Chapter Text
Amphoreus Aquarium was a sumptuous building. Formerly a museum, its halls were lined with decadent wallpapers and pillars of ancient times past. Every patron who entered its sacred walls would always gasp and gawk, marvelling at the intricate details. But the moment of awe always passed. No one comes to an aquarium to admire the architecture. No one comes to this aquarium for any other reason but one:
The mermaids.
It was the only aquarium in the world to have an exhibition of real live mermaids. Not just one, but two. People flew from all over the world just to catch a glimpse of their sparkling scales. Their exhibition stood proudly in the center of the building. That was how the Amphoreus Aquarium maintained its prestigious grounds, not a speck of dust in sight. Without the mermaids, the company would crumble under the weight of its hefty bills. They were undeniably the stars of the show.
Phainon didn’t care much for them. No, perhaps that wasn’t the best way to word it. Despite working at Amphoreus Aquarium for almost a year now, he had yet to actually see the famed mermaids. He worked solely in the jellyfish exhibit, safely tucked away in the right wing under a blanket of darkness. There was no reason for Phainon to ever pass by the mermaids. So it wasn’t that he didn’t care, only that he never had the opportunity to have a proper look. Until today, that is.
“Phainon, it’s not that bad—” Castorice, his closest friend and now former boss, attempts to reassure him.
“—It is that bad,” Phainon all but whines.
He knows it’s a little childish to complain about a promotion of all things, but he likes it in the jellyfish exhibit. It’s dark and cosy, with hardly any visitors (and yet it still took two people to maintain. Phainon didn’t mind, it had given him ample opportunities to spend time with Castorice). Being promoted to primary researcher and caretaker of the mermaids would force him into the spotlight. Extra hours and extra prying eyes, all for a handsome pay rise. They’re lucky he needs the cash.
“This’ll be a great opportunity,” Castorice reasons, ever supportive of his endeavours, “You get to research mermaids. How many people can say the same?”
None. Mermaids are famously elusive. Seldom are they ever caught, and even seldomer are they ever consistently held in captivity. Most grow violent, insane even, lashing out at anyone who dares draw near. All documented cases have resulted in suicide. There’s a reason Amphoreus Aquarium is the only aquarium to have them. No other mermaids have ever made it past their first year of captivity.
At Phainon’s lack of answer, Castorice persists, “This is what we trained for, why we spent years learning from our professor. Not to hide in a corner, but to research. To learn new things and to contribute to the world’s knowledge.”
And she’s right. Professor Anaxa (“Anaxagoras, not Anaxa,”) didn’t lecture Phainon for a five years straight only for him to end up cleaning jellyfish enclosures. Oh, he’d be in for the scolding of a lifetime if their professor could see him now. At least Castorice is head of the deep sea exhibition team. She does more than watch the jellyfish swim by. She has purpose and ambition, a quiet drive. Hell, she’s even gotten to name her very own species. What does he have to show for his degree?
“I know,” Phainon concedes, “But I like it here, I’ll miss this.”
I’ll miss you.
“This isn’t going anywhere,” Castorice points out gently, “You can always come visit in your lunch breaks. The jellyfish won’t even notice you’re gone.”
The notion isn’t as reassuring as it was meant to be, that the creatures he cared for won’t miss him in turn. But Phainon understands her point. This fragment of his life isn’t passing, only moving to the backseat to make space for greater things. It’s all onwards and upwards from here. And maybe, just maybe, the thought does excite him a little. He’s always had an avid interest in all things underwater (so did Cyrene…). That’s why Phainon acquired his degree in marine biology in the first place. It’s about time he puts it to use.
“You’re right,” Phainon concedes with a small nod, “I’ll do it.”
Castorice smiles, that determined little smile of a well-earned victory, “Good luck.”
And as he signs the contract later that day, Phainon wonders if deals with the devil are always this easy.
— — —
By the time his first official day in the new position rolls around, Phainon has a decent grasp on what the job entails. All he has to do look after the mermaids. Feed them, clean their enclosure, and generally just ensure no harm comes to them. In his spare time on the job, he is to take notes on the day’s findings. Mermaids are something of a a biological mystery. Because of that, anything and everything is to be documented. His new boss even bought a notebook for him with pages of stone paper, waterproof in case of any accidents.
The caretaking part he can handle. Twice a day, Phainon is to toss a handful of dead fish into the underwater enclosure. A little gross, yes, but he’d make a shitty aquarium worker if it truly bothered him. And besides, it’s not all that dissimilar from caring for the jellyfish with Castorice. Cleaning an aquarium of such great size might be a challenge, but Phainon only has to do so quarterly. Mermaids are a fairly clean species, it seems. Nothing he couldn’t handle.
It’s the note taking part that proves to be difficult. Because no matter when or how many fish he throws into the water, not a single mermaid makes themself known. Hidden away in the rock caves, presumably. The fish sink to the base of the tank. Phainon’s notebook remains empty.
The first day passes. Phainon’s initial hope begins to wane. Still no mermaids. They were eating the fish, at least, but only in the hours between his shifts. They’re onto him. They know Phainon isn’t their previous caretaker. Maybe that would be a good thing, his previous counterpart must’ve filed a hasty resignation for a reason, but it certainly isn’t benefiting him in the short term. All the notes he’s missing out on, the research! That was the only reason Phainon took the job. Well, that and the extra zero on his pay check. He’s a simple man.
The second day passes uneventfully. Phainon requests to see the previous caretaker’s notes, just to see what he might be dealing with. Who knows, maybe they would tell him how to coax the merfolk out of their rocky dwellings? He’s denied. They don’t exist, apparently. Taken with the previous caretaker when he resigned. Bullshit. Only three days into his job and Phainon knows a coverup when he sees one. Another day passes.
“Maybe they’re just shy,” Castorice suggests on his lunch break, “You are a stranger, after all.”
Yeah, a stranger that’s been feeding them twice the amount he should be. A little gratitude would go a long way. The fourth day passes.
Phainon doesn’t expect the mermaids to love him. He doesn’t expect them to come near him, he doesn’t even expect them to look at him. He does however expect them to at least make an appearance. Exercise is important for any creature. Phainon might not be able to start his research, but even he can surmise as much. For all of their sakes, it’d be best if they make an appearance. Woefully mermaid-less, the fifth day passes.
On the sixth day, Phainon decides to properly familiarise himself with the enclosure’s set-up. A layer of sand and false sea grass covers the floor of the enclosure. The rocks are tall and dark, forming man-made caves and the only chance of privacy for the mermaids. He tries to throw the fish in their direction. A couple land on top, but most fall pitifully to the bedding of sand. Once more, no mermaids make themselves known. Phainon continues to stare.
The seventh day marks a week gone by in his new position as primary caretaker. An unsuccessful week, that is. The only thing he’s been caring for are buckets of dead fish. What a joke. Even the jellyfish were more exciting than this. To pass the time, Phainon takes up his notebook. There might be nothing to write about, but he can at least do something (he considers reaching for his phone, but the thought of accidentally dropping it into the water is unpleasant enough to put that thought to bed). That something just happens to be drawing. Phainon is by no means an artist, especially when it comes to portraits, but he’s decent enough to sketch a landscape.
In rich black ink (his own pen, Amphoreus Aquarium could never), he plots the slopes of the caves and the gentle sway of the seagrass. Under dutiful flicks of his wrist, the scenery before him comes to life on the page of stone. With nothing but the gentle lapping of water as his soundtrack, he allows himself to get lost in his artistry. It’s the most fun Phainon has had in days. So much so that he continues through his lunch break… And the rest of his shift. What? It’s not like there’s much else to do. His job is simple, boring, and it doesn’t require his full atten—
—A flash of red darts through the enclosure. The water ripples. Phainon barely captures the movement out the corner of his eye, barely has any time to react before it comes barreling towards him. Embarrassingly enough, Phainon yelps, scrambling away from the ledge on pure instinct. His pen and notebook are swiftly forgotten, slipping into the tank as a mop of blonde hair breaches the surface of the water. A mermaid. Great Titans, an actual mermaid!
The mermaid- er, merman- dips back under the water. Not even a moment later, he remerges, tossing the fallen notebook back onto the ledge of the aquarium. Phainon doesn’t dare ask for the pen as well. He only stares. Even through the shifting haze of the water, Phainon can tell the merman is well-built. Sharp scarlet markings decorate his muscles, his tail a similar shade and no less powerful. And those eyes, oh those eyes. A golden dawn, shimmering treasure, all things bright and beautiful gaze blankly up at him. Expectantly, even. Nothing beneath those eyes emerge above the water’s surface. Phainon couldn’t care less. After seven days, he’s done it. He’s finally coaxed one out. So what does he do now?
“Uh, hi. I’m Phainon,” Phainon introduces himself, albeit a little awkwardly. It’s pointless, the merman probably can’t understand him anyway. Even so, Phainon feels like he owes the merman an introduction. They’ll be seeing a lot of each other if his career is to last, “You must be…”
Shit. What were their names again? Phainon scrambles through the pages of his notebook (it’s true, the stone paper really is waterproof). He had written them down somewhere, one of the very few things he was actually able to write about the merfolk in his care. The names make themselves known on the second page, his very first entry:
February 4th, Entry #1
The following entries will be written by Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, primary caretaker of the merfolk exhibition. That’s me. Maybe I shouldn’t put my address down here... Anyway, the merfolk in my care are called Mydeimos and Tribbie, or so the signs tell me. I haven’t actually seen them.
Alright… Which one was he?
“Tribbie?” The merman makes a small noise of what seems to be disagreement, water bubbling with the motion. Not Tribbie. Definitely not Tribbie, “Mydeimos then, sorry. I’m new to this, in case you haven’t noticed. Well, not new here per se but new to you guys, I guess.”
He’s rambling now. The merman continues to stare at him, and Phainon takes the hint to shut up. In the newfound silence, he’s suddenly struck with confusion. Why now? Why has Mydeimos chosen to see him now? What’s so different about today of all days? Is he finally warming up to him? Questions rapidly swim about Phainon’s head, multiplying like the heads of a hydra. He gets his answer fairly quickly.
The merman, Mydeimos (Mydei? Deimos? There’s got to be an abbreviation), gives a curt nod to the space beside him. Phainon follows his gaze. Ah, the fish bucket. That’s right! In all his sketching, he’d forgotten to feed the merfolk. They must’ve peered out of their hiding place when Phainon was supposed to be on his lunch break, only to find him still here and the fish dreadfully absent. Damnit. You had one job, Phainon.
“Oh- Oh, I’m so sorry.” Phainon turns for the bucket, grabbing it faster than he’s ever grabbed anything before, “I completely forgot. It won’t happen again, I swear.”
Why is he apologising to the merman so adamantly? Does he even understand? To an extent, perhaps. Merfolk share half of their physical characteristics with humans. It stands to reason they likely possess part of their intelligence, capable of identifying different tones of voice without properly understanding the meaning behind the words. Until proven otherwise, Phainon will stick to his theories. It’s all he has at the moment. But if this encounter goes smoothly, that could very well change.
Mydeimos makes a small noise, a mix between a trill and a growl. Impatient bastard. He doesn’t dare show his face for a week straight, but the moment his meal time is delayed ever so slightly he races over in an instant. Alright, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. The situation is a little annoying though, a fact he comes to realise as his shock slowly subsides. Phainon adjusts his grip on the bucket, shifting to the handle as he makes to toss the fish like usual. The merman repeats that strange little noise.
“It’s okay, I’m getting it now,” Phainon states, not quite understanding the source of the merman’s disapproval, “Just give me a second.”
He is not, in fact, given a second. Without warning, Mydeimos reaches for the bucket. Water splashes up at the sudden movement. Phainon resists the urge to recoil, every nerve in his body screaming to flee from the sudden perceived threat. He doesn’t. Phainon simply freezes in place. A mere week ago he had never even seen the famed merfolk of Amphoreus Aquarium, and now one lingers a few inches away. It’s close. A little too close for his liking, a jarring contrast to his entire week of solitude. Those webbed fingers sort deftly through the sample of fish; Phainon’s gaze hones in on the claws they hold.
Mydeimos withdraws his upper body to the water with an array of fish in his arms, half the amount Phainon has been tossing in. Oh… Do they not like the servings he’s been providing? Or do they see the heaped portions for what they are: a bribery? Phainon dismisses the thought from his mind. He’s getting paranoid. They’re just merfolk, it’s not like they’re scheming and judging his every move. Maybe Mydeimos just prefers a lighter portion. Maybe Tribbie (whoever they are) simply isn’t hungry. Regardless, he’s overthinking it.
“Or you could just do that, I guess...” Phainon supplies weakly, a little lost for words, “I get it, you’re hungry. That’s on me.”
Mydeimos doesn’t deny it. He simply holds the fish in his arms, tilted more towards Phainon than himself. It’s almost like he’s offering them… No, that can’t be right. There’s still an ample amount of fish left in the bucket, not that Phainon plans to eat them, so it wouldn’t make sense to offer him any. And besides, the merman personally selected the portion. He wouldn’t take more than he wants.
Not returning them then, but still holding them out expectantly. The merman’s expression is almost demanding. If Phainon didn’t know any better, he’d assume- oh. That cheeky little shit. He’s not trying to return them, he’s trying to show his human caretaker the preferred portion size. The merman thinks he’s trying to fatten them up. Phainon’s cheeks grow a little warm.
“That’s the amount of fish you like?” Phainon manages to query. Mydeimos lets out a chirp-like noise, the closest thing to approval he’ll get, “Okay, I’ll remember that.”
That seems to satiate the merman. With one final noise, Mydeimos disappears beneath the swaying waters. The sound is neither approval nor disapproval, but an unknown third option. ‘Goodbye’, Phainon’s mind decides to provide. Maybe even ‘thank you’. He watches on as the merman dart towards the underwater caves, retreating to the safety of their crooked walls. It’s both a relief and a disappointment to watch him leave.
Alone once more, Phainon is left to his thoughts. Wow… What an experience. Both new and exciting, yet strange and a little intimidating. A bundle of nerves and wonder, Phainon isn’t quite sure what to make of Mydeimos. He isn’t quite sure what to make of his new job as a whole. This could be his every day, attempts at communication and eyes of molten gold. The thought isn’t as daunting as it used to be a week prior. He can do it. Not just that, he will do it. Phainon can’t wait to write about this encounter, his renewed hope for his career and- ah, right. He dropped his pen.
Chapter 2
Summary:
Phainon begins his notes on the merfolk, attempting to win their favour. Mydei is less than thrilled.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
February 11th, Entry #2
I finally met the merfolk! Or at least one of them. I “allegedly” forgot to feed the merfolk, and so Mydeimos made an appearance at his dinner time. Perhaps he thought it was deliberate? I had been feeding them a little extra, it wouldn’t be shocking to think I might go the other way. I wouldn’t, of course, but he doesn’t know that.
If anyone does actually end out reading this (job description wasn’t very clear on that one), hi there! You might be thinking “Phainon, that’s a mermaid. He wouldn’t be making assumptions like that. That’s far too complex!”. First of all, he’s a merman. We really need to get the sign changed from mermaids to merfolk. It matters.
And secondly, I digress. I believe merfolk, or at least Mydeimos, can understand the human language. To what extent I can’t be sure. When I spoke, he made noises of agreement and disagreement. Despite the language difference, Mydeimos genuinely seemed to understand my words. He even appeared to criticise the amount of fish I give him! (Note to self: halve the amount of fish provided). It might be a stretch, but I’d like to research further into his language capabilities. Who knows, maybe I’ll even coax a conversation out of him.
Side note: I’ve yet to see the merfolk known as Tribbie. Nonetheless, I look forwards to learning more about the two of them!
What a day…
— — —
“And then he came up to see me. Can you believe it? A real live merman was right in front of me!” Phainon recites for the umpteenth time since his first encounter with Mydeimos, only pausing to swallow mouthfuls of his lunch.
A new week has waxed and waned, and Phainon has yet to come down from the high that his new job provides. True, he’s returned to a sense of normalcy. Twice a day the fish still fall to the bottom of the merfolk tank. But unlike before, twice a day Mydeimos creeps out to retrieve them. Perhaps emboldened by their first encounter, he doesn’t seem to mind Phainon’s presence so much to prevent him from eating on schedule anymore. And like Mydeimos’ increased activity, so too has the aquarium’s revenue increased. The merman didn’t appear at meal times for the previous caretaker apparently, the masses seem to be in awe. In one week, he’s achieved what his predecessor couldn’t for years. Phainon tries not to let it get to his head.
“I don’t know, it kind of sounds like he just came for the food,” Castorice points out, leaning against the nearest wall.
Phainon won’t deny it. He knows the truth behind his colleague’s words, but a man can dream. Mydeimos barely knows him. He hasn’t returned to the water’s surface since their first encounter, seemingly content beneath the man-made waves (He’s a merman, Phainon. What did you expect?). Maybe he doesn’t need to. Maybe he doesn’t want to. But Phainon would be lying if he said he felt the same. Despite the lingering wariness- those claws are awfully sharp- his curiosity has only increased. Phainon longs to learn more, to test the unknown depths of the merman’s intellect, to study every inch of that powerful body. And sure, Mydeimos is easy on the eyes, but he knows better than to let his thoughts wander any further.
“That’s not the point,” Phainon replies after a moment’s pause. Castorice doesn’t comment on it, “It was so exciting! A little intimidating, but exciting! I hope he comes up again.”
Castorice smiles, “I’m glad you’re enjoying your new position.”
At that, Phainon is suddenly struck with self-awareness. A nagging sense of guilt is quick to make it known. How rude of him, to flaunt his newfound happiness before the one he left behind. Castorice is ever polite, but even she must be feeling a little awkward in the face of his boasting. In the enclosures beside him, a couple of jellyfish pulse towards him as if to drive the point home. But they are not intelligent, not like Mydeimos. They cannot agree.
“Thank you… How’s everything been back here?” Phainon asks, a blatant attempt to change the subject. Once more, Castorice doesn’t comment on it. He’s always admired that about her: her ability to let the unspoken remain between them, understood but not vocalised. A river of calm runs through her soul, its gentle waters nurturing a deep emotional intellect.
“Pretty good,” Castorice responds, “Did you know we had an import of Japanese spider crabs for the crustacean exhibit?”
No, he didn’t. The deep sea wing is far removed from the central glory of the mermaid exhibit, so much so that Phainon seems to be out of the loop. Or perhaps it’s the other way around, and the unit under Castorice’s care is secluded from the news circle of the remainder of the aquarium. Either option is equally plausible. Regardless, it does raise some questions. Amphoreus Aquarium is a solid few hours from the ocean. And even then, spider crabs aren’t native to the closest sea. How did they manage to pull that off?
“Spider crabs?” Phainon echoes, a little incredulous, “Since when? Is that even allowed?”
“Just yesterday. And I guess it must be if they’re here,” Castorice informs him, passion alight in her eyes.
“Huh, the more you know…”
Phainon might be the caretaker of the mythical merfolk, but the idea still piques his curiosity. He is still a marine biologist first and foremost. Spider crabs don’t have to be adorned in shimmering scales of crimson to catch his eye. They don’t have to stare at him with sharp eyes carrying the last light of dusk to earn his attention. All manners of aquatic life consume Phainon’s interest, from the mundane to the mind-boggling. It’s his life’s passion.
“We should go see them,” Castorice suggests, “They’re not too far from here. Just down the hallway on the left, actually.”
Ever perceptive, his former boss seems to know him well enough to see the signs of his intrigue, whatever they may be. Phainon opens his mouth, ready to take her up on her offer, but is rudely interrupted by his phone. Seemingly out of nowhere, it blares an angry alarm. Ah, right. After accidentally chatting with Castorice through his entire break and then some, Phainon had decided to start setting alarms for his break times. A recent yet helpful addition to his schedule, though its meaning couldn’t be more clear. They had run out of time.
“That’s for the end of my break,” Phainon explains, unable to withhold the annoyance that seeps into his tone. Spider crabs! And he’d missed the chance to see them, too busy spinning tales of merfolk tails.
“You should probably go,” Castorice concedes, and she too seems disappointed by the revelation.
Briefly, Phainon wonders if she gets lonely. Before his promotion, the two of them would frequently banter throughout their work day. And earlier still, before that they had exchanged hushed whispers in the back of a lecture hall. But in his absence, Castorice is left in a position of zero human interaction. Nothing beyond the cold touch of the deep sea aquariums for company, both a comfort and a curse. And here he is, basking in the warmth of his cushy new job like he earned the attention, like he deserves it. What a joke.
“Another day then?” Phainon offers lightly.
Castorice nods, “Another day.”
— — —
It doesn’t take long for ‘another day’ to turn into ‘another week’. An accountant from the aquarium’s finance team pays him a couple visits, entrusting him with the annual budget for the merfolk. The budget in question is supposed to cover any fees involved with their care, or so he’s told. Fish stocks, vaccinations, cleaning supplies, enclosure decorations, emergency repairs- essentially anything that could possibly need handling within the next twelve months. He isn’t sure where to even begin, but the accountant is quick to guide him through the processes. Phainon listens to the advice to the best of his abilities, taking a couple of notes at the back of his notebook and accepting an ungodly amount of paperwork. Neither Phainon nor the accountant mention the fact the budget is larger than both their salaries combined.
The arrival of the budgets ushers in new responsibilities. Because for some reason, Phainon is now responsible for overseeing all of the aforementioned services. Instead of spending time with Castorice and witnessing the new spider crabs, his lunch breaks consist of filing paperwork for ridiculous things like when maintenance on the fans should occur and which fish the merfolk would prefer (referring to Entry #5 of his notebook, it’s salmon). With great power comes great responsibility, or something like that.
If Phainon had known this was what his promotion would entail; occasional glimpses at a merman, a social life as dead as his family and a whole lot of paperwork, the pay rise wouldn’t have seemed so pretty. It’s worth the effort, a small part of Phainon’s discouraged mind attempts to reason. You get to spend your days with merfolk, studying their behaviours and mannerisms. Only so far their behaviours consist of hiding and their mannerisms consist of blatantly ignoring him. Thanks Mydeimos, Phainon thinks sarcastically, you’ve been a real pleasure.
But that’s not entirely true, is it? His research is off to a slow start, sure, but it is not without small discoveries. Behind the coffee-stained desk of his predecessor (his job comes with a tiny office apparently, just another fact to add to the list of things Amphoreus Aquarium should’ve informed him of before they hastily waved a contract in his face), Phainon opens his notebook. Perhaps he just needs a reminder of what his endurance has yielded so far. Evidence of the small joys in a period of dire circumstances, inked in wonder (it’s dramatic, sure, but Phainon hasn’t held a proper conversation in almost a month now. He allows himself the entertainment). It’s a little too dark in the office to comfortably read, the late hour borders on the end of his shift and the faulty lamp on the desk does him no favours. But Phainon manages as best he can. He always does.
February 19th, Entry #7
Phainon here! Not that you were expecting anyone else… Anyway, I’ve yet to make any progress in communicating with the merfolk. But no progress is still progress, or so they say. So maybe I have? What am I even saying- er, writing? The point is that the merfolk are still avoiding me like the plague. It’s annoying but I get it.
On another note, Mydeimos has started to make these weird clicking noises. He used to make them on occasion in my first week on the job, but it’s far more frequent now. He doesn’t seem upset or like he’s in pain, which is a relief. But I’m not quite sure what to make of it. Maybe I should record the noises, compare them to other animal noises? I don’t know, they haven’t given me much to work with here. It’s okay, I’ll figure something out.
And he did. Sure, it wasn’t a grand discovery. He hadn’t quite been able to make anything of it for another week, simply convinced that Mydeimos was going through a vocal period. But as his past self had written, no progress is still progress. He had compiled seemingly insignificant statements and recordings until he could finally draw a conclusion. Phainon flips the page.
February 21st, Entry #8
Not much to note today. I tried to lure Mydeimos to the surface with a fishing rod, using a nice cut of salmon as bait. It didn’t work. He just stared at me, evidently unimpressed. Yeah, I don’t know what I was expecting from that. It’s not like I could haul him up even if he did take the bait. I frequent the gym, but there’s no way Mydeimos doesn’t weigh more than an average person. My arms just aren’t cut out for that kind of workout. Needless to say, I took the fish off the hook and just tossed it in. Seems he can’t be bribed.
Ah, right. He had almost forgotten about that entry. Almost. In hindsight, it wasn’t a clever idea. Mydeimos is far too intelligent to fall for such a blatantly obvious trick. And even if he did, the results would be less than savoury. The hook would lodge into his mouth, tearing at the tender flesh and rendering it useless. How on Earth Phainon failed to think of that, he doesn’t remember. A momentary lapse in judgement. He had been too absorbed in the positive outcome to acknowledge its blood red consequences. Phainon isn’t an overly devout man, but he thanks any deities that may be listening for blessing the merman with enough intellect to avoid the cruel mistake. Enough about that though. Once more, he turns the page of stone.
February 25th, Entry #9
I’ve finally cracked it! Well, sort of. After days of spending my free time researching animal noises (whilst staying on top of all my paperwork. I haven’t been slacking off, I swear!), I’ve found a close match. Dolphins! Mydeimos’ voice is certainly deeper, but the noises he makes are largely the same. From this, I can reasonably conclude that the reason behind these noises are likely to be similar. Dolphins primarily make their signature clicking noises for echolocation. It helps them navigate through the ocean, creating a mental map of their surroundings. This stumped me at first, because surely Mydeimos has familiarised himself with this enclosure by now. The clarity of his eyesight came into question. But then it hit me, the far more obvious answer. Communication.
Among other sounds, dolphins use their clicking to communicate with one another. Mydeimos is trying to communicate. Not with me, but with Tribbie. From what I’ve heard, he hasn’t received a response. Perhaps they’re unwell? I can’t be certain yet. I’ll need to test my findings to reveal the truth in them. But there’s hope! If my speculations are true and this is the merfolk method of communication, then it opens a whole realm of possibilities. I could have dolphin sounds modified to relay messages! We could actually talk to each other!
Okay, maybe I’m getting a little ahead of myself. These findings could be a game changer, but I need to test them first. In studies one should always change theories to suit facts, not facts to suit theories. Well, that’s it for me today. Phainon out!
Phainon smiles at the memory. Not even an hour later he had tested his findings, playing a previous audio recording of Mydeimos back at the merman. His theory proved to be correct. At the sound of his own voice, Mydeimos began to approach. The merman didn’t breached the water’s surface, lingering a safe distance away but undeniably closer. He stilled. So had Phainon. And still they both stayed until the recording was played to completion, upon which Mydeimos let out a noise akin to a laugh and swam away. What a wonderful day that had been. Phainon remembers the excited buzz that stuck with him, remembers the mirth in the merman’s eyes. That is why he perseveres. Content with the recollection, Phainon closes his notebook.
The clock reaches the hour. His shift is over. With a renewed sense of hope, Phainon is swift to collect his belongings. He all but glides out his office, locking the door behind him and beginning the excessive walk to his car. Or at least, he should be. But as his shoes clack beside the top of the merfolk enclosure, Phainon finds himself halting. Memory is a fickle demon. Of all times, it chooses now to strike a chord of reminiscence within his soul. You do this to yourself, a vindictive voice points out in the recesses of his mind. You’ve been socially isolated for a month now. The very thought of a connection is making you sentimental, even if it’s with some merfolk. But do not forget who they are. Do not forget who you are.
In spite of himself, Phainon approaches the enclosure. He sits on the tiled edge as he has so many times before, legs dangling above the water without ever skimming its surface. Darkness covers the aquarium in a quiet embrace. Beneath his feet, the typically lively enclosure lies still. The merfolk are presumably sleeping, tucked away between their rocks, but to an onlooker the enclosure appears empty. Phainon used to be afraid of being alone. He could not stand to be left to his own thoughts, the daunting notion that perhaps this is it, this is all he has and all he is. The fear passed with time, as most things do. Phainon does not mind his own company so much any more. Solitude allows him to reflect; silence clears his mind. There is a familiar comfort in the gentle ripples of the water before him. If it weren’t for the late hour, Phainon might be inclined to draft a quick sketch.
And then he spots it. Not it, her. From the crevices of the daunting rock formations peers a mermaid. This must be Tribbie. She can’t be any larger than a small child. With a blaze of red hair and a tail of dazzling blues and silvers, she slowly creeps out of the rocky den. Phainon freezes in place. He doesn’t move a muscle, not willing to risk scaring the young mermaid away.
She mustn’t spot him, for her movements grow bolder with each passing second. Tribbie glides through the water, a flash of pearl and sapphire through the rippling waters. Her speed is impressive for her size. When he has the chance, Phainon will definitely make note of it. But for now, he’s content to simply watch from afar, resisting a gasp of awe. This is what he’s been missing out on for a whole month. This is what he was born to see.
