Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Emil, for the umpteenth time of his life, found himself wondering how the absolute hell did he end up getting involved.

Actually, the answer wasn't quite so unimaginable.

Somehow, being friends with the notorious crew of the Bjørn equated to getting left behind to pick the pieces. Cleaning up their messes every time Mathias decided to bite off more than he could chew, or when Tino got drunk and committed accidental arson — however that worked — while lighting the kokko every Midsummer. It didn't help that Berwald neither encouraged nor disapproved the behaviour… openly, at least, and his bother of an eldri bróðir wouldn't stop pestering him to acknowledge their brotherhood.

Though, the icy-haired viking had to admit that Lukas's interference was sometimes a blessing, especially when the walls became a hollow reverberation of his own voice.

And it was true. His crew was an unlikely band of weirdos who all came from different backgrounds spanning across Scandinavia, bonding over a unanimous passion for the sea — and, well, activity involving bloodshed, pillage, and drinking. 

Unsurprisingly, meeting one another in person proved quite a distance, but they managed. Never mind the fact that hanging out with them was almost always guaranteed an international disaster; Emil could never ask for a better set of friends.

They were perhaps the only people he could truly express himself the way he was to, even if they'd never stop rubbing in the fact that he was the youngest and wouldn't stop treating him like a child. The Bjørn made an effort to make him smile on a regular basis, however ineffective, and above all, they protected him with their lives.

They actually cared, a trait Emil could never ignore no matter how frustrating it was to lag behind.

For example, his current predicament.

Mathias had decided to pillage a random village in foreign territory and was facing the painful consequences of his actions — and everyone, as usual, had hurried over on the spur of the moment to save his sorry ass. This included Emil, who had set out before realising that he had absolutely no clue just how far Mathias really was from Iceland.

Geography could go die in a ditch.

And so the icy-haired viking was currently stranded in the middle of the ocean, his ship rounding the waters in aimless circles. 

Why does it always come down to this? Emil smacked his face on the helm in his hands. He was completely isolated, disoriented and uncontactable, a dangerous mix any pirate — heck, any seafarer — would heavily advise against. Mr. Puffin had refused to come along with him on this "stupid suicide of a rescue operation" — his words, but the icy-haired viking suddenly missed the usual annoyingly talkative voice perched on his shoulder.

Andskotans, why can’t they just wait for me for one damn moment? 

Overhead, the sky didn’t look particularly friendly either. A grey blanket hanging ominously for as far as the eye could see, lightning crackling in the distance. The wind had picked up in a matter of seconds, dragging along the waves below, which had begun piling around the hull of the ship at an alarming intensity.

Then a single clap of thunder, and the droplets came in sudden but forceful downpour.

Emil swore colourfully at the sky.

Whatever being presided over the heavens — not that he believed in any, but he respected Lukas's devotion to his religion — was obviously not very receptive to (un)constructive criticism. 

He screeched as a bolt of lightning stabbed at the wood inches from his skin, jerking onto one foot like a drunken ballerina. 

The merciless gusts continued to drag the ship forward, and the icy-haired viking could only hang on for dear life to the helm as the wooden vessel continued to lurch across the violent swell of indigo below.

If the sky doesn't kill me, the sea definitely will. Emil found him giggling hysterically. "Ha! And Lukas said hamingja was supposed to be on my side this week — if I make it out of this alive, I will make sure to rub it in his face," he shouted into the gloom, a strange sense of satisfaction washing over him despite the direness of the situation.

In retrospect, he really shouldn't have said that, because Rán had decidedly gotten tired of his pitiful existence and conjured a wall of water that stretched to be taller than the mast of his ship.

Djöfullinn, the icy-haired viking mused as the wave came crashing down around him.

*

Emil felt something pressing against his forehead.

He coughed, rubbing his eyes, before it hit him. I’m still alive, he realised, feeling his body for injury. Amazingly enough, he was almost perfectly unharmed, save for his left leg which was bleeding a raw crimson. It stung of seawater.

I must have hit my leg on a rock or something. Whatever it was, he was somehow, but thankfully, back in Iceland, and his ship was probably a wreck at the bottom of the ocean. 

