Archive of Our Own ^beta

The climb out of the Whale is long.

Outis insists that Dante go up first, to ensure their survival in case the Whale's body collapsed in on itself faster than expected— something they protested for all of fifteen seconds before Yi Sang, then Ishmael, then Faust, then all of the rest in quick succession voiced their agreement. Dante sighed, a loud echoing tick, before giving out the command for the Sinners to immediately climb up after them— in order of their numbers, to prevent a scuffle. This left Yi Sang to scramble up in a rush once Dante began to climb, with Outis and Gregor bringing up the rear, something Outis in particular seemed pleased about.

And it works— they all steadily haul themselves up, the somber silence punctuated by sighs, groans, Ahab's muffled wailing and Dante's quiet ticking as they regularly check on the Sinners. The chambers of the Pallid Whale's heart shudder and sway, the sound of the blood vessels erupting and breaking a storm in its own right— but the rope is steady and strong and does not snap or fray.

Ishmael's hands grasp coarse rope and she remembers— her hands shackled with whale oil that left sticky handprints on the rope Queequeg tossed to her (it had to be burned, later), her hands peeling and bleeding, brine seeping into her blood vessels as she clung to Queequeg's coffin, Queequeg's ropes— her hands now, soaked with the Pallid Whale's blood and viscera, renewing the blood stains left by Dante then Yi Sang, then Faust, then Don Quixote, then every sinner till the stale blood reached her still bleeding hands and every sinner after her with still bleeding hands. 

She is not the lone survivor as she climbs out of the pallid heart of vengeance. 

There is no empty coffin.

The rope did not snap.

Murky sunlight hits her, and Ishmael blinks against the dim light, too strong after the dull and dark Whale guts the Sinners had just traversed. The Outskirts are as dreary as ever and even though the Lake waters storm as one of it's Calamities drowns in its waters...she has never felt more at peace.

"Haaah, how long were we in there?" Ishmael sighs as she pulls herself out of the gash in the Whale's hide. She can't see any of the Whales that were resting in the Outskirts— what even had been the Elder's bait? But she's relieved. She doesn't see any way they could have escaped if all the Whales were still here and awake.

Nearby, Yi Sang attempts to answer but stops himself as a familiar nausea overtakes his expression, Don Quixote rushing to steady him as the Lake water roils and the Whale's corpse, despite the immense size of its carcass, tilts back and forth. The landsmen struggle to keep their footing, but Ishmael is a sailor— her feet remain steady.

"The time that has elasped since ingestion by the Pallid Whale is five hours and seventeen minutes." Faust, as calm and placid as ever responds. "If the expedition had taken forty three minutes more, Vergilius would have called the LCA to re-attempt retrieval, which had a high probability of ending in our assured deaths. It is fruitful that this did not occur." Before Ishmael can let out the sigh that's been building up during her explanation, Faust adds. "It is dawn, Ishmael."

"Hm," Ishmael murmurs, stopping in her tracks. "So it is."

She can hear the ticking of Dante's clock to her right, fussing over Yi Sang, Heathcliff's glance at her, a mix of concerned and exasperated that she pretends not to notice, Don Quixote's loud questions at the Indigo Elder, who is patient but not really answering any of them, and the sounds of the rest of the Sinners grumbling as they climb out of the Pallid Whale.

Salty air clings to her nose, her feet steady on skin of pallid white, leaving clear red footprints where she steps. The wind whips her hair around and at her side, her bloody harpoon and mace tangle into each other. They'll have to hurry back to Mephistopheles soon, she knows. Staying in the Lake Outskirts for longer than necessary can be a death sentence and their radio broke the moment they rowed into the maw of the Whale— they have a short amount of time to let Vergilius know the mission was successful.

A few seconds later, Gregor climbs out of the Whale, wincing as he nearly falls over when the Whale begins to sink, to collapse in on itself. Behind him, there is no one else.

Ahab will live, she is sure of it. But she will not help her do so. 

Ishmael turns away and the Indigo Elder hauls up the rope. She does not look back.

-

There's a bit of a panic as the Pallid Whale's corpse caves in— all the Sinners nearly fall off several times in the rush to board the Indigo Elder's skiff that had somehow survived the battle with the Whale. At least we don't have to swim back, Ishmael thinks as they all cluster in the boat, herself pressed between Dante and Outis as a couple of oars are passed around. It's cramped, especially with their weapons in the mix.

However, no one begins to row.

Instead, everyone simply sits quietly, letting the waves rock the skiff to and fro, oars held loosely in their hands as they watch the beast they killed start to sink, slowly, beneath the waves.

<What happens? After a Whale dies?>

Ishmael shrugs, her shoulder knocking against Dante's shoulder, the one that she had harpooned only a few weeks ago. "I'm not sure," she replies honestly, wincing at how the blood dried on her cheek pulls on the skin. Hopefully she has enough time once they get back to Mephistopheles to wash it off. "The only Whales and Mermaids I've ever seen killed or harmed sank back into the Lakes. And none were this huge. Maybe that's all that will happen here as well."

From the front of the boat, the Indigo Elder clears his throat, not once glancing their way. Instead he is staring at the dead mountain of a creature, a light of respect in his eyes. "When a Whale dies, it indeed sinks deep into the waters. The Mermaids escape by devouring the carcass from inside out. The Mermaids either get subsumed by another Whale or haunt the nearest Lakes like unmoored ships until they are killed or the Lake itself takes them. The Whale is left open for consumption by other creatures on the seafloor." He grunts, laying his harpoon aside. It's now that Ishmael remembers the Elder had killed a Calamity before— The All-Impaling Marlin Whale. Had he watched it sink, just as he watches the Pallid Whale now?

"The Great Lake is full of creatures, and many ships are careful of the Laws. The death of a Whale like this provides a source for food for a great many of those creatures, mermaids included." The Elder sighs, a simple exhalation of breath. "A fitting end, for a beast that has known nothing but consumption." 

To be devoured, as it once devoured, Ishmael completes in her head. She observes the corpse with a neutral detachment— her own emotions feel a bit too far away from her. Instead, she takes note of the scarred wounds on the Whale's hide— old ones, from the Pequod's mad chase and new ones, from the Elder's hunt. The scar unseen on it's inner heart, the blood of which covers her harpoon. She supposes this must make her even more of a mermaid— she clawed her way out of her Whale and her vengeance and she will now haunt Ahab's life forevermore— the bastard had never forgotten her and now she never would.

The ticking of a clock brings her out of her musings.

<Ishmael?>

She looks towards Dante, but they say nothing else— simply letting out a gentle chime that's perfectly clear over the howling winds. They press their shoulder back into hers, warmth seeping past the red coat. On her other side, Outis runs warm as well. 

A cold wind blows past, the wind and waves pushing the skiff further away from the Whale's corpse. 

"Guess that's a cue to leave~!" Rodya's voice calls over the storm. "It's getting kinda chilly here, dontcha think?" 

"Hm. L.G." 

"Let's go!" 

"That one was obvious—" 

Not another word about the corpse is said. Instead, Outis begins barking out orders, the skiff beginning to slowly row away. 

When she'd clung to life on Queequeg's coffin, she doesn't know how long it had been until she was picked up by the last ship they'd met The Rachel. All she could remember past that point was a bone deep cold that never left, like a phantom pallid membrane over her soul and bleeding hands. 

Now her hands are scraped and bruised and bleeding— but Dante will turn the clock soon. The Sinners voices overpower the storm and as she takes up an oar, her own voice joining the cacophony, Ishmael no longer feels cold. 

She walks onto Mephistopheles, Pequod's orphan no longer lonely.