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mist hung low over the river like a veil, soft and silvery in the pale orange of dawn. water lapped at moss covered rocks, and below its surface, laughter rose in bubbles. soft, low, melodic. the language of the riverfolk.
nimue giggles as sira’s clawed fingers weave through her hair, wiggling slightly. their tails sway in tandem, keeping them afloat in a slightly deeper part of the river.
“hold still, foamlet,” sira says, “you do want these to last through the current, don't you?”
“i want them to be like yours, mama.” nimue’s green eyes are wide with adoration as she looks up at her mother, whose plaits are woven around her head, reminiscent of a nest.
“one day, tideling. if you have your own little minnows and leave your post as gardener, i will braid this into your hair. for now, you have the crown.” sira finishes one plait and starts on the other, smiling as aunt kelda swims by.
kelda’s hair is in three plaits, one thick in the middle and two at the sides - a warrior’s hair. the plaits are woven with trinkets, little shells and teeth. there's even some netting in there, a trophy from when kelda had escaped a group of human hunters.
“who designed all of these hairstyles?” nimue asks, looking around the pod. sira pulls on her hair, a quiet hiss leaving the older mermaid’s lips.
“stay still, foamlet. i tell you this every morning. the elders designed them for us, each one tells our role. kelda is a warrior. i am a mother. you are a gardener. nana is an elder. do you always forget?”
“no, mama,” nimue laughs, “i like you telling me the story. tell me again?” sira sighs, but her smile is fond. she places her hands on nimue’s shoulders and turns her around, beginning to pull the plaits back into a crown.
a ripple passes over their heads.
the first arrow hits kelda in the throat. a strangled gargle hits nimue’s ears and blood clouds into the water. a net, weighted and heavy, lands over kelda. men in boots, heavy and reeking of the land, splash through the shallows. their reflections are warped, but the spears, the arrows, gleam. nimue goes to scream, but her mother's hand wraps around and clamps over her mouth.
“hush, tideling,” she whispers, swimming backwards. sira pulls them through a curtain of vines and pushes nimue through a narrow gap in the rocks.
“stay here. do not move a fin, nimue,” sira orders, her voice shaking, “no matter what you hear.” she kisses nimue’s forehead. once. twice. three times, and then she disappears with a flick of her tail.
nimue presses her face to the rock, watching through the vines. her gills flutter in panicked breaths, her eyes wide. she watches as sira swims into the fray. her nana drags a wounded mermaid to cover, and a spear silences her cry. her cousin thrashes in a blood blurred eddy. a warrior song falters into silence. the river turns red.
three spears rise from her mother's chest like reeds.
when silence falls, it isn't peace. it's the absence of song. of laughter.
the hunters leave, their pockets full of scales and their nets weighed down by members of her pod.
the mist has long lifted when nimue dares to move. she wiggles free of her hiding space, the rock scraping at her skin. the vines cling to her and nimue tears them away from her. her tail feels heavy as she drifts towards the still shapes.
sira is weighed down by the spears in her chest. her eyes are open, glazed and reflecting nimue back at herself. trembling webbed fingers slide sira’s eyelids closed, and nimue cries. she keens a broken song that lost its words, curling around her mother's body.
her plaits, loose against her hair and not pulled back into the crown, float in the water. one over each shoulder.
the last plaits her mother ever gave her.