The sheepdog had become something of a wraith, flitting on tenterhooks from shadow to shadow, ever on the outskirts of the small settlement. The natural gloss had been stripped from her atramentous fur, leaving it a dull soot-black that drew into oily spikes at the juncture between her left shoulder and nape. It gave her the impression of always having her hackles up — always being on edge — and in her feralized state, that wasn’t far from the truth.
The retreating clouds had given way to a frail glimmer of sunlight, pink and citrine limning their fragmented edges as the sun tried to break through, and despite Axolotl and Komodo’s repeated warnings to stay close and stay together, Coelacanth returned to the water’s edge. It wasn’t as angry, but there was still an unspoken threat in the roil of water. She dipped a paw in, feeling the magnetic pull of the current, and felt at once a rhythmic tug that caused her emaciated frame to wobble, the crenellated bridge of her spine curving at the insistence of a particularly vicious riptide. “Careful, little sea sprite,” her father’s voice came to her in an overwhelming rush. “Any deeper and you’ll be swept away.” He’d said as much the first time she and Amoxtli had met the ocean, and she’d turned an untroubled eye upon him. “Of course I’d find you,” he’d reassured her as she’d known he would. “You’re mine.”
Tufted ears drooped sadly in time with her hips as she curled herself forlornly into a seated position. The glimpse of her reflection in the foam-dappled sheen the sea left on the sand shamed her. It was like being trapped in a cell while your jailor watched television — you could fight, beat yourself against the bars, but you couldn’t change the channel. In Coelacanth’s case, she couldn’t even beg. She could see what she had become, and the sea had taught her that she had to make peace with it, but she couldn’t predict when she’d finally be in full control of her own body once more. Sometimes it felt like forgetting. When the creature born of her panic and trauma took hold of her, it blotted her memories with disappearing ink — everything was indiscernible and incomprehensible — and then there were days like today.
Today, as she watched the sea lions lolling on the sand, waiting for the sun to come out, she felt like Coelacanth. She knew that Axolotl and Ixchel had loved her once and might love her again despite what she had become. She knew that Komodo loved her still.
Somewhere deep inside her, the searing, terrible yearning for what she had lost began to cool. Amoxtli was alive — she knew this! — and perhaps someday he would join her here. Doe, Marbas, and Kierkegaard were gone — but they had never been hers to lose, not really.
Of the three, Doe had been closest to her — mother and sister, inamorata and mentor — and losing her hurt the most; but the odd-eared mystic had belonged wholly to herself, even after she’d laid claim to Szymon Cairn. Though Julep had profaned the very title that had once brought her mother’s Shadow immeasurable joy — “Go away!” — the name was Doe’s.
Marbas had been something different entirely; his Siren had built him up in her mind, had embellished him to make him more attentive, more forgiving, more affectionate. Physically, she’d imagined him exactly as he was — she had always found him strikingly handsome — but she had entertained fantasies of fixing him, teaching him the joy she knew and healing the wounds of his heart as well as his body. She’d imagined their reunion many times, and with ingenuous self-indulgence, and although she hadn’t meant to end up here, living on the jewel of Marbas’ desire brought those fantastical images back in full force.
Kierkegaard had triggered some of the same feelings — but she had always known that he was owned by his melancholy. There was something in the serpentine wolf Nathimmel couldn’t hope to touch, and although she would have willingly filled his days, his arms were too full of regrets to keep her close. She had loved him — but always from a distance.
Spindly forelegs drew up against Coelacanth’s chest as she leaned her weight back on her frail haunches; she pillowed her cheek and buried her muzzle against her linked hocks and felt beneath her chin the wings of her collarbones, and she breathed in the memory of their combined scents like a bride drinking for the last time the ambrosia of her bouquet.
She forgave the children for their harsh rejection; she forgave the wolves of the wood for their ugly brutality; and she forgave Lotte Ansbjørn for her ruthlessness. Then, with wild abandon, she leapt into a grand jeté — her back arched like a wide smile as she kicked up sand and, in a song no one would ever hear, wished them well and bade them farewell.
