[09 - MOONSTRUCK]

♆

It is all quite out of focus. Talokan is on the brink of disruption. Mira's alternatives are suffering defeat. How much Namor tries to rationalize, and evaluate every last solid effort into a quotient, it doesn't bear the test of time.  

Her words bother Namor and twist a knife in his stomach. He doesn't want to consider the agony a mother would have to go through to lose a child, over and over again. To fantasize about life and inherit death. How macabre surface-dwellers were, going so far as feeding into absurdity to serve a purpose. Their desperation lightens the vice.

And despite the circuitous, unfortunate disclosures that Mira's mother has provided a rationale for and her successive sacrifices, still, all Namor can eat his heart out over is that there lived another foolish man who knew Kinara better than he can declare even if time permits. It was the same indiscretions of men that he stands to protect his realm from. Their triumphs and defeats were always at the expense of the innocent. 

There is no time to wrap his head around it; it's happening so fast. Namor can now weakly admit—it is consuming him. She is. Crossing his path, and making his dreams a one-sided reality. And he will not stand to reason as it plagues his entire being. Exhausts him of all logic. Even as she speaks so softly, painfully, undeservingly, he can only take the strain of their gentle contact and its unassuming audacity. 

Upon Namor's return to the cavern, he doesn't conceal the turbulence his chest holds. It assails him. He can't muse on anything else but her. Her blindsides, her maddening scent. The young vines of the undergrowth that ascend to the cracks of light outside didn't stand a chance, Namor tears it out by the roots and growls to muffle the faint voice in his mind. 

I can't lose her. Same concept, but artificial. Still haunts me.

He runs his fingers through his hair, and it's a peculiar feeling to find it dry. It seldom is. He has always relied on the water for movement, even more than flight. This time, hoping to make a better impression on Kinara, he had dispensed off his impervious armour and opted to get his bearings around her milieu. What was he thinking, making threats and aiming his spear? He risked robbing a poor vacationer in the nearest town to get the clothes he wore. A rather radical risk. 

He hears light footsteps crossing the floor to him, and he turns, hoping his expression is more amiable. 

Mira launches herself at his leg, trapping it in an embrace. "K'uk'ulkan," she enthuses up at him.

Powerlessness chokes and stiffens him in place. What good was a god without his capacities? He had nothing left to help this baby. She fits nowhere in the grand scheme. 

"Mira. You should be asleep," he mutters, mussing up her hair. All alone, he realizes. The repulsion of his people persists. 

The Talocanil blamed the baby for the transformations in the tides. Recently, Namora brought to her king's attention that irregular and predictable tidal patterns have contested their trade routes. Now their underwater navigation dissociates, migration patterns change, corals change colours, and an abundance of unfound species that don't belong near their waters appear. With the altering pressures, Namor wasn't ready to face the economic consequences on behalf of his people. But to condemn the child to such a mystifying burden?  

Mira tiptoes to catch Namor's fingers and tugs on them impatiently. "Show me. I want to see them."

He sighs. "Not tonight."

"Please, please! Please, and then I'll go to sleep."

He's done this drill many times to know, and he likes her too much to decline. Mira's fascination with ocean life is easy to fulfil but tricky. Recently, she has taken a fondness for jellyfish. The blue ones that shimmer. One of the many new species that has appeared in the Atlantic waters.

Namor follows along with her yanking and crouches with her by the edge. Mira peers in, a blinding smile on her face. She's essentially bouncing with excitement. Besides, Mira has become his best entertainment. She has story after story lined up for him before she sleeps. She paints pictures of the Yucatán forests and Kyoto with her callow imagination.

"C'mon, faster," she urges.

"Okay," Namor manages to chuckle, shaking out the tension in his wrist joints. It never works when he's edgy. "The same as last time?"

"Yes!"

He mimics a claw at her cheek. "The big ones?"

She leans away, giggling.

He glances back at the still water enclosing the hut. This will be a feat since he isn't in a persuasive mood. The key to telepathy was a good connection. He controls the cyclone in his mind momentarily and focuses on the soft undercurrents nearby. Just a little further.

