Chapter Text
Kotallo hasn’t been sleeping well. It’s probably because of the nightmares.
They strike in the middle of the night, shaking him awake and leaving him drenched in his own sweat. Sometimes, he can feel the remnants of a scream echoing in his bedroom and the walls shaking with his night terrors. It is a blessing that he has no roommates to complain about his nightmares. It is a curse that he must live with them on his own.
He takes long walks in the middle of the night, as the apartment he rents does nothing more than suffocate him following his nightmares. What a sight he must be, a pale shadow patrolling the streets like a lost soul. Kotallo is grateful that no one has seen him yet. He does not want to explain why he’s out so late at night,
Memorial Grove is not small by any means, but nothing compared to the brighter cities of Los Angeles and San Francisco. Surrounded by forests of redwood trees on one side and the ocean on the other, it feels tucked away from the rest of the world. A refuge: a place that Kotallo has always called home. He remembers the afternoons in the forests, where he looked for frogs in the creeks, carved pictures into the redwood trees. He remembers the hours spent on the beach, searching for the prettiest seashells to bring home to his mother so that she could line them on the windowsill in the kitchen.
But those are memories now, and Memorial Grove feels suffocating.
His escape is the ocean. He walks, and walks, and walks until he can hear the crashing of the waves and can see the inky blackness of the water. The moonlight illuminates the path down to the beach, and he takes his shoes off once he reaches the sand, delighting in the coolness. The air smells of salt and seaweed, and Kotallo closes his eyes as the ocean sprays mist into the air. It does little to soothe the anxiety from his nightmares, but it is better than staying in his apartment.
Normally, Kotallo does not stay long on the beach. An hour, two at most. But tonight has been worse. Just thinking about it makes Kotallo’s knees weak, and he has to sit down at the edge of the surf. It’s almost silly; he can’t even remember what his nightmare was about. But he can remember the sensations burning at the edges of his mind. He can hear the screams of his comrades, feel blood soaking into his clothes and skin. There is one voice that cuts through, a faint echo of his past that Kotallo desperately wants to stay away from. He is not ready to face that memory yet.
Kotallo digs his hand into the sand, squeezing the grains of rock and seashells so tightly that he can feel little else. It mirrors the pressure that Kotallo feels within his chest: so constricted in this wide space, much like the coarse sand that digs into the lines of his palm and beneath his fingernails.
Sometimes, it’s easy to let the shadows consume him in fear and panic. But Kotallo isn’t a child anymore. He knows how to keep them at bay, prowling along the edges of his sanity. He wonders if he will ever be rid of them. Everyone he has confided in has acknowledged the fading of trauma like a scar: still visible but no longer causing pain. Talking to Dekka has helped, but he becomes frustrated in their sessions together. He isn’t getting any better.
Kotallo tries not to keep track of how long he sits on the beach. He no longer shivers from the fear of his nightmares, but because of the chill of the night. He’s only wearing a pair of sweats and a sweater over his t-shirt, and the sun won’t be rising for several hours. There is no cause to go home just yet.
The crash of the waves is the only sound that Kotallo hears, for a while. As he listens to the rhythmic sound, Kotallo notices something cutting through the noise. A single, keening note, like the sound of an animal in pain. It’s faint, weaving through the waves like the undertone of a song, and Kotallo shifts toward the sound. It seems to come away from the town, so it’s not someone playing music late at night. Rather, it comes from a tall outcropping of rock that stands in the ocean. In the late night, the cliff rises like a behemoth standing guard over a hidden treasure.
Kotallo stands, curiosity piqued. The rocks shine in the moonlight, the surface made slick by the ocean spray. They are too intimidating for even the brashest of teenagers, and Kotallo knows the danger of the tide pulling unsuspecting swimmers into the water. He treads carefully, looking for anything that might be making the noise. It is much louder now, almost drowning out the rushing of the waves. It reminds Kotallo of a requiem, a mournful noise akin to weeping. He must find its source. He needs to find it.
