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The Little Mermaid: A Child Born of Sea and Shore
Ch. 6: Bitter Partings
Four Months Ago
"Pneumonia."
The words hung in the air like one's breath on winter's morn. Being February, Ariel had plenty of experience in that recently. Even now, after over a year in the Dry World, she could still take joy in seeing her breath appear before her under the light of early sunrise, or under that of moon and star. As if her very life was appearing before her.
What she had less experience with was sitting at the head of the table in the privy council chambers of Castle Oldenburg – the lone woman in the room, yet the only one with a crown upon her forehead. As the men continued to speak however, ignoring their queen, she was left to ask how much power the crown actually gave her.
"Pneumonia," Grimsby repeated. "Are you sure?"
"As sure as any man of healing could be," Doctor Poulsen answered. At the opposite end of the table from his queen, he took off his glasses and began to fiddle with them. "The king sweats. He shivers. His fever is constant, he barely eats, he can scarce summon strength to leave his chambers. Last week, he was even momentarily unaware of who I was, and that was before he decided to throw up what little breakfast he'd consumed. Winter has not been kind to our king, and his condition only worsens."
"While the queen, of course, gets on with her business," Henrik murmured.
A number of eyes glared at the head of the household guard. Ariel's, however, were not among them. Her eyes were on her wedding ring as she twisted it.
She'd barely seen anything of her husband this last month. Opportunities to leave her chambers had been few and far between, as people like Grimsby insisted she be as still as possible, and people like Henrik ensured she didn't get far if she tried. Most of her time had been spent reading, or sitting with the court painter, or just staring out the window to the silent sea. Listening to the sound of waves, yearning to hear voice of mer, fish, or bird.
She'd been aware of Eric's condition of course, but for it to have come this far?
"How did this happen?" asked Mister Jespersen, the kingdom's treasurer. "It's the role of this house to ensure the king's health."
"The king is his own man," murmured Grimsby.
"Indeed, good sir, indeed. And what has our man been doing bar galivanting to Arendelle?"
"A voyage you approved of," murmured Grand Admiral Nissen – a portly man of three and sixty, with hair the colour of snow, and more medals than he had teeth. "Or am I mistaken in thinking our treasurer is informed on matters of trade?"
"You might want to see the trade minister about that, grand admiral. My place is in Copenhagen, but-"
"God's sake, you're worse than Italians," murmured General Pedersen, head of the Danish Army. He looked at a black-haired man Ariel had never seen before, one with eyes as grey as a mouse's fur. "How many people know of the king's condition? The queen is in a trying time, but if the king was known to be ill…"
"Rumours in the streets," the man answered, in little more than a whisper. "The people gossip, as they always do."
"Good for them. How many actually know?"
"Well, I have men operating in Copenhagen and beyond, in taverns and brothels, but-"
"My husband is ill!"
All tongues fell silent, all eyes turned to the Rose of Denmark. Now standing rather than sitting, the bulge in her belly hidden under a dress the colour of summer grass. Her eyes flashed the colour of ice, her hair blazed the colour of the sun, and so too did her crown shine with the same light.
"My husband is ill," she repeated. "That is the matter before us, good sirs."
"And we pray for him," added the diocese of Copenhagen.
Ariel remained silent. So did everyone else, until Pedersen coughed.
"For your prayers, we thank you," murmured the general – a thin man with a clean-shaven face, and a body almost as muscular as her father's. He looked at Ariel. "Of course the king's health is of paramount importance, but you must understand your majesty, that affairs of state are complicated."
"I know that, General. I have spent two years involved in matters of state. If anything, as queen, I have far more invested in this matter than you."
"As his wife? Perhaps," Pedersen said with a smirk. "But as king, Eric is head of the Royal Army, and therefore, this is my business as well. Perhaps that is hard for a woman to understand, but-"
"Another word, sir, and Doctor Poulsen will have another patient to tend to."
Pedersen tried to say something, but only spluttered. Half of the men stared at their queen, agape. The other half gave small nods of approval. Ariel, feeling faint, sat back in her chair lest she stumble.
She'd never imagined she could sound so much like her father. Granted, having everyone in the room stare at her wasn't new – her sisters would often stare at her when she suggested they explore a wreck together before they burst out laughing. But the days before she'd gained legs were the same days as those she'd been bereft of authority.
She found the stares not to her liking. But she appreciated it when Grimsby glanced at her and mouthed "well done."
"I'm sure all of you have plans to secure the future of Denmark," Poulsen said eventually "And Norway," he added, glancing at Mister Lindholm – a representative from the governing council of the Union's sister kingdom.
