WARNINGS: Banter in spanish, emotional discomfort, poor management of emotions, murder attempts, tension between pirates, a sprinkle of comedy here and there, body dysmorphia (borderline body horror), cursing, plotting, Tlalixa know things, use of yucatecan mayan at the end, explicit misanthropy. Enemies for now.
Summary: A new day brings a new reality.
Word count: 8.6K+
A/N: It's been a while with this story, but I haven't given up. Hope you like! If you wanna be tagged, lemme know!
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Consciousness sure was a tricky thing. There were moments where it could mess with your perception, or transport your subconsciousness into the most vivid dreams, and materializing you into this reality expanding around.
Air tickled your nose with a salty, herbaceous musk coming from your left. But your head didn’t turn to look for the source. Just opening your eyes had been laborious as it was. Sleepiness clung to you like a weighted blanket. But the loud and continuous keowing from the seagulls outside prevented your lids from closing yet again.
The mocking screeching from the birds pinched your brows with annoyance. Why did they laugh at your misery? They were on-land animals, of course. Logic dictated that anything above the sea was as vile, hollow-hearted and cruel as the rest of its inhabitants. Stupid birds or humans made no difference when it came to satirizing your suffering.
The world didn’t pity anyone. Not even the mythical creatures that once ruled over it, but now hid from their executors in plain sight. But, if creatures and humans had all the same right to coexist, why did the world favored the two legged beasts the most? What kind of power did they possess to annihilate everything below them?
Life wasn’t supposed to give second chances. Not when fate had been provoked on multiple occasions by the same creatures you were now a part of. Grimly, the salty air in your lungs contradicted every rule known to your existence so far. You were expected to die if you remained for too long outside the water. But now… death would fall upon you, if those weakened and fleshy bags inside your ribcage didn't get their permanent dose of air.
Like a human.
And tears quickly made their way towards the inner corner of your lids. But vanished the moment a blurry, yet enormous blotch of tan and cream shifted from what it seemed to be a makeshift hammock.
Your resting place was none other than an elongated and narrow table. But your shoulders fell, heavy with such dread it was impossible to lift them up, not when you tried to move your fin and nothing but a tingling sensation coursed through. Since when were you able to move the nerves around the base? Or worse, separate them?
Your eyes widened yet again, erasing that heaviness in your eyelids in a go, just to stare with absolute revulsion at the delicate human pair of feet peeking underneath the shawl. An involuntary gasp left your lips when said limbs and their terminations curled, and stretched, in and out. Like a newborn's first try at freedom outside the womb.
Your chest rose irregularly, matching the erratic tempo of your thoughts, mutinying in your head. Repeating and reassuring —or at least trying to, that it was all temporary.
You were human now.
Maybe if you wished hard enough, like them, you’d get your own wish granted and this nightmare would no longer haunt you. That you’d go back to the sea and disappear for another couple of eons if that meant to avoid humans again.
The tightness in your throat turned unbearable. Especially when the ache in your muscles finally sunk in. It stung when you breathed, making your muscles spasm. But they all throbbed when your forearms supported the weight of your torso, as you tried to sit and have a better view from the milieu opening right before your nose.
The last wisps of smoke rose from a couple of burnt and ashy incense cones in a corner. The modest and clean hut you were housed in, smelled like salt and smokey herbs. Same as the many assortments of talismans and charms from all different cultures you had seen disappear over the centuries, piled up in a corner like forgotten treasures.
And… that wicked and stubborn behemoth of a man. Sleeping in a suspended bed, caring little about the world around him. As though fate shielded him from your contagious misadventures.
But not your wrath.
Despite the pain shooting from all angles within, a growl suppressed the whimpers stuck in your throat while you finally managed to sit, letting the shawl pool at each side of your bare hips. Your legs dangled, heavy and slightly numb from the lack of use.
Your spine held the strength of a half cooked noodle, holding you together but never upright. Your eyes wandered over your chest, at the tender and pudgy pair of breasts, completely uncaring for the gravity oppressing them. But the fleshy-toned tissue protruding from in between them snatched all your attention.
It wasn’t a pretty gash, rather a memory refusing to leave your mind. Constantino had carved the pearl out, leaving that blemish in your very fragile and now human skin.
With quivering fingers, you prodded gently at the wound. The lump and crust-like texture was enough to send unpleasant shivers through your fingers, as warmth irradiated from any direction they landed on. There was no longer that natural and familiar coldness that your body had born with to survive the seas. Just muscles, tissues and veins. Filled with life, spite and hatred.
A soft hum snapped your head in the herculean man’s direction and glared. Hoping to burn holes past his skull. But the ill-intended glare wouldn’t suffice to end his life, no. All you had to do was to stand up, reach up to him and end the job his men had intended since the very beginning.
This time pity no longer tugged at the seams of your sensibility, and with careful movements, you inched towards the table’s edge. How hard could it be to stand up? If your new dangling limbs were sturdy and robust, it meant you wouldn’t have any trouble doing what the damned men did.
The strength in your arms didn’t vanish, the gods had been merciful enough to allow you to keep some of it, since you easily supported your weight for a moment —just enough to put your feet on the sandy floor.
And an excruciating hiss left your lips as soon as your feet touched the irregular surface. A mix of nips and burns scorched the apparent overly-sensitive soles, or your gashed foot. Each step stung, wobbled and throbbed harder than the other. Balance was not your ally, but it was irrelevant when your hands itched closer to the hammock’s knitted knots.
Just a little more…
And you fell. The thin layer of sand absorbed the impact and the noise, since the man, Miguel, or so you recalled from his stolen memories, remained sound asleep.