Shit, Mathias is rubbing off on me. If I hang out any longer with him, I'll start waging wars with and losing to every stranger I see as well.

Then he noticed the shadow cast over his body.

“What the—” the icy-haired viking stumbled back, eyes widening as he took in the sight before him.

It was a… creature of some sort, its entire body a silky pristine white, yet strangely drenched. In sitting position, it reached about the height of Emil’s forehead, but he imagined its body would span to be way longer. Broad-chested with its pinkish nose pointed forward, it looked like a feline of some sort, if only he could identify what.

He was abruptly reminded of a big cat he’d seen before at Berwald’s place. A lynx, a large white-furred predator with pricked ears. But this one had a mane around its head, and what appeared to be a… fish tail flicking on the ground, slapping up puffs of black sand.

Oh, and its eyes were a stunning violet that stared at him in a way too intelligent and inquisitive to truly be animal.

The creature seemed to show no intention of attacking, merely sitting in front of Emil, idle. Still staring.

The staring was getting creepy.

“Ah, hello there,” the icy-haired viking greeted carefully, shifting his body to stand. And wincing as the pain stabbed at his leg, shooting up his veins.

Perhaps he was delirious, but he could have sworn he saw the creature’s expression change — softening, as if it could sense his discomfort.

It approached.

Please don’t kill me please don’t kill me—

Emil felt a tug on the back of his tunic, and suddenly he was lifted off the ground.

The creature had sunk its teeth into his clothes, carrying him by what it probably interpreted as the scruff of his neck. With a satisfied trill, it began trotting towards the mainland, taking a protesting icy-haired viking with it.

*

Mr. Puffin looked less than happy to see him.

"Can't even last for one damn day without fucking up, eh?" The bird grumbled, hovering around Emil's shoulder. He, however, kept a safe distance from the white-furred creature, which gazed at him with what was akin to hungry eyes. "And what the hell is this? You get your ass dragged home by something that looks like it could devour me in two seconds."

"To be fair, would you have chosen to struggle if this big fella grabbed you by the scruff of your neck?" The icy-haired viking retorted as the beast dropped him gently on the ground. "Andskotans, I don't even know what it is."

"And yet this bastard somehow knows where you live."

Emil turned around, glancing at the creature. It sat patiently at his front door, its odd fish tail flicking against the frame.

"Oi, you there," Mr. Puffin called, perching atop the latter's head. He made a rather dramatic display of flapping his wings forward, in the motion of chasing the beast away. "Go back to wherever you came from. Shoo."

The creature blinked, violet eyes dimming ever-so slightly. Its tail stopped moving, curling around its hind legs, as if suddenly self-conscious.

It almost looked… sad.

Emil felt something tug at his heart.

"I'm keeping it."

The creature perked up instantly.

Needless to say, Mr. Puffin flew into a rage.

"What — what the fuck? You can't just adopt a weird-ass predator that's definitely gonna eat me just like that! Djöfullinn, you stupid fu—" 

"No eating Mr. Puffin, alright?" The icy-haired viking pressed a tentative hand in the creature's pristine white — and still wet — fur. It tilted its head slightly in response, as if nodding. "You can stay, just don't do anything that would force me to let you go."

But Mr. Puffin continued yelling. "Are you insane? That guy isn't gonna listen to you, and I'm gonna be the one that gets it! You—"

"Look, my best friend is a talking bird, okay? You have no leverage either." Emil rolled his eyes. "Come on, can we just end this argument? I'm tired."

Mr. Puffin crossed his wings. "Fine. But I'm kicking it out the moment its teeth get anywhere near me."

"I'm quite sure you're not physically capable of doing that," the icy-haired returned, but there was no bite in his words anymore. This bickering was a crucial part of their friendship, for some reason.

Entering the house, Emil was suddenly faced with a dilemma of where on earth to place the creature.

His bedroom was minimal and cramped and consisted of exactly one thin mattress of straw and wool. 

Actually, could that even be considered a bedroom? 

Of course, there was his living room, but to be honest he didn't trust the creature enough to let it sleep unsupervised.

