Okay, this is my second thiefshipping fic in progress. I saw this thing on tumblr that was like "what if when people die at sea they become a mermaid?" and I was like O.o MUst WrITe! so, here you go. Please, please review.
Mermaids never existed; that's what anyone will say. Professors, men and woman with fancy titles, big well-known names, and accents from all over the world will say that. They think the myth started when sailors who had too much to drink looked off into the horizon and mistook a matinee for a gorgeous woman. That they were simply so deprived of the feminine element their brain took over and created a mirage of what they longed for most. However despite holding so much power, there was only so much of the real image that could be faked, resulting in the lower body of a fish; a mermaid.
Of course more than one man saw them, and with each sighting grew more and more stories, fisherman's tales, conspiracies. People around the world saw them, more than a few going so far as to sail out and attempt to capture one; bring it back alive and become rich. Some would be lost to the great blue, while others made plans to fake a mermaid. Poor young woman trapped in suits or forced naked into large tanks until their lungs burst and they drowned. At one era, monkey bodies sewn to the tails of fish; that hadn't lasted long.
For over hundreds of years the idea of mermaids, beautifully marvelous water beings, enchanted the world. The over all idea of their appearance never drastically changing; though myths and folk tales wasted no time in rising. Some believed they were warriors of Heaven sent to watch over man and his world, others said demons sent by Lucifer to spite God; taking his beloved creation and dragging them down, drowning them.
Though none of that matters, it's all tall tales. This, however, is not.
Merpeople are not just born. Despite what humanity thinks, its far more gruesome than natural child birth, and not something to be celebrated. Yes, it's the start of a new life; but unlike humans it's also the end of a previous one. There are no balloons or stuffed animals, no smiling faces and laughter. There is tears and pain and so, so much agony because for them there new life is death. A merperson is created when that of a human perishes at sea. Tens of feet below, cold, scared, and feeling their chest tighten and fill heavy with water soaked lungs. When they are alone and left to nothing but blackness below and the terror of thoughts.
He's a beautiful thing. He's young at sixteen, full of life and ambitious. Tan skin and tall and violet eyes lined with kohl and fresh on his first sailing experience. His name is Marik Ishtar, he's beautiful; he's going to die.
The Atlantic is large and harsh, unforgiving and does not coddle the small humans who dare travel upon her. She throws harsh waves and brews witches storms in the sky, concocting mighty thunder and hissing lightning to set the sails ablaze. Waves become Poseidon's claws as he tears at the ship, tossing it and hurling it great distances, throwing a young boy over the wooden railing. He had cried out, violet eyes wide, but over the noise of the storm he was nothing more than mute.
His back hit the water first, sending shocks of needle-like pain through out his body. With in moments the cold blanketed him, wrapping him up and seeping deep into his bones replacing the marrow that lay there. water craves his caramel skin and laps viscously at it, sweeping into his wide frightened eyes and drenching his hair. Liquid force pushes down on him and his lungs barely hold any air, before he can take a breath he's been submerged a dozen feet. muscles lock up and he struggles towards the surface, clawing with all his might. It's only a second before he's been pushed back under and the lack of oxygen is disorienting him greatly. Another dozen feet, then a dozen more, and before he can resist he is over one hundred feet below in the Atlantic's stomach.
His eyes are useless to see though if he could it would be hell's fire engulfing the ship with his family above him, and his lungs feel ready to burst with the water that invades them. His heart beats so slow but so hard perhaps it will burst from his chest. it echoes like war drums in his ears and finally it stutters and stops, like a worthless car engine. violet eyes don't close and it wouldn't matter any other way because closed or open all he will see is black, and he knows once tan skin is taking on a grim gray color, and he falls ever farther. He doesn't know that, of course, because the dead can not think.
His name was Marik Ishtar, he was sixteen, beautiful, and he has died.
Should I continue?
