The Dregs of Tragedy
Mer!Azriel x human!reader
a/n: Something about writing Az as a creature other than Illyrian just makes him end up being so cold and cruel and I have literally no idea where that comes from?
warnings: [Under Editing] Bitta’ blod, Az saves reader in a way, you have an awful husband in this
word count: ???
-Part 2-
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“If your husband hears you talking like that, you’ll be strung up with the rest of them.”
A could flavour crawls up the back of your throat, but you hold firm—one doesn’t survive in a town as brutal as this without a stomach lined with iron. “I don’t care what you say. It’s barbaric.”
Joanne shakes her head, hair pulled back from her face as the carving knife splits the fish’s head from its body. “It’s barbaric what they do to us, young lass. A sailor’s death will never be kind, but to be dragged below the waters is not a fate I would wish on many.”
You quirk a brow, lips tugging up at the edges. “Would Hildebald be among those few ‘many’?” You muse.
Joanne’s milky eyes blaze a hole in the centre of your forehead. “Do not ask me to speak poorly of him,” she hisses, “the gods listen between breaths.”
“The gods lay back while we are beaten bloody,” you reply, voice lowered to a whisper. “I fear them as much as the next woman, but I will not succumb to terror. Virtues protect me, I carry honour close and pray to Valour for my husband’s safe return, but that does not mean I would be unhappy should he be taken from my side.”
Joanne runs her eyes over you appraisingly, she carved deep into her skin, hair wispy and grey. “Listen closely, lass,” she instructs, “we have little power in this here town. Don’t squander the hand you’ve been dealt; many others would gladly take your place. Your husband works hard at sea, and has been parted from his gold to pay for you—and we all know your father put an…exceptionally tall dowry on your head.”
Joanne’s misty sea-foam eyes flicker about, on constant edge should the wrong ears catch the conversation. “Just be grateful for what you have, lass. Look to the skies and you’ll go falling over land,” she hisses, a clear end to the conversation.
You’re poised to reply—money can’t justify blood—but her watery blue eyes skip over your head, just as a hard, heavy palm settles atop your shoulder, pulling you in close to a tall, strong body, trained and battered from the seas. “Fish for supper?” He asks jovially—it must have been a good sail. Turn into him, like a creature seeking protection from a vastly superior beast, tilting your head to peer up at your husband. “I got a fresh loaf from the bakers so I was thinking of a soup,” you say, pushing up onto your tiptoes to deliver a chaste kiss to his rough skin, coarse hairs scratching your cheek. “They even added in a fresh lemon to go with it all.”
Light, sharp blue eyes cut to you, something passing behind them that has your stomach sinking. “Of course they did,” he mutters, “it’s in their nature to covet another man’s catch.” He shakes his head, arm tightening around your ribcage almost painfully. “Joanne, you can accompany my wife to the bakers from here onwards,” he drawls out the order like he’s stood behind his ship’s wheel. He turns back to you, fingers stroking along the underside of your breast, eyes glinting. “A hag ought to even out the balance of your beauty,” he murmurs, and you attempt not to cringe as his hot, fishy breath fans across your face.
Instead you dip your head in a demure show of embarrassment, ducking away from the smell. “You find me beautiful because you spend your days at sea with only fish to admire,” you dodge the compliment like you’re expected to, the picture of humble grace. “I assure you, I am nothing much at all.” That seems to please him, squeezing you a little too tightly. “You’re the most beautiful girl in the town,” he says, greasy hand stroking your side. “That is why you are mine. I would not have picked you out if there was a better catch.”
You paste a shy smile onto your lips, tucking away a stray hair over your ear, gripping the wicker basket tighter.
The night will be unpleasant but blessedly short.
————
The surf is calmer today, fog rolling across the grey-blue landscape.
You shouldn’t be down at the cove so early in the morning, but you hadn’t wanted to sleep beside him for a moment longer. Desiccated, scratchy skin pressing to your back, a meaty arm pressed around your waist. So you’d come down to the alcove to clear your head, allowing the crips, salty air to clear your mind before the day ahead. Though sailors will soon be passing by, so you can’t afford to wait too long.
