Post by Brenna Gordon on Mar 14, 2016 12:25:40 GMT -5
I used to love being in the water.
My mother moved to a cottage right on the beach when I was a toddler, although I always thought it was too rocky to be called such a thing. There was sand there, in patchwork little spots and places-- but most of the coastline was jagged layers upon layers of rock that was always a slick and gleaming obstacle course. According to her, the Gordon family line was always blessed with the ability to flow over those stones without getting hurt just like the ocean waves... not that it stopped me from slipping and falling a couple of times. Thinking about it, that should have been a sign that her siren song wasn't always as real as she wanted me to believe, but who could blame me for missing that? I was all of seven years old, at that magical age where she was the most beautiful woman to exist-- and her not being able to do anything wrong was as assured as the sound of the waves crashing on the shore serving as my lullaby. It was just the two of us in that secluded little shack, no neighbors within a half a mile in whichever direction you chose to go... and looking back?
That was exactly how she wanted it.
"You're from the blood of myths," she'd tell me as she cradled me in her arms and looked at me with luminous black eyes amidst the ebb and flow of the sea around us. Her arms were always tight when I was younger, ensuring that the ocean never had a chance of washing me out of her grasp-- although even if it could have, her voice would have kept me there no matter the strength of the current. It was music, a veritable symphony that would've made Ulysses tear himself free of the ropes he used to tie himself to a mast all those centuries ago. "The ocean's song is in your voice, the roll of the waves in how you move. Your eyes are meant to lure sailors to shore with nothing more than a single look. There is no one else with our power, dear one, no one left that carries the divine breath of the gods within their being. There is only us... and we are magic."
She always looked like she was telling the truth, really-- about being made of something more than anyone else around us. It wasn't uncommon for her to get stared at whenever she chose to take me into town, attracting more longing suitors than any other woman I've ever known. I got my eyes and my hair both from her, my aquiline nose and my figure. It was only my mouth that did not match hers, her lips naturally full and luscious whereas mine have always been more scant without hefty amounts of lipstick creatively applied. Maybe that was enough to keep me from being able to captivate people the way she could, I don't know. About all the more I knew about the man that had to be the source of that difference was that he had drowned at sea... or so she said. It wouldn't be until I was eighteen that I'd come remotely close to the truth-- and by then?
I didn't want anything to do with the ocean ever again.
It took four officers to carry her out of the cottage, and the weather wasn't helping matters.
For a woman that looked to be so beautiful and fragile, Moira Gordon was surprisingly strong when she put her mind to it-- and even when it was in obvious pieces, she struggled and kicked and squirmed, something the straight jacket could only help so much. The torrential downpour was more than enough to make the material slick and unwieldy, her skin even moreso… and the men carrying her were worn down and weary to begin with. More than one of the policemen had ugly red lines upon their faces and hands, as a matter of fact, scratches from the woman that thought herself to be something more than them, above them in ways she thought their feeble minds could not understand. Her each and every screeched-out word dripped with condescension and rage, although by now it has blended together into a mess of noise that ran together like watercolors left in the rain. Even the lone tranquilizer dart hadn't helped much, though the reason why was anybody's guess.
None of those details mattered, though, to the trembling and damp girl that stood in the doorway, blankets wrapped around her like a hooded cape so only her face showed.
Whether or not she was crying didn't matter, not really. She'd long since learned that showing such emotions was only permissible where no one could tell... something about it being an expression of power that only others with their magic deserved to know about, much less see. All of those little nuggets of wisdom to pass from her mother's lips were fading bit by bit as she shivered, her mind going foggy about its edges in that way that always forewarned of tears-- but a shove that was none-too-gentle jolted her out of it, almost sending her sprawling into the mud in front of her. Forcing that stiff upper lip, Brenna turned around to find herself regarding the none-too-kind features of the officer in charge. Even though she'd understand his terseness in hindsight, the harsh tone of his voice was like a slap across the face.
