sighs. She looks back to Manuela. “So does this mean you’ll do it?”

“I’m tired of haunting this place like a ghost.” There’s a sharp, predatory look in Manuela’s eyes now. “The Dark has lost its crusaders. The Watcher should have a taste of loss.”

Just then, a loud, metallic thunk interrupts the negotiations, reverberating through the space and drawing everyone’s attention to warehouse entrance. The light that had been percolating through from outside had been preternaturally dimmed before, but now it’s been snuffed out entirely.

Jon glances anxiously at Basira. “The wind, maybe?”

“There was no wind.” Basira is already drawing her gun. Like a switch has been flipped at the prospect of danger, her voice goes steely with manufactured composure. “Not strong enough to blow the door shut. I propped it open very securely.”

“We’re near the water, though,” Jon murmurs. “Strong gusts sometimes blow in off the sea–”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut at Basira’s quelling look. Manuela’s posture is defensive again, eyes darting suspiciously between Jon and Basira in the muted torchlight.

“I thought you said you came here alone,” she says accusingly.

“We – we did,” Jon says. “We–”

“Oh, Archivist,” a new voice sings out, oozing with an exultant malice. “Long time no see!”

It’s been ages since Jon last heard that cadence, but it’s horrifyingly, heart-stoppingly familiar even after all this time. It pierces Jon like a knife in the dark. He takes a frantic step back, nearly tripping over his own feet as his panic skyrockets and a tidal wave of adrenaline crashes over him.

“We just want to talk,” croons a different voice, rougher and more ragged-sounding. It’s difficult to gauge the newcomers’ positions through the impermeable gloom, but judging from the sounds of their voices, they’re drawing ever nearer. “Won’t you come out?”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Jon breathes an incredulous laugh, distraught enough to border on a whimper. “Now?”

“Who are they?” Basira asks urgently. Jon is still frozen in place, eyes straining against the darkness. Any answer he could make is bogged down with terror, snagging in his throat and forestalling coherence. “Jon!”

Jon swallows hard and finally looks at Basira, his eyes wide with dread.

“Hunters.”

End Notes:

naomi: hey jon. jon. consider: surveillance state kink jon: shut the hell your mouth

____

Both instances of Archive-speak are from MAG 135. A few pieces of dialogue from the beginning of the conversation with Manuela are taken/reworked from MAG 143. The Melanie and Basira gossip is from MAG 106.

Once again, had way too much fun with the text convo btwn Naomi and Jon. Cannot resist those chatfic shenanigans vibes.

In other news, Daisy WILL point at Jon and loudly exclaim, “Is anyone gonna volunteer as wingman for this lovesick disaster or do I have to do everything myself?” and not even wait for an answer. (Jon made the mistake of confirming that he doesn’t mind her lovingly dunking on him about this sort of thing and now she’s a menace. Listen, playful ribbing is basically her platonic love language.)  

Sorry for the cliffhanger!! But hey, I think we all knew that there’s no way things would go entirely smoothly for Jon and Basira. And now I finally get to add some new character tags.

I’m very behind on replying to comments. (Tbh, spent most of the last month grappling with this chapter. I was stuck on a scene that REALLY didn’t want to cooperate.) I’m gonna try to catch up this weekend, though. <3 As always, thank you for reading!

[evolutionsvoid]