"Do you mind… um…" The icy-haired viking scanned the room aimlessly. No, now that he had invited it in, he couldn't request it sleep outside, couldn't he? He was a gentleman, okay. As accustomed as the creature probably was to the wilderness, he would be violating the very basis of courtesy.

"You let it in without even thinking about how much space you have. Idiot, aren't ya?" Mr. Puffin mumbled, fluttering out the window.

Emil felt a nudge on his side.

Before he knew it, the creature had hoisted him onto its plush back, curling up beside the straw mattress. 

The icy-haired viking hadn't thought it was possible to sink in fur, but he suddenly found himself drowning in mildly damp white fluff.

It took him a couple of seconds of struggling to roll off the creature's back, sliding unceremoniously onto the ground.

…Actually, it's a nice pillow, he decided as he propped his head against its curled body, clutching onto its tail gently like a blanket.

The creature let out a soft purr before his eyelids drooped to a close.

*

A brittle smash slapped Emil awake.

Jolting upright, the icy-haired viking instinctively reached for his bow. Each member of the Bjørn had a different specialty weapon — Mathias with his axe, Tino with his spear, and Berwald with his seax — but Emil and Lukas both favoured the bow. 

A marksmanship between the brothers that made it one of the only traits the icy-haired nation would admit to sharing with him, his brother was a brilliant sniper, while his strength lay in distraction.

Perhaps his pacifist nature contributed to it, but Emil wouldn't have rathered otherwise.

A thought occurred to him.

I'm back on my bed. The white-furred creature must have slipped away while he was asleep. But his lying position had definitely changed over the course of the night… surely even something as intelligent as it wasn't capable of tucking him into bed.

He briefly wondered if whoever was making that racket might have had an eye for exotic animals.

Pressing his frame against the adjacent wall of his bedroom, Emil notched an arrow with an expert swiftness. His shot was aimed at the intruder's feet — his legs were oddly small for an adult thief, if he was even an adult. Child burglars were a rare sight, but not impossible.

Ah… but this child burglar was frustratingly fast. The icy-haired viking could catch the briefest glimpse of a white blur darting across his living room before releasing the arrow.

Somehow, somehow, its point struck the figure squarely on his coat, and a dull thud quickly followed as he fell flat on the ground.

Emil's breath was caught in his throat.

Mostly black hair sporting a curious streak of white across his fringe, curling into the vague shape of a crescent moon. Violet eyes with feline pupils that darted around in alarm, and twin tufts of white fur on his head that seemed to move on their own — cat ears.

The person — person? — was positively tiny, even smaller than the icy-haired viking was so teased about, clothed in a severely oversized white fur coat. And he looked to be about fifteen; definitely not a child, at any rate.

A small flapping caught Emil's attention. "Aye, your little pet is just a stupid coward at heart," Mr. Puffin crowed, brandishing a cucumber. "This guy freaks out at the sight of a damn vegetable!"

The icy-haired viking blinked. "That's… that's the creature?"

"Yeah, I don't know what the hell happened to it, but it came out of your room at dawn and tried to bite me." Mr. Puffin held the cucumber high, like a sword. "I just snatched this off your pantry and before I knew, the big scary idiot became a big scaredy idiot!"

Emil glanced back to the ground, where the creature thrashed in a strangely awkward manner, as if he was controlling the amount of force he applied as he struggled — He's trying not to damage the coat, he realised.

"Uh… hi?" The icy-haired viking mumbled, lowering his bow.

The person snapped his head around, violet eyes dilating. His writhing became more violent.

He's terrified.

Something began oozing out of the hole the arrow had formed in the coat. A dark patch of crimson had blossomed, tainting its pristine white. Blood, the icy-haired viking thought, paling. I've punctured something.

He knelt down beside the frantic creature, reaching a tentative hand towards his head. Emil had enough experience with wild animals to know the protocol for soothing them, and if he was lucky this little guy wouldn't be much different.

The creature froze the moment his palm came into contact with it.

A moment passed, and his violet eyes seemed to liquify, lulled into an immediate tranquillity.