"The viceroy will be pleased to hear of the concern for the king," Lindholm murmured. "But what to do about it? I assume that since you've gathered us here this fine February morning, the situation is more dire than your skills can handle?"
Poulsen didn't say anything. Ariel tried to meet his gaze with her own, but as he put on his glasses, she found that hard to do.
"The king's condition is worsening," Poulsen murmured. "He may be not long for this world."
Harder still to listen to his words.
She wrung her hands together, as she wondered how this had happened. Wondered, and faster than the flap of a fin, found the answer.
Four months ago, Eric had been in Arendelle, which like the rest of Norway, was not known for its balmy weather, let alone during autumn. Two months before that, he and Ariel had been in Greenland – during summer, granted, but that was a distinction without a difference in the Arctic waters. Waters that she'd been pulled under into Arnaaluk's cage, and pulled back through when she'd rescued him.
And the year before that, in the span of a single week, he'd been thrown into the sea from two ships, rendered unconscious in both cases, and ingested copious amounts of seawater before being returned to the surface. After their wedding, Eric had been in as fair shape and spirit as she, but maybe it was catching up to him.
Ariel knew miracles happened. That she was alive at all, and walking on two legs, was testament to that. But as to whether miracles continued?
"You have to save him," the queen whispered.
Poulsen sighed. "Of course, my dear, of course. I am endeavouring to-"
"No. You will not endeavour, Mads Poulsen. You will heal your king, as your position demands."
"Your majesty, I cannot change the laws of nature."
"The laws of nature," Ariel scoffed. "Am I not testament to the breaking of the laws of nature?"
A murmur passed through those assembled. Grimsby began to speak.
"Your majesty, perhaps it will be best if you retire. Your condition-"
"My husband is dying!" she yelled. She stumbled, and Grimsby tried to catch her, but she shoved him off. "To hell with my condition." She walked over to Poulsen. Ready to shout. To scream. Not, as the case was, whisper and weep.
"Tell me he'll be fine, Doctor Poulsen.
The doctor remained silent.
"Tell me he'll be fine," she repeated, trying to sound like a lion, but instead, coming off like a kitten. "Please, tell me Eric will be fine. I can't…I mean, to be alone in this world…"
"The queen must bear a son," said Lindholm. "If that happens, then the death of the king would be a price the Union could endure. We-"
The doors to the council chamber burst open, and that might have saved Lindholm's cheek from Ariel's hand.
"Pardon me, good sirs, a thousand pardons begged," said the man who entered. He took off his hat, bowed, and looked at Ariel. "Your majesty, my deepest condolences."
Ariel gawked at Senor Marcello, not sure what was more surprising – that Marcello was offering her sympathy, or that the Spanish ambassador was in the room at all.
"What is the meaning of this?" Grimsby snapped, as he got to his feet. "Does the castle let any ambassador waltz in here?"
"Is that a rhetorical question? Because Ambassador Schmidt waltzed in here at Christmas, and I do believe that Lady Mathilde has joined the company of the queen in certain categories."
Pedersen slammed his chop-like fists against the table. "You insult us, Spaniard."
"Offence is taken, not given, good sir." Marcello looked at Ariel. "Please forgive my manners, your majesty. I can assure you that my concern for your husband is as great as your own."
"Highly unlikely, Senor Marcello." When you give up your voice to a sea witch, perhaps then you'll have a leg to stand on.
"Yes, unlikely indeed," he mused. "Unlikely that the king of Denmark married a woman of no standing, and unlikely too that she proved herself to be quite the woman."
Ariel, unsure if his words be compliment or insult, held her tongue.
"I'm sorry, why are you here?" Grimsby asked.
"Excellent question." Marcello looked at Poulsen. "Doctor?"
All eyes turned to the doctor. The doctor's eyes glared at the ambassador for a moment, but soon, they were looking at nothing but the rosewood table they sat around, imported all the way from Brazil.
Finally, he spoke. "In two days' time, Ambassador Marcello will be sailing back to Spain. The king summons him, and we'll have a new ambassador in his stead." He paused, before adding, "it is my opinion that King Eric should join him."
Uproar rippled across the table, like a tidal wave smashing upon shore.
"It is my advice as a doctor that King Eric join Senor Marcello!" Poulsen yelled. "Spring is coming, then summer. The warmth will do our king good, and the Iberian Peninsula knows climes balmier than those of Scandinavian lands. King Charles has agreed to host our king until his health returns…or until God takes him from this world."
