Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sea is kind.

It provides, it makes clean; it renews and baptises. 

Sunday has never once doubted its mercy, nor its wrath. He has been beholden to many an arrogantly fallen ship, and he has admired from below the cautious few who pay it care and mind. 

It lulls sailors to sleep with a gentle melody that clouds the lungs and shrouds the senses, and it refracts beauteous sights at the pompous few who tread above, colored by the myriad shimmer of stars or the effervescent glow of the sunset.

To be born unto the sea is to be one with it, and to be without is a hollow kind of torment. 

Sunday cannot fathom it, he thinks, cannot begin to realize such a stinging, potent ache. He imagines that the only thing that might ever come close is the thought of losing his beloved Robin, that that would result in a pain most agonizing.

But Sunday dislikes wasting precious time on such despairing thoughts. To be wary and cautious is one thing, but to be weighed down is fruitless. He works hard to keep such concerns at bay, tries to stifle that suffocating sense of trepidation that fills his limbs and clouds his senses inky black when his sister indulges in midnight swims to breach the surface.

Robin is as brave as she is optimistic, too much so for Sunday’s liking. She enjoys the sea breeze, the sight of the moon glaring brilliantly bright and unbroken by the waves overhead. She drifts to the surface when she thinks her brother is asleep amidst the coral and the weeds, unconscious far below the sea foam caps that drift above. 

Their caretaker, Mister Gopherwood, has voiced his thoughts many times on the nature of the surface. He has discussed in great length the poaching and massacring of their kind, the dangers their existence presents. It does not bode well for beings like them to dwell on the humans that breeze along the waters, what with their lofty boats and their priceless jewels. 

They do not understand the sea as those who are born unto it do, he proclaims, and Sunday agrees.

What does a human know of the invisible ties that bind such as these?

But it seems that keeping one’s concerns at bay is a luxury that cannot always be afforded, that there is a fine line between being naive and being haunted by possibilities that might never come.

Such are Sunday’s thoughts when he’s tangled in a woven net rife with hooks, feels them bite into his flesh.

The window to act is slim, and the current is strong  as it surges against the ship’s hull.

Sunday pushes blindly, feels his knuckles graze along his sister’s shoulder. Robin is swept aside with the current, eyes wide as the dawn as a spear clips through the waves and bleeds bubbles below the surface. It threatens to pierce her arm as she reaches, mercifully misses. 

It cuts clean through the deep sea and nearly clips scales that glint silver and cerulean, bobs back to the surface as Sunday is dragged to it.

Robin reaches, all claws and gills and a pulsing halo as she gives a magnificent thrust of her tail, but it’s to no avail.

Sunday coughs when he breaches the surface, her fingertips ghosting the sea foam that roils and rocks against the wood of the ship’s bow. To breach the surface now would prove futile and would damn them both, would only expose a matching set, and merfolk are far too rare a commodity to risk.

Sunday bites back a whine as the hooks shift in his flesh, hears his twin cry out and swallow a sob of frustration, and the sound evaporates and melds with the waves that rock him against the man-made structure.

Robin’s features are shattered beneath the surface, a broken visage, and Sunday gasps as he strains against the net. The sky is dark and the moon hides behind the clouds, and Sunday cannot see more than a handful of inches in front of him in such dreary conditions. 

The ocean sprays up below him as it rocks the boat, like its reaching for him. But even that begins to fade as he feels the net rise higher and higher, beneath him an abyss.

His arms are caught in thick tangles of rope that have him writhing, teeth bared. The knots burn against his flesh as he struggles, feels the fibers drag over his torso and wrists, and Sunday gasps at the loss of the sea and its warmth, ears ringing as the chilly evening breeze tears through his hair.

The world on the surface is dark, and it is cold. This is the first time in years that Sunday has ever dared to breach it, and the circumstances are - regrettably - far from stellar.

It’s nearly impossible to discern the ocean from the sky, save for the stars that dot the inky black, and eyes of molten gold narrow as he breaches the rails of the grandiose ship. His ribs catch on the rail, wooden edge digging in, and he bites out a cry of surprise as he swears he hears something crack as the ship lists to the side.

Water drips from his lashes, his hair, and he slides along the planks of the deck with a torrent of it. His tail beats against the uneven wood, free of the hooks that have him covered in pinpricks that bubble up with crimson, and it’s hardly any time at all before ropes have stayed his fins, too.

Sunday is not used to restraints. The dry edges of the ropes sting, the knots painfully effective, and his tail is forced to still as it’s pulled in two different directions, flat against the deck. 

Sunday scrabbles at the deck with clawed fingertips in an attempt to flee, to sit himself upright, gasping for air and shivering violently in the cool of the evening breeze. 

There is, thankfully, more light aboard the ship. 

Torches blink amber, line the deck, and Sunday peers up from beneath silver lashes to make out the dozens of faces that leer at him with emotions that range from unbridled curiosity to a sick sense of triumph. It’s confusing, the sudden weight of gravity pulling at his bones, clawing at his insides.

Sunday’s pulse thunders in his ears; he thinks it sounds like the waves that beat against the ship far below, and something deep within aches furiously.

His tail thumps indignantly against the wood, the movement hardly enough to warrant much of a reaction at all, but the crew is quick to move. There are hands that rest on the hilts of swords, others that hurry to join those who grasp their lines tight and anchor him to the deck against his will.

But all eyes remain on his tail, on the scales that shifT and cast a dizzying array of color over their faces, and Sunday furrows his brow. 

It’s as though they are cautious to touch it, he thinks, and he swallows at that. It makes sense, what with the rumors he’s heard from many a fellow sea dweller:

Mortals have started vying for our scales as trophies. Is there anything that they won’t seek to take?  

Wings flare and he grits his teeth as the ropes about his waist and arms grow unbearably tight, and blood wells along his forearms where the hooks bit into the curve of his elbow. The fibers cut deep, and the sudden shock of the night air has Sunday shuddering with fluttering gills.

Sunday is not meant to be above the surface, not like this, but chances of escape grow thin when the crew parts and he’s accosted with the sight of a young man, gilded and clothed in gaudy shades of teal and midnight black and gold.

Sunday has not seen many mortal crews in the flesh before. He’s watched from the safety of the depths below where they cannot glimpse him, but Gopherwood had always been clear in his explanations of the order of things above the water.

Yes, Sunday thinks with a sinking sensation as his nostrils flare and he presses back against the rails of the deck, this young man is exactly what he’d imagine a captain to be.

White linen parts over his chest beneath a weighty coat, and the torchlight catches the facets of the jewels that linger there. He’s clad in gold and treasures - loot, undoubtedly - that shine and shimmer, and Sunday notes the melodic chime that accompanies every step he takes, trinkets clinking against one another in a most harmonious way. 

But, most curiously, there is an eyepatch that rests against his right eye. It glints brilliantly bright, inlaid with precious metals to match the rest of his egregious attire, and Sunday’s lips purse as he glares upward with narrowed eyes. 

The tips of his claws dip into the wood at his sides as though it is soft, and he considers tearing at the ropes that are still slung over his torso in an attempt to free himself.

But the odds of being able to slip back over the railing with his tail secured are slim, especially with the aching pain in his ribs that’s begun to grow in the absence of his initial panic, and Sunday is not one to stake his chances of escape on something so unreliable.

Jeweled fingertips wave the crew aside so the blond can take a look, can properly appraise their newest catch, and Sunday finds his claws dig even deeper beneath that curious, watchful eye.

“Were there others?” The captain’s voice is melodic. It settles in Sunday’s ears most pleasantly, like that of a siren’s, and he shudders at that.

“No, sir. None that we managed to snag, at least.” One of his subordinates is quick to reply, and Sunday files that response away.

Because that means that - mercifully - they must have been trawling. But Sunday has never seen a fisherman’s net embedded with wickedly sharp hooks before, not like the one he’d found himself tangled in, and something about that sours his insides.  

Perhaps mortals are sampling new ways to catch others like him, and Sunday longs to loose a hiss at that.

Even so.

Their nets - regardless of how barbaric - being cast over the side of the ship in such an obsolete area is not indicative of discovery. It means that Robin is safe, that Sunday’s home far below is still hidden away, and that grants him a modicum of comfort amidst the fraying ropes and bitter evening chill.

Sunday shivers violently as a breeze rakes through his hair, gills fluttering in the open air, and that seems to catch the captain’s attention. 

His inquisitive gaze flickers from the man at his side back to the creature in their grasp, dances along the ropes that have Sunday rooted on the spot and the  marks that mar the pale surface of his skin from where they’ve rubbed.

There’s the start of a bruise against the creature’s ribs, likely the result of an injury accrued while being brought aboard, and the blond purses his lips. He seems to not like that, his gaze narrowing, and Sunday shifts and adjusts his hands so his claws are no longer buried in the woodgrain, fingers splayed out atop the deck.

That, it seems, is a mistake. 

No sooner had Sunday moved than at least a dozen swords are drawn and directed at him, glinting in the amber glow of the torches, and one rests dangerously at his throat, threatening to press inward. 

Sunday’s eyes blow wide, and he chokes on a gasp. The tip digs into his skin, threatens the vein that thrums beneath the surface, and Sunday is careful to ball his fingers into fists at his side lest any movements urge that sword to swing.

“Now, now. That’s hardly necessary.”

Fingers dipped in gold dance along the blade, catch the edge, and Sunday swallows as the captain coos with a wicked glint to his gaze. But it’s directed at the sword and the one who wields it rather than him, and there’s some comfort to be had in that.

“We’re not brutes, after all.”

The blond flicks the blade aside, a peal sounding as his jewelry chimes against it, and Sunday thinks it’s quite odd how careless the man is being with such a formidable weapon. 

His actions seem enough to urge the surrounding sailors to stow their blades, but those eyes remain fixated on the creature pinned to the deck, tail still bound beneath a series of ropes. It thumps against the deck once more, indignant, and the blond regards the sinewy length of it diligently.

“Welcome aboard the Domina Fortuna.” The blond pauses, gaze alight. “Can you speak?”

It takes Sunday a moment to realize that the captain is addressing him, and he is silent and careful to keep his expression passive.

To divulge any information - no matter how insignificant - will only lead to his captors knowing more about him than he does them. No, Sunday thinks as he sinks against the rails and lets his claws dip into the heels of his hands, he won’t entertain any line of questioning.

