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Mar 13, 2025

... but i'd rather be with you every night (3/3)

Part 8 <- Part 9 -> Part 10

Word count: 6254

My respect goes out to those who know how to weave angst so perfectly into their stories.

The warm coastal waters shimmered in the golden light of the setting sun, casting long, rippling shadows through the reef. Sentinel swam just beneath the surface, his sleek form cutting through the gentle current. Around him, his kin filled the lagoon with their voices, weaving a song that stretched back generations.

He had always loved the songs. Even as a newborn, when he had barely been strong enough to keep up, he had listened—memorizing the rhythms, the rising and falling notes that told the history of his pod. Now, his voice joined theirs, young but eager, learning to take its place in the great chorus of the sea.

A burst of movement to his side sent a thrill through his body.

“Think you’re fast, little brother?” a voice called, teasing but warm. It was Sari, one of the older juveniles, flicking his tail in challenge.

Sentinel grinned, his sharp teeth flashing in the fading light. “I don’t think—I know!”

Sari let out a rolling laugh. “Then prove it.”

With a flick of his tail, he shot forward, disappearing into the kelp forest. Sentinel didn’t hesitate. He surged after him, pushing against the current, weaving between the towering stalks with practiced ease. The water thrummed with the vibrations of their movement as others joined the chase, their laughter rippling through the sea.

“You’ll have to be faster than that if you ever want to lead a pod,” another of the older juveniles called Nova, darting past him with effortless grace.

“I will be,” Sentinel shot back, narrowing his eyes in determination.

He pumped his tail harder, cutting tight corners, feeling the exhilaration of the chase. His siblings were quick, but he was quicker, pushing himself through the labyrinth of kelp until he was nearly side by side with Sari. The older mer twisted suddenly, banking hard to the left. Sentinel barely managed to follow, his smaller form letting him slip through a narrow gap in the reef.

Sari glanced back, surprised. “Not bad!”

Sentinel only grinned, muscles burning but refusing to slow. He could hear the distant hum of the elders’ voices—steady, watchful, ever-present. They had once been young like him, restless and ambitious. They had once dreamed of the same thing.

At last, they burst free from the kelp forest, back into the open waters of the lagoon. Sentinel lunged forward with one final burst of speed—just enough to push past Sari before they both came to a stop, panting.

Sari blinked, then let out a bark of laughter. “Alright, alright! Maybe you do have some speed in you.”

Nova swam up beside them, her eyes filled with amusement. “Don’t let it go to your head, little one. You still have much to learn before leading your own pod.”

Sentinel lifted his chin defiantly. “I know. But one day, I will.”

Sari and Nova exchanged glances, their teasing smiles softening into something more knowing.

“Maybe you will,” Sari admitted. “But leading isn’t just about being the fastest or strongest. It’s about knowing when to fight and when to listen. When to push forward and when to let the current carry you.”

Sentinel frowned, thoughtful. He had spent so much time trying to prove himself and be the best—but maybe there might be more to it than that. He’s still young, full of potential.

The elders’ song drifted through the water, and for a moment, the three of them simply floated, listening.

Sentinel closed his eyes, letting the melody wrap around him. He had no fear of the open water. He had no fear of the future.

One day, he would guide a pod of his own, and their song would carry across the sea.

The open flats stretched before Sentinel, shimmering under the last light of the day. Beyond the reef’s edge, the water was cooler, darker, and teeming with fish. He wasn’t supposed to be this far alone. His mother had warned him not to wander past the shallows without the others—too many dangers lurked beyond their familiar hunting grounds. But Sentinel was ruthless, faster than his siblings, and brighter than some elders. He had something to prove.

If he could return with a prize catch, something that would impress even the most seasoned hunters in the pod, maybe they’d finally see him as more than just the reckless youngling always challenging the current.

He moved low over the sand, body sleek and silent. A school of silver fish darted ahead, twisting in perfect unison. He tensed, coiling his muscles, ready to strike—

Then, the sea shuddered.

