#feeling fortunate for fish fronds and family

[montereybayaquarium]

Flowing fluidly from that feeling of foreboding as we freely fling ourselves into Friday, and float on the fun thoughts of frivolity that await us on the week’s finale.

[takerfoxx]

Blood Island, Chapter Eight

Friend or Foe?

Peeling off her shirt, Nuriel held it up to regard with a critical eye.

It was a total loss. The back, shoulders, and sleeves had all been ripped to ribbons, and the front had a few large holes where the crocomonster’s teeth had gone through. Most of it was now brown with bloodstains. Shit, she must have been gushing.

Perhaps it could be repaired? But with what, though? Nuriel had no thread or needle, and while she knew her way around both due to the many voyages in which she was made to mend rips and tears in the clothing of whatever crew she happened to be sailing with, this was far beyond her modest skill.

Wrinkling her nose, Nuriel looked up at the towering cliff face and the rest of the island beyond. She didn’t care for the idea of walking around while being so…exposed. Not necessarily for modesty’s sake, as who would see her? But because she hated the thought of leaving herself vulnerable like that.

To whom?

Well, to no one, actually. Save perhaps for her mysterious, red-eyed friend. But even so! It was the principle that mattered!

Why?

Well, it just did!

Why?

Because they did! Because she shouldn’t allow herself to get complacent! Because she had to remain vigilant and not let anything slip, despite being all alone on an unknown island filled with monsters and spirits, and-

Then with a sigh, Nuriel balled the shredded shirt up and tossed it into the open hatch to the cargo hold. Oh, what did it matter? She wasn’t eking out a living in a crowded metropolis or shrouding her identity on a ship, she was marooned on a fantastical island full of monsters and mysteries. The rules were different now.

That decided, Nuriel turned her attention to the Carmilla’s Fancy itself. It didn’t seem to have taken much damage during the rain, if any at all. Which made sense, as it had probably weathered rainstorms before.

She walked around the deck, inspecting each and every hole, crack, and knot. If she had some sort of binding agent, something to plug them up with, she could probably fix those. It would mean she could store stuff in the cargo hold and not worry about it being ruined when it next rained.

Then she glanced over to the captain’s quarters. She probably ought to focus on fixing that up first. It was the place best suited for her to live, after all.

Thinking of settling in?

Nuriel winced. Though it existed only in the back of her mind, Father’s voice was quite loud.

Ought you not be planning how to escape? Or have you resigned yourself to being a prisoner of this island?

No of course not! she replied inside of her head. But finding a means of escape might take some time, and until then I need a home base, so until then…

The thought trailed off. Her face screwing up, Nuriel turned to stare out over the network of canals and tiny islands, out to sea.

Even if she were to escape, where would she go? She didn’t have a home, didn’t have a family, didn’t have any sort of trade beyond thieving, didn’t have anything. She didn’t even have any friends worth speaking of. Her life was one of a constant struggle to survive, fighting to keep herself fed and out of jail. And yes, it was fine, but how much longer would that last? She had been caught more than once, and this last time had nearly cost Nuriel her life. It was pure happenstance that she wasn’t a rotting skeleton at the bottom of the sea, her bones picked clean by fish.

Then Nuriel turned around, facing toward the island itself. Yes, it was in many ways just as dangerous as her previous life had been, perhaps even moreso. An angry man could be outrun, guards could be evaded, but these monsters were like nothing she had to face back in the world of people. She had nearly been torn to pieces by the birds alone. The birds!

No, wait, scratch that. there was no “nearly” about it. The birds had torn her to pieces, and it was only by the grace of her new red-eyed friend that she was even alive.

Then Nuriel frowned. She lifted her right arm and ran the fingers of her left hand up and down its length. Then she reached up over her shoulders to probe her upper back. Come to think of it, how exactly did the red-eyed one heal her? Did it have some strange demon medicine it had given her? Did it invoke hellish magics? She had never heard of the power of Hell being used to heal someone. Usually the stories had it going in the opposite direction.

Furthermore, she was reasonably certain that the green-eyed sea-creature was also involved. Did the two know each other? Were they friends?

Just the thought made Nuriel feel strange. Troubled, but in a way that was unfamiliar. Monsters…with friends? Could that even be a thing?

And here you are, said Papa’s voice. Wanting to make friends with them as well.

Gritting her teeth, Nuriel responded with, I do what I must to survive. What else would you have me do?

To this, there was no answer.

Nuriel shook her head and turned her attention back to the ship. Well, if it was to be her home for the time being, the first thing she ought to do is give it a careful inspection to see what needed fixing and judge what she even could fix. At the very least, it would keep her busy.

…

All told, the condition of the Carmilla’s Fancy was…not good. It definitely would never be seaworthy again. And yet, it wasn’t that bad either.

The worst was the deck. Apparently the birds had tried and fortunately failed to claw through to get in even before Nuriel had taken up residence. It was solid for the most part, but there were still several cracks and holes to deal with.

As for the hull itself, it also was in a state of disrepair, including one particularly large cracked area where it had struck the trunk of one of the trees. But it didn’t look to be in danger of falling apart anytime soon.

But her main attention was with the captain’s cabin, which she wished to turn into her living quarters. For some reason the overpowering stench of bird had faded considerably, perhaps due to the red-eyed monster having cleaned out all trace of its nest, but also perhaps due to the heavy rain.

She walked around the empty space, kicking at the floor with the heels of her boots at times and rapping her knuckles against the wall at others. The beams seemed to be good. A little creaky in places, but they felt like they would hold. Whoever had constructed this ship had known what they were doing. Given the ornate trappings on the hull, it had been someone with money, so the materials were probably of very high quality. It did seem to be some rich wanker’s pleasure craft, but not the flimsy sort never intended to leave the sight of land. This craft had been built for the open sea.

Interesting.

Then she turned her attention to the window, which was smashed and crusted with gunk and mold. The glass was a loss, so she probably should smash out the rest of the way and cover the hole with something a little more substantial, something to keep the creatures out. She wasn’t sure what, but there had to be something on hand.

In the meantime, the interior could be dressed up a bit. The cot could be made more comfortable with grasses and tree fronds, and she supposed she could even make some furniture. Out of what, she still didn’t know, but she could learn. She was good at learning.

Nuriel looked around one more time and then put her hands on her hips with a satisfied nod. Yes, this should do nicely.

…

Now that she had an idea of what she wanted to do with the ship, it was time for Nuriel to assess the area surrounding it.

The Carmilla’s Fancy sat in a small grove of trees on a tiny island that was part of a network chain. To its back was a hill of solid rock topped with moss. And behind that, just across a small channel that wound around her island, was the main island itself, with a beach bordering the channel and the sheer cliff walls rising up beyond that.

Nuriel surveyed the area, doing calculations in her head. Okay, she could probably set up some kind of barrier to seal off the beach right in front of the grove on both ends. A fence, perhaps. Maybe even a wall, one with swinging doors.

As for the hill, its top wasn’t exactly flat. Still, if she could get some kind of platform up on there, it would be an ideal place for a watchtower.

A platform? A watchtower? Made from what? And made from with what labor?

Mine, came the response. It’s not like I don’t have the time.

And when have you ever built anything?

Nuriel shrugged. Good time to start.

The island that the Carmilla’s Fancy sat upon, which she was now thinking of as her island, lay nestled near the back of a large gulf, with the cliffs curving around it like a pincer. The other tiny islands and the canals that split them filled the rest of the space, with the last ones spread out just beyond the shore.

Nuriel looked out over the archipelago. She hadn’t encountered many of the local monsters out on the islands, chirpers aside. Still, she couldn’t afford to not be sure.

Nuriel looked out at the network chain, memorizing its layout the best she could. She ought to ask her new friend for some blank pieces of parchment. A map would be invaluable.

When she was sure that she had a fairly good idea, she climbed down from the ship to the beach. And she started to walk.

Exploring the archipelago turned up little of any value. Few things had made their nest in the islands themselves. Here and there were a few gulls pecking about, she found some pretty big crabs, as well as a few free-standing pools that many spiny and squishy bits of sealife had made their home, but little she could use.

Still, there was also little that could threaten her as well. That was good as well.

There were a few things of note, though. One island was large enough to have a few plants take root, which included a trio of coconut trees! That was good to know. And if there were a few out there, there were probably others.