Release a heavy breath, staring out at the deep blue of the ocean, long since desensitised to the scent of brine and seaweed that makes inlanders cringe. The waves are slight, appearing almost still as you survey the view. Had it not been for the steady babble and crush of water, you might have believed the world to be frozen.
Your mind drifts to tales of the mer, stories told to every child to encourage fear and awe into their hearts. Of their cold and clammy hands, capable of pulling fully grown sailors from the docks should they stand too close to the edge. Of their damp, bluish skin, like an eel’s on their chest and arms, but scaled and sharp on their long, thrashing tails. Of their razor-sharp teeth, used to shred and tear at their prey before finally doing away with the catch.
But more than any other feature, folk melodies revolve around their deadly song. Said to be sung so sweetly it could lure any sailor to wish for his end to be at their cold, wet hands. To be dragged below the water’s still surface into their dark and murky layer, fed enough air to be kept alive and aware but never enough to resist as the flesh is torn from their bones.
You move forward, walking along the rickety platform, wanting to look down into the water at the end of the pier, despite the danger you’ve been warned about. The water is still high, but has already begun draining away, the tides lowering. You hum absently as you approach, an old tune that’s often strummed around celebratory bonfires, logs crackling and embers burning bright against the wet blues and greys of the sea-town.
Something catches your eye, ripples coming out from beneath the pier you’re stood on.
Brows furrow, and you walk forward quietly. Maybe a sea creature is hiding beneath the platform. A smile tugs at your lips at the idea—you’d like to see more of the animals when they’re alive instead of with their head severed into a slimy, bloody basket.
You lower to your knees as you come to the edge, muffling your steps so as not to scare it away, if there really is something there.
Peer over the ledge, gaze going to one of the two beams supporting the platform.
Eyes latch with coal black, ringlets of damp, silky hair curling over blue-tinted skin.
Lips part in a scream as you jerk back from the edge, scrambling away before it’s spindly hands come groping for your legs. Heart pounding, you thumb free the small dagger from a dress pocket, gripping it between trembling hands as you frenetically eye the waters below. Waiting for it to attack one side of the pier…to try and drag you under so it can feed on your flesh.
Breath clouds, tendrils curling from your lips as you tremble, replaying the depth of blackness in your mind, the deathly tint of its skin, the unnatural beauty of the lethal creature.
Nothing.
Utter silence.
Shakily, you get to your feet. Had you imagined it? There’s no way.
Heart pounding, you again make your way to the ledge, prepared to toss yourself back should its hands suddenly rise from the water. Swallow, gripping the dagger tight as you shift closer, enough to see a head of dark, slightly curled hair. No doubt the drying sea salt bringing out the waves.
Ease a shuddering breath as you again meet its eyes—charcoal black and utterly depthless. Designed to see in the deepest parts of the mighty ocean. That’s when you notice the tinge in the waters surrounding— him. It’s a male face. Dark lashes, smooth skin, cropped hair.
Eyes dart back to the sea, bleeding red around him.
You note the fishing wire that’s gotten him tangled to one of the beams upholding the platform.
He’s been caught.
Lips part in relief—he can’t hurt you. And yet— “You’re not singing…” you murmur to yourself, eyeing the soft-looking mouth of the creature.
Features coil, twisting themselves into something frighteningly fitting as lips pull back from teeth—dozens of tiny, shredding teeth, set in two neat rows with noticeably protruding incisors. You flinch back on instinct, but remaster your fear, reminding yourself he can’t move. Swallowing, you thank the gods for your iron stomach as you return to the edge. Dagger still gripped tight.
The wire has wrapped itself around his torso from what you can see—probably having gotten tangled first with the creature’s tail, then only constricted tighter as he tried to escape. Much like seaweed.
Brow tightens as the waves continue washing at the shore—the ocean’s draining. What will happen to him, if he doesn’t break free? His lips look dry now you’re peering closer, lines running beneath the stunning black of his vicious eyes. They can survive without being submerged in water for days, but the wire… How long has he been here for?