A deep, unnatural vibration rippled through the water. It was faint at first but then stronger, like distant thunder rolling through the waves. Sentinel froze.

The ever-present hum of his pod—always there in the currents, even when he was too far to see them—shifted. It was sharpened, urgent, and frantic. Not the rise and fall of hunting calls, nor the steady melody of their song.

This was alarm.

Something was wrong.

Abandoning his hunt, Sentinel kicked his tail hard, surging toward the reef. The closer he got, the more the water churned—not just from the movement of his kin, but something else—the current stank of metal and blood. The surface above was alive with chaos, dark silhouettes cutting through the waves.

Then came the screams.

Sentinel barely had time to process it before the first body drifted past him, human, lifeless. Blood curled into the water like ink.

The pod was under attack.

He shot forward, panic clawing at his chest. He had to reach them—had to do something. But the moment he cleared the final stretch of reef, the horror unfolded before him.

Hunters.

Their boats sliced through the shallows like jagged teeth. Men clung to their sides, armed with harpoons, nets, and blades that gleamed in the moonlight. Sentinel’s kin fought back. For every spear thrust into the water, a hunter was pulled under. Nova and Sari wove through the fray, striking from the depths before vanishing into the currents. An elder rammed into the hull of a boat, sending it lurching sideways.

They were holding their ground. They were winning.

Then—more boats.

They came from the open sea, cutting off the pod’s escape. Sentinel’s stomach turned cold as he realized the trap had been set long before the first attack.

This wasn’t just a hunt. It was an extermination.

The hunters weren’t just killing. Some carried nets—thick, weighted things designed to drag bodies from the water.

Sentinel saw Nova struggle against one, thrashing as a hunter hauled her onto the deck. Another net sank beneath the surface, closing over three of his kin. They fought, but the more they moved, the tighter the trap became.

The tide was turning.

His mother.

He spotted her through the chaos, a blur of movement as she tore a spear from a hunter’s grip and drove it through his shoulder. He saw how she twisted and how her body coiled with every precise, controlled strike. Teeth bared wide for all to see.

Then her eyes found him.

Everything else faded.

“Sentinel, go!”

His body locked up. No. He couldn’t leave. He had to fight—

A shadow flickered above him.

The net came fast, weighted edges sinking through the water like stones.

Instinct took over. Sentinel twisted, tail snapping hard. He barely dodged as the mesh grazed his fin. A heartbeat slower, and he would have been trapped. The drag of the rope brushed his shoulder, but he was already kicking away, escaping before the net cinched tight.

His mother’s eyes burned into his. Go.

Sentinel’s throat tightened, but his body obeyed before his mind could. He turned, tail thrashing, propelling himself toward the reef’s narrow crevices. The space was tight—too tight—but he forced himself through, squeezing into the labyrinth of stone and coral where the larger hunters couldn’t follow.

From the shadows, he watched.

His kin fought to the last breath.

He saw Mira vanish beneath a tangle of ropes. Saw Saru lunge for a hunter’s throat before a harpoon found his chest.

One by one, they fell.

Some were dragged onto the boats, their voices breaking into strangled cries. The sea swallowed the others, their songs ending in cruel silence.

Everything was wrong.

Sentinel pressed himself into the reef, trembling, unable to move.

And then—nothing.

The ocean carried their voices no more.

The ocean stretched endlessly in every direction, a vast, empty expanse of shifting blues and grays. Sentinel drifted with the currents, his body weak from hunger, his mind fogged with exhaustion. The salt stung his wounds, each movement sending sharp pain through his battered form, but stopping wasn’t an option. He didn’t know where he was going—only that he had to keep moving.

Days blurred together in an endless cycle of survival. The thought of calling out, of searching for another pod, flickered in his mind, but fear held his voice captive. If the wrong ears heard him, he wouldn't stand a chance if the hunters still lurked nearby. He had seen what they were capable of. He had seen what they had done.

