Chapter Text
The life of reef merfolk centers around melodic vocalizations, henceforth to be referred to as “the song,” produced from a specialized organ in the throat. The primary function of the song is to attract and court partners during the mating season, but it is also utilized in hunting and other various social functions; pods have been observed using sound to herd fish into specialized traps. It is also theorized that the song may assist in the growth of young in the egg stage, as new parents have been noted to sing “lullaby-like” melodies. The song is unique to sun-attracted species residing within the photic zone. Deeper-dwelling species typically utilize other methods of courtship; thus, though inter-species pairing is hypothetically possible, difficulties in communication make instances of this uncommon (exacerbated by the fact that larger species such as leviathans tend to view the smaller variants as a food source). Reef merfolk who are unable to produce the song are typically left behind to survive on their own, and even those permitted to remain within a pod must often resign themselves to foraging for scraps.
- Dr. C. Winters, “Modern Studies in the Anatomy and Culture of Merfolk”
Sunlight dapples the water over the reefs as dusk fast approaches. Not far beneath the surface, a small group of mer herd a school of fish deeper into the corals, where an impenetrable dead end has been secured amongst driftwood scavenged from the currents. Silver flashes in the water as the school attempts to swerve away, but a sharp reverberation in the water stuns them and sends them frantically reversing course. Into the carefully crafted trap they go, and by the time they’ve changed direction once again, it is too late. The exit has been closed off, and there they will remain until the pod gathers for a feeding frenzy. The mers let out celebratory chirps for the conclusion of a successful hunt - all except for you, lurking behind strands of kelp and swallowing the singular minnow you’d managed to catch whole.
If you desire anything more, you will have to wait patiently. You know better to attempt to leech off a fresh catch. There is a very particular order of things in your pod, and given your already precarious position, you cannot afford to draw any negative attention. First the pod leaders will feast, followed by the hatchlings, new mothers, and elders. Then comes the priestess and the hunting team, and after they’ve had their fill, the youth who are still learning their roles will have their way with the remains. Then, finally, if there is anything left behind, you are permitted to eat. There is not always something left behind, so you try to catch strays that escape the grasp of the hunters whenever possible.
It’s not that you’ve done anything particularly wrong to end up in this position. You are compliant, polite, and quite good at crafting pretty little trinkets out of shells and other treasures. Seaglass is a particular favorite of yours, and you often offer gifts to higher-ranking members to encourage their continued tolerance of you. It works, to a certain extent, because they still haven’t driven you away. True acceptance will always be beyond you, however, for the simple fact that you are unable to sing.
As a hatchling, the entirety of your clutch had caught a particularly nasty disease. Some of your siblings did not survive. You had, but the resulting infection had damaged your throat to the point that singing would always be an impossibility for you. You are capable of speech, but because of the lingering pain, you are typically limited to a few syllables at a time. Unfortunately, no matter how hard you strive to make yourself useful, the collective opinion on one who cannot sing is disdain.
To them, you are useless.
Your remaining siblings had been more lucky than you, and at first they’d tried to support you. But the elders had a particular viewpoint of the ways of the world, and the pressure on your sibling’s shoulders was immense. There came a time when they needed to make a choice: adapt to the general consensus or join you as the pod’s disgrace. In the end, they’d all made the choice that benefited them, and you cannot bring yourself to blame them for it.
You are not sure if your mother and father even remember that it was their clutch that produced you, and even if they do, they’re sure to deny it if asked. No, their hatchlings are strong and fierce and beautiful. Their hatchings sing in voices so beautiful that even the goddess of currents would weep to hear them. You…you are a cursed thing that cannot possibly have been one of theirs.
It will still be a while before you’re able to check the feeding grounds for any leftovers, and you’d rather not catch the ire of anyone on their way to the feast. Since you have nothing better to do in the meantime, you will go to the sanctuary and pray before the goddess.
Inside a heavily decorated and pristinely maintained cave is a large altar, and upon the chiseled stone is a statue of an elegant woman with a tail that fans out like the rays of the sun. Her hair is dotted with tiny seashells, and her eyes are two perfectly round pearls. This is the goddess of currents, she who changes the seasons, she who creates and she who brings luck to those who pray before her.
She hasn’t really helped you out all that much, but you still pray.
My lady of currents, please bless me with ample food and good luck.
Your earfins flick listlessly and you sigh. Obviously you cannot expect a goddess to respond to you personally, but over time it becomes harder and harder to maintain your devotion.
Goddess, am I also useless to you?
A glint in the back of the cave catches your eye, and after a moment of hesitation you glide past the goddess’ statue to investigate. In the darkest corner, hidden behind some strategically-placed kelp, is another altar. There is no statue on this one, but the center dips down into a bowl-like shape, and engraved upon it is what appears to be another prayer: To the lords of the trenches I offer my blood. May your favor carry me gently through the dark.
This is no prayer you’ve ever heard of; in fact, to the most devout worshippers of the goddess, this would probably be considered a blasphemy. The fact that it is in your pod’s place of worship is, quite frankly, bizarre. Even more bizarre that no one has found this altar and disposed of it yet. Maybe, if you report it to the priestess, she’ll let you eat early today…
No, you already know that she won’t. She’ll tell you that you’ve pleased the goddess and that this on its own should be reward enough.
It is entirely on impulse that you fish around for a sharp enough shell and slide it across your palm. You hold your hand above the altar and watch the blood swirl as it falls to fill the little stone bowl.
…To the lords of the trenches I offer my blood. May your favor carry me gently through the dark.
You almost have to laugh at yourself. Here you are, making a blood offering to some cult deity behind your goddess’ altar. Honestly, what’s gotten into you? If the goddess cannot help you, who else will?