Damn him!
Your nails or rather claws (one of the few mermaid-like features that remained in you) helped you to crawl underneath his position, and reached upwards, hooking themselves through the knitted fabric. And they held with such strength to the ropes that your knuckles cramped for a second, and supported your weight enough to help you crawl aloft and standing again, despite the pricking spasms spreading up your ankles, and the blood oozing from the gnarly gash.
The first thing in sight was a healing cut underneath some wavy strands of his hair, the very same wound his own ship inflicted when his men dropped him off the plank in shackles. Then his plump lips, a tad dry and cracked and partially open as soft snores left him.
Bastard.
The thought alone ground your teeth, and you inched closer, looking for a vulnerable spot in his neck you could sink your claws into and end his life. Honor or not, vendetta burned stronger than anything else. He was responsible for your transformation, and for you to be a new addition to his brethren. The bad luck bearer, the gods’ long lost sent put in your way for punishment. Demeter’s revenge embodied undoubtedly.
The ever sharp tip of your claws sauntered over the silhouette of a protruding artery right under his ear, the jugular you supposed. But the contact, soft and deathly as it was, made him stir for a second, exposing more skin and also giving you a proper look of his… teeth.
You blinked, more curious than choleric as to why a human would have such a pair of powerful tools indented in his gums. Had they gone beyond madness and killed animals to wear their teeth? For whatever reason?
Your fingers moved the plump muscle upwards, enough to see that the pearly white canine was another natural extension of his denture. Like the red in his eyes you remembered seeing. Was he a monster in disguise? Which wretched god had created him?
Your heart thumped in such a vigorous and dark relief upon the revelation since you wouldn't have to feel the weight of remorse if you killed him. You’d be doing mankind yet another favor if anything, even if the idea of helping them repulsed you.
Only monsters can end each other, right?
If so, then why did he seem completely disturbed the first time he found you in that tank? Or why did he accomplish his promise of freedom and come back for you despite Contantino's efforts of keeping you to himself?
Men can’t be trusted.
Centuries of quiet and almost invisible existence proved it, as you watched from afar how their misanthropy emerged whenever treasures and power were involved. How loyalty and honesty jumped out of the deck once lust and greed clouded their judgement.
Your thighs wobbled, and yet another hiss left you. You had to end it before your legs gave out. Once and for all.
Without second guessing, your hand reached up to his neck again, despite your soles stinging as if jagged pieces of glass buried into your flesh. Yet time stopped as his eyes fluttered awake. But a hand; a big, strong one, snatched your wrist in such a speed and easiness you could only blink as your brain processed his awakening.
And after what felt like eons, his eyes met yours. Wild, suspicious and horrified. Both at seeing you too close for comfort, and your claws, ready to slice through anything; his throat included.
It took him a couple of blinks of his own and some pants to connect two and two, and let the same amount of irritation and bewilderment spread through his face and hands.
“What the fuck—”
The hammock’s unstable motion didn’t let him finish, it careened to the side, while he grabbed and hauled you on top of him with a growl. His hands immediately flipped you and wrapped themselves around your forearms, in a cross position to avoid more of that upcoming thrashing.
“Let me go!” Your hollering just made his arms wrap tighter, almost suffocating you while you writhed.
Walking hurt, yes. But kicking and lashing in the air didn’t.
“Then stay still!”
Miguel’s order or shout fell upon deaf ears, since you kicked harder, ignoring the continuous stings and his attempts of containing you.
“¡Chingada madre contigo, nos vamos a—!”
A loud snap from the weakened rope holding you both whipped in the air, and both of you plummeted on the floor. Of course his back absorbed all the impact —and your weight, pushing all air out of his lungs for a moment, while you still wriggled and fought.
“Ya—YA BASTA!” Miguel squeezed, a tad forcefully, or else your claws would land on his face or worse, one of his eyes. And you halted with a livid growl. (STOP IT!)
You could feel the erratic and frustrated breaths from underneath your back. His chest rising and falling with such contempt that only matched yours. The faint smell of salt and herbs tickled his nose.
His fingers however brushed accidentally over one of your bare nipples, his body froze. Too late his mind remembered you were naked. His fingers coiled away, unnerved. As though touching you, even by mistake, would curse him in this life and the others. So with a powerful shove he removed you off him and watched, warily, as you slithered a few steps closer to him, ready to attack again.
“What did you do to me?!” Your hands were already helping you to crawl back to him again, but Miguel's long and well worked limbs made themselves useful, and helped him to stand up with such ease it made your heart green with envy for a moment. How dared he show off his control over his body? And worse, backing away from you.
Given that you had attempted to murder him while sleeping, only added yet another inch wider in your already abyssal gap. And still, he could never get used to hearing you speak.
“I saved you.” he spat, almost reaching the same if not more displeasure you held.
“Save me? From what? From you? Humans?!” your claws sunk in to the sand, “Fucking look at me! I’m one of your kin now!”
His eyes rolled, irked at your words. Now that you were awake it was Tlalixa’s turn to work her shamanic things on you. Mermaids existed, yes, but so they were insufferable and wretched creatures.
Your hand smacked his ankle with enough force to pull a warning growl from him, but not his direct attention.
Where did that woman go?
And his head snapped in such a speed your way when the sudden and sharp pain bloomed in one of his ankles. By instinct he shook the limb, only to realize your head was latced to it. He shook harder, trying to release himself from the firm bite your jaw had locked in.
“¡¿Pero qué mierda te pasa?!” (What the fuck is wrong with you?!)