So he remained silent.

He stayed close to the reefs the first few days, sticking to the shadows as he scavenged. Blood still hung thick in the water, the scent lingering like a cruel reminder of what had been lost. The ocean had not yet washed away the evidence of his pod, and each shift of the tide threatened to bring him face-to-face with something he couldn’t bear to see.

The remains of his kin.

He couldn’t stay.

He forced himself into the open sea, where the water deepened and darkened. Here, there were no walls of coral to hide in, no familiar songs carried by the waves. He was small and exposed, just another drifting shape among the countless creatures lurking in the abyss.

Food was scarce. He scavenged what he could—torn scraps from carcasses left behind, fish too slow or weak to flee. It wasn’t enough to satisfy the gnawing hunger, but it kept him alive—most of the time.

Other predators prowled the deep, sensing the weakness in his movements. He learned quickly to recognize the shift in the water, the way the current warped around something larger than him. A flicker of shadow above, a ripple too sudden to be the tide. His instincts sharpened, his body reacting before his mind could process the danger.

Once, he caught the gleam of teeth in the dim light, the unmistakable glint of a hunter moving too fast, too close. He twisted, pushing himself into the current, forcing every ounce of strength into his tail. The rush of water burned against his wounds, but he didn’t stop. The thing behind him—larger, stronger—chased, matching his every move. It was a game to it. To Sentinel, it was life or death.

The chase lasted minutes, or maybe only seconds. Time no longer felt real. But something shifted. The currents changed, the water growing colder, thicker with the pull of something deeper. He veered into the unknown, into the abyss where few dared to go. The pressure bit at his body, but the thing behind him hesitated. Sentinel did not. He kept moving until he could move no more.

Sleep became something different—not a moment of rest but a half-conscious drift through the currents, his eyes open and vacant. He let the ocean carry him, let his body move without thought, his mind slipping into a shallow, instinctive state of awareness. He had no choice. If he fully succumbed to sleep, something would find him, and he would not wake up.

Some nights, he dreamed of the songs.

Echoes of voices lost to the waves, melodies that once surrounded him in warmth and safety. He dreamed of his mother’s voice, the way the pod would call one another beneath the moon, their songs weaving stories of generations before them. But the dreams never lasted. They always ended the same way.

With silence.

The ocean was vast and indifferent. It swallowed his past, his pod, and his family without hesitation. The sea carried their memories away with the tide, leaving nothing behind.

And Sentinel, a lone shadow in the water, was left to chase the currents, neither here nor there, just another fleeting presence in an endless void.

The ocean had never felt so empty.

Days blurred together, then weeks. Sentinel drifted, caught between exhaustion and survival, his body moving only when necessary. He scavenged when he could, avoiding the larger predators that lurked beneath. The open water stretched endlessly around him, vast and uncaring.

At some point, he stopped expecting to hear another voice.

Then, one evening, when the light fractured golden through the waves, a sound broke through the silence.

A song.

It came in pieces, carried by the shifting currents, distant yet unmistakable. Sentinel’s body tensed. For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t alone.

He turned toward the sound, his tired muscles protesting, his movements sluggish. But something deep inside him stirred—an instinct he thought had faded, a longing he had buried beneath hunger and grief. He moved toward it.

The song grew clearer as he swam, layered voices intertwining in unfamiliar melodies. It was not his pod’s song, but still… a song. His heart pounded as he followed the current, weaving through the open water toward the voices that called to one another in a harmony he could not yet understand.

Then, he saw them.

A pod.

They moved together, sleek forms gliding effortlessly through the water, their presence an unspoken bond. The way they swam and their voices wove together—it was a language Sentinel had once known, yet he felt like an intruder now, a stranger to something that had once been his world.

They had noticed him.

