DEV>I am the one who waits beneath the sea

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It all happened so fast. First, pirates attacked us. They showed no mercy gunning for the women and the children, but even their heartlessness fell short of the storm’s fury. The clouds gathered before the raiders got their fill. Hail, howling winds and torrential rains. Then came the waterspouts, cleaving our ship in two. I should’ve died that day, but something intervened. The strangest part of my journey was not the raiders or the hurricane, but the black ring placed on my finger before dusk. Yes, I am not a single man anymore.  

Anya’s inner ear was acting up again. Closer to the ocean’s surface, she struggled to breathe, filling her chest with oxygen to open her sinuses. Deep below the sea, Anya’s lungs collapsed, and she relied on pressure to force oxygen into her bloodstream. Down there, her blood was red, but up here, it was blue. That’s why she flopped like a fish out of water when her half-inflated gas bladder brought her back to the surface world. Anya needed her lungs again. Her sister, Anastasia, was there, holding her hands as they surfaced. 

    “It’ll pass, sister,” Anastasia said, touching her forehead to Anya’s so their minds could meet like the ripples of two raindrops. 

    Neither of their lungs had fully inflated, and yet, why was it Anya who was gasping like a guppy? Anastasia was so composed, even though she was in pain. Oh, how Anya wanted to be like her big sister, combing her silver hair with the root of a lobster’s spine and gutting a gulper eel to paint her nails. She was the one whose scales glittered like sapphires and whose skin was as smooth as lace. They say the fire god Ignis shaped their mother, Decima, in the image of a mortal woman, but made the mistake of birthing her from the womb of the Great Devourer. Decima was a parody of woman and beast, and her daughters were to be no exception. But Anastasia broke the rules. She wasn’t a parody but a perfect merger of little pink pectoral fins drumming beneath full breasts and blushing cheeks, her dorsal fin caressing her body like a satin evening gown. Men died for her, dropping beneath the waves for a single kiss. 

    Yes, Anya’s big sister was a goddess of passion. Mortals called her Eros after the type of love she embodied. Not simple girlish infatuation, but a white-hot passion. An impractical love that was so strong it drove men to their deaths on the battlefield. Anastasia was responsible for three wars and was second only to the gods and goddesses of war in the amount of blood she shed. It was no coincidence that the pantheons of conflict and passion shared the same mother, the Great Devourer. 

    But Anastasia wasn’t the only goddess of passion. Anya, too, was a daughter of Decima, but she differed from her elder sister. Though she inherited the same silver hair and blushing cheeks, Anya’s dorsal fin was spiked, pectoral fins grey, breasts flat, and scales as black as midnight. There was a horizontal slit between her thighs, an opening she could push her fingers through where her legs hadn’t appropriately fused into a tail, and her gas bladder was kinked, causing her to swim sideways.

    Anya didn’t share her sister’s mature beauty, and her charms were much simpler, inspiring blushes and not bloodshed. But, Anastasia told her there was true beauty in midnight and that Anya’s scales, black as charcoal, symbolized her birthstone, onyx. Her sister said that she too embodied passion, but what type of love did she inspire? 

    Anya wasn’t drawn up in the moment, but was concerned with the future. Her love was much slower and born of familiarity and mutual gain. Anya sought men not for momentary pleasure, but for what they could offer her. Yet, she wasn’t selfish, for Anya, too, wished to share. Her knowledge, kingdom, and dominion over the sea. Anya’s love wasn’t just sex but a fated choice, an arranged marriage based on the quality of one’s dowry and lineage. But what type of love was this? Her passion so fiercely differed from Anastasia’s that they actively opposed one another. Yet, that didn’t seem right because Anya loved her sister. She pulled her hair in frustration, unable to find the answers at the bottom of the sea. But she had no time left to find the answers, for Anya had come of age. 

    It was time Anya found a husband. 

    Anastasia knew the way better than she. After all, Anya had only visited the surface world on rare occasions. Rising from the ocean depths wasn’t easy. They had to do it slowly, a gradual ascent that allowed the gases in her bloodstream to slowly bubble and drain into her second bladder. But there was a kink in her tissue, a misfolded protein that caused Anya’s bladder to sickle in shape. Her ascent was crooked. That’s why Anastasia needed to hold her hands like a child. 