Even if said inquiries drip from a melodic tongue and are accompanied by a pretty face.

The young man seems to find some humor in that, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. His eye crinkles at the edges as he sighs, rests on one knee at Sunday’s side, far too close to be within reason. The crew must echo the sentiment, concern tearing over their features, and Sunday wonders if such flippancy is a staple for him, or if it’s a side effect of his youth.

Sunday considers taking a swipe at him, thinks he might be able to leave a mark that will scar for years to come if he moves quickly, but that eye is careful beneath the amusement that has it alight.

It becomes evident that the young captain is not quite as careless as he seems.

The blond tries again, peers down at him and the gills that flutter where the creature’s shoulder meets the column of his throat. He marks the pale blue that’s dappled along the creature’s skin here and there, eyes traveling further south to map out the scales that begin at his hips and line that carefully trapped tail.

That eye flickers back to Sunday’s gills, seems to note something, and Sunday swallows and inhales the scent of the sea as the boat creaks and rocks against the waves.

“…Can you sing?”

Sunday cannot. 

He hadn’t been as fortunate in his recovery as his sister after their accident as children, can only hum a meager tune that treats the wound on the surface and not the root cause. No, he cannot sing the way others can after catching a stray fishing hook from lingering too close to a lone boat, curious, and therein lies his most notable weakness. 

Sunday stays his tongue, holds the other’s gaze, peers up beneath silver lashes with eyes of liquid gold.

The captain sighs, and - much to the chagrin of his crew - plops down against the deck and rests an elbow atop his knee, leans back and anchors himself in place with his other hand. Silver brows furrow at that, confused, and the rapid rise and fall of the creature’s chest momentarily slows.

“You’d like for me to believe that you can’t speak, wouldn’t you?” The blond quirks a brow, and he reaches up with glinting fingertips to tap carefully at the eyepatch that hangs over one eye. “But taking your lack of compliance at face value would be remiss of me. It would make me a rather poor captain, now, wouldn’t it.”

His last statement is not a question at all, and Sunday stifles a grimace as it becomes apparent that he’s misjudged the blond in his youth. He watches as that curious eye sweeps over him once more, appraising, and he raises a hand.

“Keep a careful eye on him, and drop the ropes.” 

There’s a flurry of movement and a plethora of voices ready to vocalize their dissent, but the blond’s tone is hollow when he speaks again. 

“He won’t be able to make it back to the sea in this state, and we can’t hold him here all evening.”

“Chains, Captain Aventurine?” A stray voice speaks up, and Sunday’s eyes widen fractionally at that.

The captain - Aventurine - regards Sunday with a pleased look, drinks in his reaction like he’s just won a bet, and he realizes his error. 

“Unnecessary. Bind his wrists with rope for now. This treasure may not be able to sing,” Sunday blatantly frowns at that lilting tone, narrows his gaze and earns a chuckle, “but he can understand us just fine.”

The ropes about Sunday’s tail slacken, enough so that he can wriggle and push himself further upright against the rails at his back. He does so in an attempt to ease the searing pain that clouds his senses with every rattling breath he takes, and the movement has him gasping and a palm splayed out flat against his ribs. 

The tips of his claws ghost over every ridge of bone, and Sunday winces as an aching pain resonates from a singular spot in his chest.

“Oh?” Aventurine hums in earnest, a brow raised, and he dips in a bit closer. 

Sunday notes the hands that come to rest once more on hilts at the captain’s back, like perhaps they believe it to be a ploy, and he thinks maybe he should take advantage of the fact the ship’s captain has drawn uncomfortably close to examine his wound. But to move now, to lash out feels like an impossibility when every movement above the waist has his insides screaming in protest.

Sunday grits his teeth, eyes narrowed. Aventurine takes stock of the expanse of his torso, still marred with streaks of lavender from the ropes and dotted with pinpricks from the net, and he sighs.

“You are a generational catch, and I can’t deliver broken goods.” Aventurine murmurs, and the words flit between his teeth like they’ve soured his insides. His attentions turn elsewhere for a heartbeat, casting a glance over his shoulder at a member of the crew.

The ropes slacken further as the others strain to listen, and Sunday bites back a garbled whine of pain as the ship rocks, tries to anchor himself further against the rail of the deck. He grits his teeth, eyes molten with irritation, and a thought occurs.

“I’ll need one of you to fetch a medic once we dock at dawn — ”

Fins collide with the young captain’s profile with a thwack!, tail a shimmering blur as it cuts through the sea-kissed air, and Sunday watches with a smug grin as Aventurine’s hat is blown clean off his head, champagne waves falling over his face as he yelps in surprise and catches himself against the deck.

The crew is quick to react, and Sunday is not the least bit surprised when the cool, biting edge of a blade is once again pressed against the column of his throat. But he’s now realized that he’s in no danger of being killed, not like this, not when the captain himself is so very adamant that his value lies in his wellbeing. 

Aventurine’s lips fall open in shock, a palm coming to cradle his cheek. He chokes on a breath, hair a tussled mess, and the side of his face where Sunday’s slapped him with his tail is brilliantly red. That shifting eye of melded color flickers from his hat - already in the process of being scooped up by one of his subordinates - to the sea creature who’s preening at the disheveled sight of him.

Sunday eyes are alight and his tail coiled, and Aventurine blows out an irritated chuckle. The wings at his temples flare and that preternatural halo blinks, victorious, and Aventurine wonders what exactly the nature of such a smug, haughty beast might be.

But that’s for the good doctor to determine, not him, and he accepts his hat from one of his crewmen, brushes his knuckles along it in a show of dusting it off. He settles it back atop his head, and this time, his lips quirk up in earnest.

“I’d had every intention of avoiding this, if possible, but it seems you’ve forced my hand. It’ll have to be the brig for you.” 

Sunday blanches at that, and the prideful smirk on his lips evaporates as the blond takes a step toward him, leans at the waist to curl a finger beneath his chin and urge the blade aside. 

Aventurine forces those eyes up, maintains that simmering contact, and Sunday swallows beneath his touch.

Mortals are warm, he thinks, uncomfortably so, and the ocean sprays at his back as he sinks against the rails. Aventurine surveys him curiously, cheek still  and stinging, and Sunday’s lips draw back in a carefully curated sneer.

The blond wants to laugh at that, because it almost feels as though the creature in his grasp refuses to properly bare his teeth lest it appear unsightly. His grip on Sunday’s chin tightens and his breath breezes over his features, and he chuckles.

“How curious.”

With that, the captain straightens and steps aside, and the ropes that had tightened along Sunday’s tail after his show of insubordination do not lessen this time.

“Do be careful with him. Wouldn’t want our dear doctor friend to be dissatisfied with the state he receives him in.”Aventurine tosses the order over his shoulder, flippant and carefree, and Sunday is seething as his wrists are bound and he’s hauled up by two burly men.

His wings ruffle and his rhinophores ache in the chilly evening air, and he swallows down a cry of discomfort at the pain in his ribs as he’s carried, tail trailing useless behind him.

The crewmen anchor him along their shoulders, descend below deck and into the shadows. It takes a while for eyes of glinting gold to adjust, for Sunday to swallow down the wave of nausea that threatens from the way the ship lists to and fro with every roiling wave that beats against the sides of it.

Below deck is damp and cool, and Sunday’s nose wrinkles as he’s maneuvered through the shadows and past a narrow doorway. There’s an acrid stench, the kind that lingers in the lungs and spreads throughout the chest like poison, and he stifles a wheezing cough that has him reeling as that pain lances through his insides at the sudden influx of air in his lungs.

Sunday blinks, swears he hears something metallic clanking, and the ropes about his wrists burn. He gasps at the sudden lack of support, rolls along damp, rotting planks of wood, and the fact he cannot even use his hands to soften the blow has his eyes ablaze and his ears stinging.

There comes the sound of metal scraping, and Sunday manages to prop himself upright, glares up from the floor. It’s nearly impossible to see, the only light a dim lantern that swings precariously overhead, and it becomes apparent that this must be the “brig” that Aventurine had mentioned with such disdain.

Metal bars rife with rust cage Sunday in, tail curled about his hips. There’s not enough space to sit comfortably, barely enough room for his inhuman body as it is, and the two men are quiet as they turn the key in a questionable looking padlock.

Sunday would attempt to bargain, but those faces are shrouded in suspicion, and he thinks it’s perhaps best to keep his mouth shut, even if the captain has already seen through his refusal to speak.

The two men step out of the poorly lit room hastily, and Sunday shivers in the damp chill. There’s little warmth to be had here, and there is no water to sink into, no seabed to recline against. The air is rancid and the wood is rotten, and Sunday thinks - if not for his injury that throbs with every pulse of his heart - he might be inclined to tear at the wood until his claws are bloody and his fingers are littered with splinters.

The water hums below, close enough that Sunday swears he can taste it. 

He shudders, a violent thing that wracks his frame, and Sunday is alert as his teeth clatter and he curls unto himself. He’ll stay awake, will do whatever is necessary to keep his eyes open, he tells himself.

But the day has been draining and the night horrific; his bones are weary and his eyelids are heavier than usual.

Sunday sniffles, grits his teeth and sinks to the floor.

He swears he can hear something in the water that thrums just out of reach, a melodic, tragic hymn that lingers in his ears and sings in his bones. 

Like someone is mourning.

Chapter Text

Merfolk do not dream.

There are no nightmares, no nightime fantasies playing out behind closed eyes.

Rather, they are lulled into a calming state of dreamless unconsciousness by the waters they are born unto. The currents stir up the sand of the sea bed, silken fins rippling with the undercurrent of the waves. Hues of sheer color sway in time with the tide as they slumber; an undulating motion, the ocean singing its placating, sonorous lullaby. 

Such a rhythm soothes, and the sea is kind in her pursuit of encouraging her children to rest. It whispers melodies in their ears as they drift along a shapeless ocean of calm, walking along the fine line that separates those who wander the waking world high above and those who occupy the slumbering depths below. 

Perhaps it has something to do with the strange connection those born unto the waters have with the it, or perhaps it is just an odd facet of merfolk nature that belongs solely to them.

Sunday is not entirely certain himself, but he is painfully aware of such an aspect of his inhuman personage as he sits, trapped somewhere deep in the belly of a gaudy captain’s ship and unable to sleep.