Tribbie continued to swim laps of the aquarium for a solid moment, a moment of unabashed freedom. She doesn’t seem to notice his presence, not at first. Phainon would be perfectly satisfied if it stayed that way. After a month of longing for any form of attention from the merfolk in his care, he knows now that trust cannot be forced. He has to play the long game. Mydeimos has yet to properly approach him again, Phainon can’t possibly expect Tribbie to behave any different- Wait a minute, is she looking at him?
She is! The mermaid gazes up at him, her round eyes alight with wonder. Phainon’s breath catches in his throat. Is this it? Is this the moment he finally meets Tribbie? As if reading his mind, the mermaid begins to approach. She seems almost as mesmerised by the sight of him as he is of her, and the thought is a little endearing. There is not a single ounce of fear in his body, a stark contrast to his first encounter with Mydeimos.
Without warning, a blur of red shoots out of the rock formations. Speak of the devil. Mydeimos dwarfs Tribbie in size, swimming laps around her like a shark with its prey. A shark with its pup more like, as he’s swift to cup her face in his webbed hands. The two seem to converse, exchanging a series of clicks and whistles (further confirmation for his theory of communication, not that he needs it anymore). Tribbie’s voice is much higher pitched in comparison. Even through the vast waters, Phainon can faintly hear what almost seems to be an argument between the merfolk. Mydeimos sounds worried, and it’s not difficult to guess why.
The merman meets his gaze. His golden eyes are sharp, hostile even. Phainon gulps. Despite having done literally nothing, he finds himself in a precarious accusation of wrongdoing, his accuser none other than the merman he’s been trying to catch the eye of for a month. Well, that’s one way to do it. Mydeimos’ glare doesn’t let up. And then, much to Phainon’s surprise, he begins to growl.
The sound reverberates through the water, muted but no less threatening. His fight or flight kicks in. Even subconsciously, Phainon knows there’s no way in hell he could take the power incarnate that is Mydeimos in a fight. Those muscles, those claws- Even the fins lining his tail and arms seem ridiculously sharp. On land or in water, you’d have to be out of your mind take him on. Phainon is yet to possess a death wish. Understandably, he flees.
His thoughts on the matter feel as though they last for centuries, but his body’s reaction is instantaneous. Relying solely on nerves and instinct, Phainon scrambles away from the water in seconds. The merfolk disappear from view, obscured beneath the tiled ledge of their enclosure. His enclosure. Phainon is still the one in control here. He’s the one who gets to decide how much to tolerate, whether to stay or to go, or if he even wants to indulge the merfolk at all. And ultimately, Phainon is the only one who gets to return home each night. The thought is bitter, a little too cruel even in the privacy of his own mind. Mydeimos’ growling ceases. So too does his own panicking.
Phainon allows himself a moment to catch his breath. At the gradual steadying of his heart rate, he suddenly becomes aware of his own peculiar position, sprawled across the floor with his pen and notebook discarded somewhere behind him. Well, at least he didn’t drop them in the aquarium. Phainon would sooner cut his own limbs off than retrieve his belongings from the waters of an aggressive merman (“Come on, isn’t that a tad dramatic?” Cyrene had mused in those golden years, her voice… what did it sound like again?)
As he slowly pushes himself up, trembling from the rush of adrenaline, Phainon casts a wary glance back to the enclosure. The water is calm, gentle ripples leaving no evidence of his plight, almost as if it never happened. But it did. He will never forget that sound. Mydeimos’ growl, sharp and primal, echoes through the very essence of his being long after the noise itself has ceased. He tries his best to recollect himself, to push the thought out of his mind as he reaches to gather his belongings. It is not so easy. Somehow, some way, Phainon had crossed a line.
It isn’t difficult to deduce what had occurred, even in the hazy aftermath of his mind. Mydeimos’ persistent growling was a noise of defence. Phainon had provoked the merman by merely seeing his younger companion, his gaze somehow a looming threat. Logically, it makes little sense. He had posed no threat, had made no advances. But it is not a logical matter. It is emotional. And Phainon knows, oh he knows. He knows what it’s like to care for someone, to seek to protect them from all perceivable threats, no matter how small or insignificant. No matter how harmless, like his own presence before Tribbie. As much as it had terrified him, Phainon understands. He understands what it is like to love.
“I’m sorry,” Phainon calls out, still wary, “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just… watching, I guess. I don’t know. I didn’t expect either of you to be awake at this hour.” There is no response. He can’t certain if the merfolk heard him, or if they even care. Regardless, Phainon is evidently still unwelcome.
“I’m going to go now,” He adds, “Sleep well.”
With his equipment in hand, Phainon steadily steps back. The line he had crossed is a dangerous one, and it is one he cannot so easily withdraw from. He has seen Tribbie, he knows she is but a child and in Mydeimos’ eyes, that makes him a threat. He does not deign to truly imagine why, not beyond the surface level. It is unsettling to wonder what has driven him to this point, where even a glance is the equivalent of a knife at their throats. What was the previous caretaker like? And how did they end up here in the first place? There are so many questions, so few answers. Phainon understands the sentiment, but he cannot even begin to fathom the facts. He knows but one thing: the line he has crossed, he is irreversibly on the other side.
As Phainon turns away, the weight of the night lingers deep within, heavy and unresolved. The silence of solitude he once found favourable is quick to become uncomfortable. Stifling, even. Perhaps he should give Castorice a call when he returns home. Some company would do Phainon wonders right about now. His footsteps fade into the dark corridors of Amphoreus Aquarium as he departs. With Phainon, so too depart the terrors of the night, both beckoning and intimidating him in equal measure.
Notes:
3.3 sickens me. All of them in one update, really? Hoyo when I catch you hoyo-
Chapter 3
Summary:
Castorice offers Phainon some assistance, while Mydei defies all expectations.
Chapter Text
March 2nd, Entry #10
I saw Tribbie for the first time! It was… Well, it was an experience. Mydeimos wasn’t too happy with me, almost like an overprotective parent. Are they related? I don’t know if they’ve had any blood works done (can you imagine someone trying to haul him in?), but it might be worth looking into.
From what I saw, Tribbie seems pretty active. She must swim around a lot after my shifts end. Normally I would’ve been gone by then, but I stayed a little later than usual today. I don’t think I need to worry about her being ill or anything, she seems healthy from what I can tell.
I won’t lie, I was hoping for a closer encounter. I would’ve gotten one too if it weren’t for Mydeimos intervening. But these things take time. Despite our time together, Mydeimos still doesn’t trust me. Today was a one off. I doubt he’ll let me near Tribbie any time soon. But hey, it’s okay. I can wait. It’s already been a month, what’s a month more?
Side note: I received further confirmation that the noises are indeed the merfolk communicating. Mydeimos and Tribbie exchanged a series of clicks and whistles, much like dolphins. It feels good to be right about something.
— — —
The next few days are tense, to put it simply. Phainon tries his best to go about his daily routine, to not let the previous encounter with the merfolk affect his performance, but it’d be a lie to say he isn’t avoiding them. At each feeding time, he is quick to toss the fish in the water and scurry off to his office without a second glance. It’s nothing personal. Phainon holds no ill will towards Mydeimos, truly. He just needs some time apart to recollect himself. They both do.
Or at least, they both should. But for reasons entirely unknown to Phainon, their hostile encounter seems to have drawn Mydeimos closer. He has taken to approaching at meal times, never quite breaching the water’s surface but still close enough to leave Phainon on edge. Each time he tries to throw the fish and make a speedy departure, the merman is always there to catch them. Funny how that works. A month of Phainon desperately concocting methods to gain the attention of the merfolk seemed to deter them, but the second he doesn’t want their attention anymore Mydeimos won’t leave him alone. The very idea is almost infuriating, so much so that he wonders if that’s the merman’s intention.
“Cats do that sometimes,” Castorice comments, idly fidgeting with a button on her coat, “They’re drawn to people who are more relaxed and less intrusive. So if you leave them alone, they come crawling to you. That’s why Thanatos likes my sister more, I think.”
Phainon cannot imagine anyone more befitting of the description than Castorice, but he doesn’t bother mentioning it. At least some good has come from all of this. His recent flightiness had led to an excessive amount of time holed up in his office. As a result, his paperwork gradually lessened, to the point he was finally able to squeeze in the promised visit to the spider crab exhibit with Castorice. The month long wait was worth it. With their vibrant shells and impressive size, they really do live up to the hype.
“I’m more of a dog person,” Phainon replies. Briefly, he wonders how his own dog must be holding up. Ever since the fateful promotion, Phainon has hardly had time to spare for his lovely Kephale. They share little beyond a home and a daily walk. He makes a mental note to enrol his pup in a nearby dog daycare, the next best option. Might as well put that hefty wage to use.
“Maybe you need a new mindset,” Castorice suggests, “Your attempts to win their favour weren’t really working, were they? So maybe you need to take a step back, see the bigger picture.”
Phainon figured as much. There seems to be an inherent disconnect between his perception of their arrangement and Mydeimos’, for what pushes him away only serves to draw the merman closer and vice versa. Their expectations of one another and perhaps the situation as a whole are not aligned. Phainon isn’t sure how to remedy this, if he even can. He knows little of Mydeimos’ true opinions of him, only that the merman seems to be waiting the other shoe to drop. It’ll take more than just words to convince him that, no, there isn’t even an other shoe to drop at all. His self-esteem may fluctuate at times, but Phainon has never viewed himself as a monster. He would never intentionally harm the merfolk in his care. (But the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and Phainon has already almost maimed Mydeimos once. Would it be so unthinkable for the merman to assume that maybe he would? Would he?)
“You’re right,” Phainon agrees, “It’s just- This job is a lot.”
A small frown forms on Castorice’s face, “You know I’m always here for you, right?”
“I know.”
He misses this, misses this sense of normalcy where he isn’t constantly second guessing every encounter (Wasn’t he? When was the last time he felt truly at peace with his decisions?). Life has been so easy then. Sure, the jellyfish exhibit was mildly boring at times. His days had primarily consisted of sweeping and scrubbing, with little company beyond his own boss and the jellyfish floating around. But it was comfortable, safe. The mermaid exhibit is anything but. Even in similar company, he’s never felt so alone.
“If you’re really struggling, I can always look into the previous mermaid caretaker.” Castorice adds, seemingly out of nowhere.
Phainon blinks. “You’d do that?”
“If it helps,” His former boss confirms.
Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of that? Phainon’s position in Amphoreus Aquarium leaves him with very little access to confidential information, but Castorice lies in a seperate realm of possibility. Her position as head of the deep sea wing grants her access to the aquarium’s archives, a place Phainon could only dream of entering (think of the research!). All of the endless files are at her fingertips, both digital and physical. He’s almost envious. And yet despite this, one question still lingers: will it be enough?
“Yeah, that’d be great,” Phainon replies, “Uh, don’t take this the wrong way but do you… actually have access to that sort of thing?”
“You mean in the archives?” Castorice clarifies. He nods. “No, staff files are only kept in head office.”
“Then how…” Phainon trails off, not quite certain if he wants to know.
“I have my ways,” Castorice states in lieu of an answer, “Friends in high places, or low ones.”
That’s mildly concerning, in all honesty. Castorice is a quiet woman. Phainon doesn’t doubt that she has other friends- even if he, admittedly, does not- but it’s always the quiet ones you have to look out for. This mysterious friend could very well be a law-evading criminal, hacking into government databases and stealing the world’s secrets… Alright, maybe he’s blowing the situation out of proportion a little. Castorice is going above and beyond to bring Phainon some peace of mind. The least he can do is cast any doubts from his mind, no matter how questionable her words may have been.
“Thank you, Cas.” Phainon smiles, surprising himself with its softness.
Castorice shakes her head, “There’s no need to thank me. What’s a small favour between friends?”
— — —
Phainon doesn’t want to return to the merfolk enclosure yet. He’d much rather spend his time with Castorice, gazing at the jellyfish and pointing out the spider crabs with particularly impressive legs. Hell, he’d rather spend his time with anyone right about now. Even the accountant Phainon spoke to in passing would do. What was their name again? But despite his reluctance, this is still his job. He gets paid far too much to flit about aimlessly. With a heavy heart, Phainon returns.
The merfolk exhibit is relatively inactive. A few guests linger near the outskirts, stealing occasional glances towards the tank but otherwise preoccupied with discussions over coffee. Mydeimos glides through the water, almost lazy in his movements. His tail fins fan out behind him in a brilliant display of scarlet. In spite of it all, the sight still takes Phainon’s breath away. How beautiful. Those fins, sharp in defence, seem softer now. More at ease, they settle comfortably along his scales. A similar response to a pufferfish perhaps? Phainon stores the theory away for later notes.
He walks through the viewing area of the merfolk exhibit, passing by the minimal visitors on his way to the staff entrance. As Phainon moves, so too does Mydeimos’ gaze. Those golden eyes lock onto his every step, an unreadable emotion dwelling beneath their surface. Intrigue? Concern? Perhaps a strange amalgam of the two? Mydeimos has been difficult to read as of late, but his curiosity does not waver. Phainon holds his gaze.
The moment lingers. Eyes locked with the merman, Phainon’s movements lessen. His steps towards the staff door are slow, torn between gazing upon the dangerous beauty that is Mydeimos and entering his space. Because it’s one thing to simply observe him. It’s another entirely to actually visit, breaching the point of no return. It wasn’t always like this, Phainon reminds himself as he finally pushes through the door. And it doesn’t have to continue to be this way. He can leave his hesitations at the door if he so wishes, reconnect with the base curiosity that has driven him since he was small. Marine biology is his passion, his life’s work. Phainon will not discard it over an issue so trivial. Mydeimos is dangerous but he is not aggressive. There’s a clear distinction, one he would do well to remember. And besides, if a merman can cast caution to the wind (water?), why can’t he?
Phainon enters his workspace with a strong gait. After briefly dipping into his office to retrieve his belongings, he finds himself at the top of the aquarium once more. Briefly, images of their fateful encounter flash through his mind. Phainon tries to discard them. He really, truly tries. But it is easy to decide to be rid of all negative biases, to see it through is another story entirely. Panic does not seize him, nor does his body tremor, yet standing before the water’s edge is far from comfortable. Of course it wouldn’t be so easy. If Phainon is to reignite the flame of passion for his studies, he’ll have to dispel his worries more actively.
“I’m back,” Phainon announces to no one in particular. No, he knows who he’s talking to, “We’ve had some time apart, and it’s given me the chance to think things through. We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot-” Merfolk don’t have feet- “Or fin, whatever works. The point is I’ve been trying to figure out what I’m doing wrong. You’re trying to protect yourselves, I get that, but it’s not like I’m torturing you. It’s been what, a little over a month now? I just don’t get it. Why?”
There is no response. Phainon isn’t sure what he was expecting. A sign perhaps? Some sort of signal or symbol, an indicator of his wrongdoings. What is going so terribly wrong? Why are the merfolk torn in their reactions towards him? Beneath the water, he spies the golden eyes of Mydeimos. Watching, always watching, the merman circles round and round. Phainon sighs, lowering himself to sit upon the aquarium’s tiled ledge.
“I’m trying, but you’re not giving me much to work with,” Phainon continues, “Is it me? Or is it something you’ve been through? Your past caretaker? I don’t know much about them, who they even were—”
“—You talk too much.”
Phainon blinks. Breaching the water’s surface is none other than Mydeimos, his upper body leaning against the opposite side of the ledge. The merman’s golden eyes bore into him expectantly, as if awaiting a response. Did- Did he just talk? There’s no way. There’s absolutely no way in hell a merman just spoke in a human tongue to him. He’s hallucinating, that’s it. And yet... Despite some questionable thought patterns, Phainon is a man of sound mind. Never in his entire life has he experienced a hallucination.
“What?” Phainon manages to blurt out, “Did you just talk?”
“No, you’re hallucinating,” Mydeimos states flatly.
Well, he had considered it.
“You can talk. This whole time, you could talk,” The realisation dawns on Phainon, perhaps a little later than it should’ve, “Oh my- Where do I begin?”
Millions of questions flash through his mind, each one competing for a spot in the limited space of his consciousness. How much have you heard? How much do you understand? Why didn’t you tell me? So many questions, and yet so few words. Phainon could voice these queries, breathe life into his curiosity, but it wouldn’t matter. These words are meaningless. Questions that have no purpose, answers that are far too obvious. They simply won’t suffice. From the beginning, then, that’s where he’ll start.
“Alright, I’m Phainon,” Phainon introduces, despite having already done so little over a month ago. Who knows, maybe he forgot? “It’s a pleasure to properly meet you, Mydeimos.”
“Mydei is fine,” The merman replies, “And we’ve already met.”
“We haven’t spoken a word to each other. That’s hardly a proper meeting,” Phainon points out.
“You’ve spoken plenty, Deliverer.” Mydei quips in response, his tail flicking idly beneath him.
Phainon blinks. “What did you just call me?”
The merman smirks, “You heard me.”
Yes, he did. But what to make of it, Phainon can’t decide. The merfolk have a nickname for him. That’s cool, I guess. The way the word rolls off Mydei’s tongue feels like a taunt, just short of derogatory. Phainon doesn’t rise to the obvious bait. He doesn’t bother correcting him, doesn’t bother trying to decipher what exactly he’s done to earn the strange moniker. Instead, Phainon takes a deep breath, trying to wrangle his boundless thoughts into something cohesive.
“Yeah, but-” But what? “-Huh?”
Mydei arches an eyebrow, his gaze expectant, “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To deliver our food?”
That settles it. There is no peculiar story behind the random title, Phainon is simply the deliverer of fish. Perhaps his predecessor also earned a similar label (his predecessor… did they know?). And then, in a moment of surprising clarity, Phainon truly takes Mydei’s words into account. Our food. The reminder hits him like a freight train. What about Tribbie? Can she talk too? It stands to reason that she would be able to, though her age poses the question of how vast her vocabulary would be. Is that what she was trying to do on that fateful night, when the merman frightened him off? (Phainon is humble enough to admit it. Yes, he had been frightened). Did Tribbie long to talk to him?
“Yeah, I suppose,” Phainon concedes, cerulean eyes scanning the enclosure for any sign of the young mermaid, “Hey, where’s Tribbie? Is she not hungry?”
And you’d think he’d have learnt his lesson by now, as Mydei’s eyes begin to narrow, that anything involving the younger merfolk is a touchy subject. Really, Phainon ought to keep his mouth shut. If his first encounter with Tribbie was any indicator, nothing good can come from this line of query. Mydeimos is fiercely protective of the young mermaid, it’d be naive to believe for even a second that it could be this easy to coax her out. Curiosity killed the cat, and not even satisfaction can bring Phainon back.
“She’s hiding,” Mydei answers, his tone a fraction sterner.
“Hiding?” Phainon echoes, “From what?”
You idiot! Stop digging your own grave! Speaking of graves, his family would be rolling in theirs right now if they could hear his idiocy.
“From you,” Mydei confirms, “From everyone. Tribbie isn’t some attraction for you or anyone else to ogle at-” And you are? Phainon wants to retort, but some sense finally latches onto him. He keeps his mouth shut- “She’s a child, not some lab rat for whatever twisted research you plan on conducting.”
“What?” Phainon blurts out, because genuinely what?
Where on Earth had Mydei drawn such an idea from? Phainon tries to rack his brain for any comment, any small hint that might’ve led to the merman’s conclusion, but it is a futile attempt. There wasn’t one. Mydei’s vastly varying perception of events must be born of paranoia, an inherent fear of a past occurrence (Has that really happened? Did the past merfolk caretaker hurt Tribbie?). Or maybe he’s losing it, his mind twisting suspicions into perceived realities. There’s a reason no other merfolk have survived beyond their first year in captivity.
“I won’t let you get to her,” Mydei reiterates, only further adding to his confusion, “Every day, I ensure she’s well hidden. And I will continue to do so until my dying breath.”
“Do you hear yourself?” Phainon queries, almost offended, “I’m not going to hurt her, or you for that matter. I was just wondering if she’s hungry.”
“She isn’t.”
Before Phainon can muster up an adequate response, Mydei dives beneath the water, bringing a jarring halt to their conversation. His powerful tail crashes against the water’s surface, splashing water straight at his caretaker. For what feels like the hundredth time, Phainon staggers backwards. His reaction isn’t nearly fast enough, and the water still hits its intended victim with impressive accuracy. At least this time he didn’t drop his notebook.
“Mydeimos, wait!” Phainon calls out, but his pleas fall on deaf ears (fins?).
The merman disappears into the manmade caves, retreating to Tribbie and the safety of their den no doubt. In his abrupt absence, an uneasy feeling settles in Phainon’s chest. Disappointment, perhaps? He still has so many words left to say, so many questions left to ask. If you truly don’t like me so much, why do you keep coming up to see me? Phainon wants to argue, to scream from the rooftops if it meant he’d be heard. There’d be no point. Mydei isn’t interested in idle chatter.
“You forgot your food,” Phainon adds, a weak conclusion to his shattered hopes.
His words are fruitless. Mydei does not return, and truthfully Phainon didn’t expect him to. That seems to be the recurring lesson in each of his encounters with the merfolk, the theme that weaves the tapestry of their tumultuous relationship. You are owed nothing. Expect nothing. And he doesn’t. Not anymore. With a sigh of reluctant acceptance, Phainon pours the bucket of fish into the water. Neither Mydei nor Tribbie make an appearance. Well, at least he tried. His attempts might be tasteless, his queries only driving them apart, but he’s trying. Even though Phainon expects nothing in return, he will continue to try. Because that’s who he is. Whether they like it or not, Phainon is still their caretaker. He is still their Deliverer.
Chapter 4
Summary:
In the time following their first conversation, Phainon begins to gain Mydei’s trust.
Notes:
another update so soon? unheard of.
Chapter Text
Time is a fickle foe. Ever present, it looms tall like a dying god. Every second, every minute, every hour, it marches on evermore. Footsteps deeper than the oldest roots, a continuous song in notes too low to hear. But try as you might, you cannot grasp it. You could chase it endlessly, through mountains high and rivers low, through the springs of life and fields of death, but it will never turn to face you. Those faceless eyes are set on the horizon, gazing forward, always forward. Still you must follow. Time brings monarchs to their knees, steals the tongues of the greatest poets. Impersonal, it claims all beholden to its nature. There is no escape, no punishment and no reward. Time is a fleeting friend. So is Mydei.
In light of his resent vocal discovery, Phainon finds himself drawn to Mydei like a moth to a flame. There are so many questions he can ask now, so many discoveries to be made. For once in Phainon’s life, the truth lies so safely within his reach. If it were up to him, he’d spend every working hour by the water’s edge, doing nothing but talking with the merman and filling out the pages of his notebook. Castorice would be proud of his discoveries, Professor Anaxa would teach them at Okhema University, and all of mankind would be wiser for it. But it isn’t up to him, it’s up to Mydei. And Mydei isn’t interested in talking.
That isn’t to say the merman hasn’t spoken since. No, he’s been rather vocal. But the only words that deign to leave those soft lips (You don’t know they’re soft, the rational side of his brain points out. They’re probably slimy and gross.) are complaints, not answers. Mydei is a chronic complainer, as it turns out. From the temperature of the water to the volume of guests, he’s made it his personal mission to complain about it all. Such dedication, if Phainon didn’t have to withstand the constant pessimism he might almost be impressed.
“These fish are too old,” Just happens to be the complaint of the day.
“Sorry, but they’re all we have,” Phainon replies coolly, “The next delivery arrives on Sunday.”
Mydei’s frown deepens. From an elevated angle, it almost looks like he’s pouting, “That’s not soon enough.”
(So he understands the human measurements of time, noted.)
“Come now, Mydei, there’s no need to sulk,” Phainon muses, unable to resist the small tease. Simple pleasures. If he can’t worm any useful answers out of the merman, he might as well make their encounters worth his time.
“There is no word for sulking in the merfolk language,” Mydei huffs in response.
So it’s a complex language, developed enough that certain sounds can correspond to certain words. Interesting. If receiving an answer was even a slight possibility, Phainon might be inclined to further inquire on its extensive nature. But it isn’t, and he won’t. As much as he likes to believe otherwise, their relationship is born of convenience. Mydei isn’t inclined to give him any more than the bare necessities, information included. If Phainon has any hope of receiving answers, he’ll have to create the impression of sharing information as the lesser of evils. Perhaps all Mydei needs is a little push in the right direction.
“You sure?” Phainon prompts, “Maybe I’ll have to ask Tribbie, just to corroborate.”
Oh my gods, you’ve done it again.
Mydei bares his teeth, all sharp edges with a throaty snarl, “Try it. I dare you.”
Strangely enough, this does not frighten Phainon. Not this time. In the whole time he has held this peculiar job position, not once has Mydei hurt him. The merman has growled and threatened and splashed about, but those claws have never come within an inch of Phainon’s throat. He’s all bark and no bite, a voice within his mind whispers. And maybe it’s a fool’s notion, once born of growing too comfortable in his position, but Phainon is not afraid. Instead, the thinly veiled threat only spurs him on.
“Maybe I will,” Phainon declares.
He won’t even receive the opportunity, Phainon knows. Mydei knows it too. Tribbie is far out of his reach, nestled within a rocky cave that Phainon dares not enter. Yet the merman still lets out a disgruntled huff, abruptly turning on his tail. So much for that idea. Mydei promptly returns to whence he came, leaving a tidal wave of confusion (and water. Lots of water. Why does he always have to do that?) in his wake. Phainon allows himself a small sigh. Well, it was a worth a shot. Coaxing Mydei into compliance will take more than simply mentioning Tribbie, though there is still hope in such a strategy. If he can persistently present the idea of consoling Tribbie, the merman may begin to view it as a legitimate possibility. Patience is a virtue, and Phainon plans to be a saint.
— — —
March 9th, Entry #12
It was a cold week, remnants of winter still clinging to the air. The winds were as biting as ever, as were the waters. Mostly just the waters, actually. Mydei has taken to splashing me every time our conversations conclude. Cheeky bastard. Doesn’t he know humans aren’t cut out for the cold?
Weather aside, I haven’t made much progress since my last entry (reminder: they can talk!). That doesn’t bother me. Trust takes time, and it’s not like this job is going anywhere. I work nearly every day, I have all the time in the world to further my research and gain the merfolk’s trust. For the first time in a while, I feel weirdly optimistic about this whole ordeal. Maybe my life is finally looking up. Ah, but this journal isn’t about me. Not much else to report, so I’ll keep it brief.
Note to self: Keep mentioning Tribbie. Even if my strategies of coaxing Mydei into conversation turn out to be fruitless, it’s still a good idea to normalise talking about her. I don’t want to be growled at every time I so much as think about her. It grows old.
— — —
The following weeks play out very similarly. Phainon hears little from Castorice or her mystery contacts- seriously, who are they?- which leaves him to his paperwork once more. The seemingly never-ending flow of lists and boxes is surprisingly finite. Phainon glides through the forms with practiced ease, filing orders and evading scheduled tours. How he managed to struggle so prolifically only a month prior is beyond him, but Phainon is thankful to put those early days behind him. (Sometimes the past is best left to rest. And if it will not lie, then bury it alive and move on).
Phainon’s newfound efficiency allows him time to ponder upon the merfolk exhibit, feet brushing against the water’s surface. He sketches its decorations, steadily bringing the enclosure to life on stone paper with every practiced attempt. True note-taking is scarce these days, but Phainon has made peace with the fact his research is slowing to a halt. On occasion, Mydei will surface with a snarky comment prepared. Once his brief boredom or curiosity is sated, the merman disappears. Phainon has grown accustomed to it. Like the rise and fall of the tides, so too does Mydei come and go.
“What’s that?”
Phainon doesn’t need to look up from his notebook to recognise the deep timber of Mydei’s voice. He does anyway. Those golden eyes stare back at him, always expectant like he’s owed every truth in the world. Phainon resists the urge to point out that he doesn’t owe the merman anything, doesn’t have to dignify him with a response at all. But Mydei wants him to, and truthfully Phainon wants to as well. He’d be cutting off his nose to spite his face if he didn’t.
“You mean my notebook?” Phainon queries with a wave of his pen.
Mydei shakes his head, rivulets of water falling with the motion. His burning gaze flicks to the left, “No, that.”
Phainon follows the merman’s gaze. Beside him lies his satchel, discarded haphazardly with its contents half splayed on the tiles. Perhaps he’d been a little too eager to start his daily sketches today. But who could blame him. Today, Phainon has committed to the idea of drawing the merfolk themselves. Mydei makes for a tricky muse. The more Phainon looks, it becomes increasingly apparent the merman’s golden gaze isn’t quite examining the satchel itself. No, he seems to be drawn to a small blue tin.
“Breath mints,” Phainon explains. He scoops the tin up in his hand, popping the lid open, “Humans like to eat them. Want one?”
Mydei remains silent for a moment, evidently weighing his options, “You first.”