With the help of the moon, he rounds one of the drier rocks and climbs a few feet. The sound seems to come from beneath him, just hidden by the dark edges of rock. Kotallo notices a small opening, perhaps wide enough for his broad frame. It will be a dangerous fit, and Kotallo isn’t too sure if there are any footholds below. Even for someone with both arms, it would be a reckless endeavor.
But there is another path. A smaller piece of stone juts out from the cliff like an extended arm, worn down that he can easily grab hold of it. He can see the shifting of the water below to reveal smooth rock beneath. A drop would not kill him. Most likely.
Kotallo splashes into the water, stumbling for a moment but then catching himself on the wall. He blinks in the darkness. The sound has stopped. Immediately, he mourns it. Its absence is near-deafening, creating a hole of loss where it once was. Kotallo weaves between the rocks, closer to the ocean when he hears a thrashing noise in the water. He turns and finds that he cannot breathe. All he knows is the taste of salt dancing across his lips and tongue as he takes in the image before his eyes.
The first thing he realizes is that the creature is not human. It is a woman, judging by the soft edges of her torso and the gentle curve of her shoulders. The moonlight casts her in an ethereal glow, allowing him to see every part of her in brilliant clarity. Her skin shines, almost reflectively. It takes him a moment to realize it is reflecting ; splotches of scales cover her entire upper body. They are everywhere—her arms, chest, crawling further to her neck and temples. Everywhere else, the mermaid’s skin is dappled with freckles, carving out other paths in her skin. Especially in the valley between her breasts, which is not covered by scales.
Kotallo feels warm all of a sudden. He can’t imagine why.
The mermaid — because that’s all that she can be — has pressed herself as far as she possibly can from Kotallo, pinning herself in a crevice between two jagged rocks. It’s not unlike a caged animal. He sees something flicker over the mermaid’s skin, and at first, he thinks it’s a trick of the moonlight. But moonlight is not red, and it does not make skin glimmer so vibrantly. This is a warning: a warning to stay away or risk getting his throat torn out.
Even without legs, she might be able to reach him from here. She is poised like a rattlesnake, coiled as tightly as she can, ready to strike. Draped over her shoulders and her chest is a thick mass of dark red hair. Some of it has been braided into sections, tied off with pieces of metal and twine. There are even seashells adorning locks of her hair. Her mouth is pulled back in a snarl to reveal razor-sharp teeth. Her glare flickers between his face and his hand like he might pull a weapon out from somewhere. Kotallo is rooted to the spot by how striking her eyes are. They remind him of the forests outside Memorial Grove, lush with life after a summer rain. And the center of them, amber held in the sun’s last rays of light.
Everything about her is stunning. But there is something in her eyes that threatens to break at the first sign of danger. She knows that there is no way out.
Kotallo breaks their shared gaze, his eyes traveling over the lines of her torso to where her tail gleams as brilliantly as the rest of her. The tail is as long as Kotallo is tall, a wide appendage of muscle and scales. The fins are almost jagged along the edges, following a natural curve that almost splits her tail. The shape of the tail does not remind Kotallo of any particular aquatic creature, but he recognizes it based on his knowledge of what a mermaid should look like from stories and media. But the color—he can’t even begin to describe it.
It reminds him of the sun sinking into the ocean, turning the sky into an orange and red blanket as the night creeps into the edges. Her scales glimmer in the way the stars blink slowly into existence. He sees seafoam and coral in the edges of her fins, the crashing waves in the way they flick back and forth under his gaze.
But there is blood.
About a third of the way up her tail is an industrial-sized fishing harpoon. A majority of the handle protrudes from her tail, the end jagged and broken. It looks like it should be longer but perhaps broke when the mermaid got onto the rocks. Kotallo can see the spearpoint jutting out from the other side of the tail, angled upward towards her back. Perhaps this is why she has not escaped. Kotallo can only imagine the tearing of flesh and muscle if she were to pull it out the wrong way.
He looks the mermaid in the eyes. They have not moved from their positions, and Kotallo is loath to get any closer. Like most things in the ocean, the most beautiful come equipped with their own ways of protection. He does not doubt that this creature could seriously harm him. But if he does not do anything, he is willingly submitting her to a terrible fate.