Every roll of the waves sends the vessel listing side to side. It’s not like the gentle currents he’s used to traversing, and - to be frank - it’s nauseating, being confined to such a tight space and subjected to the rocking of the ship. There’s nothing for him to grasp, to hold fast to besides rotting bars and moldy wood, and he sways in time with the waves as the grandiose vessel surges over the crest of another heavy swell. 

He cannot rest, not under these conditions, and there are no soothing waters to clear his mind and lull him to sleep.

Insides roiling, the space between his ribs still aching something fierce with every undulating breath, a gasp of discomfort flits between the mermaid’s teeth.

He sinks against the wood at his back, feels the soft of it nearly cave beneath the weight of him. The scales enveloping the lower half of his body glint in the lowlight, sheer caudal fins catching the amber glow. They shimmer warmly, gossamer shades of periwinkle. Considering the net and the rough treatment he’d received upon being hauled aboard, Sunday must admit that it could have been far worse.

The delicate fins on his back and tail could have been torn to oblivion, could’ve been so shamelessly disrespected upon the crew’s piteous attempt at towing him over the deck’s railing that he might never be able to ride the currents the same again.

As though he isn’t currently trapped on a ship with an invisible hourglass hovering above his head.

Because it is a harrowingly probable possibility, isn’t it? That he will never get the chance to peruse the ocean’s current again under more ideal circumstances? Or at all, even.

Sunday shakes his head, feels the sting of such a thought course through his veins with pursed lips and silver brows furrowed. It won’t do him well to dwell on such abysmal thoughts, but his line of thinking is quick to devolve from there.

He could’ve been maimed upon capture. Filleted, perhaps, cut up and doled out to the highest bidder.

Sunday does not know what lofty price the flesh of a mermaid may fetch on the surface, but Mister Gopherwood had always detailed in length the way others like him had been quartered and sold almost immediately upon detainment.

Humans kill. It is a characteristic of their nature as cruel as it is inexorable. 

There are no merfolk dwelling on the surface because none are ever left alive. 

The scales, of course, are always harvested from the carcasses. It’s not necessarily new. Mister Gopherwood had voiced his concerns in the past, had passed on cautionary tales that detailed such heinous acts, and many passing through Sunday’s humble underwater haven had similar tales to share.

Haven’t you heard? Not a scale is ever left behind, not anymore. They tear them from us to keep as tokens.

He shudders in disgust at the thought, feathers ruffling at his ears.

Sunday cannot even begin to fathom such a thing. To tear one’s body apart just for the sake of stealing a trophy? And one so small, at that.

Sunday shifts against the rotting planks, damp air filling his nostrils. The halo at the crown of his head fazes through the wood, hardly there at all, and silver lashes knit together.

He supposes that a potentially broken bone is a small price to pay in return for the comfort of a - albeit rotting - cell. The haughty nature of the ship’s captain may leave a sour taste in his mouth, but he’s relieved that he seems so very adamant that Sunday remain in one piece. Survival is, mercifully, the least of his worries.

A shiver jolts down his spine, arms wrapping tightly about his torso, flesh dappled with swirls of silver and blue. He wishes he’d been given some scrap of clothing, something to keep him warm tucked so far below deck. That, and Sunday has always disliked having his midriff exposed, enough so that Robin had taken up knitting to sneak him little gifts here and there.

Sea foam tunics were woven from what she could harvest along the surface, drawn down and spun along her fingers like a silken web. 

Such commodities evaporate on the surface in the open air - much to Sunday’s chagrin - and unless his captors bequeath him with a spare cotton shirt or coat, he’ll have to make do for now.

For now. 

And how long with that be?

Sunday shifts, hisses in pain and grasps at his ribcage. The scent of mildew and rot lingers in his lungs, and the wings at his ears flare at the stench. The chill has both his halo and rhinophores in disarray, and it blinks faintly in the dark in frustration.

Time exists within a vacuum in the brig.

Without the sun to guide him, Sunday is left to his own devices. It’s all but impossible to discern whether daybreak has arrived or if the prolonged night has yet to end. Minutes feel like hours, and the longer he spends shivering in the heady chill, the more the seconds seem to drag on.

He should relish it, Sunday thinks. Because he does not know how much time he has left in captivity, what with Captain Aventurine  - he nearly snorts at the title - being so adamant about delivering him to the “doctor” friend he’d mentioned.

Such a thought has Sunday’s nose wrinkled and his insides knotted together, uneasy. It’s more than just a bit odd. Why go through the trouble of procuring a medic at port to treat the pain in his ribs when he’s already on the way to a doctor?

His stomach rumbles. It earns a frown, and silver brows pinch over his nose. A sigh flits between Sunday’s teeth at the pang of hunger in his belly. He attempts to distract himself, winds his tail about his hips and watches the scales shimmer. Silken fins tickle his waist and those brows furrow deeper, forehead creasing. 

He cranes his neck to listen intently to the decks above, torn between hoping for silence or some sign of life. He has not seen the arrogant captain since his initial detainment, and he’d prefer to keep it that way.

Sunday strains to make out any sound of footsteps above, any sign of movement, but the ship creaks an overwhelming amount. Between the call of the water below singing in his veins and the creaking of wood with every cresting wave conquered, Sunday cannot discern any sound that might signify the crew’s presence.

He huffs as another shiver licks up the knobs of his spine. 

Unable to relax, unable to keep warm, unable to sleep; there’s no comfort to be had at all.

It’s as another wave of nausea rolls through his belly that Sunday makes out the definitive thumping of boots above. He stills, eyes narrowed, and it’s more than just one pair of footsteps thudding along the wooden planks and creaking down the crude staircase as they descend.

Sunday pushes himself further upright with a wheeze, curls deeper unto himself and waits to see just who will breach the threshold of the doorway to the brig.

Gold catches the glow of the lamp overhead, splits it into a number of glinting rays that shine and carve patterns along the white cotton of Captain Aventurine’s shirt. It parts in the middle, hangs low enough to show off such weighty trophies - undoubtedly from plundering - and Sunday’s nose wrinkles in disgust. 

“Ah, you’re awake.” The blond quips, a plate in hand. It looks to be some kind of cooked fish, perhaps even a cut of bread alongside it. 

Sunday blinks once, twice, and his lips purse together in a fine line as bile gathers at the back of his throat. For a heartbeat, he thinks that perhaps the sudden jolt that runs down his torso is due to his injury. Thinks that maybe he’s just overwhelmed, that perhaps the chill has gotten to him and is clouding his senses.

But that’s not it at all, and he swallows as a nauseating shudder runs the length of his spine.

There’s something else. 

It lingers in Aventurine’s tone, hums beneath the surface, thrums in his veins. Sunday frowns, something cold and icy settling in his stomach. Because he can feel it now, no adrenaline left in his system to confuse his senses. Sunday must’ve missed it last night, mind muddled from being hauled aboard.

Something is very wrong with Captain Aventurine. 

Sunday blinks and sinks back against the rotting wood, seeks to put more distance between them as the blond captain lingers at the rotting bars of his cell with a placating expression. The crewman at his side eyes Sunday carefully, hand resting atop the Hilt of his sword.

Even if Aventurine has decreed it forbidden to kill Sunday, he thinks such a blade would still leave a wicked mark if the man is provoked.

The rope around his wrists burns, rubbing the flesh raw. It’s a mild sting, something to keep him grounded. Sunday is careful when he splays his palms against the wood of the floor, pushes himself further upright and dares to lean a bit closer to the door of the cell as Aventurine crouches down to slip the plate beneath the bars.

This is no ordinary captain, and Sunday is painfully aware of the weight of his gaze.

Aventurine’s eyepatch glints, gold accents catching the stray light from the lamp overhead. Sunday can see far better like this in the light of the brig than he could in the dark of the night, can make out the facets of the other’s gaudy eyepatch. Like it’s been carved into a meticulous shape by careful hands, an accessory wrought of stone.

Aventurine’s wrists cross between his knees as he crouches, elbows resting atop his thighs, two fingers on each hand dipped in gold and ending in a sharp point. They look a bit like his own claws, Sunday thinks, but that’s not the odd part, and something inside of him wilts at the sight. 

Because Aventurine’s flesh is unnaturally colored, his fingertips stained a shade of cerulean that mimics that of the tide.

Ah. So, his suspicions were correct.

Sunday’s lips part as he dares to inch a bit closer to the door, the Captain watching with a curious eye. 

“I’ve been told by my doctor friend that your kind tend to dine on fish and underwater vegetation. Unfortunately, I’ve only the former at the moment. You’ll have to forgive me.” 

Sunday’s eyes remain narrowed, expression pinched and unmoving. His eyes trail from the captain’s face to his attire, notes the extravagant detailing on the lapels and cuffs of his jacket. He’s not entirely sure what his station must be, but Aventurine must be someone of great importance.

Only those backed by coins of gold and lofty titles could afford to tend to themselves so carefully; he’s more than just the average plunderer, and Sunday ponders what exactly his official position might be. 

Aventurine dares to reach out with blue-kissed fingertips, and Sunday’s jaw tightens at the sight. But the captain must not notice, and he’s careful as he slips a hand beneath the bars of the cell to urge the plate further along the damp planks of wood.

 Eyes of ichor flicker from the captain and his partner to the plate before him, and Sunday’s stomach growls. His ears warm at that, and he catches the snicker that flits between Aventurine’s teeth. It’s enough to have his insides churning, appetite spoiled.

“Suppose I’ll leave you to it, then. A doctor has already been called, we’ll remain at port until your wounds have been treated.” 

Aventurine pushes himself upright, knees clicking and his multitude of belts chiming as they settle back in place, loose lines of gold chains draped across his hips. Sunday’s nostrils flare as the blond peers down at him, silhouetted against the brig’s lamp, and his fins flare as he sweeps his tail along the wood planks and sends the plate skittering back underneath the bars.

The cut of fish topples onto the floor, soiled with filth, and Sunday glances from the ruined food to the crewman in the doorway. The man’s brows knit together over a pair of deep-set eyes, his blade half drawn when a hand waves nonchalantly in front of his face.

“Fetch me another.” 