If the tidal wave had smashed against the shore, now it was depositing fish – men's mouths opening and closing, barely able to draw air, unable to speak. Unsure how to respond to the change of environs. Ariel, experienced in both worlds, was first to utter word.
"You arranged this with the king of Spain? How, doctor? When?"
"How? Through letters. When?" Poulsen paused, before murmuring, "scant days ago, when one passed my desk, bearing Charles's seal."
"You had no right to do this," Grimsby murmured.
"Actually, as royal physician, I had every right. And the king has already agreed."
The child inside Ariel's belly kicked, and in so doing, knocked the wind out of her. She looked around the table, but no man offered protest. If the king decided something, his word was law. Such was the nature of Denmark's monarchy, and indeed, almost every monarchy she knew of in the Dry World. And yet…
"And if the queen does not agree?" Ariel whispered.
Henrik began to speak, but Poulsen held up his hand. "Then you may be robbing your husband of his best chance at life."
"A sea voyage to the other side of this continent is his best chance?"
"There are warmer climes in this world, your majesty, and the king has travelled them – from the West Indies to the East. I would never in good conscience suggest he travel such a distance. But Spain, in my medical opinion, is the best of clime and distance. It is my opinion as a doctor that the trip will improve his chances of surviving this malady. And of living to see his child," he added, in an undertone.
Ariel put a hand to her belly. Her child, she reflected. Their child. She had carried her son for four months, and would carry it another five, if providence allowed it.
Eric deserved to see his son, and he, in turn, his father. And if this was the best chance of Eric living…
Ariel looked at Grimsby. "What say you, Grims?"
The steward looked around the men at the table, before finally uttering word. "What I say…is that we take the doctor's advice. Another name for distance is tyranny, and the king's absence will be felt by all, but sometimes, it is indeed better to act through the mind rather than the heart."
She looked around the table. She could tell that few of the men present were happy with Poulsen's suggestion. Nevertheless, none objected, even if Henrik looked ready to. Eric had not surrounded himself with idiots, and at the very least, they had to accept that Poulsen knew what was best for his king. Medically speaking at least.
"Very well," Ariel said. "Then I have but one command to give. That I be allowed to see my husband, before he leaves my sight."
"Of course," said Poulsen. "That is your right as wife and queen."
As Ariel got to her feet, as she looked at the faces of those around her, Henrik's scowl most of all, she was left to wonder how far those rights truly extended.
But either way, she would see her husband before he left.
Even if it be the last time her eyes ever lay upon him.
To Ariel's surprise, on the day before his departure, Eric was not in his chambers, but in his study.
To her even greater surprise, he appeared to be in good health and spirits. So much so that she even suggested that he abandon the trip altogether.
"Nonsense," he said, as he fished some old sea charts from the shelf. "If Poulsen says the trip is good for me, then I'll take his word for it. Besides, King Charles is a good man – an Enlightenment man, even if he's Catholic. A fellow enlightened despot," he added with a cough.
Ariel giggled – her father had forbidden contact with the surface world, but in the club of "enlightened despots," he would have fit right in. As Ariel had told Eric of the wonders beneath the surface, he had, among other things, told her of his interest in the ideals of the Enlightenment. Everything from elevating the rights of Man (if not to the level of a king), to the pursuit and elevation of scientific knowledge. Something that Atlantica had never pursued, more content to emulate past glories than to strive for new ones.
Hence why Eric's study was its very own treasure trove for one fascinated with the world above the waves. While Eric's study had no shortage of books on naval history (having been obliged to serve in the Royal Navy as prince), they were still dwarfed by his collection of miscellanea from Europe and lands beyond – maps, sea shells, globes, astrolabes, even artifacts that she'd identified as being of merish origin – spears, tridents, vases…not every artifact found under the sea had come from above the waves.
Very little of it predated Eric's life. His father had more interest in land than sea – not a man of Enlightenment though he had installed a nationwide school system in the country. Elanora, on the other hand, may have respected the sea, but she had not loved it, and thus, brought little back. Her only contributions to the collection were leather-bound volumes filled with dry facts and figures that Ariel had only ever found useful for curing insomnia.
Eric rarely spoke of his mother. Ariel rarely spoke of hers, for she'd only known Athena for the first four years of her life, the memories fading as surely as morning dew. Eric, however…she had wondered if Eric's love of the sea had been a yearning. A desire to chase his mother into the deeps. Instead, Eric simply loved the sea. That his mother had not was indifferent in that matter.
