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Sometimes, the movement of the landship doesn't feel much different to an actual ship, floating freely on the seas and carried by the winds. A slight rocking, like a mother lulling a baby to sleep. Thorns often finds himself unsure of how to place his feelings on this — something bittersweet about the familiarity yet the stark contrast. It isn’t Iberian seas they’re trudging on, it’s land upon land that his eyes have never seen before.
Several things are still the same though, known well by mind and heart. Like the usual useless chattering of this guy who loves sticking by his side so much for some reason.
“It’s a nice improvement to allow everyone to cook in the kitchen,” Elysium singsongs. “Isn’t it charming to be able to taste different kinds of home-cooked tastes?”
Thorns doesn’t deign it with much response. He stabs a piece of diced fish with his fork and brings it to his mouth, dutifully chewing. Elysium prattles on, unbothered by the lack of response — he knows Thorns is listening. Thorns knows Elysium knows that, too.
“Different cultures’ flavors just have their own strengths, right? Some emphasize tanginess and making the natural taste of the ingredients work well, some put a highlight on the cooking process and time instead,” he commentates, sagely nodding. “It feels like food in itself is a statement of a culture.”
He briefly wonders whose words Elysium is reciting at the moment. Must be one of the chefs’ tangents — did he talk to one of them and get absorbed in some ‘philosophical’ discussion again? His lips are curled up in that particular smile that looks like he’s spouting nonsense for the sake of nonsense again.
“I agree! Food is just so good that way, huh?”
Myrtle of Durin comes in full force, sliding herself neatly into their little conversation and onto the seat next to Elysium’s. It’s pretty much out of nowhere, like an X factor exploding during an experiment, but Thorns is a man of science who isn’t unused to unpredictable developments. Even better than him at adapting, though, is this Liberi man, greeting her with a warm high-five. It only feels like yesterday that Elysium kept on ranting to him about how incredulous it was that anyone would ever bring an actual tablecloth as a flag to a battlefield — but here they are now, getting along like they’re test subjects coexisting in the same laboratory for years. “Isn’t it so? How about food from your hometown?”
“Ah, Durin’s food? It’s delicious! There are a lot of really good sweets as well. You’ll love it, we’re really good with fruits!” Myrtle cheerily responds.
The table they’re sitting on is right next to an open window, floor-to-wall length. It illuminates the area well, the dark-painted metal materials of the table glinting under the morning sunlight. Myrtle of Durin’s smile radiates underneath the brightness as well, appearing even more jovial. It’s an odd contrast — the lightness of the topic, Elysium’s recognizable inane speeches, and the warm tones of the sun hitting Myrtle’s face. Thorns had never closely paid attention to her like this before, so it’s the first time he’s ever noticed the freckles decorating the bridge of her nose. It brings out the slate green of her eyes, he notes.
Elysium nods along, “Sounds like they’d pair well with Iberian food then. Something sweet to offset the spice, like so! Ah, Thorns — do you remember when you made the Russian Roulette Tapas? I thought I was going to die from how spicy it was. It really caught me off-guard, since I thought Miss Amiya had already eaten the spicy one..”
“.. That was all your idea,” he interjects. It’s a pleasant enough memory by his standards — the playful beating that came after it was just an added, albeit not fortunate, bonus.
Elysium barely opens his mouth, almost falling back to an all-too-familiar banter with Thorns when Myrtle curiously prods, “You can cook, Thorns?”
“I do a little here and there.”
“Eh, why are you pretending to be humble all of a sudden?” The noisy bird laughs, pointing at Thorns as he dutifully explains to Myrtle, “Listen, listen, this guy is a great cook, actually. His Tapas is to die for — even the kitchen staff agreed. I think Miss Amiya would also rate it well, really!”
His enthusiasm must be contagious — as is his idiocy at times — since Myrtle clasps her hands together, eyes shimmering with expectations, “Waaah, I didn’t know you were that good! You’ve got to let me try your handmade Tapas next time then, I can’t wait!”
Thorns finds himself subject to Elysium’s mischievous gaze and barely held snickers, but even more than that, it just isn’t probable to turn down a request at that point. He sighs, “Sure. I’ll let you know if I happen to make some next time.”
The two vanguards whoop and cheer way too joyously for something as simple as being promised a humbly home-cooked dish in the future. Thorns doesn’t find it in himself to feel bad though, mentally reminding himself to lessen the use of peppers and chilies — just in case.
“What are you doing?”
The question meets no answer for a long enough while that Thorns briefly wonders if he wasn’t heard. The gales of Sargon deserts howl loudly, sand spiraling around everything on sight — it’s quite an ordeal to communicate in this kind of terrain. Rhodes Island operators are sufficiently trained and experienced with various types of battlefields; storming, freezing or scorching, no matter how unreal or foreign. Many of them are also superhumans with enhanced senses, be it by biological or man-made means. It still doesn’t mean communication always flows smoothly in difficult areas though. The desert can be as unkind as the seas and the limitations of mankind will continue to haunt for as long as they live. To miss a simple question when the body is weary with fatigue and the environment bites and tears into you like a foe it rejects isn’t anyone’s fault. It’s an understandable error.