In fact, now that she thought of it, if her new friend had been able to gather so many kinds of fruit, there was probably plenty of edible plants nearby. Another thing to ask about.

The gulf was large, and there were many islands sitting within, but not so many that Nuriel wasn’t about to get through all of them in under a couple hours, and before long, she was standing on the shore, again looking out to sea.

The surf was calmer during the day, and the tide lower. It sure seemed peaceful enough, and if Nuriel were anyplace else, she would think it a good place to lay down in the sand and take a nap. As it was, she just wanted to take stock of her surroundings.

There didn’t seem to be much out there immediately beyond the island, no seafaring monsters or anything of the sort. But further out there was something.

Nuriel pulled out her spyglass and took a look.

It was as she had thought. Several sharp and jagged spikes of rock were protruding just out of the water’s surface. There were quite a lot of them too, and from where she was, it seemed that they stretched far in either direction.

Nuriel shivered. They probably surrounded the whole island. No wonder it seemed that nobody had visited in a long time. If the tide were higher, the spikes would be hidden from the naked eye, and yet would still rip the hulls out of any approaching vessel, something to keep in mind should the opportunity to escape ever present itself.

Then Nuriel looked down the coast to her left, where she had fled. Her new friend had said that the birds hunted at night, but she wasn’t really interested in pushing her luck just yet.

Then she looked to her right.

Nuriel paused.

There was something there, further down the beach. Actually, there was a lot of somethings. And Nuriel had a pretty good idea what they were.

Swallowing, she cautiously made her way down the coast, keeping her eyes on the objects as they came nearer and nearer. It did not take long to confirm what she had thought upon her first look.

She had come across a graveyard for ships.

Littered all over the shoals and reefs were the decaying carcasses of watercraft, from brigs like her own to smaller schooners. They had been broken and smashed to pieces, some partially intact but clearly never to take sail again, while others had been shattered so thoroughly that it was impossible to tell what kind of boat they once had been. Splintered masts rose into the air like the headstones of an abandoned cemetery, noting to all that might come across them that this was where the dead were kept.

But most impressive was the devastated remains of a Navy frigate, or half of one anyway. It was thrust partially up on the beach itself, one entire side ripped off, exposing what remained of the crew quarters.

Nuriel felt a strange shiver looking out on the skeletal remains of all those ships. At least the Carmilla’s Fancy had been mostly intact. But it was harder to look deader than these things.

Or more haunted.

The smart thing to do would to be to turn around and head right back to her island. She had enough troubles with monsters and spirits of the night to risk disturbing the sleep of the dead. There had to be dozens, if not hundreds of corpses of sailors out in those shoals, their bones picked clean by gulls and sea creatures. That would make one restless enough without some foolish girl poking about their graves.

And yet…

She did have at least one creature of the night on her side, and her new friend had not warned her away from any wrecked ships. It was sort of odd that she would find that comforting.

Besides, with so many wrecks to choose from, there had to be plenty of useful items she could salvage.

Taking a deep breath, Nuriel started to walk toward the remains of the beached frigate. But as she rounded a splintered mast complete with a crow’s nest that was jutting out of the sand, she saw something that made her stop in her tracks.

There was something reclining across the beach, the tip of its tail dangling in the surf. Something alive.

All the stories Nuriel had heard of merfolk had painted them as ethereally beautiful creatures with the bodies and faces of human women and the tails of massive fish where their legs ought to be. They would swim around seafaring vessels or recline sensuously upon reefs and rocks, tempting sailors to their watery deaths with the sound of their songs and their enchanting beauty. Those tales had served as a warning, to not allow one’s heart to be beguiled no matter how lonely you might be, but Nuriel had often come away from those stories not fearful of the sirens of the deep, but envious of them. How much better her life would be if she had the tail of a great fish and could swim wherever she pleased! Hell, there were a few sailors of her acquaintance that she wouldn’t mind leading to their deaths.

But now that she saw one in the flesh, she realized how wrong those descriptions had been, and yet how right.

The mermaid did in fact have a tail that she obviously used for swimming, but it was not the scaled tail of a cold-blooded fish, but a the long and sinuous tail, one that was finned, yes, but not with a split flipper at the end. Instead, it was more like the tail of a great serpent…no, not a serpent, as it had no scales. More like a giant eel, one with greenish-blue skin and stripes of a blue so dark that they were almost black.

As for the mermaid’s body, it was human…ish, and definitely feminine, but no one would mistake it for that of a human. The skin was the same greenish-blue as the tail, with no clear divide between the two parts like mermaids had been described having. Aside from the coloring, her torso was…mostly human in shape, trimmer in the middle and flaring out a bit where her hips extended down to her trail. She even had a navel, so she probably had not hatched from an egg. Her breasts were small, with two tiny, dark-blue nipples. Her arms, which were laid in the sand at her side, were long and slender, and her fingers, six of them on each hand, were likewise longer and more delicate-looking than they had any right to be, with a thin membrane stretching between her fingers. Short black claws protruded from the ends of her fingers.

The mermaid’s face was perhaps the most human-looking, with two eyes, a nose, and mouth all were it ought to be. Long, silky hair of a blue so dark that it was almost black flowed down her back as well. But the teeth in her mouth were obviously sharp and predatory, her eyes glowing a faint green even in the afternoon sun, and the lobe of each ear was a large, fin-like membrane, one that reminded Nuriel of the wings of a bat. Three horizontal black strips slashed their way across her nose.

There was no doubt about it. This was the green-eyed sea monster that Nuriel had seen on her first night on the island.

The mermaid was propped up on her elbows and looking out upon the wreckage all around her, the tip of her tail lazily flicking at the surf. And as Nuriel stared at her, she found herself realizing that while the mermaid clearly did not look like the fishy women from the sailors’ tales, she was still quite beautiful, and Nuriel could understand well the desire to leap in after her after a long and lonely voyage.

Though Nuriel didn’t make a sound, the mermaid must have sensed her anyway, as it suddenly jerked her head to one side and then flipped around onto her belly, hands splayed in the sand, eyes wide and watching warily. Nuriel stiffened.

Then the mermaid saw her. She blinked her green eyes once, head tilted in a manner that reminded Nuriel of that of a curious dog.

Or a wolf.

Then the mermaid seemed to relax. She rolled onto one side, propped up on her arm, and smiled warmly at Nuriel.

Then she raised one webbed hand and waved.

Nuriel was unsure of how to respond. She had spent her whole life fearing the unknown and the inhuman. She had shivered at tales of creatures that looked human but…weren’t, that preyed upon children, that drank blood and devoured souls. And ever since arriving on the island, she had been running from two monsters in particular, one with glowing red eyes that stalked the jungle and one with glowing green eyes that prowled the depths. She had been convinced that if either got their hands or claws on her, it would be all over for her.

But now one was leaving her notes and gifts while the other was waving to her in a friendly manner.

That was odd.

Nuriel waved back. What else could she do?

Satisfied with her response, the mermaid then beckoned at her, indicating for her to come closer.

Now this presented a conundrum. Did she acquiesce and trust that the inhuman creature of the deep, of which many terrifying tales had been told, truly did mean her no harm, or did she play it safe and keep her distance?

Seeing her hesitation, the mermaid sighed in exasperation and beckoned at her again, more insistently this time.

Well, if the mermaid did truly mean her harm, she could have done whatever she wanted to her after plucking her from the crocomonster’s grasp. And Nuriel truly could not see what the mermaid could possibly do now that they were on land.

Nuriel approached, walking through the sand until she was only a few feet away. Then she sat down on her haunches. There, that ought to be close enough.

The mermaid glanced her over, and as she did, Nuriel found herself staring fascinated at her face. Everything about the girl from the sea seemed more monster than woman, from the color of her eyes and skin to the length of her arms. And yet there definitely was a humanlike quality to her, not just because the shape of her body had a resemblance to a woman, but in how she moved, how she looked at Nuriel. As otherworldly as she was, there was a calm intelligence in her eyes, one that didn’t seem alien at all.

Then the mermaid’s brow furrowed. She lifted one webbed hand to her wing-like ear and let out a strange clicking sound.

Confused, Nuriel lifted a hand to her own ear, and found her fingers touching the ragged flesh of her lobe.

The mermaid made that clicking sound again, made a point of looking to the jungle, and then lunged her head forward, her sharp-teethed jaws biting at the air. Nuriel jumped a little, but it wasn’t a threat, it was a question.

