And better, probably, that he'll still be actually prodding at the panels when she arrives, intent on pushing his mind forward rather than freezing in utter frustration.]
Around 10 fathoms in most of the Channel. I think-- nearly 1,000 fathoms in much of the Bay of Biscay. Out in the proper middle, it...
[They're in outer space. The infinite stretches out at their feet while they drink their morning coffee. Thinking about the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean still gives him the delighted shivers.]
[Even out here. Even bumping into all these new worlds and new versions of reality.
And he knows he's really not doing it justice.] Would... you mind if I...?
[He's made quite the habit of keeping everything clamped down since beginning to understand how much information the empathy bond could casually convey. Still, the best way to explain the sea had to be simply remembering the sea.]
[Reaching for her hands, at least, is entirely natural now. What comes with a bit more concentration is actually relaxing (carefully, precisely, only around the edges of the ugliness).
No help for the wave of emotional static--the unpleasant wave of self-doubt that still lingered constantly around the edges--but then it's just the cool dark tones of the stormy northern Atlantic practically radiating from him, working to crystalize into a proper memory rather than the almost romantic impression that lives constantly in his imagination.]
[ ahsoka has been to many planets. deserts, icy plains, dark worlds. she's even had an extended mission in mon calamari, where everyone resided underwater. but it wasn't like this. mon cal was warmer, lit up from the inside. this was cold and fathomless, but possessing a strange, frosty beauty that seems to decorate every tide. ]
[A careful exhale, and the edges get properly sharp. An actual day; an actual moment leaning against the rail of an actual tall ship, fingers tense against an abating wave of actual nausea. A moment of soaring contentment watching the small grey-green waves lapping against the weather-beaten hull--and an abrupt plunge of spirits at the sensation of a rough hand clamping tight down on his shoulder for a sharp backward tug--
No. Not that one. Not falling into fear again.
A brighter, clearer day with infinitely bluer waves. A low, nervous bustle just behind as he leans once again over the rail, watching the slowly rising lap of waves against the painted wood. A careful exhale, a deep inhale; a moment of tumbling sensations as he hefts himself over the rail for the dizzying plunge of being lowered beneath the waves. A complete sensation of the sea--bitingly cold despite the sun overhead, constantly moving and tugging at clothes and hair and skin, stinging with the taste and sensation of salt as he fights his momentum to look back at the ship just beneath the waves where the jagged square hole was bleeding water into the ship--
No. Not another failure.
A memory of complete darkness, musty and tight. A sudden shift to blinding brightness, resolving through the heavy bars of the prison door. A clear moment when the oppressive sense of dust and filth is replaced with the sharp scent of salt water catching at the nostrils. A further moment of blinding as the door swings open and a stumbling step forward brings the sun properly into his eyes, and then the wonderful resolution of the pale blue sea stretching out just beyond the edge of the cliff they're perched on.
His mind settles there for a long moment, holding those first few moments of stepping free from Ferrol in the front of his mind, pressing that sensation of finally seeing the ocean again from his mind into hers with all the clarity he can muster.]
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I'll be here.
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[Better?
And better, probably, that he'll still be actually prodding at the panels when she arrives, intent on pushing his mind forward rather than freezing in utter frustration.]
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Pressing random buttons will only get you so far.
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They've been moderately principled presses.
[Based on his own internal logic and not necessarily the function of the panel, but still.]
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[ she surveys the panel. she's not the technological wizard anakin is, but ahsoka has a strong background in mechanics. after a quiet hum, she nods. ]
Okay, so there are three sections. Geographical location on a specific planet, time and logistics.
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Won't time be a bit... fiddly?
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[help him his mind wasn't built for non-local systems]
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[He's working on that, conceptually.]
And... hm.
[She can see why this has been going poorly.]
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We'll figure this out, not to worry.
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It's quite cold. Half the time it's the most beautiful grey, like... they sky made deeper.
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[They're in outer space. The infinite stretches out at their feet while they drink their morning coffee. Thinking about the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean still gives him the delighted shivers.]
...much deeper, I'd hazard.
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[Even out here. Even bumping into all these new worlds and new versions of reality.
And he knows he's really not doing it justice.] Would... you mind if I...?
[He's made quite the habit of keeping everything clamped down since beginning to understand how much information the empathy bond could casually convey. Still, the best way to explain the sea had to be simply remembering the sea.]
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Go ahead.
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No help for the wave of emotional static--the unpleasant wave of self-doubt that still lingered constantly around the edges--but then it's just the cool dark tones of the stormy northern Atlantic practically radiating from him, working to crystalize into a proper memory rather than the almost romantic impression that lives constantly in his imagination.]
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No. Not that one. Not falling into fear again.
A brighter, clearer day with infinitely bluer waves. A low, nervous bustle just behind as he leans once again over the rail, watching the slowly rising lap of waves against the painted wood. A careful exhale, a deep inhale; a moment of tumbling sensations as he hefts himself over the rail for the dizzying plunge of being lowered beneath the waves. A complete sensation of the sea--bitingly cold despite the sun overhead, constantly moving and tugging at clothes and hair and skin, stinging with the taste and sensation of salt as he fights his momentum to look back at the ship just beneath the waves where the jagged square hole was bleeding water into the ship--
No. Not another failure.
A memory of complete darkness, musty and tight. A sudden shift to blinding brightness, resolving through the heavy bars of the prison door. A clear moment when the oppressive sense of dust and filth is replaced with the sharp scent of salt water catching at the nostrils. A further moment of blinding as the door swings open and a stumbling step forward brings the sun properly into his eyes, and then the wonderful resolution of the pale blue sea stretching out just beyond the edge of the cliff they're perched on.
His mind settles there for a long moment, holding those first few moments of stepping free from Ferrol in the front of his mind, pressing that sensation of finally seeing the ocean again from his mind into hers with all the clarity he can muster.]
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