He's unusually cold, Emil noted internally. He wasn't sure of the bodily temperature range for… whatever he was, but his petite frame was well under ten degrees Celsius and wracked with tremors.

"I mean no harm," the icy-haired viking whispered, stroking his bicoloured hair gently. The creature let out a quiet purr, softening into his hands.

"Bummer," Mr. Puffin snorted, hurling the cucumber out the window. 

"You were destroying my house," Emil snapped, to which the latter simply shrugged.

He turned his attention back to the creature. "Sorry about the arrow," he said apologetically, kneeling down beside the wound. The point had driven itself into the ground, piercing the coat and flesh beneath it cleanly.

It's his fish tail, he realised. The glossy appendage slapped the ground weakly, concealed by the gigantic fur coat.

"This might hurt a bit." He tugged the arrow out in one fluid motion.

The creature tensed for a moment, before relaxing, swishing his tail experimentally. "Oh… uh, thanks."

Emil blinked. "You can talk?"

"Only in this form." He smiled, like a cat, a hint of sharpened canines visible within his lips. "I've been meaning to speak to you for a while."

"Are you a selkie or something?" 

The creature cocked his head. "I… don't think so? I dwell in the tropics — the locals there refer to me as a merlion."

Tropics? That was quite a lengthy distance from Iceland. "How did you end up all the way here?"

The creature — merlion — stared at the floor, his feline ears flattening slightly. Beneath the seemingly childlike innocence was a wariness Emil recognised, the type that injured victims from the Bjørn 's pillages gave him when he attempted to dress their wounds. "I'd rather not talk about it."

Whatever he'd gone through was probably not a pleasant experience, given that he was currently freezing in a land far away from home. 

Which reminds me. "I'll go light the fireplace. You don't look… particularly suited for the cold."

An oddly pitched sneeze — somewhere between a cough and a squeak — quickly affirmed his suggestion.

As the icy-haired viking tossed the last piece of firewood, the merlion scrambled towards him, tightening his pristine fur coat around his petite frame. Beside them, his fish tail curled itself mere inches from the wood, swaying idly as tendrils of smoke slithered past it. A thin rivulet of crimson where it had been punctured leaked onto the ground, but he seemed to pay no attention to it.

Emil was hit by an overwhelming sensation of excitement, curiosity, and mild dread.

This is going to be a wild ride.

Chapter Text

They had returned to the beach, where the merlion — he'd introduced himself as Liam — explained the basics of how… he worked. 

"You're familiar with selkies, right?" 

"Sort of." They were moderately popular in Icelandic folklore, called marmennlar or something. What Emil did remember was that these stories often encompassed a particularly lustful man taking interest in a completely different species, thereby kidnapping the said species to become their betrothed.

"I'm something like that, I guess." Liam stuck his feet into the ocean blue. They appear almost waxy beneath the ripples, like a waterproof coating. Beside them, his fish tail flexed methodically, swishing up little clusters of foam. Emil had tried his best to bandage it, despite the latter's insistence that it would heal on its own.

"I need my coat and physical contact with the waters to shapeshift. Which is why you woke up to see me like…" He gestured at himself. "This."

"You're not transforming now though," the icy-haired viking noted, propping his head atop his knees.

"It's a voluntary thing. I can breathe underwater in this form, so I do it only when I hunt… and sometimes as a defence mechanism." The merlion's ears flattened slightly. "I avoid the latter unless absolutely necessary. It's resulted in multiple bouts of… say, aggression. I can't really control it."

Aggression? Emil couldn't really picture it. His animal form looked rather harmless, or even friendly — ignoring its size and all — and his humanoid form was terribly small for a supposed predator.

Another thought occurred to him. His body is waterproof, but his fur was wet when he found me, which means he'd just come out of the water… oh.

"You…" the icy-haired viking glanced at Liam, who was drawing little circles in the black sand with his finger. 

"Hmm?"

"I— never mind." Had he really been the one to save Emil, he'd have to explain why he was there in the first place. The latter had been hesitant about explaining his circumstances before, and it was likely that he still was.

He'd get back to that later on. "How do you hunt?"