    Anya being so close to her big sister was dangerous. She loved her, and though it was a familial love, Eros was impractical. Anastasia’s passion was blind and ignorant of all the reasons one shouldn’t. They were sisters; yet, if Anya weren’t careful, familial love would become heretical, and her first kiss a cardinal sin. Even she wasn’t entirely immune, despite her station as a goddess of passion. That’s why the pain was useful, helping break her sister’s spell. 

    Closer to the surface world and the pressure was much less. As oxygen and nitrogen bubbled free from Anya’s bloodstream, she had to filter more from the water, her gills pulsing and dorsal fin retracting. Separating gas from the liquid, Anya’s chest filled with air. Her organs, once squeezed together, now parted. The process was excruciatingly painful, and she wanted to scream. 

    “You’ll be alright, sister. The pain passes.” Anastasia’s voice resonated in Anya’s head as their minds touched. 

    Anya could see the light now as they rose from the void. Above them were flashes of lightning and cannon fire. The surface world was angry with churning seas and mortal vessels locked in combat—giant wooden ships with mounted canons launching fire and metal breaking masts, perforating sails, and gutting men. The sea close to the surface was colored red, and the sharks waited in the distance, their jaws snapping. They knew better than to intrude. Anya and her sisters always had first pick. 

    “It’s time to catch your breath,” Anastasia said, releasing her hands. 

    Anya broke the surface, whipping her hair in an arc as she spat sea water and gasped for air. That was the motivation her lungs needed, and, with a sudden kick, her chest heaved as the turbulent seas roared around her. She had little time before the waves crashed, driving her back underwater. Anya could move much faster now, the oxygen from the surface purer than the ocean floor, but there was a time limit. Without the intense pressure, she couldn’t force the oxygen into her bloodstream, which kept bubbling out, her veins blue even when cut.

    She had to find a husband, and fast. 

    The sisters of passion were natural at courtship and had an eye for the dead unmatched even by their aunt Morta. As granddaughters of the fire god Ignis, they had diodes in their eyes, a biological filament that snapped like an eel allowing them to see the threads of fate. Tattered, frayed, and loose, these lines were weak and ready to break. Anya and her sisters were supposed to choose among men destined to die. An unwritten rule to minimize their involvement in mortal affairs. 

    This man was missing an arm; this man had a hole in his chest, and this man was already dead with a bullet in his head. Anya weaved through the corpses to find the glassy eyes of drowning deckhands and the bruised cheeks of the first mate who was crushed beneath a falling mast. None of these men were going to live. Anya saw it in the way their thread pealed and twisted, held together by the thinnest strand, begging for release. 

    Plink! 

    Their mortal coils broke as the young men choked out their last. Anya bit her lip, staining the water blue with her blood. Anastasia had already found her husband. As expected, he was handsome, with golden-brown hair, a square jaw, and broad shoulders. Unfortunately, he bled from his torso, where a stray bullet had punctured his kidney, and his right leg was broken, his femur poking through his skin. Anastasia’s husband would soon die, but not before sharing their wedding night. But, of course, he’d already accepted her proposal. No man wrapped in her dorsal fin and caressing her hips could refuse her. She kissed him, sharing her oxygen while they sunk to the ocean floor. On the night of a harvest moon, conception was guaranteed, and Anastasia would soon announce her pregnancy with blushing cheeks. 

    “Congratulations, sister,” Anya thought, still chewing on her lips. 

    Congratulations, she’d said that word many times before, and now it stung like a hornet, the needle going deep and holding fast. Anya loved her big sister. She wanted her to be happy, but this was cruel. Anastasia always carried the babies to term, but they never cried, kicked, or squealed. Only one thing ever came from a dying man’s seed. 

    A stillborn. 

    The great barrier reef was her sister’s doing. Every year she laid her children to rest on the ocean’s floor, and the bodies gathered together, forming a taproot, phloem, and a cambial cell layer. Anastasia’s daughters became the bedrock of a coral skull, the god of death, Kelpie. Yes, Anya could hear the death god cry like a newborn babe. She closed her ears shut, lips trembling, and eyes salty. It was her turn now, her turn to bear the child of a dead man, but Anya couldn’t bring herself to go through with it. So she left the drowning deckhand behind and rose to the surface. She would not choose a husband amongst the dead, but the living.  