The current shifted as they turned toward him, the weight of their gazes pressing down on him. His instinct screamed at him to flee, but his body had no strength left for it. He was weak, his scars still fresh, his frame too thin from hunger. He was exposed. Vulnerable.

A figure broke away from the group.

She approached cautiously, her movements measured. Sentinel tensed but did not move. She circled him, studying him—not with hostility but curiosity.

And then, she sang.

A soft, careful note. Not a challenge. An invitation.

The others joined in, their voices weaving around him, filling the water with warmth. Sentinel froze, his mind struggling to process it. It was not his pod’s song, but it was something else. Something welcoming.

Something safe.

He could not find the strength to answer.

So he let them take him in.

Days passed, then weeks.

The new pod accepted him in their own way. They fed him, taught him their routes, and showed him how they lived. They did not ask for his past, nor did he offer it. He followed, listened, and learned.

He studied their songs, their ways of speaking without words, and how they moved as one. He tried to match their rhythm, to find where he fit within the harmony. Sometimes, he succeeded; sometimes, he faltered.

And no matter how much he tried, his voice never quite blended.

They never treated him unkindly, never turned him away. But he felt it in the pauses, the slight hesitation when they sang—he was a borrowed voice in a song not written for him.

He belonged. But not entirely.

He did not have their history. Their stories. Their memories.

His voice carried a different melody, a past they could not share.

He had survived, but he had not healed.

The pod knew he would not stay forever. When he first arrived, they were uncertain, sensing the weight of grief he carried. But as time passed, they came to understand that his song belonged elsewhere.

And so, they guided him.

The journey was long, spanning days of travel across open water, through forests of kelp and reefs teeming with life. Sentinel did not ask where they were going. He followed, trusting them as they had once trusted him.

Then, one evening, the water grew shallow beneath them.

Ahead, a massive structure loomed below—an underwater city, a sanctuary beneath the sea floor. Sentinel had never seen anything like it. Coral towers spiraled toward the surface, woven with bioluminescent vines. Caverns and tunnels stretched below, forming a city carved under the rock and reef.

Mers filled the waters, swimming in and out of the labyrinth of homes and meeting places. There were so many more than Sentinel had ever seen in one place.

“This is where we leave you,” the lead mer said, her voice steady but kind.

Sentinel glanced at her, surprised. “Why?”

She tilted her head. “Because this is where you are meant to be.”

Before he could argue, another figure approached—a much older mer, his frame lean with age but strong, his long fins trailing behind him like a flowing mantle. His presence commanded respect.

“Alpha Trion,” one of the pod members murmured, inclining their head.

The elder studied Sentinel with sharp, knowing eyes.

“You have wandered far,” Alpha Trion said, his voice deep, carrying the weight of years. “And yet, you have not yet found your place. Let this place be your home.”

Sentinel hesitated, uncertain how to respond.

Alpha Trion motioned for him to follow. “Come. There is much to learn.”

Sentinel looked back at the pod that had saved him. They did not sing farewell. They only nodded, offering him one last moment of acknowledgment before they turned, disappearing into the blue.

And for the first time in a long time, Sentinel was truly alone.

But this time, he was not drifting.

Iacon had been a home. Or at least, it had tried to be.

Sentinel remained within the city for years, learning from Alpha Trion and the mers who had made this sanctuary their own. The elder had guided him, teaching him the city's history and its people's customs. Sentinel listened. He watched. He tried.

The city was unlike anything he had ever known—a place where different pods came together, a refuge from the oppressive surface dwellers and the beasts in the sea. It flourished in the vast open sea, made by nothing but the will of those who had claimed it. Here, mers of all kinds gathered, speaking in different tongues, weaving different songs into the water. Some had been born here. Others had come seeking safety, a place to belong.

Sentinel had not been born here. He had not come seeking safety.

He had come because he had nowhere else to go.

At first, it wasn’t so bad. The mers who had brought him here did not expect much from him. They were travelers themselves, a wandering pod that had picked him up along the way. They left him in the care of Alpha Trion, a weathered elder whose presence was as vast and deep as the sea itself.

