Archive of Our Own ^beta

The wall is red. Higher.

Upwards. The sky is blue.

The wall is red. His hands are red. The blood that streaks and smears against the jagged stone, red on red on red.

The sky is blue. The sea is blue. Below and above like she’s still underwater, blue over blue, blue under blue.

It feels as though he's been climbing forever.

It feels as though she’s been rising forever.

If he looks down, there's nothing but blue. If he looks up, there's nothing but blue. The sun is hot on his back. He can't see the top, still. Higher.

Beside her, endless-ascending, the wall. Red clay baked in the sun, spilled blood. Sun filters through the bubble-film. She can’t see the top, still. Upwards.

Every muscle aches. A fingernail caught and tore, maybe an hour ago now, miles below. If he loses his grip now, he will die; from this height, Mother Sea would not spare even him, so there is only upwards. Higher, higher, higher. Towards the sun.

Her heart aches. Her throat aches. She speaks, without pause. She smiles. If she loses their hearts, she will die or worse; this far from Mother Sea, she must coax out her own mercies. Upwards, upwards, upwards. Towards the sun.

He's a fool, surely, to tear his hands bloody like this just to return to the very place he fled. A reckless idiot.

She’s a fool, surely, to risk slavery and her country’s ruin for a sunlit, impossible dream. A reckless idiot.

They say that once, centuries ago, a great guardian, a thing of steel and will, a messenger of the sun, scaled the Red Line and broke open Pangaea Castle itself. It never came back down, they say, but the damage it did was historic.

Two centuries ago, fishmen were legally animals, and Fishman Island was a hunting-ground for slavers. But something changed. Something changed the hearts of the tyrants above. And if it happened once, it can happen again.

Fisher Tiger is just a man, and his hands are all he has, but he has not fallen yet. Higher.

Otohime is just a woman, and her voice is all she has, but it hasn’t failed her yet. Upwards.

Holy Mariejois is made small by the sun.

Downwards. Fisher Tiger, just a man, stands with slaves packed cramped into hijacked gondolas all around him, and sinks swinging towards the sea.

Lower. Otohime, just a woman, head held high, free despite all odds, curls her tail against the side of the gondola and sinks swinging towards the sea.

An unprecedented act of defiance. It will never touch the front pages; or, if it does, it will only be as a story of fishman brutality, the unreasoning violent rebellion characteristic of his people.

An unprecedented victory for hope. It will be the only story she tells, later, the systematic cruelty of the tyrants above and the screams of her people their slaves lodged unspoken at the back of her throat.

But he will know. His skin burns; his hands hurt; every muscle aches with triumph. He will know.

But she will know. Her heart burns; her bones shake; her skin is thin as wind. She will know.

The descent is slow. Above, Mariejois burns against the night sky like the sun has fallen on it, crushed it under the weight of fire. Below, Mother Sea, its cool salve, its relief, its sweet freedom.

She falls slowly. Below, Mother Sea is lit by fire, sundown reflections, every shade licking towards her in welcome. Above, Mariejois drifts into shadow, swallowed by the darkening sky.

The ocean’s blue is deep, near-black and endless, stretching to the horizon, and he hurts, and he hurts, and his work is nearly done, and he can’t wait for her to hold him.

The sun smears the horizon red, dyeing the ocean in blood, and she hurts, and she hurts, and her work is nowhere near done, and she can’t wait for the sea’s embrace.

The descent feels as though it takes forever.

The fall feels as though it lasts forever.

The ocean, blue, all-encompassing, cool, safe, liberation, refuge, waiting for him.

The sky, red, cradle of the sun, vast, mirrored, hope, future, waiting for her.

Downwards. Towards the blue.

Past the red. Lower.