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“You know,” Jughead muses, as he pulls the oars towards his chest and pulls them out further to sea, “it’s ironic, because normally I let my company do all the talking.”
Betty smiles helplessly. The slim, corded muscle of his forearms is distracting as he rows the boat, all his olive skin on display. She wants to reach out and brush a lock of his dark curls out of his face.
So, she does. He doesn’t shy from her touch like she’s seen him do with other people- the people in the palace who come close with too much forced familiarity. Here, with her, out in the water nestled in a silent cove, he leans into her caress like he needs it. Like she needs him.
“Betty,” he whispers, and his forest eyes promise her the world. His words, however, do not. They fail him, like they do more and more whenever she has hope lodged in her throat.
She’s the one who’s traded her voice, but he’s the one who won’t speak.
Who won’t say it. Who won’t tell her he loves her like he wants him to. Who doesn’t seem to love her the way she loves him.
It makes her ache. Deep, deep inside. How long has she loved him? Even from afar, when he was just a tall, handsome figure, walking lonesome along the beaches and the rock pools. When he played his silver whistle (a flute she knows now) and the melody was so mournful. He was surrounded by people, but he was utterly alone. Just like her. With the strange four legged creature at his side, he was the figure of romance, of old Greek statues long sunk into the deep.
She had loved him instantly.
She withdraws, hiding her face behind her hair and looks at the water.
Maybe this has all been a mistake, she thinks, as the waves crest and lull the boat. Maybe she should go home. The water calls for her.
“Betty,” he says again, more insistent this time, and he takes her small, lily-white hand in his own tanned, coarse ones. The boat drifts; untethered. She looks up at him, unable to school the naked hope that must be written all over her face. He cups her face in his warm, strong hand, and she leans into his caress, kissing his thumb. “Betty, you’re enchanting.” He whispers, eyes brimming with sincerity, “but…” his expression shutters into regret, “even though I feel like I know you, even though it’s like we’re connected- past all of this- I don’t know you. Hell, if I hadn’t guessed your name, I wouldn’t know it. I don’t know where you’re from, or if you have any family- I don’t even know if you feel the same.”
She nods, tears spilling from her eyes. She kisses his thumb again.
“There’s something about you…” he whispers, looking into her eyes. “People talk about sea-blue eyes, Betty but…” he inhales sharply, “I swear, when I look into yours sometimes, I can see the ocean. Waves. The horizon. Like a moving, fluid thing.” He shakes his head, “I must be losing my mind.”
She closes her eyes, lets her lashes tickle his palm. Even with legs she gives herself away.
Evernever was right. You can’t change what you are.
Her eyes flutter open in shock when she feels the soft, warm press of Jughead’s lips against hers.
It turns out he doesn’t have to say it, because she can feel the love all the same.
***
King Forsythe is kind and gentle in all their ways her own mother isn’t.
He looks at Betty curiously, like he knows more than he lets on, but he’s only ever kind to her. He makes sure she’s served meat and not fish, and the gowns he has the maids keep for her are all silks and satins, and fabrics so cool to the touch, she can hardly believe it. It feels so much better than the water.
Humans are wonderful, marvellous things.
Jughead offers her his arm after dinner, and she takes it, nearly tripping on the hem of her pink dress, and lets him guide her out of the castle and into the night. He laughs as she flocks to flowers and night-butterflies. He looks endeared when she chases fireflies, and his tone is fond and soft and loving as he explains what all these creatures are.
The library in the castle is her favourite place on earth, Betty thinks. The fireplace dries out her skin if she sits too close to it, so she snuggles into the velvet armchair in the corner of the room, surrounded by stacks of hardbacks- encyclopaedias and histories of creatures she never knew existed.
“Wherever you’re from,” Jughead murmurs, using his gleaming sword to part thorned branches for her, as they follow the neat trail into the woods- the moon hidden behind the canopy of dark green- “it’s not from around here, is it, Betty?”
She smiles, and shakes her head.
“That smile,” he shakes his head, chuckling softly, following her and letting the thorns close up the way behind them, “those eyes. You’re full of secrets.”
That’s true, she decides, and she holds out her hand.
He takes it, without fail.
“It’s strange though,” he continues, “you still seem like royalty. Not that it would matter if you weren’t, of course- I just- you seem…powerful.”
Oh, she’d love that to be true. As it is, without her voice, she feels powerless.
He has a way to give it back to her. All he has to do is marry her before the week is out. He already loves her, why is the next stage so hard?
“Hey-“ Jughead tugs her hand back warningly, and he points to the trail ahead with his sword. “What is that?”
Through the fragmented white light of the moon, the trail up ahead is teeming with silver seashells. Smooth and brilliantly bright, they cluster above the soil: accusing.
Betty swallows hard. Her time is running out. The ocean is going to come for her.
Jughead crouches and strokes his finger over one of them, brow furrowed in confusion. “I don’t understand…”
You do, she thinks desperately, because she doesn’t want to think about what will happen if he doesn’t marry her. If she doesn’t get her voice back, if she doesn’t get him and these legs forever.
*
When she opens the book the next morning in the library, salt water trickles out of the pages and onto her fingers.
She starts to cry.
Someone comes in, their footsteps steady on the ground, and they collect her into their arms.
It’s not Jughead, it’s FP, and he keeps her upright when her knees fail her.
“A daughter of the sea,” he whispers, once she’s got lavender tea in her hands and is curled back up on the chair in the pantry. He sits opposite her, eyes alight with wonder. “I knew your mother, I thought- I thought you were like her. Something dangerous.”