The Forgebill is a large vibrant bird that is found in tropical climates, primarily in coastal habitats. Its territory stretches through beaches, shorelines, tide pools and estuaries, wherever there is seawater to be found. Though found in the domain of seabirds and other majestic ocean fliers, the Forgebill is flightless. Instead of wings, its forelimbs have stretched out into elongated legs, using them to walk upon all fours. Its fingers have turned to hooked talons, creating fearsome obsidian scythes. Instead of flight, it chooses to patrol the shoreline and wade through the shallows, all in the pursuit of food. While they stand tall, they possess long flexible necks that gives them a wide range of movement. They can reach down to grab food from the sand, stretch upwards to pluck high up fruits or even bend all the way around so that they can groom the hard to reach areas! At the end of this serpentine neck is a large blade-like beak and a hefty casque. While these structures are pretty to look at, they are more than mere decoration! There is a reason these birds are called Forgebills! While other helmeted bird species may use their casques for beefing up their calls or for protection in battle, this structure in the Forgebills is quite unique. Instead of it being hollow or made of solid keratin, the casque is actually filled with specialized organs. It is believed these organs are heavily modified muscles, altered so that they may create powerful shocks! It isn't fully understood yet, but these structures can release the element of lightening! It isn't nearly as flashy or powerful as a lightening bolt, but the amount a single organ can create is impressive! Now imagine dozens of these all packed inside of this bird's casque! The power of a thunderstorm, worn upon their heads like a hat! Though I speak of lightening and shocks, the Forgebill does not wield this power in such a fashion. They do not stun prey like Stormtails do, instead they use it in a truly bizarre way! When the casque is activated and its organs start pumping out this energy, it directs all of it towards its beak. The striped bill of the bird has a rather unique composition, containing a high amount of metallic materials. Veins and coils of this substance is spread throughout their entire bill, and this is where the energy is directed. With all that power flowing through this special metal, the beak begins to heat up! Within moments of activating its casque, the beak of the Forgebill will become glowing hot, like a sword straight from the forge! The temperatures this beak can achieve is astounding, and also quite dangerous! Like a flaming blade, the Forgebill can swing this searing weapon around and use it to cleave through its true target: Clams! Indeed the blazing billed bird uses this impressive weapon for hunting, but it isn't going around cleaving herbivores in two. Instead, the searing beak is meant to tackle hard shells, mainly those found on clams, mussels, oysters and even fruit! Before it fires up its special organs, it uses its claws and beak to dig up buried clams or pluck coconuts from trees. With the tough morsel held in its beak, the Forgebill will turn on its casque and heat things up! Within seconds, the beak will be hot enough to slice through that shell like a hot knife through butter! The Forgebill will flick back its head, open its mouth and then slam it shut, cleaving the stubborn critter in half! After that, the meaty morsels can be eaten, and the steaming shells will be tossed aside. For larger creatures that cannot be held in its mouth, the Forgebill will heat up its beak and then whip its head around, wielding the burning blade like an actual weapon! With the strike of a skilled swordsman, the Forgebill will slice off a chunk of the shelled opponent, leaving an opening that its beak can reach into so that it can retrieve the tasty meat inside. While it does eat meat, the Forgebill rarely goes after anything faster than your average mollusk. Clams, snails and other slow armored creatures is all they really prey upon. They aren't all that fast themselves, so giving chase is out of the question. Especially when your face is a super heated knife! And you thought running with scissors was bad!

The burning beak of the Forgebill is what makes them famous, but many often get the wrong impression of its ability. Mention it to anyone, and most folk get the idea that these birds use these weapons constantly, performing impressive duels and slicing all that stand before them. In truth, this ability is used quite sparingly, as it is quite costly! The amount of energy it takes to fuel such a weapon is staggering, so they cannot just do it with reckless abandon! That is why it is only used for mere seconds while eating, as it is burned so that they may obtain hard-to-eat food that others cannot crack. The other issue is that Forgebills are not fireproof! That hot beak can slice through flesh and bone with ease, and that includes their own! If one is not careful, they can easily injure themselves. With that, Forgebills use the upmost caution when wielding their beaks. While it is heated, you will notice the birds taking a special stance. Their heads will be jutted forward and upward, aimed far from the body. They will barely move in this state, refusing to walk or run while the weapon is heated. While active, the Forgebill will use special organs that run down its back to vent off excess heat. These exposed pipes move hot air and blood, forcing it outwards so it doesn't fry itself from the inside! After it has sliced through all the food they want, the beak will be dunked into the sea to cool it off. This is a habit of theirs, as they will dip their bills in water every time they wish to preen their feathers, groom or interact with others. It is all for safety, as they don't wish to burn themselves or their partners. Since I mentioned their "partners," I figure I should dash this hope right off the bat: no, Forgebills don't use their heated beaks to duel others during mating season. Cripes, imagine the mortality rate of that! The species wouldn't be doing so hot (ha!) if they kept lopping each other's heads off when it came time to breed! No, these giants instead stick to song and call, using their voice to  bring in females. If an opposing male gets too close, then they may square off and try to scare the competition away. Beaks may clatter and a fight may break out, but they don't use their heated blades in this instance. The time when this heat-producing system is used during the breeding season is when the females wish to warm their eggs! When nested, they will rest upon their eggs and tuck their heads into their bodies. With careful control over their output, they will heat their bills slightly to create extra warmth during the cold nights. During this time, males will go out to collect food, bringing it back to females. Once the chicks hatch, the duty will switch back and forth between mom and dad. With such a magnificent weapon and rather gorgeous looks, it should be no surprise that Forgebills are quite famous in the regions they frequent. Their plumes are collected for decoration and adornment, while their special beaks are prized as both trophies and weapons. Though the casques do not work when dead, and the beaks themselves do not produce this energy, skilled magic users have found ways to channel their own powers into these structures. This makes these bills quite popular in the realm of mages, and even for those in the Underworld! I have heard that demons are quite fascinated with these creatures, and pay well to get a hold of these special beaks. Unfortunately, this means that this species faces heavy hunting and poaching, as folk know that there is good money to be made. Faced with dwindling populations, some regions have placed protections on the species, which is good! But that often doesn't stop poachers, which is bad. Thankfully, in my case, I found that some well aimed rocks and a hefty walking stick does wonders when driving those jerks off! I just hope that others can succeed in protecting these incredible species, as their brilliance deserves to be shared with all generations.       Chlora Myron Dryad Natural Historian ------------------------------------------------- This birdie comes from an idea Xhodocto385 gave me a loooooooong time ago. It was a toucan-like beast that used a super-heated beak to slice and dice! It took me quite a long time to figure out a design and how one would pull off such a thing, but I think it payed off in the end. This bird is more hornbill than toucan, as the anatomy worked perfectly for this concept. Hope you enjoy!  