Just before he reopens his mouth to reiterate the question, the figure standing behind him shows herself. Durin’s Generalissimo; with a mysteriously packed medical kit at hand, her usual flag and golden apple combo left on the ground somewhere close by. Her eyes are clouded with something indecipherable to him — a trick of light or circumstantial reaction? or just something else beyond his limited comprehension of the emotional spectrum? — Thorns isn’t sure what to make out of it. The words die down on his tongue and the silence stretches just a beat longer before Myrtle finally replies, “Waiting to treat your leg, of course. Does it hurt a lot?”
He tells her in lieu of answering, “It’s unnecessary.” Thorns has a first aid kit as well on his person, one that’s always with him mostly out of how often explosions occur during experiments or injuries in operations like these, and he’s more than used to treating himself. It isn’t that big of a wound anyway — although the cut did feel a bit deeper. Still not anything worth worrying over.
“You should join up with the rest of the squad and report to the squad leader of the operation instead.” If he recalls correctly, it’s the vanguard under the code name Bagpipe — he has seen her interact with Myrtle as well, they must be friends or at least acquainted with one another. Regardless, it’d be far more useful to actually wrap the operations up quickly. Thorns himself will need to report as well — the lane he was in charge of was well-protected and no enemy came through and albeit he did get injured, it’s a minor injury at best. His head is already spinning with ways to structure the formal report to get back sooner to his research and developmental experiments; there are several local toxins discovered during this whole operation that could prove to be useful with some of the medicinal compounds he’s currently working on.
With those thoughts occupying his mind, the guard pulls himself up and steadies himself as much as possible. It’s much more efficient to cease her worries by demonstrating that his condition isn’t severe. He drags his wounded leg a tad bit as his previous knowledge seems to suggest it wouldn’t do the cut any good to put more pressure on it, and yet just as he tries to balance himself, a particularly rough and sandy rush of air surges over and grazes his wound — some particles of sand must’ve gotten in the gaping cut as well. Thorns grimaces slightly, barely catching himself as he stumbles.
By his side, Durin’s Generalissimo lets out a small snicker, her small mouth curled into a fond and sympathetic smile, “You’re really bad at acting tough, Thorns.”
For the rest of the way back to the squad leader, the two of them stay a few feet away from each other, going at a consciously slower pace than usual to accommodate Thorns’ leg injury — Myrtle’s warm presence hovering over him as stars would hang over and watch the seas.
Other times, the movement of the landship feels unfamiliar. The desert have their own similarities to the seas and shorelines of his past — and still not everything is naturally the same. The Sargon wind moves with heightened ferocity once night falls and moon arises. He’s safe and secure within the metal walls of the landship though, protected from shards and sand all alike. Even a sandstorm shouldn’t be able to stop Rhodes Island’s march at the moment, much unlike how the weather would completely change within a blink and affect the entirety of the journey out on the oceans. The metal walls are now familiar and well-recognizable to Thorns — though something feels oddly misplaced and stilted tonight.
The blue light coming out of the lamp overhead haunts his movement, casting a shadow as he focuses on the test tubes in front of him. It’s a simple job of mixing for this late into the night — experiments on their efficacy will have to wait till morning comes. He might not be the most socially aware person in the world, but it’s just basic decency to not wake the mostly diurnal occupants of the landship up at this hour with a probability of a blowup. The world is silent, quiet as if submerged entirely underwater. Muted and distant, everything transpiring a medium away.
And then a sound erupts, the slide of the metal door of the workshop being opened. It’s not an old door and regularly maintained, the newcomer tries to make it the least loud it can be. Nevertheless, the tranquility breaks anyway, a ripple in the water and its effects enduring, and he snaps his head towards the entrance.
Myrtle sheepishly offers a smile, “I just woke up suddenly and saw the lights are on. What are you up to this late?”
“Come in,” he says in lieu of an answer. The hallways are colder than the facilities — they always are, and especially so while the landship traverses through Sargon these past few weeks. Her white nightgown isn’t going to provide Myrtle a lot of warmth.
She hovers over him as he tinkers, a hand on a pipette dropping a yellow liquid carefully into mixing bowls. She asks questions while he folds the concoction in — this particular substance needs more careful handling and cannot be stirred in. About work and his toxins, the weaponry and the medicine, about the battlefield through his lenses and the Iberian style swordsmanship Thorns pride himself on. He dutifully answers each and every question — this is an older project he’s picking up again, thanks to the split second of inspiration he had during the last battle, some toxins are only usable with weapons of certain materials, medicines are slightly harder to create than poisons, fast-acting or otherwise, he doesn’t usually have a medic looking over his shoulder since he is well-equipped with his own set of first aid and various compounds, Destreza isn’t as common for Iberian Aegirs to learn compared to the majority of Liberi originating in the area. Their exchange is hushed, mindful of destroying the night’s peace, though the sun-baked skin of her cheeks stretch and flush slightly as she smiles, warms even the blue light shadowing the entire workshop, and perhaps the night’s dim quiet has already been long forgotten the moment she stepped into the room.