You leave the cave in a rush, long fins furling out behind you as you make yourself scarce. The gills between your ribs flare as you pick up speed and vanish into the kelp forest to wait until you are permitted to eat. The sand here is soft, so it’s a suitable place to rest and contemplate how stupid your actions just were. You can only hope the priestess won’t sense your blood in the sanctuary when she returns.
Flopping over on to your back, you lazily watch the kelp fronds sway in the currents. A shark passes above your head, but it’s smaller than you and not much of a concern. The second shark, though, quite large and moving in the same direction, is enough to get your attention. Has something died nearby? Sharks gravitate to blood in the water, and if you follow them, you might find something nice to supplement your diet. You don’t particularly feel like fighting the sharks for it, but the possibility of a few extra scraps is enticing enough to make you push off the seafloor and follow from a reasonably safe distance.
After you’ve been swimming for a few minutes, you realize that you’re moving into deeper waters. This is quickly taking you outside of your comfort zone, and you’re about ready to give up and turn around when the large shark you’d spotted earlier zooms past you in the direction you’d come from, as if something has startled it. The sight is so unusual that you just stare after it for a few seconds, dumbfounded, until it occurs to you to consider what exactly might’ve frightened a predator that large.
Nothing you want to encounter, almost certainly.
The sand slopes downwards here, and there is an outcropping of stone that you’re able to slip under while you contemplate your life choices. Once you’re sure you can escape safely, you plan to make a swift retreat. Food or no, nothing is worth becoming a meal yourself.
Yet nothing ever comes. No sound, no movement, nothing except a little seahorse that flits past your nose. It’s so small that it wouldn’t even be a bite for you, and you also find it cute, so you allow it to continue on its merry way as you ponder your next steps. The sun will be gone from the sky soon, so you should return before you have to find your way back in the dark -
Your earfins flare up in an arc on each side of your head as you hear what might possibly be the most mournful sound you have heard in your life: a single, subdued whimper that makes your heart sink. It’s a sound of pain, but nothing else follows it up, and you can only wonder if you’d just heard someone’s death cry. And even though you really, really shouldn’t go any deeper, you can’t resist the urge to investigate. Someone who’s crying so pitifully…you’d have to be heartless to just leave. You’ll just explore a little further.
You breach over a hill of sand that declines steeply on the other side, and it is here that you freeze. Scattered across the floor before you are large chunks of metal and wood, all twisted amongst nets and iron hooks. You’ve seen shipwrecks before, and though this is not an entire ship, it’s certainly a significant portion of one. It’s not the ship that has your undivided attention, however.
In the midst of the wreckage, tangled in netting, is the biggest mer you’ve ever seen. Almost three times your size, in fact. It’s impossible for mer who live in the shallows to grow this large. You, like most of your kind, have heard stories of leviathans, but they are treated as more of a legend rather than anything solidly real. If they do exist, they stay far away from the sunlit waters of the reefs, so they’ve never been of any true concern.
It’s almost certainly a leviathan you’re looking at right now.
The wise thing to do would be to swim away and never look back. You’re the perfect snack size for a creature this large, and the stories always say that leviathans aren’t picky about their food selection. However, the memory of that pitiful cry makes you too softhearted for your own good. Staying low to the ocean floor, your stomach brushes against the sand as you glide between bits of wreckage, ducking behind each one to see if you’ve been noticed. If the leviathan knows you’re here, he hasn’t shown any sign of it yet.
Once you’re just out of range, you tuck yourself behind a curved strip of half-rotted wood and peer out through the cracks. The leviathan’s tail is a bright red color, and little stripes of gold trail across large, ruffle-shaped fins. At this distance, you can finally make out what exactly the issue is: the net he’s tangled in is covered in nasty-looking metal hooks which have dug themselves deeply into the giant’s flesh. You can’t help but wince just from looking at it. He’s not moving, but you can see that his gills are still pumping water, so he’s still alive.
…Well, if I die, I die.
No one will miss you anyway.
You glide up to the leviathan’s side, and when you’re this close, you truly feel like a minnow in the shadow of a shark. The first hook you find is buried just beneath his gills; he’s lucky it didn’t land just a bit higher and damage them. Your hands slide around the curved metal, careful to avoid puncturing yourself on the sharp tip, and slowly work the hook out of his skin. He bleeds a little in the aftermath, but that’s the best you can do with the tools at your disposal (aka, nothing except yourself).
With one hook disposed of, you gain a bit of confidence as you dart back and forth around the leviathan’s body. You remove two hooks stuck between the scales of his tail and another that’s lodged deeply into his back. That leaves only one more, which is unfortunately stuck just beneath his neck. If you want to remove that one, you’re going to have to get all close and personal with his face.
“...”
You’ve come this far. No point in stopping now.
The angle is difficult here, so after circling about his head a few times, you determine the best way to do this is to duck beneath his arm and brace yourself against the sand so you can work at the hook from below. Once you’ve got yourself into position, you painstakingly work away at the hook bit by bit, tail curling gently around the leviathan’s side as you focus. You need to be especially careful with this one because it’s pressed against his collarbone, and you don’t want to accidentally make the injury worse.
You’ve tired yourself out considerably by this point, so you take a moment to rest and cycle oxygen. As your head lolls back against the sand, you glance up, and there you freeze as a jolt of pure terror stuns you into stillness.
At some point while you were working, the leviathan had lifted its head. Here you are, trapped under its arm with your hands on his chest and just about face-to-face with his mouth. This is quite certainly the most foolish predicament you’ve ever gotten yourself into.
Bright golden eyes stare you down, and you think that this just might be the day you die.