And you only set him free when his hand pulled you by your hair with enough force to break the chomp. His eyes glared at the silhouette of your perfect round teeth, engraved at each side of his ankle.
“¡No me estás escuchando, maldito hombre!” (You’re not listening, damned manthing!)
Miguel released your hair and half limped away from you, searching through the rooms to no avail. Tlali knew how to play hide and seek better than anyone he had ever met. But there was no time for games. Not when you tried with all your might to pull at the already feeble seams of his patience.
“Miguel!”
“¡Estoy. Buscando. A Tlalixa!” He roared, already at the brink of his composure’s collapse. “¡La estoy buscando para que arregle esta mierda!” (I’m. Looking. For Tlalixa!) (I’m looking for her so she can fix this shit!)
And the scoff that left your mouth was like a terse slap against his already impatient face.
“¿Tan inútil eres que siquiera puedes arreglarlo tú mismo?” (Are you that useless to be unable to fix it yourself?)
Just as your lip rounded at the ‘o’ his hand found itself gripping your jaw while his knees bent to meet your belittling eyes. He didn’t hurt, at least not completely, but grabbed hard enough to leave his fingertips printed on your skin, and for you to be unable to look away.
“Escúchame bien, maldita loca.” He seethed despite your hands slapping and slamming against his wrist and chest, in a poor attempt of freedom. “Soy la única esperanza que tienes en este momento. Así—” (Listen here, you crazy bitch.) (I’m the only hope you’ve got in this moment. So—)
“¡Pues vaya esperanza de mierda la que me ha tocado! ¡Siquiera sabes lo que sucede!” (Fucking shit ass hope I’ve got then! You don't even know what’s going on!)
Miguel didn’t know which was worse. For you to understand him word by word, or for you to understand him and talk back in the same language and galls as he was. Spanish came like breathing when anger pumped through his system. His hand squeezed harder, and his forehead almost touched yours.
“Primero.” He warned lowly. “Cierras la maldita boca. Segundo, te vas a estar quieta y a esperar a Tlalixa, y ter—” (First, you shut the fuck up. Second, you’ll stay put and wait for Tlalixa’s return, And third—)
The warm blob of spit rolling down his cheek, cut him off. His head recoiled with wide and disbelieving eyes.
“...¡Malcriada asquerosa!” The back of his hand wiped away the slimy blob with a scowl pressing on his lips. Which turned into a growl when you tried to bite him again. “¡Deja de morderme, carajo!” (Disgusting wretch) (Stop biting me for fucks’ sakes!)
“No! ¡No sabes cómo voy a alegrarme el día que tú y tu estúpida especie se mueran!” A whipping felt kinder on his pride than those words and his eyes glared holes through your skull. And still, you had the nerve to add: “No puedes ni proteger a los tuyos, ¿Y pretendes ayudarme?” (You’ve got no idea how joyful I’ll be when you and your stupid species perish!) (You can’t protect your own, yet you pretend to help me?)
And his patience snapped.
The way his eyes glowered with that outwordly and dern red gleam, sapped any further words you were ready to shoot. Not when he hoisted you up by your throat and hooked an arm around your waist, sparing zero mindfulness at your nudity, almost ragdolling you in the process, as he dragged you outside the shaman’s hut.
Jerking and thrashing were the only reactions he got so far while he toted you with resolute steps, closer to the agitated and frothy sea. Which recoiled when he ventured some steps in, unwilling to be part of yet another human drama.
Yet, Miguel ventured deeper, ankle’s deep and tossed you into the water. Just enough for the cold and salty crests to startle you, and still you coughed and whimpered when a small wave slapped you right on the face, as though she no longer respected nor recognized you. The sea had sized you with the same rod she used for all her intruders and to none's surprise, you were guilty.
“¿Quieres regresar a lo que eras? ¿EH?” He kicked water, dousing your hair with it. “¡Pues anda y vete por donde viniste, a ver si muy capaz!” (You wanna go back to what you were?) (Then fucking return from where you came from and see how that goes!)
Amphitrite had forsaken you. Matter of fact, she made sure that the wound in your foot flared with renewed force the more you remained in her territory.
“Mato al pendejo de Olivares para que no te siga torturando, te traigo aquí para ayudarte y encontrar respuestas, ¿Y me sales con esta mierda? ¡NO ME JODAS!” (I kill Olivares to stop him from torturing you any further, I bring you here to find answers and you act this way?! GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK!)
“¡¿Y DE QUIÉN MIERDA ES LA CULPA DE QUE HAYA TERMINADO ASÍ?!” (AND WHOSE FUCKING FAULT IS I’VE ENDED UP LIKE THIS?!)
You could only see his hands squeezing, painfully perhaps, at each side of his hips, to then rub them furiously on his face. Searching through his racing thoughts one that would put a halt to this all. But neither of both were willing to let the blaming ball go.
“Pues no mía.” He sneered while stepping back to the shore. “Yo no te puse esas malditas cadenas. Y por si no lo recuerdas, YO te ayudé, maldita desagradecida.” (Certainly not mine. I didn’t enchain you. And in case you’ve forgotten, I’ve helped you, fucking ungrateful.)
That only earned him a well deserved and aimed slam of wet sand in his chest. Reddening and scraping the spot on the go.
“¡No me hables de ser malagradecida cuando he pasado SIGLOS rescatando a tu inmunda especie del mar!” Your throat tightened as it dried from the constant use. “Incluyéndote.” (Don’t you dare call me ungrateful when I’ve spent CENTURIES saving your abominable species from the sea. Including you.)
