A Child Born of Sea and Shore

by Hawki

A year had passed since Ariel had joined the Dry World. One year as queen of Denmark, and with it, the obligation to produce an heir. That should have been simple, even if her friends and family of the World Beneath the Sea had disappeared from her sight. But there were older things than mer in the world. As malignant as bitter breeze, who upon the wind carried death.

3. Under Bright Blue Endless Sky

The Little Mermaid: A Child Born of Sea and Shore

Chapter 2: Under Bright Blue Endless Sky

Eight Months Ago

What little colour was left in Ariel's face as Carlotta finished her story of human reproduction.

It was amazing how much detail Carlotta had been able to fit in ten minutes. As the mother of five strapping boys, she had plenty of experience when it came to childbirth and in her words, "there's nothing to it but a tight squeeze."

Nothing to it, Ariel thought to herself. How easy those words escaped your lips. Nevertheless, seeking escape of any kind from the subject of babies, she unwound the carriage window, ignored Carlotta's warning that it wasn't a good idea, and drunk in the sights and sounds of Copenhagen.

Even a year on, it never got old. To Carlotta, the smells of Denmark's capital were tolerable at best. But to Ariel, smell was part of the point.

You couldn't smell beneath the sea, at least, not in the way you could in the Dry World. The smells assailed their nostrils – the baking of bread, of burning wood, of spices and herbs, of flowers growing beneath the autumn sun. Even the idea of seasons in of themselves was not shared by the mer. If they looked upward, they might notice the sun set later or early, they might notice changes in the temperature of the water, note the migrations of whales (as Ariel had, when she'd followed a pod all the way to Antarctica), but it was not the same. Water flowed freely, and yet, was eternal. Land was stable, and yet upon it, the world could change in the blink of an eye.

Perhaps that was why she remained enamoured with it.

The clop-clop-clop of the horse's hooves under the city's paths. The laughter, the shouts, the music, even the bleating of sheep and cries of chickens. The way leaves danced in the wind, having shifted from green to brown. The way the sun reflected atop the canals. Even the narrow streets in of themselves were a marvel, the way land-folk built their cities. To a mer, who could swim up and down as easily as left to right, there were no need for stairs, little need for doors, and no considerations of gravity. This city, like others she had visited, was tightly packed, like biscuits in a tin. More than once, she and Carlotta had ventured into the city by themselves, and as a lady of girth, she often found it not to her liking.

But Ariel loved it. The intimacy. The raw feeling of existence – the sense that something was always happening, that an adventure could come around the literal corner at the drop of a hat (hats! They were fantastic!). Ten of her years had been spent cooped up in the palace in Atlantica, and she'd spent the next two exploring the seas as much as time and circumstance allowed, but this was something different. This was the ways of the human world, and it was one that merfolk would find hard to understand.

She withdrew her head as someone dumped some garbage from above, looked at Carlotta, and smiled. The maid smiled back – wise enough to understand why Ariel was enamored with the Dry World. Wise enough to know that she could never see her country through a former mermaid's eyes.

"Good to be home?" Carlotta asked.

Home, Ariel reflected. She supposed that's what Copenhagen was. The home she had chosen.

"I mean, after your trip to Greenland, it must be a welcome change of pace."

"Oh, in a sense," Ariel said. "But really Carlotta, you should have come. The Northern Lights, the fields of snow, the silence of it all. And the Inuit."

Not to mention the Arctic merfolk.

"Too cold for these old bones," said Carlotta. "But then, I don't believe I've ever seen you shiver."

"Give me time, Carlotta. I'm sure I'll manage."

The truth of the matter was more complicated – merfolk were far more resistant to cold than humans. They were creatures of the deep sea, and thus, had far better endurance to its higher pressures and lower temperatures. Even in Greenland, when she'd dived into the waters to save Eric from Arnaaluk, she had managed to endure the sub-zero temperatures far better than he had. Grimsby had theorized that perhaps mer were cold blooded, though Ariel had no way of knowing. To her, blood was blood, and thankfully, she had not seen too much of it in her sixteen years beneath the sea. The wounds she'd endured over her life had been inflicted against her spirit more so than her body.

But regardless, the trip to Greenland had been made months ago. A visit by the king and queen of Denmark on behalf of both the crown and the Royal Trading Company, in what was meant to be an inspection of a port being constructed to facilitate trade between Denmark and the New World. She'd endured everything, from human and mer prejudice, to the balance between preservation and progress, and in so doing, had experienced a landscape like no other. Seen animals unlike any found in Europe, made friends in both Itta and Tanaraq. She'd visited the Arctic twice as a mermaid, but never had she walked the surface of its lands.

Now, a month after returning, Eric was again elsewhere on royal business, and she was left to fill in his husband's stead. And by fill in, divulge most of her authority to Grimsby and the privy council.

Not something she was about to lament, but still…

The carriage driver tapped the window. "We're here," Carlotta said.

"Here," as the case was, was the Frederiksberg Gardens – a vast estate in western Copenhagen established a century ago, with inspiration taken from Italy and France. It was not as grand as the great kelp forests of Atlantica, but in its way, no less beautiful. Not long after their marriage, Eric had taken her here, where they'd spent a full day smelling the roses in more ways than one.

