On some level, Shrieky knows it's coming before it happens. The mermaid circles him in the water, and his tail is long and fat. It gleams with a lustre that Shrieky's never did, and he knows what's coming, because It's circling him, and he knows what he would have wanted to do.
So it's hard for Shrieky to be angry with him, when the Mermaid's fingers tangle in his hair and he drags Shrieky down. He does panic (never thought he'd be the type to panic, but it turns out he is) when he opens his mouth and has to see the cascade of bubbles, of escaping air, erupting from his lips, when automatically he tries to expel the water through his gills and it doesn't go, rushing instead down his throat, into his chest and stomach, into his lungs.
When he first feels the bite of iron against his chest, he's relieved, as if some part of him thinks that making a hole there will let the water out.
Then it hurts.
Then he feels nothing.
(Had the other Mermaid seemed lonely as well? Or is he just imagining things?)
In the tower, he presses his lips to the ceiling, trying to breathe in the slightest amount of air from the cracks in the roof. He doesn't understand this. He can't. It's not the same, there's no one else here, no fingers in his hair, no fat, glossy tail encircling him.
He's alone, kicking his awkward, gangling legs in the water and trying to keep from going under. He feels like a wounded animal, a lame bird or dying fish trapped on the surface of the moat. The kind of thing he used to watch from below for hours, sometimes. The kind of thing that he used to circle, before dragging it under.
Shrieky claws at his throat. He needs to breathe without breathing, needs to re-open that lost channel for the water that keeps pooling in his mouth to escape through.
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So it's hard for Shrieky to be angry with him, when the Mermaid's fingers tangle in his hair and he drags Shrieky down. He does panic (never thought he'd be the type to panic, but it turns out he is) when he opens his mouth and has to see the cascade of bubbles, of escaping air, erupting from his lips, when automatically he tries to expel the water through his gills and it doesn't go, rushing instead down his throat, into his chest and stomach, into his lungs.
When he first feels the bite of iron against his chest, he's relieved, as if some part of him thinks that making a hole there will let the water out.
Then it hurts.
Then he feels nothing.
(Had the other Mermaid seemed lonely as well? Or is he just imagining things?)
In the tower, he presses his lips to the ceiling, trying to breathe in the slightest amount of air from the cracks in the roof. He doesn't understand this. He can't. It's not the same, there's no one else here, no fingers in his hair, no fat, glossy tail encircling him.
He's alone, kicking his awkward, gangling legs in the water and trying to keep from going under. He feels like a wounded animal, a lame bird or dying fish trapped on the surface of the moat. The kind of thing he used to watch from below for hours, sometimes. The kind of thing that he used to circle, before dragging it under.
Shrieky claws at his throat. He needs to breathe without breathing, needs to re-open that lost channel for the water that keeps pooling in his mouth to escape through.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
His neck hurts.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
There's blood under his fingernails.
He still can't breathe.