And for once, he didn’t reply. Any counterblow he had prepared died before making it past his tongue. His shoulders, however, trembled with that barely contained rage, gnawing at his self restraint to go for yet another round of verbal spar against you. Making him silent equalled to tell him to not save slaves. Difficult, nearly impossible but also, necessary at times. Like this.
“¿Ya terminaron de gritarse? ¿O debo regresar más tarde?” (Are you done yelling? Or should I return later)
Both of your heads turned to the old shaman’s direction. Her wrinkled and keen eyes gazed in between Miguel and you, analyzing. Both had been too heated to notice her back in the moment Miguel dragged you out of her hut.
As a reply however, your hand grabbed yet another handful of wet sand, ready to strike again while Miguel grabbed an empty and pointy shell in return.
“Enough. Both of you.” Chided the shaman. “You’re no longer kids playing to hurt each other."
“I wasn’t playing.” your teeth gritted your eyes refused to leave Miguel. Maybe if you still had that deathly nature he feared, your gaze would’ve slitted in those dangerous lines Elliot recognized too late as danger.
“Basta.”
The firmness in her voice quieted any further lash out. Her walking stick dug into the sand with each step she gave towards Miguel, which exhaled a powerful huff of air while tossing the shell somewhere and reached to her in a few steps.
“I’m old. Not crippled, muchacho.” Reminded the elder with a grateful but brief smile at his aid. The beads around her neck clinked softly when her route changed towards the sea. “Now, Sirena.” Tlali spoke your way. “Can you get out on your own? You're bleeding and this part of the island is known for having interesting pets swimming around.”
Although you wanted that retaliation with the big brute, ending up as a shark's or whatever beast snack wasn’t in your plans. So you stood. Or at least attempted to, your balance had been noticeably affected. You couldn’t limp both in clumsy and pained steps without falling every bit you advanced.
And a mirthful huff escaped Miguel upon watching you. Powerless, unable to properly walk.
“Must I remind you of the terrible erection I treated after you tried khat the first time, Miguel?”
The smile vanished as soon as it came, sapping all remnants of fury and mirth within. A tinge of warmth crawled up to his ears. His lips smacked and his feet took the first steps towards the path leading to the docks.
“I’ll be back.”
Tlali didn’t say any further, just watched him go before reaching towards you on the shore.
“Where is that brute going?” You spat another thick blob of saliva away from Tlali’s feet. The brininess from the swallowed water tasted too pungent for your new tastebuds.
“To blow off some steam, probably.” Her wrinkly hands wrapped your bare body with the same shawl as before. “Up.” She offered her cane, and you stared at it and back to her for a couple of seconds, but decided to take it anyway.
With a firm tug for an old lady, Tlalixa helped you on your feet and her hand held you by your waist, earning a hiss as soon as her thumb made contact with a tender and healing scratch above the dip.
“Sorry, sorry. I’ll take a look at that gash and then,” Her tired eyes settled on you. “we’ll have a conversation on why you shouldn’t be so set into crushing hope, when it’s the only thing you’ve got left.”
Her words did nothing but confuse you. But maybe, she did have the answers. The very same thing Miguel lacked.
Humans.
The sand swallowed each affronted step the closer Miguel walked towards the docks, as though it gorged on his fury. Or was it outrage? He didn’t know a hundred percent, but he did know he needed to step away before things escalated to a point of no return.
She almost killed me.
You had. Almost, were it not for the not-so-subtle grunts and movements you had done while trying to reach up to him on the hammock. For a moment, Miguel thought or at least he had the idea that you’d wake up, get the scrambling in your head sorted while trying to figure things out. But never in his thirty four years of life had he imagined that the creature he saved was the same that tried to end him. In his sleep.
At least she could’ve waited for me to wake up.
But, could he truly blame you?
He didn’t know the specific details of your imprisonment, but had seen enough evil to infer how things had been. What better proof than your sullied mermaid body? The same thing that had turned into this gorgeous cloud of iridescent particles? Probably he had breathed you in without knowing.
But now, you were alive, turned into a human, had tried to murder him, and your hatred churned his insides with the same animosity your words alone provoked.
“Pinche loca jodida.” (Fucking psycho.)
His mouth grumbled, as his feet finally met a softer and loosened sand. And there, in the midst of an endless granulated beige, a small and shiny chunk caught his attention.
The pearls, of course.
His brain rerouted its line of thoughts and looked towards the floor, examining it. Despite his anger, his eyes were already scanning the area in search for those pearly tidbits your transformation left behind.
Miguel didn’t want his men fighting over those, not when they could be a potential source of money in case the loot wasn’t enough to bribe people or buy things for the ship. He picked the smallest ones scattered outside the docks, and followed the trail aboard El Aquelarre. And the more he ventured in, the bigger they turned.
He could recognize a hardened fin, turned in this hefty pearly clump that occupied a good space of the makeshift bag he had fashioned out of his shirt.
There was no blood to clean, thankfully. Just speckles of that shiny dust he saw back at Tlali’s home.
Miguel inspected through the stairs, and all the secret turns he did just to get you, and found nothing more than curled, hardened and tiny clippings of what he recognized as your scales.
She started transforming upstairs.
He picked as much as he could in his pockets, for Tlali. If there was someone capable of knowing what to do out of them, it would be her.
So far Tlali’s presence wasn’t bothersome to you, though, that didn’t mean it was less dangerous to leave her at your mercy. For all it could happen, you could kill her as well.