What happened to your ear?

Right. Of course a maiden of the deep wouldn’t speak any human language. Actually, a speech made up of clicks and other similar vocalizations made perfect sense, given the environment. It was just bloody useless for Nuriel.

A girl who can’t speak and a girl who can only click, Nuriel thought despondently. This is going to make for a very trying conversation.

Still, at least the mermaid was making an effort to communicate. Nuriel touched her ear again, and then mimed biting onto something with her teeth, her neck twisting as she tore off an imaginary piece of flesh.

The mermaid blinked twice. And by that, it wasn’t that she shuttered her eyelids two times in a row, but that a thin, transparent membrane passed sideways over her eyes before her eyelids closed normally before opening again, with the membrane opening a second later.

And then her face contorted in anger.

The mermaid looked to the jungle again and pointed. She made another clicking sound, this one harsher sounding.

Nuriel stared blankly.

Hissing, the mermaid leaned over and rubbed her palm over a section of the sand, smoothing out an area. She lifted one hand, her index-finger extended.

The black claw at the end suddenly shot out, revealing itself to be long and needlelike.

Nuriel jerked a little. Oh. Retractable claws. Swell.

But the mermaid still didn’t mean her harm. Hunching over, she starting drawing in the sand with her claw.

Still apprehensive but now very curious, Nuriel leaned in to see what the mermaid was drawing. It was a very rough stick-figure of a long-haired woman wearing a dress. The jagged line that the mermaid used for the woman’s mouth indicated sharp teeth.

The mermaid again made a biting motion and indicated the jungle.

Then Nuriel understood. The mermaid wanted to know if the red-eyed monster had been the one to rip part of her ear off, and was angry about the possibility.

Interesting. So, the two did know each other, or at least of each other, but it seemed that they might not be on friendly terms.

Nuriel empathetically shook her head. Then she thought. All right, how could she explain this?

She entwined her thumbs and spread her fingers to imitated the wingspan of a bird. Then she fluttered it around before making her hand-bird dive at her own ear. Then she imitated the mermaid’s biting motion.

The anger cooled on the mermaid’s face, but she still looked horrified. She then pointed to the shoals, where a group of gulls were resting on a piece of railing.

Nuriel couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought. Honestly, she wouldn’t be surprised if gulls turned out to be that vicious on this island.

She shook her head again and did her best to use her rarely-employed voice imitate the hoarse, cackling cries of the deadly birds that had twice almost ended her life.

The mermaid’s brow rose in understanding. Her shoulder slumped and the gills in her neck fluttered in a manner that Nuriel took for a sigh.

Nuriel was struck then at the strangeness of it all. Here were two girls from completely different worlds and even completely different species, both incapable of human speech for their own reasons, still managing to have a conversation. Still, she couldn’t say that the experience was unpleasant.

The mermaid wiped away the sketch of the red-eyed monster from the sand. Then she began drawing again.

First she drew a wavy line. Then beneath it she drew another stick-figure, this one of a person falling backwards, limbs flailing. She pointed at the falling person, and then at Nuriel.

That part was easy enough to understand. It was a picture of Nuriel herself, after she had been thrown overboard into the sea.

Then the mermaid sketched out a person with a long tail instead of legs, clearly herself. She drew a line between herself and the depiction of Nuriel, and then drew a hump on top of the wavy line. This she connected to the sketches of herself and Nuriel with an arrow.

Nuriel slowly nodded in understanding. The mermaid was the reason she was still alive. She had found Nuriel drowning in the sea and brought her to the island. If so, then when she had first appeared to Nuriel on the beach, she had probably just been coming by to check up on her, which was much more

Then she nodded again and held her hands to her chest, as if clutching her heart. Thank you, she mouthed. She didn’t know if the mermaid could read lips or even understand English, but hopefully the sentiment would be conveyed.

The mermaid smiled, so at least some things were universal. And then her expression turned dour.

She wiped away the sketches in the sand. Then she drew the figure of the red-eyed monster again and jabbed a finger at it while shaking her head.

Nuriel frowned. What was the mermaid trying to communicate?

The mermaid again jabbed a claw at the stick-figure. Then she tilted her head to one side, exposing her neck. She tapped the side of her neck, pointed at the stick-figure, and made that biting motion again.

Nuriel still stared blankly at her. Did the mermaid want to eat the red-eyed monster? She really hoped that wasn’t the case. The last thing she needed was to be stuck in the middle of some kind-

And then she got it. The mermaid wasn’t saying that she wanted to eat the red-eyed monster, she was saying that the red-eyed monster had tried to eat her!

Seeing the look on Nuriel’s face, the mermaid nodded once, clicked her teeth together again, and pointed to the sketch of the red-eyed monster with an empathic shake of her head.

Nuriel cast a wary eye over to the jungle, where the red-eyed monster dwelled. Being stalked by inhuman creatures had been bad enough. She had not expected to be caught in the middle of a feud between two of them.

Then the mermaid suddenly stiffened. She looked up at the island, eyes flitting this way and that. Nuriel tilted her head and frowned, silently asking her what was wrong.

The mermaid glanced back at Nuriel, unease in her eyes. She pointed at the marooned girl and let out a low, repeating click. Though the gesture didn’t come with an illustration, Nuriel felt that she had caught the gist.

Be careful.

Moving with the smooth grace of a slithering snake, the mermaid turned herself around and slid back into the sea, her long tail swaying in the sand. A moment later she had disappeared among the flotsam and jetsam.

Nuriel stared after her, out over the partially sunken wreckage. All this time she had assumed that the monster that prowled the night and the monster that prowled the deep had been in cahoots, that there had been some kind of alliance between them. But now, just as she was starting to perhaps trust them both, she learned that such was not the case.

But they had both saved her life! Nuriel would be dead at least three times over if it weren’t for them. And they had both ample opportunity to do her harm had they wanted to.

There was something else going on.

…

The next morning, Nuriel found that her new “friend” had once again returned.

The note Nuriel had written thanking it was gone, and in its place was yet another long letter. There was also yet another basket of fruit and a basket of fish, along with a jug of clean water.

Nuriel ate cautiously, wishing that she could taste the food, if for no other reason than to tell if it had been tampered with. But when it failed to kill her, she turned her attention to her other gifts.

In addition to the note, several sheets of blank parchment had also been left. So her new friend intended to keep communicating from afar as well.

As for the note, Nuriel again had to work to decipher it, but it was shorter this time.

I am so glad! Now, I know this must be very (st…string…strange!) strange to you, so I shall keep my (dictan? No, distance!) distance for now. However, should you need or want anything, do not (oh damn, there was no way she was going to get this one. It started with a “He,” but the next was a jumble of letters) to ask.

And again she had signed her name. And again, Nuriel couldn’t read it.

Once she was done, Nuriel sat back to contemplate what she ought to do.

The red-eyed monster had basically told her to ask for anything, and Nuriel had no doubt that she could provide. But what she really wanted was information.

But should she ask it? Would doing so anger her new benefactor?

Well, only one way to find out.

Nuriel knelt down over a piece parchment, charcoal stick in one hand, the note that the red-eyed monster had left for her in the other.

Writing was not her strong suit. She read well enough to get by, and she could write a little bit, but mostly short phrases she had memorized in order to get by. Complex questions such as the one she wanted took some work.

Fortunately, while hurried, the red-eyed monster’s penmanship was neat and readable, so Nuriel was about to use it as something of a cross-reference to get the words right. Unfortunately, the two words she needed to use weren’t anywhere to be found. Damn it.

Then she sighed. Oh, who cared about spelling? The point would be made regardless.

Sticking the charcoal against the parchment, she carefully etched out the words, HU IS MURMAD?

Hopefully the red-eyed monster would glean her meaning, but just to be sure, Nuriel also took a page from the mermaid’s book and sketched out a person with a fish’s tail beneath her question.

That done, she picked up the hammer and nailed her question to the mast. Now all she had to do was wait. And pray.

[waywardfangirl]

I was incredibly fortunate to get to write for the wonderful @fight-surrender in the Carry On Secret Snowflake exchange, and she gave some of the best prompts I've seen. I ended up choosing to write a meet-cute (a meet-ugly, really) that takes place on the beach and centers around Simon's new fixation on the supposed dangers lurking below the waves.