Aventurine may be addressing his subordinate, but his gaze never once leaves Sunday. That unnatural chill sounds in his bones, clouds his senses, and Sunday swallows hard beneath that unmoving eye.

“But, Captain — ”

“It’s not a request.”

“He can’t even sing. They’ll take him apart like the rest upon delivery, why bother feeding this thing when it’s only a matter of days before we arrive at Pier Point?”

The thought of going without food for such a prolonged period of time does have Sunday a bit worried, and he presses his lips firmly together to refrain from loosing a sound of discontentment.

“Was I asking for your opinion on the matter?” Aventurine’s tone is sharp, and once again, that tumultuous, invisible thing surges beneath the surface of Aventurine’s skin. Its call sings in Sunday’s veins, something ancient and fearsome. “Now, go fetch me another.”

Sunday grimaces at the thought of being left alone with the ship’s captain, marks the way the other man hesitates before slipping back into the shadows that lie beyond the doorway to the brig. Eyes of ichor slip from the vacant doorway to the lamp above, and then they settle on Aventurine.

After another heartbeat of silence that suffocating sensation ebbs away, no longer clawing at his lungs. Sunday swallows as his gaze lingers on those fingertips imbued with the color of the sea, and Aventurine must notice because a champagne brow quirks in surprise.

“Observant, aren’t you.” He raises a palm, turns it over in the lowlight to marvel at the strange hue that mars his skin, and Sunday stifles an indignant snort. “I wonder if you feel it the same way I do.”

Sunday does, he can. He can feel it. It comes and goes like the waves along a shoreline, a preternatural thing that tears through his chest, rushes through his limbs in time with his pulse. Like all of the sound has been leeched from the room and the humidity in the air has been charged.

The waters are livid with Aventurine, alarmingly so.

Sunday longs to remark on it, to ask why the sea is angry with him. He can’t tell, can’t decipher the uneven rhythms that rock the ship to and fro as it settles at what he assumes is the port the captain spoke of.

The water in Sunday’s bloodstream sings a horrible melody, a cacophony, and his lips part. An accusation teeters on his tongue, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

For a heartbeat, Aventurine’s eye widens at the sight. He marks the shallow breaths that have the mermaid’s chest rising and falling in rapid succession, notes the swirls of silver that etch patterns across his flesh. He cannot help but crane his neck to lean in a bit closer to the bars, a giddy sense of intrigue coursing through him. 

Because the ethereal creature caged before him appears as though he’s actually going to speak of his own accord, unprompted. But then those lips purse together, and Aventurine frowns as the mermaid opts instead to refuse to utter even a sound.

Stubborn thing.

Footsteps sound, the wood of the stairs outside of the brig creaking. Aventurine’s subordinate arrives with another plate in tow and hands it to the captain with a brief nod of his head.

The brig is oppressively quiet after that, the thick kind that rings in the ears, and Aventurine breaks it with a wary sigh. He turns back toward the cell to slip the plate beneath the bars, a look of annoyance creeping over his features.

Sunday is quick to assume that Aventurine’s wary expression is the result of his crewmate’s presence, but then that shifting eye settles on him, unblinking, and he realizes with a sinking sensation that it’s directed at him.

“It’ll do you no good to turn down the food I have to offer. All you’ll do is starve faster.”

Sunday is quiet as he considers. He peers down at the plate laid before him, a merciful offering, and he makes the mistake of glancing back up. Aventurine eyes him like he’s pleased to see him accepting his offer, like there’s something entertaining about watching a caged creature accept a meal offered out of pity.

Sunday’s ears warm as he swallows down a series of incoherent insults that refuse to make even a lick of sense in his mind. He instead huffs and turns over his shoulder, hands in his lap as he faces the wall. He says nothing, makes no move to turn back around or indulge in the meal presented.

A stalemate.

Aventurine scoffs, and it’s a tired thing. Sunday can make out the underlying irritation, shoulders prickling as that eye undoubtedly settles on him.

“You can keep up this ridiculous pretense of not being able to talk all you’d like. I suppose you’d only ever serve as a real threat if you could sing.”

The young captain must be looking for a place to sink his teeth in, to wheedle his way beneath Sunday’s skin the same way he’s certain he’s done to him. 

“It must be quite troublesome for you, being a mermaid who can’t spin a melody.”

Sunday’s shoulders tense at that, and Aventurine swallows down what’s certain to be another scathing remark. The mermaid considers with flaring wings that Aventurine isn’t as certain in his accusations as he claims to be. Perhaps his insistent attempts to initiate conversation are his way to squeeze out a confirmation, to prove that he’s correct in assuming that Sunday can speak. 

The boat lists to the side, and the damp chill seeps beneath his skin. Goosebumps ripple along his flesh, decorating the fine curve of his spine, but Sunday is still and resolute as he faces the wall.

He adjusts, inhales sharply and grabs at the space between his ribs, pain snaking along his insides. Aventurine must notice, and he looses another exhale.

“The doctor I’ve called for should arrive within the hour. You’re expected to behave, otherwise that nasty injury will have to go untreated.”

There’s a brief moment of quiet. Sunday nearly chances a glance over his shoulder, listens intently as the sound of footsteps retreating fills the air. But they - regrettably - return after a handful of seconds, rounding the edge of Sunday’s cell.

Aventurine’s boots thud along the damp wood of the floor, and he leans against the bars at Sunday’s side, arm outstretched. Golden eyes dare to peek from the corner of his eye, and Sunday swallows hard at the white shirt that’s offered, caught in Aventurine’s grasp.

He chances a better look, turns to face the captain fully, and he notes the weighty gold earring that sweeps along Aventurine’s shoulder, hanging from one ear. Everything about Aventurine is gaudy and crafted, but the blond appears to be genuine in this, even if that insufferable smirk tugs at the corners of his lips, and Sunday’s nostrils flare in frustration.

Because how has he managed to end up in such a shamefully abysmal situation in the span of a single night? 

He reaches out with wrists tightly bound, rope burning as clawed fingertips gingerly accept the shirt. Sunday has only just begun to pull away to put more distance between himself and that infuriating captain when hands reach out, capturing his fingers in a vice grip.

Sunday is not one to be so callous, but his lips draw back in a sneer as Aventurine grasps his hands and wrenches him forward. He lurches toward the bars, within the blond’s reach, and his pulse rings in his ears as Aventurine’s free hand slips into his pocket and pulls out what appears to be a small blade.

Sunday cannot help the panic that seizes him. He pulls against Aventurine’s grasp, gasping at the surging agony in his ribs that results from the tension in his torso. He attempts to manuever his fingers so he can catch at least a chunk of flesh with his claws, can take some sort of prize. 

They’re going to take his scales, after all. What’s a finger?

But there is the sound of something fraying, something being cut. The ropes fall to the floor, severed, and Sunday nearly topples over when Aventurine’s cool hands release their hold on his own.

He longs to scrub them clean, to rid himself of where they’ve touched. That horrible harmony intensifies in the absence of Aventurine’s touch, a discordant echo that rings in Sunday’s ears. He grimaces and looks down at the state of his wrists, the flesh colored and raw and burning in the open air.

“Should be far easier to don a shirt like that, yes?” Aventurine hums, and he gives the padlock on the door an experimental tug for good measure as he makes his way to the entrance to the brig. “I’ll return when the doctor arrives.”

Sunday swallows as the captain slips away into the shadows, his subordinate in tow. He shivers in disgust at being handled so casually, at the horrific sensation that still swirls in his belly. 

 But there is a shirt in his grasp and his wrists are free, and the food on the plate near his fins suddenly appears significantly more appetizing in Aventurine’s absence.

Sunday clears his throat as he lifts his arms and tugs the white cotton shirt over his head, relishes the sudden warmth, even if it’s just a thin layer of protection against the chill. Silver brows furrow and he casts a glance at the doorway to ensure that he’s properly alone, the ship bobbing side to side with the waves.

He’d hate for Aventurine to see him indulging in the food he’d provided.

Chapter Text

Something stirs in the deep. Have you felt it? I’ve heard tell that the skies overhead have begun to split apart, storms so violent they shake the earth above.

It was a fleeting statement uttered by a weary passerby on their pilgrimage to the Depths, and the most unnerving aspect of it was not the words that were spoken, but the fact that Sunday had heard such claims spouted many times over. 

Multiple travelers passing through his abode while on their lengthy pilgrimage would share tales of the world above, detailing in length the way that things had begun to shift in time with the tide.

Truth be told, he’d suspected as such, as had Robin. Because the seas had been audibly angry for some time, and it had begun to worsen in recent months. 

In the beginning, it was only palpable in the waves. The raging currents swelled and tore the reefs lining the shores asunder. The fish were the first to flee, harbingers of something worse to come. Their chaotic muttering vibrated through the waters as they abandoned their homes in schools, shimmering swarms of fins and scales skittering along the currents toward the Depths.

There’s a brilliant shadow lingering on the horizon! If you stay, you’ll go belly up, you’ll croak! It’ll shred your pretty fins to pretty pieces! 

Sunday had felt the weight of that nameless thing thrumming of his veins, even if he’d never glimpsed its destructive nature with his own eyes. All of his ilk felt similarly; it was a shared sensation of dread that sank in their stomachs like a hot stone in cold oil, all of them distressed at the realization that they were witnesses to the initial harmonies of a prelude that promised something far worse. 

Sunday’s nose wrinkles as he ruminates on that discordant song, because the singular thing that has ever come close to a sensation as harrowing as that unnamed cacophony has been every fleeting touch shared with the captain currently lounging above deck. A shiver of disgust wracks his frame at the thought, and he roughly rubs the pads of his fingers against the cotton of his new shirt until they burn, desperate to rid himself of the echoes that linger.

A heavy swell rocks the ship, sends Sunday careening forward from where he sits against rotted planks of wood, tail wound about himself to self-soothe. The dark of the cell floor is damp and soft beneath his palms as he catches himself, claws digging into the surface for purchase as his empty plate skitters about wood planks.

Today, it seems that the sea is particularly enraged. And - through a horrible twist of fate - Sunday has come to realize that it’s quite possible that this particular bout of anger is not a random occurrence like the rest. Rather, he’s all too certain that it has something to do with Captain Aventurine.

His thoughts drift from the smug blond to the currents that tousle the ship, another hefty wave forcing him to catch the bars of the cell in an iron grip as his plate brushes past his tail and skitters beneath the cell door, disappearing into the shadows.