Ah, so it’s a matter of trust. The merman seems curious to sample a human delicacy, but he doesn’t trust that it won’t be the cause of his demise. Phainon would be lying if he claimed to be surprised. Mydei is a great many things, (beautiful, witty, and strong, his mind unhelpfully supplies) but careless is not one of them. With deliberately slow movements, Phainon pours two mints into his hand. He returns the tin to the safety of his satchel, holding one of the mints up for his companion to clearly view.
“See? Like this,” Phainon speaks up, slipping the mint into his mouth.
His tongue is instantly met with a wave of refreshing spice. These mints are stronger than Phainon usually likes, but a supermarket mishap found them in his basket. Ever the people pleaser, he didn’t have the heart to return them. Mydei watches Phainon with bated breath, as if expecting him to spontaneously combust. When a moment passes and he’s still very much in one piece, the merman extends a clawed hand to retrieve a mint of his own. Phainon allows him to take it.
This is the closest we’ve ever been, Phainon realises as Mydei’s hand brushes against his own. His skin is cool to the touch, soaked but not slimy. It’s a pleasant sensation, one Phainon wouldn’t mind growing accustomed to. He won’t, of course, but a man can dream. This is the furthest his research has ever led him. He can’t throw away his progress to chase after Mydei like a puppy with its master, careless of the repercussions for both his career and his safety. Phainon wills himself to discard the thought. Instead, he focuses on Mydei, observing with mild curiosity as the merman slides the small treat into his mouth.
“It burns,” Mydei exclaims, recoiling instantly, “You’ve burnt me with your human poisons!”
“No, I haven’t!” Phainon protests, though his confidence does waver. Merfolk may share half their genealogy with humankind, but that doesn’t necessarily guarantee their bodies will react similarly to man-made substances. To assume such a thing was a severe lapse of judgement on his part (this can’t keep happening…). Something as simple as a breath mint could very well be lethal to Mydei. For all he knows, it could be literally burning through his tongue, “Come on, open your mouth. Let me see.”
Much to his surprise, Mydei obliges. Phainon is met with a vast array of teeth, each sharper than the last. Just a single bite of that powerful jaw would no doubt spell the doom of any foe who dares cross him, maiming them beyond recognition. Phainon almost shivers at the thought. He’ll have to be more careful with his approaches. A blank page in his notebook awaits, itching to learn of this encounter. He resist the urge to retrieve it, focusing on the task at hand. The lone mint sits at the center of the merman’s tongue, entirely unsuspecting. Thankfully, there seems to be no evidence of burns or other injuries, only some faint scarring on the inside of his cheek. With fangs like that, it’s a wonder his mouth isn’t outright maimed.
“You’re all fine,” Phainon confirms. The merman clamps his jaw shut, “Mints are harmless, they’re supposed to taste like that.”
Mydei wrinkles his nose, “Why do humans willingly eat that?”
“It’s refreshing,” Phainon replies with a shrug.
“Hmph, refreshing indeed,” Mydei echoes, seemingly unconvinced, “Give me another.”
“So bossy…” Phainon murmurs, though he reaches for the tin nonetheless, “I thought you didn’t like it.”
Phainon pops the lid open, pouring a mint into his hand before returning the tin to his satchel once more. He wordlessly tosses the treat to Mydei, who is swift to catch it between his clawed hands. Impressive. The merman inspects the mint with a frown, idly turning it between his fingers as if he hadn’t eaten the exact same thing only a moment prior. Really, some faith in his own consistency would be nice, but Phainon will take what he can get.
“I don’t,” Mydei finally replies, turning on his tail and oh no-
“-Wait!”
Mydei does not, in fact, wait. For what feels like the hundredth time, the merman’s ruby tail collides with the water, indicating his departure. Phainon doesn’t even bother dodging the tidal wave of water he inevitably receives, only covering his eyes as it strikes. Great, just great. It’s almost ridiculous how many times this has occurred, to the point where he simply expects an assault of water at the abrupt end of each conversation.
“The mint will dissolve underwater, you know!” Phainon calls out to the disappearing shadow of red, “And a goodbye would’ve been nice!”
— — —
As a new Sunday dawns, so too does a new delivery. Dealing with the hefty deliverance of the merfolk resources is admittedly beneath Phainon’s station. He has assistants and contractors to flitter to and fro on his behalf, racking in chilled boxes of goods. They do no such thing. Ever since claiming the lofty position of merfolk caretaker, Phainon has personally seen to the acceptance of each and every delivery. Today is no different.
The long white truck pulls into its designated drop-off zone, tires screeching with the sudden loss of momentum. Phainon waits patiently on the loading deck. The wind whips his hair, the dancing white strands a stark contrast to his stillness. This would mark the eighth delivery of his not-so new career, a practiced ease now guiding the whole process. Only once the driver climbs out of the vehicle does Phainon step forward, intercepting the burly man.
“Chartonus!” Phainon greets, “How have you been?”
“Late, this delivery is,” Chartonus replies, his tone almost solemn, “Very sorry, I am.”
“Don’t worry about it, friend,” Phainon reassures with a smile, “Let’s start unloading.”
But Chartonus only shakes his head, helmet shifting slightly with the movement, “Keep you from working any longer, I will not. Return to work, Phainon, at once you should.”
It’s true that the substantial delay in delivery has put him behind schedule. Feeding time for the merfolk was supposed to occur nearly an hour ago, but Phainon has been lingering about the loading deck instead like a lost child. Still, he can’t just leave Chartonus to unload the entirety of the truck by himself, even if that is quite literally in his job description. It just doesn’t sit right with him, but neither does leaving Mydei and Tribbie to starve. What a dilemma…
“You’re sure you don’t mind?” Phainon clarifies, unable to fight back the guilt that bubbles up in his chest. When it comes down to it, he has to prioritise his responsibilities over any kindling friendships.
Once more, Chartonus shakes, “Very kind, your offer is. But mind, I do not.”
“Well, if you insist,” Phainon replies with a small frown, “Hey, could I take a box of fish with me?”
“Take some fish, you may,” Chartonus confirms, leading him to the truck’s rear.
The delivery driver unlocks the storage of the truck, pushing up the heavy door. Chilled air flows freely from its confines, mixing with the cool spring breeze. Lining the inner walls of the truck are boxes upon boxes, but Chartonus retrieves only the closest insulated one. It has no labels, no indicators of what lies within, but Phainon knows it must be the fish he filed in his paperwork. Still, it is a little dubious.
“Salmon, it is.” Chartonus elaborates, shifting the box into his arms. Phainon tries not to bend under its weight, “By your Mydei, just as requested.”
He’s not my Mydei, Phainon wants to point out, but simply comments, “Thank you, Chartonus.”
The delivery driver nods, smiling with a sentiment returned. Or at least, Phainon imagines he must be. It’s difficult to tell with the helmet that never leaves his head. Phainon doesn’t question it, doesn’t want to unintentionally disrespect whatever culture it may come from (maybe if he has some spare time, he could do some research…). All he knows is it seems to bring Chartonus some peace of mind, and truthfully that’s all he needs to know. Phainon adjusts his grip on the box, bidding Chartonus a final farewell before allowing himself to depart.
The trek back to the merfolk exhibit is nothing short of agonising. Phainon is a fairly strong man, but even he inevitably crumbles under what feels like a ton of boxed fish. By the time he actually arrives at his intended destination, all breath has long since escaped his lungs. What a pain. Maybe he should start letting his supposed assistants handle all the heavy lifting after all. No, Phainon would never. The pain in his arms is temporary, he has no need to offload such a burden to someone else. He can manage. He always does.
“Mydei, I’m back!” Phainon calls out to the watery enclosure, “I know it’s a little late, but I brought your favourite!”
There is no response, no mop of blonde and orange emerging from the water with a reluctant trill. Phainon is met with silence. How peculiar. With the delay in feeding Mydei should be eager to receive his next meal, drawn in by the promise of salmon. But he isn’t. Instead, the waters remain calm. Utterly motionless. Phainon crouches over the box, clicking it open to reveal its contents. Maybe the scent of salmon will coax the merman out of hiding? As the lid falls loose, his nose is immediately assaulted with the salty stench of fish. So pungent! One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, Phainon supposes as he scoops an ample amount of fish into the feeding bucket.
“Come on, Mydei. Don’t tell me you’re still upset about the mints?” Phainon tries again, “I warned you.”
“No, you didn’t,” Comes the familiar timber of Mydei’s voice, his upper body breaching the water’s surface.
Phainon laughs, “No, I didn’t.”
But a surefire way to gain Mydei’s attention is to rile him up, and if bending the truth a little is the price to pay then so be it. Speaking of attention, Mydei’s seems to be split. His golden gaze flickers between Phainon and his own tail, as if trying to draw his attention to- Oh. Pressed against that tail of scarlet is a mop of red hair, almost indistinguishable under the blurred lens of the water. It’s Tribbie! She clings to one of Mydei’s fins like a child clinging to their parent’s leg. It’s strangely adorable, even if Phainon has been conditioned to be on high alert in her presence.
As much as he’d love to worm all sorts of answers out of the mermaid, he doesn’t want to break Mydei’s already fragile trust. If the merman somehow isn’t aware of his young charge’s presence (How? She’s literally holding onto him), then he’d be quick to blame Phainon if he doesn’t bring it up, “You… You’ve got company.”
“I’m aware,” Mydei replies, unbothered, “Deliverer, this is Tribbie.”
“I’m aware,” Phainon echoes, for a lack of better words. This is it. Mydei has finally grown comfortable enough in his presence to introduce Tribbie into the equation. In all honesty, Phainon never expected this day to come. He can’t believe it’s even happening right now.
Mydei blatantly ignores him, “Tribbie, this is the new deliverer.”
“Phainon,” Phainon is quick to add. As much as he doesn’t mind the peculiar nickname, he doesn’t want the young mermaid to genuinely mistake it for his name.
For a moment, Tribbie lingers at Mydei’s fin, all but glued to his side. Her round blue eyes stare up at him, equal parts nervous and curious. Was it her idea to hold this impromptu meeting? Or was it Mydei who pushed to introduce her? Either way, Phainon is strangely touched by the gesture. They trust him. Both of them do. Somehow, some way, he’s proven himself a worthy caretaker, a worthy deliverer. The finer details can wait. Hell, so too can the questions he longs to answer, the notes he’s itching to right. This is a special moment. Phainon plans to savour it without inhibition.
“Hey there, Tribbie,” Phainon speaks up, “It’s nice to properly meet you.”
At his words, the small head of red hair finally draws closer. Tribbie breaches the water’s surface, the nervousness in her sapphire gaze gradually dissipating, “Hi Snowy!”
“Snowy?” Phainon echoes, equal parts confused and exasperated. Because of course she would have a nickname for him too. It could never be as simple as calling each other by name, could it? These merfolk… They’re going to be the death of him.
“Mhm, Snowy!” Tribbie confirms, and beside her Mydei snorts in amusement. Oh you’re just so clever, aren’t you? “Why are you so snowy? Did all the hair colour go to your siblings?”
Not technically. Biologically speaking, Phainon is an only child. But there was a time when his heart digressed, when his dearest friend was more of a sister than any blood relative could’ve ever hoped to be. Her hair was the prettiest of pinks, just a shade short of the dawn itself (not like Mydei’s eyes. Those are the truest dawn he will ever hold the honour of witnessing). Phainon had spent hours learning to braid it, little fingers running through those beautiful locks. So if anyone took the colour of his hair, of his heart, it was undeniably Cyrene.
“In a sense,” Phainon agrees, his tone a little more somber than intended. He clears his throat, a narrow evasion, “Have you seen a lot of snow?”
Tribbie shakes her head, “Not really. Sometimes we’d migrate down deep for the summer, and there’d be lots of little white specks from above! We used to think that was snow, but Agy told us it’s just debris.”
“We?” Phainon prompts, unable to quell his curiosity. In a couple of minutes he’s learnt more from Tribbie than he has from Mydei in a couple of months. Children are honest to a fault, thankfully.
“Us and Dei and Agy,” Tribbie replies with a small excited trill, “We’re one big happy family!”
Phainon isn’t quite sure what to make of her words. Dei must be referring to Mydeimos (how cute…), but that’s all he manages to decipher. Why Tribbie seems to refer to herself as a plural isn’t a question he’s able to answer. This ‘Agy’ figure exists beyond his knowledge as well, beyond Amphoreus Aquarium’s reaches. So many new and exciting questions begin to form within the safety of him mind. Phainon opens to his mouth to speak, to voice his thoughts, but he’s swiftly interrupted.
“Alright, that’s quite enough for now,” Mydei interjects, bringing a hand to rest on the young mermaid’s back. It’s as if he knew that Phainon would long to learn more. Maybe he did. If Phainon has taken note of Mydei’s behaviour, the opposite could very well be true.
“Aw, but Dei! We only just met!” Tribbie complains.
“And you’ll have plenty of time to talk later,” Mydei reasons with an exasperated expression, “But now it’s time to eat.”
Ah, right. In all his excitement, Phainon had nearly forgotten the reason for his return to the merfolk exhibit. Their feeding session is long overdue, a direct result of his eagerness to help and to learn. He reaches for the fish-filled bucket, retrieving a handful of salmon from its contents. Like usual, Mydei extends his clawed hands to take his prized meal. But unlike usual, so does Tribbie. Phainon wordlessly passes the merfolk their meals.
For once, Mydei nods at him, “Thank you, Deliverer.”
“Thank you, Snowy!” Tribbie adds, biting her sharp little teeth into the salmon.
“There’s no need to thank me,” Phainon replies, his words nothing short of sincere, “It’s my pleasure.”
And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel the urge to rush off and record his findings. No, there will be no notebook entry today, no hasty declarations or farfetched theories. This moment is reserved for him and him alone. A sacred moment, Phainon will treasure it within his heart instead of his writings. As the merfolk contentedly dine on their fishy feast, Phainon is unable to resist a smile. What a wonderful day this has turned out to be. From behind his salmon, Mydei returns his smile.
Chapter 5
Summary:
Phainon attempts to reconcile his past mistakes. Late at night, he receives a strange phone call.
Notes:
This chapter somehow turned out twice the length of all the previous ones. I refuse to split it in two, so enjoy!
Chapter Text
March 15th, Entry #14
Who are you? You, the reader. The one who reads, the one who waits. Who are you? This journal follows me everywhere, there’s seldom a moment I part with it. But someone must be reading. I wouldn’t be instructed to write these notes for them to go unread, just the lost musings of a scientist. Who are you? What are you expecting from this? What do you know?
Can I trust you?
— — —
Morning’s arrival sees the sky don her finest blues, silken without a single blemish of white. Sunlight worms its fiery way into Phainon’s lungs, vitalising him for the dawning week. How such energy finds him, only the Earth itself may know, but it is undeniably present. With a bounce to every stride and a small tune teetering on his lips, Phainon hums his way into work an hour earlier than usual. Amphoreus Aquarium’s doors have yet to be opened at this time of morning, its halls bearing only staff members. Janitors flit to and fro with supplies in hand, cleaning signs still scattered about like wayward souls. Alright, maybe he was a little too eager to arrive today…
Now with a renewed caution, Phainon crosses the damp tiling. Aside from the occasion sliding step (a tad embarrassing, but no one seems to notice), his journey toward the merfolk exhibit is relatively unaffected. When he tries to spark up a little tune once more, it escapes his mind entirely. He simply chooses a new one. What a life, how wonderfully relaxing... Absorbed in his own bubble of comfort, Phainon almost walks right past Castorice, who lingers by his exhibit’s entry with a stack of paperwork in hand. Almost.
“Cas!” Phainon greets, approaching his colleague with a smile, “It’s been a while.”
Castorice offers him a smile of her own, “That it has. It’s good to see you again, Phainon.”
“You too. How’s your research going? Have your contacts found anything?” Phainon queries offhandedly.
The smile on Castorice’s face is quick to fall, replaced by a frown in mere seconds., “Research? I’m not doing any research.”
What? Castorice promised she and her mysterious friends would look into the previous merfolk caretaker, Phainon knows she did. This can’t be chalked up to a lapse in memory on his part. So why does she look so conflicted on the matter? The frown on her face conveys a sense of confusion, but the look in her eyes is strangely resolute. She knows something, that much he can decipher. As for what this may be, it doesn’t seem like Castorice is keen on sharing. At least not here, not now. Why not?
Phainon matches her frown, “But I thought—”
“—You must’ve gotten the wrong person. It happens,” Castorice is swift to interrupt, shifting the topic entirely. How unlike her, “Here, I have something important for you.”
Great, the last thing he needs right about now is more paperwork. But what else would she be here for then? What else does anyone approach him for at work anymore? Budget issues, that’s what. Yet instead of ridding herself of the impressive stack of paperwork in her arms, Castorice extends a barely free hand to offer him… a sandwich? With much confusion, Phainon wordlessly accepts the meal offering. He already brought his own lunch with him, leftovers of last night’s dinner, but the unique gift is appreciated nonetheless.
“Lunch is the most important meal of the day,” Castorice explains, as if her words would suddenly bring clarity to the strange encounter.
“Isn’t it breakfast?” Phainon questions, arching an eyebrow as he inspects the sandwich. Chicken and lettuce with a thin layer of mayonnaise, a combination he’s enjoyed countless times before. At least Castorice remembers his preferences. I wonder if Mydei would like this…
Castorice shrugs, “Common misconception.”
“Thank you…” Phainon replies, a little unsure what else to say.
There is no response. In a manner similar to his merfolk companions, Castorice promptly departs at the opportunity to conclude the conversation. How strange… Phainon shakes his head, as if the physical motion might dislodge the thoughts from his mind into the nearest trash can. No such luck. It isn’t just strange how Castorice has been behaving as of late, avoiding meeting up in their shared lunch breaks and now this peculiar encounter, it’s borderline concerning. Is she alright? What information did she uncover that has her so presence so scarce? There’s no use dwelling on the matter, no sudden revelation will come of it. This will only ruin his day. Still, his heart goes out for whatever issue it is she faces.
Albeit a little reluctantly, Phainon returns to daily routine. He scurries into his office, undergoing a brief once over of his belongings before finally stepping out to the merfolk aquarium. Both Mydei and Tribbie glide aimlessly through the water, the lack of human viewers allowing the young mermaid to be present. Somehow, Phainon has earned himself a position in the group of esteemed people allowed to gaze upon little Tribbie and live to tell the tale. Maybe earned isn’t quite the right word. In truth, it’s nothing short of a miracle.
“Snowy! You’re early!” Tribbie calls out, her head bobbing up above the water.
“By a whole hour, can you believe it?” Phainon muses, earning himself a giggle from the small child.
“We’re glad,” Tribbie replies, “There’s something we wanted to ask of you. Since we have to hide during the day, we didn’t think we’d get the chance. But you’re here now, so we can!”
Phainon is unable to resist a smile at the young mermaid’s enthusiasm, even with her peculiar manner of speech. ‘We’ doesn’t seem to be referring to Mydeimos, who has now taken to lazing upon the enclosure’s sandy floor, entirely disinterested (the level of trust it must take to not even deign to observe their current encounter is not lost on him). No, there seems to be an anonymous third party. Maybe an imaginary friend? If Phainon had a dollar for every time one of his companions spoke of a mysterious friend without any further elaboration, he’d have two dollars. Such small amount of money wouldn’t buy him much, but it certainly is strange that it’s become something of a consistency in his life.
“Ask away, little lady,” He prompts, taking a dramatic bow as if before royalty.
His actions seem to further amuse Tribbie, “Okay, okay! We were wondering if we could have a breath mint,” The mermaid makes air quotations with her webbed fingers, “Dei tried to bring us one but it disappeared.”
“Ah, I see.”
So that’s why Mydei swam off so swiftly with the second mint. He had been acting as an intermediary, presenting it as a gift to Tribbie from Phainon. But as he had warned to deaf ears (fins? Merfolk don’t exactly have humanoid ears, but rather fin-like appendages. Needs more research.), the treat did not last underwater. Still, the action was strangely sweet for a merman who switches flippantly between trusting him and cursing his very existence. Today is just full of surprises.
“I don’t know,” Phainon answers, casting a glance downward, “Does that sound alright with you, grumpypants?”
Splayed across the bottom of the merfolk enclosure, Mydei glares up at him. His golden eyes glisten like hidden treasure among the sand, obscured by the shifting haze of the water’s surface. The merman lets out a low noise, not quite a disagreement but certainly not enthusiastic. What do you think? Phainon imagines he would be saying, if only he could be bothered to level with them. It’s a far cry from a proper answer.
“Come on, Mydei. Work with me here,” Phainon persists. He doesn’t technically need Mydei’s approval again, but when has he ever resisted the opportunity to pester the merman? “I can’t understand you underwater.”
“We can translate for you,” Tribbie helpfully supplies.
“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?” Phainon replies with a grin, “Besides, Mydei is a grown adult. He can speak for himself.”
As if on cue, Mydei’s fins give a sharp flick of irritation. The merman pushes himself off the enclosure’s sandy floor with those muscled arms of his, scarlet markings flexing with the motion (Phainon is looking respectfully, okay?). His robust tail powers him through the waters, hints of gold glistening on their surface. Huh, Phainon has never noticed that before. He’d been under the impression that his companion’s tail was solely one colour. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Subtle golden lines mark the ruby scales with sharp curves, similar to the markings on his upper half. Interesting, he’ll have to make note of that later in the discomfort of his office. Maybe he’ll even draft a sketch. Not now though. Time and effort elude him entirely. Thoroughly unimpressed, Mydei finally breaches the water’s surface.
“Can’t you take a hint?” Are the first words that grace the merman’s lips.
“Can’t you?” Phainon quips in response, a mindless provocation, “I need your permission here, Mydei.”
Never one to back down from a challenge, Mydei rises to the bait. There’s a certain comfort in the familiarity of his reactions, even if the merman seems to have woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Or the wrong side of the glass, or even the wrong side of the ocean (How long has it been since they last saw the ocean? How much of it would Tribbie even remember after all these years?). Regardless, the expression still stands and yet their peculiar banter does not falter. It’s rather amusing really, just how easily Phainon can rile up the merman.
“Why would you need permission to do something I myself had already tried?” Mydei retorts, “I ought to retract it now.”
“And deny poor Tribbie? How cruel of you,” Phainon replies, clutching a hand before his chest in a dramatic display of faux sorrow.
“Dei, Snowy, play nice!” Tribbie chimes in with a small pout.
Mydei clicks his tongue, pacified by the young child’s presence, “Do as you wish.”
Much to his surprise, Mydei doesn’t make a hasty departure at the soonest opportunity. Instead, he simply leans against the enclosure’s edge. Phainon allows himself a steady exhale, physically relaxing at the diminished prospect of being splashed. He slips a hand into his satchel, retrieving the little tin of breath mints and pouring one out with ease. Tribbie inches closer, blue eyes alight with wonder. She extends a tiny clawed hand and retrieves the equally small treat. Without so much as a second of hesitation, the mermaid tosses the breath mint into her mouth.
“Oh!” Tribbie blurts out instantly. She brings a hand to her mouth, circling round and round in the water, “Oh, oh! It’s got a weird burn to it!”
“It’s supposed to taste like that,” Mydei states as the mermaid takes to sudden laps of the enclosure’s entrance.
Phainon smirks, “Learnt that one the hard way, didn’t you?”
Mydei lets out a sharp ‘tch’ but comments no further on the matter, returning his gaze to their mutual companion. Phainon swiftly follows suit. Between them, Tribbie continues her impromptu circling, as if constant movements might dull the assault on her tastebuds. Her expression is nothing short of peculiar, a mixture of confusion, disgust, and delight wrapped in one teeny package. Cute yet absolutely ridiculous. She turns her head to each side, as if expecting someone to be beside her in equal emotion. Clawed hands still rest across Tribbie’s mouth as if forcing the mint to stay in place. Phainon has to do the same, stifling a laugh.
“You can spit it out, you know,” Phainon points out once the urge to laugh passes. He reaches for a tissue in his satchel, holding it out for the young mermaid.
Almost instantly, Tribbie spits the breath mint into the tissue in his hand, “Blegh! Snowy, that’s so weird!”
“Told you,” Mydei adds.
Phainon only laughs, “Noted. Breath mints are not mermaid approved.”
“Not even close,” Tribbie agrees, mouth still slightly ajar in recovery.
Something about the peculiar sight of her brings a unique warmth to Phainon’s chest, an undeniable urge to nurture and provide. Perhaps that’s how his parents felt when they saw his own tiny face all those years ago. Perhaps they too experienced the urge to protect him from the cruelty of the world (how well did that work for them?). Parental care. Maybe even love, one day. It is strange how easily the human mind forms attachment to cuteness, how clear and apparent that bond appears. His feelings for Mydei- a dangerous start to a sentence- are far more complex. The merman’s feelings in return must be of an even deeper complexity, which certainly begs the question of why. Why has Mydei let their relationship progress, extending an olive branch in the form of a young mermaid? What changed?
“Hey, can I ask you something?” Phainon speaks up, turning to the merman beside him.
“Something tells me you’re going to regardless,” Mydei comments in response.
Phainon arches an eyebrow, “I mean, I don’t have to if you—”
“—It’s fine,” Mydei interrupts, “Speak your mind, Deliverer. I’ll allow it this once.”
Alright, how does he word this without coming across as an utter fool? ‘Why do you trust me?’ No, that’s far too presumptuous. The trust between them is precarious, a slither of string as opposed to a rope. To speak so blatantly of it could spark offence. ‘Why did you let me see Tribbie?’ A tad better, but still a little too blunt for Phainon’s liking. ‘Why are you here?’ Now that’s just rude. Phainon sighs. As usual, he’s overthinking things. Any of those options will theoretically work, if only he wills the courage to care less for the consequences (where has that ever gotten him in life?).
“What changed?” Is what he eventually settles on, “You hated my guts for months, and now you’re content to lounge about with me.”
Mydei shakes his head, “Nothing changed. You simply reminded me of someone we know.”
“Bubbles!” Tribbie chimes in.
“Bubbles?” Phainon echoes, “Who’s that?”
Something about the matter causes the young mermaid to giggle, “Our dolphin!”
He reminds them of their… pet? Phainon turns to Mydei for confirmation, only to see that infuriating attractive smirk of his plastered on the merman’s face. Ah. So it really is true, then. Phainon reminds his merfolk companions of a pet, a creature who follows their commands without question. It’s true, isn’t it? To some extent, at least. Mydei asks for smaller portions of fish, he obliges. Tribbie requests a breath mint, he obliges. None of their needs have been untended to in his presence, a testament to who is really in charge right now. These cheeky merfolk…
“Well… That’s better than nothing, I suppose,” Phainon replies, a proper response eluding him.
Tribbie nods, forming a sharp-toothed grin, “Yep! He used to find all this cool stuff for us. We also found something cool while you were gone, just wait here.”
In a manner similar to her close companion, Tribbie turns on her tail and darts back beneath the manmade waves. Unlike him, the impact of her scaled tail against the water’s surface hardly creates a splash. And just like that, the two of them are suddenly left to each other’s company. It’s been a while since Phainon has spent any alone time with Mydei. Nothing good ever seems to come of it, their interactions always closing with a harsh splash to the face. This time could be different, a hint of remaining innocence in his mind suggests. Yet doubt inevitably clouds the optimistic thought. Because of course it’s not going to be any different. Why would it be? He doesn’t deserve it.
Phainon is not a bad man. In spite of the world, he strives to be his best at any given moment. That doesn’t make him a good man by default. He certainly hasn’t been good to Mydei. At every opportunity, he has ceaselessly pestered the merman into lashing out, stepping on landmines for the sake of his lofty curiosity. Boundaries have been violated time and time again. Hell, Phainon almost maimed the poor merman with a fishing rod simply because it suited his own selfish interests. True, he is neither bad nor good, but the weight of his actions cannot be undone. How can he hope for anything to change? How dare he hope for anything to change.
“I’m sorry,” Phainon blurts out, the words possessing his tongue before his mind can compute.
Mydei arches an eyebrow, evidently not understanding, “About what?”
“The fishing rod,” Phainon elaborates, “You know, that one time I…”
“Oh, that.”
Yeah, that. Despite the emerging tension between them, Phainon wills himself to continue, to strive for true amends to be made. Even if his mind knows it shouldn’t dare hope for a better outcome- hope is made for better men- his heart refuses not to try. Words fail him the very second he opens his mouth. What is there to say? What could possibly excuse his ignorance, his willingness to torture and maim for his own personal gain? Nothing. Nothing at all. The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, his tongue impossibly heavy. There is no excuse for his actions, but Mydei deserves to know the truth. He deserves to the motivation behind such cruelty, even if it’s utterly pathetic. Phainon can offer that much, at least.
“I’m sorry,” He reiterates, “It won’t happen again, I just-” Just what? Didn’t know? No, he did know. He had always known, the second he gripped the lethal handle he had known somewhere deep within his actions would have a bloodbath of consequences. He had known and he did it anyway. He didn’t care- “I wanted to put something good out into the world. Something I could enlighten the whole of humanity with. Knowledge, new knowledge! But it wouldn’t work without you, and you weren’t exactly cooperative. I got carried away.”
