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The Little Mermaid: A Child Born of Sea and Shore

Chapter 1: When the Cold Wind is Calling

Eight Months Ago

As Ariel held onto Beau's reins for dear life, as she looked down at the sea and rock below Maiden's Head, she was reminded that falling to her death would be a most embarrassing, not to mention messy, way to die.

Of course, she reflected, it wasn't as if her life had been free from near-death experiences, many of which she'd gotten into herself. She'd been chased by sharks, abducted by sharkanians, made a prisoner by moray, nearly assassinated by her own governess, been trapped in a deep sea trench with the maw of a Deep One for company, been caught up in the conflicts of redfins, bluefins, and octopins, and most infamously, bartered her soul with a sea-witch cecaelia so that she could walk in the Dry World, and get herself into yet another situation where she'd nearly been zapped by her father's trident. Really, ever since emerging on land, her list of near-death experiences had been cut by over 80%. Despite her father having tried to keep her away from the Dry World, it seemed that it was the safest place for her.

But not, the youngest daughter of King Triton reflected, if I fall and go splat.

Things didn't go splat in the ocean. They fell, true, but didn't splat on anything. Over a year since she'd gained a pair of legs, and she was again reminded just how deadly gravity could be. And unlike the laws of Denmark, gravity was a law that could not be tampered with.

It could, however, be defied. So as she looked up into the eyes of Beau, a German Hanoverian with eyes and hair the colour of earth, she spoke to him as a parent might.

"Beau, I need you to pull me up."

Beau whinnied, brayed, and pranced on the edge of the cliff. Despite having raised him as a foal, Ariel was unsure if he understood. The animals of the Dry World were not like those of the Deep – they could not communicate with each other in the same way as those beneath the sea, or those who called both worlds home. Despite having retained the Gift of Tongues in human form, she could not speak to Beau in any language he might possess.

But that was not to say he was without intelligence. And thus, her words continued.

"Beau?" Ariel asked, as she looked down at the crashing surf, and immediately regretted it. "I really need you to pull me up now."

His eyes met with hers – his queen's were the colour of the top of the sea, and as expressive as the sky. The gazes of two worlds met, and in both pairs of eyes was understanding.

She might fall. He might fall. Perhaps he might abandon his rider and slink back to Copenhagen, unable to look man or mare in the eye. But in her seventeen years, Ariel had managed to be a good judge of character (a certain sea witch notwithstanding), and had faith that Beau would at least try to pull her up.

It was faith that was rewarded as Beau began to walk backwards.

"Easy, boy. Easy."

He whined. He whinnied. The waves below crashed with the howl of Oceanus, as if hungering to return their errant child to the deep The wind blew with the force of a titan's breath, and her red hair, the colour of the sun at night's eve, blew in her hair, obscuring her eyes. Hanging onto her horse's reins with both hands, as if her life depended on it (which it did), Ariel had no means to move it aside.

I live or I die blind.

Preferably live, she thought. And with a groan, be it from her or her horse, Ariel, Queen of Denmark, was pulled back onto the cliff head of the outcrop that looked over the North Sea.

Beau let out a whinny and began licking her, as if he were a certain dog who lived in the palace she called home. Which, considering that he'd spent so much time in the palace (too much time, she recalled), was perhaps to be expected.

"Yes, Beau, I'm alive," she said, as she sat up and brushed the horse away. "Thank you."

Beau snorted.

"I can't say I'm ready to forgive you though. Riding straight at the cliff, stopping short, tossing me over your head…if I didn't know better, I'd say you wanted me to fall."

Beau hung his head in shame.

"Oh, but I know you'd never do that," said Ariel, giving him a kiss on the nose. "After all, aren't you my precious Baby Beau?"

Beau snorted.

"Okay, you were my Baby Beau." She got to her feet. "And yet…"

Neither sea nor wind had answer, and as she stood there, holding a hand above her eyes in the light of morning's glare, Ariel reflected on the events of the last five minutes.

She'd ridden alone up to Maiden's Head. Grimsby had once told her that its name dated back to the country's early history. When Viking longships had sailed north, then east (and later west), and where the maidens would stand atop this peak, watching their husbands row off to war and plunder. That they would stand here and wait for their beloved to return, and if not, throw themselves upon the rocks below.

