Disintegrate

For days, the visiting Atlanteans had toiled, trying to prevent the effects of the spill. Tensions were high for the knowledge that the cloud continued to increase without any signs the oil was being stifled. Even worse was the uncertainty as to how this had all started, and why the surfacers had done nothing to fix it yet. This spill was different from those the older kings and advisors could remember.

Nereus had posited that a very likely reason to leave the well unplugged could be that the spill was an act of war, and that if left alone, the oil would eventually choke out life in the sea. Orvax had dismissed this idea—surfacers had no respect for the ocean, but they'd never willingly destroy a resource before they had bled it dry. The ocean surely had something to offer them, seeing as how it could still sustain the five remaining kingdoms. Orm was also unconvinced that the spill was intentional, although he knew he could never reveal what (Y/N) had insisted to him nights before. He wanted to believe her, even if he could not believe the rest of them.

Solutions to the issue of containment had been proposed and tested, over and over, until exhaustion. After a few days of initial shock, Orm had been able to contribute two ideas.

The first solution concerned the schools of oil-slicked fish which had been emerging from the thick cloud of muck for several days. Although many of them arrived dead, floating outwards from the spill and settling close to the cloud perimeter, some still managed to survive by the time they reached clear water. It was apparent that they needed a way to remove the oil, and Orm proposed they use silk to clean the fish off. The thought had sprung from the abundance of banners hanging in Xebel's palace, always tossing slightly in the currents. They had lined the ceilings of ballrooms and hallways, at first proving to be an annoyance to him—he wasn't used to so much ambient movement. The palace in Atlantis was sparsely decorated, relying more on architecture to please the eye. But these sources of distraction had eventually prompted a useful thought—and although it was an imperfect solution for now, the banners were taken down and re-allocated to cleaning fish. Enough oil was wiped away that the creatures could breathe again, which was good enough for the moment.

The other solution, concerning the ever-advancing spread of oil, was tide manipulation. Although they possessed the capability to manipulate the tides on a mass level, the highborns of the ocean kingdoms usually held to an unspoken agreement not to use this capability. However, dire circumstances required extreme solutions—and they were not about to watch the oil creep outwards for days without doing something to prevent it. Although it required tremendous effort, the work of creating counter-tides to push the oil back was mostly successful. Patrols had been unable to enter the polluted water, so nobody knew exactly where the epicenter was. To keep from pushing the oil too far in any one direction, efforts were mostly made to contain the edges of the cloud within their current borders. It was exhausting work, and forced the royals into back-to-back shifts in the field. For the time being, there was nothing else they could do. It was all Orm could do to remain focused on his task when he was suspended in the blue, staring down the black cloud, concentrating on the movement of the ocean around him.

One thing Orm had expected of his time in Xebel was that he might at least have a friend in Mera when he got there, but the arrangement for tide manipulation prevented him from interacting with anyone outside of shift changes. Because of her high aptitude for tide manipulation, she was arguably the most valuable on the front lines—driving her to exhaustion when she wasn't working. Speaking with her always brought Orm back to their shared training under Atlanna, years ago, and now that he could somewhat understand what his mother felt at the time, there was less of a sting in his recollections of her.

In fact, he had new reasons to try and recall time spent with his mother. For all her blind devotion to the surface—he still could not picture spending more time on land than was totally necessary, let alone living there—she might have been the key to his current personal dilemma. She was likely the only Atlantean who had ever considered a way to link those on land with those in the sea. The more he saw of the Surface's actions, the less he could stand the thought of (Y/N) continuing to live there, continuing to pretend that things might improve. If there was any way to make her capable of living underwater, then he knew he had to find it. And he knew that Atlanna, of all those who had come before, would've been the only one who might consider trying something like this.

He realized it was very likely that Atlanna had never intended to remain in Atlantis, that she would have fled for the surface to return to her other family (he struggled to acknowledge them as her family, even though it was true) if it had been possible. However, perhaps she had been planning to outlive Orvax and bring the surfacers into the sea with her someday—when it was safer for them. Certainly, Orm's birth had complicated her desires to return to the surface? Certainly, she wouldn't have left him for her bastard son as soon as she could find a way out? It seemed to Orm more likely that she would want to share her home underwater with those she'd attached herself to on the surface. At least, for Orm's purposes, this plan was the only useful one.

In any case, Atlanna's belongings had been destroyed after her banishment. None of her writings had survived, and only one of her personal objects had been saved; the pearl bracelet she had always worn, which Orm had stolen from her quarters before it could be destroyed with everything else. If Atlanna's wisdom remained anywhere in the world, it was locked away somewhere in the memory of those who had been closest to her. Orm had repressed so much of her memory, and although he had dredged as much as possible back to the surface and sifted through every painful thought, he could recall nothing of use. He had hoped that maybe speaking to Mera might call something new back to mind, or prompt her to share her own memories, but that hope had been discarded in the face of the disaster. All he could do was sift through the same thoughts over and over, during his waking moments alone in the sea.