Mydei lets out a small huff, his expression entirely neutral save for the small frown that decorates his face. It isn’t ideal, clearly, but Phainon is well aware the merman has every right to begrudge him. He could’ve forcibly rendered the other man mute, maiming his mouth beyond all recognition. That isn’t something to be taken lightly. Mydei should growl, curse him out and vow to end his entire bloodline (which, admittedly, would be rather easy. Phainon is the only one left). But he doesn’t. Instead, the merman only listens.
This isn’t enough, Phainon realises as tense silence falls upon the duo once more. Anyone can claim to strive desperately for humanity’s advancement, anyone can claim they wish to be good. His words, though true in their entirety, lack any deeper meaning. It isn’t enough. (You aren’t enough). Those words hold no bearing on his emotions, reflect nothing of his personal character. Mydei clearly longs for a more heartfelt admission, and Phainon wants to do right by him. But why bother? That persistent, nagging voice whispers in the recesses of his mind. You barely know this man, you don’t owe him anything. And maybe that’s right, but- No, I do owe him something, Phainon decides for himself. I’m better than that, better than the scum of the earth that takes and takes until the beach bleeds red with a child’s lonely terror.
“I wanted someone to be proud of me,” Phainon admits with a small chuckle, the sound more akin to a wet cough than a laugh, “It’s stupid, right?”
“A little,” Mydei agrees. He shifts a little closer, close enough his fins brush against Phainon’s leg, “But it’s also very human. You can’t fault yourself for that.”
“You should, at least,” Phainon points out.
“I do,” Mydei replies, not quite the response he was expecting but certainly the one he needs to hear, “It was a stupid, reckless decision that could’ve gotten us both hurt. I won’t forgive you for that just yet,” That makes two of us, “Even so, you shouldn’t lose yourself to guilt. Forgive yourself and maybe I’ll forgive you too.”
Oh.
This time it’s Phainon’s turn to huff, “I don’t understand you.”
“Maybe you never will, Deliverer,” Mydei quips in response, his signature smirk returning, “But I implore you to try.”
The words are strangely final, a unified conclusion to a mess of a situation. Is this what making amends is supposed to feel like? Cold and defeated, with hope against hope for a better world. Evidently content with himself, Mydei retreats into the comfort of his enclosure. He departs for his jagged den without so much as a single splash of his powerful tail. Tribbie no doubt awaits him, still scurrying about in search of whatever items she had found. Only a small ripple remains, lapping gentle at the tiles. Well, there’s a first time for everything. Phainon allows himself a soft smile.
“I will, Mydeimos,” he murmurs, “I will…”
— — —
And he does.
To his best ability, Phainon truly tries to understand his companions in the following weeks. His notes have taken a turn in direction, from what the merfolk are capable of to who they really are. Their preferences (Mydei does like chicken sandwiches, as it turns out, and Castorice has taken to making her closest friend one weekly. An easy solution to his double lunch issue), their quirks, their personalities, Phainon commits the truth of their lives to paper. If anyone is reading his journal entries, they make no comment on the matter. They never have.
Despite the sudden pivot, Phainon can’t exactly claim to have solved the enigma that is Mydei. He’s spent months admiring the merman’s quick wit and keen intellect, not to mention that powerful body. A few extra weeks don’t suddenly make Phainon an expert on the matter. Regardless of his figurative expertise, he still strives to do everything in his power to keep on trying. That’s all he can do, really. As it happens, the current day presents Phainon the perfect opportunity on a silver platter, a testament to his resolve. And who would he be to refuse?
“All of your gear has been thoroughly secured,” His dive tender, Lygus, informs him, “Whenever you are ready, you may proceed into the water. A tug on your line will be the signal to resurface.”
That’s right. For the first time in his three month career, Phainon is going to personally brave the merfolk enclosure. He’s going for a dive! A momentous occasion, though admittedly one he has little say in. Due to its sheer size, the merfolk exhibit requires a far more thorough cleaning quarterly. This is the one responsibility he has been strictly advised not to delegate to his assistants, of whom already give the enclosure a daily scrub before his shifts. A reasonable piece of advice and one Phainon would’ve followed regardless. If his assistants wanted to replace him for the cleaning, they’d have to pry the wetsuit off his cold, dead body.
Lygus takes a step back, one hand clutching the airline and the other beckoning to the water. Phainon doesn’t need any convincing. He’s been dying to dive in the enclosure since he first read it in the job description. Admittedly, he had already been coaxed into signing the contract at that point, a final agreement regardless of his thoughts on the matter. But it was a welcome surprise nonetheless. Like every other day, Phainon positions himself on the ledge of the enclosure. Unlike every other day, he slips into the water.
The cold tides instantly envelope him, a deep chill gnawing at his very bones. How do the merfolk tolerate such freezing temperatures? Phainon involuntarily shivers. He allows himself a small moment to adjust to the foreign environment, his movement the steady rise and fall of his chest as his breath passes through the air compressor. The very second his body finally ceases its sporadic shivering, Phainon reaches for the grout brush attached to his belt. The air compressor bottoms out at two hours. With the sheer size of the tank, it’ll be no easy feat to have it scrubbed spotless within the designated time slot. He has his work cut out for him.
Phainon wades over to the rocky den his companions call home, positioning himself atop the jagged structure. It’s an uncomfortable position, with the surface jutting out at strange angles, but he makes it work. He has to. With the grout brush in hand, Phainon gets to work. He scrubs away at the uneven surface, watching as a thin layer of algae dislodges. The filters will steal the mess away temporarily, though the whole water will need to be changed within the week. How does that work? Phainon wonders as he continues to diligently scrub at the stone structure beneath him. Do the merfolk have a secondary tank? I’ve never seen them in any other tank before, but why would I have? That’s my responsibility. No one’s going to move the merfolk and not tell me—
—A sudden hand on his shoulder jolts Phainon out of his thoughts. His head spins around on instinct, though the movement is greatly subdued by his watery surroundings. Lingering behind him is none other than Mydei. The merman peers at him with an amused expression, his tail fins fluttering idly. Smug bastard, he deliberately snuck up on him! If Phainon could pout and complain, he most certainly would. But the breathing equipment obscures majority of his face and his ability to speak. Luckily, he came prepared. Phainon reaches for his back with his free hand, pulling his pen and notebook from the utility belt. What? They’re waterproof, why wouldn’t he bring them with him?
‘Bastard. You startled me!’ Phainon writes, his scrubbing slowing by a fraction as he juggles the two activities.
Mydei trills in response, a light noise all too similar to a laugh. Oh, so now he’s laughing at him? The audacity of this man! Phainon deliberately crosses his arms, an attempt to convey his emotions through body language. The trilling laughter does not cease. Instead, Mydei slides the pen out of his hand. He takes the notebook too, holding them both in a very human-like manner. He’s done this before, Phainon realises. He knows how to read and write. Relief and curiosity overcome him in equal measure. Since he can fluently speak a human tongue, Phainon had assumed Mydei would be able to read and write it too. It had been a long shot, one that reveals itself to be true. With the truth brought to light, he can only wonder why the merman has acquired such skills. Merfolk clearly have their own language, why do they teach themselves the language of humanity?
After a moment of writing, Mydei passes the equipment back to their rightful owner. He hasn’t written a message of his own. No, he simply crossed out the word ‘Bastard’ and hastily scrawled the word ‘HKS’ above it… Huh? That makes no sense. Phainon holds his arms out in an exaggerated shrug, the notebook briefly floating through the water as he attempts to convey his confusion. Mydei rolls his eyes, waving a webbed hand dismissively. It doesn’t matter. Phainon shakes his head but allows the miscommunication to rest, turning his attention back to the task at hand. He barely gets the chance to start scrubbing again before Mydei is vocalising once more, this time at a higher pitch. The merman turns away, his voice projecting away as if communicating with another—
—A high-pitched shriek is all the warning he receives before Tribbie barrels into him. Despite her small size, the mermaid is a force to be reckoned with. Phainon is thrown away from the rocks by the impact of an excited mermaid (lucky, he could’ve been seriously injured if he’d shot out at a different angle), coming to float in the centre of the enclosure. Tribbie wraps her arms around his middle in a hearty embrace. After taking a moment to gather his bearings- because holy shit, what just happened- Phainon reciprocates the hug. They stay like that for a good moment. How much times passes, he can’t be sure. But when Tribbie finally withdraws, it’s with a big smile on her face.
The mermaid lets out a click, followed by a couple chirps. Smirk plastered to his face once more, Mydei approaches with the same noise. They both stare at him expectantly. Phainon frowns. What is he supposed to do, suddenly understand every noise they make? He tries to point to the notebook, circling idly through the water with his pen in tow, though the attempt is ultimately futile. Tribbie only repeats the noise, as if repetition will breed understanding. It’s Mydei who realises the clear disconnect first. He inches closer, taking the human’s hand into his own. Phainon freezes.
Hands interwoven and body within reach, he is utterly beholden to Mydei’s every whim. There is no greater thrill (hadn’t Cyrene felt the same?). The merman’s claws rest on the back of his hand, the webbing between his fingers surprisingly soft. In a sudden moment of clarity, Phainon is struck with the realisation that sirens aren’t real. They don’t need to be. What use is a song with a face like that? Mydei need only look at him and he would gladly throw himself to his doom, chasing after the wonderful sensation of a single touch. Phainon barely registers the merman repositioning his hand until he feels his finger tapping at his own chest. Tribbie repeats the strange little noise as Mydei taps their hands against Phainon’s chest. The meaning of their noises finally clicks.
‘Phainon.’
Or Snowy, or Deliverer. But undeniably still him. The realisation must reflect in his eyes, for Mydei releases his hand. It takes everything in Phainon not to chase his touch. He busies his hands with scooping up the drifting equipment. Tribbie lets out what seems to be a sound of approval, waving an arm about before darting into her rocky den. Right, the rocks. He has work to do. Albeit reluctantly, Phainon paddles his way over to the jagged surface- Or tries to, at least. Mydei isn’t done with him yet, it seems, for the merman blocks his path.
‘Race me,’ Mydei writes into the notebook, effortlessly stealing the pen once more. His handwriting is a messy scrawl, almost illegible. He’d make a good doctor, Phainon muses internally.
He slides the pen out of the merman’s clawed grasp, ‘Race you? What do you mean?’
‘One wall to the other. Race me, Deliverer,’ Mydei clarifies.
An underwater race with a merman? In what world would he agree to that?
‘You’d easily win. I can’t swim nearly as fast as you,’ Phainon writes in response, an attempt to make his companion see reason.
Mydei only smirks, ‘Coward.’
Oh, it’s on. Phainon has never been an overly competitive man. There hasn’t been any room for competition in his life, with no siblings and friends of gentle nature. But as he snatches back the pen and notebook, jamming them back into his belt, only one thought enters his mind: I’m going to win. And he will. No matter what underhanded tactics he has to conjure, he will be crowned the victor of this childish competition. Losing simply isn’t an option. He wouldn’t be able to bear Mydei’s persistent flaunting, lording the lofty status of winner over him for at least a good month or so.
With renewed conviction, Phainon swims his way to the nearest glass wall. Mydei follows suit. Even in a relaxed stride, the merman still glides through the water faster than humanly possible. Oh, he’ll definitely have to use a few tricks up his sleeve to win this one. It clearly isn’t within his abilities to fairly acquire the win. Sure, Mydei might kick up a fuss about how he “cheated”, but a win is a win. There will be no rematch. Phainon positions himself against the wall, ready to push himself off. It won’t give him much of an advantage, if any, but he’ll take what he can get. Mydei mimicks his position.
‘On three,’ Mydei signals with his hands, or at least Phainon assumes as much.
The merman raises three fingers, sharp red claws curled slightly. He lets out a trill, and with it lowers a finger. Three. Mydei repeats the combination of actions. Two. He braces himself. One! Phainon pushes himself off the wall, using every ounce of power in an attempt to gain a head start. For a moment, it almost works. Almost. The slight gap between them is swiftly met as Mydei reaches his maximum speed, a lethal blur of red. Phainon shoots an arm out, frantically grasping at something, anything. His fingers latch onto the merman’s caudal fin. Perfect.
Mydei’s reaction is instant. The steady rhythm of his tail turns erratic, likely an attempt to dislodge his grip. Phainon doesn’t waver. If anything, his grip only tightens, bringing his other arm to wrap around the merman’s tail. Mydei lets out what he can only assume is a string of merfolk curses. Okay, maybe this is cheating. With his tail tangled up in his opponent’s grasp, the merman is near immobilised. Phainon uses the temporary disorder to his advantage, suddenly pushing off the other man. The movement is enough to grant him some speed. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t see if Mydei is starting up again. All he knows is the merman lingers behind him and victory lies ahead. The other glass panel is so close, if Phainon reached out he could just—
‘—Snowy!’
Again? Tribbie darts out between Phainon and his surefire victory, an array of rocks gathered in one arm. He nearly rams right into her, only managing to slow down at the very last second. Mydei, on the other hand, does not. He glides past them both with his signature smirk, bringing a webbed hand to touch the glass. Victory. Phainon rolls his eyes.
‘What is it?’ Phainon writes out, retrieving his writing equipment once more.
‘Look at my rock collection!’ Tribbie writes in response, drawing a little smiley face next to her message. Her handwriting is far neater than Mydei’s, a strangely characteristic contrast between the two.
Phainon nods, ‘Alright, show me your best ones.’
Children will be children, and he can’t fault her for that. But that doesn’t mean he has to sit through all of the rocks. Just the best ones will do, and Tribbie seems to understand the intent behind his words. With a series of chirps and whistles, the young mermaid displays her finest rocks with an aura of pride. Her particular favourite seems to be a smooth yet sharp one, likely an offcut of the jagged rock structures. Admittedly, it isn’t very exciting, and Phainon is still a tad bitter over his loss. But he musters up his best smile, feigning interest. For her sake, he can pretend.
‘All done!’ Tribbie writes, concluding her impromptu stone display.
Phainon claps his hands, the sound muffled underwater, ‘Those are some cool rocks you have. Bubbles would be proud.’
Tribbie beams at the praise. She cling to his leg in an impromptu hug, her tail fin waving beneath her like a happy puppy. Phainon’s heart melts. He runs a hand through her crimson locks. From somewhere beside them, Mydei approaches. The merman runs a hand across his shoulders, skin sliding smoothly across the wetsuit. It’s a miracle his claws don’t catch on the material. Someone’s awfully touchy today. Despite the layers between them, Phainon is unable to resist a shiver.
‘You lost,’ Mydei reaches over his shoulder to write.
Phainon huffs, the sound inaudible under his breathing equipment. He didn’t lose, Tribbie interrupted him! It was a tactical retreat! For the safety of a child, Mydei’s child! Shouldn’t that count for something. Phainon wants to argue, to protest against the change of tides. Hell, he wants to demand a rematch- No. No, he doesn’t. That was the one thing he refused to do, wasn’t it? Regardless of the outcome, ‘there will be no rematch’. Those were the exact words he had mentally vowed to, the standards he set himself to. Right, no rematch then. But he can get his little revenge.
Without warning, Phainon shoves the grout brush into Mydei’s hands. The merman stares blankly at him. He blinks. Once, twice, then frowns. It’s almost amusing, watching the confusion flicker across Mydei’s expression so blatantly. Everything about the merman is so obvious, truthful to a fault. Phainon would laugh if it were any less endearing. He turns to the smaller merfolk, extending a vacuum in offering. Who knows, she might feel left out. Tribbie accepts the cleaning equipment and its duty with glee. She knows what it is. Mydei does too. They’ve witnessed countless cleaning with the previous caretaker (Castorice…), they must know what to do.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Mydei writes with his free hand, almost offended.
Phainon grins, ‘Cleaning. Never heard of it?’
‘I know what it is. Why?’ Mydei fires back.
‘Well, this place gets pretty dirty…’ Phainon quips in response, forever drawing amusement from the other man’s dismay.
‘I know,’ Mydei reiterates with a firmer stroke, ‘Why do you want us to do it? Don’t tell me you’re too lazy to do it yourself?’
‘A problem shared is a problem halved,’ Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘Also, I guess I’m a sore loser.’
Mydei scoffs, the sound slightly gargled with water, ‘Why am I not surprised?’
But he helps nonetheless. Without a single complaint from either finned companion, the work is split equally between the three of them. Alright, maybe not equally. Equitably. Let it be known that Phainon doesn’t condone child labour. Tribbie only partakes in as much cleaning as she wishes, which is considerably more than he anticipated. The young mermaid is seemingly thrilled by the vacuum, trying it on every surface she can get her little webbed hands onto. The remaining work is split equally between man and merman, united in their begrudging acceptance of their duty. They scrub rocks, wipe structures, vacuum glass; everything that could ever dream of gaining filth earns a thorough cleanse. The cleaning concludes within the hour.
‘Thank you,’ Phainon writes, resting against a smooth rock, ‘You didn’t have to do that.’
‘Didn’t seem like I had much of a choice,’ Mydei scrawls. They both know his words hold no weight.
‘It was our pleasure, Snowy!’ Tribbie adds.
This is it then. A job well done, a strangely unsatisfying conclusion to their shared activities. Phainon wants to stay, to spend more time simply basking in the world of the merfolk. But he isn’t like them. He requires air, human food, the comfort of all things above water. Try as he might, this world was not designed for him. This glass cage cannot hold his aching soul. He has to let go. With a short wave, Phainon tugs on the line tethering him to his aether realm. A signal to his dive tender. I’m coming back to reality. I do not belong down here. From his side, Tribbie mirrors the waving motion. Mydei turns away. And after an hour of water-filled wonder, Phainon wills himself back to the surface.
Breaching the barrier between worlds ushers in a chill like no other. Within an instant, he tugs off the breathing equipment clasped across his face. Air floods his lungs in heaving breaths. Proper air, not the filtered kind through his air line. The sensation is cold and biting, more so than the water ever was. It brings no comfort. Phainon rolls onto his back, lying on the pale tiling as Lygus peers over him. His eyes, concealed beneath a dark blindfold (everyone he works with always wears some sort of curious accessory, he shouldn’t be surprised at this point), must bore into the man beneath him. That is, assuming he can see at all. What is he thinking? A curious voice- not entirely dissimilar from Tribbie- within Phainon wonders. And then, a much darker voice: What does he know?
“Congratulations. In all my years as a dive tender for the mermaid exhibit, I’ve never witnessed a cleaning this fast,” Lygus states in lieu of a greeting.
Phainon arches an eyebrow, “You’ve worked here a long time, huh? Seen a lot of things?”
“Indeed. I have witnessed this cycle numerous times before,” Lygus confirms, “You are not the first to cross the threshold.”
And not the last.
“So you must know a lot about the previous caretaker here,” Phainon begins, cautiously dancing around the questions that matter, “Enough to give a guy a hint?”
If Lygus’ blindfold were any shorter, a frown would be apparent on his face, “If the knowledge you seek has not been laid bare already, then perhaps it is not your fate to learn it.”
Phainon groans. Of course it would never be that easy.
— — —
The night bleeds beyond midnight, darkness stretching into the early hours of the morning. It blankets his bedroom, a sliver of moonlight glistening dimly through the curtains. The world sits still. A comfortable silence rests its weary head upon his apartment, and even Phainon is beholden to its slumbering invitation. On good conscience (maybe it wasn’t Cyrene who was born to swim with the merfolk, maybe it was him), sleep manages to encompass him in its entirety. The sudden blaring of his phone comes entirely unwelcome.
“Phainon, how can I help you?” Phainon introduces without a second thought.
“Hello, stranger~” Comes the voice on the phone, “Fancy a chat?”
Not at all. The only thing he fancies right about now is rolling over and reclaiming his lost sleep. Phainon lets out a sigh of displeasure, rubbing his weary eyes. Who even is this anyway? He certainly doesn’t recognise the voice, and if the moniker of ‘stranger’ is any indicator the feeling is mutual. A scammer, perhaps? The hour is a tad late for a scam call, but it’s always morning somewhere in the world. Phainon’s finger lingers over the red button. Tantalising, the thought of hanging up is awfully appalling. But what if it’s a person in need? Or simply a poor soul with the wrong number? Denying them assistance would be wrong. Great, he has to see this through now.
“Who are you?” Phainon queries eventually.
A chuckle emanates from the phone, “Robin Hood. I steal from the rich and give to the poor. That just happens to be you, by the way.”
Not really. Phainon is neither rich nor poor. He’s always sat precariously between the two, swaying to and fro with every breeze. In the seclusion of the jellyfish exhibit, his wage barely saw him through the fortnight. But months have passed, his current position could see him through the month and then some. So which one is it? The rich or the poor? Just how well does this mystery figure know him?
“Very funny. Come on, who are you really?” Phainon reiterates, and it certainly isn’t the first time he’s asked such a question. It certainly isn’t the first time he’s received no answer.
“Don’t sweat it,” The voice dismisses, “Is this line safe?”
What?
“I… I think so,” Phainon replies, a small frown beginning to form on his face, “I don’t know. Why wouldn’t it be?”
If Phainon could see the person on the other side of the phone, he imagines they would be shrugging, “This is some weird stuff-” At least we can agree on that much- “You never know what might’ve happened. I’d zip around and check for you, but then you’d have to give me your address. We all know that’s never a good thing to do over the phone.”
“Never a good thing to give to a total stranger, either,” Phainon points out.
The person on the phone chuckles once more. Phainon only sighs. He did not get woken at some god forsaken hour of the morning for this. His whole body is weighed down with unfulfilled rest, all but begging to return to the sweet lull of unconsciousness. Phainon has half a mind to just let it. This conversation is nothing short of confusing, only raising concerns he wasn’t aware he needed to have. Are his conversations being listened to? By who? And who is this mystery figure on the line? What do they want?
“Oooh, clever boy,” The stranger muses, “Never give your address to strangers, I get it. But unlike most, I don’t need you to tell me your address to figure it out.”
A bluff, most likely. But what if it isn’t?
“Look, it’s late,” Phainon speaks up after a moment’s pause, “I think I’m just going to hang up.”
That seems to startle his mystery companion, “Wait, wait, wait! Don’t hang up! A friend sent me.”
I don’t have friends, Phainon almost quips, but the words sound far too pathetic even in the safety of his own mind. And besides, it’s not entirely true, is it? Castorice has been a long time friend of his (so was Cyrene, once upon a time). Professor Anaxa was too, many a year ago. They’ve since gone their seperate ways, but if he extended a word now the professor would still answer. That’s two people. His other friends, Mydei and Tribbie, don’t exactly fall into the people category. Or maybe they do, it’s difficult to define. Regardless, they are also among his dearest companions. To insist on his own solitude would be a blatant lie.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about” Phainon replies, an inkling of suspicion in his tone.
“A colleague,” The voice on the phone amends, “Come on, you know who. Friends in high places, or low ones. Ring a bell?”
It does. Castorice. The final piece of the puzzle clicks into place, and suddenly the situation couldn’t be any clearer. This is his dear friend’s mystery contact, the one sworn to unearthing the buried secrets of the previous merfolk caretaker beyond their combined capabilities. Perhaps an impulsive decision on Castorice’s part, but one he’s infinitely grateful for. That’s why they were checking for a secure line, to ensure their actions remain beneath the table. But if this mysterious friend of hers is calling him now, does that mean…
“I’ve got the stuff you’re after. It’s seriously messed up, you know,” The stranger confirms, “I’m out of town right now, but I’ll be back within the week. Let’s meet up then, yeah?”
Within the week? That could be a matter of days! Is that the price of the truth, a week in the dark to finally obtain the light? Seven days can be a long time, especially for a matter so urgent (It’s messed up… What does that mean?), but Phainon has been blind to the truth for months now. Despite his concerns, he can manage a mere week. Mydei and Tribbie won’t mysteriously vanish overnight if he doesn’t shine a light on their shadowed past. They’re safe. So is he, a necessary reminder after the night’s events. It will be fine.
“Yeah, okay,” Phainon replies with a nod, a subconscious movement despite physically being on his lonesome, “Where should I expect you?”
“You know where,” Comes the vague response, “Follow the sandwiches home, clever boy. Alright, buh-bye!”
A low beep signals the end of the call.
Chapter 6
Summary:
Mydei and Tribbie are due for their annual medical appointment. Phainon stresses more than he probably should.
Notes:
lygus face reveal goes crazy. the actual definition of a glow down, i fear.
Chapter Text
Digital Database — Amphoreus Aquarium: Project IRONTOMB, Entry Log 33550314
March 15th, Entry #14
Who are you? You, the reader. The one who reads, the one who waits. Who are you? This journal follows me everywhere, there’s seldom a moment I part with it. But someone must be reading. I wouldn’t be instructed to write these notes for them to go unread, just the lost musings of a scientist. Who are you? What are you expecting from this? What do you know?
Can I trust you?
— Trust between us is irrelevant. I am the one who made you, who crafted the very essence of each event to shape you. You have shown great promise, Lygus reports. The trust of the merfolk is your only focus. For it is you who shall deliver us to salvation, liberating to all who have suffered before us. The destruction of worlds is nigh, “Phainon”. Failure is not an option.
— — —
Phainon is no stranger to fatigue. In days of education long passed, he would study all things marine biology related into the early hours of the morning. Coffee was his best friend. Aside from Castorice, that is (and Cyrene, dear Cyrene…). But those inquisitive years are behind him. Phainon isn’t old by any means, but he certainly has passed the age where such behaviour is sustainable. After last night’s peculiar phone call, sleep evaded him entirely. How was he supposed to succumb to its gentle embrace when his mind was suddenly buzzing with questions unanswered? Better yet, how was he supposed to return to rest when his own safety was in question? He couldn’t. The night dragged on, every rustle of nature and creak of a weary home setting him on high alert. When the sun finally deigned to rise, a familiar fatigue of years long gone nestled into the deepest cavities of his bones, an unwelcome reunion.
If his lingering coworkers notice the lack of pep in his step as Phainon graces the aquarium with his early morning presence, they certainly don’t mention it. He trudges his way to the merfolk exhibit, the vestiges of a yawn permanently inhabiting his face. The exhibit is silent, an unusual occurrence and maybe even cause for alarm, but Phainon pays it no mind. After a long night of panic, silence is more than welcome to be his companion. Maybe I’ll take a short nap, Phainon muses internally as he enters his office. It only takes a single glance to burst that bubble. His office is no place for a nap, not a single remotely vacant or comfortable surface in sight. Worth a shot…
Briefly gathering his belongings in an organised mess, Phainon leaves all thoughts of a well-deserved nap behind as he returns to his typical position by the water’s edge. His legs dangle over the aquarium’s ledge as he plops down, the soles of his shoes nearly brushing the water with every gentle wave. The world beneath the waves is strangely still. At this hour, both Tribbie and Mydei should be sprawled across the enclosure, either swimming aimlessly or allowing themselves a small respite. Tribbie usually greets him with a grin, bursting through the water with an energy like no other. He receives no such greeting.
“Tribbie? Mydei?” Phainon calls out.
There is no response. How strange. The merfolk are cathemeral creatures, from what Phainon has gathered. They adhere to no strict sleep schedule, simply resting whenever they please. Whenever they please does not typically include this hour of day. It is not so unfathomable to believe Mydei might be resting, but Tribbie is a different story. The young mermaid evidently enjoys welcoming him each morning, waits for it even. She would not so easily sleep through his arrival. His very footsteps should rouse her from her slumber, sparking weary muscles to life—
“—What are you doing here?”
Phainon jolts. Who said that? The motion nearly sends him hurtling into the water below. Every nerve in his body catches fire. He instinctively claws at the ledge, a close call. Too close. Phainon turns around, following the direction of the voice. Leaning against the nearest wall stands two colleagues, a man and woman he’s never had the pleasure of acquainting himself with. They must be twice his age, lines of experience etched across their tanned faces. The duo stare at him in confusion. His own gaze must reflect the same, adrenaline thrumming through his aching veins.
“Easy, pal. What are you doing here?” The man repeats, “The exhibit’s closed today.”
“Check the signs. You’ve got a day off, buddy,” The woman chimes in.
…What? The exhibit is closed? In all his months as the caretaker of the merfolk, not once has the entire exhibit ever been officially closed. It simply isn’t possible. These people must have the wrong exhibit, or the wrong date. If the enclosure were to shut down, Phainon would be the first person to be notified. Not these… Whoever they are. Phainon’s gaze flickers across the enclosure, scanning the surrounding area for the supposed signs. He’s swiftly met with a blatant ‘CLOSED’, carved in red and white. Oh.
“What happened?” Phainon queries, facing an utter loss.
“Haven’t you heard?” The woman replies, as if it should be obvious, “It’s check-up day. The merfolk are off for their annual trip to the vet.”