“What was Iberia like?” She later asks. As a scientist, Myrtle’s curiosity is admirable to Thorns, a quality he views as the most important and a prerequisite when tackling life. He meets her halfway, a willing partner of cooperation, and rewards her for it — she questions, gently prodding and ready to back off at any moment’s discomfort displayed on his face, about the sceneries and the culture, the food they used to eat, the vast beaches that connect them with the world’s southern oceans, if he had learned naval techniques and maritime navigation while he was there, the reason he left and his life from before as an Aegir living there.
“Quiet,” he murmurs. “Dim and dull.” A time existed when Iberia was brilliant and shining gold, molten and malleable and mesmerizing. By the time Thorns’ memories began though, Iberia had already long forgotten those times — it became history, an etched past on paper only. “Aegirs are considered lesser due to faith differences. Leaving the city isn’t prohibited, but the method to come back requires you to report by multiple checkpoints — each one conducting tests that take hours, from physical to other forms.”
Myrtle lets him speak, green eyes unwavering as an anchor. In the time Thorns has been affiliated with Rhodes Island, he has never witnessed the landship’s machinery rumbling loudly as she walks through various terrains, dry or wet, hot or cold. Today, her hum blankets him and Myrtle of Durin whole. Like a siren signaling safety. Or perhaps, even, a naval base crumbling gently under the waves’ constant caresses.
He continues to speak, making sure to keep his observations as clean-cut as he possibly can. Memories are better left behind in the sand of iberian shorelines and not carried to the current desertscape surrounding him — here, it’d consume him, the nostalgia gripping from all directions. His voice doesn’t break or crack nor does it dip emotionally. Her presence grounds him even when Thorns’ sentences lag and trail, patient and unfamiliar. And her eyes, they continue to glow brightly under the blue light.
Durin’s Generalissimo is someone who is rarely seen without anyone around her. From fellow vanguards to other Durins, to the most random people others wouldn’t normally expect her to be so close to, people orbit around her as if a strong gravitational force draws them in and keeps them around, planets drawn to stars or tides moved by the moon. There are over two hundred operators living on the landship currently and while Thorns usually heeds his own business, it’s hard not to notice Myrtle of Durin with all the people flocking around her constantly, lured by the cheery grin and easy attitude or the strangeness of the tablecloth and apple she calls a weapon.
The current figure of this person, separated a distance away from the hustle and bustle of the operating squads, staring off a distance without a single soul revolving around her, creates an impression of an anomaly for a keen observer. Thorns takes care to let his soles crunch against the thick snow of Ursine lands, announcing his presence to her so as not to surprise her.
“What are you looking at?” The scenery in front of them stretches on and on without an end, a blank canvas of white that covers everything from top to bottom, left to right, limitlessly — nothing for sure worth seeing, let alone admiring so intently. The Myrtle of Durin Thorns knows of is the one he passes by in the landship’s corridors, jovial and playful as she converses with Perfumer, Gavial, and even Minimalist whose temperament is known to not be the friendliest among the newcomers, the one who fearlessly tells everyone to leave it to her whenever appointed as the squad leader, the one who sits with him and Elysium at lunch once every week and fills in Thorns’ silence by chattering and bickering with the vanguard. The Myrtle of Durin who sits in solitude and keeps her back turned on him is unexplored territory, a side of hers he has never seen before.
Now more than ever, the image of her back looks even smaller. It’s only then that Thorns realizes that her back is tensed, tight as if a bowstring drawn and barely kept still, her arms slightly stuttering not from the cold. “Just thinking about stuff!” Her voice isn’t wet nor raspy, though pitched odd, just similar enough to her usual tone for the casual listener to miss. “... What are you doing?”
She sounds as if she barely manages to force the syllables out of her throat.
A quake runs through her entire body like thunder forcing open stormy seas and Myrtle stiffens. Her face stays hidden from his view, though for some reason, a brief thought flits into Thorns’ head that she must be forcing the lid shut on her tsunami of emotions at the moment, lip bitten and eyes squeezed. He doesn’t try to confirm it, doesn’t try to burst open the upsurge — something compels him instead and pushes him forward, just a step closer.
“Are you crying?”
The words escape him, unbidden. For a second, a chilling sensation grips him, and he briefly wonders if his tone, flat and monotonous as always is the case, comes off accusatory.
His worries are shaken off when she chuckles. This time, the polite laughter barely masks the tremor in her voice. “I'm not, I'm not,” she trails off, heaving in a breath. The sound is sharp around the edges, squeezing something in his rib cages — who knows what. “Generalissimo is the symbol of Durins’ strength, you know! Generals don't cry — we are tough and resilient,” she says, more to convince herself than a reply to him.
In his peripherals, Thorns spots her clenched fists tightening further. It must be curling further in and digging into the skin of her palms. Her shoulders tremble and even out with each inhale and exhale — and the words stumble out of her mouth again, repeated in the same odd pitch, a far cry from her usual cheery tone, “... Generals really are tough.”
Thorns is aware he isn’t the most talkative nor tactful person in the world — but never has words escape him more than now.
The silence overwhelmingly stretches without an end visible to his mind's eye. What does one do when the sky's bright star weeps beneath the clouds? No matter how inquisitive a scientist is, some things are just without an answer — some things just do not have logic or a manual know-how to them.