The merlion paused, looking up from his doodling. "What?" 

The icy-haired viking repeated his question. Liam's response didn't differ much; blinking rapidly, his catlike features contorted into a face of utter confusion.

He's cute when he's puzzled, Emil realised, cheeks turning a slight shade of pink. "I don't know. It sounds cool." 

The latter stared at him again, before shrugging, breaking into a smile. "I could show you," he offered, grabbing the icy-haired viking by the wrist.

"Wait, I can't—" Emil didn't get the chance to finish his sentence before the choppy aquamarine rushed up to greet him. It took a few painful seconds of thrashing before he was pulled back to shore, coughing and spluttering seawater, by a somewhat sheepish Liam.

"I forgot about that," the merlion admitted, slitted pupils flitting about as he surveyed his surroundings. "Give me a moment."

He dove back into the ocean, with all the poise a land dweller like the latter would envy.

A light flapping filled the air as a certain talking bird entered Emil's sightline. "He gone?" 

"When did you even get here?"

Mr. Puffin snorted — or at least, a strangled squawk of what was intended as derision. "I was here the whole time, dumbass — you were too busy staring at ya lil' boyfriend to notice."

"He's not my boyfriend," the icy-haired viking retorted, face colouring unceremoniously. "He's just… interesting."

"Suit ya self." Mr. Puffin rolled his eyes. "Where's that guy, anyway?"

Emil glanced at the lapping waves before him. He's right; Liam's taking quite a long time.

The latter, apparently, took this as a notion of affirmation. 

"Ha! He left you here, didn't he?" He puffed up his feathered chest, hoping towards the frothing ripples. "Oi, you stupid coward, come out and face me like a man!"

As if on cue, a large furred head popped out of the water, and a saline droplet the size of Emil's palm unloaded itself onto the talking bird.

Mr. Puffin shrieked, an unholy sound that combined the naturally high pitch of an avian and the cowardice of an idiot, dragging his soaking body forward in attack. "You fucking—" 

The icy-haired viking, similarly drenched, grabbed him by his tail. "You brought that upon yourself." 

Liam gave a hum of agreement, shaking his pristine mane as he emerged from the water. It was now almost glossy, sunlight glinting off the watery beads like morning dew.

Mr. Puffin jabbed an accusing feather at him. "You don't get to agree, asshole."

Emil glanced at the latter. There was something hanging loosely from the edge of his lower jaw, which the merlion promptly deposited onto the sand next to him. Picking it up, it appeared to be a brooch of some kind, adorned with a curving string of pearls and various bits of coral. A small tuft of white plated the centre of the trinket.

It's his fur, the icy-haired viking realised, pinning it carefully on his tunic. A momentary bout of static buzzed in his ears before clearing, the sensation akin to spilling breakers curling around one's toes.

Yes, it's my fur.

He flinched, jerking his head up in surprise. Liam stared back at him, violet eyes curving with what appeared to be amusement.

"Are you… talking to me?"

Sort of. The merlion let out a soft purr. The brooch lets you interact with the ocean. And since I'm a part of it, I guess you could say that.

Come on. He turned around, gesturing at the waters with his furred head. His glossy tail swishing behind him, like a trail inviting the latter to follow. 

And follow Emil did, much to Mr. Puffin's indignant protests. 

*

The precise moment his face broke the water's surface was a curious feeling.

He had instinctively shut his eyes as the foamy tendrils lapped past his hair, before realising that the seawater no longer pricked at his eyes.

I'm… I'm breathing underwater, he awed, taking a minute to adjust to the azure world around him. He turned to face the merlion, marvelling at the echo his words created when he spoke. “This is actually amazing.”

Mhm. Liam's fish tail swishing excitedly. Do you like it?

Emil nodded, tracing the intricacies of the brooch with a delicate finger. “Did you make this?”

Yeah. It was supposed to be a birthday gift for someone. He's taken care of me for years. I'd stayed underwater for so long that he tried to find me — that dumbass almost drowned in the process. 

The merlion's violet eyes dimmed. 

I can't believe I'm saying this, but I… kind of miss his stupidly suffocating affection. I don't even know how far I am from home right now.