His mouth opens, and you freeze, tales of their deadly song returning, but instead of the painful melody you were expecting, what comes out is a rasping screech. Garbled and furious—a wet hissing noise, as if he’s seething his warnings.
There’s wire against his neck. Already slicing deep against the powerful column of his throat, stopping much of the noise escaping. You stare down at the creature, tangled and caught. A mighty beast that’s been stripped of any way to protect itself. You wonder if it fears or loathes the helplessness. Perhaps a little of both.
You peer into its eyes, the vicious fury contained within, like he’s already promising to repay the pain you’ll inflict on him tenfold.
Your throat rolls as you stare at him. He’ll die if you leave him—it’s a miracle of some kind he’s managed to remain undetected for so long, though you suppose not many people come down here. But what if someone else finds him?
A queasy feeling tightens around your throat as you imagine the tide sweeping out, gravity pulling the weight of his body down into those slicing wires, forcing him to rest in the tangle until the water returns to yield him to near weightlessness. But what if one of the sailors finds him?
You know what they’ll do. What they already do to the mer they catch. How they’re mutilated, then strung up in the air for the salty winds to whip at, for birds to peck at, slathered in fish blood and other small carcasses to draw creatures in. Sometimes fires are lit beneath their long, powerful tails. Slowly cooking them alive.
Hadn’t you been protesting against the brutality just the other day?
The mer struggles again, water rippling as he writhes, so certain he can break the man-made wire holding him. So desperate to do so.
You look around once…twice. Check no sailors have yet begun to pass over the paths that lead beside the shore. Slowly lower to your knees, gripping the dagger. Black eyes pick out the steel, and he thrashes more, hissing violently as his features are again carved into that picture of grizzly vehemence. Exactly how the stories have told them to be.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” you say clearly, slowly. If he’s smart enough to capture and kill fully grown sailors, he should have something to pick up on tone. Some kind of sense that will tell him it’s better to let you near than to go through with the fate he’s seemingly been dealt.
He hisses again, still baring those teeth at you, but he’s no longer struggling. No longer bringing the wire deeper into his body. It’s a good start. You just need to make sure he doesn’t grab you once cut loose. What a foolish way to go.
You breathe deeply as you move closer, reaching forward.
His muscles tense, tension tightening his shoulders as the blade nears him—it would be easy for your hand to drag the steel across his throat, but the very idea makes you uncomfortable. Watching murder happen and doing it yourself are still very different. You don’t think you could quite stomach that.
“I need you to keep still,” you say gently, clearly. If he makes a sudden movement with the blade so close… You slide it beneath the wire, placing the sharp edge to the restraints, pulling in attempts to get it to break. He hisses suddenly, and you realise it’ll be cutting into his throat so you change tactics, gently sawing until it snaps free.
The mer coughs, wet gasps being hauled down into no-doubt powerful lungs, spluttering as his gills spasm violently.
You can only allow him a little time before setting to work on the next one, further below the water, binding his shoulders tight to the post. Settle closer to the platform, aware of how his eyes silently track every angle of your movements. Whether to make sure you don’t attack, or to plan his own, you don’t contemplate. Just reach deeper, aiming for the next wire. Repeat the gentle sawing motions until that too snaps off.
A gush of relief washes over you as his upper body moves free from the bloody mess, but then he hisses and jerks back, pressing to the beam. His noise sounds strained instead of violent. A noise the product of lacerating pain. There’s most likely more wire tangling his tail, but— you can’t reach that.
The unearthly face tilts, dark eyes boring into you with urgency and— Great Gods. Hunger.
“What are you doing down here?”
You flinch at the rumble of your husband’s voice and the creature goes preternaturally still. As if he also recognises the sound. You could swear his skin leeches of the bluish tint, becoming colder and more translucent. The dagger drops from your hands, bouncing loudly on the wood of the pier. Settles at the edge, and you jerk away, turning to face the towering man approaching you.
Panic grips you as you spy a broad, pale blue hand rising silently from the water. Reaching for the blade.
You shift, angling your body to block him from your husband.