    Anya burst from the water, taking another deep breath as the gills along her breasts waxed over and shut, her lungs fully open. The waves were ferocious, towering above her like the storm clouds, and she saw the tip of a ship’s mast sinking into the deep. The battle was over, but the tempest still raged, threatening to capsize the victor, who sailed away into the distance. She tried to stay above water and swim amongst the wreckage to find survivors, but the waters were too turbulent, cracks of lightning startling her as the currents beat against her back. Anya was getting nowhere and had no choice but to deal with the storm. As another wave threatened to drag her under, Anya touched the ocean’s swell with the tips of her fingers. 

    “Claudicare!” she shouted as blue sparks snapped from her palm. 

    The wave shuddered, freezing in place like a statue as the sea hissed and spit. Anya then reached up towards the clouds, black as night, and began rotating her hands. 

    “Intorqueo!” 

    Her authority sprang from her tongue, laced like venom, and power radiated from her fingertips, tugging at the loose strands of reality and stringing the clouds together. Anya fed the storm a drop of her vigor and spun the clouds until, at last, an eye formed. The tempest now whirled into a violent cyclone, but, at its center, the seas became calm. Within the mile-wide eye, nothing would harm her. 

    Anya sighed, dropping her hands back underwater and releasing the frozen wave that lapped against her gently. She could see the storm surge in the distance and the sun above her. The light was warm against her cheeks, and she yawned, her eyelids growing heavy. Anya used too much power and hadn’t enough oxygen, bubbling out of her blood faster and faster. She pinched her cheeks, shaking herself awake before sifting through the wreckage. 

    Boxes, cable, rope, and tarp, the ocean was full of debris. There were bodies too, bloated and bloody, their threads of life limp, broken, and frayed. Anya’s diode sparked to life, her right eye glowing blue as she listened for a pulse. Nothing. Her heart sank, and her shoulders slumped. 

    “Am I too late?” she asked, twirling her silver hair between her thumb and forefinger. 

    No, not yet. Anya saw something in the distance, a thread of life yet tethered to a soul. She dove underwater, racing towards the silver glow of unbroken life. That’s when she found him. Popping out of the water, Anya came upon a crude raft built from wooden doors and barrels bound with tattered rope and towing line. A young man was lying on his back with pale cheeks and purple lips. He wasn’t like the others, drowning beneath the mast. No, this man was lanky, his skin smooth with no missing fingers or toes. He wore a leather jerkin of an expensive cut and carried a bag with a scale, a slide rule, and a waterlogged deck of cards. A scholarly type born reading books and not weighing anchors. 

    Anya climbed onto the raft, curling her tail like a seahorse and resting her head on the man’s chest. She could hear a soft gurgling noise where the saltwater gathered in his lungs. 

    “C-come on, Anya,” she said, pinching her cheeks again. “J-j-just like big sis showed you.” 

    She pulled herself towards his chin, bringing her lips close to his. 

    “I’m sorry for doing this without permission, but it’s the only way I can save you.” 

    Anya kissed him, drawing the water out of his body and sharing her oxygen with him. His lips were cold and dry and tasted salty, like licking the shell of a lobster’s tail. Her first time wasn’t at all like she imagined it. But perhaps that’s what she deserved for stealing her first kiss, playing a game her sister had perfected. 

    The man choked, spitting out seawater and rolling onto his side. He was alive, unconscious, but alive. Anya breathed a sigh of relief, but now her head spun. She rolled onto her back, gasping as her hands shook. Her blood oxygen content was so low her muscles froze, and her lips quivered. If Anya was going to stay, she needed to take one more thing from this man. 

    Wrapping her arms around his waist, Anya pulled the man close and sunk her teeth into his forearm, drinking a few drops of his blood. The ruby-red ether tasted metallic and made her lips pucker. Though she didn’t like the flavor, human blood could uniquely hold oxygen above water. So she took as much as she needed, and his blood filtered through the gills in her stomach, entering her arteries and turning her veins pink. She felt better after that, closing his wound with one of her obsidian scales. He was shaking now, and Anya held him close to share her warmth. 

    “Can y-you hear me?” she asked, stroking his short brown hair as she yawned.

    The man murmured something incoherent, and she smiled.

    “My n-n-name is Anya, and I am the one who saved your life,” she said, fashioning a ring from one of her scales and wrapping it around his ring finger. “With this, I p-promise, in sickness and in health, to always be by your side.” She sealed the onyx favor around his finger and kissed him.

    The second time was far better than the first, much gentler and tasted like rainwater after a storm. Her favorite flavor.

    “Till death do us part,” Anya said with a smile. “On this, as an immortal, I swear.”

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