“You’ve seen much for one so young,” Alpha Trion had said upon first conversation with him, his voice a low rumble in the currents. “But you still have much to learn.”

Sentinel had listened. He always listened.

He learned the ways of the city and the unspoken rules that allowed so many different mers to coexist. He learned how to barter for favors and goods, read the shifting tides around the island, and navigate the maze-like structures built beneath the surface.

But he never became a part of it.

He hunted alone. He spoke sparingly. He never wove his voice into the songs that filled the waters. He kept himself apart, always just a step removed.

He was an outsider.

The mers of the city were kind, but they did not understand him. They were not like him. They had families, traditions, bonds that had not been severed by blood and steel. Even those who had lost something still had each other.

Sentinel had nothing.

He drifted through the city like a ghost, never quite belonging, never entirely staying.

Alpha Trion watched him but never forced him to change. The elder would find him sometimes, lingering at the edges of the city, staring out at the open water as if it were calling him back.

“You do not have to carry this weight alone,” Alpha Trion told him one night as they rested upon the shores of the floating island tethered to the sea floor. “The ocean is vast, but there is more to life than merely surviving.”

Sentinel did not answer.

He didn’t know how to explain that surviving was all he knew how to do.

Still, the elder’s words lingered.

For a time, he tried to stay. He forced himself to linger, to speak, to exist in the city without feeling like an intruder. It was easier when Airachnid came into his life. Their song was better in silence. The invisible notes between them were the most precious thing for him—a song just made for them.

But the longer he remained, the more restless he became. The weight of the place pressed against him, suffocating him in a way the deep sea never had.

He could not stay.

One day, without warning, he left.

No one stopped him.

Alpha Trion only watched as Sentinel slipped into the open ocean, disappearing beneath the waves.

The elder did not call him back.

Perhaps he had known, even before Sentinel did, that he had never truly been meant to stay, even when his silence said otherwise.

The ocean welcomed him like an old friend.

It did not ask him to speak. It did not ask him to stay. It did not need him to be anything but what he was—a body moving with the tides, a hunter lurking beneath the surface.

So that was what he became.

A shadow in the deep.

A creature that passed through reefs and kelp forests without leaving a trace.

A lone hunter, sharp-eyed and swift, he took only what he needed to survive.

He had no pod. No family. No home.

And that was fine.

That was safer.

He moved with the currents, never lingering too long in one place. The few mers who saw him spoke in hushed voices, uncertain whether he was a ghost or a drifter, a predator or something worse. He did not correct them.

He did not need a name.

He did not need a place.

He had given up on searching for either.

There were fleeting moments when he heard distant songs in the water. Other pods passing through, their voices ringing through the sea like echoes of a life he once had.

He never answered them.

He never sang back.

The ocean did not mourn.

So neither did he.

The past was gone.

There was only the endless blue.

The ocean was quiet that night.

The kind of quiet that stretched deep, pressing against Sentinel’s senses like a heavy weight. The moon hung high, its pale light breaking in shimmering fragments along the restless surface. The currents were slow, rolling in lazy waves that rocked Sentinel as he drifted beneath them.

He had been hunting, though not with much effort. The hunger in his belly was familiar, manageable. He had grown used to letting the ache sit for a while, knowing he would find something eventually.

But tonight, the hunt was forgotten.

Because he heard something—something that did not belong to the sea.

A voice.

Faint, fragile, carried by the wind over the waves.

Sentinel stilled, his entire body going rigid. He had heard human voices before—shouts, commands, the harsh sounds of war and steel. But this was different. This was not the voice of a hunter, nor the sharp cries of pain or fear that usually followed when humans found themselves at the mercy of the sea.

This was… singing.

Soft, low, threading through the night like a whisper against the water.