But again, his mind remembered the way you complied. How little to nothing you opposed her authority. Was it because of the magic bond both of you seemed to share? Maybe. His brain refused to believe that you felt more at ease with her for being a woman, than him, your reluctant savior. But a man nonetheless.
And maybe the latter made better sense, since you reminded him how much of hatred your heart held in for him, and his species. Or maybe you just hated everyone equally—
No. She definitely hates men… Me.
His mind confirmed upon watching the bite, still engraved in his ankle. For a moment, he stopped, and reached for it. The marks throbbed, greeting him as his fingers passed over them. He didn't know whether to marvel at the strength of your bite despite being a human, or to be pissed that you had made walking uncomfortable for him. His outrage had been such that the pulsating pain had vanished during the confrontation.
With a blasé sigh, he went to the captain’s quarters to sort and hide the chunks while adding a mental note to fetch Tlalixa, and ask her to take for herself whatever thing she saw fit from Olivares’ mystic vault.
His throat, however, demanded for something to soothe itself. That screaming contest at the beach had made it itchy and raw, to the point of making him cough and clear his throat uncomfortably a couple of times.
Yet, his feet refused to leave their spot. His mind weighed the pros and cons of moving towards the tavern. A boisterous celebration would definitely welcome him, followed by a plethora of cheers and grateful but soused speeches on the council’s behalf, for the historical milestone. Or, everyone would be blind drunk and his presence would be irrelevant.
He hoped for the latter, because his body demanded an assortment of sacrifices. Hunger especially. He hadn’t tried a good bite in quite the time, even before his crew docked. The already scarce supplies aboard had been either destroyed within the fight and explosions; and the few grains and animals that prevailed were consumed the next day. His men were hungry and so was he.
Once he made sure to hide the pieces well, he left the ship and headed for the tavern, occasionally picking the kaleidoscopic shards he had not noticed before.
The sun poured into the sky, tainting it with its golden, and multicolored hues. The moon shyly peeked from a corner, as though waiting for the giant and ruling star to go to sleep, so she and the darkness could take over the firmament.
It didn’t take him longer than a couple of minutes to hear the ruckus a few feet away from where he stood. Isla del Sol didn’t have many grogshops. Just the one he headed to and another on the south, but the food quality in Port de Mort was unmatched. Even if its name gave his tongue a hard time.
And no matter how many times Toussaint tried to teach the captain his home language, the only word Miguel remembered was “oui”.
He saw a few men outside, armored and not. Some smashed their overfilled mugs together, splattering the sand with grog. Others —crew members he could recognize, nearly vacuumed the plates of food served by Xavier's orders. Most, however, blubbered in a lousy attempt to sing one of the many shanties he had unwillingly learned.
And it's windy weather, boys, stormy weather, boys
When the wind blows, we're all together, boys
His eyes rolled and his shoulders slumped.
Don’t they know other than “Fish in the Sea”?
Grog flowed, like food and sloshed cheers. Some hurrayed as soon as The Red Eyed Demon crossed the threshold, others tried to grab him for a firm hug, but there was more rum in their veins than blood, and they fell.
Miguel saw the men from the council at a separate table, talking and discussing, like always. The three acknowledged him with a raise of their mugs and a proud grin, before resuming their next move. After all, Isla Del Sol wouldn’t manage on its own. And now with the living nightmare Olivares was, out for good, the pirate’s paradise future needed to stir in a new direction.
Meanwhile, Oba, Anwé and Hobie, sat in a row, eating like food had just been invented. Plates after plates of stew, rice, fruit and fishes paraded among the tavern. The smell of it did nothing but stir the growling in his stomach louder.
One of the maids lured him towards an empty and clean table near a window, and put an assortment of dishes before him.
The captain wasted no time and ate, each bite destroyed whatever meal he placed in his mouth. His fingers gripped tighter and snapped in two the crab legs with such ease, some just stopped eating to watch him, but quickly averted their eyes upon witnessing the quick paced slaughter his hands performed on his food.
Maldita Sirena.
The fish bones and crab carcass crunched under his teeth viciously, until his throat took pity and swallowed them. And his eyes landed on Peter.
The ‘white boy’ as Toussaint had baptized him, had his cheeks donned in a red so bright it matched the rouge the courtesans he sometimes went to, painted their cheeks with. But not out of drunkenness, but shame.
A family man like him wasn’t used to seeing women serve food with a cleavage deeper than his train of thoughts, or wenches prancing around the tavern with their breasts exposed, luring their next clients for the night. Mary Jane would definitely kill him.
With a roll of his eyes and a cube of cheese as a projectile, he used it to get Peter’s attention and coax him at his table. The aforementioned picked his tray of food and joined him without much thought.
“You saw that, right?” Mumbled the merchant while covering his left side of his face as a prostitute came their way, but Miguel dismissed her with a gentle flick of his hand.
“Every time I come here, yes.”
“Is it always like this over here?” Peter’s hands grabbed a pocketful of rice and ate it, licking his fingers clean with evident delight.
Miguel’s nose scrunched softly, but chose to remain silent. He was none to judge the merchant’s eating habits, when he had acted the same or worse.
“Always. When it’s quiet it means everyone’s drunk or dead or something terrible happened.” Miguel rinsed his hand with a bit of grog out the window and then sipped from his mug. “Not a life I’d imagine for someone like you.”
“On that we can agree.” The merchant nodded right away, “No offense to you or… the rest in here, but, I would rather have my steady little income than doing…” He gestured around. “This.” It pulled a scoff from Miguel. “I killed a man.” Peter muttered with a frown, “Will always have nightmares because of it, but… it was him or me. And shit, I wanna meet and raise my little girl.”