His hands move before Thorns realizes what he's doing, shedding his jacket and letting it drop gently on top of her. The beige fabric engulfs her petite frame and she makes a sound of surprise at the weight of it. In this way, albeit the colors are off, perhaps from afar it'd seem like Durin's Generalissimo has vanished — almost disappearing into thin air, barely camouflaging against the background of vast and vast whiteness surrounding them.
“I don't see any Generals at the moment. Nothing at all, for that matter,” he murmurs. The constricting strain pulling at all of her strings persists — a beat or two, maybe three.
Thorns’ golden eyes raptly record the sight of Myrtle's tension seeping away, when his words finally registers and are received, her small body hidden beneath his jacket deflating further as she curls in, hands gripping the fabric like it is a lifeline he just extended for her.
What does the northern star do when all else fails, the storm clouds brew and the seas rage in sorrow, furiously sweeping away everything in sight and reducing everything to nothing? She sits underneath the veil of the night sky, pouring her heart out as the clouds tremble and rain — her unfulfilled wishes, her untold woes.
And Thorns, he has always been a child of the sea — even when the guiding star flickers, he doesn't stop looking over her.
People are milling in and out of the workshop as always, bustling to the brim with activity throughout the entire noon, doors always open. It’s been like this since ten in the morning. Understandably so, Rhodes Island has always housed various scientists and engineers, whether related to the research and development purposes of the pharmaceutical company or just field operators who happen to be handy with tools and machinery. The workshop basically doubles as a laboratorium, though visitors who happen to be hanging around to find friends and companions to talk to aren’t seldom either.
Thorns, more than used to this, normally isn’t the type of person to get distracted by the ambient chatter scattered around him. As quiet as he is, he also gets rare guests here and there —- most typically people who need his expertise on something, the monitoring medics trying to wrestle him away from his equipment, or Elysium who never shuts up even in normal circumstances. Focusing and responding as needed, or in more extreme cases, tuning out completely people who lack self-regulative skills to stop their vocal cords from making unnecessary noises, are natural trained responses at this point, a skill honed through the time he’s spent in Rhodes Island.
His attention is dragged away from his internal musings and the whirring of the agitator in front of him comes to a stop. Gloved hands, mindful of the temperature, extract the test tubes out of their chamber, bringing it to eye level and inspecting the mix of compounds inside. Tiny bits of flecks twirl like little dancers, suspended in the red-colored liquid and slowly sinking down to the bottom of the tube. Filtration next, then.
“What was that machine for?”
“Agitator, for mixing. It also promotes the chemical reaction speed.”
Today is particularly more lively than usual.
Myrtle hums, “And what are you making?”
“A drug to alter the immune system’s response through antigen competition.” He pauses, lightly shaking the tube in a futile attempt to mix it further. Thorns isn’t unaware — it’s just habitual. Myrtle nods along, asking more questions on why such a drug would be needed and what toxin he utilized in the mixture this time. She inches closer, peering her head from his sides. Her warmth seems to radiate in the space around her, hitting him gently, waves against shorelines. Her curiosity is motivating, he thinks to himself, answering everything easily as always and inserting a few explanations and comments here and there as he gestures and demonstrates the various lab equipment around them and which ones he’s planning to try for this experiment.
“Young love,” someone’s voice — Gavial, he registers — comes in, barely audible through all the noise in the workshop.. It catches his attention, perhaps rather ill-fatedly. Gavial snickers into her palms after, surely more a semblance of formality than anything.
Thorns is in the middle of setting up the filtration system and increasing its temperature when he hears Bagpipe chuckle in response, away at a distance, looking over them with great interest. “It sure does make people miss their girlfriends, don’t you think?”
Elysium, perched by the entrance, shakes his head and clicks his tongue, full of faux attitude, “And they’re not even together yet! How much worse is it gonna get?” He laughs it off soon after. Perfumer — her work table is the closest to the entrance — chuckles alongside the Liberi man, setting her tools on the table while she wipes her hands, commenting offhandedly, “Well, they do look like a sweet pair together. Harmonious as roses and baby’s breath.”
He turns his head and opens his mouth to retort to their words, an urge to snort and dismiss their shenanigans lest it make the one besides him uncomfortable. Right before he could though, Myrtle calls for his attention right at that moment again, just as the filtration system starts to heat up.
“Hey, hey, Thorns! What’s that?” She points towards Silence’s usual space, a newly imported Columbian tool. “I haven’t seen that one before, it wasn’t here last time I was here, right?”
The filtration process is going to take a while anyway.
He peels off his lab-safe gloves, placing them down on the ceramic surface of his table. Myrtle tilts her head in confusion, yet still follows along when he gestures to her to follow him, a hand brushing her shoulder to redirect her, the touch featherlight. They make their way to Silence’s work table adjacent to his own, empty as the person herself is currently out — the Doctor came by and told him a few days ago that a squad was being dispatched for another operation, she must’ve been part of it. Myrtle makes little awed noises, carefully inspecting the sleekly designed machine, all white. Her brows knit together and her mouth pouts in concentration as she murmurs, “So what does this do?” She surely knows that this isn’t his field of expertise — though fortunately, that isn’t a matter and he does have an answer for her.