Ariel wasn't sure what to make of the tale. She didn't see the appeal in romanticizing war, be it on the sea or below it. From everything she'd read, from what she'd seen herself in the Sargasso Sea, war was nothing to celebrate.

And yet she'd be lying if she did not see the romance in a wife waiting for her husband. A love that stretched across land and sea. Love that she could understand.

"But it was so strange," Ariel said to her steed. "There we were, riding, and before me I saw…" She looked at her horse. "You saw her, didn't you?"

Beau let out a snort as he began to eat some grass.

"It was like a woman," Ariel whispered. "Floating upon the breeze, yet without wing. As if lighter and more temporal than the air itself." She took a step towards the edge of the cliff. "As if she was calling to me."

Beau wagged his tail, leaving Ariel to reflect on what she'd seen. A woman, just floating there, however briefly – a silhouette within the glare of the sun, which had not yet reached its apex. She had been without voice, and yet, Ariel could not shake the feeling that she'd been called. Or rather, Beau had, driven to gallop to the edge of Maiden's Head by some unseen force.

A siren, she wondered? Unlikely. Sirens existed in a sea far south of here, and as far as Ariel was concerned, that wasn't nearly far enough. If a siren was up here, and wanted her dead, its song would be useless against a mer, but could tear her apart with its bare claws instead.

An angel, then? She'd seen art of such beings in various places, including St. Mary's Cathedral, where the crown of Denmark had finally reached her head. As humans had developed myths about merfolk for millennia, so too they had developed ideas of creatures of sky. Ideas that everyone believed to be true, and having spent most of her life beneath the waves, who was she to say otherwise?

Yet that didn't fit either, she thought, as she sat down beside Beau. If angels were what men and women of faith claimed them to be, they didn't strike her as the kind of beings that would willingly entice her to her death.

"Maybe I'm just going crazy," Ariel whispered, before she giggled. "Silly me, talking to myself, trading my fins for legs…maybe I've always been crazy." Certainly my friends thought so.

She stood there and took a breath of the morning air. Morning had been her favourite time of day even before joining the Dry World – when the sunlight would filter down through the surface, enticing her to a new adventure be it above or below the sea.

The smell of salt entered her nostrils, reminding her of the world she had once called home. Breathing was different in the Dry World – she could feel her lungs move with every breath. Her heart beat ever so slightly differently. The air had a feel to it unlike water. A different taste upon her tongue, salt or no.

And the sun! A glowing orb that lay above the Dry World, and in the Dark World of the sky, where no creature of land or sea could tread. Unfiltered by the surface of the sea, its warmth and light able to caress her with divinity's grace, even in the chill of autumn's breeze. Many times had she seen it as a mermaid, when she'd ventured to the surface (an occurrence that had become more regular over the years), and yet here, now…it warmed her. Caressed her. Reminded her of…

Mother.

Beau neighed, and Ariel smiled. "Come on," she said. "Tricks of the air are no reason to discover how hard a bunch of rocks are. And I do believe that after this little experience, both of us are owed breakfast."

The horse snorted.

"Well, one of us is." She gave him a kick, and he galloped off on a quartet of magnificent things called hooves.

Like riding a seahorse. You never forget how to.

Most of her mind was at peace. Yet still she cast gaze out across the morning sky.

Wondering if it was a trick of the light, or something more.

Oldenburg Castle had been constructed nearly a century ago in 1689, and under Eric's rule, was the current seat of power of the Danish royal family. Located outside Copenhagen proper, it was nevertheless a short carriage ride from the castle down into the city – a ride Ariel had taken with her now-husband on her second day in the Dry World.

At the time, she'd been far more interested in what lay outside the castle than in it – she'd spent a good portion of her life inside a castle under the sea, she hadn't given up her voice and tail to be cooped up in a second one. And yet, in the thirteen or so months since the start of her new life, she'd come to understand the intricacies of her new home, and appreciate them. All the more so, having recently returned from Greenland.

The castle was an oddity – while named after the House of Oldenburg (a royal family whose roots in Denmark went back seven centuries), its interior was inspired by the Greeks and Romans. Great pillars and tiles harkened back to the old Mediterranean empires, that in turn had harkened back to Atlantis of old, even if that lost civilization had faded from the minds of Man.