Curious despite himself, Sentinel glided toward the sound, keeping beneath the surface, his body blending into the dark. He followed the melody, tracking how it wove through the waves, always just out of reach.

Then he saw him.

A human.

Alone.

Adrift on an inflatable raft that was barely afloat, its sides sagging, taking on water with every shift of the waves. The cheap material was torn in places and haphazardly patched with strips of cloth. Every rise and fall of the tide threatened to tip it over completely, swallowing the lone occupant into the depths.

And yet, the human did not cling to it in terror. He did not paddle weakly for shore, did not scream for rescue.

He sat there, his back slumped but upright, his fingers loosely hooked over the raft’s edge. His body swayed with the motion of the waves, exhaustion weighing on him like an anchor. He was gaunt, his clothes damp and torn, his skin raw from salt and sun.

But his face was turned toward the sky.

And he was singing.

The song was rough, broken at the edges by dehydration and exhaustion, but it did not waver.

It was not a plea.

Not a prayer.

It was defiance.

Sentinel hovered just beneath the surface, hidden by the darkness, the moonlight filtering down in ghostly ribbons. He did not surface, did not make a sound, but he watched. He listened.

And something in him ached.

He didn’t know why.

Maybe it was the way the human voice carried, unafraid, even when no one could hear it.

Maybe it was the way he refused to be silent, even when the ocean had already begun swallowing him whole.

Maybe it was because once—long ago—Sentinel had sung, too.

Back when he still believed in songs.

The ocean had taken everything from him. It had stripped him of his home, his family, his voice. He had learned to live without them, to exist in the silence of the deep, where nothing could reach him.

And yet here was this human, on the verge of death, still singing into the abyss.

Sentinel drifted closer, circling just beneath the raft, his keen eyes studying the human’s every breath, every flicker of movement. The song wavered, his voice rasping, but he kept going. His fingers twitched against the rubbery surface of the raft as if clinging to something far less tangible than the failing vessel beneath him.

Sentinel wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, listening. Minutes? Hours? The song changed—sometimes a hum, sometimes broken words. But the human did not stop. He held on even as his body sagged further, even as the waves lapped hungrily at the edges of his raft.

And Sentinel, for reasons he could not yet name, stayed.

For the first time in a long while, he did not slip away into the darkness.

Instead, he listened.

And when the human’s voice faltered into silence, Sentinel found himself lingering. Waiting.

And that unsettled him more than anything.

The human’s voice faded into the night, hoarse and fragile, carried away by the breeze that skimmed across the restless sea. The melody had been raw and unpolished, yet it held something Sentinel had not expected—defiance, not despair. A stubborn refusal to fade, even when the vastness of the ocean demanded surrender.

The raft beneath the human barely held together, its edges frayed and punctured, half-deflated from days of exposure to sun and salt. Every shift of the waves sent it dipping dangerously low, water pooling at the bottom, soaking through the human’s torn clothes. His limbs were limp, his fingers curled weakly over the rubber edge, his head tilted back toward the stars.

Sentinel should leave.

He had no reason to linger. No reason to care.

Yet something about the human’s song clung to him, echoing in his chest long after the final note had vanished. It reminded him of things he had long since buried—of the way his pod had once sung to the night, weaving voices together in an endless story passed down through generations. It reminded him of how he used to sing before his voice had become something sharp and empty, a tool for luring and deceiving.

Something pulled at him. A memory. A longing he did not want to acknowledge.

And before he knew why, before he could even think to stop himself, he sang.

It was quiet at first. A low hum slipped through the water like the distant call of something lost. It was hesitant, rusty from disuse.

But it was a song.

The human twitched. His fingers flexed, gripping the raft a little tighter, though his eyes remained shut. His breath hitched, his chest rising in a shallow, uneven rhythm. He was still conscious, barely teetering on the edge of wakefulness.

Sentinel continued.

His voice grew steadier, and the melody took shape—something ancient, something old, but softened by solitude. The notes rolled over the water, weaving between the swells, filling the space between them with something that was not quite silence.