“I wanted to see if I could see the sea bed,” you explain hurriedly, managing what you hope is an appropriately embarrassed smile. “Sadly the tide’s in, so I think it’s too deep. Do you know when it’ll be out again?” You ask, trying to distract from the position he’d found you in. His brow narrows, heavy boots clunking over the rickety pier. “You shouldn’t be so near to the waters,” he mutters, moving forward and you hastily get to your feet, the dagger gone from the platform.
Bruising, meaty hands roughly grip your upper arms, forcefully turning you to face him. The smell of grease and hot fish washes over you and you fight your cringe. “Yesterday it was the bakers, today it’s the seas,” he mutters, “it’s not right for you to be this close to—” Follow the direction of his gaze, down to the edge of the pier.
He pushes you to the side, allowing him to galumph past, staring down to the post the mer had been tied to.
Watch his bulky silhouette as hands pull into flesh-beating fists, your bones already aching. “Is everything okay?” You ask softly, shaking your head to yourself. “I’m sorry for taking so long to make breakfast—I got sidetracked on my usual pathway. Let’s return home.”
He doesn’t move, the world silent save for the steady wash of waves at the shore. Your husband turns then, brows pulled into a hateful bunch atop sea-roughened skin. “Why were you peering into the waters?” His voice is low and blunt, eyes sharpening to glacial blue, regarding you with a hint of suspicion. You smile, “I told you, I was looking to see the bottom but the tide’s not yet out.”
Heart is pounding—could he have already known the mer was there? The bluish skin had almost drained, as if paling with fury.
Then he’s walking to you with intent, hands brutally gripping your upper arms, tight enough the bones trembling beneath his sailor’s grip. “Why were you peering into—”
Something gleams over his shoulder, grazing the muscle of his bicep as your dagger flies past, blood spitting onto the deck as the blade lodges into the wood. Cold blue eyes freeze, snapping from the weapon dug into the pier back to you. “That’s yours,” he accuses, lowly. “You set it free, didn’t you?”
“I don’t—”
His hand smacks across your cheek before you have time to prepare, the corner of your mouth stinging as something hot trickles down your chin. Lips part, raising your fingers to the drip-drop of blood.
“You set the damned thing free,” he rages, practically snarling with fury. Before you can do anything against it, he’s turning, gripping you so tight you’re afraid your arm will splinter. “Björn! Bertram!” He bellows, calling to the sailors that are no doubt beginning their morning routines. He’s muttering to himself, about capturing it again before it can get too far out to sea, dragging you along behind him.
You stumble, tripping up as you go, almost bumping into him as you’re roughly pulled back along the pier. He whirls on you then, backhanding you hard enough you almost careen backward. But his meaty hand is encompassing your throat, strangling tight as he pulls you close enough for his greasy, fishy beard to coarsely scratch your skin. “Stupid, foolish hag,” he snarls out, “you’ll be strung you and up cooked alive for that.”
Your stomach churns as you struggle, nails clawing at his knuckles, scratching deep enough to draw blood, more of it drip-dropping onto the rickety pier. You gasp for breath, rasping and clawing at his hand until he snarls, shoving you back. Tripping over your skirts, the back of your head smacks against the wood hard enough to have your vision blurring, white spots dancing through your view. Billowing grey clouds wash overhead, looking about to rain down.
Weakly, you push up from the damp platform, in time to see your husband pluck the dagger from the ground—what had tripped you up. Eyes flash with fury, flipping the hilt menacingly as he advances, drawing out the fear. You whimper, scrambling back until your hand slips over the edge, almost sending you tumbling into the murky depths. “I should have known,” he spits out, “there were whispers about your thoughts. I should have paid them more mind.” The dagger glints in his hand, so quickly turned to your own throat.
“I’ll take my time with you,” he mutters, “take the fingers that cut the fish free.” Flips the blade in his hand as he towers over you. Muscles coil taut, unable to move, unable to fight as the steel glitters beneath the overcast light. He moves to grab you—to take your fingers, to cut you up.