And yet, there were also the telltale signs of Danish (and indeed, wider European) culture as well – stain-glass windows. Carvings of lions and whales. Paintings scattered throughout the entire castle, and nowhere more so than the corridor the queen of Denmark walked down, with as much haste and repose that she could both manage.

She was late, she knew that – Grimsby had wanted to discuss "a matter of grave importance" over today's breakfast, and while her crown gave her the right to refuse, decorum and decency bid her to hurry. But as she stood and stared at one of the paintings, as a scarlet-furred kitten with aqua eyes and a tiara rubbed against her, she could not help but linger.

"I wonder what you would have seen if you were there, Treasure," Ariel whispered. "Would you have seen what escaped my eyes?"

The cat yawned, and found a space to lie in the sun.

"Silly cat. You sneak onto the king's ship, you head off to sea in a boat, and now you won't move for anything."

Treasure let out another yawn.

"Or anyone." She returned her gaze to the picture. With Beau, Treasure, Seashell, and Matey, the castle was on the verge of becoming a menagerie, or so Grimsby had said. No doubt he'd have a lot more to say when she finally arrived in the dining room, and yet, her eyes still lingered.

The painting showed a knight upon his steed carrying sword and shield, the former of which was raised to capture a shaft of light, the latter of which was withstanding the green fire of a stygian dragon. The paintings of Oldenburg Castle were like a time capsule of European art over the last thousand years, taken from various times and places, but this one stood out. It was, to Ariel's eyes, pure fantasy, yet not.

"Even now, the painting enchants you."

She turned, and curtsied as Henrik Lentfer walked up to her. A big man with a big moustache, who more often than not walked with a big sheathed sword in a big belt around his big belly, Henrik reminded Ariel of Spot. At least in terms of size, if not in terms of personality, but then, Spot had been an exception.

Most killer whales weren't of the personable sort.

"Your curtsies are getting better."

Henrik was even less so.

"But some things are frozen forever in time," Henrik added, as he gestured to the painting. "The Devil and the Prince of Thorns. Painted in 1553 if I recall correctly."

"1559," Ariel corrected.

Henrik frowned, looked at the picture's frame, then said, "of course, your majesty."

Ariel could name every painting in the castle, and the dates of half of them. The art, the colours, the paint itself – to her, it was fascinating. Atlantica didn't lack in sculpture, but portraits were a rarity, for when water surrounded you, it was hard to make paint, harder still to make it last. When she'd recovered a painting from a sunken ship showing a human woman staring at a candle, the painting itself had piqued her curiosity nearly as much as the flame it depicted.

(She'd discovered how candles had operated when she'd first put her hand by a flame – it had taken a week for the burn to heal.)

But Henrik didn't know about that – not the candle, and certainly not her old life beneath the waves. A man in his late forties, he was former Royal Danish Navy, now the head of the castle's household guard in his twilight years. A man who would occasionally take her and/or Eric out onto the sea, albeit not their recent expedition to Greenland, and not to Eric's current locale. A man who bid her good day, before he headed off to do tides knew what.

"Someday, he's going to learn a few things about me," Ariel murmured, as she looked at Treasure. "Won't that be interesting?"

Treasure twisted her head.

"Look at me, talking to cats and looking at dragons." She sighed. "I ever tell you about Scales?"

Her cat yawned once more, her tail flicking from side to side.

"Remind me to. He was much friendlier than that one, and he didn't breathe green fire."

Treasure returned to snoozing in the sun, as her owner headed down the hallway. Truth was, she had an idea why she stared at the painting of the prince and the dragon, and it wasn't for missing Scales, even if she did so. Rather, she could not help but look at it and be reminded of a different kind of beast. A leviathan who had risen from the depths of the sea with the ocean's power, and been slain by a prince of another kind. One who was descended from the prince in the painting (however distantly), and in her story, had been a sleeping beauty on the sands.

A smile lurked on her lips as she remembered that day. Saving her husband from beneath the waves, looking down at him under the sun, finding his face so…kissable. It was silly, she knew, but the smile remained on her lips as she finally entered the dining room, finding it empty bar the king's steward looking out to sea, a book in hand.

"Please forgive my tardiness," she breathed.

Grimsby made no sound. Indeed, no sign he was even aware of her presence. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on the book.

"Grimsby?"

