The Lighthouse
It was the first week of Spring. The fact seemed lost on the rolling gray of dunes, waves and clouds.
Ariel stepped out of her slippers and plunged her toes into the sand. She still marveled at how odd it felt, and that she could feel it with feet. The salt and smell of the sea reminded her how long it had been. She caught herself thinking the water felt as unwelcoming as it looked. Had it been too long?
But icy contact did bring awareness – crabs burrowing into the beach, a school of cod off the coast. She probed farther, deeper - beyond the Fynnish shore, the Anhold lighthouse, the Kattegat strait. Where sunlight and warmth fail sleeps a creature older than Atlantica. It mostly ignores the fleeting life above, occasionally feeds on it, and has been known, more for amusement than gain, to barter with it. But there is always a price, and she is unsure she has anything of value, whatever way these things are measured. Definitely not her voice.
The water felt warmer now, or maybe her feet had grown cooler. She felt an urge to surrender to it and let her worries float away. Surface-dwelling was heavy, exhausting business. Light, temperature, movement – everything changed violently. Things crashed into each other as they negotiated space on a single plane. Under the sea things were slower, smoother. Perhaps she'd rest her eyes…
"Miss!"
Just a few minutes…
"You'll catch your death, my Ma always says!"
Ariel turned to yell at the boy, then realized she wouldn't have gone far on human lungs. If this was the price, it was too high. She walked silently back to the sand.
"Why you cryin'?" he asked.
She realized she had been. "I hurt someone I care about."
#
No. 114 glided silently through the Kattegat mist. Eric couldn't see the other gunboats, which was just as well – the English wouldn't see them either. The men didn't need much light to avoid the shoals shallow enough to threaten those keels. They'd had proper ships-o'-the-line at the beginning of the War, of course. But what little hadn't been surrendered in 1807 had since been captured or sunk. Now the Royal Navy had been reduced to this, Commander Bille's Swedish toys, so cheap and expendable they were given a number, not a name.
Eric could sympathize. He thought back to that morning. That someone so stunningly human without could yet be so alien within. Her kind must find the human heart an interesting bauble, to play with and discard when the next shiny thing catches their eye…
"M'lord?"
Eric waved him away, but the seaman pointed ahead.
Anhold Island erupted from the fog, transports right and left unloading troops onto the beach. After years of skirting his responsibilities, at least his grief would be put at the service of King and Country. The golden beacon on the hill promised redemption.
#
They lay in a sea of linen, the morning sun spilling through the window.
"I'm leaving," she said at last.
Silence.
"I think you knew before I did," she added.
"Is this about the War?" The strain in his voice pained her. She daren't look into his eyes. "English patrols are splitting this Kingdom apart. If we don't destroy that lighthouse…"
"It's not about the War." Was there any way of making it sound less selfish than it was? "It's something I need to do."
"We could get you different tutors," he pleaded, "or travel to the capital, present you at Court."
"I think I've outgrown tutors," she said softly. "I want to visit the places they talk about."
"Did you ever love me?"
"I did. I do." But I love humanity more. And so much of it is outside these walls.
He got up to leave. I'm sorry, she thought.
"The sea will never harm you," she vowed instead.
He paused at the doorway. "It already has."
#
Eric arrived at the beach camp thirsty, tired and sore. There was someone's blood on his coat. He hailed the nearest man.
"Alert Melsted, we need to retreat!"
"Major Melsted is dead, m'lord." It didn't shock him as much as he expected.
"Falsen, then?"
"The Lieutenant was captured along with his company."
"Then who the hell is the commanding officer here?"
"That would your lordship, your lordship."
"Oh." That did shock him. "What of the remaining companies?"
"Dead or captured, m'lord. Yours was the last one unaccounted for."
"Well, sound the retreat, man!"
The remaining boats pushed off into the Kattegat. Once they reached shoal waters they would be beyond the reach of any deep-keeled English pursuers.
The sun was setting on a day of unmitigated defeat. The fog finally cleared, revealing the three-masted frigate that lay between them and escape. It fired a 16-gun volley, sinking the transport beside them in a blast of screams and splinters.
"The Tartar! Orders?"
Unmitigated defeat. "Signal the ship. We surrender."
The frigate replied with a second, deadlier volley. It was now in position to broadside their last boats.
Eric's thoughts turned, unbidden and unapologetic, to Ariel. He braced for the impact and heard the sickening sound of broken wood and broken men.
Only it came from the Tartar. Looking up he saw a monstrous tentacle snap the main mast, others crushing bow and stern. He was overwhelmed by the memory of dark tentacles and maniacal laughter, but reminded himself the witch was dead. This was something else.
"M'lord! What in the seven hells…"
He smiled despite himself. "A parting gift."
#
"What's your name?" asked Ariel.
"Hans," replied the boy.
"And why are you crying, Hans?"
He seemed embarrassed. "My Ma wants me to 'prentice with Mikkel, the weaver."
"And you don't like Mikkel?"
"He's alright, I guess. It's just… I wanna leave here, y'know? Maybe go to the capital, see things, do things."
She smiled. "I know the feeling. It reminds me of a story, would you like to hear it?"
He nodded.
"It's about a little mermaid that fell in love with a prince."