I have to give a giant thank you to @foolofabookwyrm and @caitybuglove23 for being excellent betas, cheerleaders, and for helping me get the fic formatted and posted when my computer stopped working - you guys are the best! 💜💜💜

You can read the fic below, or on AO3!

Simon

 

I've always wanted to go to the beach. Growing up in care, I never had the opportunity to, but now that Penny and I are done with university and enjoying weekends without the threat of homework hanging over our heads, I finally can. Of course, we don't live close to the beach, so our day trip took some planning, but it gave me time to look up all the best places to eat, and it gave Penny time to watch every possible documentary about the ocean. I watched a lot of them with her, and while I know I probably won't see all of the tropical fish that swam across our TV screen, I'm still really excited to see the ocean. 

 

Unfortunately, I also happened to be in the room while Penny watched some show called “Predators from the Deep”, or something along those lines, so my excitement is also tinged with trepidation (or outright fear) of some of the things lurking under the waves.

“Sharks aren’t anything to worry about, Simon! They don’t want to attack you, and the likelihood of even seeing a shark here is extremely low.”

 

“It’s not the sharks I’m worried about, Pen! It’s all of the other stuff, all those little parasites, and the poisonous things, and the spiny ones.” The documentary was filled with shadowy shots of spiked balls and spotted tentacles just waiting to attack some unsuspecting wader.

 

“Don’t eat any of it then,” she replies, hardly even paying attention to me as she smooths out her blanket and sets up the umbrella.

 

“What?”

 

“You said you were worried about the poisonous things, so just don’t eat anything you find in the ocean.”

 

“They can hurt me even if I don’t eat them! What about that one octopus?”

 

“That was venomous, not poisonous, there’s a difference.” She squirts sunscreen into her palms and then slaps them lightly onto my cheeks, not allowing me time to squirm away.

 

“Whatever, venomous then, there are still things to be scared of in there!”

 

Penny ducks under the arm I have flung out to point at the ocean with, and grabs two waters from our cooler.

 

“You’ll be fine Simon, I promise.” She shoves a bottle into my hands. “Rub in your sun cream, and let’s walk by the edge of the water, alright? You’ll like it, we can find shells!” She starts off, picking her way through the sand and looking back only once to make sure that I’m following her.

 

It turns out that the water feels quite nice, even soothing. The sounds of the waves and the feel of cool water splashing my ankles combine to make me feel safe. They make me forget about the horrors lurking off-shore.

Penny has a handful of shells and has started handing me others to put in the pocket of my swim shorts. I’ve found a few shells of my own too, but I stopped paying such close attention to the ground about ten minutes ago, when I noticed a man about our own age playing in the waves with his younger siblings.

 

He has dark hair, originally falling around his face but now wet with seawater and slicked back to emphasize his widow’s peak. He’s still too far away for me to tell what color his eyes are, but as Penny and I walk closer I’m able to make out more of his facial expressions. He seems to be putting on sneers for show and occasionally gives bright smiles for the younger kids swarming him. He’s wearing one of those long-sleeved swim shirts, but it’s clinging tight to his body. He looks like he could be a footballer with all of the muscles I can see, even at this distance.

 

I’ve been trying not to stare too openly at him, but I can’t really help it - there’s just something about him that keeps drawing me in.It’s almost as if I’m under some sort of spell or thrall. Right now though, I’m extremely glad I’ve been so captivated by him, because I seem to be the only person on the beach who realizes the danger we’re all in.

 

Curling around the man’s left ankle are the tentacles of an octopus, surely about to stick its fangs into him and inject him with its venom (or whatever it is octopuses do to kill people).

 

"Octopus!" I yell. I’m at a loss for any other words, but I’m desperately trying to warn Penny as I sprint off to rescue him.

 

"Ooh, where?" She doesn't sound nearly concerned enough for the looming threat of death hanging over us all, but I'll talk to her about taking proper safety precautions later. Right now, I have to go save the life of the prettiest person I've ever seen.

 

"Octopus! Octopus!" I can't seem to make any other phrases come out of my mouth, but eventually the man looks up to see me barreling towards him, flailing my arms and yelling at the top of my lungs. He raises an eyebrow at me, staying far too calm considering the mortal peril he's in, and glances behind him to see who else I could possibly be talking to.

 

Unfortunately, that means he's not paying attention enough to sidestep me when the combination of my momentum and adrenalin send me toppling into him. We both splash down into the small waves lapping at the sand and I scramble to extricate myself from his long limbs as quickly as possible, crawling down to examine his ankles and prepared to risk my own life if I have to pull the octopus off of him.

 

"What are you doing? " His voice is lovely and posh, the vowels round and smooth and expensive.

 

"Saving your life, mate, you're welcome by the way," I grunt as I make another unsuccessful grab for the tentacles.

 

"From what? All you've done so far is endanger me, pushing me down and holding me in the water." He pauses. "If this is your attempt at murder by drowning, I think I pity you. First, you caused a scene by yelling the whole way down the beach before you assaulted me, and now you're not even bothering to hold my head under this truly pathetic amount of water. You're an absolute disaster."

 

"I told you—" (why are these tentacles so hard to grab,) "I'm not trying to kill you, I'm trying to save you."

 

"Save me from what, exactly?"

 

Ha! I've got you now, evil cephalopod!

 

"This!"

 

I hold the octopus up in triumph, feeling the water drip onto my sodden hair.

 

"From… a clump of seaweed?"

 

"What? No. No, it's an octopus."

 

Slowly, I lower the mass in my hand down to eye level, and immediately I feel my cheeks flame in embarrassment.

 

"Oh. Right. Sorry, then."

 

I try to push back from him and stand up, but my hand won't release the seaweed (it really did look like an octopus!). When I try to move a wave hits me, washing the sand out from under my foot and making me flounder for a few moments, only compounding my embarrassment. When I finally look up at the man I accidentally assaulted, he seems entirely unbothered by anything. He's lounging back on his elbows, somehow managing to look down his nose at me even though I'm sitting up fully now, and it's simply unfair how defined his abs are, even under his shirt.

 

"Do you make a habit of doing things like this?"

 

His eyes are too intense for me to look at any longer, they're a grey color that seems to be shifting to reflect the ocean behind me, and I have to busy myself with peeling the green fronds of seaweed away from my fingers.

 

"Like what?"

 

"Attacking strangers or playing the hero, take your pick."

 

"Sorry. I thought it was an octopus and I didn't want you to die," I mumble. This prick should be grateful, where does he get off being so smug anyway?

 

"Why on earth would I have died from an octopus touching me?"

 

"Because they're one of the most deadly creatures on earth!"

 

"What? No they're not. Not the ones around here, anyway. The blue ringed octopus is incredibly deadly, but it lives in the Pacific Ocean."

 

"But, couldn't they-"

 

He levels me with a look that could probably set me on fire.

 

"Mordelia!" One of the children comes running over from where they fled when I tackled their brother. She looks to be about twelve or thirteen, and while she isn't quite as dark and villainous looking as her brother she still has his same air of superiority. "Does this gentleman need to be worried about being attacked, maimed, or killed by any octopuses while swimming today?"

 

This kid - Mordelia, I guess - levels me with the most condescending look I have ever seen, and just scoffs . Actually scoffs at me, like I'm an imbecile. (Although, I still have seaweed stuck to me, so she may be onto something there.)

 

"No. Most accounts of cephalopod attacks can't be proven, and the few that have been entirely substantiated occurred in vastly different habitats or under circumstances that this beach couldn't support."

 

With that, she turns and runs back to the rest of her family, leaving me with only a parting eye roll.

 

"She's going through a marine biology phase."

 

It's the first thing the dark haired man has said to me in a casual manner, and I startle a bit. 

 

"Did you also have a marine biology phase?"

 

I think my question catches him off-guard, and I smirk.

 

"Perhaps," he answers after a beat. "But Mordelia's has been going on for three years now, so we think it may actually stick. Mine dried up after only a few months."

 

He smiles at me for the first time since I knocked him over, and it's almost painful how handsome he is, sprawled out elegantly on the beach like he's in an ad for expensive watches or cologne or something, and I can't believe I tackled him because of some stupid seaweed.

 

"I had a dinosaur phase," I confess, smiling back at him.