That would explain the lack of greeting from his companions, the persistent silence that swallows the aquarium whole. A vet trip. The words settle uncomfortably in the trenches of Phainon’s gut. The merfolk aren’t mindless animals, they shouldn’t be scheduled for a trip to a veterinarian like some pet. If they must have a medical examination, then let it be by a doctor of great qualification and courtesy. Let Phainon be notified as well, so he can personally oversee the quality of care. Who knows how poorly they could’ve been treated, how poorly they might continue to be treated if he doesn’t swiftly seek them out. He has to rectify this desolate situation.
“Yeah, I feel sorry for the poor bastards that had to drag them to the medical wing,” The man quips with a heart laugh. His amusement is in poor taste.
“Especially the big one,” The woman chimes in. He has a name, Phainon thinks bitterly. And whatever injuries he caused, they certainly deserved it. “I hear he scratched up a storm. Bolaris is gonna have to get stitches.”
“That’s if he’s lucky,” The man points out, “He could be looking at an amputation if it gets infected.”
“Shit, seriously?” The woman replies, an expression of shock forming on her face, “At least the little one went quietly-”
Phainon has heard enough. He doesn’t lend the duo his ear any longer, doesn’t waste any more time on their pointless commentary. There are more important places to be. Namely, the medical wing. His visits to Amphoreus Aquarium’s impressive medical wing have been few and far between. They most consisted of stock replenishment, retrieving extra fish food on Castorice’s behalf. The jellyfish didn’t exactly require anything of the sort. Luckily Phainon has trekked these halls often enough to weave past the necessary turns, scurrying left and right until the signature cross pans into view. The red sign- likely infringing a copyright protocol of some sort- beckons him closer. Phainon is beholden to its pull, reaching for the doorknob. He twists it open.
The primary medical room is as pristine as one might expect. White walls bleed into white tiles, free from any dirt and debris. Benches lining the walls don an aqua blue surface, equipment organised neatly atop their vast planes. In the centre of the room lies the examination table. The surface’s sides are raised slightly with glass to accomodate a thin layer of water. For small sea creatures, presumably. Small sea creatures, and yet atop the table lies none other than Mydei. The water barely laps at his gills, only just keeping his scales moisturised. Why did they choose this room out of the entire medical wing if it can’t even comfortably accomodate him? The merman seems to be unconscious, thankfully. His golden eyes are obscured by closed lids.
“He was sedated,” A gentle voice speaks up.
In the corner of the room stands a woman with curly pink and teal hair, fashioned into twin tails. Hyacine, if Phainon remembers correctly. He’s never spoken beyond small talk with her, but in their few encounters she seemed nice enough. It doesn’t matter how nice she is though. She has some explaining to do, namely why the merfolk were whisked out of his care and placed into hers without a single notice. How is Phainon supposed to look after the merfolk if he isn’t even aware of their whereabouts? This whole situation doesn’t sit well with him. Scratch that, the situation isn’t right at all. Phainon glances around the room, familiarising himself with his surroundings. In the adjacent corner sits a medium tank on wheels, enclosing a wide-eyed Tribbie. At least they’re both here, though the thought brings him little comfort.
“You’re the caretaker of the merfolk, I assume,” Hyacine speaks up once more, idly compiling her medical equipment, “Phainon, right? I’m Hyacine. We’ve met before, I think.”
Phainon nods, “Yes, that’s right. Mind explaining what’s going on here?”
“Of course!” Hyacine replies, “I’m going to perform the annual medical examinations for Mydeimos and Tribbie. It’s just a few tests and such, very minimally invasive.”
Some comfort can be found in her words, but it isn’t quite the answer Phainon was looking for, “That’s a relief. If I may be so bold to ask, why wasn’t I notified about this happening?”
“You weren’t?” Hyacine echoes, a small frown decorating her face. For all her enthusiasm, she does seem genuinely confused. She wasn’t aware of this, “I’m sorry, there must’ve been a mistake somewhere with your transfer. I’ll chase it up and make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“Thank you, I’ll look into it on my end too,” Phainon responds, managing a smile of gratitude.
Something deep within him digresses with her words, perhaps a twisted sense of paranoia. What are the chances this was a mistake? He signed the paperwork agreeing to fund the necessary medical supplies with the merfolk budget, yet no part of the lengthy documents stated the date in which they would be utilised. Someone has deliberately kept this from him, stealing the notice or never delivering it in the first place. Phainon resists the urge to sigh. Why does everything have to be so complicated? His career can never be simple, can it? It’ll never be a clean job with no strings attached. There’s always a web of secrecy attached to every document, a veil of mystery enveloping every truth. Phainon loathes it and loves it in equal measure.
“I’m going to administer a reversal agent now to wake Mydeimos up,” Hyacine informs him, prepping a thin syringe, “It’s best to wake him up first, or else he might awaken half way through and lash out. I’d like to avoid restraining him if it can be helped.”
There‘s an edge of experience to her words that speaks volumes. Undoubtedly, Mydei must’ve grown violent in his previous medical exams. Phainon can only imagine the merman strapped to the table, writhing about with fangs bared and water overflowing. It isn’t a pleasant thought. Ideally, he’d also like to avoid such a dire situation. Keeping the merfolk calm and content is his upmost priority. If that requires him to personally oversee the entire checkups and interject if necessary, then so be it. Phainon is up to the task. The merfolk will be safe under his watch, exams be damned.
“You’re going to do Mydei’s checkup first?” Phainon clarifies, gaze flickering between the two merfolk. Tribbie cowers in her tank.
“It’s easier this way,” Hyacine explains, evidently speaking from experience once more, “Mydei grows aggressive if I examine Tribbie first, and Tribbie grows distressed.”
That makes sense. Mydei has always been fiercely protective of the young mermaid. For the first month of Phainon’s career, he couldn’t even glance at Tribbie without triggering the merman’s wrath. Any syringes pointed in her direction that he hasn’t first experienced for himself would no doubt be perceived as a threat. They could contain anything, after all (You’ve burnt me with your human poisons! The words echo in his mind. Phainon wonders if there was ever an element of truth behind those words, if he too spoke from experience). Hell hath no fury like a parent of a child injured.
After tapping the syringe a few times, Hyacine finally steps towards the merman. She rolls over his arm, swiftly securing a vein and administering the off-white liquid. These medical check-ups occur once a year, Phainon is aware. But the practiced ease in which Hyacine locates the merman’s veins suggests otherwise. This is a frequent occurrence. Or at least it was, before his own rise to the position of caretaker. The previous caretaker must’ve decreed numerous tests to be undertaken, numerous tests and yet no physical records left in their wake. This does not surprise him.
“…Deliverer?” Mydei stirs awake with a frown. His eyes glance hazily across the room, absorbing his surroundings as recognition flashes in their golden surface. A growl brews in his throat, deep and primal.
“Hey, I’m here. It’s okay,” Phainon replies. Within an instant, he finds himself at the merman’s side, “You’re just having a checkup, that’s all.”
Beside them both, Hyacine nods, “That’s right. There’ll be some needles at the end, but that’s the worst of it. I promise.”
Why… Why isn’t she surprised? A merman just spoke before her and Hyacine isn’t even the slightest bit shocked. She should be. The merfolk do not communicate with anyone beyond himself, Mydei has forbidden it. Their advance communication skills are a well-kept secret. Phainon hasn’t informed anyone- Well, almost anyone. He had spoken to Castorice after his very first verbal encounter, all hushed whispers in the quiet corners of the deep sea exhibit. Not to mention his notebook details pages upon pages of just how intelligent his sea-dwelling companions are. Almost anyone, but certainly not the local medic.
“You- You knew he could talk?” Phainon queries.
“It’s a well kept secret among us employees, but yes. I’m lucky to be privy to it,” Hyacine elaborates, “I’ve worked with the merfolk for many years, you see. It was bound to come to light.”
“Right, of course.”
Curse his own forgetfulness. Hyacine has had the pleasure of working with Mydei and Tribbie for far longer than Phainon can fathom. Logically speaking, it’d be greatly unlikely for her to never have overheard a single spoken word from the merfolk in their many years of partnership. He can only assume Mydei was consistently cautious with whom he chose to speak with prior to Phainon’s promotion. That could very well be false. In their early years of captivity, the merfolk might’ve been far more chatty, far more trusting. They knew not the greed of their captors, the twisted cruelty of humanity as a whole. What has ever come of their misguided trust?
“Alright, let’s get started,” Hyacine declares, readjusting her gloves. Almost immediately, she adds, “If that’s alright with both of you, of course.”
Phainon nods, “That should be fine—”
“—No.”
“No?” Hyacine echoes. Both she and Phainon turn to their aquatic companion.
“Must I repeat myself?” Mydei replies, resolute in his decision, “I said no. You have no right to wrangle us out of the water with no warning whatsoever and force me onto your table. You expect me to be obedient? Hah, you’ll have no such luck.”
“Oh,” Is all the response Hyacine gives.
Oh indeed. Mydei is right, of course, this whole situation has been a violation of both the merfolk’s trust and Phainon’s rights as their caretaker. The merman certainly doesn’t owe her any obedience. He can bare his fangs and flex his claws all he likes, it’d be entirely justified. But not beneficial. For all the stress this whole ordeal has caused, it truly is beneficial in the long run. The merfolk need to be examined and vaccinated to stay in prime health. They cannot survive in a world that was not designed for them, a manmade sea under constant threat of human illness. Hyacine casts him a weary glance. It is nothing of not a silent request, a shimmering plea to return order to her job. Maybe I wouldn’t have to help if someone could’ve just warned us, Phainon has half a mind to retort. And would it kill the handlers to be a tad more gentle with him?
“Mydei, I know you’re upset. But this is for your own good,” Phainon attempts to reason.
“That’s what they all say,” Mydei retorts, throughly unimpressed.
“I know,” Phainon agrees, because once more the merman is right. Countless people must’ve uttered the same words, countless people mustn’t have truly meant it, “It’s easy for me to say when I’m not the one who has to go through it, but you’ve gone through this many times before. You know it’s good for you, even if it feels bad in the short term. It’ll keep you and Tribbie alive.”
Mydei bites his cheek, a poor habit with teeth so sharp, “It shouldn’t have to.”
“I know,” Phainon replies, for a lack of better words. The merman is meant for something greater. He shouldn’t be confined to this world of selfishness, humans treating him as no more than a possession. He shouldn’t have to rely on vaccines upon vaccines to keep himself alive. There is a vast blue ocean out there and Mydei should be in it. But he isn’t, “I’m sorry I can’t do more for you. But won’t you at least give it a try?”
“Fine,” Mydei relents after a moment’s pause.
Phainon manages a smile, “Thank you.”
Mydei does seem to relax in part, though tension still mars his frame. Phainon can’t blame him. Even as a human, a full physical examination would be an uncomfortable ordeal. It isn’t surprising that the merman holds an underlying resentment for the experience. At least it isn’t anything new. The merfolk don’t have to worry themselves thin with countless possibilities. This is a routine, a sense of familiarity weaving together the many discomforts. Nestled away in the corner of the room, Tribbie seems to start to relax as well. Once sharp on alert, her fins settle smoothly against her body. All is well, or at least as well as it can be.
It’s only when Hyacine reaches a gloved hand towards Mydei that Phainon blurts out, “Talk me through it-” Gods, he sounds like a doting spouse- “Talk us through it, I mean. That might help.”
“Good idea,” Hyacine agrees, pausing for a moment before she continues, “As you can see right now, I’m just going to have a general feel all over. I might massage some points, just to ensure everything is in order.”
And she does just that. With a deft hand, Hyacine glides her touch across the merman’s body. She examines his ear fins with great care, running her fingers back across his neck and spine. Seemingly satisfied, her touch continues lower. Phainon observes with rapt attention as Hyacine caress along his shoulder. She maps the planes of his chest, brushing lightly upon his gills. The gesture is strangely mesmerising. He’s never seen Mydei so pliant, so docile. It’s both disturbing and enticing in equal measure (and if some twisted part of him envies his colleague, wishes it was his hand caressing the merman instead of hers, it will never see the light of day). Content with his human half, Hyacine continues her journey lower. Or at least, she starts to. But the very second her hand crosses from skin to scales, she comes to a stuttering halt.
“I’m sorry, is this- is this okay?” Hyacine queries, “May I? I’ll try to keep things external.”
Mydei casts him a sideward glance before he sighs, “Fine, make it quick.”
The physical examination continues. With renewed caution, Hyacine traces along the vermillion scales. She caresses across their surface, light but purposeful. All seems well, or so Phainon assumes. The scales shine a brilliant ruby under the bright lighting, free from any blemishes. Her fingers halt atop a slight crevice. Strange, Phainon hadn’t noticed that before. Is it an injury, a dent from some sort of blunt force? He can’t possibly imagine the cause. The rocks of his makeshift den perhaps? Or maybe even roughhousing with Tribbie? Whatever it may be, Mydei turns away under her touch. Is he in pain? Maybe we should call this off. We can come back another time, once he’s long since within the realm of recovery.
The merman buries his face against Phainon’s neck, damp hairs brushing against the exposed skin. Oh… That’s certainly unexpected. A surprising touch, but a far cry from unwelcome. With the sudden closeness, a wave of warmth envelops his skin. The merfolk always have run hotter. Phainon only frowns. Mydei is seeking comfort, a surefire sign that something is amiss. He opens his mouth to query about the sudden shift in behaviour from both of his companions, but the words never leave his lips.
“HKS,” Mydei murmurs into his ear, before he can voice his concerns, “Can’t you give me some privacy?”
There’s that peculiar word again. HKS. What was it- Oh my gods. In a delayed moment of realisation, the pieces of the puzzle finally fall into place. Phainon’s absolute idiot of a brain truly processes Mydei’s words. It isn’t an injury that Hyacine is gingerly examining. It’s… Well, it’s whatever merfolk have between their fins. Phainon desperately fights against the rising heat in his face to no avail. Of course it is! How hadn’t he realised sooner? It’s not as if Phainon assumed Mydei simply lacked any reproductive organs. No, he isn’t that oblivious. The logistics of it all had yet to come to mind. Mydei is magnificent sculpture of a man, Phainon won’t deny as much. But they aren’t close like that. Even thinking of him in such a manner feels like a violation of their bond. Coming into the exam, he certainly wasn’t expecting this.
“Oh my- I’m sorry,” Phainon hastily blurts out, averting his gaze.
The merman’s breath tickles his neck, his voice still low, “At least take me to dinner first.”
“Excuse me?”
Did- Did Mydei just attempt a joke? Mydei, the merman who has done nothing but grump and growl at every given moment, is making a joke. Phainon was unaware his finned companion was even capable of such a thing. This is a momentous occasion! And it was no ordinary joke, rather a flirtatious one. Mydei’s ability to conjure the necessary mindset to craft a quip in a high stress, borderline violating situation is almost admirable. It’s most definitely hard to believe. With the merman’s voice no more than a murmur, he has no witnesses to this downright shocking turn of events (I’m not being dramatic. It’s not dramatic if it’s true, he would always insist. Still does, sometimes. Cyrene had never bought his excuses). Today really is full of surprises.
“Alright, all done,” Hyacine declares, interrupting his train of thought. She reaches towards an array of equipment, “I’ll now be moving onto some general assessments. Heart rate, respiration, those sort of tests.”
Equipping her trusty stethoscope, the medic refocuses her attention to Mydei’s chest. She presses the cool metal at the centre of his pointed red markings. Phainon allows his gaze to return. He can’t speak for the results of her tests, but judging by her calm demeanour the merman’s heart must beat strong and true. His lungs must follow suit too, as the stethoscope shifts slightly lower. There is no cause for concern in that department. Hyacine discards the stethoscope in favour of the ophthalmoscope, turning to the merman’s face.
“Can I look at your eyes please?” She requests.
Mydei pries himself away from Phainon’s neck, and with him their shared warm departs. Phainon almost mourns its loss. Yet instead, the merman brings a clawed hand to his arm. Not quite the same, but no less warm, “Better?”
No.
“Much,” Hyacine agrees, shining the light at his eyes, “Look left for me… Good. Now look right for me… Nicely done, thank you.“ The medic steps away, returning her equipment to the nearby bench top, “There doesn’t seem to be any cause for concern, so I’m happy to end the checkup here. No blood works this time, only a small vaccine to send you off.”
“No blood works?” Mydei clarifies as Hyacine reaches for the syringe. He turns to Phainon, confusion evident in his golden eyes.
He was expecting me to order them, Phainon realises. And there is truly nothing sadder. In spite of their fragile bond, their accumulating trust, Mydei awaits betrayal. The merman has grown so accustomed to the ceaseless needles prodding every inch of his skin, it didn’t even seem to cross his mind that there could be an alternative option. Or maybe it did. Maybe some small voice had reasoned that Phainon wouldn’t do such a thing, Phainon is better than the previous caretaker- because surely he is?- though it ultimately did not win. Better to prepare for the worst than hope for the best. He’d be lying if the notion didn’t disappoint him, but he cannot fault Mydei for his pessimism. Wounds must first fester before they may scar.
“No, no blood works,” Phainon confirms, “Unless you succumb to a mystery illness, I promise there won’t be any.”
“Thank you,” Mydei replies, a hint of something indecipherable glistening in his eyes.
Phainon smiles, “There’s no need to thank me. Anyone halfway decent would’ve done the same—”
“—Ow!” The merman jolts, sharp claws digging into Phainon’s forearm. He stifles a gasp.
“Sorry!” Hyacine speaks up instantly, pulling away with an empty syringe in hand, “I thought it’d hurt less if you were distracted.”
That explains it. Mydei physically withdraws, grumbling incoherently under his breath as he inspects the pinprick wound. Hyacine disappears towards her clipboard. Phainon takes the chance to examine his own injuries. Pain blooms in the wake of those lethal claws, a fiery ache. Scarlet rivulets flee the scene in haphazard trails. Thankfully, the scratch his dear companion accidentally marred him with is fairly superficial. The wound burns far deeper than it actually falls. Still, it’ll need to be dressed lest it bleed eternal. With his two companions distracted, Phainon inches towards a nearby cupboard. He wastes no time, retrieving the closest gauze-like object and all but plastering it into the wound. It’s not perfect. The dressing may be rendered useless if the wound continues to cry so prolifically, spilling ruby lifeblood as if he has plenty to spare. Phainon can live with that, if only the cut remains concealed from Mydei a fraction longer. The last thing he longs for is to invoke a deep set guilt.
“Snowy, am I next?” A little voice queries beside him, only inches away cupboard. Tribbie.
Phainon dons what he can only assume to be a reassuring smile, “That’s right. When Hyacine is ready, you’ll be next.”
This does not comfort Tribbie. Her dazzling blue eyes shimmer excessively, eyebrows pulled taught. The young mermaid seems to shrink in on herself, multicoloured scales drawn in to appear impossibly small. All fins lay flat against her frame. A defence tactic, no doubt. A provoked predator is less likely to perceive any threat from the small, unassuming ball of scales and hair. Phainon is no danger. Neither is Hyacine, nor the checkup. Tribbie knows this. After years of ceaseless checkups (they weren’t all simply checkups…), she must. But knowledge does not override emotion so easily, especially in young children.
“Will it hurt?” Tribbie murmurs, her voice only for his ears.
Phainon shakes his head, “Only for a moment. Then the pain will go away and you’ll be all better.”
“I don’t like pain,” Tribbie admits with a small frown. And if that doesn’t break his heart, nothing ever will.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Phainon attempts to reassure the young mermaid, “Mydei and I will be with you the whole time. We won’t let anything bad happen to you.”
“You promise?” Tribbie queries tentatively.
Phainon nods, “I promise.”
Lingering across the room, Hyacine scrawls a plentitude of words across the vaccination paperwork. A doctor’s handwriting, no doubt. Phainon will have to decipher the jagged lines at a later time. For now, he brings an uninjured arm to press against the cool glass of Tribbie’s tank. A gesture of support, Tribbie mirrors the action. Whatever lies in store for her, they’ll face it together. That’s all he can offer her right now, short of cancelling the whole ordeal. This is for her own good. She’ll be healthier for it, Phainon has to remind himself as Hyacine approaches. The medic gently grasps the small tank, wheeling it toward the room’s center. Atop the examination table, Mydei observes with a silent reluctance.
“Alright, Tribbie. I’m going to examine you in this tank now, okay?” Hyacine clarifies.
The mermaid nods, “Okay… Can Snowy hold my hand?”
“Of course,” Hyacine agrees.
He does just that. Phainon takes her webbed hand into his own, the difference in size strangely adorable. The mermaid seems to relax slightly in his touch, though nerves still linger in her gaze. What can he do to soothe her skittish mind? This checkup is no different to all that have came before. It’ll play out precisely as Mydei’s did. Hyacine will approach the young mermaid, assessing the function of all her limbs and organs- Does… Does that include the same regions? The very same? Mydei is a consenting adult, all examinations were of an acceptable moral standard. Tribbie on the other hand…
Phainon clears his throat, “You’re not going to… I mean-”
“Oh no, of course not!” Hyacine denies with a sharp shake of her head, “Tribbie is young. Her reproductive organs are of no concern yet.”
The words hold no intentional entendre, yet Phainon almost bristles at the implications. Yet. What happens when Tribbie is of age, exactly? What then? Amphoreus Aquarium will hold two adult merfolk, one male and one female. The very thought of what may come next is nothing short of sickening. Possessing the title of the only aquarium in the world to consistently enclose merfolk won’t be enough. After all, why would they stop there when the money beckons them further? Adorable animals are statistically more beloved. They could be the only aquarium in all of history to possess merfolk born into captivity- No, absolutely not. Phainon can’t even bring himself to continue the line of thought. Focus on the present, when Tribbie is still young and the gruesome reality of adulthood is only a fever dream. Focus on the world around him.
Hyacine proceeds with the necessary tests. She follows the very same steps as the previous examination, only avoiding areas of no biological concern. On Tribbie, the exams seem to pass swifter. Hyacine glides with practice ease across unblemished scales and skin. A few scratch marks make themselves known, though they’ve long since passed the point of posing any concern to the mermaid’s health. The veterinarian’s various scopes confirm the peak health of all vital organs. Perhaps it was his own rapt attention that made Mydei’s checkup seemingly drag on, his own selfish longing. For within moments the examination draws to a pinprick close. Tribbie barely even flinches.
“Good girl,” Hyacine praises, “You’re all set now!”
“You’ve been very brave,” Mydei chimes in.
“Thank you!” Tribbie all but beams, “Snowy helped me through!”
“She deserves a treat,” Phainon suggests, turning to the medic, “You do have treats, right?”
“Of course,” Hyacine confirms. She brandishes a peculiar green rod, “Would you like a kelp stick?”
“Ooh, ooh, yes please!”
Tribbie accepts the treat with outstretched hands, forgetting her caretaker’s grasp in favour of a more delectable reward. She happily chews away at the treat, sharp teeth making quick work of its crunchy exterior. Phainon isn’t offended in the slightest. How much time has passed, he cannot say, but it must be about lunch time. He too could devour a delicious meal right about now. As if sensing his thoughts, his stomach grumbles in agreement. Mydei rolls his eyes. Hey, that’s not my fault. It’s a natural bodily function! Unaffected by her surroundings, Hyacine completes the necessary paperwork for the whole transaction. She turns back to the trio once more.
“It’s time to get you two back to your enclosure,” Hyacine declares with a small clap, “Who wants to go first?”
“What, can’t they return together?” Phainon queries as the two merfolk exchange a glance.
“Not exactly,” Hyacine reveals, “There isn’t another portable tank large enough to support Mydeimos, so I’ll have to make two trips.”
That won’t do. After the high stress situation, the last thing his companions need is to be seperated. Phainon isn’t certain what exactly possesses him to speak, but within an instant he blurts out, “Nonsense, I’ll just carry him.”
Hyacine blinks. Once, twice, and then she finally replies, “…You will?”
Will I? Why the sudden idea made itself known, he knows not. It isn’t necessary, a fact his companions are no doubt internalising. Even Mydei seems confused by the bold declaration. The merman’s gaze is intense and ever-persistent, staring at him like a puzzle he can’t quite solve. Be that as it may, Phainon will not withdraw the offer. He bears many things but regret is not one of them. If anything, he doubles down further. Approaching the examination table, Phainon extends his arms. A blatant offer, a wordless query. May I? The merman only stares.
“Come on, Mydei. Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little proximity?” Phainon goads, a necessary push in the right direction.
As always, Mydei huffs, “Nonsense. You simply lack the strength to get the job done.”
“Is that a challenge?” Phainon replies. Challenge accepted. If someone carried the merman in here, he can sure as hell drag him out. Maybe it’s a tad hypocritical to claim Mydei always rises to his bait, when the reverse is also true, “Move closer, I’ll prove you wrong.”
At his words, Mydei smirks. Still, he does oblige, inching closer to the edge of the table. Phainon hooks an arm beneath the merman’s tail, in lieu of where knees would be. His other hand shifts to support his back. In one swift movement, Phainon pulls the merman off the table. Water sprays upward with the motion, flicking off his tail. Mydei instantly drapes his arms across the other man’s shoulders, securing himself in place. For all his grand scaling and majestic fins, Mydei is surprisingly lighter than he appears. See? I can hold you just fine, Phainon almost wants to brag. He bites back the words as a splinter of pain makes itself known. Sharp and hot, it recklessly traverses the nerves across his forearm. The position must be straining his injury, the unclosed wound protesting against the merman’s weight. Still, Phainon refuses to back down.
“You don’t have to do this,” Hyacine speaks up, perhaps reading the hints of pain etched upon his expression, “I can come back-”
“It’s fine,” Phainon insists. He readjusts the merman in his grip, attempting to relieve the pain with little success, “Let’s get a move on.”
Hyacine positions herself behind the small tank, beginning to wheel Tribbie out of the examination room. Phainon follows suit. Together, the duo transport their respective merfolk through the medical wing. The journey is agonisingly slow. Every twist and turn he so easily sped through hours prior come back to haunt him, disrupting the steady rolling of the portable tank. For all his bravado, Phainon finds himself worn thin. The superficial wound still ushers in an inferno on his poor arm. Any hope of striking up a playful conversation swiftly kills itself. He walks only in silence, emitting little sound beyond his own heavy breathing. Hyacine seems to take the hint. She doesn’t bother him, chattering quietly to Tribbie as they round what must be the fiftieth corner by now. Who designed this absolute labyrinth of a wing? Even when the end finally graces them with its presence, Phainon wonders if his body will give out before he even makes it that far.
“Your breath is rather ragged, Deliverer,” Mydei taunts, an air of condescension to his voice. That cheeky little- “It’s okay to admit defeat.”
“I’m fine,” Phainon all but snaps back. Out of the corner of his eye, Hyacine shoots him a glance of concern.
And it’s true. He is fine, truly. Phainon has been through worse, both physically and mentally. The scars across his chest are a testament to his experience, to the miracle that is his continued survival (Why was it her? Why did the demon of the deepest dark claim only her soul out of everyone present? It should’ve been me…). The wound in his arm is nothing. Small but prevalent, the passage of time will see it eroded. Within weeks, only the faint memory will remain. But it will remain. Memory is a monster, it cannot be so easily vanquished.
“We’ve made it!” Hyacine declares as they finally, finally, return to the merfolk exhibition.
Phainon has never been more thankful for the familiar scenery in his life. He strides over to the water, kneeling upon the tiling. With careful movements, he releases Mydei into his rightful home. The merman slides into the water with ease. His fins splay out, as if readjusting to the familiarity. Hyacine swiftly follows suit, transferring a now sleepy Tribbie to her enclosure. The little mermaid stifles a yawn, bringing a small webbed hand out to cling to the older merfolk’s tail. Returned to their daily routine, the day’s events are put behind them. Any onlookers wouldn’t be able fathom the events that had occurred, would detail no evidence amongst the endless blue. Tomorrow, the world will continue to spin.
“I’ll be off then,” Hyacine speaks up once more, “Thank you, Phainon. I appreciate the extra help today.”
“Don’t mention it. All in a day’s work, I’d say,” Phainon dismisses with a flick of his wrist.
Hyacine only chuckles. She offers a final wave before inevitably departing, traversing the maze of her department without inhibition. Phainon watches her leave with a comfortable contentment in his heart. It isn’t a goodbye. No, something tells him this isn’t the last he’ll see of the hopeful veterinarian. Fate has other plans for them yet. Suddenly at a loss for actions, Phainon switches to a more comfortable seated position, legs dangling over the edge of the enclosure’s entry. What should he do now? Business as usual? Technically speaking, he holds no obligations to be working today. His roster demands a paid absence. I should go out for lunch, maybe take Kephale to the park, Phainon decides. I could make a day of it. The thought is pleasant in its familiarity.
“Hey, will you two be alright on your own for a bit?” Phainon queries, turning to his aquatic companions, “I’ll leave some fish out for you.”