Her husband was still talking. "Charles has modernized his country, far more than Denmark, and God knows the Norwegians are beating us to it. The ideas we'll be able to exchange, the tales I'll be able to tell…"
Ariel finally spoke. "Tales that, I assume, will involve mermaids and sea witches?"
"Come now, I didn't say I'd tell him every tale." He winked. "Besides, in the realm of rationality, people like you aren't meant to exist."
Ariel pouted. "You're saying I'm not real?"
"Well, I have my doubts," said Eric, smiling. "You see, often I think you're too good to be real. The rational position is that I'm-"
What exactly the "rational position" was Ariel never found out, as her husband began to cough violently. He dropped the maps and stumbled into a chair. Rushing over, Ariel did what she could to comfort him, but it was to no avail, as Eric retched and wheezed.
"Fine, fine," he whispered, as he took a sip of water. "Completely fine."
Ariel put a hand to her husband's forehead – its temperature told her he was anything but. Yet he waved her aside, as if afraid to be seen as vulnerable. As if there was anyone else in his study that could see the king of Denmark on the shores of the River Styx.
Ariel had never been to Greece, so had no means of knowing for sure whether the river in question existed, or had existed, and given the mutual distrust between the Ottoman Empire and Europe, she had little chance of finding out. In what few times she'd swum in the Mediterranean, she couldn't have imagined how the land-folk insisted on drawing lines on maps, declaring what was and wasn't theirs.
One day, she might find a way to visit. To go to Greece, and every other place on the maps that dotted Eric's study. After their marriage, they had spent many a night under candle's glow, her eyes wide as Eric showed her maps of the world – the landmasses of Europe, the Americas, Africa, and even the Indies. He would trace his fingers around continents and islands, and she in turn told him of kingdoms below the sea. Of Atlantica in the North Sea, to Olympia in the Mediterranean, to even Nefazia's kingdom in the centre of the Indian Ocean. They had laughed, they had dreamed, they had made promises that where one travelled, the other would follow.
Some promises were made to be broken, Ariel reflected, as she looked at her husband. She'd made plenty of promises to her father – don't explore ship wrecks, don't go to the surface, don't collect detritus from the Dry World and store it in an undersea grotto – and had broken every one of them. Looking around Eric's study, she was reminded of her old treasure cave, given the artifacts Eric had obtained from the World Under the Sea.
A jade mermaid figurine taken from the coast of Ireland. A bronze merman, bartered from the Kingdom of Benin. A pearl pendent that Eric had claimed was said to be the crystal tears of a mer, taken before they became as one with the sea.
And again, the conch. Picked up from one of Eric's expeditions to the West Indies. Cradled in Ariel's hands as she sat beside her husband.
"I remember this," he whispered, as he took it from his wife. "You knew how to blow it immediately."
"Well, I had just got my voice back. I wanted to use it."
Eric smiled. He gave it a blow, demonstrating that he'd made as much progress as he had since he'd first tried two years ago – none. A wet-sounding noise came out, one that sounded like that which came from a human's buttocks. A sound that had mortified Ariel when she'd first realized where the sounds were coming from after she'd lost her tail.
"Think I'll leave this here," Eric whispered.
"No, you should take it. You'll have plenty of practice in Madrid."
"Madrid," Eric scoffed. He unsteadily got to his feet, and with the conch in hand, looked out the window – grey was the sky, and white were its tears. "Hot, sunny, so far from the sea…far from you…"
He began to cough again. One hand, he put to his chest, the other clutched the conch. Ariel held him. Winced as her child began to kick, as if desperate to be close to its father. In the embrace, soon, husband and wife were holding each other. The conch between them.
"Take it," Ariel whispered. "Take it, and practice, so that when you return, I may hear the sweetest music of the sea." She took his hand in hers, and put both on her belly. "And so too your son."
Eric smiled. "You don't know it's a son, Ariel."
"True, but is that not what you want? A male heir?"
"What I want is for our child to know their mother."
And you, Ariel felt like saying, as she helped Eric back to his chair. Held him, as the coughs and convulsions kept coming. Ariel had held her husband twice like this before – once, when they had first met, another, after she had saved him from Arnaaluk. But neither had been as violent as this. Neither had drawn tears, as this moment did.
"You can't save me this time, Ariel," Eric whispered.
"I know," she whispered, as she rested her forehead against his. "I know."
In the last week of February, in the second year of his reign, King Eric VIII Oldenburg of the Dano-Norwegian Realm departed Copenhagen on the KDM Finkel.