 

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" I reach down to help him up, and I'm shocked at how cold his fingers are, and how much I want to warm them up in my own. It's too bad I made such a horrible first impression, I would otherwise be sorely tempted to ask him out on a date. "What's your name, by the way? You've already attacked me, had we been in cars we would have exchanged names and proofs of insurance by now."

 

I’m such a mess. I didn't even think to ask what his name was.

 

"Simon. I'm Simon."

 

I go to shake his hand, and then realize that we're still holding hands, and I feel my cheeks grow redder still.

 

"Hello Simon, I'm Baz. It's nice to meet you, although the next time we meet I sincerely hope you can refrain from throwing yourself quite so bodily at me before we've even said hello."

 

"Yeah, umm, I'm sorry, really, I-" My brain catches up with my mouth. "Wait, did you say next time? "

 

His mouth curls up into a grin, and he gives my hand a squeeze as I try to figure out how I messed up so badly and things still worked out so well.

 

"Of course. For our first date, perhaps we can go to the aquarium and you can see what an octopus really looks like."

[roguishredaxion]

A Place of Refuge

This is written for @autobot-scout-riella for the @redwall-secret-santa gift exchange. It’s probably not as sweet or as happy as you probably wanted, but I hope you like it anyway.

The full story is below the cut.

Grath Longfletch knew there were days when she forgot half her life, when she woke up to the smell of shrimp and hotroot soup and expected to see her mother and sisters tending the fire and stirring a large pot, or some of the gossipy ottermums chattering away at one another while they wove their mats and baskets. She always woke disappointed, the less familiar voices of Holt Rudderwake jarring her awake from the dreams of living with her family in Holt Lutra.

Of course, there were also days when she was catapulted from sleep with the memory of pain and death and the taste of blood on her tongue and the burn in her muscles as she dragged herself out of the tomb that had once been her home. These dreams were harder to wake up from, harder to realize they were just dreams and she hadn't been found again and had another home stolen from her.

That had been this morning, and she wasn't sure what to do. The other otters in Holt Rudderwake knew where she came from, they had learned her story in the season she had been with them, but it wasn't as real for them as it was for her. To them, the destruction of Holt Lutra was just another ghost story, one that they had little connection to. She was suffering from the memory of it on her own. She hadn't been sure she would ever feel safe somewhere again. She still wasn't.

The dreams had woken her early, before even the ottermums roused to set about preparing food for the day. There had been much talk recently of the winter festival, and a feast was planned for the early evening. Grath wasn't sure if she would be good company for a feast.

It was easy enough to slip out of the cave, making for the highest point she could reach on the island without too much climbing. She always went for higher ground when she needed to think, desperate for the air and the loneliness where she was normally surrounded by otters who had never encountered true pain in their lives.

She didn't begrudge them for their happy lives, but she was jealous. If ill fortune hadn't been brought down on her own holt, she might have been celebrating the winter feast with them.

Her mind conjured up the smells and sounds of her lost home, taunting her with the things she had missed and would never have again. She recalled playing games with her brothers and sisters, how her father taught her how to fire a bow, how her mother taught her how to weave cords into string, how to cure it against the weather and make it into something beautiful.

She was forgetting their faces. Every time she thought of her parents or her siblings, their faces were more out of focus than the last time she thought of them. She had tried to draw them, but sketching was not one of her skills. Slowly, they were becoming the one feature she remembered best about them. Sunya had the prettiest singing voice, the twins Keenan and Rhys had a patch of white fur under one of their eyes but she could never remember which was which, Felis was the eldest and told the best stories, Marine was obsessed with collecting pretty shells for her collection. Her father's paws were hard and callused for as long as she could remember, but her mother's were only callused in places where her weaving crossed her paws. She wondered if, on her path for revenge, she had left behind some of her memories to lie with the rest of her family.

They were like ghost stories to her too now, half-remembered and distorted in ways she had no idea how to fix. 

"Grath?"

She looked up, having heard Inbar coming, his sleep-heavy paws scraping against the stone. Inbar Trueflight was perhaps the best thing that had happened to her since her family was killed. She hated that she had been the one to teach him what true cruelty looked like when they stormed the island of Sampetra. The darker part of her, the part that had fueled her need for revenge on the searats who killed her holt, wasn't sorry about it, though. She had spoken no less than the truth when she told him what searats would do if they ever gained access to Ruddaring. Not that she thought they would. She hoped they wouldn't. She liked that they were safe here. Even if she wasn't sure she could trust its safety any more than she had been able to trust the safety of Holt Lutra when the searats attacked it.

"Are you okay?" Inbar asked. He moved slowly, tiredly, nearer and sat down on the low rock beside her. "You left the sleeping den."

"It's almost a year now," she whispered, knowing he of all beasts would know what she was talking about. "Just after the winter feast."

"So, no, then. You're not okay." He didn't touch her yet, and she was grateful for that. The way her fur felt like it was too tight, she was sure his touch would only make it feel like she was burning.

He didn't say anything else for a long time and they just sat there, watching light slowly bleed into the sky above them over the top of the ring that protected the island. They had wasted so much time sitting there when they could have been doing something else, but she couldn't bring herself to get up and move. She fingered the long, green-fletched shaft she had left jutting out of a crack in the rock up here. She always came here when she was upset, so that was how he always knew to look for her.

"What would you be doing?" he asked suddenly, his tone hushed. "If you were with your holt?"

Grath frowned. "Why do you want t' know that?"

He shrugged, the fidgeting in his paws evidence enough of his nervousness. "Your traditions are part of you. I know what we do here. What would you do?"

She didn't think that was a good enough reason to ask, but she wasn't going to say so aloud. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine what it was like last winter, when none of what had happened had happened yet. Somehow, remembering her family's traditions was easier than trying to recall their faces. "My sisters and I gathered twigs to weave together into wreaths. Mum would pick the best for the feast table. The rest would be given to anybeast we knew nearby. Mum picked Sunya's last year."

As Grath thought about it, she could see Sunya's radiant smile as the wreath, decorated with pine fronds and dark red holly berries, was placed at the feast table around a bowl with a large candle in it. It was clearer than any other memory she had tried to grasp, and Grath could feel her eyes burning.

"What else?" Inbar prompted gently. He still hadn't touched her, and briefly, she opened her eyes and took his paw in hers, desperate for something to ground her.

The memories ached as much as they were sweet to remember. "My father took my brothers with him to catch a large trout. One year, he brought back a fish that was almost as big as I was, but I was little then and everything looks bigger than it is." Still, she could remember that fish, and looking up at her father with awe that he had caught such a thing. He had promised to catch a bigger one the next year, but it never seemed quite as large to her as the one when she was only two seasons old.

Inbar was smoothing down the fur on her paw, the gentle steady motion doing more for her sense of safety and security than the ring of stone that protected the island. She was safe with him. Her paws that had learned to kill were safe in his paws, which had learned to protect.

"We would share the trout at the feast, and other members of the holt brought other dishes. Mum Rosella brought the best hotroot soup I'd ever tasted, and she only ever brought it to feast days. Mum Olvine baked sweetbreads that melted like butter in your mouth." Now that she was talking, she found she couldn't stop, the words spilling out of her faster and faster as she tried to share an entire experience of life with him, everything that had built her, everything she had lost. She opened her eyes to stare into his and know whether or not he understood. She was almost shocked to see that he did.

There were tears spilling down her cheeks in earnest now, wetting her fur and starting to soak into the collar of her tunic, but she refused to raise a paw to wipe them away herself because she remembered. She could see the names and faces of everyone she had lost so clearly in her mind, and Inbar had given her that. He had made her ghost stories real again. Grath hadn't even known she was still carrying around the guilt and the anger and the soul-deep desire for revenge until she had let it all go to remember what a winter feast was supposed to look like.

"I can't give back your family," Inbar said, still stroking the fur on her paw gently. "But I can give you mine. I can give you our traditions, and you can bring yours with you and we can do this together."

Together. There was some part of her that was slowly uncurling at the sound of that word, some quiet, hidden, young part of her that had been waiting for someone to hold out that paw and actually mean it. 'Together' was a safety more complete than the whole of Ruddaring. It was a peace that could settle in her soul and finally put to sleep the desire for revenge. It was something that would make her whole again in a way she never thought she could be.

She had been angry and alone for seasons, blind to the help being offered to her. When she thought about the future, the only thing she had been able to see was blood. She couldn't see past her revenge and, since coming to Holt Rudderwake to stay, she hadn't been sure what to do with herself. Still, she had been resolved to do it alone.