[a-dinosaur-a-day]

Maiasaura peeblesorum

By José Carlos Cortés

Etymology: Good Mother Reptile

First Described By: Horner & Makela, 1979

Classification: Dinosauromorpha, Dinosauriformes, Dracohors, Dinosauria, Ornithischia, Genasauria, Neornithischia, Cerapoda, Ornithopoda, Iguanodontia, Dryomorpha, Ankylopollexia, Styracosterna, Hadrosauriformes, Hadrosauroidea, Hadrosauromorpha, Hadrosauridae, Euhadrosauria, Saurolophinae, Brachylophosaurini

Status: Extinct

Time and Place: Between 77.2 and 76.3 million years ago, in the Campanian of the Late Cretaceous 

Maiasaura is known from the Upper member of the Two Medicine Formation in Montana 

Physical Description: Maiasaura was a medium-sized hadrosaur - aka, a “duck-billed” dinosaur. Famed for being known from hundreds of individual skeletons, we have a general idea of the appearance of this dinosaur at every stage of its life cycle. Baby Maiasaura were around 0.4 meters in length and were positively tiny in weight, weighing less than 250 kilograms. These babies were adorable in appearance: with large eyes, small heads, and small limbs. The limbs were very weak and skinny at this point in life. Despite this extremely small size, Maiasaura young grew quickly - growing to 1.5 meters in length by the first year, and reaching sexual maturity at about the age of three or so, when they weighed around 1250 kilograms. Full skeletal maturity then came at about five years of age. At this point, Maiasaura were as much as 3000 kilograms in weight, and reaching 9 meters in length. Maiasaura adults were much beefier than the young - with thick, strong hind legs and somewhat more gracile front legs, it was almost as if they had deer front legs and elephant hind legs. The front feet formed hoof-like structures - with the pinky and thumb both sticking out, the middle three fingers were fused together. The hind limbs were typical ornithopod feet, with three toes splayed out like that of a very thick bird. Their tails were thick and muscular, and their torsos also very beefy. They had very thick, muscular necks as well.

By Ripley Cook

The heads of Maiasaura were rectangular and long, with flattened duck bills in the front. In the jaws, there were rows upon rows of densely packed teeth, forming a single surface. This surface was essentially serrated with the number of teeth packed in there. The upper jaws could then expand, allowing the lower jaws to slide upwards into them, creating a chewing motion. The more duck-like front bill was used to snip off plants and bring them into the jaw. Maiasaura also had a very large nose, forming a sort of lump in the front of the snout - this would have helped keep the head cool, and also allowed Maiasaura to make a variety of calls without a hollow crest attached. Above the eyes the skull of Maiasaura was domed with the brain area. In front of the eyes, on the top of the skull, there was a little ridged crest for display. It is logical to suppose that said crest would be somewhat patterned or even colorful, for display. 

