When ships sink, they bleed treasure. With time, their wooden skins rot away and expose the skeleton beneath, the framework of beams and cloth and metal, and then the riches spill out and congeal on the sand. Priceless paintings, coins- gold and silver-, jewellery, robes, casks of wine, machinery; all becoming sediment as the ocean breathes.

The mermaid whisks it all away. In her shelter inside a snake's-mouth crag, the artificial viscera coats the walls. Ribbons bedeck the stalactite teeth and a Russian carpet forms the tongue. Madonnas and virgins watch the mermaid as she reads. Her tail flicks absently at her side, brushing through strings of pearls- but it is not a leg. It is covered in scales and it is an armour she cannot remove.

Her book is an engineering manual. There is something beautiful, something blessed in the precision of their creation. The angles and lines hold something more reverent than their perfect art with upraised hands and rounded breasts. The diagrams are harsh. They are different and they are real.

Yesterday, the mermaid visited the surface (she always forgets how bright it is up there, without the water to muffle the sun). It was late and the sky was dark and the land even darker, little more than a stain against the night. Their kingdom was turrets and spires and domes. Shadow figures drifted along the beach, and the titan winds amplified their laughter. This land was entirely free of restraint or question, a land that had no use for a life that was false and unfounded.

There is a curved blade mounted on the wall. A scimitar, she remembers, and wonders why something so deadly should be so beautiful. When she considers that those above kill each other with this instrument, she is confused. Sometimes, she sees the ships as they stagger through the sea, and she watches the passengers struggle, turn blue and finally succumb to death's vice, and she wonders how one could wish this upon another. A sword could have much better uses. And so she takes it.

Now, the mermaid turns. The deepest hollow of the crag is full of scraps. Levers, pulleys, gears, cogs, rods, meters; the palette of an engineer. Her masterpiece is mounted, like the sword was just a moment ago.

The water lurches as she cuts.

The mermaid does not bleed the way the ships do. The red petals unfurl, oxididse, become indigo. Her tail fall to the ground, slack, and she can see the knots of muscles and veins beneath, and it is ugly and tumorous. She follows it down and drags herself along the thick Russian carpet, and the water is saturated with her skin's treasures. She reaches her masterpiece, her prosthetic legs, and clutches them tight, buckling them to her torso.

And then she gets to her feet- at last, feet! She sees her room through a haematic veil, the carpet cratered by her finger tips, the Madonnas marred, and the snake's fangs red.

The human knows she will not miss this life.


A/N: My laptop is broken and I can't exactly type anything now- the r and s keys don't work so I have to copy them in if I need them. Quite annoying, and it is difficult to find a word that has neither of them in it.

Since I probably can't type without completely losing my temper for a while, have some old English piece that is lying about in my documents.