Miguel just watched him as envy sat briefly in his chest. But, like he said once to this unlikely friend, he had nothing else left to lose. Unlike him, that had his world awaiting for him, somewhere in the thirteen colonies back in the States.
“Then, it’s settled.” Nodded Miguel, finishing his crab stew. “Next docking is your stop.”
Peter’s eyes shone for a second and a grateful smile stretched on his lips.
“Too bad my things got stolen when I was brought to that island. Or else I would’ve shown you my wife.”
“You’re married?” Asked a curious Hobie as he brought a stool from another table and sat between them.
“With the prettiest baker in Queens, yes.” mused the locksmith with flushed cheeks as Oba and Anwé joined the table, mugs of rum on hand and curious glances.
For a moment, Miguel’s shoulder tensed. Having company while eating wasn’t in his repertoire of social skills, but the men around him were trustworthy. And that made them enough to be allowed in such a personal space.
“Kiddos?”
“A new born I haven’t got the pleasure to meet yet.” chuckled Peter.
“If so, what on earth’s hell are you doing here, mate?”
Hobie’s interrogation only made the merchant laugh, a tad nervous. “Long story, pal. Just know our captain has a good heart and honors his word.”
Him? A good heart? Maybe cynic at best, but Miguel just huffed a tiny laugh in return.
“So what’s next, Cap?” Asked this time Oba.
“We drop him,” Miguel pointed at Peter, “nearby a State’s shore, then we set course for Honduras.”
“And what’s in there?” Anwé took a piece of orange and a banana from a plate.
“My ship. The real one.”
The three men watched him with wary eyes. Even Peter stopped his eating to pay attention. He had asked many important and personal questions back at la hacienda’s shore that never crossed his mind once how Miguel ended up there.
“I was marooned.” Miguel drank the last sip of rum, watching the men’s reaction. “My quartermaster betrayed me. Then I got dropped somewhere northwest here and my ship was stolen. I’m getting it back.”
He knew that honesty was just as essential as grog for his men, and if he wanted capable people to help him in his vendetta, he’d need all hands available.
“What about Olivares’ ship?” The three young men nodded at Peter’s question.
“It’s mine too.” Miguel’s eyes darted outside the window. The night was pleasant, and clear. But a familiar flag waving on the docks soured his mouth instantly. Trouble came in its way.
“Thought you’d destroy it?”
Hobie slapped the back of Oba’s bald head with an outraged ‘bah!’ from his lips. “Use that shiny head of yours for a second, will ya?” The doctor elbowed him in return with a teeth-showing chuckle. “Do you know the craftsmanship level that ship has? Destroying it would be a waste.”
“Are you coming?” The question had the three men looking among each other, seeing if there was any trace of doubt written in them, but found none.
They had been enslaved together, fought together and now, they were free men, thanks to the enormous man before them about to give them a new purpose. Their mugs raising towards Miguel was enough to answer.
Before any instructions or further plans could be given, silence, almost sepulchral, fell upon the tavern. Most eyes settled on the main entrance, or rather whom had paused the ambience.
“So…” The ever gritty and troublesome voice of Edward “Ned” Low started. “I just docked to restock, and to my… surprise, I saw The Sorcerer’s ship docked, fully guarded, and learned that Olivares lives no more.”
The four men around Miguel were about to turn their heads but a stern look and a soft shake of his head was enough for them to understand.
Don’t look his way.
“And all thanks to The Red Eyed Demon.”
Miguel’s jaw ticked as most eyes fell on him. Some in utter admiration, others in curiosity. But Low’s stare was neither. Maybe trouble as that evil twinkle he always carried shone through his eyes for a moment, as his steps took him closer to his table.
Xavier, Toussaint and councilman Edward stood from their seats and Ned’s smirk only deepened as he raised his hands in apparent surrender.
“Relax. I’m in good spirits today, mates. We’re no longer being hunted by a mage.”
A few claps and hoots broke the silence, but not the now oppressive disquietude setting. The fight between both before each sailed a couple of weeks ago were still in everyone's minds.
For a moment, Miguel wondered when that wicked man had returned?
“Guess it takes a real mean demon to kill another one, aye?”
Even though many nodded and grinned, as though Low was complimenting Miguel, for the captain his words only carried an omen. Years of sidelong glances and wary eyes, brief unpleasant encounters with the madman had been enough to read through lines.
What is he up to now?
“For Miguel.” The cynic raised his stolen mug. Some followed him, others grabbed the tankard's handle tighter in case a fight broke out. “May hell always be your strength."
The tavern broke in another round of collective cheers and the music and chatting continued.
Ned, however, went to the bar, not before spitting at the floor while his eyes refused to tear themselves from Miguel’s imposing frame, settled to ignore him.
The toast had been enough cue for Miguel to grab a knife to hide it in his pocket, then clear his throat.
“Meet me near the docks in fifteen. We gotta set our plan.” His crew nodded. “And for all you hold dear and sacred, avoid that man at all cost. You especially.” His eyes darted to Peter, who swallowed a nervous knot in return.
With a final warning given, Miguel stood and left them.
Peter however gave a discreet look in Ned's direction and quickly averted his gaze. An unpleasant chill ran down his spine. The kind of unnerving he always got whenever a troublesome client showed up at his shop, unannounced. And if a man such as Miguel warned him directly, it meant danger.
He’d be home soon. Each night spent at his cot in the barracks he made sure to pray for this chance to come. Yet part of him wondered if this would be the last time his life would get this exciting and purposeful. Or if that he’d see that big scary oaf he already thought of as a friend again.