By Nobu Tamura, CC BY 3.0

Scale impressions from Maiasaura are known. Adults of this species were entirely scaley, with almost a pebble-like texture of scales covering the entire body. These small round patches didn’t seem to overlap much, but were densely packed and not leaving much in the way of bare skin showing. Very small ones no longer than 2 millimeters were interspersed with bigger, more hexagonal ones at five to ten millimeters long. It is possible that fuzz would extend between the scales, but they would have looked rather like plants growing between sidewalk scales, and fairly impossible to see ultimately. The back was bumpy from the spine, and rather high over the animal - making Maiasaura itself quite tall. The scales were even bigger on this portion of the animal. Though skin impressions are known from Maiasaura adults and close relatives, baby Maiasaura do not have preserved skin impressions. What this means is that, while it seems very logical they’d also be scaly, there is a possibility they were fluffy to stay warm, given their smaller size. We present one hypothetical reconstruction of such for you all below, with the caveat that it is purely speculation at this time. 

By Diane Ramic

Diet: Maiasaura, like other hadrosaurs, fed mainly on soft, wet vegetation at low and middle levels of browsing (rather more tough, hard, dry vegetation like scrub plants and desert brush). So, it would favor leaves, berries, and more tender shoots, as well as plants in sources of water. 

By Madchester, in the Public Domain

Behavior: Maiasaura was a highly social, active animal - warm blooded in energy levels, these dinosaurs would have spent most of their time, each and every day, wandering around looking for food and socializing with other members of the herd. They spent a good portion of their time taking care of their young, of course, but that was only during the breeding season. Nests were made in large breeding colonies, not unlike their modern bird relatives such as seabirds, with gaps between nests only 7 meters long - less than the length of the adults that had to move between them! Between thirty and forty eggs were laid in a dense spiral pattern, and these eggs were the size of an ostrich’s today. Rotting vegetation was placed upon the nest to keep it warm. The babies, not able to take care of themselves upon hatching, entirely relied on their parents to bring them back chewed up food and look out for their safety. Sadly, most of the young would still die in the first year of life - mainly due to disease and predation, up to 90% of the young would die in the first year of life. Still, the parents did their best - with the young having features associated with cuteness, indicating dependence on the parents for survival until they reached larger sizes. 

By Debivort, CC BY-SA 3.0

Past that point, however, as the young grew faster, they fared better in terms of mortality - dropping down to 12% mortality until reaching old age again. They began to move on their own and keep up with the herd as it moved about. Young Maiasaura would walk on two legs, and as they got heavier they would switch to four, still sometimes only using the hind limbs when needed. Upon reaching sexual maturity at around three years of age, they began to get even bulkier. The Maiasaura would live in herds hundreds of individuals large, which would have been very noisy - using those bulky nostrils to make very loud, differing calls. Come mating time, they would display to each other with the ridges on their heads and other patterns. It is uncertain who was in charge of caring for the young, as sexual dimorphism isn’t seen in the skeletons of Maiasaura - if it was just the mother, both parents, just the father, or even the parents and previous children, we do not know at this time. The herd structure would protect the young, the sick, and the old from predators, and they would probably call to each other to ensure that they stayed safe in the face of predation. That being said, most of the rest of Maiasaura would then die in old age, with the death rate jumping up to 44% at the oldest ages of 12 to 14, when their own weight, slowness, and illness would leave them more vulnerable to predators. 

