Chapter Text
There’s too much blood.
Nikolai couldn’t tell if whatever left the shoreline stained red was actually alive anymore—he suspected he’d find whatever it was very much not alive—he ran toward it, anyway. His bodyguards were constantly complaining about how reckless he was, but he liked to say it was just in his blood before running off, and today was no different.
(Tamar said he had a saviour complex and quite frankly, he didn’t like to think on that too much.)
“It can’t be.” His voice was hoarse with disbelief as he approached what must be a body, but it was unlike any body he’d ever seen, something straight out of the story books his nannies had read to him as a child. The woman—could he even say it was a woman on the beach?—lay nearly motionless, the sand nearly black directly beneath the tail. The tail. This was a mermaid, blue scales reflecting what little sunlight that peeked through the clouds overhead, fins torn to shreds and based on the pattern of wounds on her lower half, perhaps some had been torn completely off, as well. (He was very determinedly not looking at her upper half. It was impolite when a lady was in a dire state, but he couldn’t help but take in the raven locks that may have fallen to her waist had she been sitting up, the olive skin that had a deathly cast… He forcibly swallowed, taking out his pocket knife.
Nikolai was no stranger to blood, but he mourned the otherworldly beauty that her intact fins must have been before he held his breath, drawing the blade across the worst of them so they wouldn’t grow infected. The larger fins made horrific noises as he all but snapped them off. The damaged fins fell to the sand without much sound, though it felt so final, so terrible, and he briefly wished she was awake so he could’ve asked for her permission to do this. She flinched with each cut, making him briefly wonder if she would survive the ordeal.
He didn’t have time to consider it as he heard footsteps running toward him. “Tolya, Tamar, tell the crew to fill the biggest wooden bucket on the ship. We’re gaining another passenger.”
Everyone warned her to stay away from the drop, but Zoya had never been one to give much credence to fear of the unknown. She feared the loss of control, certainly, but how could one exercise that control without testing its boundaries?
Darkness began bleeding into her field of vision and she felt fear take over, her skin going cold—
—she gasps, bolting upright. She tries to swim away, to bolt for safety, but all she manages to do is splash water out of the tiny vessel in which she is submerged. No, not a vessel. She blinks furiously, trying to push away the fog of delirium that refuses to lift. There is some sort of cloth tossed over her front, her tail resting in a large wooden tub. Her hair is completely dry, the curls an unruly frame surrounding her face.
She screams. What else is there to do?
A voice outside the door yelps. “Oh, for saints' sake, please stop that!” There’s a scrambling of keys and the door flies open, a woman with auburn hair plaited down her back all but sliding into the room, the soles of her boots causing her to nearly topple over. “You’re awake! The captain will be so pleased.”
Zoya furrows her brows and flicks her tail in disapproval. “Captain?” The word feels thick and unsettled in her mouth. She knows enough of human language to comfortably carry a conversation, but she dislikes the way the words sound, the lack of the elegance the languages under the sea all have. “Where am I? Who are you?”
The other woman is clearly taken aback but she recovers remarkably quickly. “This is the Volkvolny, and I’m Genya Safin, the ship’s medic.” She stands several feet away and Zoya begrudgingly admits that this Genya at least seems to have some penchant for self-preservation, even if her eyebrows are raised in what might be disbelief.
Zoya sniffs in disdain, eying the now tepid water in which she’s sitting, the bandages wrapped around her tail. She knows something is wrong with it, but she doesn’t even want to poke at that sleeping dragon just yet. Her brain is trying to protect her from what happened and for once, she is grateful. “Charmed. I’d like to speak to this captain of yours.”
She can see Genya actually bite her tongue to keep from replying before she turns on her heel, letting the door slam shut behind her. Zoya heaved a great sigh, tossing the cloth around her torso to the floor in mild disgust. She sits back up, swinging her hair over her shoulder as she leans down to run her fingers over the bandages. A hiss escapes her at the sudden pain and she sees a faint trace of red dissipate into the water. “Stupid, stupid, stupid—”
“—that’s a rather rude way to start off this relationship, don’t you think?”
Zoya doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even turn her head to look at the man leaning against the door frame. “I could say the same about putting me on a boat when I should be in the water.”
The captain chuckles, walking into her field of vision, even though she is pointedly not looking at him. “I didn’t think abandoning you on the coast was a particularly polite thing to do.” He clears his throat and only then does Zoya look up at him, frowning. He is a sight for sore eyes, all gilded and gleaming and grinning, though the last bit is only partially true. She can sense the anxiety in the way that he glances away from her, though she can’t quite tell why he’s anxious when she's the one stranded above water. “I believe you met Genya, though she pointed out that you didn’t introduce yourself.”
She shrugs a shoulder, shaking her fringe out of her face. “You haven’t introduced yourself, either.”
The man truly grins now, his smile crooked and dimpled. “Oh, little old me? I’m Nikolai, but most of the world knows me as Sturmhond, Scourge of the Sea. Might I ask your name?”
She arches a brow, her expression withering in its condescension, but he doesn’t seem to be affected by her disdain. “Zoya.” Her hand stays in the water and she does her best to avoid wrinkling her nose at the state of it. Beggars can’t be choosers, she supposes, and when one washes up onto land nearly dead only to be rescued by a bunch of land walkers, she can only be a beggar.
The captain—Nikolai—smiles. “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it? It’s a pleasure to meet you, Zoya, dear.”
In a blink, Nikolai is sputtering from the water that now drenches him. Zoya can’t help but smirk, returning her hand to the water. “Don’t call me dear. And if there is anyone who can change out this water, send them my way. It’s rude to have someone soaking in their own blood.”
She can hear his laughter even as he leaves the cabin after bowing low to her.