"Better three hours too soon than a minute too late," he said, as he closed the book with a thump. "But then, dum spiro, spero."

"While I breathe, I hope," Ariel translated.

Grimsby looked surprised, but only for a moment. "Of course," he said. "The Gift of Mouths, as you call it?"

"Tongues."

"Ah, yes. If only we all spoke in the same tongue, so much of the world's strife might be avoided." He checked his pocket watch. "But hope endures. You haven't forgotten your duties today, have you?"

"How could I forget?"

"Very good. But come, breakfast awaits."

It didn't, actually. The table was bare, and with just the two of them, lonely at that. Ariel considered Grimsby a confidante, and as the king's steward, he was bound to serve her as much as his husband. Indeed, she considered him a friend – age and wisdom tended to be two fins of the same fish, and in navigating the Dry World, Grimsby had held her hand where she might have otherwise fallen.

Grimsby clapped his hands, and Chef Louis and attendant staff brought in breakfast. Pork sausage, butter on toast, tea (milk and sugar included), and a strange green plant whose name escaped Ariel, but reminded her of seaweed.

"A good ride then, my dear?" Grimsby asked as he fastened his napkin.

"Oh, yes. It was most…invigorating."

"When a cold wind is calling, and the sky is clear and bright, misty mountains sing and beckon, lead me out into the light," Grimsby said. "A song my mother once sung to me."

"In Britain?"

"Indeed." He thanked Louis before fastening his napkin even tighter. "But that was a lifetime ago. Before I became steward in the Danish court."

Ariel bit her lip, as ethereal air danced in her mind. After a pause, said, "actually, something else happened to me. I can't explain it, but-"

"But regardless, to the subject of the matter," Grimsby said, as he began to eat, and Ariel, in turn, followed. "Perhaps you and the young master have already discussed the matter at hand (you've had over a year to do so after all), but as the young king has not yet confided in me, I therefore must do my duty, as I did his father before him."

Ariel opened her mouth for some toast.

"I am, of course, talking about the subject of children."

Ariel's mouth hung open. The toast fell onto her plate. Somewhere in the kitchen, a Frenchman sung about pigs.

"What?" Ariel whispered.

"Babies, my dear, babies," said Grimsby. "I assume you know what they are."

"No! I mean, yes, sort of, I mean, mer-babies are a thing, so-"

"Splendid!" Exclaimed Grimsby, as he continued to make his way through his breakfast. "Then we're at least at some understanding."

Ariel stared at the green stuff on her plate. Spinach, she finally recalled. Not seaweed.

"The people are restless my dear," the steward continued, as he and the queen made their way through their respective meals (which to Ariel's case, was not at all). "One year since your marriage and coronation, one year of grace, as they say."

"Who say?"

"Oh, the people," Grimsby said airily, not bothering to meet her gaze. "It's expected that as soon as a man takes a woman, they should get on with the business of ensuring little men and women start to enter the world."

Ariel gingerly took a bite of spinach – even now, it didn't agree with her, and she made a mental note to have the menu changed. Her lower half had been transfigured by her father's magic, but her tastebuds had remained the same. The world of land-folk had introduced her tongue to everything from sugars to spices, flavours that remained while salt water made flavours harder to come by, but still, seaweed remained superior to spinach.

You're procrastinating.

She tangled the spinach on her dinglehopper. Tapped the toast with her pointy-dexter. Anything at all, even indulging in the terms she'd once used to describe the objects of the Dry World, was preferable to dealing with the subject at hand.

"I assume of course, that your, ah, people, have something similar?" Grimsby looked around the dining room, despite them being the only two present. "A king, a queen, lines of succession?"

Despite everything, Ariel held her tongue, at least at first. That she was not of the land was not exactly a secret within the palace, but not something that was shouted from the walls either. People, as Grimsby explained, liked things to be simple. The sun rose, the sun set, land was dry, water was wet. Start shouting that their queen used to have a flipper instead of legs, and things could get complicated. For if God had made Man in His image, had He made the merfolk as well, or were they of different blood?

(She knew the answer, but it wasn't one she was about to shout from the rooftops.)

"We did," Ariel said eventually. "I mean, we do. Or they did, but it's only been a year, and my father…" She took a breath, trying to ignore the ache in her heart. "I was seventh of King Triton's daughters, and thus seventh in line."