But she wasn't alone. Inbar had been there with her for as long as she had been there. He had held out his paw again and again even when she slapped it away, not seeing what he was really offering.

"I want that," she whispered, squeezing the paw that was holding her, grounding her. She wanted it more than she had words to say. She wanted to share her history, her family, her life with him because she knew he could understand.

Slowly, she could feel herself coming back together. There were scars on her heart that would never fully heal, absences that could never be completely filled, but she wasn't dwelling in those empty spaces anymore. She was on her way to becoming whole again.

For perhaps the first time in a year, Grath tried a true smile, one that was neither forced nor fake nor full of menace, and she let Inbar lead her back inside. Her family would have wanted her to be happy above all else, and perhaps now she was willing to allow herself to be happy too. Because her past wasn't a ghost story she had to suffer through, nor was it meant to destroy her. Her past was a path leading always to a future, and she had finally come out of the forest and into the light.

And with Inbar beside her, she could trust that her future would be safe between them.

[youcancallmecirce]

Elemental, Chapter 3: Merman

So, I can't leave this story alone.  It's like I'm reading a book, and I really, really want to know what happens next--except that I can't, until I write it.  So.  Have a third chapter in as many days.  I can't promise to keep up this pace, and in fact, I can pretty much promise that I won't.  But I hope you enjoy it while it lasts!

Chapter 1    Chapter 2     On AO3

Marinette blinked.  “Half…fish?”

Adrien’s eyes slid closed, and he took a slow, deep breath through his nose.  “Plagg, I swear, I am going to abandon you to the Nereids.”

“No you won’t.”  Plagg shrugged.  “You were going to spend all day swimming around it.  I saved you from yourself.”

“Wait-wait-wait, ‘half fish’?  As in—”

Adrien opened his eyes and sheepishly held up one hand, displaying the pale green webbing stretched between his fingers, as well as the narrow fin along his forearm, and hoping fervently that she wouldn’t be repulsed.   “Merman.”

Marinette’s eyes went round, riveted on his hand, and her mouth formed a perfect O of surprise.  Then her eyes moved slowly down his arm to the bend of his elbow, and then up, up to his shoulder, to his face.  She saw now the details she’d missed in her initial panic: the sheen of iridescent scales at his jaw and down his neck, the delicate points of his ears…the pronounced points of his teeth.

She felt a frisson of fear dance down her spine, until his eyes caught hers, and she saw in them the same gentle spirit that had always been there.

“Merman,” she breathed, wonderingly. He still looked like himself, but he was also very clearly something exotic, something other. Somehow, because of that, he was even more beautiful now than she’d ever seen him before.  And considering how brain-meltingly attractive he’d been to begin with, that was saying something.

She raised her hand to touch him, but stopped with her fingers hovering just centimeters from his skin, blushing hotly.  “May I?”

He nodded mutely, pulling her closer to help support her in the water with a hand at her elbow, and she saw with a feeling of relief that he was blushing, too.  Somehow, that grounded her, and her fingers shook only a little as she ran them down the webbing between his splayed fingers. He shuddered at the touch, though, and she withdrew her hand quickly.

“I’m sorry!”

“It’s alright,” he said, his blush deepening. “I’m just, ah, not used to being touched.  Go ahead.”

Marinette frowned at that, but took his hand in hers, and ran her other hand over the fin on his arm, pressing the jade green spines down along his skin.  “You’re warm,” she said, in some surprise.  Every fish she’d ever touched, on the rare occasions when she’d been fishing, had been cold and a little slimy.

He chuckled.  “I’m not actually a fish.  I’m warm-blooded, like you.”

“Oh.” She touched the iridescent scales on his arm along the fin, noting the way they faded from green, at the base of the fin, to almost clear further out, where the scales gave way to normal skin.

“I guess this is your first time, meeting one of my people?”

She jerked her hand away, blushing again, and nodded.  “There aren’t many mermaids in Paris.”

He laughed.  “No, I bet there aren’t.  It would be fishy if there were.”

“Oh my god,” she groaned, swimming backward a bit, and he released her.  “Did you just pun?  On purpose?”

“Is there any way to do it, except on porpoise?”

Plagg snickered, but she groaned again.  “Ugh.  That’s it.  I’m leaving.”

“What? Oh come on, Marinette, don’t you like puns?”  She heard him swimming after her, and he caught up with her easily.  “We can’t be fronds, if you don’t.”

“You’re terrible,” she huffed, panting with exertion.

“Terribly funny.”  He frowned, then, and swam in front of her.  “Hey, wait a minute.  Why don’t you let me bring you in?”

She bristled at the implication that she couldn’t do it herself, and scowled.  “I can make it in on my own.”

“I know you can, but do you really want to?”  Her frown eased, and he forged ahead.   “You’ve been treading water for a long time, and practicing your magic before that.  I know you’re exhausted.  Please let me help you?”

Her legs were aching, and even the thought of fighting the surf all the way back was enough to make her feel weary.  “Alright.”

He grinned at her, and she felt the force of that smile down to her toes.  Had she ever seen him really smile before?

“Here, just hold on to me, and I’ll have you back up there in no time at all.”

He held his arms out like he was waiting for a hug, and her eyes widened in dismay when she realized what she’d actually just agreed to.  With a gulp, she wrapped her arms around his neck, and felt his left arm wrap around her body, holding her close.  She had only a moment to process that, though, before they shot ahead.  She tightened her hold on him and closed her eyes, trying not to think of anything at all.

Adrien held his arms out to her invitingly, and her eyes went wide for a moment before moving to wrap her arms around him.  He wondered at her reaction, until he felt her slick skin press against him down the length of his body.  Then he understood.

At that point there was nothing for it but to wrap his arm around her waist as clinically as possible, and carry her back to the beach.

He’d never done anything like that before.  There were just as many humans in his home-city of Meriton as there were mer-people in Paris, and to all of the humans he’d met in Marseille he was just as human as they.  The need, the opportunity, had never arisen.   Now, the experience was both far too brief and far too lasting.

Adrien’s mother had disappeared when he was still very young.  His father was a reserved man, dedicated to his work, and he had withdrawn further after losing the woman who had apparently been the love of his life.  Most of the others in his life were his father’s employees, and though he saw both Nathalie and Gorile as a part of his family, they insisted on maintaining a professional distance.  The only one he’d known who had ever shown him any physical affection was Chloé, and her clinging attention had had only been stifling.  

Marinette’s touch felt different.  She wasn’t being paid for her interactions with him, like Nathalie and Gorile.  She wasn’t hoping to gain something from their acquaintance, playing on his wealth and fame, like Chloé. To Marinette, he was just Adrien, and he knew from her wide-eyed blush that she was just as affected as he.

When she’d gently stroked the membranes of his hand, the sensation had rocked him.  He’d been able to control his reaction after that, but each touch of her hand was no less intense than the first had been and he’d felt them to his core.  Those sensations, coupled with the unveiled wonder and appreciation and unconditional acceptance in her gaze, had nearly undone him.

Somehow, he’d forgotten all about that in the teasing that followed. In his desire to help her, he’d given no thought to what that help would entail.  Now, moving through the water with her arms around his neck and his hand on the curve of her hip, he could think of nothing else.   Her body scalded him where they touched, in spite of the coolness of her skin, and her breath felt like a caress on his neck every time she exhaled. He never wanted to let her go, while at the same time, he could not wait to reach the shore so that he could re-establish the space between them, and regain his equilibrium. He was afraid of his reaction to her, afraid of the strength of his attraction.  He needed time, away from her, to process it.

Fortunately for his state of mind, it took only a few minutes and very little effort for him to make a swim that would have taken her three times as long.  When he felt his fin brush sand, he stopped and pulled his arm from her waist to rest his hand gently at her hip.  “Is this close enough?”

“Yeah, this is fine.”  She let him go and swam backwards, toward the shore, until she could touch the bottom.  “Aren’t you coming in?”

“Er, yeah, hang on a minute.”  Adrien’s hands went to the long leather thong around his neck, and pulled it off over his head to un-loop it from around his ring.  He stopped, though, with the ring only half way on, and looked at her in acute embarrassment.  “Ah, maybe you ought to go on without me.”

“Oh—kay.”  Her brow furrowed, either in confusion or concern; he wasn’t sure which.  “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine.  I just, ah, I need my legs back and I’m not—I mean, my pants are—gods, this is awkward.”