A successful escape. If only he could wriggle through the bars so easily.

Thunder cracks overhead. It’s far louder than Sunday had anticipated on the surface, and he flinches as another booming symphony of noise splits his ears apart. 

The sounds of the storm and the nauseating movement of the boat is one thing; the sea crying out below is another, and it’s glaringly apparent that it’s no ordinary squall that has the ship tilting side to side and the wood of it groaning in protest. 

No, the waters are ravenous as they surge upward and claw at the crew mates that linger far above. The sea tosses a hefty saltwater spray at them, desperate to retaliate. She’s frustrated - Sunday can hear it in her song - at being unable to breach the topmost deck, sea foam dripping down the very railing that’d left a hefty bruise along Sunday’s ribs.

Sunday straightens, grimaces and presses the heel of his hand to his ribcage as a pained gasp flits between his teeth. He forces himself fully upright, presses his palms flat against his ears as another burst of thunder crashes overhead. 

He frowns, removes them once the sounds have subsided, and Sunday’s thoughts begin to wander as he wracks his brain for a reason as to why such a storm has targeted shallow waters.

The seas have branded Aventurine with an indelible mark that has Sunday’s head ringing and his insides in knots when he’s too close, and he wonders if perhaps it’s lashing out in defiance at the act of one such as the damnable captain imprisoning a creature such as himself.

Something has been stirring in the Depths for some time, and all the while there lingers something within Captain Aventurine that sings a similar melody. His tune is seemingly enough to set the sea roiling below on edge, enough to goad Sunday’s curiosity and urge him to seek the other out.

But therein lies the source of his confusion, because the seas are acting uncharacteristically contradictory. That same tune begs Sunday to refrain from initiating any kind of conversation, warns him to keep his distance.

It feels as though they are calling to each other in the most jarring of ways. Silver brows pinch over his nose in frustration as he ponders; he cannot make out the elusive tether that binds them together.

How infuriatingly odd.

Regardless of the unnamed, indecipherable connection between the two, Sunday swears that his theory about the captain’s…condition must be correct. Even so, what could Aventurine’s unfortunate fate possibly have to do with the seas and the tempests that have been tearing through the shallower waters with such destructive vigor? He certainly isn’t the cause, and even if Sunday has deduced correctly about the captain, he still comes up short in regard to what that destructive force’s true nature is.

A damned captain. An indiscriminate and violent tide that grinds all it touches to dust. 

There is no link between the two besides the harmonies that linger within them. 

Something jingles as more than one pair of boots descend the stairs, and Sunday audibly clicks his tongue in irritation as Aventurine’s gaudy baubles clink against one another with every step. Even in relative dark of the space just outside of the brig - even if he’s not quite visible - he can hear him approaching with two others in tow, clear as day.

Aventurine breaches the doorway first, that eye swiveling to meet Sunday’s gaze as soon as it adjusts to the lowlight of the brig. Light dances along the decorative swirls of his midnight hat, glints in the gemstones inlaid in his choker, his belt, even the golden epaulette anchored to his left shoulder. The frills of his shirt beneath that ornate coat skirt along bone to expose his wrists and those cerulean-tipped fingers, and Sunday shudders at the sight.

Aventurine either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care enough to remark on it. The tip of his boot glances off something delicate just inside the doorway, and he peers down momentarily as another person peeks over his shoulder in close pursuit. 

Sunday marks the quirk of the captain’s lips as he drinks in the sight of the mermaid’s plate, clean of any leftovers, and his ears burn when that shifting eye flickers back up to him. Aventurine looks at Sunday like he’s pleased, like he’s won some kind of silent game. 

As grateful as he is for the absence of that pang of hunger in his belly, he thinks he’d prefer it after such a victorious look.

“And this is it?”

The man behind Aventurine’s shoulder breaks the silence, a nasally voice that tickles the back of Sunday’s ears in a most unpleasant way. His hair is inky black and poorly combed flat against his ears, and Sunday notes the way the lamp overhead glances off his glasses so that he cannot make out his eyes.

“You said the issue was its ribs?” 

Its.

Sunday’s nostrils flare at that and he shrinks away from the bars, grits his teeth as pain snakes up his torso at the sudden movement. Even Aventurine appears a bit put off by the verbiage, and he crosses his arms over his chest. Dozens of jewels refract a myriad of colors across the floor with every rise and fall of his chest, winking along Sunday’s scales.

He does not miss the way the stranger’s prying gaze slides from his halo to his face and down the length of him to linger on his tail. Sunday tenses, coils it tightly about his waist to hide those precious scales deeper in the seclusion of the shadows, tugs the cotton sleeves of his shirt down to his fingertips.

“Yes. My crew was more aggressive than I’d deem necessary — ” 

“What?” The man chirps loudly, thick brows set over his glasses, and Aventurine sucks the inside of his cheek between his teeth in annoyance.

It seems as though this is not the first occurrence, and Aventurine’s ornately decorated fingertips fish a coin out of his coat’s breast pocket, running it over his knuckles like water. He clears his throat and speaks loudly, over-annunciating everything to an offensive degree, enough so that even Sunday nearly quirks a brow.

Nearly. Because that eye of melded color has yet to leave him once since stepping foot into the brig, and at the merest promise of a genuine reaction that isn’t irritation directed at him, the captain seems enthralled.

“Yes, it’s his ribs. He must’ve hit part of the deck on his way aboard, hard enough that I’d wager at least a bruised bone. Is there anything you can do?”

The captain catches the coin between his thumb and forefinger as he speaks, leans halfway out of the room to fetch something. Sunday can make out the sound of keys jingling against a hook, and when Aventurine produces them he swears his pulse thunders so loud in his ears that they both must hear it.

“I can take a look, at the very least.” The doctor murmurs. 

He huffs as he stoops down to fetch his weighty leather bag from the floor, presses the pads of his thumbs to his ears, and Sunday’s attention flickers from Captain Aventurine to the strange man who lingers at the door of his cage.

The waves below slow in their rhythm, and Sunday nearly looses a reedy exhale of relief as the sea calms.

Aventurine’s only just slotted the key in the lock when the man speaks again.

“W-What about his hands? Claws like those would make short work of me.”

The blond blows out a breath, ocean-kissed fingertips hovering over the padlock. His eye flits from Sunday to the periwinkle that still rims his wrists, like he’s trying to consider an alternative. He’s only just parted his lips when that insufferable tone shatters the quiet.

“…Why does this one not sing? What did you do to it?”

The man adjusts his glasses and looms at the bars, scrutinizing Sunday with a keen eye. He’s still beneath the weight of his gaze, cautious. Because any sudden movement may be seen as a threat by one so visibly skittish, and he would very much like to refrain from being bound again.

Aventurine shrugs and steps around the stranger to pace alongside Sunday’s cell, clearly agitated.

“He came to us that way. We did nothing.”

The blond comes to a halt just to the left of where Sunday sits, coiled about himself and eerily still. Eyes of ichor peer from beneath silver lashes as he waits to see what Aventurine wants, why he’s decided to crouch and balance on the balls of his feet to address him like he’s some kind of child.

“I’d prefer to not to have to restrain you while our dear Doctor Richard has a look. Can you do that?” 

His voice is as gentle as it is calculated, and Sunday cannot help but assume that it’s not out of kindness. It must be out of some sordid desire to see him obey, a pretty creature caught in a cage and made to heel to its master, and he considers trying to flick that laughable hat from his hair once again through the bars. 

Aventurine must notice because the corners of his lips curl up like he’s stifling a chuckle, and he raises two palms in a show of placation.

“I-I won’t go in there if he’s not restrained.” 

Those hands drop to his sides and Aventurine’s head droops between his shoulders the moment the quiet is shattered. The young captain heaves a heavy sigh, clearly debating how to address the man still hovering at the cell door. Sunday finds it a bit amusing that his patience has already worn so thin. He wonders how long the doctor must’ve talked his ear off above deck.

Instead of dignifying the doctor with a reply, Aventurine slips his hands between the bars. They hover, palms up, almost like he’s expecting to be handed something. But there’s nothing to be given and he’s a sitting duck, unarmed and head still hanging low in defeat.

Sunday should strike. He knows he should, but he’s too gobsmacked to do much else than stare with a quirked brow. 

Because what is he even supposed to do in response to that?

“I’m not sure that’s a bright idea.” Doctor Richard barks through the bars, fingers trembling as they rest along the key. 

Sunday considers attempting to see if he can even make it out of the cage, ignores the fact that the stairs to the upper decks present a different challenge altogether. But the ache in his ribs intensifies as a heavy breath flits between his teeth, and he reluctantly sinks back against the bars and sets his jaw in frustration as he places his wrists in Aventurine’s palms, a mild pressure.

Oh, how he absolutely hates this.

Between the writhing, horrible sensation in his veins at the contact and the grating sound of the doctor droning on about how much he dislikes such an unprofessional arrangement as the cell door squeaks open, Sunday thinks he might tear his own skin off. 

Mercifully, Aventurine does not comment on the cool wrists that slip between his fingertips. Sunday keeps his eyes downcast, twists so just the curve of his ribs where the pain is worst is exposed. He won’t entertain any teasing, not with his pride so blatantly wounded. As relieved as he is not to suffer through another set of ropes, this is the only thing he might ever imagine to be far worse.

Sunday lets his gaze flicker to the little man that kneels at his side, hefty bag thumping against the rotted wood.

“Can it even speak at all?” Doctor Richard plucks what appears to be balls of wax from his ears as he scoffs incredulously at the sight of a mermaid so very close in the lowlight of the brig. Sunday watches them tumble into his bag, and he tries not to wrinkle his nose in disgust.

Something akin to distress lingers in the man’s tone, like perhaps the thought of Sunday not being able to utter a sound has him nervous. Which, by all accounts, fails to make even a lick of sense. Wouldn’t a silenced siren be preferable? Especially since it means there is no threat to be had?

He’s hardly able to ruminate on it at all before the man is speaking again, and he swears he feels Aventurine blow out a tired sigh that tickles the shell of his ear and has silver tufts of hair brushing against his throat.

“You know, I’ve read quite a bit about these creatures. Not many official reports are public, of course, so getting your hands on them is hard work. But they’ve got a hell of a belief system, or so it seems.”