I’m nothing like my mother, Betty thinks, and FP seems to hear her.
He smiles. “Jug came to me yesterday, after you went for your row. He loves you, Betty. He wants to marry you, if I consent.”
Her heart sings.
He nods, encouraging her to drink her tea. “Well then, I’ll let him know. But act surprised. You could be married before the month is out.”
She sets down her tea and grabs his wrists and despairs.
He looks down at her worriedly. “Sooner, then,” he whispers, “sooner.”
She hopes it’s soon enough.
*
For a woman who never speaks, Betty is the fiercest and most contrary one that Jughead has ever met.
He taught her how to play chess, and since then, she’s bested him every time. She wins arguments with a single raised eyebrow or a stern look, and she relishes in each and every day. Sun, rain, thunder- she grasps it by the reigns and lives.
She’s clumsy, and she trips a lot. She’s not a brilliant dancer, but there’s something so elegant about her. Something absolutely graceful.
She builds blocks with Jellybean, nodding along to the princess’s creative stories.
Jughead longs to hear her speak, but he settles for reading her eyes. For interpreting her smile. For watching the way pink spreads along her cheeks when he tells her how beautiful she is.
She’s unlike any woman he’s ever known.
Jellybean gets seasick, but it doesn’t stop her from traipsing up and down the deck in her blue sundress, tossing rose petals all across the wood. His father’s standing at the helm, looking out to the horizon where the sun is starting to touch the sea.
Jughead walks up to him, awkward in his navy tunic, but also comfortable- excited- because he’s going to marry the woman of his dreams.
“Something’s wrong,” FP frowns, watching the sunrise.
Jughead laughs nervously. “Well, that’s what every son wants to hear on his wedding day.”
“Jug,” his dad says, more seriously, the gold grown glittering under the red sky, “look at the sea.”
He does, but he’s not a sailor, and though the water crests and shudders still, he can’t pick up anything else. It looks like the ocean. Not as wild and untameable as normal, sure, a little quieter than normal too. But it's still the water. It's blue and endless and the perfect place for his wedding day.
He can’t see anything else, not when the band starts playing, and Betty comes out onto the deck.
She’s a vision in white, her hair like spun gold, the silver tiara sits atop her head like it was meant to be there.
Her smile is everything he needs to be content, he rushes to her, even though he should stay where he is, and wraps her up in his embrace.
“Beautiful,” he whispers, and she blushes like a rose.
Suddenly, the boat lurches.
Jellybean screams, and water rushes high in waves, crashing onto the sails- tearing them, huge rips that aren’t natural.
Jughead stares, falling hard onto his back and staring up at familiar blonde curls that rise upon the waves.
“Elizabeth,” the mermaid hisses, eyes glittering with fury. “What have you done?”
What...he can't make sense of it. She has a tail. Dark green scales, taller than a man- strings of seaweed around her fins. Betty is shaking. Jughead struggles to regain his footing. A new wave topples him, freezing water soaking through to his bones. He blinks through salty water to see his dad and sister holding each other, tying themselves to the rigging to keep from lurching into the sea.
Betty barely stumbles. Her balance is perfect.
“I had to kill, Edgar, Betty.” The mermaid scolds, “do you have any idea how that looks?” And she hurls something gold, a glowing orb, and it hits Betty right in the throat.
“Mom!” Betty cries in anguish.
It’s the first thing Jughead’s ever heard her say, and- and- what.
“Betty?” He whispers, fear ebbing into his skin. Who is she?
“Juggie,” she whimpers, rushing to him. She cups his face in her hands, brushes away blood from where he’s hit his head. “I’m so sorry-“
“How can she be- you said- mom-“
He knows, though. He already knows. The girl with ocean in her eyes. The wonder at every human thing. Ordinary for everyone else, extraordinary for her.
“I’m yours.” Betty promises, tears in her voice, and Jughead smiles weakly.
“Your voice is beautiful,” he whispers.
“You are not his.” The mermaid hisses, using the water to propel herself forward. She reaches for Betty, nails like talons-
And FP crashes into her side in a splash of water and hail, sending the mermaid clattering uselessly onto the wood- flailing like a fish.
“Enough, Alice,” he spits, disgust on his face. “Enough!”
Without the water feeding her, Alice looks small.
“Mom,” Betty shakes her head, “I’m home.”
“You’d rather be a monster-“
“You’re the monster.” Betty whispers coldly, finally, and Alice looks cut to the bone.
She doesn’t fight when FP tosses her back into the water, and the seas are finally calm.
*
They don’t get married that day, but Jughead doesn’t mind.
He and Betty spend summer sitting in shallow waters, and she tells him everything. And then he begs her to talk more, to never stop. Not when she’s so articulate, not when he wants to know everything about her, not when-
Not when he finds that she can sing.
“That’s why Edgar took your voice,” he whispers in understanding, after she's regaled him with a song her friends used to sing, “he thought it was your most valuable quality.”
She blinks at him shyly, engagement ring on her finger (green and blue seagrass and crystal). A promise that though not now, soon. Under no one’s time constraint but their own. “It’s not?”
“It’s not.” He promises. “Compared to your bravery? Your tenacity? Your intelligence? Your heart? Betty, you can sing a sailor to their death and that’s pretty incredible, but you taught JB how to read Latin. You make me feel like I'm whole. You are exceptional.”
She kisses him and beams, and Jughead adds her laughter to the never ending list of things he loves about Betty Cooper:
Daughter of the sea.