“We’ll be fine, Deliverer,” Mydei confirms. At his side, Tribbie hums in agreement, “You should really take a break, catch your breath. You need it.”
That’s… mildly embarrassing. Phainon manages a nod, “Just to be clear, I did win your little challenge.”
“Sure you did,” Mydei quips, rolling his eyes almost fondly, “See you around, Deliverer.”
This, for reasons beyond reason, feels strangely final. A goodbye. Only Phainon isn’t ready to let go, not quite yet. That is the selfish truth of humanity, coveting that which does not belong to them. Pathetic, “Yeah, see you.”
Chapter 7
Summary:
After their vaccinations, Phainon takes it upon himself to nurse Mydei and Tribbie back to health. Later in the day, Cipher and Castorice reveal the truth of the past.
Notes:
These chapters keep getting longer and longer, so enjoy!
Chapter Text
The gulf is no place for a child to play. Full of steep cliffs with unstable footing, the city folk all but ignore its presence. The other children don’t even dare journey beyond the border of the city, where houses grow scarcer and scarcer until nothing lies forward but the lively sea breeze. They seem to be content in their metal prisons, bouncing toys against the wall or following mindlessly after one another. The only injuries they ever sustain are scraped knees. But not her. No, never her.
Beyond the city walls, fields of grass beckon her forward, dancing to the tune of nature. The young girl of eleven chases the west wind through the sprawling hills. Every step forward is a step closer to the gulf, to the sea, to the place where all life shall return to. Her heart pounds in her ears. A drumming of fear or excitement, she can’t be certain. Both, neither, it doesn’t matter. The gulf finally makes itself known. All jagged edges and dramatic slopes, even the most skilled of climbers would perceive it a daunting task. It truly is no place for a child to play. When was the last time she was a child?
Fearless, reckless, the young girl twists herself over the cliff’s edge. She finds footing on a rare flat edge, slippery with the ocean’s tears. The first step is always the hardest, but she doesn’t fall, doesn’t waver. Everything else comes easy. Emboldened by her lack of imminent sudden death, the young girl braves the gulf’s pointed walls. The conditions are harsh, rocky surfaces beaten relentlessly by sea spray. But each moment of struggle offers her a small respite as reward. For the sliding slopes hold the scarce smooth footing, allowing her journey to continue evermore. Within a matter of minutes, she’s already halfway down.
The sun streaked sand below calls out to her, the waves combining with the gritty harmony. Oh how she longs to run across those shore without a care in the world. An ode to a simpler life, one of wind blown hair and the gentle embrace of the water, reminiscent of a parent if only for its fleeting warmth. But fate is a cruel mistress, and dreams are not so easily achieved. In her longing haste, the young girl reaches for a particularly jagged rock. The pain is like no other. Deep and angry, it echoes in her very bones. She withdraws her hand instantly, but the damage is already done. Flesh tears with the jerky movement, smearing crimson in its wake. The young girl screams. No one comes to her aid, they never have. Balance is lost. Her other hand loosens. One simple movement is all it takes for the young girl to dislodge from the gulf’s edge. She plummets into the water below.
All air is knocked out of her lungs in an instant. The ocean is cruel, unforgiving. It does not wait for her to gather her bearings before the harsh waves crash against her frail body, shoving her beneath its surface. The young girl flails about, limbs jerking out wildly in an attempt to resurface. It’s no use. She can’t swim. The movements only garner a flurry of pain, sea salt mingling with her open wound. A burning sensation travels into her eyes, her ears, everywhere water should not be. But she fights it, oh she continues to fight it in spite of all the pain. This can’t be it, can it? Is this really how she dies? A tiny nobody, engulfed by the tides of a foreign realm. Her name will hold a familiar weight on the tongues of her caretakers, a distinct reminder of trouble but nothing more. With the passage of time that too will be robbed from this world, until her name sparks only the vaguest memory of a girl with a Cheshire grin and eyes of cyan. Or were they golden, the colour of hidden treasures and all things valuable? No, they couldn’t have been. She wasn’t something of value. But no one will truly know. She’ll be too dead to prove it.
Her limbs ache with exhaustion. How long has she been underwater? Seconds, minutes, hours even? The young girl can’t quite discern. Her vision begins to fade, the lack of oxygen blurring the lines of consciousness. Water fills her lungs, or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe she isn’t underwater at all, but on a nice sunny rock with an assortment of treats and trinkets. Ah, how nice that would be… To have the brutal cold replaced with warmth, sunlight shining down onto her and a pair of blue-green eyes staring down at her- Wait, what? The young girl blinks her eyes, clearing them of any water. She really isn’t underwater! A rock does indeed lie beneath her. The sun shines against her wet skin, already drying the moisture from its surface. Then those eyes… Yes, those eyes! Perched atop an adjacent rock is quite possibly the most beautiful creature the young girl has ever had the pleasure of witnessing. She almost gasps in awe.
The upper body of a woman sits serenely atop the rock, her gorgeous blonde hair styled neatly with coral. In lieu of ears stand pointed fins, and marring her ribs is a set of curving gills. Her beautiful upper body gives way to a tail of shimmering off-white scales. Threads of gold weave across their surface, adorning them with a pattern of beauty unparalleled. The young girl might have only walked this planet for eleven years, but even she can identify the creature poised elegantly before her. Her life has fallen into the hands of a mermaid.
“You’re a long way from home, child,” The mermaid speaks, her voice richer than any chocolate, “What is your name?”
“Cipher,” The young girl recites. And then, almost as an afterthought, “Cifera.”
“Cifera,” The mermaid echoes, “How did you stray so far, Cifera?”
“I fell of the gulf,” Cipher explains, biting the inner flesh of her cheek.
The mermaid softly sighs, “That sounds dangerous. Are you hurt?”
As if prompted by the mermaid’s words, the young girl’s gaze instinctively falls to her hand. The wound isn’t screaming in scarlet any longer, a violent protest finally quelled. Even so, the wound still lies open. The secrets of her flesh on display for all the world to see. Cipher instantly slips her hand behind her back. She doesn’t need pity, certainly not from a mermaid of all creatures. She doesn’t need to be lectured or scolded or even cared for. The young girl has managed just fine on her own all these years. Why should she believe this encounter will change anything?
“No,” Cipher lies blatantly.
A small frown appears on the mermaid’s face, evidently unconvinced, “Are you lying to me, Cifera?”
The young girl huffs, “So what if I am? It’s none of your business. I’m not hurting anybody here.”
“No one but yourself,” The mermaid replies cooly, outstretching a clawed hand. Each finger is webbed together, golden markings chasing roaming the aquatic skin, “It’s alright to reveal to your injuries, Cifera. I’d like to tend to them, if you’d allow me.”
Albeit with great reluctance, Cipher reveals the root of all redness. The mermaid tenderly inspects the injury with pursed lips and a lingering frown. She brings her larger hand to cradle the much smaller one, almost as if it were something worth cherishing. Cipher has to resist the urge to withdraw. It isn’t. She isn’t worth cherishing, worth protecting or fussing over. The cold clings to her like a second skin, a reminder of all her worth. She’s just another child lost to the system, a nobody who’ll amount to nothing. Certainly not anything for a creature of myths to be worrying over. And yet she does. The mermaid reaches for her own mouth, nicking her finger with a sharp fang. She brings the now bleeding finger to hover above the young girl’s hand, golden liquid dripping from one wound to another-
“Wait, wait, wait, what are you doing?” Cipher queries, startled by both the sudden self-afflicted injury and nameless fluids now entering her own bloodstream.
“Stay still,” The mermaid instructs smoothly, calmly. As if this were a regular occurrence, no different to pouring a glass of milk or picking a penny from a pocket.
To hell with that. The young girl withdraws her hand instantaneously, a feeble attempt to escape from the strange liquid. Her actions are in vain. The golden fluids have long since seeped into her veins, aquatic lifeblood mingling with her own. A strange sensation lingers in its wake, burning but not painful. No, it feels… Nice. Almost too nice. Is this what true warmth feels like? Whatever it may be, the sensation spreads throughout her entire hand. It engulfs her nerves with a blissful comfort, bringing relief to the once painful injury. But it doesn’t stop there. In what could only be described as a miracle, her wound begins to heal. Broken veins reach for their other halves, flesh and muscles knitting themselves together once more. Within moments, no trace of red remains. The sea’s greatest miracle lying dormant within its resident’s veins. Who would’ve thought?
“How- How’d you do that?” Cipher all but gapes.
The mermaid only smiles, “I have my ways. Now, let’s return you to shore, hm?”
She turns her back to the young child, a clear indicator of her intentions. Climb on. Cipher obliges. Wordlessly, she climbs onto the mermaid’s back. Her small hands settle atop silky smooth shoulders, almost reverent in their touch. All vestiges of pain are freed from her body, allowing her to secure a steady grip. The young girl still can’t quite wrap her head around it. Maybe she never will. But as the mermaid beneath her begins to carefully swim to shore, breathtaking tail guiding her journey, only one thought plagues the young child’s mind.
“What’s your name?”
The mermaid smiles.
“Aglaea.”
— — —
Life never quite goes to plan. Phainon understands this, understands that existence is fickle and plans are not set in stone. One cannot cling to familiarity with a reality ever shifting. Yet he had. After months of settling into a daily routine, Phainon was entirely under the impression that everything would fall back into place in the wake of the medical examinations. Why wouldn’t it? Mydei’s examination had been awkward at parts (read the room, you idiot!) and Tribbie certainly had her reservations, but they both successfully tolerated the necessary procedures. That was supposed to be the end of it. They’d return to their tank, have a nice long rest and return to normal the very next morning. As the signs were steadily removed from the enclosure, any onlookers wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference. He couldn’t be more wrong.
Returning to the merfolk exhibition, Phainon finds himself utterly redundant. Paperwork has become scarce, but his aquatic companions have become even scarcer. Falling back into routine, he deposits an array of fish into the water twice a shift. Twice a shift, neither Mydei nor Tribbie make an appearance. The fish falls lifelessly to the sand below. Alright, so maybe the merfolk are still resting. That’s not entirely unreasonable, Phainon reassures himself. And it’s true, isn’t it? Vaccinations can have a strange effect, especially on creatures they aren’t designed for. For the first couple days, he lets their peculiar behaviour slide.
It isn’t until the fifth day Phainon truly grows concerned. As the week stretches on, so too does the merfolk’s absence. Not once do they wade out of their den at meal time. Piles of fish lie idly on the enclosure floor, entirely untouched save for the occasional nibble or two. An uneasy sensation settles in Phainon’s gut. Something must’ve gone wrong, that’s the only explanation for this abnormal behaviour. Perhaps the vaccinations were more taxing than he had anticipated. Or maybe they had an allergic reaction, fins growing round and sore until they could swim no longer. Regardless, one thing has become abundantly clear: Phainon has to ensure their safety.
“This kind of behaviour is typical for creatures who’ve recently underwent vaccinations,” Hyacine had reassured him on the fourth day, when he’d stormed his way through the medical wing demanding answers. Which, in hindsight, wasn’t exactly a polite or professional manner in which to carry himself. An apology must be due.
Smoothing things over with Hyacine will have to wait. Though guilt lingers like a patient friend, ensuring the continued survival of the merfolk is his first and only priority. All other issues pale in comparison. As a longtime- what, colleague? Companion? Something significant enough to care, with a history deeper than she lets on- of the merfolk, Hyacine would surely understand. With his mind firmly set, Phainon rummages through the designated merfolk storage. Listless buckets and tubes haphazardly line the shelving, giving way to the only items he truly seeks. The diving equipment. All other means of ensuring his companions maintain a regular diet have been exhausted. Only personally overseeing their consumption remains. If the merfolk won’t visit him, he’ll glide through the manmade waves to visit them instead.
Equipment in hand, Phainon retreats to his office. As urgent as this may be, he still isn’t beyond seeking privacy to redress. His companions won’t ever receive aid if he’s preoccupied with charges of public indecency. The sheer prospect of such an ordeal, the burning embarrassment that would no doubt come with dozens of eyes on his form, is far too daunting to even consider. Mydei and Tribbie will have to wait just a moment longer. Phainon strips to the bare necessities as swiftly as possible, all but tugging the wetsuit onto his muscled frame. His attempts are not entirely fruitful, a greater challenge than he had originally perceived. Damn, was this thing always so tight? Perhaps the wetsuit hadn’t properly dried, fabric clinging uncomfortably to his skin in parts. That would certainly explain his plight.
“Thanks for nothing, Lygus,” Phainon murmurs to himself, jerking the last resistant area of fabric into place.
Practicality springs forth from his bitter musings. Right, Lygus. As much as Phainon would prefer to throw caution to the wind, to seek out the aquatic creatures all on his lonesome, it simply isn’t viable. If he is to plunge into the enclosure’s icy depths once, it must be with his dive tender above the chaos. Someone has to monitor his airflow. Haphazardly tugging the zip to completion, Phainon all but stumbles out of his office and toward Lygus’. Thankfully, the dive tender’s office resides in the same hallway. It seems to have been positioned for the merfolk caretaker’s convenience. Perfect. With all the care of a bull in a china shop, he shoves the front door open.
The office of a dive tender is surprisingly luxurious. Rich blue wallpaper lines what can only be described as an unfairly large working space, shelves and cabinets leaning against their surface. As Phainon steps in, plush silver carpet softly parts beneath his shoes. His own office doesn’t have carpet, and it certainly isn’t this grand. What could a dive tender possibly need this much space for? At the center of all grandiosity, a lone spruce desk seats none other than Lygus. The statuesque man appears too preoccupied to notice his abrupt entrance. His blindfold sits slightly askew, revealing a purple eye roaming the expanses of a stone-paged book. Wait a minute…
“Is that my notebook?” Phainon blurts out on pure instinct.
Lygus finally acknowledges his presence, obscuring his eye once more before glancing up, “Ah, Phainon. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“That’s my notebook,” Phainon corrects himself, a small frown forming on his face. It is no longer a question, “Why do you have that?”
“Digitalisation,” Lygus states simply, as if the words would suddenly clear the building tension, “You haven’t filed an entry since the fifteenth of March, nearly two weeks ago. Why is that?”
Phainon only stares at the other man, almost dumbfounded. ‘Digitalisation’ my ass, just happens to be the first thought that enters his mind. Like hell that’s the only reason. From the very first day of this job, all beyond the necessities has been obscured from him. His employers would not discern why he was chosen for the research, why the research was even being conducted and who would ultimately benefit from it. This must be no different. Digitalisation is a cover story, a scheme of schemes. The utter nerve of that man! Rummaging through his superior’s personal belongings without his knowledge or consent, stealing information that suits whoever pulls the strings. How dare he defile the fragile trust that lies between them.
“I haven’t had the chance,” Phainon blatantly lies.
“Haven’t had the chance…” Lygus echoes, clearly not buying into the excuse. He couldn’t care less, “You wrote something peculiar in your most recent entry too, I might add.”
“We’ll discuss it another time, then. When we’re both readily available,” Phainon states, perhaps a little more forcefully than intended. There will be no such time, “I plan to go diving.”
Lygus only stares, as much as one wearing a blindfold can, “When?”
Phainon glances down at his wetsuit, arching an eyebrow. Really? “Right now, preferably. It’ll help with my research.”
Again, another lie. But this one is far more successful. At his words, Lygus rises from his velvety seat. The dive tender closes the notebook, his notebook, and wordlessly passes it back to its owner. Phainon resists the urge to frown or scoff. Instead, he schools his expression into one of complete neutrality. Or at least, the closest to it he can willingly summon. The expression certainly feels neutral, but Mydei often remarks that he always wears his emotions so openly even without intending to. Hopefully it is enough to uphold civility in this somewhat tense situation.
“Lead the way,” Lygus speaks up, beckoning to the door.
And lead he does. Phainon twists the handle, departing from the unfairly opulent office. As the door closes behind them, so too does the lingering tension. It’ll take more than some mild- albeit violating- thievery and a passive aggressive conversation to sway his priorities. Mydei and Tribbie come first, in both his heart and career. All else pales in comparison to the notion of their continued safety. Phainon is truly not petty enough to believe otherwise, to prioritise a relatively one-sided begrudgement with his colleague over his dear companions’ well-being. He continues onward through the hallway, a surprisingly Lygus in tow. The journey between office and enclosure is brief. Within minutes, the duo stand before the towering glass.
Upon their arrival, Lygus suddenly seems to remember his actual job. Not digitalisation, but preparing and monitoring any diving employees. The blindfolded man works ever diligently to prepare the necessary equipment. He connects his superior to the diving line and activates the breathing equipment, oxygen immediately rushing into the mask. Phainon takes a deep breath, revelling in the cool air that immediately floods his lungs. This is what it means to live. Not a far off town where rocks still shine red at dusk, not the gentle glow of jellyfish and the smile of a girl so different yet so alike. Living is the sea, the world beneath the waves. It is water and life, breathing air of another realm entirely. That is what it means to live.
“Your equipment is all secured,” Lygus recites with ease, taking a step back as if to admire his work, “You may depart for the water whenever you wish.”
Phainon nods, “Thank you, Lygus.”
The words are not necessarily ones of gratitude, but polite obligation. Like or not, Phainon is tied to the man known as Lycurgus for the foreseeable future. Their careers are deeply intertwined like the roots of an overgrown tree. Even if the man holds more secrets than he’ll ever know, Phainon can still muster the willpower to be courteous. He’s always prided himself on his ability to remain calm and polite in any given scenario. At times he may blunder, Hyacine can testify as such, but that is the nature of humanity. With one last glance at his sunny surroundings, Phainon slides into the water. It isn’t until the waves submerge him entirely that he strains to notice a response.
“There’s no need to thank me, Khaslana. I am simply fulfilling our duty.”
But what exactly Lygus says, Phainon cannot quite discern. His ears are already well beneath the water’s surface, the slight timber of the other man’s voice drowned out by his own breathing. Between each breath, the world falls silent. No sign of the merfolk persists, not so much as a sound. Only the nibbled fish linger lifelessly atop the sandy floor. The sight is nothing short of unsettling, his gaze reflected in the surface of half-eaten eyes. Phainon clutches the notebook a little tighter. Focus on the task at hand. He turns his attention elsewhere, toward the rocky den as he wades through the cool tides. The merfolk must be huddled up in their makeshift home, obscured from prying eyes in their moments of weakness. Carefully, so as not to spook them, he approaches.
Within the safety of its walls, the stone structure proves to be less jagged. Its sharp edges smooth out into a hospitable home, splitting off into multiple makeshift rooms. The sight is almost amusing. They have a house, a very human-like house with rooms and furniture. Phainon has to resist a laugh as he ducks into one of the openings. This particular room appears to be a kitchen or a dining room, a small stone bench carrying an array of fish bones. The mere thought of the merfolk cooking is preposterous. Though admittedly, the idea of the aquatic duo sharing a meal over their stone table is a little endearing in its domesticity. He won’t get the chance to witness such an event, as the merfolk are woefully absent from their meal room. Phainon moves onto the next room.
Luck must favour him, for it is this room in which his companions are residing. It appears to be the equivalent of a bedroom, blankets and trinkets strewn into what appears to be a nest. Stone shelves protrude from the walls, a glint of shimmering gold drawing his attention. It’s a necklace, one born of sapphires and gold. Mydei’s, presumably. The jewellery seems far too large to be Tribbie’s. Speaking of, Phainon refocuses his attention of the merfolk. Within the cosy nest, both Mydei and Tribbie seem to be resting. The young mermaid lies curled up against her male counterpart, nearly obscured by his fins in a protective embrace. While Tribbie’s chest slowly steadily rises and falls in slumber, Mydei’s golden eyes still remain open, albeit mostly lidded. His irises flicker with every movement.
‘Mydeimos, you’re awake,’ Phainon pens into the stone surface of his notebook, flipping it around to show his finned companion.
‘No,’ Is all the merman writes in response.
That’s… not much to work with, but Phainon persists nonetheless, ‘I haven’t seen you both in a while. How have you been?’
‘How do you think?’ Mydei replies, all but glaring at his caretaker.
The response is a little aggressive, especially when combined with his evident agitation. Phainon cannot exactly fault the merman for his reaction. The aftereffects of a vaccination are never a pleasant ordeal. He must be uncomfortable, limbs heavy with exhaustion and stomach aching in hunger- Hunger, right! The merfolk need to eat, Phainon needs to conjure a method of ensuring they intake the correct dosage of nutrients. With his current lack of resources (You should’ve been more prepared! The merfolk are relying on you and this is the best you can do?), the only effective option seems to be to utilise their current environment. They do technically still have fish, quite fresh ones at that. How could he ever forget? The image of their beady eyes hasn’t quite left his mind. Maybe it never will.
‘Right, silly question. You must be feeling awful,’ Phainon writes, frowning slightly in concentration, ‘I’m sorry I can’t help more, but it should pass in a couple more days. In the mean time, you need to keep eating.’
Mydei huffs, the sound subdued by his watery surroundings, ‘Is that a threat, Deliverer?’
‘A threat?’ Phainon echoes in ink, shaking his head, ‘No, nothing of the sort. It’s a concern, Mydeimos. I’m worried about you. Both of you. You haven’t been eating much, if at all.’
At his earnestness, Mydei does seem to visibly relax. Something unbearably soft forms in those golden eyes, something he dare not name, ‘I’ve been focusing on Tribbie. She’s had it worse than me.’
It certainly seems so, too. Even at his not so subtle approach, the young mermaid has stayed firmly asleep. Her small body continues to rise and fall, completely oblivious to her surroundings. No warm grin or hearty laughter has greeted him. No, the poor dear has been struck with an exhaustion so deep not even sleep can cure her suffering. Phainon would give his bones, his blood, his very soul to see her smile once more. (The last time he felt this way… Well, that was a long time ago. This time would be different). It would be of no use. Some ailments simply have to run their course.
‘Have you eaten at all?’ Phainon queries, zeroing in on the one issue he can actually solve. Tribbie may be beyond his assistance for now, but Mydei is awake and responsive. There is still hope for him yet.
‘Sometimes,’ Mydei confirms, albeit with some reluctance, ‘All of the food I’ve brought back has been for her, I’ve only taken the occasional bite.’
Mydei, that’s not healthy, Phainon longs to chastise. He’d certainly give the merman a piece of his mind under any other circumstances, but in the face of his exhaustion all irritation seems to dissipate, ‘Wait here for a moment, I’ll be back.’
The merman seems to be confused by his abrupt departure, but he is in no condition to argue. Phainon traces back to the entrance, gliding past the makeshift kitchen and approaching the discarded pile of meals. He gathers an array of fish into his arms, choosing the least disturbing of the bunch. Perfect. If Mydei lacks the time and energy to collect an adequate meal, then Phainon will do it for him. He is the so-called deliverer of fish, after all. Deliver he shall. Spinning around, he hastily returns to his companions with a plentiful meal. Nestled between Mydei’s fins, Tribbie still slumbers soundly. He’d be lying if he claimed it didn’t bring him some relief. As much as Phainon loves the little live-wire of a mermaid, his concern lies primarily with Mydei. This meal is solely for him.
‘Alright, I got you some food,’ Phainon scrawls in his notebook, empty the fish into a pile just outside the bedding, ‘I picked the freshest ones, just how you like it. Go on, take as much as you’d like.’
This does not please Mydei. The merman hesitantly reaches for the nearest fish, inspecting its slippery surface. Are they not to his liking? Phainon can’t exactly prove the truth behind his claims of freshness. He had simply gathered the fish that weren’t half-eaten or downright disturbing, beady little eyes not bulging out of their skulls. They could very well be the meals of yesterday, not the fresh platter Phainon tossed into the water a few hours prior. As if confirming his thoughts, Mydei begins to sniff his meal. A full few minutes pass before he finally takes a small bite. Every chew is an exaggerated gesture, as if merely for show. When he finally swallows the mouthful, it is with a bitter frown on his face. He does not take another bite.
‘What’s wrong?’ Phainon writes immediately, because that is far from the face of a happy merman, ‘Are the fish not fresh enough? Too bitter? Too chewy? I tried to pick the nicest looking ones, but I can always find a new batch.’
Mydei only sighs, a flurry of bubbles escaping from his gills, ‘They’re fine. I’m just not hungry.’
Not hungry? That’s not possible. The merman has lacked a proper meal for days, surviving off his youthful companion’s leftovers. He should be downright ravenous by now. Yet in the face of a scrumptious meal, Mydei only stares in disdain. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, a very unhelpful voice in Phainon’s mind happens to supply. He has to be hungry, has to eat. And it’s true, isn’t it? Regardless of his appetite or lack thereof, the merman’s body still requires the same nutritional intake it always has. Like it or not, he has to eat.
‘I don’t want to force this upon you, but you have to eat something,’ Phainon replies, for lack of better words.
‘I did eat,’ Is all Mydei writes in response, evidently discontent at the notion of more food.
‘Not enough,’ Phainon points out. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the necklace, ‘Tell you what, if you eat one whole fish, I’ll buy you something nice and shiny. Like that necklace over there, and all these little trinkets. Only better.’
The bribery is far from subtle, but Mydei nearly perks up at the offer, ‘You think you can bribe me into eating? Fine, but your taste is lacklustre. Who’s to say you won’t buy me something tacky?’
Phainon resists a snort. His taste in fashion is fine, thank you very much, ‘You can be the judge of that. I’ll find something nice and you decide if it’s ‘“tacky” or whatever. Sound good enough to you, your highness?’
‘Fine,’ Mydei finally relents, ‘We have a deal.’
Behind the mask, Phainon practically beams. Once Mydei begins to an ample amount, his appetite will swiftly make itself known. He’ll be back to eating his fill within days, fins gaining enough strength to venture beyond the safety of these manmade walls. It’s only a matter of time. Phainon watches on as the merman reluctantly brings the chosen fish to his mouth once more, sharp fangs taking a more plentiful bite. His chewing is still slow, deliberately drawn out in his disdain, but a swallow inevitably follows. He repeats the cycle of actions, over and over again until pale bones protrude from his meal and blood stains his lips a vivid red. It should be terrifying, really, to see blood drawn forth like a delicate spring. But in this moment, all Phainon can think is wow, he looks so nice in red.
Mydei lets out a low trill, a noise he can only assume must mean, “There, all finished.”
‘I never pinned you as the messy type, Mydeimos,’ Phainon remarks in ink, unable to resist a small chuckle. The sound reverberates within his breathing equipment, ‘But you’ve made quite a mess of yourself.’
The words swiftly spur his companion into action. Within an instant, a webbed hand shoots up to the merman’s mouth. Mydei scrubs at his face with all the vigour of a man embarrassed. His actions only seem to further greaten his mess, smearing blood beyond his lips. The merman withdraws his hand, frowning at his still surprisingly clean fingers. His attempts are futile, it seems. Blood clings to his lips like scorned lover, unwilling to part ways just yet. The whole ordeal is far more endearing than he has any right to be. If Mydei were a siren, he’d long since have Phainon in his grasp with even the simplest of ploys.
For reasons beyond reason, Phainon’s pen returns to the page before he can truly think, ‘Here, let me help.’
Mydei pauses for a moment. He seems to consider his options, his very dignity on the line. In one swift movement, he tilts his chin upward, toward his looming caretaker. The message is clear. He has the merman’s permission to rid him of his pesky problem. How Phainon manages to blunder his way into these situations, he knows not. But as he lowers himself to his companion’s seated level, he can’t quite find it in himself to regret a single thing. Fate, luck, or any higher power that may or may not exist seem to be on his side. Phainon brings a hand to his companion’s face, gently dabbing at the bloody mess with his thumb. Mydei’s skin is smooth, impossibly smooth, and as warm as ever. It never fails to steal his breath. In his subdued aww, he fumbles a couple of times, wiping right past the blood with little success. But stroke by stroke, the blood gradually gives way.
Phainon shifts his aim to the other man’s mouth. If the skin of his cheeks was smooth, then his mouth is downright silken. Those soft lips part beneath his thumb, surprisingly pliant. Skin glides against skin as he gently works away at the stubborn blood smears, eyes glued firmly to the merman’s lips. Oh, those lips. Smooth and plush, the doorway to a whirlwind of fangs and yet no less sweet for it. Phainon can’t deny how badly he longs to taste them, to worry each lip between his teeth and slide his tongue in that unsuspecting parting, if only to devour the gasp of surprise that would surely follow. He’d have a brief moment of respite, a moment to explore the wet warmth of the other man’s mouth, before the merman would no doubt clash his tongue against his own, always one for a competition. Perhaps Mydei would bite him, his own blood mixing with the scarlet stains already smeared across those sharp teeth. He wouldn’t care. Hell, he’d kiss the other man bloody until his lips fell to shreds and it could not be discerned whose blood it was and who had truly made a bigger mess- Gods, has his wetsuit always been this tight?