“Originium detector, Rhine Lab-produced. Columbian machines have always been good but Rhine Lab’s producers outdid themselves with this Originium radar for sure.” He hovers behind her, fascinated less by the shiny new equipment he’s seen for a few days now and more admiring her inquisitiveness.
“Ooh, sounds interesting! Is it for mining purposes then?”
“Pretty much anything. I’ve heard Silence say that it might be usable to detect smaller amounts of Originium as well — including ones on mid to late stage Infected people.”
“Wow, can it be used as a diagnostic tool too then?”
“Yes. Although, it’d be unfortunate to treat Oripathy late though. By the time it’s detectable by the machine, the Infected individual would be in quite a bad shape.”
“How do you use it? It looks pretty heavy… Can it be used as a portable detector?”
“This part over here,” he motions, “is detachable. It’s the censor part and will send the data signal towards the main body of the machine to be processed. The results are checked on the screen part you’re looking at.”
He adds, “Apparently it’s also capable of fake fruit detection. It can explode the fake fruit in real time as long as it’s within a 500 meter radius.”
Myrtle gasps, completely immersed and amazed, “Huh, really?”
“... I’m just messing around.” Thorns averts his eyes, feeling an odd mixture of guilt and amusement that his joke was received so easily. Perhaps he should’ve toned down the deadpan expression and serious tone — though then it wouldn’t have landed so well.
His eye twitch ever-so-slightly, mirthful.
The rest of the room still flows smoothly with various operators’ playful banter and subdued chitchat, the work never ceasing. They spend some time in silence while Myrtle inspects it, Thorns still staying close. The equipment is in no way dangerous, though it’s just more reassuring this way, in any case anything goes wrong. His eyes flit over to the filtration setup once again, finding that it’s mostly done — that’s much faster than expected — and he can check on it soon. The process should be the last before it’s cooled off and tested. He thinks he still has some leftover antigen agents and the receptor substance dissolved in some water from a previous project. They should be usable for the first step of usage testing.
“Oh, is it done boiling?”
Myrtle trails after him while he slides over back to his own workspace and dismantles the boiler parts first, gloves and goggles back on, uncapping the lock screwed in to keep the glass containers in place. “Yes,” he affirms, solely zoned in towards the fragile apparatus. Myrtle nods along and asks again, “Are you done with it then?”
His concentration zones back in towards the medical compound he’s working on, grabbing the antigen and the receptor aqueous. Swiftly and carefully, Thorns prepares the receptor and pours some of the medical compound on top. His right hand freely grabs around his pockets for the stopwatch he keeps specifically for this experiment, thumb over the button, ready to turn it on at any moment’s notice — and finally, adds a few drops of the solution containing the antigen to begin the official test.
And then there is ringing silence. Blinding light.
Thorns quickly calculates the bad situation at hand and makes his decision.
His robes must be burnt again — a common occurrence, unfortunately.
Did he grab the wrong solution?
Thorns barely manages to step back when the explosion happens right at his face, pulling himself together now running out of the room immediately with his stopwatch still in one hand. Fortunately, everyone in the workshop is more than used to the occasional eruptions his scientific pursuit of knowledge may cause and should be able to handle themselves just fine — Myrtle of Durin?
“Hey! Where are we going?”
The rush of the gust hitting his cheeks and the legs that go faster and faster trickle down to a complete halt.
His eyes scan the surroundings around them, this should be far enough, and then unceremoniously drop down towards his own hand, enclosed around Myrtle’s smaller wrist. Thorns’ eyes widen and he releases his hold instantly, finding no red marks on the skin underneath as well as a sense of relief at the findings. “Sorry. It doesn’t hurt, right?”
“It doesn’t. Hey, you exploded something again! Dr. Kaltsit isn’t going to be happy.. I thought you said it’s an antigen, why would it react with an explosion?” Myrtle tugs him down and she slides to a seating position on the ground — of the other side of the landship. “I’ve never ran so much in my whole life..” Her words sound reminiscent of the nagging the grown-ups in his childhood often did when his six years old self mixed odd plants from the neighbors’ backyard together in the name of experimentation — albeit coupled with some heavy wheezes. He makes up his mind and takes his place beside Myrtle.
“My life is in danger,” he says, in lieu of other explanations. His occasional hiccups are more than famous enough among other operators, Thorns thinks, especially with how Dr. Kaltsit seems to love making the Doctor turn on the intercom system to tell everyone to ‘avoid the workshop for the time being as Thorns’ work went wrong again .’
Myrtle was thankfully positioned behind him — and Thorns must have shielded her from the brunt of the explosion. Her hair looks a little fried and more messed up than usual, maybe due to their impromptu cardio exercise as well, and her cheeks are stained a bit with soot and a healthy flush, face slightly shiny with sweat. He imagines he’s probably on the same boat — not that he particularly cares about it though.
“You mean our lives?!” She dramatically exclaims, “Will I be included in this noon’s intercom announcement because of this?!”
She’s beyond swept away by the atmosphere, he thinks, the same amusement from before rising up again. “I was the one who blew up the workshop.”
“Oh… You’re right! I’m not an accomplice,” she sighs, relaxing. “Wait… I’m a victim, right, technically?”
Thorns can’t help but watch over her fondly. “Yes. Why are you even acting like your life is also at stake?”