A deafening screech sounds, rasping and raw, then a pale blue shape leaps from the water. Jaws are unlocked to a monstrous angle, neat rows of sharp, flesh-shredding teeth bared as that giant tail thrashes with the force to propel him clean from the water. The muscled weight of the mer crashes into your husband, knocking him from his feet as he’s stolen beneath the water’s surface faster than you can blink.
The sea ripples in his wake, then calms to nothing, continuing to lap at the shore, hiding all traces of the deadly attack.
“Mer!” A bellowing voice roars, and your eyes are dragged to the beginning of the pier, two hulking sailors—Björn and Bertram—stood among the heavy, rolling fogs that have seemingly thickened out of nowhere. Their weighty boots thud on the deck as they begin storming forward, weapons gripped tight in case of another unseen attack.
Your heart beats in your mouth, fear and panic sweeping you under as you freeze with terror. You shift to move back, but have forgotten you’re already at the edge, hand slipping back over the ledge of the pier.
Eyes go wide, unable to scream as powerful, cold-blooded hands wrap beneath your arms, hooking over your shoulders and you’re dragged down beneath the sea’s surface. Water swallowing any trace of struggle as it seals overhead.
You thrash and writhe, hands shoving out as you try to free yourself from the iron grip of the mer that’s dragging you down to his sea bed. He turns you around, then cold, soft lips are settling over your own, breathing fresh air into your lungs. Tasting slightly coppery. You don’t question how it’s possible—they’re creatures of magic—just greedily gulp the extra seconds of life down as you feel his powerful body ripple with motion, muscle working as the large tail propels you deeper into the ocean, stolen away from the sea-town you’d grown up in.
Fear seeps into your blood as images of his tiny, shredding teeth flash through your head, the charcoal of his large, onyx eyes.
You should never have risked freeing him. He’s as cruel as the songs warn.
————
Breaking the water’s surface, you splutter, eyes aching.
You gulp down air, fuelling your panic driven heartbeat, briny salt water stinging as tears leak and burn. You’re quick to blink them away, but unable to dry them thanks to the cold water having soaked your clothes. His tail cuts back and forth, keeping the both of you afloat, yet he hasn’t bitten down. His mouth remains shut, as if waiting for you to ready.
So he can dine on your fear—ripe in your final moments.
You force your eyes to peel open, instantly latching onto his darkened set, glittering black as he watches, silent. The oddly shaped ears either side his head twitch—like the webbed feet of sea birds. Birds that have feasted upon mer flesh when it’s been strung up to be picked at.
As soon as you can manage, you’re writhing, but the stories haven’t done their strength justice. His grip is one of stone, muscle as unforgiving as the cold, jagged rocks the surf crashes upon.
Dread sets in, spiralling as you thrash against his hold, desperate to spare yourself from the fate waiting for you between his gently prying teeth.
“Let go of me,” you plead, squirming in the water, eyeing the rock that makes up the underwater cave. Your attention returns to gleaming black just in time to spot the transparent film that blinks across his eyes.
You yelp, startled—yipping as you flinch away in horror. Teeth catch on the edge of your mouth with the recoil, reopening the small wound, vision blurring with the sting.
He begins to move you through the water, and you struggle, but then he’s pushing you toward the ledge of the rocky cave—not dragging you below, deeper into his layer.
Your breathing stutters as you’re pressed into the rock, blue-tinted hands spanning your hips, turning you around and pushing up from the cold sea. You’re swift to scramble away, skin catching against the rock, blood seeping into your skirts.
Pain burns through your knees but you push as far from the pool as possible, finding stone to be surprisingly smooth underfoot.
As if carved.
Deliberate.
Your chest heaves, shivering in your soaked clothes, hugging your legs close as the mer watches. Tears helplessly drip, teeth chattering as you try to put a stop to it.
You’re a fisherman’s wife, for goodness sake. (Were a fisherman’s wife?)
Throat rolling, you push further back. “What did you do with my…with Alaric?” You manage through chattering teeth, lungs beginning to spasm.
The mer seems to find your question provocative, lip curling at the name alone.
Veins and tendons flex in the mer’s throat, straining to produce an ounce of noise. “He’s alive,” the male rasps.