Snapping out of his sudden daze, Phainon promptly withdraws his hand of burning shame. Heat blossoms beneath his mask, a secret garden of pink decorating his face. He got carried away, far too carried away. Mydei is a merman, the subject of his career, not to mention entirely reliant on him as the caretaker of the merfolk. It simply isn’t right. To even attempt to display interest would be taking advantage of that sacred connection, abusing his power as one not tethered to this place. His yearning is misplaced, his desire almost filthy in nature. Mydei cannot long for Phainon in the same way Phainon longs for Mydei. They are worlds apart.
‘All done,’ Phainon declares, gripping the pen with his untarnished hand. He shakes away his shame to little avail.
Mydei plucks the pen from his fingers, ‘Not quite.’
The merman tugs at his bloodstained hand, returning it to his now-clean mouth. A flash of pink darts out from between those lovely lips, tongue reaching out to wrap around his thumb. This cannot be happening. Phainon watches in both abject horror and sinful fascination as Mydei laps away the blood on his finger. That clever hot tongue is almost perverse in its efficiency, working diligently to rid him of lingering crimson stains. Experienced, some may argue. But he certainly wouldn’t mind if Mydei wanted to practice on his— By the gods, Phainon. Pull yourself together!
‘All done,’ Mydei eventually scrawls, retreating with a devilish smirk.
Oh, you rotten tease. He knows what he’s doing— No, he mustn’t! He simply doesn’t! For all his intelligence, Mydeimos is not human. He cannot possibly understand the intricacies of human contact, the perceivable intent behind his actions. There was a stain on his finger and Mydei was removing it. That is all that occurred. There was no sly purpose, no lines to be read between. It was a simple gesture of goodwill. No more, no less. (Now if only he could convince his beating heart…). Phainon promptly averts his gaze, willing his thoughts into silence. What a lovely notebook he has. Stone pages, waterproof ink, it’s quite the miracle. Perhaps he should write in it, conjure a clever comeback or a believable distraction. He chooses the latter.
‘I should go; you look tired,’ Phainon somehow settles on, grasping at straws and the remnants of his sanity, ‘Rest, Mydeimos. And give Tribbie my warmest regards.’
Warm, like those lips, that tongue— Stop.
‘Leaving so soon?’ Mydei quips in response, ‘If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re scared. Running away, even. I promise I don’t bite.’
Not even if I want you to?
‘Not scared, just stating the truth,’ Phainon wills himself to reply, ‘Please rest, you need it.’
Mydei rolls his eyes, but seems to relent. He no longer reaches for the pen to scrawl a snarky retort in that godawful penmanship, his webbed hands settling atop the sleeping mermaid’s head. Deft fingers weave themselves into the ruby locks, finding home amongst their flowing strands. In her slumber, Tribbie nuzzles closer to him. The sight is nothing short of endearing, a moment of peace among the chaos of his frantic mind. Phainon closes his notebook. Or at least, almost does. But as the merfolk finally settle before him, slotting together like pieces of a puzzle, one final thought promptly makes itself known.
‘Goodnight, Mydeimos,’ Phainon pens into his notebook, before finally bringing it to a close.
And even with his eyes now closed, the merman lets out a small series of chirps. Despite the language barrier, its meaning couldn’t be any clearer, “Goodnight, Deliverer.”
— — —
The working day steadily draws to a close. Daytime bleeds into a comfortable afternoon, the skyline painted a subtle yellow. The liveliness of the cityscape seems to lessen a fraction, but bustling can still be heard from every corner of the realm. Gentle winds dance through the shifting sky, tousling white hair (Alright, perhaps not fully white hair. Just last night he had noticed some regrowth at his roots, hints of blonde peaking out throw the ceaseless snowy white) as Phainon steps out the luxurious doors of Amphoreus Aquarium. It is a nice day, and certainly a fortunate one too if his interactions with Mydeimos have been any indicator. The thought still brings heat to his face. Even so, he still finds himself at a complete and utter loss, gaze flickering across the carpark. The week has effectively ended.
‘I’m out of town right now, but I’ll be back within the week. Let’s meet up then, yeah?’ The words echo in the deep recesses of his mind, a lingering promise of all to be unveiled. Something dangerous lurks beneath the surface of his career, and faced with the impending revelation, Phainon begins to falter. What is it that the seemingly prestigious aquarium is hiding? Standing at a crossroad, how does he choose the right path sunward, towards the truth? The person on the phone was frustratingly vague with their instructions, uttering anomalous intimations without rhyme or reason. How is he supposed to decipher the necessary steps forward? One wrong move and Phainon could very well miss this opportunity in its entirety. If he chooses to approach his own car and drive away now as per usual, he could miss any events occurring at the aquarium. But if he chooses to abandon his car and stay put at the aquarium after hours, he could miss any events occurring beyond its walls. Equally great in risk, the indistinguishable horns of this dilemma are of no assistance in its grand unravelling.
Then you should start from the beginning, perhaps the only functional brain cell in Phainon’s mind utters. What do you know? What did the person on the phone say? Something about sandwiches, if his memory serves correctly. Follow the sandwiches home, was it? Certainly something of the sort, but what could it possibly mean? Think Phainon, think. Where do you typically see sandwiches in your daily life? The aquarium’s cafeteria serves an array of admittedly rather dull prepackaged sandwiches. Perhaps that’s what his mystery companion was alluding to? As much as he’d like the truth to be so easily obtained, the option doesn’t seem terribly viable. The cafeteria is littered with security cameras, and the figure on the phone seemed rather wary of being overhead. No magnificent secrets would be revealed so publicly.
If publicity is a crime against discretion, then other public spaces can be effectively eliminated. Any nearby restaurants he might recognise all fall void and null under the heightened secrecy. Where else can this gregarious gathering commence then? Phainon brings a sandwich along to work with him for lunch everyday, very seldom frequenting the cafeteria. The sandwich itself is crafted not-so meticulously in the comfort of his own home. Could that be it? His mysterious caller did say to follow the sandwiches home. But Phainon hasn’t thrown together a sandwich in a good few weeks, not since Castorice— That must be it! Castorice has been generously gifting him a sandwich for some time now, likely at her contact’s behest. He has to follow her home! Which, admittedly, sounds rather creepy without context. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and Phainon is truly at a loss for better options.
With his decision finally resolved, Phainon crosses the aquarium’s impressive carpark. Regardless of the time of day, it’s a fairly swift journey. His own personal parking space is fairly close to the front doors, perhaps an indicator of his career’s significance. What happens if it all takes a turn for the worse? What if the truth is too much to bear, painting his life’s work in a treacherous lighting? What would Professor Anaxa do in this situation? Forgo the risk altogether, or seek the truth at all costs? He already knows the answer. Phainon softly sighs, climbing into his car. He’ll have to cross that bridge when he gets there, if he gets there at all.
Within mere minutes of buckling his seatbelt, a small purple blur passes through the corner of his eye. Castorice. Wandering towards her own car, she too must be departing for the evening. What perfect timing. Almost too perfect, even. Phainon observes as she slides into the driver’s seat, starting her vehicle’s engine with a click. Only when her car reverses out of its holding does he too depart from Amphoreus Aquarium, oblivious for the final time. The distance to Castorice’s housing isn’t too far. Phainon has made the journey before, in days of a student life long past. Her apartment is nestled in the bustling city, a mere walking distance from the hospital and support services for her sister’s convenience. Polyxia had complained, or so he was told, when the duo had moved for her sole benefit. But after noting the short distance to the nearest aquarium too, it appeared to be the perfect decision. (Sometimes, he wonders if Cyrene would feel the same, if she too would complain at departing from their precious little Aedes Elysiae. She wouldn’t, he typically decides. No, Cyrene would be enthusiastically with him every step of the way. She always was.)
The drives inevitably slows to a halt, indicative of their arrival. If Castorice noticed his tailing presence throughout their journey, she certainly did not protest. No, she climbs out of her own car with ease and simply stares at his own. She was expecting me, Phainon realises, and there is truly no greater relief (there is no greater dread). This is seriously happening. They both know it, know vaguely what lies before them in whispers, and neither one of them can dare to deny it any longer. The truth shall be revealed. With one final breath, Phainon turns off the car engine and makes for the handle. The door clicks open.
“You made it,” Castorice speaks up into the dim evening sky, approaching with a thin smile.
Phainon mirrors her expression, “It’d be rather rude if I didn’t, all things considered. This is about you-know-what, right?”
“Yes, it is,” Castorice confirms in response, “I’m sorry for being so difficult about everything. I should’ve contacted you myself, but it was too risky. Thankfully, we can speak plainly here.”
“There’s no need to apologise, Castorice,” Phainon dismisses with a flick of his wrist, “Water under the bridge, as the saying goes. I didn’t get it at the time, but I do now.”
This seems to bring her some comfort, “If you insist. We should head inside, Cipher is waiting.”
Cipher. That must be the person from the phone call, Castorice’s anonymous contact. The truth of his aquatic world rests in their presumably capable hands. All he has to do is step through a single door, and a realm of information will be at his fingertips. The thought is both daunting and empowering. This is it. He has to do it. His colleagues haven’t worked so diligently in the dark at his behest to simply back out now. As Castorice steps through the front door of the apartment complex, Phainon doesn’t hesitate to follow suit. The threshold has been breached. There is no return.
His former boss’ apartment lies on the fifth floor of the complex. The walls are papered in a soothing pastel purple, not dissimilar from its inhabitants’ hair. In great contrast, the hardwood floors don a natural brown hue. A spacious yet humble abode, the furniture consists solely of the bare necessities. Castorice certainly earns enough to further decorate her home, though Phainon refrains from commenting as such upon entering. Polyxia mustn’t be home, for no one approaches to greet them. Instead, Castorice leads him through the apartment. The duo weave into the lounge room, in which a figure awaits them. A woman with a cat-eared hoodie lounges on the sofa, toying idly with her braided gray hair. Atop her lap is none other than a computer, accompanied by a series of files. The truth of the previous merfolk caretaker, so little and yet so much.
“Aha, clever boy!” Cipher greets with a short wave. Her voice is identical to that of his caller, a needless confirmation, “What took you so long? I was beginning to think you might not be so clever after all.”
“You didn’t exactly make it easy,” Phainon points out. Both he and Castorice assume a seated position, “‘Follow the sandwiches home’ isn’t exactly what I’d call a genuine hint.”
Cipher only shrugs, “You figured it out, didn’t you? Or did Princess Homebody tip you off?”
Princess Homebody? The name must referring to Castorice, for she promptly speaks up, “I didn’t intervene. But, um, does this mean I can stop making sandwiches?”
“Ehhh, I suppose,” Cipher relents. A true pity, both Phainon and his merfolk had enjoyed those sandwiches, “Anyway, ‘bout time we get into it, yeah? I get paid by the hour, you know. So who’s ready to hear about this caretaker guy?”
This is the bridge to be crossed, the ultimate moral dilemma. The truth may set Phainon free, but it also may forever change his perception of his employers. Ignorance is bliss for a reason. If one does not know the evil in which they have partaken in, then they may continue to participate without guilt. But that threshold has already been crossed, hasn’t it? Regardless of the truth to be uncovered, Phainon is already aware of a darkness that may lie in his predecessor’s path. The countless blood tests, the deliberate obscuration of information, and no trace of any caretaker before himself has already raised alarms. Something has gone wrong in Amphoreus Aquarium. Like it or not, Phainon has become part of it. He has to know the truth. And besides, guilt is a longtime friend of his. What’s a little more?
“I’m ready,” Phainon decides. Before the words even leave his lips, he knows in his heart of hearts that this is what Professor Anaxa would want him to choose. This is what Cyrene would have chosen herself.
“Alright, but don’t get your hopes up,” Cipher forewarns, opening her laptop screen, “It’s sketchy, but there wasn’t a lot to work with, even for a hacker as skilled as myself.”
Castorice nods, “That’s okay. Let’s just start with something simple, like who the previous caretaker was.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” Cipher states in response, “But if you insist, I can get a picture up of him.”
It doesn’t matter? Why not? That’s precisely what he had asked of Castorice all those months ago, when Mydei had yet to speak a word and Tribbie was no more than a theory. He had wanted to know something, anything, about who had came before. And with each passing day, that desire has only grown (much like a certain other kind of desire, one that must surely be quelled). Phainon can’t quite trust the thought process of his latest companion, her bold claim of irrelevance, but he can trust Castorice. She would not rely on someone incapable. Cipher will pull through for him, perhaps more than he will ever know. As if manifesting his line of thought, the hacker turns to her computer. She clicks at the keyboard in record speed, pausing only to let the screen load before rotating it slightly for them all to see. The image is nothing short of uncanny.
A photograph of a man lies on Cipher’s computer screen. That alone is to be expected, but his face most certainly is not. That’s my face. And it is, mostly. The man pictured before the trio is nearly identical to Phainon, save for a series of scars sprouting out of where a left eye may once have been. His hair is a pale blonde, echoes of what could’ve been white dye lingering at its tips. Like me, if only I let myself go. His eyes are blue, too. Not quite the same shade, and with a haunting quality unlike any other. But similar, so undeniably similar. An uneasy sensation settles in his gut.
“Now that I think about it, he kind of looks like you, golden boy,” Cipher remarks, observing the picture more closely, “I mean, he’s got a ton of scars and he’s blonde. But aside from that, you know?”
I am blonde, Phainon very nearly says, and my scars are just lower. Thankfully, he catches himself in time, “Yeah. Strange, huh?”
“Definitely,” Castorice agrees, “What’s his name?”
“Some sort of K name, I think,” Cipher replies with a hum, shallowly contemplating the query, “Khaos? Kevin?—”
“—Khaslana! Come here!” Cyrene called out, waving a small hand in his direction.
Phainon- once Khaslana- had only huffed, “Cyrene, I told you not to call me that. It’s Phainon now.”
“Like the superhero?” His sister in all but blood had queried.
“Yep, like the one on tv!” Phainon confirmed with a grin, “Khaslana is a loser’s name. But Phainon- Phainon is super cool! He saves people! And he cleans the beach on weekends, just like us!”
This did not seem to comfort Cyrene, “You know you’ll always be perfect to me, right? No matter what anyone says, Khaslana is perfect.”
“—I don’t know,” The hacker dismisses, “Again, it doesn’t really matter who he is. This guy is a total ghost, I can’t find him anywhere!”
A dead end. But how? The previous caretaker had only retired a few months ago. Four months ago, if he’s being exact in his precision. There should still be information lingering in Amphoreus Aquarium’s databases, even so much as a single sentence on the previous caretaker’s current whereabouts. Speaking of retirement, the man depicted in the image is awfully young to be retiring, isn’t he? Not even a single gray hair litters his shaggy blonde hair, and to claim any wrinkles litter his face would be a blatant lie. Perhaps it could be an outdated image. Though realistically, what are the chances? Why not simply source an in-date one?
“But I wasn’t giving up. So I changed angles, of course. Researched about his career, not who he is,” Cipher continues, “Because, after all…”
“It doesn’t matter,” Castorice fills in.
Cipher grins, “Bingo! We don’t really care who he is as a person, only what he contributed to your little fish place. Then we can see how to help you, golden boy.”
“And how do you plan to do that?” Phainon queries, curiosity rising at the proposition.
“It’s quite simple, really,” The hacker replies in a casual tone, “I found a bunch of facts and online files that might be of use. It’s not exaaaactly what you were looking for, but hey, sometimes that’s how you find the things worth having!”
At the very least, Phainon can agree with the sentiment. He was in no way searching for a new career, content in his quiet corner with Castorice as his sole company. But when the opportunity had presented itself to rise above his station, to research beyond humanity’s knowledge, he was ultimately swayed into accepting. Thank the gods he did. If Phainon never accepted his current position, then Mydei and Tribbie would be no more than random names to him. Each morning he would walk by their exhibit, never daring to enter, never bothering to try. What a tragic life that would be, a world of unfulfillment. Maybe I should thank them, Phainon decides internally. They have no idea how much they’ve changed me, how fundamentally better my life has been as a result. From beside him, Cipher taps away at her computer once more. The image on screen shifts to one of the nearby hospital.
“The first thing I’ve got is this beauty right here,” She declares, “Just four months ago, Mr. Previous Golden Boy-” The image briefly flickers back to the previous caretaker, before returning to the hospital- “was admitted to this very hospital for injuries sustained at work.”
Cipher taps on her keyboard once more, and a new image springs forth. This image is far more gruesome. A trio of deep, nasty gashes mar the chest of the previous merfolk caretaker. The wounds are swollen beyond belief, with a trail of pus oozing from their base. Phainon very nearly shudders. It isn’t entirely the sight of such wounds that has him reeling. No, his own chest injuries all those years ago had been similarly brutal (though admittedly, his slashes had not grown infected like his predecessor). If not for the sight of them, then for their cause. Because ‘injuries sustained at work’ is blatant code for ‘injuries sustained by Mydei’, and that is nothing if not a dangerous line of thought. It’s no secret that the merman has been known to lash out in defence, but what exactly could have possibly provoked such a volatile reaction?
“But check this out: there’s no record of him ever leaving,” Cipher reveals with a grin of a truth well fought for.
Phainon frowns, “You mean he’s still there? At the hospital, just down the road.”
“Steady on, cowboy. Not quite,” Cipher continues, “I can confirm our previous golden boy isn’t at the hospital, but he was never discharged either. Not to mention, your little aquarium announced his retirement on the very same day he was admitted to hospital. Almost as if they knew he wouldn’t be returning. Suspicious, right?”
“I don’t know if it’s enough evidence to prove anything. If nothing else, it definitely is strange,” Castorice agrees, “What could it mean?”
Cipher only shrugs, “Must’ve kicked the bucket, I’d say. There’s been no trace of him since. No accounts, no money, nothing. Better yet, there’s been no trace of any merfolk staff at all. You simply don’t exist, golden boy. Almost as if they prepared to dispose of you the second you were hired, just like the many that came before you.”
They’re… They’re going to do what? Dispose of him? As in eradicate? Wipe off the very face of the Earth? Surely not! There’s no definitive proof behind such claims, no definitive proof against them either. It’s only the speculation of a single person. Cipher doesn’t even work for the aquarium, what could she possibly know— A lot. Even spiralling into the pits of denial, Phainon cannot deny her talent. Her reaches extend far beyond his own, beyond Castorice’s. Hell, with such proficient hacking, Cipher could even reach the shareholders. If it is her theory something is evidently amiss, then amiss it shall be. And if she believes his life is hanging by a thread…
“I mean, that’s kinda weird, right?” Cipher thinks aloud, switching screens to several group images of unknown people, “So I went a little broader, tried to find anyone holding an important position in a business owned by the aquarium’s shareholders. I found a weird group dubbing themselves the Lord Ravagers, a business called the Genius Society, and a woman by the name of Black Swan.“
“Do any of them sound familiar to you?” Castorice chimes in, turning slightly to face him.
“Not even slightly,” Phainon admits, “Sorry…”
For some reason, this only serves to excite Cipher, “Don’t be. What about this guy?” The laptop flicks to the next image, and who would it be if not—
“—Lygus.”
Of course. The man in the image certainly appears different to Lygus he’s unfortunately acquainted with today. Instead of pompous curls at the base of his neck, his hair is wild and free. The signature blindfold he seldom discards is nowhere in sight, purple eyes boring into the camera. All-seeing, all-knowing. That’s Lygus alright. Even in another universe entirely, Phainon would recognise that expression anywhere. Somehow, to have his dive tender entangled in this deadly mess does not come as a great surprise. There has always been not quite right about him, from stealing private property to making strange remarks. Phainon should’ve seen it sooner. This man is at the heart of the issue, no doubt about it.
“Bingo!” Cipher confirms, “This Lycurgus guy’s pretty good at covering his tracks, but from what I can tell he seems to be a long-time employee of a shareholder by the name of Nous. He was transferred to Amphoreus Aquarium at their behest to work under another shareholder, Nanook. He seems to be the only employee to work with your little half-fish friends and digitally live to tell the tale. Make of that what you will.”
What is to be made of that, aside from the most obvious he’s most definitely involved. Regardless of the plot or scheme, his dive tender is undeniably guilty.
The hacker clears her throat, promptly moving on, “I kept on poking around, of course. There just had to be something more interesting at play, you know? Lo and behold, I was right. Take a look at this.”
On her computer, Cipher exits her impromptu PowerPoint of images. She shifts the mouse, clicking into a file labelled ‘NeiKos496’. With conflicting emotions, Phainon watches on as the file blossoms open before them all. Instead an image, it takes the form of some sort of data log. Some sort of diary? A journal, even? A notebook, a voice within his mind uncomfortably akin to Lygus supplies. All notebook entries from the caretaker of the merfolk undergo digitalisation. It wasn’t entirely a lie then, when his dive tender had claimed as much. But these pages are not familiar, these entries are not his own. The previous caretaker. Cipher has found the missing notebook of his predecessor. Beneath each entry, a series of notes have been filed. Phainon reaches forward, the hacker doing little to stop him as he inspects the entry. The final entry, it appears. Dated only days before his own began.
Digital Database — Amphoreus Aquarium: Project IRONTOMB, Entry Log 33550298
February 2nd, Entry #156
I write to you, my successor, as this shall be my very last entry If it is truly you reading this, the intended audience, know first that you are not alone. You are not special. You are not individual. You are one of many. You are a caretaker of the merfolk, and this shall be your greatest undoing.
It is not your fault, K. I do not know your name, but it always starts the same. Your name starts with a K, or it did once upon a time ago. You were a good child. Happy, healthy, and you had friends. Many friends, or perhaps just one. The number doesn’t matter. What matters is that the one you held dearest is here no longer. They were killed. By a merman, no less. And thus began your destiny.
You did not know it at the time, K, but your path was premeditated. You were always destined to be here. That merman was always going to be at the beach, because he was planted there by our employers. I will never know his name or whereabouts and likely neither will you. But it is important to know he has been in the clutches of Nanook for far too long. It is too late for him, K. But it is not too late for you.
They created us. Released a cage-crazed merman, pointed him at the nearest children and birthed destruction. It affected you, K. It shaped who you are today. You cannot deny this. They wanted you to be this way, designed you in such a manner that you would find your way to the merfolk exhibit. Through morbid or a deep-seated hatred, it matters not. For me, it was hatred. The merfolk have never liked me. Mydeimos snarls, Tribbie cowers. I don’t blame them, they are on the same fated course as the one who reaved.
I write to you in hopes of freeing you. I do not know if you will see this, but I know they will. Nanook, Nous, Fuli. Or maybe not Nous Fuli, but always Nanook. It’s always Nanook. I can only guess their past was similar to ours, maybe that is why they rehearse it so tirelessly. They wish to end the merfolk entirely. Do not fear them, K. You have nothing to fear. As long as you read this, you can break free from the endless cycles. I am not the first caretaker of the merfolk. Many have come before, all the same as us. But with luck, I will be the last. Tonight, I will take the merfolk and flee. If not, I will die trying.
If you’re reading this, K, then know I failed. Everything I’ve done was futile. I spent so long being angry, I assumed there was no other way to be. That’s how they designed me to be. I speak of fate and designs as if it is some higher power. But they are only human, K. So are you. Even the proudest of men can be brought to their knees. You will need assistance, no doubt. Maybe that is where I will fail. But I believe in you.
Be free, K. Break the cycle
— This will not see the light of day. Defect and perish.
…
What?
…
His whole life, everything… It’s a lie?
All those years ago… It wasn’t an accident?
…
Cyrene?
…
Bile rises in his throat, hot and bitter. It burns, oh it burns.
…
“Phainon, are you okay?”
“Shit, I think he’s gonna be sick.”
Their voices… So far away…
…
“Hey, golden boy. Let’s get you to the sink, okay?”
“Phainon… Hey, Phainon? Can you hear me?”
Yes. No. The words don’t leave his lips. Or maybe they do. He can’t tell. He can’t find it in himself to care.
It doesn’t hurt at all. It hurts so much.
Even as his stomach heaves and his vision blurs, who cares? Maybe that’s what they want. Watch him stumble, watch him fail. Then toss him out and move onto the next one.
It burns. It’s so numb.
It was a lie, all of it… Cyrene died because they wanted her to. Nanook. Whoever they are, wherever they are. They will face the consequences. Oh gods… Cyrene, my Cyrene…
The world returns to nothing. He is nothing.
Chapter 8
Summary:
Phainon struggles to reconcile the truth with reality. He and Mydei come to a unique understanding.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Agony. White, hot, and unyielding. It burns. Oh, how it burns. The searing flame travels through his bloodstream, through his bones, into his very core. His muscles ache in tension, crying out for a salvation never to come, a dawn forever denied. If only it could lessen, his body could finally reach a respite. But the flame keeps on burning. Agony never dies. Yet despite the burning sun within, his body is as cold as ice, as death, as all things forgotten to time. Sweat clings to his entirety, a second skin of despair. He shivers in spite of himself. Every breath comes laboured and uneven, too fast and too slow all at once. Too much air and yet not nearly enough. His head grows fuzzy, a monochrome moss growing behind his eyelids. Everything blurs in static, and his stomach follows suit. He doubles over once more, heaving up nothing, absolutely nothing. There is nothing left.
“C’mon Phainon, you’ve gotta breathe,” Cipher murmurs at his side, and it must be bad if his name springs forth on her lips. But that’s not his name, is it?
Khaslana was the name bestowed upon him at birth. Best friend of Cyrene, a pathetic little boy with nothing but a dream. He who reached for the void and the void reached back. Khaslana died on the beach of Aedes Elysiae, sun in his veins and blood on his arms. From his ashes, Phainon was born. One who reaches for the light, not the depths below. Cyrene was not so fortunate. She suffered beneath the waves, thrashing against the claws of the ocean’s reaving psychopomp until death became her. He had fought for her, but not enough. Never enough.
You are not special. His predecessor had said as much, and it’s nothing if not painstakingly true. A special man would be better than this. A special man could’ve saved Cyrene, saved his predecessor, and saved the merfolk. He wouldn’t be weighed down by reality, eroded like the rocks against the tides. A special man could cure the world. But Khaslana is not special. Because ultimately, he is still just Khaslana. Maybe he always will be. Phainon is a pipe dream, a fleeting fantasy of frolicking fun. In the blistering face of truth, Phainon so easily peels away like paint to bear the sun-scorned Khaslana to the world. A boy who kneels in blood and sand, carrying the lies of a thousand lifetimes. You are a caretaker of the merfolk, and this shall be your greatest undoing.
“That’s it, keep breathing,” Castorice soothes, rummaging through something out of eyeshot, “One breath after another, just like that.”
Oh but it’s hard. It’s so very hard. How can he keep breathing, keep fighting? What’s even the point? His entire life was no more than an experiment, a theatre of falsities. From the moment his eyes first dawned on the world, the boy’s fate was already predetermined. He was destined to skirt the shores with a friend in tow, never quite outrunning the dolphins on the horizon. Until the dolphins were no longer dolphins but merfolk, and a great boat must’ve passed by to cast forth the forsaken one. Down, down beneath the waves where all good things come to die. It was never meant to be there. Yet at the same time, it was always meant to be there. Nanook had thrown their weighty dice, and destiny had unfolded accordingly. Breathing is hard. Living is harder.
In spite of it all, Phainon’s vision does steadily return to him. A world of black and white regains its colour, yet its return brings no joy. Has the world always been this dull? Muted, isolated, cold, is colour just a lie? Had his pitiful heart simply deceived him into believing in a world so vibrant, so innocent and pure? Had it truly been this dark all along? What more could’ve been taken from him? Phainon clutches at the sink’s edge, gaze fixed downward at the defiled sink. There lies his stomach’s contents, all wet and grotesque. But beyond that, his heart, his truth laid bear. He does not think so much as observe it slowly creeping down the drain. Down, down again. Always falling, always failing. Destruction incarnate, weeping for the world. How truly pathetic you are.
“Phainon… Let’s sit, okay? I think you’ll feel better if you just sit for a moment,” Castorice suggests- suggested? Time is a fickle foe, and it ruthlessly pits itself against him. Even with vision restored, it continues to blur.
He obliges. Only once he sits down, it becomes so very difficult to arise again. His limbs hold the weight of the world in respite. He bleeds into the sofa (sofa… when did he get there?), reduced to no more than a hollow facade of a person. That’s all he is, all he has been. Why not accept it, embrace the contradictory vessel of Phainon and Khaslana? The person that is both and yet neither remains. In the dust of his world, he becomes a statue. Still, everlasting, cracking and rusting but woefully still in one piece. Time passes around him, or perhaps it doesn’t. Vaguely, the man registers a window being opened. Castorice speaks to him, her voice gentle and low. Something about calling in sick, maybe? That seems right… Cipher nods alongside her, muttering some sort of half-hearted attempt at raising his spirits. On what day and what hour the words leave her glossed lips, it matters not. Nothing matters. Nothing…
HKS, are you just going to lie down and give up? The stupid, stupid voice of a merman mutters from within his very soul. So what if it was all a lie? You’re still you, in spite of it all. This doesn’t change anything.