Kotallo wets his lips and clears his throat. How does one start a conversation with a mermaid? “I wish to help,” he says. The mermaid shows no indication of understanding him, her lips still drawn back in a snarl. It grows only more savage as he presses his palm against his chest, gesturing to himself and then to her. “I have no intention of hurting you.” Kotallo shifts his feet slightly, and the mermaid growls low in her throat. No motion to attack him yet.
“My name is Kotallo,” he says, as he inches closer to her. Her growl is like a mortar grinding against sand, rough and calloused. “I live in the town near here.” He nods in the direction that he thinks Memorial Grove is. “Can you tell me how this happened?”
He wasn’t expecting a response. The mermaid does not give one, but she does stop growling. Kotallo counts that as a success. He continues to inch closer to her to get a better view of the harpoon. A majority of it sticks out of her flesh, with only about a foot left to pull out. Thankfully, the blood has stopped, none of it flowing freely. Kotallo doubts that it will stay like that once he pulls it out. He pulls his sweatshirt over his head and places it on a drier piece of rock in preparation for later.
There’s only one way that Kotallo can see this working out. He looks at the mermaid, once again taken back by the color of her eyes. His mouth goes dry, and it takes a moment for him to find any words to say. “I’m going to have to take it out,” he says. “And it’s not going to be pleasant.” The lights in her skin flicker, but the wary red color remains.
Her eyes stay on him as he moves his hand closer. She doesn’t move until he puts his hand on the exposed wood of the harpoon. It shifts in her flesh, and Kotallo can hear the squelching of blood. She snarls, but it breaks off into a painful whine as Kotallo holds fast. She thrashes about, her hands pinning his shoulders down onto the rock. Her claws dig into his flesh, inflaming the scar tissue of his left shoulder. He tries not to make a sound, but he can already feel the blood warming his skin. A choked wheeze claws out of his throat, and his hold on the harpoon loosens.
And so does the mermaid’s grip on him. Her claws pull out of his skin, and Kotallo closes his eyes in relief. He instantly puts his hand on the stump, rolling away from her so that his back is to her. A voice in his mind snaps at him — always keep your eyes on the enemy, boy.
“Fuck you,” Kotallo spits, but he doesn’t know if he’s speaking to the voice or to her. The pain in his shoulder has already dulled, but he knows there will be new scars to join the ones on his stump. He turns back to the mermaid. She is no longer snarling at him, and the red lights in her skin have dimmed. Her expression has changed, her brows no longer so firm and her jaw relaxed. If she were human, Kotallo might say she looks apologetic.
Kotallo closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath. He can’t blame her for the way she reacted. He would have — no, has reacted in the same way. If there is one thing that Kotallo understands more than others in Memorial Grove, it is pain. Pain, and its relentless lack of mercy on him. He has felt it in the phantom aches of his missing limb, in the loss of his parents and fellow soldiers in the field. Pain makes Kotallo feel alive, even as it turns the strongest of humans into a crude imitation of themselves: a creature in its most basic form.
He opens his eyes and hopes that she understands him and has been choosing not to talk. “Shall we try that again? Perhaps with less claws this time — if you’d be so kind.” She blinks at him, and the lights in her skin slowly change to bright orange. Then, a warm yellow. Kotallo takes that as a good sign.
Though he’d rather have her facing him, Kotallo decides that putting his thighs around her tail might be the best idea. It would allow him to keep her still as he pulls the harpoon as quickly as possible. He can also roll away from her, should he see the claws coming for him.
Kotallo takes a deep breath as he gets into position. Every motion is slow and gentle. He lets her see every part of him, save for his hand. He wraps his hand around the handle, just above the metal spearpoint. “I’m going to count to three, and then I’m going to pull this out as quickly as possible,” he tells her. The mermaid stares back at him, her claws idly scraping against the rock. Kotallo swallows. “You may want to hold onto something,” he suggests, nodding at her.
Surprisingly, the mermaid wraps her hands around a couple of handholds, and Kotallo relaxes. His hand tightens around the handle of the harpoon. “One. Two. Three.”