You stifle your surprise—it’s common knowledge they sing, but you’re discomforted to learn you share a tongue. You swallow down your fear, curling tighter in on yourself.
“Why have you brought me here?” You manage, voice meek and trembling even to your own ears.
He swims closer, resting powerfully muscled arms upon the rocky ledge, tail swaying idly at his back. It’s then you truly take in the cave he’s brought you to, kept alight by luminescent greens and blues, crystals lining the ceiling, the sea lighting up with every small movement, as if mixed with shards of twinkling glass. Tendrils of breath curl before you in misty swirls, teeth chattering more as shivers wrack your body—a mix of fear and cold.
“You saved my life,” rasps the mer, jaw resting atop his forearms as he watches you.
“So you trap me in a cave?” You manage, trying to ignore the freezing bite in your fingertips.
He merely blinks at your question, that translucent film sliding back and forth just beneath his lids. “So I saved yours,” he amends, a hint of arrogance in his dark eyes. Cruel, and entitled.
Your brows knot together in confusion as you stare at the male. “You—… You’ve trapped me.”
“Your husband would have killed you,” he rasps, cold eyes sharpening with what you can only assume is hatred, “I saved you.” You shake your head, unaware of your lower body. “You took him because you were hungry. It served your own purposes.”
Incisors glitter beneath the icy blues of the cave, gleaming as his lip curls. The met extends his arm, cold-blooded fingers stretching out expectantly. “Shall I return you?”
You huddle close to the wall, curling away from his deadly grip. “I’ll freeze to death if you take me through those waters again,” you hedge. “Besides, you might change your mind along the way, and—” His tongue is blood red.
You blanch, squeezing your body tighter. Attempting to keep the warms from leaking out.
His ears flutter, noting your gaze, lips pulling back as he swipes the abrading muscle over gleaming teeth. “And?” He asks, quietly taunting as the edge of his mouth quirks. As if daring you to voice the dreadful tales of his kind—tales he knows you’ve heard.
Your lips purse, forcing yourself stubbornly silent.
The mer shifts, poised to return to the water.
Fear lurches you forward—crying out, “Wait!”
The mer gives pause, glittering onyx eyes turning once again to your figure.
“Where are you going?” You ask, unable to keep the fear from your voice. “Away.” A pause. “I’ll be back,” he adds with a croon, tail swishing beneath him, arms running through the water as if revelling in being reunited on friendly terms.
Panic sets in—if he leaves, he might never return. Might very well forget about you entirely. Leaving you to freeze in a subterranean sea cave, rotting away with the grime and stale water. All alone.
“Why did you bring me here?” You ask frantically, wishing for more time. His attention alone is enough to have a pit form in your stomach, but the prospect of isolation…in such foreign, disadvantageous terrain…
You don’t want to die here.
Those distinctly-marine ears twitch again, observing like he’s waiting for a sign.
The mer returns to the ledge of rock cutting down to the waters, again settling himself atop the hewn stone. “You know what he does to us. What you all do to us,” he rasps, close enough for you to pick out the still-healing slices in his throat. “You know how you hate us, and you know how they hate anything that does not hate with them. You knew they’d hate you too. So why meddle?”
Your skin prickles beneath those black eyes, unknown judgement burning atop your shoulders.
“I didn’t want your death on my conscience,” you mange. Your mouth is numb.
He blinks—a slow, dragging consideration. It’s the only shift in expression he shows, the rest of his features still as a tidepool.
“Don’t try to escape,” he rasps after a while, pushing off to return to deeper waters, “you’ll drown.” Something grotesquely similar to amusement glitters in his teeth, dark eyes gleaming. “I’ll return. Eventually.”
Then he’s swallowed in a flash of silver, darting away to one of the submerged tunnel openings, navigating his way out to open ocean.
Your stomach tightens, left with nothing but the laboured heave of your lungs and the quiet lick of waves. You curl in on yourself, half praying he returns before the warmth leaves you entirely, unable to feel your legs or hands.
Teeth chatter in the void of the cave, leaving you to wonder how far below land you are.
How deep he’s already buried you.
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