Work Text:
Dies irae, dies illa
The world was once filled with light. The woman called Skadi had some happiness, once. She held it in her hands, and lost it, and found it once more.
Skadi—no, Ishar-mla; there's no sense in using their land-dwelling name for herself anymore—has felt nothing but sorrow, for a long, long time. The Seaborn blood that flows through her veins has become more and more excited as of late, as if it's trying to claw its way out of her skin. If she still had Gla-dia and Laurentina, she might worry about this. Certain death, at the hands of the thing she's fought so long against.
That's the thing, though. Rhodes Island broke their promise to her. Her beloved and her captain are both dead. Laurentina passed in her arms, smiling and covered in blood; the deathly black glass inside her spine had spread into her lungs. The doctors offered their condolences. This was not supposed to happen, Ishar-mla said softly, and brought the crystalized thing that had been her wife down to the shores of Iberia for a proper sea burial. And Gla-dia was ripped apart by something inhuman with too many claws and teeth that came up far too fast, far too strong. Ishar-mla never found the pieces, never found enough to put her back together.
Unable to survive on land, unable to drown in the sea. Ishar-mla is the last one left.
The Doctor has been… alright. Neither good nor bad—or, maybe, the good and bad neutralize each other. Rhodes Island broke their promise, but they were not without their own losses. Amiya is gone. Dr. Kal'tsit is gone. Ishar-mla has the lingering feeling that the latter is not dead, though she doesn't think much of that woman anymore. Dr. Kal'tsit, after all, was the one who broke the news of Laurentina's passing, was the one who said we did everything we could as Ishar-mla stood there numb with shock. (Dr. Kal'tsit confided that she, too, had lost a wife, but that did not make Ishar-mla feel any better.)
Gla-dia's death was far sicker. Unnecessary. Seaborn. She had the same blood as Ishar-mla, the same curse to become a monster. Inhuman. She turned against Ishar-mla, both of them still grieving Laurentina. You have changed, she said, and Ishar-mla said Perhaps I have. Gla-dia was not satisfied with this answer, and drew her sword. And then, the Sea Terrors came, crawling up in swarms with myriad sticky wet limbs and sharp teeth, and Gla-dia is no more.
But the Doctor still lives, the one remaining facet of what was once called Rhodes Island. They broke their promise. The Doctor is still here and Rhodes Island isn't and Gla-dia isn't and Laurentina isn't. The Doctor has not left Ishar-mla's side.
People were hurt because of her. People were killed because of her.
People are dead because the Doctor did not leave.
Ishar-mla wears her red dress, basking in its color. The one streak of brightness in an otherwise dreary world. An old man gave it to her, long ago, but she can no longer remember why. Her memories are soft, hazy things. She thinks, she thinks, it was when she became a singer. Will you sing for me?
She shall not. Her voice is no longer her own.
Ishar-mla wears a red dress, a white dress, a black dress. Ishar-mla is the Doctor's favorite, always has been. Dr. Kal'tsit said she could trust them. Please stay, the Doctor said, and Ishar-mla could not refuse.
I... want you to allow me to remain at your side. When the time comes, we will leave this place together, okay?
Nothing is left except for you and me.
If you are willing to come closer to me, we can cast those things aside... Become my blood kin, Dr. █████.
Ishar-mla wears her red dress, though she can't say why. Red was someone's favorite—someone special, someone important. A companion. A friend. A deep void, missing, gone. You look beautiful in red, the Doctor says, and Ishar-mla feels she might vomit.
Thank you, she says instead. Demure. She has learned how to handle humans like this—distasteful, complacent. She must make them trust her, unequivocally. It will all be worth it.
Ishar-mla is a red streak upon the beaches of Iberia, and the Doctor who has made themself at home in her a black trail by her side. Ishar-mla sings in Ægirean, nostalgic and familiar tales of home. Three hunters are walking on seacoast way. Only one hunter remains.
"Come to my home," Ishar-mla says suddenly.
The Doctor stops. "Wasn't Ægir destroyed?"
"It was." Ishar-mla pauses, considering her words carefully. "But I would create a new home with you." The Doctor doesn't answer. "Beneath the waves," she presses gently. "Come with me."
"I'm not your kind," the Doctor says. A reminder Ishar-mla does not need.
"I can take care of it," Ishar-mla says, and takes their hand in her own. "It is a great honor."
Together, they walk upon the shoreline, into the white surf that curls up to the sand. The sky is dark, as is the vast open water. Ishar-mla always enjoyed days like this: perfect for spending indoors, cozy and safe. For a moment she feels young again, remembering it, and then quickly snaps back to what she must do.
Ishar-mla leads the Doctor into the ocean. Ankle deep, knee deep, waist deep. It feels like coming home at last. Seawater sings against her skin; the person at her side grumbles a small complaint at its cold temperature. She pretends not to hear.
"Skadi," they say.
"Hmm?"
"Are you sure about this? I'm not an Ægir…"
"Come with me," she soothes. "Your true form is still waiting for you beneath the wave's depths."
They are easily convinced, squeezing onto her hand. Ishar-mla feels nothing. The water is chest deep, neck deep. Ishar-mla allows herself to be completely submerged, taking in deep lungfuls of seawater. The Doctor is barely keeping their head above.
"Come," she says again, and pulls them down.