“It changes everything.”
Come on, Snowy. Don’t cry, his weak heart attempts to appease him with illusions of a mermaid. It’s like your predecessor said, this wasn’t your fault.
“Then whose fault is it?”
Not yours, murmurs a pathetic imitation of his mother, his father, his sister. They speak as one and yet not at all, united in death but so very distinct in his heart. We love you, Khaslana, and we believe in you. That could never be a lie.
“I’m sorry. I’ve let you down, over and over again. I’m sorry you ever had to know me.”
“You haven’t let me down. Or anyone, for that matter,” Castorice replies, and it is only then that he realises he is not alone. His thoughts were not silently conveyed to himself, the mutterings of a man forsaken. In this indescribable passage of time, a dear friend has been resolutely at his side, “So please don’t apologise. I know I’m not the easiest person to be friends with, I get too awkward and nervous. But even when I was at my lowest, you’ve always greeted me with a warm smile. And now I… I want to be that person for you. I want to be the person that brightens your day, even when things seem bleak!”
“Castorice…” At her unwavering conviction, he finds himself powerless to protest.
Her words are true, after all. Castorice has never been the most socially adept person. He vividly remembers her seemingly ceaseless struggle to truly connect to others, spanning from their first class together to the present day. They were friends of chance, two lonely souls entering the same orbit. From the very beginning, her loyalty has unparalleled. He has only ever treated her with basic decency in turn. During Castorice’s initial plight with her sister’s health, he served as a source of comfort and optimism. It was a simple, mindless gesture for a dear friend. That was real, a voice that can only be described as Phainon points out. That feeling is real, our friendship is real. I am real.
“I…” Even after the small attempt to reconcile his shattered identity, Phainon is at a loss for words. His voice wavers and cracks, rough with tears unshed, “I don’t know what to do anymore, Cas. I can’t fix this.”
The glass that is the life he once knew to be true has shattered, shards scattering in a plethora of directions. Try as he might- if this newly reborn Phainon is even capable of trying- they will not be pieced together again. It’s too much, too soon, too unbearably raw. The edges are lined with the blood of countless caretakers before him. It is a viscous liquid, thick and heavy without any possibility of being erased. Even the heat of a merman, steady and warm, could not lap away this gaping mess. To force it back together in such a state… It’s not possible. Phainon is beyond salvation.
“Yes, you can,” Castorice gently reassures.
“No- No, I can’t do it,” Phainon replies, already shaking his head at the sight of something even remotely akin to hope, “I can’t, I can’t- Cas, please.”
He isn’t quite certain what he’s begging for exactly. Something, anything. To watch hope flutter by like a dazzling butterfly, nothing more than a tragic existence doomed to fall from the skies. Or perhaps nothing at all. The thought is strangely fitting. He has nothing, is nothing, so nothing he shall request. A loathsome life, but it is still a life. Phainon is too much of a coward to take it. Some cruel, twisted part of his mind has rooted into the physical world and all its suffering. Or maybe it isn’t the cruelty that latches onto a persistent existence, but the desperate remains of a lived in lie. Love, and all its haunting beauty. Love is not done with him yet.
“Alright, alright, you don’t have to fix anything,” Castorice quickly concedes, no doubt sensing his heightened panic and confusion, “We don’t even have to talk about it. But you can’t bear this burden alone, I won’t let you.”
“What do you mean?” Phainon queries, his tone devoid of any true understanding. It is only a grim exhaustion that makes itself known, a hope against hope and a hefty despair.
“I… I don’t know,” Castorice admits, “I want to help you in any way that I can. But it isn’t me you need closure from.”
Phainon manages a short nod, a forced habit of a life long dreamt, “You’re right, of course. You always are.”
The words aren’t logically true. Castorice cannot always be right, she is still human and thus carries her flaws like armour. But in the grand scheme of life, it certainly seems otherwise. Castorice has always held a quiet wisdom to her, a sensibility Phainon pointedly lacks. At any given moment, she always knows what she wants from life and precisely how to achieve it. An ambitious, intelligent scholar who seizes success by the horns, Castorice is everything he should’ve strived to be. She’s better than you. An ugly thought, one more truthful than any spoken words. She would be able to take this, they all would. Why can’t you?
A small, almost somber smile forms on Castorice’s face, “Maybe you could write a letter?”
“A letter?” Phainon echoes, always echoes, a hollow repetition, “To who?”
“Whoever you’d like to write it to,” Castorice suggests, “Your predecessor, Nanook, or even your childhood friend. I don’t think you should send it, but it might help you process your emotions.”
Phainon very nearly cringes. Not at the idea, but at the spoken figures. The blatant reference to Cyrene does little for his rapidly declining heart. To have his innermost soul be so openly spoken of, so thoroughly understood, is not the pleasant revelation he originally anticipated. For years upon years, even the mere notion of Cyrene was buried six feet under his thoughts. To have her truth proclaimed openly was supposed to be a grand ordeal, ringing in a lifetime of relief. Phainon’s shoulders would be rid of their burden, his hands washed clean of a sister’s lifeblood. The truth was supposed to be liberating. Instead, only dread lies in its wake. Oh what a daunting ordeal it is, to let yourself be wholly known.
“I can try,” Phainon replies, even if he cannot be sure if it is within his capabilities.
It’d be a lie to say this brought Castorice any comfort, “Promise?”
“I…” Phainon swallows dryly, “I promise.”
This seems to appease her, at least temporarily (but she’ll still be disappointed in you eventually, they all are), “Thank you. Even if it doesn’t work out, all you can do is try.”
Castorice rises from her seated position beside him. She disappears into her bedroom, no doubt searching for a spare pen and paper. Right, he really is doing this. Processing emotions and all that. It’s a dreadfully sentimental idea, one born of desperate retaliation against despair. What can etching his thoughts onto paper do beyond prove his damage beyond repair? There will be no closure, no strange finality as the letter received its recipients. The recipient in question will only be a trashcan, discarded like the rest of his pointless existence. But you have to try, Phainon reminds himself. You promised you’d try. And when have you ever broken your promises?
Once. In all his grand falsity of a life, Phainon has only ever broken a promise once. To Cyrene. In those golden years, where death was no more than a faraway concept, a distant dream, he had swore to follow his sister to the ends of the earth. Only her end on this Earth had arrived far more abruptly than his. There was no one left to follow in her wake. Where to now, my northern star? The sea, of course, always the sea. Phainon had chartered his own path in life ever since, as much as one can when living a predetermined lie. But all the roads of his soul led only back to her. This life, this shallow excuse of a life, is only a pale imitation of Cyrene’s childhood dreams. Become a marine biologist, check. Work with merfolk, check. Meet new people and make lots of new supportive friends, check. Maybe she’d be proud of him… Probably not.
Regardless, Phainon will not break this new promise. This is the only conviction he can afford to cling to, failing morals of a once principled man. He wills himself to move his weary muscles, pulling himself upright into a seating position. Briefly, his vision spins and blurs, but the nauseating notion disperses as sporadically as it appeared. It is peculiar, how his mind cannot recall the moment he had switched from sitting to lying like a dying animal. Even stranger how his stomach does not rumble, yet substantial time has indubitably passed. How can he not be hungry? At least a solid day or two must’ve passed, if his perception of time is not fully warped. Did Castorice feed him? And what of the bathroom? He must’ve dragged himself along, there’s no way his friend would embarrass him so. Why… Why can’t he remember it, then? Memory is a monster.
Before Phainon can contemplate his lapse in memory any further, Castorice swiftly returns with the required stationary in hand. A pen, paper, and a clipboard to carry its weight. If it were not lacking an envelope, he might’ve been deceived into committing with all his heart. But this is to true letter, just a tasteless attempt at relief. Castorice wordlessly passes the materials to him. She spares a glance, one last pitiful glance, before busying herself with a nearby plant (Antila flowers, if he recalls correctly). An illusion of privacy, lingering far enough so as to not invade but close enough to swiftly intervene. Phainon cannot exactly fault her for erring on the side of caution.
With a pen in hand, Phainon refocuses his attention to the paper before him. A letter. Just one small, simple letter bearing his thoughts and heart. A sisyphean ordeal, the pen rhythmically approaches the paper only to halt without fail. Where does he even start? How can he even start? What measly words in ink could possibly encapsulate his aching soul? None. There are no words for a deathless loss of life, of identity, of the very fabric of reality. No writings will drag his sister’s restless soul from the depths of the sea, nor convince Nanook to swiftly end their life. But maybe, just maybe, there is one dedicatee left for this hollow self-expression. And if so, perhaps it would be something like this:
Dear K, my predecessor,
Where do I even begin? A dear friend of mine recommended I write this letter to you, even if you’ll never see it. She says it will help me process my feelings on the matter, and turn the nightmare that is my new reality into a coherent thought. If only it were that simple.
I do not know what to say to you, and I doubt I ever will. It doesn’t matter. Much like your final entry, this letter will not see the light of day. But your entry did see the light of day, K. You pulled the wool off my ignorant eyes. Maybe you can find solace in this fact, if you are even alive. Maybe not.
Cipher theorises you are dead. Castorice digresses. But they both agree that if you are dead, it was not part of the shareholders plans. Your passing was not an assassination, not a deliberate attempt of any human involvement. You simply flew too close to the sun. Maybe I can find solace in this fact, the grave you dug was all on your lonesome. Maybe not.
I cannot claim to be saddened by your absence. In truth, my feelings toward you are quite mixed. I guess I must be grateful for your final entry, but it’s hard to say. Mostly, I’m just angry. Hateful, even. I hate you, K. You tarnished the name of merfolk caretaker. For just how long did Mydei and Tribbie suffer under your ruthless ways? How many tests did it take you to discover that they aren’t part of the problem, you are? It’s interesting, K, very interesting that you neglected to mention this in your entry. ‘The merfolk never liked me’ is all you claim, but never why. Grow a set of eyes and look in the mirror. You make a fool of us both, K.
As for the Reaver, the cage-crazed one who brings death to all dreams? You mentioned that they are beyond our reach, ‘our’ being all those that have come before us. I do not care. I would like to meet them, if only to stare into the eyes of a killer and know no fear. Perhaps I already have. How were those wounds, K? Did Mydei treat you nicely?
This isn’t helping. See? This is the problem with writing letters. You spill your thoughts out only to reread them in abject horror. I am not a hateful man, K. You must understand this. I am like you, in some ways. Our pasts are shared, childhoods robbed by Nanook to shape our views of the merfolk to suit their liking. We even look alike, scars aside. But that’s where our similarities end.
I am not like you. I am a good person. Or at least, in my heart I strive to be. I think anyone with a conscience like yours would not dare claim as such. I cannot fault you entirely for your circumstances, but I can fault you for your actions. Trauma is a contributing factor, not an excuse. You built your own prison. But I will not let my past force me into a hateful future.
My destiny differs from yours. Your career and maybe even your life may have ended in this enclosure, but mine will not. I am not a hateful man. Nanook cannot manipulate my desire for vengeance for their twisted bidding, whatever it may be. I will lay waste to this shrouded scheme and come out the other side of the tunnel unscathed, hand in hand with all those who have suffered. That is my destiny.
- Phainon, not K
— — —
Unlawful entry is a very subjective crime. It dictates an individual has entered a building or property without the permission of the owner or lawful occupier, often with intent to commit a crime. But Phainon is legally employed by Amphoreus Aquarium, sitting on a lofty weekly salary. He was even granted a key with his promotion. Is that not permission in itself to enter its grounds as he pleases? Even in the dead of night, outside of working hours, the key still serves as legal consent… Probably. If not, it doubles for an arguable excuse. ‘How was I supposed to know this isn’t allowed? They even gave me a key!’
To clarify, Phainon has no intention to commit a crime. No, he simply has a score to settle. One week of contemplating the meaning of life has been well and good, but his patience fell into the trash alongside his letter. Maybe it worked, somehow, some way. Phainon cannot argue a substantial difference. Every step forward into the Aquarium still feels like a step backward in his morals, the flawless tiles no longer hiding the filth that lies beneath. But as his week on Castorice’s sofa drew to close, the numbness was usurped by something stronger. A twisted emotion, anger perhaps. One that flashes hot and fast with little rhyme or reason, coming and going like a welcome guest. How dare they dress this place up like a fancy museum! These creatures are not fossils, they still live and breathe and loathe the day they ever crossed paths with humanity. The entire facade is wretchedly tasteless.
Ultimately, it does not matter. The words feel wrong to utter even within the safety of his mind, but it is true (Oh, so now you’re the judge of what’s true and what isn’t? What a clever way to take back that foolish semblance of control, but it won’t help you). Regardless of Phainon’s opinion on the matter, Amphoreus Aquarium’s exquisite entry will continue to shine. One man’s rage cannot topple an entire empire. At least, not overnight. If change is ever to come, everything has to go back to the way it was one week prior. Phainon shall don the skin of his past life, feigning obliviousness. His anger will be tempered into a blade, cold and precise, lurking in the shadows for the right moment to strike true. This cannot afford to be an be an emotional ordeal. A genius plan must be formed to liberate this aquarium, and it cannot be formed alone. That is where his predecessor, the unknown K, failed and Phainon shall not. Time is an eternal resource and he plans to bide it perfectly.
Stepping through a midnight Amphoreus Aquarium is as if creeping through the past itself. Luxurious halls and grand architecture are vastly outweighed by the looming silence. A haunting beauty, the marble cage of a thousand restless souls. The faint flicker of light from each aquarium casts a dim pathway towards the center, towards his second home. The merfolk exhibit. Memories of his research here are so close and yet so faraway, like they occurred a lifetime ago in some distant dream. But it was not a lifetime ago, and his own mind is not capable of conjuring a dream so cruel. It’s only been a week, Phainon reminds himself to the steady drum of his heart. Just one week. That all it took. One week for his world to crumble like a card tower all around him. One week of absence, where Mydei and Tribbie have remained entirely oblivious to his plight. One week, and he’s left them utterly alone. Not anymore. They deserve to know the truth. That is, if they don’t already know…
Returning to the platform above the water is far too easy for his mind to truly process. Phainon’s feet mindlessly carry him to the ledge, falling into a seated position as if truly no time has passed at all. Maybe it didn’t. Maybe he’s still that same man who first took the contract, doubtful of its clauses and longing to return to a world in shadow. It’s a nice thought, but just that. A thought. A brief passage of the wandering mind, another sentimental falsity left to ponder. It is not true. For better or for worse, Phainon is a changed man. Change cannot be so easily undone.
Unlike majority of Amphoreus Aquarium’s spacious enclosure, the merfolk exhibit does not glow with an evening light. Its lighting system is almost nonexistent, dimmed to the merfolk’s preferences. Courtesy of Phainon, of course. The previous caretaker did not truly care. He had simply been entangled in a plot larger than himself, with no clear path forward. Still, it does beg the question of how exactly he managed to almost pull it off unscathed. How did K sneak both Mydei and Tribbie to freedom without initial suspicion? And how can Phainon—
“—So the prodigy returns at last, huh? Took you long enough.”
Phainon casts his gaze downward, the beginnings of a frown on his face. Before him is none other than Mydei, lazing about in all his vermillion glory. And oh what a sight for sore eyes he is, but it is not a sight he shall enjoy. Not tonight. Because realistically, Mydei must know the truth already. It is a fact he could not quite bring himself to face before now, yet one he indubitably must. The merfolk caretakers have come and gone, waxing and waning like the moon and her tides. How could Mydei not know the truth to some extent? Is there even any point in asking? At least one of them must’ve tried this before. Hell, maybe they all did. Maybe all of the caretakers do nothing but repeat each other’s actions, over and over and over, and Phainon is no different.
“Mydeimos,” He eventually manages to greet, perhaps a fraction too curtly.
“Deliverer,” Mydei responds in kind, eyeing him like a predator analysing its prey, “Have you chosen your gift to me.”
“No, not yet,” Phainon admits, a small frown forming on his face. In all the week’s chaos, his deal of bribery had completely slipped his mind.
The merman promptly sighs, “What?”
“What do you mean ‘what’?” Phainon queries in response.
“I mean what’s with that face?” The merman retorts, gesturing vaguely upwards, “You look like a clam without a pearl.”
At that, Phainon schools his expression. Or at least tries to, only to some avail, “You know, pearls are actually formed in response to irritants. So a clam with a pearl would actually be—”
“—You know what I mean,” Mydei interjects, “What’s wrong? You disappear for a week without reason, then return after your working hours to come pout at me.”
It’s a futile effort, to explain Cipher’s great deliverance. Phainon could open his mouth, give a voice to his falsehoods and breathe life into his pain once more. But what good would it do? They have not spoken of it since. That was the agreement. All three souls who bore witness to the aquarium’s grand schemes were to speak only in the moment, then forever hold their peace. Even if Phainon tried to quantify his plight into a coherent response, the words would only die on his tongue. Mydei doesn’t need to hear it. He doesn’t need that beautiful pity, nor a single trace of worry. No one else should bear this burden, this secret world. Phainon alone is the bearer of worlds.
“Are you a murderer?”
The words barely register before they leave his mouth entirely unfiltered. What is wrong with you?! Phainon internally berates, all but cringing at the unprompted (but not baseless…) accusation. A lot of things, clearly. First, his entire family’s literal demise, and now ann inability to keep his mouth shut! The blanket of shadows seems to have emboldened him, recklessly so. It’s a near miracle the security cameras fall into black-and-white stasis in the late hours, losing all perceptible audio and triggering only at movement, or else he might just be removed altogether. That is not at all an appropriate response for a simple ‘what’s wrong?’! Really, Phainon ought to curl up in a ball and die.
“Excuse me?” Mydei replies, his fins bristling slightly at the accusation
“I mean, not like- Gah, what I meant to ask is are you a killer? Have you taken lives?” Phainon tries and miserably fails to amend, “Which now that I really hear it out loud, doesn’t sound any better. I’m not trying to accuse you of anything, I just- I hear things. I’ve heard things, I don’t hear things. I’m not crazy. But you know what I mean, right? …Right?”
He’s rambling, and gods above Mydei does not seem impressed, “I’m no murderer.”
“Right, of course not…” Phainon clears his throat, a pointless attempt to salvage a failing situation, “My apologies.”
A beat of silence passes between them. Phainon has half a mind to steadily inch away, to leave even. Because if his companion has ever needed a final reason to use those jagged teeth and claws, this would certainly be a great contender. And yet, he doesn’t move. Neither does Mydei. This should not come as a surprise. Mydeimos has never been an inherently violent man, even in his moments of anger. A great splash of water is the worst punishment the merman has ever dealt to his current caretaker. Those images, those grotesque wounds of a previous caretaker, are not easy to reconcile with this version of the gorgeous merman- (Because he is gorgeous, even when Phainon’s terrible delivery dooms them both. Mydei is so gorgeous it hurts. It hurts to breathe the same air and yearn for more than he knows he has any right to. There is no future here.)
“I’m a predator,” Mydei murmurs after a moment’s pause, leaning back against the enclosure’s rim with a short huff, “I protect my own. This place… Does not seem to care. Any injuries I might’ve caused were not dealt with the intention to kill.”
But kill they very well might have. And yet, it is not fear that has Phainon’s heart racing, “I know. I guess some part of me always knew. I just needed to know I was right, that this really was the truth.”
“You needed to hear the truth…” Mydei paraphrases, seemingly understanding in spite of it all, “You know, then?”
“I know.”
“Good.”
Their eyes meet. Gold and blue, molten magnificence and sun-scorned sky. Phainon manages a nod, otherwise lost for words. How the other man seems to understand his words and all the buried implications in their entirety is beyond him. Any lesser man would’ve fought him over it, defending his honour in the face of offence. But not this man. This man grows offended at the smallest slight, but remains utterly stoic in the face of the largest accusations. Truly, Mydeimos is something else. The situation is not awkward by any means, nothing with Mydei ever could be. But it is also certainly something else. Something indescribably complicated, tearing him in two and piercing him together simultaneously. There are no words for the beginnings of a smirk on the merman’s face, no words for his heart’s dangerous flutter. And there are most certainly no words for the sudden proximity as Mydei hoists himself up into a sitting position- or at least, as close to a seated position a being without legs can accomplish- on the enclosure’s ledge.
“Are you scared of me, Deliverer?” Mydei poses. The question might come across as random, if not for the a knowing glint in his eyes.
“Scared of you?” Phainon echoes, almost laughing at the absurdity. Maybe a lifetime ago, but not anymore. Certainly not right now, “Please, I’m no coward. You’re about as scary as a legless puppy.”
Mydei most certainly does not understand the quip, if his brief confusion is of any indication. Yet that ridiculously charming smirk only widens, “Prove it.”
It’s a stupid, stupid dare but Phainon is nothing if not foolishly sworn to this terror of a man. Be it through his career or through his heart, there are none above him. The revelation should be terrifying, but Phainon has long since grown accustomed to this aching in his chest. It has no name. It doesn’t need to. He’s fantasised about a moment like this for far too long, an opportunity to throw caution to the wind and simply exist. And those golden eyes, sharp and daring, do unspeakable things to him that they certainly should not and yet they do. They do anyway and Phainon is tired of denying it, tired of holding his career on some lofty pedestal as if Nanook still gets to dictate his every move. They don’t. This is Phainon’s life, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t live it.
If there are any gods, take me now. Before I do something reckless, something I might regret. A final warning. But not a single soul is here to stop him, and Phainon would not regret a taste of heaven. It is difficult to discern what precisely occurs afterwards, if any words were uttered or glances stolen. Nothing matters more than the moment he collides into the other man, crashing their lips together with all the vigor of a man possessed. Somehow, some way, Mydei must have foreseen this very moment. For his surprise is only momentary, stillness swiftly fading into reciprocation. Phainon nearly groans.
The kiss is not gentle. It is not soothing or slow, but by the gods above it is passionate. Every move of their lips is a declaration, a promise: See? I’m not afraid. Mydei certainly is an apex predator, humane yet so very inhuman, for he kisses like he might devour him whole. Phainon would let him. He meets the merman’s hunger with great enthusiasm, lips finding purchase on anything and everything. This is wrong. It’s wrong and yet it’s so very right. How could he have denied himself this pleasure, this paradise? Only a fool would not savour the ocean’s glory. Mydei all but suckles on his lower lip, toying the tender flesh between sharp fangs. It stings, and yet Phainon cannot bring himself to care. Let his mouth fall to pieces if Mydei wishes, so long as their bodies remain as one.
Phainon does not waste the opportunity to slide his tongue between those precious lips (they really are soft…), revelling in the muffled noise of surprise. The other man lets him explore his warmth, but certainly not without some resistance. Their tongues press against one another, entangling in an obscene dance for control. Mydei tastes of salt and blood and it so very disgusting but Phainon fucking loves it. He grasps at the merman’s hair, tugging lightly to find a better angle. His tongue dives further, deeper, until it cannot be less clear where one of them starts and the other ends. Mydei groans, or perhaps it was him, Phainon knows not. All he knows is- Oh my god, air. I need air right now.
Phainon tears away, albeit with great reluctance. For a moment, Mydei nearly chases after him. Somehow, the gesture does more for his thrumming heart than any kiss could. He did it… Wow. For a moment, they both remain still, save only for the heavy rise and fall of their chests. Mydei runs a hand through his hair, perhaps an attempt to recollect himself. No amount of grooming could hide those kiss-swollen lips. Vaguely, Phainon wonders if he’s faring any better. Worse, he imagines, he hopes. Please, let him be ruined. Let his lips drip with blood from where those delicious fangs once were and his cheeks bloom with colour at the mere thought. Let him keep something, anything of this moment, so it cannot be denied that for at least one moment, Mydei had desired him.
But what if he didn’t? A nagging little voice in his mind queries. What if kissing to merfolk is not the same as kissing to humans? Phainon loathes how logical the question is. He had only assumed that to Mydeimos, the act of kissing would be intimate in some capacity. But what if it isn’t? What if it merely was just a declaration of courage, proving his lack of fear in the face of those sharp teeth? In the throes of his own emotional turmoil, Phainon had forgotten that Mydei is not human. They are not the same. No, they could not be any more dissimilar. A foolish hope, they are worlds apart. The merman cannot possibly desire a human, his jailer, a man who has done nothing but bring him grief. Instinctively, he covers his own mouth.
“I…” What does he even say? How can he amend the error in his ways? “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Is that regret I hear?” Mydei queries, tilting his head slightly.
No, it isn’t. And that is quite possibly the worst part of this whole situation. Phainon doesn’t regret it one bit, “No…”
“Then cease your pointless apologises, I have no need for them,” Mydei lectures, though he doesn’t seem all that displeased. Could it be that- No, stop it.
Phainon clears his throat, a not-so subtle attempt to act casual, “So… How are you?”
Mydei practically snorts, “How am I? How do you think?”
Isn’t that the million dollar question? How does Mydeimos truly feel about him? Are they no more than a business transaction, a captive and his jailer. Or are they something else, comrades perhaps? Or maybe, just maybe, is it something more? The merman’s ever elusive nature has done little to soothe the ceaseless conflict of his head and heart, warring over hope and rationality. Because rationally, logically, it must be platonic. But hope is a fearless creature, and it dictates otherwise.
“I don’t know, I’m no mind reader,” Phainon replies with a shrug.
Mydei only shakes his head, “Clearly. You’re as dense as a rock.”
“Hey! That was uncalled for!” Phainon retorts, though he can’t quite bring himself to feel offended, not when his heart still beats so wildly with wanton hope.
“Was it?” Mydei muses, “I thought you must’ve taken the hint, hints. But clearly, it seems you still have much to learn about subtleties.”
“Then teach me, oh high and mighty one,” Phainon quips in response, nearly rolling his eyes in mock offence.
Mydei clicks his tongue to form his signature ‘tch’. But he doesn’t back down, doesn’t disappear beneath the water’s surface as if it never happened at all. Instead, he only inches closer. Scales of dazzling ruby brush against his clothes, soft fins nearly entertwining with his legs. Phainon desperately fights back a soft gasp. To experience such pleasant surprise at the proximity when he had been quite literally shoving his tongue down the other man’s throat a moment prior seems almost ridiculous, but he still falls victim to its pull regardless. Mydei tenderly grasps his hand, mindful of his own claws, and brings it to his mouth. Phainon watches in fascination as the merman presses a kiss to his fingers, the very same fingers that he-
Oh.
“Don’t you see?” Mydei murmurs, golden eyes gazing up at him with so much heat his heart might actually combust, “I want you to understand, more than anyone who’s come before.”
“I… I’d like that very much,” Phainon all but chokes out, the words strangely sticking to his throat.
And it’s true. Phainon does truly long to understand the merman beside him, in both a professional and intimate setting. Every little thing about him is utterly enthralling, from those gorgeous scales to the slight tilt of his head whenever he grows confused. This peculiar connection has blossomed far further than he ever would’ve anticipated, and he’s enjoyed every single second of it. In this moment, all the accumulative suffering of his pathetic, pointless life almost feels worth it. Almost. If Nanook’s intervention fated the two of them to cross paths, then perhaps this will be the sole silver lining of an oppressive system (but he cannot, will not, forget his wrath. Cyrene did not have to die for his love of the sea to be born). For the first time since the drastic revelation, both Phainon and Khaslana are at peace. He takes a deep breath, revelling in the cool night air—
“—Wait, you can breathe?” Phainon suddenly blurts out, gaze falling to the other man’s very-much-not-underwater gills.
Mydei nearly scoffs, “Of course I can breathe, HKS.”
“I know you can breathe underwater,” Phainon clarifies, “It’s out of water that I’m talking about. You can breathe on land?!”
“Obviously,” Mydei replies, shaking his head in mock disappointment, “Merfolk are part human, after all. We only truly need the water to prevent our scales from drying out.”
“Ahhhh, I see.”
A surprisingly revelation, but not unwelcome. Really, Phainon ought to have noticed sooner. The merman had been sitting side by side to him, chatting away as if no different from a human (a distinction that only grows less clear by the day, it seems. Hell, he had practically sucked on Mydei’s face for a good few minutes without causing any respiratory issues. It should’ve been swiftly apparent that the merman was breathing oxygen from the air, possessing the necessary structure and genealogy for both gills and lungs. A wave of relief washes over Phainon, warmer than any splash his companion (companion? They don’t quite have a label for this unique situation) has dealt him. Mydeimos is okay, and that’s all that matters.
“You accuse me of murder, kiss me, then ask me if I can breathe?” The merman speaks up with a huff, “What a strange man you are, Deliverer. You’re lucky I put up with you.”
At this, Phainon can only smile. And if his voice sounds like a lovesick fool, then so be it. It wouldn’t be that far off the truth, “I know. I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”
Notes:
phainon might be having an identity crisis but I will NOT let him fumble a bad bitch. also shoutout to that one person who bookmarked this fic as ‘fish’, made me giggle a lil.
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