Doctor Richard reaches into his bag and produces a strange instrument - a stethoscope, Sunday thinks. He swears he’s seen one once before in the shipyard by their home; such a thought has his stomach sinking.

“They’re convinced their singing is some kind of ‘magical gift’ from their god. The Guild doesn’t usually get many details out of them in the end, of course, but there’s been theories about it for a while.” He speaks as though he’s a fanatic, and Sunday wonders with a pinch of dread if he is. “There’s actually some conjecture about the nature of it. The merfolk might think it’s some ‘blessed’ trait, but much of our modern research points to them having specific structures within their vocal chords that emit pitches that can resonate in strange ways with the human ear.”

That’s all nonsense. 

Every sentencE spoken has Sunday’s nostrils flaring and his hackles raised, and he swears even the gossamer fins that line his tail tense and flutter in aggravation at every blasphemous word that’s spat out. 

Their songs are holy hymns gifted to them; their connection with the sea is a real, primal thing that’s sewn into their skin and their bone marrow and imbues the very water in their veins.

What would a man who walks the land above know about such a connection?

The stethoscope is cold where the doctor slips it beneath his shirt, and Sunday nearly wriggles away at the difference in temperature. But Aventurine’s grip - while not unkind - is firm, and the doctor stills with a wary eye for a moment before continuing with his examination.

Sunday wonders what kind of damnable face the young, blond captain is making just behind his shoulders.

“So, you see, there’s no real magic at all. Just biology.”

Doctor Richard removes the flimsy instrument and tucks it back into his bag, chirps out something about how the creature’s “vitals sound fine,” and then he’s rummaging deeper for something.

“I’ve never actually met a man who’s heard a siren song in reality, nor have I ever born witness to the supposed chaos that ensues. It’s all a tale mothers tell their children to urge them away from the waters when they’re alone.”

Because they die, Sunday thinks with a shudder of disgust. Humans don’t survive the song, Sunday’s seen it with his own two eyes. If it weren’t for his unspoken vow to remain silent, he might’ve burst at the absurdity of every claim the “doctor” has spewed thus far.

“I suppose,” Doctor Richard’s tone grows thin, and Sunday notes it with molten eyes of liquid gold and a barely concealed sneer, “that you’re fortunate that yours can’t make a sound. Even if it’s nothing more than a biological advantage - and even if the stories are blown wildly out of proportion - I’m sure it’s been much easier to deal with it since it’s so quiet. Poor thing’s vocal chords probably can’t resonate the way others’ can, especially with that nasty scar.”

The doctor leans into Sunday’s space, enough so that his fingers tense and his claws threaten to cut clean through Aventurine’s palms.

“May I have a look — ?”

Doctor Richard is asking for permission, but the look on his face is the look of a man who cares little if he receives it in the first place. His fingers graze over Sunday’s scar and trail down the hypersensitive line of his gills, and Sunday  writhes and looses the first genuine noise he’s made since boarding the ship that wasn’t a gasp of pain.

A hiss flits between his teeth and his arms tense, and he’s fully prepared to lash out if the doctor does not remove his fingers within the next few seconds.

It’s a bit funny, he thinks, because Aventurine makes no move to stop him. He wonders if he wouldn’t mind; he wonders if the captain dislikes this unsavory character as much as he does.

With the doctor so close, Sunday can more clearly make out his features: dark circles beneath his eyes, a bulbous nose, an unnerving glint to his gaze. He smells strongly of something painfully bright that has his nostrils stinging, something Sunday can’t place that lingers on his breath as he crouches low.

Aventurine’s hold on his wrists is firm, even if his fingers are gentle, and that horrible hymn splinters through his veins like ice where they touch. 

“I didn’t pay you to lecture me on scientific studies.” Aventurine chuckles, bemused, in Sunday’s ear. “You were the only medic certified by the Intelligentsia Guild for miles, and therefore my only option as a representative of the I.P.C. Please, if you would be so kind as to treat him so that I can return to my own duties.”

Aventurine’s breath tickles Sunday’s ear again, enough to earn a frown. He so dearly wishes that he could twist his wrists just so to urge him away, to get him to cease his talking and his dramatic sighs and those pretentious, wary chuckles. Sunday’s wings, however, can still move just fine, and Aventurine sputters in surprise at the sudden mouthful of feathers he receives.

“Ah, yes, there aren’t many of us this far south.” Doctor Richard muses like nothing’s the matter at all, like Aventurine isn’t busy fending off what must be the cheekiest sea beast he’s ever been forced to lay eyes on as that wing flares and whacks against his jaw. “Looks like your wager paid off. Nothing more than a bruised rib, I’d say. Fortunately, there’s no sign of a break.”

Sunday doesn’t understand what the medic being certified with this “Intelligentsia Guild” has to do with much of anything until the man opens his mouth to speak again, busy digging through that dark leather bag.

“Per our conditions, this is all confidential. That being said - ” Sunday swears he feels the ice in his veins from where Aventurine’s fingers rest against his wrists turn to flame - “this is a rather rare occasion. Most professionals like me might never even glimpse a mermaid in their lifetime, let alone be granted the ability to observe one in such close quarters.”

Sunday can feel it, can sense the weight of a proposal hanging thickly in the air, and as the doctor produces a small tin of ointment from his bag and proceeds to smear a healthy handful over the sensitive spot on Sunday’s ribcage, he feels Aventurine’s irritation rise to meet it.

“I dislike when transactions are indirect, Doctor Richard. Please, if you’d be so kind as to spit it out.” 

Aventurine wrinkles his nose and his hold slackens. Sunday dares not move, not when there’s a brewing tension between the two. That, and the ointment has a profoundly quick effect, the throbbing pain soothed to something cool and manageable. His lips part at the sensation, eyes of ichor alight in curiosity as they flicker from the greasy doctor knelt before him to the sheen that coats his side.

“A scale.” 

Of course, Sunday thinks with an indignant thump of his tail. 

“It’s a…small price to ask for maintaining my end of the bargain.” 

There it is again, that obsession with taking a little piece away as a trophy. It makes Sunday’s insides churn and his lips press thinly together.

“Is it not part of your oath - bargain, then, for lack of a better word - to keep any affairs pertaining to treating the I.P.C.’s needs confidential? Was our ‘bargain’ really anything more than simply requesting work that you’re contractually obligated to do?” 

Aventurine drops Sunday’s hands entirely, and the doctor is quick to snatch his bag from the floor and scamper to the cell door, pushing it closed with a resolute clang. He chews on the inside of his cheek, silent as he mulls over a response and fumbles with the padlock.

Not that Sunday would’ve intervened. Even if the medication has helped to ease some of the pain, it still rings in his skull when he moves, and he opts instead to push himself upright and away from where Aventurine lingers by the bars at his back. He settles against the damp wood in the corner, seething at being discussed so openly as though he’s not even present.

Aventurine settles against the bars with folded arms, that molten eye peering out from the shadows of the brig with an alarming keenness as his eyepatch gleams

“Well?” The captain presses. That gilded coin appears once more, dancing along Aventurine’s fingers with ease. “It’s not right to try to dip your hands into other peoples’ pockets, especially when they’ve already paid what might be considered twice your usual fee.”

Doctor Richard swallows hard at that. He clears his throat, a bead of sweat gathering at his brow. The humidity in the brig deepens, and Sunday watches with a stoic expression affixed to his features as the medic seems to realize that he’s overstepped. 

“I-I suppose that there is no need, then, for an alternative payment.”

“Oh, come now.” Aventurine goads with a quirk of his lips and an arched brow as he rounds the corner of the cell. “Already backing down? What happened to upping the ante?” 

But that spark has fizzled out beneath the young captain’s unrelenting gaze, and his words are anything but playful. Doctor Richard hangs his head and raises a palm in a placating sign of defeat, glasses catching the lamplight above.

“I…I understand. Worth an attempt, right? Such precious things, those scales.” The doctor chuckles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Sunday cannot tell if the unease roiling in his gut is a warning from the waters below or a byproduct of Aventurine’s suffocating, preternatural nature. 

“It’s as remarkable as it is pitiful, isn’t it.” It’s not a question, and Doctor Richard snorts and runs a palm down his slicked bangs to press them back into place flat over his ears. “Their scales can cure our ailments, and yet they’re useless to them.” 

Silver brows furrow in genuine confusion over brilliant, cat-like eyes. 

Sunday mulls the sentence over, thinks perhaps he’d misheard. He’s heard tales of the humans above harvesting their scales as menial prizes, but this? This is the first he’s ever heard of such a baseless claim.

Since when have merfolk ever been able to heal human diseases?

Aventurine does not comment on it, but Sunday swears that that song in his veins grows a bit louder.

“Regardless, I’ll give him one final examination to ensure there are no lingering issues.” The doctor’s voice wrenches Sunday from his thoughts, and his words are enough to prompt a look of irritation from the captain at his side that he quickly tries to remedy. “Through the bars, of course!”

Aventurine takes a step forward, lips parted. It looks like he wants to deny him, perhaps see him on his way out so that he can leave him at port and never glimpse that horrible face again.

But there’s a commotion from just outside the brig as a taller, broader man enters, and the captain peers at him curiously. Sunday recognizes him with a grimace and a flick of his tail, gossamer fins billowing. 

He’s one of the ones who’d dragged him down to the bowels of the ship the night prior.

“Captain, there’s a letter from Doctor Veritas Ratio that’s just arrived. Shall I have it left it in your quarters…?”

“No, no.” Aventurine heaves a sigh as he slips that coin back into his breast pocket, running a palm over his face. “I’ll take a look at it. If you could stay and keep an eye on our medic friend for me?”

The crew member gives the barest of nods as Aventurine slips past, and that horrendous hat practically takes up the entire doorway. Sunday narrows his gaze when Aventurine peers back into the brig with a casual grin, and he’s surprised when the tone that flits between his teeth is sharp enough to cleave through bone.

“This one may have a case of ‘sticky fingers.’” His eyes flicker from his subordinate to the doctor. “You should get that checked out, my friend. Makes for bad business.”

Aventurine doesn’t wait to dignify a response, leaves the other man to scoff and push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as it wrinkles at the insult. Sunday’s gaze narrows as the corners of his mouth soften a bit at that; he might be loath to admit it, but that hint of humor wheedles its way beneath his skin, and he swallows down the barest trace of a smirk.