“Oh.” Marinette’s eyes lit with understanding, and she flushed crimson right to the roots of her hair. “Oh!  You’re—you aren’t wearing any—um, right.  I’ll just…I’ll be going.”  She took a step back, buffeted by a rolling wave, and then stopped, flicking her eyes downward.

He smirked, in spite of his own discomfort at the situation.  “There’s nothing to see at the moment.”

“No! I wasn’t—well, I did, but I didn’t—oh, bloody hell.  I’m leaving.   Now.”  She took a few awkward steps back, still blushing furiously, and then turned with a wave, calling back over her shoulder, “I’ll just—I’ll just see you later!”

He waited until she was completely out of the water before replacing his ring on his finger, allowing the magic to remold his body into that of a human male in a flash of green light.   To his chagrin, his, ah, interest in her was far more evident in this form than it was with his tail, but it couldn’t be helped.  He stayed where he was, treading water, until she waved from the beach and disappeared from view on her bike.  Only then did he move in to the shore, to pull on his shorts and gather his own things.

“So, I think that went well.”

Adrien glanced at Plagg, who had appeared at his elbow, as he struggled to pull his shorts up over his wet skin.  “You would.”

“She didn’t freak out over you being a fish.”

“I’m not a fish.” He grabbed his towel and began rubbing at his hair, drying it.

Plagg shrugged.  “Nuance.  And you’re avoiding the point.”

He tossed his towel over his shoulder, slid his feet into his sandals, and glared at Plagg.  “What is the point, then?”

“I’m just saying, she’s a human, and she knows that you’re not a human, and she isn’t freaking out.”

“I know she’s not freaking out, Plagg.  But maybe I am, a little bit.   Alright?”  He ran his hands through his wet, disheveled hair.  “Just, get in the ring, please, so we can go back.”

“Don’t forget my Camembert.”

“You are so weird.”

“I’m serious.”

“Elementals don’t eat.  Why do you eat?”

“Try me.”  Plagg crossed his arms over his chest, and looked pointedly at Adrien.  “I will abandon you to your fan club.”

Adrien shuddered.  “There’s no need to be cruel, Plagg.  You’ll get your dumb stinky cheese.  Please get in the ring?”

“Fine.”

Plagg got in the ring.

“Tikki, I’m freaking out.”

“Don’t freak out, Marinette!  What is there to freak out about?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”  Marinette threw her hands in the air dramatically, and plopped down on the side of her bed.  “How about, the guy I’ve been practically in love with now knows that I’m a mage and, oh by the way, he’s also actually a merman? Like, how does that even work?”

“Marinette—” Tikki began, but Marinette just kept right on talking.

“Or, what about the fact that my best friend is a natural-born investigator and she is going to KNOW something is up and how am I going to keep this from her?  I mean, it’s one thing for her to know about my magic, but this?  It’s not my secret to tell!  And I know he must guard his as closely as I guard mine!  She’s going to find out, and then she’s going to say something to him, and then he’s going to hate me and oh my god, what if there’s some kind of treaty between his people and mine?  I’ll be violating some kind of international code, and I’ll be arrested and—”

“Marinette, stop!”  Tikki got in her face again and squeezed the end of her nose, causing her to stop her tirade and close her mouth with a snap.  “Deep breaths, Marinette.  You need to relax, and take one thing at a time.”

Marinette blew out a long breath, and smiled weakly.  “You’re right.  I can handle this.  One thing at a time.”

“Exactly.  Get through your classes first, and then we can deal with the rest.”

“Class!”  Marinette shot up in a panic, and began scrambling to gather her things.  “Merde, Tikki, I’m going to be late!”

“At least today is one of your later days,” Tikki giggled.  “If this was a Workshop day, you’d have missed it entirely.”

“I know, but I’m still running late!  Bye!”  She flew out of the apartment, down the stairs, and to the bus stop on the corner, where Alya was sitting with her phone in her hand.

“I’m here!  I made it!”

“You’re ridiculous.”  Alya looked up at her with sparkling eyes, and tucked her phone into her bag.  “You didn’t even have time to brush your hair, did you?”

Marinette winced, and Alya winced with her.  “Ah, no.  I think I’m lucky that I got the shower.”

“Want me to do something with it?  I’ve got a couple of hair ties in my bag.”

“Yes, please,” she replied, nodding fervently.  “It’s going to make me nuts if it stays down like this.”

“You got it.”  Alya stood and shouldered her bag, nodding at the approaching bus. “After we get on the bus.”

They stood quietly with the two other passengers waiting for the bus, and climbed on when it had stopped and the doors hissed open.  They found a pair of unoccupied seats near the front, and once they were seated, Alya turned without a word and began finger-combing Marinette’s hair.

Marinette sighed happily, enjoying the feel of Alya’s against her scalp.  “I should have you do that way more often than you do.”

“You always say that,” Alya chuckled softly.  “You know, we should have a sleepover this weekend.”

“What?”  Marinette turned to look at her friend as if she’d gone crazy.  “We live in the same apartment.”

“Yeah, but when was the last time we did the whole sleepover thing?” She put her hand on the top of Marinette’s head and turned her back around.  “We could put on our favorite PJs and stay up all night, watching movies and eating pizza and playing dumb games.”

Marinette laughed.  “Make those video games, and I’m in.”

“You got it, babe.”  She stopped to dig around in her bag, and produced two black hair elastics.  “What do you think, M, pig tails?”

“Sure, why not?”  She grinned as Alya split her hair into two sections, and began wrapping an elastic around one.  “It’ll be just like we’re in collége again, what with the pig tails and the sleepovers.”

“Yeah, but just think, M.”  Alya gathered the other section into a neat tail and tied it back as well.  “This time, we can invite boys!”

“Oh, no,” Marinette protested, flushing.  “Aaal-yaaa, no!”

“Alya, yes!  I’ll talk to Nino, and you can talk to Adrien.  It’ll be awesome!”

“No, I’m serious, Alya.”  She put her hand on Alya’s arm, pleading.  “Don’t talk to Nino yet.  Not until I get a chance to talk to you again, later.”

“What, did you run into Adrien again this morning?”

“I did.  And I will tell you all about it, I promise, just wait until later, okay?”

“Alright girl, settle down.  I’ll wait.”  She frowned, searching Marinette’s expression.  “You’re okay, right?  Like, he didn’t do something to—”

“No!  No, nothing like that.  I just—I actually need to talk to him again, and then I’ll tell you everything.  Deal?”

Alya nodded, satisfied that Adrien didn’t need pummeling.  “Deal.”

The rest of the ride passed with idle chatter about classes, coursework, and harmless gossip.  They parted ways at the campus bus stop with a smile and a wave, and Marinette headed to her first class of the day.

It was Thursday, which meant that she had two long classes back to back and then she was done for the day.  Normally, she would spend her afternoon studying, or working on a design project, but today she was hoping to spend it with Adrien, asking questions and filling in some holes.  To do that, though, would mean getting in touch with him to see if he could meet her.

Marinette stopped outside her classroom, propped her shoulder against the wall and pulled her phone from her bag, staring at it as if it might bite her.

She had his number, of course.  He’d gotten to be good friends with Nino in the two years since they’d all started their studies at AMU, and the four of them—Marinette, Alya, Nino and Adrien—often did things together as a group.  But she had never communicated with him directly, or tried to hang out with him apart from the group.  Even after their encounter that morning, texting him felt like a big step.

Still, it was necessary.  She blew out a breath and brought up his contact information, pausing only for a moment before tapping the icon for a text message.  Once there, though, she froze.  What should she say?   ‘I need to talk to you’ sounded dire, and ‘can you meet me for coffee’ sounded like a date.  Wasn’t there a happy medium in there somewhere?

She turned, resting both shoulders against the wall behind her, and let her head fall back.  How could a girl ask her crush to hang out with her, without making it sound like a date?  Was that even possible?

Her phone chimed in her hand, startling her from her thoughts, and she jumped.

She straightened from the wall and opened her phone again, and found that Adrien had beaten her to the punch.

            Adrien:  Hey!  We didn’t really get to finish talking earlier.                           Would you want to get coffee this afternoon?

She giggled, grateful that they were apparently on the same wavelength, and sent her reply off quickly before heading in to class.