"I see," said Grimsby, his ears wiggling as if to say "and quite proper too." Instead, after eating some sausage, he said, "and what of your mother dear? You say so little of her."

The wound in Ariel's heart began to bleed, and her mouth remained shut.

"Ah, I see. Well, enough of that. On to happier matters, yes? Now, what was I talking about…?"

"Babies."

"Yes, my dear, babies. I assume you and Prince, ah, King, Eric, have been…" He trailed off, seeing the look of confusion on Ariel's face. "Well, do pass it onto him, will you? I fear I'm not long for this world, and the people would love to see the king have a son before I leave this world."

"A son?" Ariel asked.

"A son or a daughter. Though of course, the former takes priority."

It does? Ariel thought of her father, and her sisters. She'd never had a brother (well, not unless she included Urchin, but that was by bond rather than blood), but regardless, it had been a fact of life that Attina, brat though she may have been, was first in line for the throne, and once she had borne child, he or she would follow her in turn. Thus had it been with Triton, through Poseidon, through Neptune, through Meris, through their ancestors who bore those same names and crown, all the way back to Proteus of Atlantis. A line unbroken, a line unending. Such was the nature of things for the sons and daughters of Tiamat.

But she didn't say any of that to Grimsby. He had yet to get over the fact that his queen was a child born of sea rather than shore, she didn't want to make things more even complicated for him. Merfolk had never worshipped Tiamat the same way land-folk worshipped God, and from what she could tell, questions about the nature of the divine weren't welcome, at least in this part of the world.

She didn't want to debate theology with Grimsby. But on the subject of bearing children?

"Is it the people who wish for a child?" she asked. "Or you?"

He gave her a look – one that she hadn't seen before. Wiping his mouth, he slowly rose to his feet, and just as slowly, pushed his plate between them.

"My dear, you may not believe this, but my lot in life is to make sure the king is happy, that the people are happy, and that you are happy. Unfortunately, happiness requires certain duties to be upheld. That means producing an heir, and yes, in light of your, ah, change of locomotion, I imagine that might be difficult." He gave a small cough. "But enough talk. I have my duties, and you yours. Less stressful than the king's I imagine, but I expect he'll have plenty to tell us about that come the morrow."

The words ran through Ariel's head as fast as a porpoise cut through the water. She was new to this. She'd never taken any interest in court life in her old world, and she'd quickly realized that the human world had its own unspoken rules. As it turned out, marrying a man she'd known for less than a week and being thrust into the world he'd known all his life had left her unprepared for the role of princess (and later queen) in more ways than one.

And children? By the Four Tides, she was only seventeen. Even looking after children had been a nightmare for her in Atlantica, how on earth (or under sea) could she be expected to be a mother?

But there was no use in arguing, she thought, as she morosely munched some morsels. Watched as Grimsby headed for the dining room's exit. The doors opened with a heavy clunk, followed by an exclamation of "good God!", and a series of barks.

Ariel giggled as Grimsby kept using the Lord's word in vain, and the barks continued, accompanied by the skitter-skatter of paws. Within moments, Max was right beside her, barking, trying to slobber all over his queen.

"Heya boy."

"Arf arf!"

Like Beau, she had no idea what he was saying. In that, she was like every other human, but it was just one further reminder of what she'd left behind.

"Arf?"

Max, being Max, had nothing to say on the matter. Though she could tell he was happy all the same as she fed him the rest of her sausage.

"Really dear, if you keep doing that, the dog will turn into a pig."

Ariel chuckled and looked at Carlotta as she walked in. "I thought you said that about ham."

"I did."

Were ham and pork the same thing? She didn't know – perhaps she'd ask Louis, if he could speak through those false teeth of his. Regardless, she gave Max a ruffle on the head, and he bounded off to find new courtiers to have fun with (or torment, depending on one's point of view).

"Inseparable since the king was a wee pup himself," Carlotta said as she began clearing the plates. "Been there for the king through thick and thin, make no mistake about it."

Ariel knew that Carlotta had been a maid for the old king and queen as well. Had served as Eric's wet nurse as well, and come his parents' deaths, she'd become something of a surrogate mother himself, even if Grimsby had taken over most of the duties of raising the orphaned prince. These days, she played the role of maid, but the attachment was still clear.