By Fabrizio De Rossi, retrieved from Earth Archives

Ecosystem: The Two Medicine Formation was one of the most iconic dinosaur ecosystems of all time, sort of a precursor in many ways to the more famous Hell Creek, but with more variety and dinosaur diversity! Here was a very large floodplain, filled with rivers and deltas and associated plantlife on sandy riverbanks. This environment was highly associated with the ever-present Western Interior Seaway, much like the later Hell Creek. It was seasonally arid, with rainshadows from the nearby Cordilleran Highlands, which may have been at least somewhat volcanic. This made the Two Medicine Environment positively volatile - with flash flooding, droughts, dehydration, and volcanic activity all allowing for the animals in this region to be wonderfully preserved (allowing us to know so much about Maiasaura)! Plants would grow very rapidly each wet season, making the area a very lush habitat for about half the year, allowing for all these dinosaurs to congregate here. This environment was filled with conifers and pine trees primarily, though there were also other types of plants as well. There were non-dinosaurs here as well - the pterosaurs Montanazhdarcho and Piksi, the Choristodere Champsosaurus, unnamed crocodylians, lizards like Magnuviator, mammals such as Cimexomys, Paracimexomys and Alphadon, and a wide variety of turtles like Basilemys. 

By Sam Stanton

Still, dinosaurs were the primary feature of the later (Upper) Two Medicine environment where Maiasaura frequented. There were four different types of Ceratopsians: the flat-nosed Achelosaurus, the curved-horned Einiosaurus, the giant-horned Rubeosaurus/Styracosaurus (depending on who you talk to, lumping-wise), and the small herbivore Prenoceratops. Ankylosaurs came in three different varieties - the large-spined but wiggle-taled Edmontonia, and the wide tail-clubbed Dyoplosaurus and Scolosaurus. Other hadrosaurs shared this environment with Maiasaura, like the large-nosed Gryposaurus, the round-crested Hypacrosaurus, and the small pointed crest having Prosaurolophus. There was also the small, active burrower Orodromeus. As for theropods, there were two different raptors - Bambiraptor and Richardoestesia - which would have been major problems for younger Maiasaura and the babies and eggs. The predatory opposite-bird, Gettyia, would have also been a predator of these smaller individauls. The troodontid Saurornitholestes would have been a major danger to these young Maiasaura along with its close cousins. The adults, on the other hand, had not one but two different species of tyrannosaur to contend with: the bulky and rarer Daspletosaurus, and the more slender Gorgosaurus that has been hypothesized to feed more on hadrosaurs than its cousin (though this is under hot debate). In short, this was the place to be to see just how diverse and fascinating non-avian dinosaurs were right at the end of their tenure, and Maiasaura was a major part (if not the most common part) of that ecosystem.

By Scott Reid

Other: Maiasaura is the closest thing non-avian dinosaurs get to a “model organism” - a creature with enough specimens, research, and data about it to use it as an example for other animals which we know less about. With hundreds of specimens found and counting, we have recorded a complete growth sequence of this dinosaur, knowing what the trajectory of a typical Maiasaura life was like. This is of vital importance, as hadrosaurs were some of the most diverse dinosaurs at the end of the Cretaceous - the end of the time of non-avian forms. It is also fascinating for how much the life history of Maiasaura - a dinosaur not close to being a bird by any stretch of the imagination - is so similar to birds. With similar rapid growth rates as their warm-blooded cousins, and similar nesting and group living strategies, Maiasaura showcases how complex behavior and lifestyles were common over the entirety of the dinosaur group. Maiasaura is also of fundamental importance because, with its discovery and descriptions in the late 1970s, it served with Deinonychus to show how dinosaurs weren’t slow, sluggish, giant lizards - but active, warm-blooded avian precursors. Dinosaurs were active, behaviorally complex, and took care of their young - something that was a truly revolutionary statement before these dinosaurs were named! So, despite not really looking like much, Maiasaura is probably one of the most important dinosaur discoveries ever found. Maiasaura itself is closely related to dinosaurs such as Brachylophosaurus, and is in general part of the “crestless” hadrosaur group, along with the contemporary Gryposaurus and the later Edmontosaurus.

~ By Meig Dickson

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The Leviathan Whale

Of all the creatures of behemoth stature and girth on Mua, it’s the Leviathan whale that often comes to mind when one thinks of the largest creatures in the world. While only a few creatures outsize and outclass the Leviathan Whale, few strike fear into the hearts of those who tread it’s domain the same way.

These aquatic megafauna are predators by trade, feeding both on clouds of small shellfish and on larger prey such as other species of whale, dolphine, and porpoise. Some Leviathan Whales are large and tough enough to even consume the hazardous members of Scyphozoa Sinachus, A.K.A. the deadly Muirdris family of “mega-jelly” jellyfish known for luring great seabirds to their death. 