Life carried on like this for three weeks. For three weeks, between sleeping and working, Orm could only spare momentary thoughts for (Y/N). During this time, and only during this time, did he believe it would be better for her on the surface. But as the oil spill receded, and Nereus deduced that the source had been stopped up, the sea felt almost safe again. When they returned to Atlantis, Orm could do little more but sleep. The crisis dealt with, his exhaustion could finally be tended to.

It had been a month. She had been able to trace the progress of the spill as it moved through the gulf, on the southern end of the country, and every projected image of the oil's spread had filled her with anxiety. Of course, the café had the TV constantly tuned to the news these days, monitoring the situation as it continued to spiral. More than once, she had shut herself in a restroom stall to take a moment alone because she couldn't handle watching the same recycled footage of oil-slicked sea creatures dying en-masse. She had stopped checking the coast for his lantern after the first week. She knew he could not come back until the spill was stopped somehow.

What worried her was his absence for two days after the spill had been stopped. She knew the problem was far from resolution, yet she had been telling herself for weeks that as soon as the engineers found a way to plug the leak, she would have him back. It almost didn't seem real when she finally saw him standing on the beach again, lantern in hand. She was too numb to be excited for his return; inexplicably, her stomach was heavy as she went to meet him. He did not offer a hug, nor did he come to the boat to meet her. She set her teeth as she stepped into the water to approach him.

"I've been watching the spill—" she had barely begun before he interrupted. It was like she had opened a floodgate.

"Of course you have. You all have," he threw his arms in the air. "Three weeks. They let that poison flow for three weeks." His voice was raised, but only slightly, so she knew he wasn't so upset that he had abandoned all caution. "You've been watching the spill," he scoffed.

"Orm, I'm sorry," where he had spoken at a normal volume, she barely whispered. "I don't condone anything about how we handled that. A lot of good people wanted to stop it sooner, there were activists, Orm, we tried," this time she didn't need to be interrupted to run out of words. There was nothing to say; she hadn't come prepared for a debate.

"Did they even have a single person on the ground, working to clean this up? What did these activists do? What good were they?—And don't lump yourself in with the rest of them."

"Of course we had people working to clean it up. I've spent the past month watching people hand-clean the oil off of baby animals," she spat. "It's been awful. It's all they show on the news. We all hate the situation."

"I was there, (Y/N). If they hated the situation enough, they would have done something sooner," he hissed.

"The same could be said for you!" she fired back. "We aren't even built to go underwater, so what did you expect? For us to fix it overnight? Why couldn't you just do it yourselves?"

"You caused all of this!" he shouted, then, realizing his mistake, he dropped his voice to a murmur. "You really must not understand, (Y/N), that the day we start cleaning up the Surface's mess is the day the Surface falls. For good."

Of course, the threat had always been present. He had mentioned this concept, the idea of Atlantis striking back, in conversation before. Even when he had urged her to look after herself a month ago, had instructed her to move inland (as if his royal jurisdiction now somehow extended into her life!) if there was any sign of an attack from the sea. But it hadn't felt real, hadn't felt like the threat it was, until this moment—and her chest grew tight with his words, and the tension shattered outwards and made her feel numb all over again.

More than anything, she wanted to believe that he was just speaking out of frustration right now, from outrage at what he had seen in the past month, but without any substance behind the threat. But it had been repeated so many times, and now directly towards her. She inhaled, her breath trembling, and prepared to lash out at him in some way—to keep arguing, or to tell him he was crazy, but she couldn't form the words. Instead, the moment she opened her mouth, she began to sob.

For several minutes, Orm stood in silence as she cried. The moment she broke down, all of the rage which had been burgeoning in him, prompting him to lash out further and further, had completely deflated. He had never made anyone cry before. He had never gone so far with his words to diminish someone to tears—the shame was overwhelming, and even worse for the fact that he knew he deserved it. She had tilted her face downwards, unable to even look at him, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. If he had attempted to comfort her, or speak to her, he felt she would have deflected him immediately. There was nothing he could do or say to recover.

"I need you to leave," after a few gasps, she could finally stop crying and speak again. Still glaring at the sand, still unable to look him in the eye, she continued, trying to relate what she had been thinking during the breakdown. "We're both too close to this situation right now. Don't come back until you can recognize who is at fault here, and who is not."

Although he knew she couldn't see him, Orm nodded. Still clutching the lantern, he trudged down the beach and into the water, disappearing so quietly that she couldn't tell whether or not he had really gone. She waited, not daring to take her eyes off the ground, until she was sure he wasn't lingering, and until her vision was no longer blurry.