It was not the first departure that the former prince had made from his kingdom's capital. There were people (often the type of people who insisted that Denmark needed no king) who claimed their liege had spent as much time outside his kingdom as in it. Sailng to far-away lands, returning with naught but trinkets – nay, not even a bride after visiting Glowerhaven!
Then there were also people (the type of people who were loyal to their king, so ordained by God) who were happy to wish their king and queen well, wherever she may have come from. Eric was an accomplished naval man. An accomplished diplomat, who had returned from fruitful endeavours in Arendelle and Greenland. A man for whom they would wish him well on his departure, and cheer his eventual return.
This winter day, Ariel reflected that it made little difference. Last year, when they'd departed for Greenland aboard the Christianshavn, there'd seemed no end to the cheering crowds. Cries of "safe voyage" and "glory to their majesties" – no shortage of love and loyalty for the King of Song and Sea and the Rose of Denmark. Not like today, when the crowd was small, and their spirits sagged. The sky itself as grey as their souls.
Eric and Marcello departed first. In Eric's right hand was a cane, in his left, the leash that led to Max's collar, who'd joined his king upon this winter's day. It had been against Poulsen's wishes, but Eric had exercised his royal prerogative in stating that where the king went, so too did his faithful hound. And as sorry as Ariel was to let the old mutt go, despite all the slobbering kisses Max gifted her with in the castle, she knew that it was best for both man and beast that the Old English Sheepdog be at Eric's side.
And he knew, Ariel thought. Max was bereft of his usual energy, as if it were dependent on that of his master. A gift to Eric for his eighteenth birthday, imported all the way from Britain, Max had been to Eric what Flounder had to Ariel – as close as a pearl in a sealed clam, unable to be separated.
Eric waved to the crowd, but did not speak, and no cheers greeted his hand. Standing by the carriage in the same green winter's dress she'd worn that eventful trip, Ariel kept her lips sealed, and her gloved hands close to her belly. If Max had been a small concession, her being here was a larger one. That she'd even been allowed out of the castle was a negotiation on par with the Treaty of Frederiksborg, with Eric finally having his way despite Grimsby and Poulsen's objections. If he was going to be absent from his wife the next few months, then she was damn well going to be able to see him off.
Yet it was not enough. As white tears fell from the sky, landing upon her cheeks, Ariel's only desire was to get on that ship and sail off with him. To be by his side, to be part of his world. To be right in the centre of Spain, endure being further from the sea than she'd ever been, if it meant being by the one she loved. After all, had not the sea abandoned her? No sign of fish or friend for half a year?
Had she been a little younger, a little less pregnant, she might have found a way to sneak onboard. Similar to one of her countless adventures in the world she'd been born into, where she'd find herself in trouble, and be it through her own efforts or those of her friends (usually both), get herself out of it.
The memories brought a faint smile to her lips. How many times had she put her life on the line, she wondered? How many times had she put Flounder at risk, or driven Sebastian mad, or driven her father madder still? How many times had she endangered Atlantica and saved it alike? In a world of sea witches, mantas, sharks, and scoundrels, sneaking aboard a ship would be comparatively tame.
And yet, as she watched Eric wave to the crowd, as Henrik let out a cry of "long live the king!" and the Royal Guard raised their cutlasses Ariel couldn't remember ever feeling like this. This agonizing mix of fear and dread. Of drowning, even if such a thing had been impossible most of her life.
The air itself suffocated her. She choked, unable to speak, as the Finkel cast off. Its movement was slow, for the winter breeze was weak, and spring had not yet let out its birth cry.
Some left the harbour before the ship did. Some did not. As queen, as husband to the king, Ariel knew she'd be expected to stay – after all, she had pressed for her very presence. To be here, to stay and be the dutiful wife and queen, was what was expected of her.
…Ariel, seventh daughter of Triton, had spent her entire life defying expectations.
So really, it shouldn't have come as a surprise to anyone when she slipped away from the crowd, moving at just the right moment so that Henrik Lentfer did not see his queen depart. Little surprise when she walked into an alley, avoiding rats and the trash they called home, and found Vareet waiting with Beau.
The servant let go of the reins. Into her now free hand poured rigslader coins.
As queen, Ariel could have demanded Vareet's silence. Could have ordered the servant girl dive off the pier right now, and been in her rights to do so.
But she would not. She would not speak of Vareet's role in bringing Beau out of the stables of Castle Oldenburg as the procession departed, riding into this back alley. Nor would she tell Vareet of how once, she had stolen a seahorse from the stables of Atlantica, and how really, 'stealing' Beau was even tamer than riding Seabiscuit.