“Hehe! I got too absorbed by the situation.”
Myrtle suddenly pauses, green eyes gazing straight into him with a seriousness he finds odd in the current situation. “Oh man, Dr Kaltsit is going to have you grilled even worse later — and you already look like a sea urchin now!”
“What do you mean,” he says, confused.
She bursts into a fit of giggles that only grow louder with his visible confusion, wildly gesturing at his hair — which reminds him, is that why it feels oddly light? He brings up a hand upwards and — ah, he definitely has it worse off. His hair is completely singed too, no thanks to the explosion he caused himself, flying up everywhere and defying gravity with a rebellious attitude worthy of Dr. Kaltsit’s eternal terror in his life.
“I should just call you urchin from now on, right? Right?” Myrtle manages amidst all her uncontrollable giggles. He must look really funny to her at the moment — though Thorns finds himself not minding it one bit.
He replies, ensuring to keep his tone dry, “I have a codename already.” Though even as he says that, Thorns discovers that maybe, maybe it wouldn’t be too bad either to just let her do whatever she wants. Her nose scrunches up again, freckles dancing along her vivid changes of expression and green eyes disappearing as she laughs heartily, opening her mouth to respond — when the intercom’s bell rings. From the audio system of the landship, Doctor’s sympathetic voice comes out, “Announcement — please avoid the workshop for the next hour or so as something has exploded, um… again. If anyone sees operator Thorns, please report back to operator Pozëmka and let him know to return operator Myrtle safely. I repeat, please avoid the workshop for the next hour—”
Myrtle’s laughter doesn’t stop until a while after, when the Durin makes a show out of wiping her nonexistent tears and playfully grins up to Thorns, saying, “Guess you did land me in the intercom announcement! Don’t forget to take responsibility for this, Thorns!”
A piece of fabric — most often rectangular and attached on one side onto a pole — with distinctive designs and colors that translate to a particular meaning or represent a certain group of people. That’s what a flag is. It’s most certainly not a firearm nor a sword. Neither is it a shield that can protect oneself or other people on the battlefield.
They’ve fallen into somewhat of a rhythm, Myrtle by his side and poking questions at his various experiments, Thorns dutifully answering each of her inquiries to the best of his ability. The rising tide sweeps him along with ease and their surges begin to expand beyond the noise of the workshop or silent nights where the moon hangs outside and tries to confuse sailors into sirens’ nests. The most recent change is Myrtle’s addition to Thorns’ and Elysium’s lunch table for twice instead of once a week. The fact weighs heavily on him, her cheeriness anchoring him to the present like a constant reminder that this is how things are now.
Today, Elysium isn’t present as Thorns digs into his spicy curry, Myrtle recalling her day up to that point while animatedly trying to mimic Jaye’s sleepy tone and succeeding. He sets his spoon down and Myrtle’s attentive eyes are on him immediately, the conversation trickling down into a natural halt.
“Of all things. Why a flag?”
Some other people might have reacted sourly by then, put off by his lack of words. It’s only fortunate that she is for some reason familiar enough with his methods and madness. Unfazed, Myrtle easily prods back, “Eeeh, I could ask the same! Why the sudden question?” Her edges of lips are curved slightly higher than usual, the moles on her skin strung along the upwards light of her grin. “Elysium must have fussed to you about my flag, didn’t he?”
There’s no animosity in that tone, just a playful snicker that follows after, the tongue-in-cheek attitude that lingers around their friendship ever present. Thorns’ eyes meet Myrtle’s for a second, the crescent greens reflecting his own figure and mirth dancing underneath them.
“He talks about it at times.” The honesty stumbles out of him much too readily, a stream unobstructed down the river and mixing into the mouth of the ocean. “Worriedly,” Thorns adds, too slow to be a reactive afterthought and too fast to be a sign of reluctance. “A flag isn’t necessarily a weapon.”
Myrtle’s eyes round and widen, her jaw falling open as understanding and surprise flood her at the same time. A smile then takes its place on her face, soft around the edges, filling out her entire presence with something he isn’t sure he has a name for. “Elysium worries about me too much! At this rate, wouldn’t he go bald over it? I don’t know why he’s such a worrywart.”
It brings out a twitch of his lips he knows she doesn’t miss. The instinctive pulse smooths over as soon as she continues, “I get it though. Rhodes Island is pretty dangerous a lot of the time! Working as an operator isn’t an easy feat at all, right? But it’s okay. I’ll be fine since everyone is here with me.” Her voice quietens into something even softer as she trails off, the ebb of her gaze flowing away towards something else, somewhere else further away.
“My job isn’t to fight.”
She clarifies, voice firm without losing the touch of gentleness sewn like a familiar safety net under the tide of her words. “A flag isn’t a weapon — you’re right, Thorns. But my flag isn’t meant to be a weapon.” A deep breath. “You know… Battles are hard, it’s a rush and there are so many things happening all the time. We lose sight of each other… Or of our goal. That’s where my flag comes in! I want to wave it around to tell people that they’re not lost, that I’m there for them, that we’re in this together, all of us. So when they get lost, all they have to do is look for my shiny flag!”