Hopefully.
Complex was one of the things you could describe humans as. Same for obnoxious and curious.
Now that your fried nerves had calmed enough for your brain to think properly, and that old woman’s confusing but somehow soothing words about your transformation’s purpose came in tandem, your mind rewired your thoughts direction.
You were alive, and a human. One of them. A hard to accept and swallow pill.
The very same people that had hunted your other sisters for centuries, the same creatures that developed civilizations out of nowhere, those who had ventured into the sea despite her anger and treacherous ways, that group that put more questions than answers within you, all of it, you were part of it now. Delicate feet included.
A talking, breathing and cursing human that struggled for hours to stand on her own, while ignoring the rest of newfound needs manifesting through hunger, exhaustion and that persistent urge to tear something, or rather someone in sheds.
A certain dark-skinned and red-eyed captain came into your thoughts. How dared he pull you by your hair? Or throw you to the water? Or call you crazy? Even though the shaman had helped you in giving your few literal steps without falling after she had patched, dressed you with one of her chemises and treated your wounds, you couldn’t trust her fully.
However, Tlali, as Miguel had called her, seemed unbothered by having an ex-mythical creature under her care. The shaman acted like this was just another regular occurrence in her every-day life. She didn’t ask questions, but seemed to understand you didn’t want to be bothered past pleasantries. Besides, what could you really tell her despite the obvious and what she already possibly knew?
This had been the longest interaction you’ve ever had with the two-legged beasts. Ever since… centuries perhaps? You didn’t remember punctually, and maybe it was better that way.
Neither of you broke the silence, but you were sure the elder woman observed you without actually doing it. Did it even make sense? Perhaps not, but unlike those watchful eyes you knew were upon you while hiding in the sea, hers held this unusual gentleness that you hadn’t seen in decades, besides in children. And that, for some reason, unsettled you more.
The little ones always gawped in innocent amazement, while the big and dangerous ones did it with fear and repulsion.
Curiously, Miguel didn't. With neither of both rather with disbelief when he first saw you and then found you. His steps upon returning awakened you but he didn’t entertain you, just walked past your supposedly sleeping form nearby the fire.
Had he been angry? Or was it frustrated? You didn’t know for sure, but you were certain as the stars dressing the dark sky, that whatever he was holed up speaking with the shaman, after his late return, meant no good.
“¿Y cómo pretendes que yo la cuide, muchacho?” (And how do you expect me to take care of her, boy?)
It was a fair question. How? The woman was old and she barely could walk on her own. Let alone defend herself or her.
What is he even thinking?!
“Dí lo que quieras, pero sé que me odia. ¿Qué más prueba quieres de ello cuando intentó matarme mientras dormía?” (Say whatever you want but I know she hates me. What more proof you want when she tried to kill me while I slept?)
That cynical laugh from the shaman only made Miguel scold her. Like a kid getting angry at a parent for not taking them seriously.
“Ya, ya. Lo siento. Es solo que… jamás te había visto tan vivo y enojado, Miguel.” (Sorry. It’s just… I’ve never seen you this alive and angry)
“Prueba intentar hablar con ella. ¡Es terquísima! Y me saca de quicio.” (Try talking to her. She’s way too headstrong and drives me nuts.)
Tlali kept tittering and spared him a few glances, as though recognizing a seed already sprouting. It wasn’t often she got visions from the future, but when they did, they came at the most random of timing.
“I’ll help you. It will be hard, but I will. Is that enough answer for you?”
The smoke wafted in soft ripples, the cinnamon and grainy smell filled in Miguel’s lungs, easing his persistent nerves. Because, in all honesty, he wasn’t sure that she’d help if he asked. Not because she didn’t want to, but rather logistics. You had to be fed, taken care of and kept away from the others until he deemed it safe to at least make up a story on who you were. Something he also doubted you’d contribute to.
But the more he spent it on here, the more possibilities of his ship being lost or destroyed at sea grew. And God or whoever above forbid the only memento of his child to be lost forever. Sailing away knowing you were in good hands was pivotal for his plan. Because once he was away, he wouldn’t return for weeks, or months perhaps. And taking you with him was out of the question.
A grateful sigh left Miguel as his shoulders’ tension dissolved instantly upon her reassuring.
“Forgot to tell you. Uh, Olivares kept these… things that might be useful to you. Before I go tomorrow, come and take whatever you want, and if I can, I’ll bring you whatever you need.”
“You not losing your patience in that ship is more than enough for me, Miguel.”
And there she was, speaking Yodaism again while giving him the most mysterious of smiles. Would it be rude to admit that sometimes she creeped him out? Probably.
“So it’s settled then. Sirena stays with you and I’ll do my best to return as soon as possible.”
Miguel’s words only stirred that familiar uneasiness within your guts. Not only had he taken over Constantino’s ship, but now commanded it and was planning to leave you here with a confused woman. No disrespect to her, just… realistically speaking you didn’t have much faith in her despite her good intentions in helping.
Before Miguel could spot you, you returned with careful steps to his cot, now yours, and laid on your side, so your back would face him while you pretended to sleep.
You heard his steps moments later, leaving the room, scoffing when he saw you in his spot, but moved outside the hut. The creaking of the wooden stairs almost outmatched the palm trees rustling, meaning he had slumped in the hammock outside as silence filled in the gaps the intermittent waves did.
As soon as Tlalixa left her hut, you followed her from afar, caring little for your bare feet. Limping didn’t hurt like yesterday, making your moves a bit faster. And you waited. Watched for the right time and kept following.