He may detest the young captain’s flippancy, but he dislikes this medic far more. There’s something that lingers in those eyes, slippery and greedy as they rake over Sunday’s shimmering tail. For once, he’s quite relieved that there’s another member of Aventurine’s crew watching steadfast over him as that nasally voice grates on his eardrums.

“Very well, then.” Doctor Richard clears his throat and drinks in every detail of the sea creature perched before him, flaring feathers and a tail coiled and prepared to strike should he dare to enter the cell again. “If…If you could please come a bit closer to the bars.”

He waves his hands like Sunday is an animal that needs directing, and he chews on the inside of his cheek as he debates. But there seems to be no outward sign of anything amiss, and the doctor’s treatment has already begun to work wonders. If it really is just a final once over, Sunday supposes that he can tolerate it.

That, and he is not without his claws and his tail. He thinks he should be able to fend off any advances just fine even without a second pair of eyes to watch over him.

Something rings in his ears as he shuffles along the floorboards, draws near the edge of the cell. The bars waver in front of his eyes and the floor sways, and suddenly Sunday feels a wave of confusion cloud his senses. He thinks for a heartbeat that it’s the waves below, it must be, even if they’ve lessened in their severity. 

But the palm that presses flat against the floor to keep himself upright sinks into the wood rot, the deck fuzzy and strange to the touch as it moves beneath his fingertips. Like his center of balance is completely thrown off, a dizzying thing that cannot seem to settle on where it should be. 

He wavers, a clammy sheen settling over his skin, and Sunday tries to swallow around the dry patch on the back of his tongue.

Panic sets his features alight. It does, he swears he can feel his eyes widen fractionally and his lips curl back enough to communicate such a thing as it becomes evident that something is wrong. But his body is slow to respond, and he reaches out with trembling fingers to grasp the bars and pull himself upright, nearly groaning at the effort it requires.

This doctor has done something to him.

Sunday bristles, longs to take a swipe at the doctor perched just outside of his cage. But the strength in his limbs has been sapped away like it was never there to begin with, and his eyes finally focus on the sight before him.

Doctor Richard is quite a weaselly-looking man, Sunday thinks as he licks the chapped corners of his lips. His focus fades for a heartbeat, unable to maintain it for longer than a handful of seconds as he sways. He thinks it must appear that the ocean waves are getting to him, that the crewman stationed at the door is more likely to excuse it as some form of sea sickness.

It’s not like Sunday would speak on it otherwise, but this does give him pause, and he chokes on words that will not come. His tongue is a fat, clumsy thing in his mouth, and the doctor reaches out with sweaty hands to urge Sunday to still.

“No need to panic.” He breathes - funny, Sunday thinks, since he seems to refuse to believe that he can understand him - and he gives a reassuring nod to the man leaning against the doorway. The doctor speaks more loudly this time, like it’s some kind of performative declaration. “Just need to take some samples to ensure there are no signs of infection.”

The man’s eyes narrow at that, and Doctor Richard swallows hard.

“No scales, of course. You have my word!” 

The crewman’s attentive gaze remains unmoved, and Sunday supposes he’s grateful for that. But even if his scales are not in immediate danger of being plucked out under such a watchful eye, then something else is the target, and his nostrils flare as that unrelenting wave of vertigo sends his senses into disarray.

He’s vaguely aware of the ship listing gently, the sounds of the doctor rummaging through his bag. He produces a vial and what appears to be a thin, clear tube, and something else that’s fine and catches the lowlight of the lamp overhead.

Warm hands grasp his forearm carefully, guide it through the bars to rest it atop the man’s thigh as he kneels on the floor next to the cell. Sunday longs to move, to yank his hand back, but his limbs feel fuzzy and there’s an itch at the back of his skull that he can’t soothe. He watches with heavy eyelids and mildly furrowed brows as his sleeve is tugged up and that glinting thing inches closer to the soft point between his forearm and bicep, feels the initial pressure of a prick.

When Sunday finally realizes what it is, he scrabbles at the bars in an attempt to flee. At least, he tries to, and it mostly consists of him gasping soundlessly and the tip of his tail flicking back and forth in a desperate, panicked rhythm. 

“The topical treatment should help with your ribs. It also has a tendency to make things like you a bit more docile.” Doctor Richard murmurs under his breath as the needle dips a bit deeper, the pain a bit brighter. 

Sunday’s nails bite weakly into the heel of his hand where he grasps at rotting metal. 

“Regardless of whether you can understand me or not, I must say that you are truly fascinating creatures.” Doctor Richard shakes his head in awe as his eyes drift once more to his tail, and Sunday blanches. 

He doesn’t like needles. 

Sunday has a special distaste for glinting, wiry things that prick and pierce, still bears the scars from the last time he’d had the misfortune of running into such a thing. He sinks against the cool bars of his cell as his mind drifts elsewhere, other hand growing numb in the doctor’s lap.

He’d like to curl up. In the waters, though, not this barren void that reeks of mold.

What he wouldn’t give to slip into the welcoming waters below and hide away from somewhere along the winding corridors of a reef or a patch of seagrass.

Funny how even the thought of seagrass sends an agonizing pang through his chest, far worse than even that of his injured ribcage. Sunday had never considered them a source of comfort before; his fins would often tangle in the flowing tendrils whenever he would linger to admire the flowers on his trek home.

But now that he’s faced with the possibility of never tangling in them again, he finds such trivial thoughts have a bittersweet bite to them.

He thinks the strange, eccentric doctor utters something else under his breath, but the needle remains lodged in his skin, and he cannot spare even a glance at it.

Right, seagrass.

Robin would sometimes collect the blossoms to strew them about their home, to give those on their pilgrimage upon their arrival. Sunday would bring more to her on his way home from his meetings. He and Mister Gopherwood had been increasingly busy as of late, and the members of the Family from neighboring sects had instituted regular meetings when the first schools of fish had fled through their territories.

Sunday and Robin’s time spent apart hadn’t been all that much to begin with, but the older Sunday became, the more the distance grew.

It’s part of his duty to bear the weight of the things that trouble his kind. It’s a selfless act, Sunday maintains, to shoulder the burdens of those around him. When the seas had begun their tirade months earlier, it’d been a cause for alarm, enough so that he spent more time in Mister Gopherwood’s presence than that of his own flesh and blood.

“The fish have already fled. Should we follow suit?” Oti of the neighboring outpost had asked in a meeting. “If it’s true what they say about the reefs being destroyed, how long before this tide begins to seek out victims closer to the Depths?”

He had a point. But Sunday’s home had become a beacon of hope, a place that promised rest for the weary and guidance for the lost. To leave such an important stop on their peoples’ rite of passage behind to be reduced to nothing left a sour taste in his mouth.

That, and Robin had been working night and day to ensure that it was well-stocked and well cared for. She’d been the one to aid with refugees, to give help to those who’d lived on the outermost rings of the ocean floor most affected by that strange, unnamed rumbling beneath the sand.

“We don’t yet know the nature of these occurrences, nor if they present a threat to those in less shallow waters.” He’d breathed, Mister Gopherwood lingering at his side. “For now, it would do us well to remain alert. Even those most in tune with the seas have struggled to decipher the melody being sung. We don’t yet know if it presents a threat to our kind, nor if there’s an external factor driving the waters to lash out in such a way.” 

“Hm.” Oti huffed, stroking a hand over the swirling tendrils of his beard. “Very well. At the first sign of trouble, though, we should not hesitate to flee closer to the Depths. The Morning Star must be protected, after all.”

Sunday had given a gentle nod, a complacent smile on his lips.

“Of course. We will share whatever information we may gather with you. In the meantime, we’ll keep a careful eye on the horizon.”

And that had been it.

Sunday wonders if, even now, the path of destruction has begun to creep closer to the deep. The last he’d heard the nearby shipyard bordering the estuary had been reduced to nothing.

He swallows at that, feels a shift and that pressure from his forearm vanish as something soft is pressed to it to staunch the pinprick of blood that bubbles up, some kind of cotton.

Sunday’s haven far below the surface is one wrought of coral and sand, and not far from it lies a graveyard of sunken ships. 

It exists miles off the northernmost estuary of the eastern shore, a place where rivers meet the sea just beyond the sandbar. Plenty a ship has found its eternal home beneath the surface there, the horizon nothing more than brilliant blue in all directions. 

Close enough to glimpse the mortals above as they tread more familiar waters, far enough from the imposing shore that it would take hardly any time at all to flee.

Or so they had thought.

Sunday and Robin had spent many hours exploring that shipyard as children, had gone so far as it deem it the Graveyard. It wasn’t all that uncommon for ships to be caught in the currents, to be dragged down to the seabed below and spend years decaying. There was something poetic about a manmade vessel being reduced to a home for the schools of fish, and Sunday had grown rather fond of the place.

There is, of course, no sin in being curious as a child. But acting on such curiosity led to devastating consequences.

The siblings had lingered too close to the surface, surveying the wreckage of ships from a past era from above. The currents in estuaries are strong, and where the rivers meet the sea, there is always disharmony.

Robin had been caught in it first, and Sunday had followed suit. Their tails weren’t strong enough to combat the violent pull; they were children, after all. And it’d spat them out far too close to the shore.

Mermaid scales are magnificent trophies to mortals above.

Sunday thinks such a thing sounds ridiculous, but he wouldn’t know. Now that he’s heard another iteration of the claim, he’s not sure what to think. A scale is a small, insignificant thing. But the humans above - for whatever the real reason - have begun to treasure them in a way Sunday cannot fathom

That was why the fishermen had jumped at the chance to pursue them the moment they’d breached the surface, gasping and spinning around in circles, desperate to pinpoint where the current had shuttled them to. Humans had grown more persistent in their hunt for merfolk, and where the occasional fishing hook might’ve presented nothing more than a nuisance, hooks such as these were a different story.

The first caught Robin by the soft underside of her jaw. It had, mercifully, missed her gills. She bears the scar to this day, a horrific reminder of the way the men had cheered at the sight of her floundering in the waters, crimson tainting the rippling surface. They’d pulled far too hard, snapped the line with exclamations of frustration.