Her grin unfurls slowly as if sails of a ship being let down and blown by the wind to propel everything forward, a mosaic of cheekiness and genuineness. Something prods inside him. He sets it free, coerced more than anything else, his tone both ordinary and unusual to his ears. “You might get hurt. Will you be able to defend yourself using that flag?”
“I always try to stay out of danger! And I know my limits well.” The glimmer in her eyes doesn’t die when their gazes click in place and reunite once again in the middle, no clouds of fear tainting the green expanse of her round eyes.
“That's right.” A sense of pride tugs at him. “And you've always been a tough one, Generalissimo.” It must show in his expression because Myrtle beams even brighter at him.
On nights like this, the air is wet and blurry and everything seems to crystallize into chunks of moments frozen in time. The breeze doesn’t roar, it sweeps overhead with the care of a researcher’s meticulous hand. In the distance, the waves crash against the rocky seaside, the loud sound diminishing by the time it reaches him. It’s close to the memory of home, even if home is no longer where it used to be, it no longer looks like this — the boisterous laughter exchanged inside, all warm lights glowing off the entrance and its trail on the ground inviting him back in, a home away from home. Thorns is in a desperate need of some quiet though, slightly overcharged and still unused to the rowdy festivities that seem to stretch without an end, no matter how long he has been with Rhodes Island as an operator. He has been out here for some time now, watching carefully the tuft of smoke left behind by his every exhale as the temperature drops further into the year.
“Thorns! I heard you dance?!”
The call pierces through the air, spoken so urgently without having actual urgency. Myrtle strolls over, a deep cherry red flush high on her cheeks and feet a little too light — he does recall seeing her chugging down wine as if it was water by the bar earlier, surrounded by a lot of cheers and jests from the others, though he isn’t sure how much she’s had considering Durins are renowned to hold their alcohol very well. He’s stunned still at first, only to quickly recover when he sees Myrtle stumbling slightly, walking over in brisk steps to help her reorient.
She grins sheepishly, laughing, “Oh! Thank you, hehehee. So you like to dance? I heard from the Doctor, is that true?”
“I do. Did you have too much to drink?”
Myrtle’s eyes don’t look glazed over though, slightly tipsy at worst, and Thorns is sure she’s soon sobering with how cold it is outside. The tip of her nose is tinted pink too, likely the chill more than anything else.
“No, it wasn’t that much!” And he finds that he trusts her judgment. “I didn’t know you’d like dancing though! That’s so cool, have you danced in Rhodes Island before? Can I see you dance? What kind of dances do you like?”
She leans further and further into him as she excitedly rambles, slurred syllables pouring out non-stop. She’s always been small and it’s little surprise that she’s also so light, even with him supporting some of her weight like this, her hands in his as he steadies her.
“See for yourself then.” His words are blunt as always, even as Thorns shifts one of his hands to the small of her back.
Myrtle blearily blinks up at him before squawking, “Eeeeh?” Her confusion at the turn of events is evident, though she giggles it away, “Okay, okay! But I can’t dance, so you have to teach me!”
“Yes, let’s teach you while we’re at it.” A hint of a smile ghosts over his eyes, crinkling lightly and yet not quite there. She gleams at him in return and lets him lead her.
The height difference makes it a bit awkward and there is no music out here, only the wisps of conversations inside reaching them from where the party still remains inside. Thorns mentally counts a one two three one two three as they both sway to a nonexistent beat, a far cry from dances he usually practices in his spare time. They dance to the rhythm of the tides, ebbing and flowing in the peripherals, the cadence of rowdy laughter chortling and cackling as other operators mingle, each rise and fall of their breathing as it disappears into a white puff in the air. At some point, she begins to hum softly to a tune foreign to him. The slow notes tumble out of her like skipping stones rippling the surface of the ocean, pitched quietly as the accompaniment to the night’s melody. He doesn’t know what song she plays in her mind and it surely isn’t anything he used to practice to. In spite of that, his motions are languid, guided by the familiar lilt of her voice. Myrtle’s feet step over him a few times, clumsy in their motions. And yet she allows his hands to support her, his palm engulfing her petite hand — and Thorns is stricken by it all, the soft glow of her grin blending against the blurry wetness around them, the moles aligning like constellations across her chin and the expanse of her cheek, the urge to path them all with his finger, mapping down a route only visible when she’s up this close and pressed against him. The memory of their conversation about her flag echoes back to him, it hits him full force how someone with hands this small has a resolution so big, a determination of her own perhaps unimaginably larger than life.
She breaks his reverie when she playfully squeezes his hand, saying, “You know, I might be too short for this.”
“Not really.”
And that’s all the warning she gets before Thorns slides his hands, securing them as he lifts her up into the air. The sudden movement draws a surprised squeal out of her. She holds onto him tight still when he places her gently, feet back on the ground. They rock side to side some more, Thorns taking the opportunity to twirl her, while giggles escape her, slowly morphing into full-blown, sweet laughter. It’s not a waltz nor is it a dance worthy of the ballroom — however, with just the two of them under the dim lights of the night, air dewy fresh from rain, it’s more than enough and it’s a dance Thorns will etch and commit to his mind.