Ariel mounted the Hanoverian. "Be well, your majesty," Vareet whispered.
Ariel put a hand to her belly. A faint voice within her mind urged caution.
The voice was ignored, as it always was. For over a decade, Ariel had perfected the art of ignoring it.
Beau whinnied, and at Ariel's urging, galloped through the streets of Copenhagen. Men and women jumped out of the way. Children stared in awe before being pulled away by those same men and women. Many recognized her as the Rose of Denmark. Curiosity, dismay, anger, awe…the emotions of her subjects were varied, and her ears heard them all. Cries of joy and anger alike.
She bumped up and down as Beau led her out of the city. Winced, as she felt her child kick within her belly. As if begging her to slow down.
Instead, she rode harder. Faster. Held her breath, so no winter air may enter it. To drown her, and the life she carried.
Rode all the way to Maiden's Head. As she had done that autumn morn on the day her life changed. On the day it nearly ended.
She rode against the oncoming wind. She rode, as if she were on Seabiscuit, charging with lance into Sargasso. Rode, as if four horsemen were behind her. Rode to the edge of the cliff, nay, the edge of her world, to where death had once beckoned.
She pulled the reins well before coming anywhere near cliff's edge. Death did not appear in the air before her, nor any other rider. No ethereal ghost, offering oblivion's embrace.
Just the sound of a horse whinnying. Of the wind singing. The roar of angry sea below her, as she dismounted and walked to the cliff's face. Able to behold the ship carrying her beloved to distant lands, its white sails filled by the breath of the world.
Ariel stood there, as a Viking maiden might have of ages past. But unlike his ancestors, Eric sailed not for pillage nor conquest, but life itself. Though she saw the ship, her husband was beyond her sight. Beyond her voice.
And yet, as she dared open her mouth, as the wind rushed in, scarring throat and heart, the daughter of the sea offered parting song:
Farewell, farewell, ye King of Song and Sea,
Sail straight, sail strong, sail safe.
Know touch of sun, and kiss of winter's breeze,
Know here still be your place.
On distant shores, in heart of land so far,
Recall sweet seaside days.
Return, return, ye wife, ye do not spurn,
Return to son to raise.
The ship gave no answer. The sea offered no song.
The wind did.
Ariel gasped as the ethereal reappeared. Just as she had that autumn day yesteryear, but without her elderly counterpart. Her face still young, wearing sorrow's countenance. So young, in fact, she appeared younger than Ariel herself. Light danced through her ethereal form, refracting like a rainbow, even if there be none in the overcast sky
Her eyes were as wide as the moon, yet empty. Eyes unable to shed tears, even as the snow passed through them. Unlike her elderly counterpart, she wore no crown, and yet, her poise echoed that of regality. A poise Ariel and her sisters had long perfected, even if only two of them had worn crown, and only one had been destined for it.
"What are you?" Ariel whispered.
The woman of air made no answer.
"Can you not answer?"
No word was given. No voice but that of dying wind.
"Will you not tell me?" the Rose of Denmark whispered. "Will you not…" She sniffed. "Please, talk to me…"
She ethereal made no answer. She instead turned, her gaze fixed on the boat below. Upon the North Sea, waves dark as moonless night. The ship continued onward, still unable to hear its queen's song.
And so you sail, on waves beneath the sky,
In world lonely and cold.
Part of my world, vows on a ship once made,
Our story's not yet been told.
Song interrupted, as wind added melody.
Oh listen, hear, beseech you give her grace,
See not tears in the wind?
Hear voice, see choice, see queen beneath the sky,
Oh please, beg pardon sins.
Ariel stared, as the ethereal turned to look at her. This creature with the body of a young girl, but with eyes as old as sky itself.
The time soon comes, when all the world be changed,
When blood meets sand and sea.
Beware, beware, daughter of Triton fair.
Beware, beware…of me.
The song ended, and for but a moment, the second ethereal creature appeared beside her younger counterpart – younger, that was, if age even applied to these beings.
Naught but sorrow from the one who had sung. Nothing but disdain from her elder. She who wore the crown of flowers, wore robes made of air itself, and who put hand on sister-daughter's shoulder.
The ethereals faded. Ariel let out a cry, a plea, it mattered not, for her voice was swallowed by the wind.
She was alone. Her song was ended. The ship already beyond her sight.
No song left but that of sea, as the cliffsides echoed.