[bestpancetta-blog]

Easy to  Make Bacon and Pancetta at Home

Curing meat is the reason people could stay put when there was nothing to develop, execute or take. It is the means by which champions and pioneers endured while they ventured to the far corners of the planet.

In any case, the cooler and the advanced nourishment industry — with its jars, plastic sacks and chemicals — have made the normal home cook apprehensive of this most basic and valuable sustenance arrangement.

There is no justifiable reason purpose behind this: All you truly require is salt. Also, the outcome? Malcolm, my 17-year-old child, may have said all that needed to be said, "Whatever is on my bagel is better than average."

He was a test tester for home-cured lox I made while frantically flavoring and drying out tissue more than a while for this article. I had stressed that I cleared out the fish socked with salt in the icebox too long. The outside was dry, jerkylike, not the sleek sort from a bundle of even normal lox. I needed to cut further — into new wild salmon mixed with smoked salt, sugar, fennel fronds and fennel dust — to achieve the prize.

I was astonished by how great it was, and this is no unassuming boast. You can purchase brilliant lox from a store: This was an alternate taste planet.

It was likewise simple. I made it myself with precisely the fish and flavors I needed. What's more, the kid enjoyed it, a considerable measure.

Dissimilar to the choice to improve as a cook for the most part, which pays off each day, the take steps to do your own curing prompts a couple of fundamental inquiries previously you begin. Generally: Why trouble?

"It tastes so great is the main answer," said Brian Polcyn, the gourmet specialist and a writer of a standout amongst the most famous books on curing, "Charcuterie: The Craft of Salting, Smoking and Curing." "A Ford Focus is a decent auto. It will get you Point A to Point B. No disgrace in driving it. A Mercedes E class? You can feel the distinction."

A moment question is one of aspiration. Curing traverses a range from bacon or essential corned meat to the intricate, grease lumped salamis of Italian or French charcuterie. The last take much work on; digging eBay and Amazon for humidifiers, processors, slicers, housings and pH perusers, notwithstanding building a drying space for exact temperatures and dampness.

I'm certain it's a wonderful leisure activity, but on the other hand it's a crazy measure of work — and requires lifted alert about security. Cured sustenance is, by definition, not cooked. Without appropriate safeguards, it can cultivate hazardous microorganisms. Spoil can be useful for wine, brew, cheddar or yogurt. It can likewise influence you to wiped out or bite the dust. Cured meat that includes maturation raises that hazard.

Paul Bertolli, a previous gourmet expert at Chez Panisse and an early supporter of bringing back home-curing, proposes leaving the more confounded stuff to the specialists. An extraordinary presentation, however it gets confused, is one of my most loved cookbooks, Mr. Bertolli's "Cooking by Hand." He went ahead to establish the site Fra' Mani, committed to everything cured; he gained from his Italian grandparents in Canada.

What I've been exploring different avenues regarding for the last eight or so years isn't crushing and maturing yet drying out strong bits of meat as they are changed with quite recently salt, flavors and air. Turns out our progenitors staggered onto something supernatural: Salt jam the meat by sucking the water out, impeding decay and thinking flavor.

The procedure likewise permits the additional flavors to implant into the meat, making it something other than what's expected through and through, and in addition making it more your own.

To what extent it keeps going relies upon whom you inquire. It's sheltered to state dried meat will last half a month in the fridge without issues and any longer if solidified, which is splendidly fine.

New items like bacon or nondried pancetta go malodorous significantly more rapidly and ought to be checked deliberately. Inconvenience is anything but difficult to recognize: I've seen dried meats don't such a great amount of ruin as become yellowish and don't smell new. At that point it's a great opportunity to hurl them. Don’t think of curing as an heirloom exercise in recreating life how it used to be. Like Mr. Bertolli, many proponents of curing learned it from relatives who did it partly out of love, partly out of necessity. So despite the last few generations of mass produced and preserved food, curing is an art that was never lost. Maybe out of fashion, but ever alive.

“For me, it’s the pleasure of making things you are going to consume yourself,” Mr. Bertolli said. “There is a pride in it.”

I’ve developed a basic and useful repertoire that requires no special equipment, space or even much time: bacon, both American and Italian (pancetta); lox, and duck prosciutto, an impressive and fun little trick that I learned from Mr. Polcyn and that you can brag over at your next dinner party as if you just brought it back from Parma. It cures for just one day under kosher salt alone.

I started curing out of love of a particular dish, pasta carbonara. My family and I lived in Rome for four years, and when we moved back to New York in 2008, it was not easy to find guanciale, or cured pig cheek, carbonara’s essential ingredient, even though we’re in Brooklyn, rightly mocked and loved as the navel of foodie obtuseness.

Romans say with snobby certainty you can make carbonara only with guanciale, not pancetta or bacon. I’m fine with any, but there is no question that guanciale makes the dish taste like Rome.

A local shop, Bklyn Larder in Park Slope, made its own and kept us supplied, that is until I came across a recipe from the Philadelphia pasta master Marc Vetri that he called shortcut guanciale.

It promised the exotic without much pain or cost: salt, sugar, pepper, garlic, coriander and rosemary rubbed over the cheek and plopped into a Ziploc bag in the refrigerator for just three days. To use right away, you roast it for about three hours. It is sublime.

We are fortunate enough to have a fireplace, so I thought: Why not dry it the way they do in Italy? I did, even if it drove the dogs mad, hanging temptingly just behind the screen in the unlit fireplace.

Three weeks later I was rewarded with something I felt I didn’t do enough to deserve: It looked Old World on the outside, all tough and dry, the inside a strip of meat encased in almost buttery, flavorful fat.

I realize most cooks aren’t going to find regular use for guanciale, though it adds wonders to other pastas, soups and even seafood dishes. For me, though, it lit a fuse: I moved from the pig’s cheek to its belly. Salts, sugar and maple syrup are all you need for tremendous American bacon.

Nutmeg, juniper, garlic, thyme and bay leaf make pancetta, which can be used dry or fresh and is singularly versatile in the kitchen. Fish, salmon especially, cures in a few days and makes a New York bagel brunch a special occasion. (I just tried a recipe from Mr. Polcyn curing salmon with beets and fresh horseradish. I recommend it.)

The list goes on, for every taste and ambition: jerky, pastrami, corned beef, full hams. I don’t own a smoker, but it notches the art up with little effort. There are websites devoted to prosciutto, which requires only salt, patience and the optimism of being alive in the year or so an entire pig leg takes to dry. Results, apparently, are spectacular.

A few basics for new curers: It’s nice to have a fireplace, for temperature and air flow, but you can hang meat to dry in many places. People use closets, garages, basements, old refrigerators, a kitchen’s out-of-the-way nook.

You won’t smell much of anything as it cures, since it generally is wrapped in plastic for many reasons, mostly because the meat gets quite wet as the salt pulls out the water. But the aroma is terrific: sweet and salty, with flavors like rosemary and cracked pepper at high decibel.

Then there are the inevitable controversies of curing, which I’ll cover here only in outline. This is what the Internet was invented for, and readers of age can decide for themselves.

Last year the curing community was set in an uproar over a World Health Organization report that linked cured and processed meat with an increase in colorectal cancer. As with many risks, experts say, moderation slims the chances considerably.

There is also a theological debate over whether to use the most common curing salt, often called pink salt or Prague powder. It is a nitrite, and thus poisonous in quantity. Some curers prefer alternatives as safer and more natural. Experts I consulted recommended using it (in the prescribed small amounts) for several reasons: It’s effective in killing dangerous bacteria and contributes to the taste and color of good cured meat. I do, without apology.

Finally, I’ll say that curing is handy (this was the whole point, before history was even invented) and can save a bundle. One recent rainy Sunday, our younger son, Nelson, came home from a day of hard New York skateboarding with a friend, starving, as 15-year-olds tend to be. We had not strategized dinner. We considered ordering out, but Indian food or sushi would run $60 at least.

I looked in the fridge, and dinner assembled itself. A hunk of my old standby, guanciale, sat in a Ziploc. I sautéed it, added some onion, olive oil, tomato, white wine, pepper flakes and pecorino. And there we had maybe the tastiest of Roman pastas, amatriciana.

Took 20 minutes. Cost less than $20 for four. The boys didn’t care where that crazy-great, salty bacon came from, but they ate and were happy. I was, too, and the pleasure was not just in my stomach.