To your surprise, your nose could tell Miguel and the shaman’s smells from the rest. A curious thing you’d have all the time to question later. Like this decision.
You couldn't stay. The sea had exiled you from her depths, the island was too full of humans and so far you could barely stand two of them. Staying equalled death. Leaving was no different, but at least you’d have a meaningful death upon setting your eyes on your objective. El Aquelarre.
The thickets and shrubberies hid you well, despite some inoffensive crawlers hopping to your body. Your nose once again detected those familiar smells and moved closer to the docks, but stopped in your tracks when a group of men walked off, talking about getting the next cattle cargo.
And when you were sure they had been gone, you moved.
Thankfully being barefooted added another layer of discretion while you crossed the boarding plank, a gust of wind blew under your chemise, ruffled your hair and caressed a tad rough your skin. As though it reluctantly welcomed you aboard.
Your stomach however couldn’t help but shrink upon staring at the fishnet’s pulley. And your body shrivered with the sudden memories flooding it. The metallic and unforgiving cold, the razor-edged hook digging and finding a new home between bones and tissue. And the way it groaned as it hauled you upwards, to expose your defeated body like a prize to a mob of eager men.
Yet, the upcoming steps alerted you, and your feet rushed towards the stairs. The smell of Miguel and Tlalixa increased the more you approached a wooden door; upon entering, nothing but a luxurious bed awaited behind a set of dark velvet curtains. A wide oak desk rested nearby the window with a chair, already occupied with paper, ink and a feather you had seen in Olivares’ hat.
Some armor resembling the one Carrillo won, his maze and those twin rapiers that once cut the wind with unmatching elegance.
The sound of Miguel’s voice had your jaw clenching, followed by others you couldn’t recognize at the moment. Nor wanted to.
A gasp left your mouth when another set of steps came closer, giving you no choice but to hide behind the velvety curtains.
“Oi! Cap! Parker’s retching on the docks.” The British man’s voice announced and Miguel instructed something about a shot of grog and a fruit.
The man left, but the apparent group inside remained there. Talking about the different uses of whatever thing Tlalixa picked for herself, along some instructions neither Miguel or the rest seemed to question or ignore.
Some men took a pair of statues full of nails outside, same for the foul smelling jars and that rusted bucket full of bones and human debris. A pungent smoke made you cough softly, luckily those strange chants the shaman recited were too loud for someone to hear you.
“Now, the bed. We must purge whatever evil Salazar had left behind.” said the elder and you wasted no time in crawling underneath the bed, and covering your mouth with both hands.
The chants became louder, like the steps of five people.
You recognized Tlalixa’s sandals, Miguel’s boots, as he was the biggest of them all, and other men that smelled like sea, herbs and spices.
None moved, just let the mystic bless the ship.
When the last foreign word was recited, the men breathed, as though the atmosphere in the place was different. Someone behind Miguel laughed, grateful, and soon all of them left the captain’s quarters. Except for Tlali, that remained before the bed a second longer and uttered a chuckle.
“Le bej je'ela' ka u ye'es ti'ob u bejil ba'ax ku kaxtiko'ob tu ka'atúulal.” (May this trip guide you both towards what you seek.)
She didn’t chant anything further, just left and the door closed.
You were on time to leave, and return to her side like nothing had happened. But that stubborn and likely human side of your brain refused. It just made you bite your lip tighter, silencing that fear whispering to your ear. Not when you were inside your objective.
Not when the promise of destroying the catalyst of your new reality had taken shape overnight.
And after a couple of minutes, the groaning you recognized as the ship moving, echoed louder than ever before, louder than a single thought in your mind as it ventured into the sea.
ALRIGHT so i was talking to my sister and she remembered me about Marian Marsh (specifically in the movie "Svengali") and well, fusion her with Madge Bellamy and we have Marina Domek
Marian has a youngish and kinda sassy looks that fits Marina so well!! I think both actresses are excellent choices for her, but let me know what you think!
the first two pictures are Marian Marsh, the third is Madge Bellamy
La pase muy bien dibujando esta escena :D quedo como lo imagine.
Esta imagen se sitúa mas adelante en su lore, actualmente a ella le vale vrg Kylar (mas o menos 7-7)
EXTRA:
Además...
MUCHAS GRACIAS!!! mucha gente dio like y rebloggeo mis dibujos, me hace muy feliz que les haya interesado mi pc. Soy muy mala respondiendo (・–・;) pero sepan que leo cada una de sus notas :D y aprecio sus bonitos mensajes.
Especiales agradecimientos a @mothinabottle y @lunardol tqm!
THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! so many people liked and reblogged my drawings, it makes me so happy that you were interested in my pc. I'm very bad at replying (・-・;) but know that I read every single one of your notes :D and I appreciate your nice messages.
Father O'Hara, a vampire priest with a mysterious and dark past, struggles with his dual existence as a devoted cleric and a creature of the night. He meets a compassionate nun at the Abbey, where his conflicting worlds collide. Despite his eternal solitude and the inherent danger of his vampiric nature, Father O'Hara finds himself irresistibly drawn to her kindness and faith.
tags: AU! Religion, Religious imagery and symbolism, use of catholic rites, rituals and practices, Reader-insert, reader is a nun, forbidden love, fluff, angst, eventual smut MDNI!!
warnings: peeping tom behavior, semi public sex, fingering, pinv sex, murder, ripping apart a body (only a quick mention ei no explicit details), masturbation, biting (vampire shit), light gore,
snowghoul
yousharknotpass
discoholicmusic