The icy-haired viking felt something tug at his heart. Whoever this person was definitely reciprocated Liam's emotions, perhaps even more than him. Hopelessness was never an enjoyable feeling, especially when the situation spiralled completely out of your control and there was nothing that could be done but watch.

(He'd seen the children of the villages, of their victims. The Bjørn was careful to minimise their casualties, but not every clan cared as much about their lives. Those innocent faces, despaired and desolate, still haunted his dreams till today.)

“I'll get you home,” Emil announced, running a comforting hand through his pristine fur. 

Yes, his ship was somewhere at the bottom of the ocean (they might even come across its hell of a wreckage later), and yes, he had absolutely no clue how to get Liam home (or how to get to the tropics in general). 

But he was a viking of his word, and that meant the latter would get home, one way or another.

The merlion perked up instantaneously, rubbing his maned head against the icy-haired viking’s face. Thanks.

Emil tried to ignore the heat rushing up his cheeks, shooting him a smile. “So… uh… how long can you stay underwater for?”

Liam almost seemed amused by the question. I'm amphibious, human… actually, you haven't told me your name.

“Oh… it's Emil.”

Suddenly the merlion's face was mere inches from his, violet eyes curving.

A pretty name for a pretty human. He gave a low purr, his feline mouth curled into something akin to a smirk. ‘Rival’ in Latin. Say, which beauty are you rivalling?

The icy-haired viking found himself choking violently on seawater. 

“What—”

The sound emitted from Liam's throat was strangely high-pitched and wobbly — it almost sounded like he was trying to titter. What? I'm only speaking the truth.

By now Emil's face was flushed a brilliant shade of scarlet. “That's not the kind of thing you just say aloud!”

The merlion paused, seemingly deep in thought. I've seen someone saying those kinds of words to someone else back home. The lady had that funny reddish expression on her face and looked very happy. It's called… ‘flirting’, isn't it? Did I get it right? 

An awkward silence hung between them for a moment before the icy-haired viking cleared his throat. “You… you were trying to make me happy?”

Liam gave a hum of affirmation, violet eyes sparkling. Did it work?

…How am I supposed to tell him?

“Sort of,” he decided, hastily changing the subject. “Do you still want to hunt?”

The question had barely surfaced before the figure beside him disappeared in an energetic flurry of bubbles.

He's fast, the icy-haired viking noted, swatting away the ripples in his face. Liam's silhouette had diminished to a prowling movement the size of a cat, his eyes dead set on an arctic salmon the length of his forearm.

In a blink of an eye, the merlion had pounced onto his prey, darting towards the surface as his canines sunk into the squirming creature's flesh.

His hind legs don't move while he's swimming, Emil mused, rather absentmindedly as he followed the latter towards the sun-kissed surface. They align against the rest of his body forming a streamlined shape, his tail the propeller.

The thought had occurred to him only to ignore another, not-so-fun notion — that that poor fish could've been him yesterday.

By the time he reached the coast, Liam had already morphed back to his humanoid form, his pristine coat swathed around him like a chrysalis. Petite fingers were wrapped around the fins of the now oversized salmon as he took a preliminary bite.

“Freshwater fish tastes funny¹. Not in the disgusting sort of funny, but the unusual sort of funny,” he announced, his ears flicking with content. He snapped off a piece of its belly, handing it to Emil. “Want some?”

“I'll pass.” 

“More for me, then.” 

The icy-haired viking watched as he stuffed the rest of the salmon down his throat, its tail sticking out of his small mouth.

His fingers hovered over the latter's tail flapping rhythmically against the sand. The glossy appendage resembled a pointed heart, the curled tips patterned with a silvery sheen. 

“Oh, your tail has healed.” Its bandage had fallen off some time ago, the bloodied hole now covered with a layer of fresh skin.

“Told you it heals on its own.” Liam shot him a smug grin, his little canines peeking from his lips. “Thanks for bandaging it, though. Open wounds and water do not mix well.”

He reached up, planting a tiny kiss on the bewildered latter's nose.

“You're nice.”