"You finished dear?"

"Yes, thank you." Ariel put her knife on the plate, and after a moment's hesitation, put the fork there as well. It reminded her of the hairbrush she used.

"Glad to hear it. I do believe that you're do out in an hour."

"Yes, of course. I-"

"Your itinerary." Carlotta procured a parchment from her big apron, which was draped over her big body, and accordingly, the parchment was just as big. So big that clearly more than one tree had died to make it.

"You worried luv? You gone all pale like."

"I'm…fine," Ariel said as she read the list of responsibilities – nothing too out of the ordinary, shaking hands, kissing babies (or was it the other way round?), cutting ribbons, maybe a dance or two, plus a meeting with the ambassador of Glowerhaven. The only thing that stood out was her meeting at noon (indeed, the first meeting of the day), where she was expected to visit the stage of La Sirenetta.

Not something she'd been looking forward to. But now that the day was here, she couldn't deny that she was curious. She just wished her husband had been here with her to see it as well.

She wiped something from her eye. It wasn't a tear, but then, Carlotta wasn't to know that.

"You miss the king?" She asked.

"It's fine, Carlotta."

"Oh come on, you don't need to put on a brave face for me. Been married for a full year…you bein' around the young master made him happier than I be seein' him in ages."

If that's true, why isn't he home yet?

"…but if you ain't happy, then we be havin' problems, because if you ain't happy, then I ain't happy, and lotsa people be unhappy."

Ariel looked at Carlotta. Like Grimsby, she was a tough read. Like Grimsby, she knew her origins, and like Grimsby, held no cart with them, at least on the surface. She'd treated Ariel with kindness the moment she walked into Oldenburg Castle. But that had been before she'd discovered the truth – her true name, her true heritage, her everything.

People could remain the same, Ariel thought. But perceptions were rarely so static.

"Your majesty? Are you alright?"

"Hmm?"

"Oh, you looked like you were miles away."

Perhaps I was, Ariel thought, as she glanced out to the windows. Miles below as well.

"Well, time to get going lass. Horses are for galloping, as they say."

"Yes, of course," Ariel said, as she got to her feet. Bit her lip as she watched Carlotta clear the plates away and head for the exit. Her footsteps echoed through the dining room – the tap-tap-tap hitting her ears like a particularly strong tide.

She looked at the three chairs that stood empty – hers, Grimsby's, and Eric's, long since unfilled.

She looked once more through the windows. To the beach and the sea, its waves gently lapping upon the shore. Regular as the rising of the sun itself, it was as if the sea was calling her. Begging her to return.

But that would never happen. Could never happen, unless her father lay eye upon her once more. And on the subject of parenthood…

"Carlotta?"

"Yes, dear?"

Ariel bit her lip, before whispering, "can you tell me where babies come from?"

A/N

I debated whether to add this author's note, since I doubt it would be that relevant to that many people. Being as succinct as possible as a middle-ground however, some of you might be asking why I've set the story in Denmark when most sources at least imply that the 1989 film takes place in the Mediterranean, and in at least one book, outright states that to be the case.

There's basically a few reasons. First, despite the existence of said sources, the location of the 1989 film has never been that consistent in terms of geography (take the cartoon series for instance), and Curse of the Sea Witches explicitly names Eric's kingdom as Denmark. There's other circumstantial evidence I could use to place it, but I won't go over each case, as there's just as much circumstantial evidence that places the events of the film in the Med, or even the Caribbean. However, I ultimately settled on Denmark for a few reasons, namely:

1: While the original story can really take place anywhere (as long as that place has a coast), it's a Danish fairytale at the end of the day, so the Danes get 'first choice' here. For instance, if I was doing a Snow White story, Germany/Prussia would be the first consideration, even if it's not obliged to take place there.

2: On a more subjective level, I wanted to challenge myself when writing this. There's no shortage of stories/medias I'm familiar with/have written that even if they don't take place in the Med itself, still draw liberally from Mediterranean cultures (Greek, Roman, Egyptian, etc.) In contrast, I've written/watched/read far less that deals with Scandinavia, be it historical or mythological.

Anyway, that's the short version, believe it or not, but basically, I don't know how many people are "wed to the Med" as far as the 1989 film goes, but if so, afraid that isn't the case here.