(Also, it was fun to climb the trees, or attempt to. To climb at all was a whole new sensation.)

But this wasn't the purpose of her visit. Her purpose lay in the experiment of outdoor opera, but before that, she had to play the part of queen. A crowd had gathered at the gardens' entrance, and all stood in attendance as their queen exited the carriage, under the clear autumn sky.

Ariel wished Carlotta would join her, but she was a mere maid, not a herald. The role of announcement was reserved for the carriage driver – a veteran of the Danish Army, if she recalled correctly, and he indeed had the stride of a soldier. The Royal Guard of Atlantica had swum rather than walked, but once a soldier, always a soldier, she reflected.

Her herald began to speak. "Presenting Her Majesty, Queen Ariel the First, the Rose of Denmark."

The crowd cheered and Ariel's cheeks turned the same colour as her hair. As it turned out, Denmark had never had a queen named "Ariel" before. Danish queens had names like Dorothea, Margaret, and in the case of Eric's mother, Eleanora. Hearing her name and title now…it wasn't the same as her coronation at St. Mary's Cathedral, nor were the cheers as loud (and her attire nowhere near as grand), but she was reminded of it all the same.

Ariel. The Rose of Denmark, so named for her hair the colour of sun and fire. Even in Atlantica, it had been distinctive, her sisters' hair various shades of black, brown, and gold. There was a reason why her father's nickname had been "Red" as a child, before time and temperament turned his hair to grey.

What would you think of me now, father? If you were to walk this world with me…

She shooed such thoughts away as she walked forward, smiling, shaking hands, and kissing the foreheads of children. It was a show that Eric had to perform less of, so concerned was he with the affairs of state, but as Grimsby had explained, it was a man's world, be it above the sea or below it.

"Ariel! Ariel!"

She smiled and hugged golden-haired woman – an act that would have been most inappropriate under normal circumstances, but then, did one not make exceptions for friends? Did not one consider women to be friends who taught you how to dance? Twirling and jumping with the tambourine upon the sandy shore?

Ariel supposed so, and if not, she was an exception.

"Oh Dios mío, es tan bueno verte," Isabella said in her native Spanish, even if to Ariel, the only audible difference was the accent. "How long has it been? Three months?"

"Four."

"In the frigid cold yonder," Isabella laughed. "But come, come. He's waiting."

"We're waiting, I hope you mean."

"Oh yes, well, one can dance as well as swim, if you take my meaning."

Ariel did. The existence of merfolk wasn't exactly unknown to the people of Copenhagen in this day and age, but it wasn't shouted from the parapets either, and certainly not the fact that their queen had once been a creature not made in God's image. There were those who accepted it, those who chose to ignore it, and a few fanatics who'd been as Eric had explained, "been appropriately dealt with."

Fortunately, Isabella was in the realm of "I know what you are, but who you are matters more," which therefore placed the queen in good company as they made their way to the wooden stage being constructed. It had been months since Ariel had seen her friends from her old world – before leaving to Denmark, she'd told Scuttle to find them, spread the word that she'd be half an ocean away, and to await her return. One month since returning, she'd yet to see the ditzy seagull, or even Flounder or Sebastian. One month of irregular trips to the beach, and her hopes that she would find them were dashed as surely as the waves hit the sand.

Heck, even her sisters would have been a welcome sight, she reflected. She wondered how Isabella would get on with Aquata. One, a human for whom dancing came naturally, the other whose interpretation of dance was like that of a constipated lobster.

Though at least she could sing, Ariel thought. More than once, Aquata had opened Sebastian's compositions. In hindsight, Ariel knew that her lack of lead roles wasn't due to a lack of voice, but a lack of punctuality. And if there was one thing ruling a kingdom taught you, it was the importance of turning up on time.

"Ariel?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you alright? You looked like you were miles away."

"Of course I'm alright," Ariel protested. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Forgive me," said Isabella, "but I could not help but spy a tear beside your nose."

"The wind, I assure you," Ariel lied.

Isabella didn't look convinced, but in a way, it didn't matter. Ariel was queen. As heavy as the crown weighed upon her head, she wasn't above using it.

Well, most of the time. But that mattered little as they approached the wooden stage, and the composer who would bring La Sirenetta to life. A Sardinian man who, after sending a stage boy scampering for his life, looked to Ariel in joy.

"Ah, buongiorno your grace, buongiorno."

"Salve, Signor Meloni. È un piacere incontrarti."

He stared at her, before saying, "your majesty, your Italian is superb."

"Oh, ah, just picked up on things here and there," Ariel said, making sure that she was, indeed, speaking Danish. The Gift of Tongues worked too well sometimes. By her last count, there was well over two-hundred languages spoken in Europe, and while speaking each of them by the power of magic had its advantages, it would raise far too many eyebrows if she didn't act mute enough.

Which, having given her voice to Ursula before reaching the Dry World, she had plenty of practice in.

"I've taught the queen some Spanish," Isabella added. "Similar enough."

Meloni looked like he wanted to disagree, but he instead focused his attention on Ariel. "So does it please your majesty?" He asked. "La Sirenetta – A Musical Fantasy in Three Acts."