When he dips her, something mischievous in the pull of his limbs and his hold around her, Myrtle is still smiling as she always has, bright and sweet despite the salty scent in the air. “How fun! You should’ve taught me from long ago,” she exclaims, almost-singing out her words and giggly, punch-drunk in the fluid euphoria of the atmosphere.
Her green eyes are clear and shimmering with glee, starry as the sky around them, her face even redder than before as the biting cold tickles her cheeks. She’s breathless by the time they right themselves up, Thorns bowing in mock-salute as is tradition when ending Iberian dances, her hair tousled from all the movements and silliness they pulled. Myrtle opens her mouth to say something — and Thorns is momentarily distracted by the mole on her chin right below her lips. An itch rises in him to place a kiss there, see how she’d react.
When he blinks back to reality, the pink tint on Myrtle’s cheeks is covered beneath his palm, his thumb brushing against the delicate skin where the mole sits.
The stare-off is broken in a slow drip of awareness, Thorns eventually pulling his hands off her as the world reconstructs itself around them once again, the distant chatter, the crashing waves, the slow whistle of the breeze. He ruffles her hair. “Go back inside. The temperature is dropping.”
He walks away with a storm beating madly in his chest and something tingling down his entire nervous system — the sensation of her soft skin, her luscious hair under his fingertips haunting him like ghost ships. There is no way in his own disheveled state Thorns could've noticed Myrtle's fluster, paralyzed still and scarlet to her ears at the sight of the smallest smile tugging on his lips in a way Thorns himself didn't even know.
Sometimes, the aftertaste of a battle isn’t much different from dreams of childhood. If he closes his eyes and focuses well enough, the iron tang of blood wafting in the air and the scent of ocean salt on a sunny day overlap in their intensity, pulsing adrenaline in his veins slowly dying out as if a candle at sunrise. Thorns sits motionless on top of the couch in the landship’s hospital wing, forehead neatly bandaged and a gauze on his left cheek. Elysium had freaked out at the damage he sustained, the wounds all over the rest of his body and the one on his head. Doctor had said that it wasn’t anything fatal or life-threatening — which means his initial assumption on the field was correct — and that the first-aid treatment he applied was proving to be effective enough that they didn’t have much else to do but dress the wounds and wait for them to heal now. It’ll put Thorns out of commission for a while and that’s just how life is as a field operator. Nothing he’s unused to.
His eyes are heavy and glued shut and Thorns finds himself wishing that slumber would take him under, though it continuously evades him.
A deep breath in, a deep breath out.
Four ticks, hold for seven, and out in eight.
The sway of the landship almost lets him fall into an older time’s nostalgic embrace. The moment he nearly slips into repose, the door clicks open with the quietest sound and someone arrives.
Whoever is by the door takes care not to make too much noise, their every step silent. They shuffle around, presumably to check for anyone in the vicinity, and most probably looking for someone in particular. It takes him way too long — senses rusty now that adrenaline is wearing off and exhaustion settles on him like a rock — to realize that the person is looking for him . His guts immediately tell him that it’s Elysium, the worrywart, checking on him again since he always lacks the trust that Thorns is perfectly capable of taking care of himself, thank you very much.
“You were here,” the voice says.
It’s Myrtle of Durin — the Generalissimo sounding like she’s turned the whole landship upside down in search of him. Something about her voice is a little breathless, taut with concern. She sounds reticent and restrained, reminiscent of the day Thorns spotted her looking too far away into the distance all those times ago.
Myrtle hovers over him, brushing aside the wild strands of his hair to check on his condition clearly. The touch is gentle, filled to the brim with something he used to not be able to name, something he now identifies as care. His eyelids remain shut, giving absolutely no indication that he’s awake. Thorns briefly contemplates opening them, if only to see what kind of expression is on her face, whether she’s frowning in worry or smiling to try to reassure him otherwise.
A familiar sensation washes over him, the slide of Durin’s Generalissimo’s shiny flag against his skin. The couch dips as she plops herself right by his side, leaning onto his uninjured shoulder and careful not to press any bruises along his arm. The silence expands long and wide, enough that the next moment he forces his eyes open, Thorns isn’t surprised at all to have his hypothesis confirmed: Myrtle is sound asleep, the weight of the operation tiring her out. Myrtle’s hair is mussed up where her head meets his arm and her face is devoid of any wrinkles, stress leaving the rest of her figure as she rests. Myrtle’s chest rises and falls as she slumbers away, peace settling into her features. Even like this, she’s still the Generalissimo Rhodes Island knows and adores — all tender features and encouraging hands, smile lines around her mouth that only speaks of what she’s like when awake, even now during her quietest sleep. He thinks of her strong voice in battlefields, thinks of homes that have been lost in storms and tsunamis and the callousness with which life can handle one’s heart, thinks of her smile: a lighthouse for lost sailors, his own personal North Star.
He tucks her into the flag, a protective arm around her, sharing the warmth she lent him with her. Thorns’ ears burn in a way he’s never experienced before as he dips closer, lightly grazing his lips against her temples.
Hours later, even when the orange sunset closes the curtains of the sky, they remain settled on the couch, head knocking lightly against each other with every slow swell of the landship’s movement. Found and no longer lost in life’s most savage seas, peaceful dreams sweeter than childhood and dearer than hometowns imprinted deep wherever they are.