And then, without thinking, he let words slip into the song.

“Na’tri ka no, osha tai…” Drift with the tide, oh little star…

His voice was deeper now, carrying through the water, smoothing over the sharp edges of the human’s trembling breath.

“Sa’mura kai, oro ta vi…” The waves will hold you, the sea will sigh…

The human’s body, so tense before, began to relax. His breathing steadied, the lines in his face easing as his limbs went slack. His grip on the raft loosened.

Sentinel sang on, ancient words rolling from his tongue like the tide, shaping something soft, something he had not allowed himself to remember.

“No’ta ka, no’ta kai, a’shura lomi a’ta sai…” Sleep now, sleep deep, the Mother watches and keeps…

The song wound through the air like a thread, stitching through the night, through the spaces between the waves. Sentinel sang without thinking, without reason, without purpose.

And the human listened.

He was not fully awake, but he was not fully gone either. He lingered in the space between, teetering on the edge of sleep. The melody caught him, wrapped around him, and held him in a way the raft could not.

The rise and fall of his chest grew slower, deeper.

His head tilted slightly to the side, his body sagging against the raft, lips parted in a soft exhale.

He had drifted into sleep, cradled by the sea, lulled by a song meant for no one.

Sentinel watched him for a moment longer, his own voice tapering into silence.

The night swallowed the last note. The ocean continued on, endless and uncaring.

Yet for this moment—just this moment—neither of them was alone.

—————

The low hum of the boat’s idle engine thrummed beneath them, a steady pulse against the silence of the open sea. The fire crackled in the metal pit Zeta had welded onto the deck, casting flickering light across the worn wood. The scent of salt, fuel, and charred fish lingered in the air, blending into something almost familiar.

Zeta sat on an overturned crate near the fire, arms draped over his knees. Across from him, half-submerged in the dark water, Sentinel leaned against the boat’s edge, forearms resting on the hull. His dark blue eyes reflected the firelight, but his expression was unreadable, distant.

His story had been told.

Zeta let the silence settle between them, its weight pressing against his chest. There was nothing he could say that would fix what had happened. No words could undo years of loss and survival.

He ran a hand through his damp hair and exhaled. “Damn,” he muttered. It wasn’t much, but what else was there? I’m sorry felt too empty. I understand would be a lie.

Sentinel huffed, barely a sound, but it was acknowledgment enough. He rested his chin on his crossed arms, gaze drifting toward the rippling water.

“I don’t know why I told you this,” Sentinel said lowly at last, his voice even but laced with something Zeta couldn’t quite name.

Zeta leaned back, glancing up at the stars. “Maybe you just needed to.”

Sentinel scoffed, though there wasn’t much bite to it. “Or maybe you asked too many questions.”

Zeta smirked. “I do that sometimes.”

The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks into the night. The steady lap of waves against the boat filled the quiet.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Zeta let the silence stretch, giving Sentinel space. If he wanted to say more, he would. If not, that was fine, too.

Eventually, Sentinel shifted. “I didn’t want to remember,” he admitted, quieter now. “I spent years trying to forget. Trying to become something else.”

Zeta studied him in the firelight. “Did it work?”

Sentinel didn’t answer right away. Then, finally, he shook his head. “No.”

Zeta nodded like he’d expected that answer. He reached for a piece of driftwood and tossed it into the fire, watching the flames swallow it whole.

“…You never asked what happened after.”

Zeta glanced at him. “After?”

“After I sang to you.”

The engine hummed beneath them, a steady heartbeat in the quiet. Zeta swallowed, his own memories stirring—floating on that barely-intact raft, exhausted, ready to slip under. The song that had curled around him, haunting and strange and safe.

“You left,” he said.

Sentinel met his gaze, eyes sharp and unwavering. “I almost didn’t.”

Zeta’s breath caught.