Ariel looked at the stage. At the props of sand and wave. At the costumes – accurate representations of 18th century Danish wear, and lame attempts at fins and tales that tempted her to burst out laughing. At the crowd who was gathering to see a composition over a year in the making. Everyone in Copenhagen wanted to see the story of The Little Mermaid.

"It's…nice," she said.

"I must say, when King Eric commissioned me, I was surprised. The story sent to me in Turin – a poor, starving composer desperate for commission." He clicked his fingers. "Story set to song, hah! A creature of the sea who finds love on land, only to be denied by fate's cruel dagger."

Is he a composer or a poet? Ariel wondered.

"Come, come. Let me show you what I have planned."

Ariel let Meloni walk her through the mechanics of his opera, if not the details. Those, she already knew – Eric wanted the opera composed. If certain people beyond Denmark had certain suspicions about a certain mermaid marrying a human, an opera would be the easiest way to pin those suspicions as fantasy. To Ariel, it had seemed overly elaborate, and she'd asked her husband if that was the only reason.

"No," he said. "The other reason is because I love you."

His words ringing in her ears, she wished he were here beside her. The performance, as Meloni explained, would be ready in seven months. A first for the composer, as not only would this be his first performance in Denmark, but his first outdoor opera, period.

"I must confess, I wish the king could be here," Meloni said, his features hardening. "He commissioned this opera, yet he has yet to see it with his own eyes."

"Affairs of state have taken my husband to Arendelle," Ariel answered.

"Arendelle? That upstart kingdom inside Norway?"

"It is within Norway, if that is what you refer to." Meloni looked ready to say something, so Ariel added, "as a man of the Kingdom of Sardinia, surely you know what it is like to have kingdoms within kingdoms."

"I have family in Genoa and Parma, so…I suppose so, your majesty."

Ariel supposed likewise. Norway and Denmark were in union along with the duchies of Schleswig and Holstein, but little kingdoms like Arendelle were all over Europe. Holdouts from earlier, more magical times, or so it seemed to Ariel's eyes. But then, her eyes were weary from many a night beside candle, as Eric had taught her how to read and write. She'd done her best to learn the politics of the Dry World, but one year was hardly enough. Heck, she hadn't even understood the politics of Atlantica in sixteen years, and with six sisters in line before her, had never seen the need to.

Also, having adventures on a weekly basis cuts down on studying time.

Meloni's presentation continued, as he opened up to Ariel in everything but the actual story of the opera. Not that Ariel minded – if this was her story, then she knew how it ended. A wedding ship, a wedding cake, and an embrace with her father. A father who she hadn't seen in months, and someone she yearned to have alongside her, as impossible as it was. Her father had used his trident to transform her more than once, but Ariel knew that if the seas boiled today, and the only solace was dry land, Triton, son of Poseidon, would rather remain than set one fin in the human world.

"Everything seems in order," she said, when Meloni finished his presentation. "I leave it to you good sir."

"You thank me, your majesty," said Meloni as he bowed his head. "But if I may have one little favour…"

"Yes?"

"I am told you have the voice of a siren. I cannot ask you to me my mermaid, but if I may hear a song from your lips this day?"

"I-"

"A song, a song!" Someone cried.

"Sing us a song your majesty."

The crowd that had gathered at the base of the stage had better ears than Ariel thought possible. There was close to fifty of them there, men, women, children all. All her subjects, all who loved her, all who wanted to hear her voice. She who was said to have the voice of an angel. Who in more than one gathering at Castle Oldenburg had enchanted the ears of many a noble, and in gatherings like this one, the ears of her subjects as well.

Ariel looked at Isabella, who shrugged. "Give the crowd what they want," she said. "First rule of a performer."

The look on Meloni's face indicated he agreed. He could not know that being compared to a siren was among the gravest of insults for a mer, but Ariel had long learnt that intent always mitigated impact. Thus, she stood in front of the stage. Performers and stage hands stood aside as the queen cleared her throat, the chill autumn air rushing down it, as water might once have done.

Air that was chillier than it was a moment ago. Regardless, she began to sing.

Oh, the waves roll low,

And the waves roll high,

And so it goes.

Already the crowd was enchanted. Meloni looked ready to beg her to become his lead singer then and there. Yet as serene as her voice was, Ariel's mind and heart were like two storms at war.

Under a bright blue endless sky,

Waves try to measure,

Days that we treasure.

Why this song, she wondered? Why her mother's song? Why sing that which caused her heart to ache so? Why sing in such cold weather, when her heart would become even more chill?

Wave hello,

And wave goodbye.

The people didn't have time to see the tears in her eye.

Not as a stage hand let out a yell.

Not as a pulley's rope began to unravel, and with it, its securement of a a large wooden support.

Not in the moment Ariel saw a shimmering figure in the air before her. The same one as on Maiden's Head. A being with a face younger than Ariel's herself. Eyes weary with sorrow.

What in the-

"Your majesty!"

Ariel looked up, just in time to see the support fall towards her.

In her old world, things did not fall.

In this world, they did.

Fast.

And hard.