it's a mystery to me

we have a greed with which we have agreed. you think you have to want more than you need; until you have it all you won't be free. and when you think more than you want, your thoughts begin to bleed.

Wishbone has found peace in the river, specifically the place where it becomes one with the ocean. It is a spot of Beqanna that reminds her of Tephra, now buried under the ocean, because the forest meets the coastline without shame. Her childhood home had been that way — the humid foliage of the jungle had kissed the charcoal beaches, and she could always hear the hum of the waves when she was among the undergrowth. The river is different because it slowly winds its way into the sea. One moment she is walking to the tune of the river’s song, and suddenly she is around a bend, and the wide expanse of the ocean greets her.

It is one of her favorite paths to take, to watch the ocean open up before her, unfurling like a rose.

It is especially beautiful on this night, and Wishbone watches from inside the treeline as the full moon glistens off the soft waves. Further out, beyond her swimming capabilities, the moon is a perfect reflection on the ocean’s face. Her amber eyes trace the edges of the moon’s reflection over and over, her mind playing a distant memory of Sickle and Malik (of her failure — because she cannot shake her regrets and shame these days).

The sound of water moving against its will draws her attention away. She is thankful for the distraction. Yet her eyes catch on the shape and color of a body she hasn’t seen in many years. Wishbone feels her breath flee from her chest, but she is able to recover before anything more than a sigh leaves her lips. She’s seen his face since her death — since he murdered her — but it had been during the eclipse when monsters could pick apart your brain and form into something false. His form had been a shadow, a monster, a hoax.

Wishbone knows without touching him that this Ivar is very, very real. And she finds that she is not quite as angry as she had been toward the monster. In fact, she finds herself watching him with a cool, if not amused, expression. She wonders if much has changed with him, but she guesses not by the way he ignores his surroundings as if assuming someone would become enthralled by him and simply have to approach him.

She looks very different from the last time they met, but two things have yet to change — her honey-and-whisky voice and her bright, amber eyes. Wishbone steps from the shadows quietly, just behind his shoulder, and says rather simply, “I’m always surprised what creatures the full moon drags out of hiding.”

it's a mystery to me

we have a greed with which we have agreed. you think you have to want more than you need; until you have it all you won't be free. and when you think more than you want, your thoughts begin to bleed.

Her stomach drops when he flashes that characteristic smile. Perhaps in the days after her (first) death, when she was tall, ebony, and confused, his smile would’ve made fear drop icy-cold in her belly. Wishbone won’t deny that she was genuinely afraid in the days after her death. Ivar had taken her fearlessness along with her life, yet she had regained it quickly. Her bravery would never melt so suddenly again, even in the face of a Curse that left her dead when she refused to say any word on Sickle and Malik.

Maybe it is her fortitude that makes her stomach drop now. She doesn’t feel the coldness of fear, but a warmth that builds deep down. It spreads and burns stronger as his eyes catch on the glowing outline of her scar, cutting deep and jagged across her chest. Ivar would be right to assume it means she is unkillable, though it isn’t the whole truth. Wishbone does die — at least for a few painful, splintering moments. She can’t deny that it’s an uncomfortable process, but it beats the hell out of dying and staying dead.

He moves closer, smelling of saltwater and manly musk and the faintest hint of blood. Wishbone’s life with the kelpie feels so far away, yet the smell and sight of him act as vessels to transport her to the past. It has a cascading effect, and even as Ivar is talking, the pangare mare finds herself thinking about the twins she has failed (both sets of them), the kingdoms she has failed... and maybe Ivar eating her alive will numb the guilt that acts the same.

Their eyes meet. Although his gaze seems to lack recognition, Wishbone feels the burn deepen. She feels like she is playing hide-and-seek with the truth. She is keeping a secret now, and she doesn’t want to give it up yet. Her eyes have never been much good at gatekeeping, and thus their expression is one of mystery and a flash of amusement. They might show more humor if she knew how her voice sounds to his ears, raspy from ocean waves filling her lungs by his command.

“You strike me as someone who could even work with ‘disgusted.’” Ivar’s touch is surprisingly gentle. She closes her eyes against the sensation for a brief moment, tipping her chin up slightly. Her long, dark purple locks fall back against her broad neck, revealing the smooth curve of her throat just inches from his mouth. Although he might not remember her, Wishbone hasn’t forgotten him — or the behaviors that might tease him.

it's a mystery to me

we have a greed with which we have agreed. you think you have to want more than you need; until you have it all you won't be free. and when you think more than you want, your thoughts begin to bleed.