It's an instant, galvanic response; a fluther of jellyfish bob to the surface, igniting the blanket of darkness, pulsing in plumes of lacy braids. 

Mira's breathless adoration is worth it. She holds the creatures captive in her eyes, and each of the blue gleams reflects in them. He has seen her mother's magnetic brown in the forest soil or beached driftwood. In the teeth of erosion, there persists life.

"They're so pretty." Mira's voice is soft now; it doesn't fit with the delight she shows. 

Namor draws the baby closer and curls a protective arm around her. She angles forward restlessly, trying to create tiny ripples in the clear water. She tells him about her bathtub back home, and how her mother allowed her to use it every fortnight. 

He listens, lost in thought. His overrun mind lies with a grieving Kinara. His moral fibre is hugely trivialized because it took every bit of it to stop himself from spending the evening with her. He dreams deeply, of what it must feel like to see her unravel for him. But the laws of his realm are such that his yearns are punishment, and pride goeth before the fall. 

Mira reels about in his grasp, already yawning her teeth off. But her fingertips are still creating ripples on the waterline. 

He grins at this. "Come on, little plankton. Let's call it a day."

"Can I have a mango?" she asks sleepily, patting his cheek to get his attention. "Mango smoothie. Mommy makes those with ice. And milk. And vanilla."

If he knew what it was, he would've tried. He laughs at the absurdity of the child's request and rubs her back in a lulling motion. Utterly weak to the instinct that willed him to kiss her hair. At this rate, it'll be harder to let her go back to her kind. 

"I'm sure we can find some for you tomorrow," he promises her. "Now tell me... what else do you like to eat?"

She yawns again, setting her chin over his shoulder. "I like watermelon. Pomegranate. Limonada." She yawns once more. "Oranges. Aw, I want orange juice."

The routine is simple; the baby usually talks to herself to sleep. She'll mumble long chatters about her mother—and he didn't mind it all. The more he listened to the stories of hers, the more he felt to a fault. He silently envisioned himself far across the Atlantic, sitting on a stool in their old, warm, wooden house, in front of the mother and daughter, making every effort to construct the perfect omelette. Observing their rainy days constructing paper boats to float on puddles. Watching films from under a heavy cotton blanket. The sweetness of chocolate in the morning. The coconut scent of Kinara when she steps out of a steaming shower. Their daily visit to the park to watch pearly-white doves flock on tree branches. He resists, but the feeling is frantic. He wants it. 

Namor has never wanted to share the 'sweet innocence' of a human being. He assumed there was no such thing. Slavery, war, classes, empire, and ambition were his greatest influences. Listening to the baby talk, his mind begins to race. With a possibility of change. Perhaps seeking out the best of both his worlds. 

Then, without any warning, she spasms in shock, shrieking out. Namor jerks his head up to stare at her.

Namor pursues her gaze over his shoulder, and there he sees it, under the soft glow of the hut. A living manifestation of the moon. A gliding cowl hides the silver arrows he calls his eyes, and he waits there, breathing hard, heart racing. A spectre in the cavern.

The shadow raises his hand to the golden crescent on his chest... and reholsters his aim. This action catches Namor off guard; he tenses his grip on Mira. He's prepared for a wrangle—everything around him comes to a halt. 

Namor warily inspects him. Friend or foe?

"The girl you hold," the unexpected voice drags out. Mira is too scared to react, but her cheeks glisten with frightened tears. 

"Then you've come to die," Namor spits.

The shadow laughs darkly, his embalmed hands turning to fists. "I've died many deaths. This life is an indemnity."

"Who are you?"

"I am..." He seems to be at war with his senses. "A god."

Namor waits. "You don't fool me."

The trespasser's voice is guilefully light but full of malice. Reborn into retribution. "I'm here on sacred duty, Your Highness. Something almost impossible to put into words."

"Try," he growls.

"Khonshu would like to meet the consequence of his design." He directly points at Mira. "His vision of the world to come."

∞