Sentinel dragged a hand through his damp hair, exhaling. “I stayed longer than I should have,” he admitted, like he was confessing something he hadn’t meant to. “It was stupid. You were human, stranded, barely holding on.” His fingers curled against the hull. “You weren’t my problem. Not my own.”

Zeta wet his lips. “But you stayed.”

Sentinel looked away. “…Yes.”

The waves lapped against the boat, the fire crackling softly.

Zeta let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Well,” he said, voice softer now, “for what it’s worth, I’m glad you did.”

Without thinking about it, he reached out, fingers wrapping around one of Sentinel’s hands as it rested against the boat’s edge. The roughness of his skin met the cool dampness of Sentinel’s palm, the ridges of his fingers against the strange smoothness of the mer’s own.

Sentinel stiffened just slightly, but he didn’t pull away. His hand remained unmoving, above Zeta’s, as though testing its weight.

Zeta looked down at their hands, then back up at Sentinel’s face. “You’re a pain in the ass,” he added, his grip firm but not demanding, “but I wouldn’t want to be stuck out here without you.”

Sentinel’s gaze flicked to their hands, then back to Zeta’s face. He snorted, but there was no real annoyance in it. “You’d have died twice over without me.”

“Exactly,” Zeta said, smirking. “So, thanks for sticking around.”

Sentinel rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

The fire crackled, the boat hummed, the waves whispered against the hull. Zeta didn’t let go of Sentinel’s hand, and Sentinel didn’t make him.

For the first time that night, the weight of the past didn’t feel quite so heavy.

The quiet stretched between them, broken only by the rhythmic lapping of waves and the soft crackle of the fire. Sentinel’s hand remained beneath Zeta’s for a moment longer before he finally shifted, pulling away. His movements were slow, deliberate—not rejecting, just… moving on.

Zeta let his fingers slip away without resistance, watching as Sentinel pushed off the hull and let himself sink deeper into the water. Only his arms and shoulders remained above the surface now, the firelight casting flickering gold along his damp skin and the sharp ridges of his gills.

Sentinel exhaled, tilting his head toward the open sea. “You should get some rest.”

Zeta raised a brow. “And you?”

“I’ll take the lookout.” Sentinel rolled his shoulders, already scanning the horizon. “Better eyes in the dark.”

Zeta huffed, stretching his legs out in front of him. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.” Sentinel turned slightly, and for a moment, Zeta swore he caught the faintest smirk ghost across his face. “Besides, I don’t need sleep the way you do.”

“Yeah, yeah, shark mer stuff, somewhere along those lines,” Zeta muttered, waving a hand lazily. He still wasn’t convinced Sentinel never needed real sleep, but the guy did seem to function on little more than short resting periods. A survival thing, probably.

Sentinel turned his head slightly, glancing back at him. “If something happens, I’ll wake you.”

Zeta snorted. “That’s real comforting.”

Sentinel arched a brow. “Would you prefer otherwise?”

“Fair point.” Zeta yawned, rubbing the back of his neck. Now that his body had finally settled, exhaustion was creeping in, and the warmth of the fire was lulling him toward sleep.

Sentinel lingered for a moment, still watching him. Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared beneath the surface.

Zeta blinked. He hadn’t even heard a splash.

Shaking his head, he sighed and leaned back against the boat’s railing. “Showoff.”

The night stretched on, quiet and still, the ocean vast and unknowable beyond the flickering glow of the fire. Somewhere out in the dark, Sentinel swam the perimeter, his sharp eyes watching over the boat, watching over him.

He wasn’t alone, and the thought was comforting.

Zeta closed his eyes.

For the first time in a long while, sleep came easy.

#apocalyptic ponyo #sentinel prime #zeta prime #zetasen #should i just make them kiss already?#probably too soon #Hope this was a good view into Sentinel's past #how it shaped the present #and how it influences his sights for his future #(with or without Zeta? who knows)

amiinahole4rl