Is she willing to relive it? Is she ready to feel the ocean fill her lungs? Does she want to thrash under the sharp pain of his bite?

Wishbone isn’t sure of the answers to those questions, but she does know she deserves it. She has earned Ivar’s bite and the ocean’s saltwater sting because she has failed as a mother and queen. Tephra, Nerine, Sickle and Malik, or Rivuline and Delphi forgiving her matters greatly — yet she knows that forgiving herself will be the hardest challenge. She has spent so much time already riddled with guilt and regret, feeling her heart heavy in her chest. Wishbone hopes that this death will be the redemption she longs for. Deep down, she knows that she is not worthy of vindication just yet.

She must pay for her sins a little longer before she allows herself freedom.

She cannot deny there is a piece of her that enjoys this. Wishbone has always been a flirt, seeking the attention of different men, and she has missed the chase. Perhaps her zeal for the opposite sex is what eventually pushed Wolfbane away from her, but that history is so distant that her relationship with her childhood friend is not added to the pain that holds her down now. The purple mare finds her guilt is very faintly lessened under Ivar’s luring gaze, and the burn she feels tells her that she wants him, along with the pain she knows is coming.

A swim, he says, and she can’t help the rough chuckle that follows his suggestion. There’s a bite of irony to the sound of her amusement, something almost sarcastic. Of course, he would mention a swim, would want to get her where she is powerless, would want to be in a place of control. Wishbone realizes that perhaps Ivar has always been the most predictable thing in her life. She didn’t know it before, but she is almost certain of it now.

She exhales a warm, soft breath against the curve of his scaled neck and then shifts away, turning herself toward the ocean’s star-speckled waves. The water is calm but cold, and Wishbone closes her eyes to enjoy the feeling of it. She had stayed away from the ocean for a short time after Ivar drowned her, but her affinity for it had been stronger than her fear and it hadn’t been long before she was swimming again.

She wades deeper, letting the waves splash up against her chest and curved sides. The water glows faintly near her scar, creating a soft ethereal ambiance underwater. Wishbone turns her head to find Ivar, her heart pounding quicker knowing that justice might soon be served.

it's a mystery to me

we have a greed with which we have agreed. you think you have to want more than you need; until you have it all you won't be free. and when you think more than you want, your thoughts begin to bleed.

Wishbone lets herself melt under his hypnosis, under the warmth he brings as he moves closer. Her memories and the guilt that comes with them are heavy, and she feels their weight less while his eyes burn into her. As his gaze traces the line of her neck up to her mouth, she shivers. It is in anticipation of what she knows is to come, rather than the night-cold ocean water. She feels hyper in expectation for the splintering of her body — for the few, blissful moments where she can focus on the shattering pain of death rather than the endless grief.

She tips her chin upward again, her amber eyes finding the details of the galaxy above their heads. Yet — there is no bite to her skin, no spray of blood flavoring the ocean, no sensation of shattering into a thousand pieces and reforming. He has hesitated, and Wishbone wonders if he is beginning to remember. If he has not recognized her, Ivar is at least smart enough to notice she has performed this dance before, that she knows what tempts a kelpie.

When he touches her, she leans into it. He urges her honesty to his questions, and Wishbone feels herself relaxing further into his guidance. It is easier to let her mind drift, to give into Ivar’s power, to allow herself to indulge in the heat that simmers under her skin at his proximity. “As much as I like swimming, there are other things I like more.”

She responds to the desires of her body and moves in the water elegantly (though she is not of the sea in the ways he is, she has spent enough of her life among the tides to move with grace). She dances around him, her warm mouth tracing the lines of his deepwater-cold scales. They have moved this way together before, in the tides of a beach now submerged. She wonders if he recognizes her steps, for she has always moved the same way despite her various forms over the years. Wishbone knows how he will move in response to her, and her movements are in time with his.

Does she dare tell him now? She contemplates letting him keep wondering; maybe he thinks she is a mind reader, with how in-tune her actions are with his. Though she knows enough about Ivar that he might not even remember her name, should she give it? How many other lovers has he dragged under the water, ripping their throats to shreds and feasting on their blood? Wishbone can imagine she is just another name, just another meal to fill his belly all those years ago.

It’s enough to keep her quiet about her secret. Yet Wishbone can’t help herself when she feels on fire — when not even the deep of the night is enough to cool her burning. She writhes against him, and his name slides from her mouth in that familiar honey-whiskey voice. “Ivar.”