The twins could’ve sang. They could’ve, Sunday knows that now. But they were children, practically petrified in the shock of the moment and disoriented from the tumultuous currents. The notion of commanding the ocean’s melody had been the last thing on Sunday’s mind when he’d blindly reached out for his sister, watched her clasp a hand over her throat as she gasped, the thick, barbaric hook still caught in her flesh.

The second one had been far less merciful. 

Robin had dipped back beneath the surface; she still feels guilty about it to this day, even if Sunday swears up and down that he will forever remain grateful that she had done as he’d begged her to.

The hook caught in his gills, delicate flesh split apart. The taste of copper tainted the back of his tongue, a rancid flavor, and Sunday’s attempts to grab at it and free himself had been in vain. The pain was jarring enough to leave him gaping, tears caught in his lashes as he was reined in close to the dingy’s side.

Mister Gopherwood had appeared in a rush of sea foam - a savior wielding a furious song - and the fishermen had drowned themselves at the sound. Sunday cannot bring himself to think what might’ve happened otherwise.

He’d survived, yes, but he would never sing again after that. 

His ability to command any meaningful melody was forever tainted. Mister Gopherwood would deem it a tragedy when he delivered the news later, Sunday’s wounds wrapped in leaves as their healer hummed gentle hymns with their hands grasped tightly together.

The doctor stands. It’s not his, Sunday realizes as he shakes himself, far too cold. He’s in a cell, not beneath the surface with his sister. And there is no soothing melody, only a victorious little tune as Doctor Richard brushes off his jacket and whistles to himself.

Sunday watches with heavy eyes as two large vials of midnight blue are tucked into his pocket. Dazed eyes of gold flicker from the doorway to the doctor, and it becomes evident that the crewman meant to keep an eye on him had lost focus halfway through what Sunday is certain was mind-numbing monologue.

“I’ll be on my way, then.” Doctor Richard steps past the man with a slight nod of his head, casts a wistful look back at the tail that shimmers and shines even in the dim light of the brig’s lamp. 

But he says nothing else, vanishes from view, and Sunday swallows as the sound of boots thumping up the stairs rings in his ears. 

He could sleep like this, he thinks. It’s cold, but he could. His limbs are heavy and so are his eyelids, and Sunday’s wings droop at his ears. The feathers warm his nose, and he finds the rocking of the ship to be quiet melodic in the quiet.

Yes, he could sleep here just fine.

The quiet is, regrettably, shattered.

Boots jingle and hurriedly make their way down the steps, perhaps even two at a time. If Sunday had it in him to frown in disappointment at the obvious sound of Aventurine entering the brig he would, but he’s curled unto himself, tail tucked up against his chest.

He cracks open an eye, confused, and Aventurine’s face is a guarded expression that borders on something unnervingly genuine. He reaches between the bars for the arm that Sunday has curled against his chest, lets his fingers hover over it, seeking permission.

“May I see?” His tone is tight, and Sunday’s a bit relieved not to be met with that insufferable grin. “I think our little friend might’ve walked out of here with more than he bargained for.”

Sunday frowns, pushes himself upright with a wince. He’s still dizzy, alarmingly so, and Aventurine swallows hard at the sight of the mermaid trying to remain upright. He snaps his fingers quickly at the other man as Sunday holds out his other arm, not close enough for him to touch, but enough for the captain to make out the pinprick that’s begun to bruise.

Aventurine runs a hand down his face at the sight, and it appears as though the dark circles beneath his eyes deepen momentarily. He doesn’t speak for a moment, dual-toned eye scrutinizing Sunday as a whole. Like he’s searching for any signs of anything else, trying to account for every scale.

“I’ll get you some food and water. Seems my crew wasn’t aware of the stipulations of the medic’s contract.” Aventurine’s tone is tight as he speaks, and Sunday realizes the extent that Doctor Richard has overstepped. “We’ll find you a better place to rest so that you can recover as well. Otherwise the I.P.C. will have all of our heads.”

Sunday thinks that last bit feels a bit tacked on, and he wonders what the nature of such an organization is if one of its own seems to dislike it enough to wince at the mention of it. There’s still so much that he does not know, so many terms thrown about so carelessly in conversation today, and that irks him. 

But his lips are sewn shut as he rests against the bars, and he regards Aventurine with an expressionless face.

A champagne brow quirks, the captain giving an incredulous shake of his head, hair falling into blond lashes beneath his hat. 

“This is a rather serious incident, and I’ve already called your bluff. You still won’t break, hm?”

Sunday is silent, but his tongue doesn’t feel as thick as before, and he hazards an inhale through his mouth. Aventurine looks a bit hopeful, cocks his head to the side in intrigue, and Sunday finds it a bit amusing to watch that glimmer of excitement blink out the moment that he realizes the creature in his grasp is simply focusing on recovering from the doctor’s…unsavory practices. 

Captain Aventurine looses a sigh as a younger man with blazing red hair peers into the room, a plate of bread and a cup of water in either hand. The captain accepts them both, wastes little time in crouching by Sunday’s preferred corner to slip both the cup and bread between the bars.

“I want word sent to the Guild about that doctor. Find him.” His tone is weary, but Aventurine’s subordinate nods all the same as he vanishes from the brig and sprints up the stairs to the decks above.

Sunday accepts them both wordlessly, flinches when their fingertips touch. That song cries out between his ears, either a product of Aventurine’s frustration or the strange ointment that Doctor Richard had utilized that’s left his insides reeling. But it’s enough that the captain notices, and he tucks the plate under his arm as Sunday’s tail settles around his hips to provide him a place to rest his arms.

The mermaid does not remark on it, and Aventurine chews on the inside of his cheek.

“Very well. I’m a patient man,” he says with a tired wink. “I can wait.”

The harmony beneath his skin says otherwise.

Aventurine turns on his heel quickly. He seems to be more than upset by the idea of the skeevy doctor slipping out from under his nose, and Sunday swallows again and gulps down half of the water in an instant. That dry patch is soothed, enough so that he can finally breathe freely, and his attention shifts to his fingertips.

They hum - almost burn - in the aftermath of Aventurine’s panic from where they’ve touched. But where there is an ever-present mark marring Aventurine’s complexion, Sunday’s flesh is, thankfully, devoid of anything other than his signature smatterings of silver and blue.

Sunday watches the captain stride from the cell to the doorway. He marks the way Aventurine checks the padlock before he goes, ensures the keys are still strung up. He’s only just breached the doorway when Sunday opens his mouth, a horrible dissonance echoing in his ears.

“You took something.”

Aventurine pauses in the doorway at that sinfully dulcet tone, shoulders drawn taut. Sunday watches his heels dig into the deck, notes the way cerulean-tipped fingers rest against the doorframe. They hover, unsure of whether to grab hold of it, and then Aventurine begins to tap out a slow, tedious rhythm in the quiet. 

Like he’s weighing his words carefully, like he’s torn between turning around to entertain the fact that Sunday has finally spoken to him or slipping into the shadows of the lower decks without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

The air grows humid, uncomfortably so. Sunday swallows and hears that discordant melody thrumming in his veins, occupying the space between his ears. But Aventurine is eerily still and has made no move to turn, and so the mermaid tries again, firmer this time in his accusation in spite of the itch in his throat.

“You stole something. From the sea.” Sunday inhales and presses a palm flat against the floor to lean forward - teeters a bit - as curious as he is tense. “And she cursed you, didn’t she.”

It is not a question.

“Oh?” 

Aventurine quirks a brow as he turns. His silence is effectively broken, and it’s enough to earn a reedy exhale of relief from Sunday as that humidity is dispelled. The captain’s tone is effortless as ever; his expression borders on enraptured, but his gaze is dull. It appears as though the confirmation that, yes, the mermaid in his grasp can talk is as enticing as it is vexing.

“I wonder if you feel it the same way I do.”

Perhaps Aventurine had been hoping otherwise when he’d murmured that cryptic line.

“You can speak, and it seems you have a keen eye. How troublesome.” The young captain pauses, and then, “I’ll take some comfort, then, in the fact that you cannot sing.” 

That unflinching eye does not leave his own, a molten swirl of color, and it clashes with brilliant ichor in the dim light of the brig.

Sunday seethes and his body shakes in the aftermath of whatever the doctor has snuck into his system. But his intrigue has been set ablaze, even if he is painfully aware of Aventurine’s proximity and how small the brig feels now that his fears have been confirmed.

A cursed captain? 

What a wild card, an indeterminable thing. Even worse, Sunday cannot discern the nature of his curse, nor what it entails, and that makes him all the more apprehensive.

Aventurine takes a step toward the bars, slips his arms through them until they dangle at the elbows, chains of gold chiming against rusting metal.

“I’m sure that it’s been made quite clear to you to how imperative it is that your existence aboard this vessel remain a secret.” It feels as though the barrier between them has been breached now that Sunday has forfeited, and he isn’t certain he enjoys the candid tone Aventurine employs. “You will remain under careful watch after this, but please know that it was not your doing. Rather, it was neglectful on my part not to have remained present for the entirety of his stay, and for that I must apologize.”

Sunday flinches at his words. He’s not interested in an apology. What use is there in one when Captain Aventurine is functioning as nothing more than his keeper until he’s delivered to that mysterious Guild to be picked apart?

“I suppose on the bright side, you’ll at least have finer living quarters than most would in your predicament.” 

Aventurine must be looking for a way to shift the odd tension that’s settled in the air. His grin has been tacked carefully onto his features and his tone has shifted to something lighter, but Sunday can still hear the disharmony sewn into his words that claims otherwise.

How humorous it is that Captain Aventurine has commented on everything except his curse.

“I’ll have you brought above deck once you’ve finished eating. I suppose, firstly, that it would be the proper course of action to ask for your name?”

Sunday presses his lips together in a fine line, knuckles white about the hunk of bread in his palm and the cup in his grasp. He’s broken the very oath of silence that he’d sworn to himself that he would not. He will not be so careless a second time.

Aventurine sighs, maybe even a bit genuinely amused at the sudden lack of anything. 

“Fine, have it your way. Enjoy your solitude for the time being.” Aventurine turns on his heel and adjusts his hat, and when he peers back over his shoulder he flashes a brilliant smile. “You might actually come to miss it.”

Sunday grimaces. He’s careful to reduce his bite to nibbles; he’d quite like to draw out his meal for as long as he can.