"You've got five minutes to get your shit together, kid. Get a move on."
My mother moved to a cottage right on the beach when I was a toddler, although I always thought it was too rocky to be called such a thing. There was sand there, in patchwork little spots and places-- but most of the coastline was jagged layers upon layers of rock that was always a slick and gleaming obstacle course. According to her, the Gordon family line was always blessed with the ability to flow over those stones without getting hurt just like the ocean waves... not that it stopped me from slipping and falling a couple of times. Thinking about it, that should have been a sign that her siren song wasn't always as real as she wanted me to believe, but who could blame me for missing that? I was all of seven years old, at that magical age where she was the most beautiful woman to exist-- and her not being able to do anything wrong was as assured as the sound of the waves crashing on the shore serving as my lullaby. It was just the two of us in that secluded little shack, no neighbors within a half a mile in whichever direction you chose to go... and looking back?
That was exactly how she wanted it.
"You're from the blood of myths," she'd tell me as she cradled me in her arms and looked at me with luminous black eyes amidst the ebb and flow of the sea around us. Her arms were always tight when I was younger, ensuring that the ocean never had a chance of washing me out of her grasp-- although even if it could have, her voice would have kept me there no matter the strength of the current. It was music, a veritable symphony that would've made Ulysses tear himself free of the ropes he used to tie himself to a mast all those centuries ago. "The ocean's song is in your voice, the roll of the waves in how you move. Your eyes are meant to lure sailors to shore with nothing more than a single look. There is no one else with our power, dear one, no one left that carries the divine breath of the gods within their being. There is only us... and we are magic."
She always looked like she was telling the truth, really-- about being made of something more than anyone else around us. It wasn't uncommon for her to get stared at whenever she chose to take me into town, attracting more longing suitors than any other woman I've ever known. I got my eyes and my hair both from her, my aquiline nose and my figure. It was only my mouth that did not match hers, her lips naturally full and luscious whereas mine have always been more scant without hefty amounts of lipstick creatively applied. Maybe that was enough to keep me from being able to captivate people the way she could, I don't know. About all the more I knew about the man that had to be the source of that difference was that he had drowned at sea... or so she said. It wouldn't be until I was eighteen that I'd come remotely close to the truth-- and by then?
I didn't want anything to do with the ocean ever again.
------------------------------♒------------------------------
It took four officers to carry her out of the cottage, and the weather wasn't helping matters.
For a woman that looked to be so beautiful and fragile, Moira Gordon was surprisingly strong when she put her mind to it-- and even when it was in obvious pieces, she struggled and kicked and squirmed, something the straight jacket could only help so much. The torrential downpour was more than enough to make the material slick and unwieldy, her skin even moreso… and the men carrying her were worn down and weary to begin with. More than one of the policemen had ugly red lines upon their faces and hands, as a matter of fact, scratches from the woman that thought herself to be something more than them, above them in ways she thought their feeble minds could not understand. Her each and every screeched-out word dripped with condescension and rage, although by now it has blended together into a mess of noise that ran together like watercolors left in the rain. Even the lone tranquilizer dart hadn't helped much, though the reason why was anybody's guess.
None of those details mattered, though, to the trembling and damp girl that stood in the doorway, blankets wrapped around her like a hooded cape so only her face showed.
Whether or not she was crying didn't matter, not really. She'd long since learned that showing such emotions was only permissible where no one could tell... something about it being an expression of power that only others with their magic deserved to know about, much less see. All of those little nuggets of wisdom to pass from her mother's lips were fading bit by bit as she shivered, her mind going foggy about its edges in that way that always forewarned of tears-- but a shove that was none-too-gentle jolted her out of it, almost sending her sprawling into the mud in front of her. Forcing that stiff upper lip, Brenna turned around to find herself regarding the none-too-kind features of the officer in charge. Even though she'd understand his terseness in hindsight, the harsh tone of his voice was like a slap across the face.
"You've got five minutes to get your shit together, kid. Get a move on."