The retreating clouds had given way to a frail glimmer of sunlight, pink and citrine limning their fragmented edges as the sun tried to break through, and despite Axolotl and Komodo’s repeated warnings to stay close and stay together, Coelacanth returned to the water’s edge. It wasn’t as angry, but there was still an unspoken threat in the roil of water. She dipped a paw in, feeling the magnetic pull of the current, and felt at once a rhythmic tug that caused her emaciated frame to wobble, the crenellated bridge of her spine curving at the insistence of a particularly vicious riptide. “Careful, little sea sprite,” her father’s voice came to her in an overwhelming rush. “Any deeper and you’ll be swept away.” He’d said as much the first time she and Amoxtli had met the ocean, and she’d turned an untroubled eye upon him. “Of course I’d find you,” he’d reassured her as she’d known he would. “You’re mine.”
Tufted ears drooped sadly in time with her hips as she curled herself forlornly into a seated position. The glimpse of her reflection in the foam-dappled sheen the sea left on the sand shamed her. It was like being trapped in a cell while your jailor watched television — you could fight, beat yourself against the bars, but you couldn’t change the channel. In Coelacanth’s case, she couldn’t even beg. She could see what she had become, and the sea had taught her that she had to make peace with it, but she couldn’t predict when she’d finally be in full control of her own body once more. Sometimes it felt like forgetting. When the creature born of her panic and trauma took hold of her, it blotted her memories with disappearing ink — everything was indiscernible and incomprehensible — and then there were days like today.
Today, as she watched the sea lions lolling on the sand, waiting for the sun to come out, she felt like Coelacanth. She knew that Axolotl and Ixchel had loved her once and might love her again despite what she had become. She knew that Komodo loved her still.
Somewhere deep inside her, the searing, terrible yearning for what she had lost began to cool. Amoxtli was alive — she knew this! — and perhaps someday he would join her here. Doe, Marbas, and Kierkegaard were gone — but they had never been hers to lose, not really.
Of the three, Doe had been closest to her — mother and sister, inamorata and mentor — and losing her hurt the most; but the odd-eared mystic had belonged wholly to herself, even after she’d laid claim to Szymon Cairn. Though Julep had profaned the very title that had once brought her mother’s Shadow immeasurable joy — “Go away!” — the name was Doe’s.
Marbas had been something different entirely; his Siren had built him up in her mind, had embellished him to make him more attentive, more forgiving, more affectionate. Physically, she’d imagined him exactly as he was — she had always found him strikingly handsome — but she had entertained fantasies of fixing him, teaching him the joy she knew and healing the wounds of his heart as well as his body. She’d imagined their reunion many times, and with ingenuous self-indulgence, and although she hadn’t meant to end up here, living on the jewel of Marbas’ desire brought those fantastical images back in full force.
Kierkegaard had triggered some of the same feelings — but she had always known that he was owned by his melancholy. There was something in the serpentine wolf Nathimmel couldn’t hope to touch, and although she would have willingly filled his days, his arms were too full of regrets to keep her close. She had loved him — but always from a distance.
Spindly forelegs drew up against Coelacanth’s chest as she leaned her weight back on her frail haunches; she pillowed her cheek and buried her muzzle against her linked hocks and felt beneath her chin the wings of her collarbones, and she breathed in the memory of their combined scents like a bride drinking for the last time the ambrosia of her bouquet.
She forgave the children for their harsh rejection; she forgave the wolves of the wood for their ugly brutality; and she forgave Lotte Ansbjørn for her ruthlessness. Then, with wild abandon, she leapt into a grand jeté — her back arched like a wide smile as she kicked up sand and, in a song no one would ever hear, wished them well and bade them farewell.
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Messages In This Thread
i must go down to the seas again - by Coelacanth - June 13, 2017, 09:50 PM
RE: i must go down to the seas again - by Axolotl - June 15, 2017, 03:39 PM
RE: i must go down to the seas again - by Maera - June 17, 2017, 02:47 PM
RE: i must go down to the seas again - by Komodo - June 17, 2017, 05:02 PM
RE: i must go down to the seas again - by Coelacanth - June 30, 2017, 07:25 PM