Levithan Whales often go under another name: Bifurcated Leviathans. This name comes from their wide, vertical maws which can easily capsize and crush a fishing vessel capable of housing twelve men crews. Because of their reputation of attacking greater low-tier sea vessels, often due to confusing them for other sea life, Leviathans are feared by fishermen as demons of the deep and are often hunted by fleets of fishermen looking to cull local populations. As a result of this fleet poaching, Leviathans are a rare sight outside of deeper waters.

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I'm back from the domain of albatrosses and penguins, that wildest of oceans down south. There's no rest for me as I'm straight back into fieldwork, but I hope to share some stories soon! ⁠⠀ ⁠⠀ White-capped albatross⁠⠀ ⁠⠀ #birdventurenz #southernocean #subantarctic @heritage_expeditions #birdventure #aotearoa #newzealand #seabird #albatross #seabirdstory #waves #ocean #wildsouth #your_best_birds #nuts_about_birds #kings_birds #nzbirds #wildnz #subantarcticadventure #expeditionguide #wilderness #adventure https://www.instagram.com/p/B7MVWfIJ1y1/?igshid=yueowotojhpt

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Animal Crossing Fish - Explained #146

Brought to you by a marine biologist with a guy you’d never expect could fly...

CLICK HERE FOR THE AC FISH EXPLAINED MASTERPOST!

We have some preconceptions about the world around us, and one of those is that fish live in the water and swim real good. While the first statement is *mostly* true, and the second one really isn’t true for all fish, you’d be hard-pressed to convince people that there is an entire group of fish that can fly if they weren’t already infamous for the stunt. These are the flying fish, Family Exocoetidae and I have to wonder why AC would only include this amazing group in just Pocket Camp.

The flying fish of AC Pocket Camp was available during the summers of 2020 and 2021, so it will probably be back next summer, too. This is really in-line with the flying fish in real life, at least around Japan, when the fish are in season. And yes, of course they eat them and there’s a thriving fishery for them. I’m pretty convinced this is a generic flying fish, and somewhat inaccurate to boot (I just wish the lower caudal (tail) fin lobe were longer to reflect real life, but whatever). If we’re going to be specific, I’m pretty sure this is Bennet’s Flying Fish  (Cheilopogon pinnatibarbatus), for which there are 4 subspecies. This one I would assume in the Japanese subspecies, C. p. japonicus, the subspecies native to Japanese waters and the species that supports the aforementioned fishery. There is also the aptly named Japanese Flying Fish, Cheilopogon agoo, but I just don’t think the AC devs were really thinking this hard about it, so...it could be either one, more of my money on the former species. 

By Dieno - Self-photographed, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2303127

Anyway, I’ll shut up about taxonomy, because I know you’re not here for that. You’re here to learn how tf a fish can fly, and I have some disappointing news - they don’t...really fly. They glide. But if you’re like me, you don’t give a fuck because that’s still amazing. And here’s how they do it:

So, the most striking thing about flying fish are their HUGE pectoral fins that can be over half the length of their bodies. These fins act like the wings on a plane, and with enough forward momentum, these guys leap from the water and take to the skies. You can really see the method in this gif, with the fish at the center still kind of “swimming” right on the surface until it gets enough air to fully lift off. You can see it’s using its longer lower tail fin lobe to push forward, almost like a propeller, to help it get into the glide.

Flying fish as a family do this one of two ways: those of the Subfamily Exocoetinae have one pair of fin-wings and rigid bodies, built for speed; those in Subfamily Cypsellurinae have two pairs of fin-wings (the pectorals and the pelvic fins (you can see this in the gif on the guy sailing by right in the front of the scene)) which helps them increase the time the can spend gliding. The latter subfamily is where AC’s flying fish belongs, judging by the long pelvic fins. 

Flying fish can actually go pretty far in the air using updrafts on the edges of waves, allowing them to go up to 1,300 ft (400 m) on one glide. It’s hypothesized the flying fish use this technique to escape underwater predators, for which they have many. Unfortunately, seabirds may pick them off mid-flight, or the fish sometimes land in boats. Oops!

And there you have it. Fascinating stuff, no?