It takes less than two seconds. The moment it is free, blood flows freely from the wound. As the mermaid thrashes between his legs, Kotallo rolls and grabs his sweater to stem the blood. He presses down, despite the whimpers of pain she makes. The blood stains the fabric quickly, and the cold spread beneath his hand is unsettling. Kotallo keeps an eye out for her claws as he continues to press onto the wound, but she continues to hold fast onto the rock. Her eyes are closed, just as Kotallo had been after she dug her claws into her flesh.
“Forgive me,” Kotallo says softly. Her eyes open at the sound of his voice. His chest squeezes around his heart; there are tears at the edges of her eyes, glittering like stars in the night sky. “I have to stop the bleeding. Otherwise, this will be for nothing.”
He hears her sigh, the sound as soft as the tide coming in. He does not know how long she’s been like this, but he can imagine the relief she feels. Kotallo chances a look at the wound and grimaces. Blood still flows freely from the inch-and-half hole that the harpoon has left. The wound itself is clean, but he can see straight through it. He remembers enough of his in-field medical training to know how to dress and treat the wound, but he has nothing except for his sweatshirt. He doubts that the mermaid would want anyone else to know her presence.
“I don’t know what else to do,” Kotallo says. He looks up at her, almost pleadingly. She looks back at him, wary of his next move. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to help you.”
He has no idea if she understands him, if any of this is even registering. He hopes that his face shows what he means: that he genuinely wants to help her and that a small part of him may fester and rot should she suffer more because of his inadequacy. He's seen enough blood for a lifetime.
The mermaid stares at him, her tears already drying at the edges of her eyes. He cannot help but be entranced by them, by her , as she pushes herself up on her elbows. He can’t tell if it’s the trick of the moonlight, or if it's some fantastical part of her, but her eyes seem to glow with a new vibrancy. The gold of her pupils darkens and turns into a gentle brown. She watches him carefully, her brows pulled inward as she studies him. Kotallo feels as if he is the strange and unnerving creature under her gaze.
When she places her hand against his chest, Kotallo feels his breath stutter. Her claws scrape imperceptibly over his shirt as she presses carefully against him. For a moment, he feels consumed by the sea itself — there is the smell of the ocean in her breath and the unfathomable depths of the waters in her eyes. He needs to be careful, lest he is pulled under her current and drowns.
He wonders if she can feel his heart pulsing beneath her hand, if she can feel the warmth of his blood coursing through his veins. She must have some kind of spell on him, Kotallo thinks dazedly. There is no other explanation for his state, for the way he sits frozen next to his creature of myth and legend.
It is why he is so surprised when she pushes against his chest, making him land on his back. His sweatshirt ends up in the water, dying the surrounding ripples a ghastly hue of inky red. The mermaid coils herself away from Kotallo, pushing herself back into the ocean water. A mighty wave surges forward, at least ten feet tall. Kotallo has enough sense in him to scramble away from the water as much as possible, but he still gets thoroughly drenched. The cold sinks into his bones, leaving Kotallo gasping. He wipes the water out of his eyes and turns around the rocks.
She is gone. The ocean water rises above the rocks, hiding any evidence of the mermaid’s existence. Kotallo can imagine the ocean laughing at him like he simply dreamt her up. But he knows that it was real.
When Kotallo gets home, the sun’s rays are just curling over the edge of the horizon. He nearly falls straight into bed, but he feels the sting of pain in his shoulders. He pulls his shirt over his body and blinks. In an almost delirious state, he smiles at the sight of crescent-shaped marks in his skin.
“It wasn’t a dream,” he murmurs and slips into the throes of sleep.
Under the waves, Aloy clenches the human’s strange shedding in her hands. It is one of the softest things she’s ever held, and holding it makes her heart race a thousand leagues an hour. She looks above at the wavering shape of the moon. It stares back at her like a single pearly eye. “It was real,” she breathes out, twirling her tail to examine the fresh aching wound. “It wasn’t a dream.”
Each pulse of her tail is a reminder of the human man the whole swim home. She hopes the distance will bring her clarity of mind.
The moon laughs above the surface and blinks goodbye.