(not above anon, also, hope OP is still here) Op, your prompt is great and I wish an a!a would come along and fill it. In the meantime, here's something I wrote at four in the morning on a Thursday. If that wasn't telling enough, expect fail writing coming along your way. Also, there's a ship here if you squint, but I've found it best to leave implications as such. c:
I
We are made from seawater and bone, the saying goes – words he had heard a long time ago, spewed forth between gritted teeth and rum drenched lips. He knew this to be true: more than needing whispers and scents of tea and salty air on sheets and skin, he remembers the waves lapping at his feet as he first opened his eyes to a graying sky.
It occurred to him, remembering little pale hands dusted with golden warm sand, how waters would break to herald every birth. His was a confusing affair, drenched in cold and blinded by silver flashes of scale and fin. He was born thirsty and alone in the late afternoon, his throat raw and blazing, the acrid taste of salt strong in his mouth. It was a moment that flickered past his tongue into a hitch in his chest every time the sea breeze wafted through his hair.
He wondered if flesh could draw from foam. He’d always fancied the long rippling lines of the sea floor as the veins on his wrist. He delighted in tracing them, as one would the intricate carved patterns on a shell, his finger ending, always ending on his heart.
Perhaps he had been a pearl?
Sometimes, in the most silent of nights, he could hear the waves crashing on his coasts. Much like the aural marvel of a conch upon ear, the waves – they would sound like his heartbeat.
Among his siblings, he could hold his breath the longest. They often camped in the woods near the shores, when the fever of battle died down and the weather was forgiving. He was fond of wading through the shallow trenches, diving out of sight when his brothers called out for the hunt. His chest would burn as he struggled to keep himself from floating, but it was a peculiar sort of pain, of anguish than of airless agony. His lungs cried out for things it could not breathe. He knew that somehow he belonged to the deep. Once, and of this he felt certain, the saltine waters had flowed with his blood.
II
Jewels, he called them, no stone more precious than such. He loved the slick feel, the way the scales glowed under his fingers. They never minded him, busy with braiding seaweed and strange charms in his hair. They had the most beautiful tails, he always said, watching them glitter under the moonlight. The fairies thought otherwise, tugging at his shirt and insisting he play by the tree stumps and moss instead. They would fly at his feet, tripping him often and bribe him with nectar and colorful lights to stay the night at their hollow in the roots of some tree. Once he stepped on the sand though, they left. Not our lands, they would whisper, not our right. Only the foolish and young would dare venture out with him in the night. The elder ones were grateful for this, they had promised to look after him throughout his lifetime, but often the fools never came back.
He visited frequently.
Every so often they would sing, their voices high and unearthly. It was they who told him his first stories: of lands beyond mountains and shore, of battles wrought in steel and blood. They sang to him of wooden ships and sandaled toe, of silken cloth and heavy spice. It was they who taught him of a vast unending world.
One night, he had told them, he would tame the seas and witness the tales for himself. They had laughed, splashing at him, fins shaking in mirth. Yes, but you have yet to go, they would answer, but the glint in their liquid eyes held far greater truth. Yes, they told him, you will see, but you will do much more.
England Contemplates His Navel Over Tea, On a Late Afternoon in June (1/2)
I
We are made from seawater and bone, the saying goes – words he had heard a long time ago, spewed forth between gritted teeth and rum drenched lips. He knew this to be true: more than needing whispers and scents of tea and salty air on sheets and skin, he remembers the waves lapping at his feet as he first opened his eyes to a graying sky.
It occurred to him, remembering little pale hands dusted with golden warm sand, how waters would break to herald every birth. His was a confusing affair, drenched in cold and blinded by silver flashes of scale and fin. He was born thirsty and alone in the late afternoon, his throat raw and blazing, the acrid taste of salt strong in his mouth. It was a moment that flickered past his tongue into a hitch in his chest every time the sea breeze wafted through his hair.
He wondered if flesh could draw from foam. He’d always fancied the long rippling lines of the sea floor as the veins on his wrist. He delighted in tracing them, as one would the intricate carved patterns on a shell, his finger ending, always ending on his heart.
Perhaps he had been a pearl?
Sometimes, in the most silent of nights, he could hear the waves crashing on his coasts. Much like the aural marvel of a conch upon ear, the waves – they would sound like his heartbeat.
Among his siblings, he could hold his breath the longest. They often camped in the woods near the shores, when the fever of battle died down and the weather was forgiving. He was fond of wading through the shallow trenches, diving out of sight when his brothers called out for the hunt. His chest would burn as he struggled to keep himself from floating, but it was a peculiar sort of pain, of anguish than of airless agony. His lungs cried out for things it could not breathe. He knew that somehow he belonged to the deep. Once, and of this he felt certain, the saltine waters had flowed with his blood.
II
Jewels, he called them, no stone more precious than such. He loved the slick feel, the way the scales glowed under his fingers. They never minded him, busy with braiding seaweed and strange charms in his hair. They had the most beautiful tails, he always said, watching them glitter under the moonlight. The fairies thought otherwise, tugging at his shirt and insisting he play by the tree stumps and moss instead. They would fly at his feet, tripping him often and bribe him with nectar and colorful lights to stay the night at their hollow in the roots of some tree. Once he stepped on the sand though, they left. Not our lands, they would whisper, not our right. Only the foolish and young would dare venture out with him in the night. The elder ones were grateful for this, they had promised to look after him throughout his lifetime, but often the fools never came back.
He visited frequently.
Every so often they would sing, their voices high and unearthly. It was they who told him his first stories: of lands beyond mountains and shore, of battles wrought in steel and blood. They sang to him of wooden ships and sandaled toe, of silken cloth and heavy spice. It was they who taught him of a vast unending world.
One night, he had told them, he would tame the seas and witness the tales for himself. They had laughed, splashing at him, fins shaking in mirth. Yes, but you have yet to go, they would answer, but the glint in their liquid eyes held far greater truth. Yes, they told him, you will see, but you will do much more.