Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You drive up the long gravel pathway, hands gripping the steering wheel as your stomach flutters with both nerves and excitement. As you continue along the driveway, a small blue house appears on your left. It's old and a little dilapidated but the sight of it alone is enough to spark warm memories of the past.

There's a worn-down pickup truck at the end of the driveway which you park next to. Exiting your car, you take a deep breath and appreciate the hint of the salt in the air from the nearby sea. Gravel crunches underneath your shoes as you step closer to the house. The siding has faded from its once vibrant color, and the roof has multiple patched up spots made of different materials, but the charm and familiarity are still there.

Your grandmother's beloved house.

Your childhood home.

A middle aged man steps out of the house, the screen door slamming shut behind him with a loud bang. He has shoulder length gray hair with a scruffy looking mustache and beard. His skin is deeply tanned —a tell-tale sign of decades of hard labor under the scorching sun.

"Welcome home, dear!" he greets you, arms wide open as he beckons you over for a hug.

A large grin breaks out on your face as you hurry over throw your arms around his thin, wiry figure. "It's good to be home, Uncle Hawkern!"

He releases you and takes a couple of steps back, taking in your full appearance. "Look at you! All grown up now!" He crosses his arms over his chest and furrows his eyebrows in thought. "It's been a while, huh. When's the last time I saw you?"

You smile apologetically. "I think it was for Grandma's funeral, which was over six years ago now." You try to ignore the emotional lump in your throat that forms any time you mention her. "I still find it hard to believe it's been this long."

Grandma passed away suddenly the same summer you had graduated from college, right before you moved to Linkon City to begin your first job as a post-graduate. What was supposed to your last couple months of joy and freedom at home turned into a seemingly endless period of indescribable grief and despair.

You were tasked to clean out the house as Uncle Hawkern was set to move in from the trailer he had on the outskirts of town. It was difficult going through Grandma's things and trying to decide what to save, throw away, or donate. You knew it was impossible keep all the memories you had crammed into this tiny home, but even the smallest item held such sentimental value for you.

Luckily, Uncle Hawkern had been kind enough to let you keep your bedroom, saying that you were always welcome to come back for any length of time. So before you moved to Linkon City, you filled your room with all the mementos of Grandma that you could not bare to part with. Her beloved antique hairbrush. A set of seashells she has painted intricate patterns on. Her favorite hand-knit sweater, with colors that reminded of you the sea.

You rapidly blink several times, trying to clear the sudden mistiness that pricks at your eyes. "So, uh, how are the fish biting?" you ask, wanting to change the subject.

You had been adopted into a family of fishermen, though Uncle Hawkern was the only one left in the business now. Grandma had never wanted you to inherit this work, prioritizing your education and shipping you off to a far away boarding school as soon as you turned twelve years old. She later confided that she had done so because she feared that Romirro would stunt your growth. What was once a thriving, prosperous town had declined over the past decades due to repeated natural disasters and economic hardship. Many residents had fled to other towns and cities, leaving behind a small population of locals whose families had lived in Romirro for generations.

Uncle Hawkern lets out a weary sigh that is so unlike his usual, jovial self that it catches you off guard. "They bite when they feel like it," he says with a laugh that sounds a little too hollow to your liking. "Some days are better than others." He quickly backtracks once he notices the stricken look on your face. "Oh dear, please don't waste your worry on me. I've been doing this for a long time. I'm used to the ups and downs of the industry."

"You're still working all by yourself?" You cannot help but be a little concerned. Your uncle looks far thinner and more exhausted than you remember him from all those years ago.

"Oh, but of course!" he responds cheerfully, though he's unable to meet your eyes. "You know how much I hate working with others." He clears his throat. "Speaking of work, what happened to that fancy job of yours?"

Now it's your turn to avoid eye contact. "It, um, just wasn't a good fit for me," you say vaguely.

A understatement of the century.

Though your job had paid well, you were left overworked, exhausted, and constantly ridiculed by the higher-ups for things out of your control. It was for this reason you had not returned home in six years. Your PTO was rarely approved, and you were chastised any time you requested more than a single day off in a row.

By the time you had finally quit, you had hardly recognized yourself anymore. You had lost contact with all of your former friends after choosing to give 100% of your efforts to your job. Perhaps once you proved yourself to your managers, they would lessen your workload and finally praise your work. But in the end, you had gained nothing of substance from your years of loyalty to the company and destroyed what was left of your already struggling social life.

"I need some time to clear my head before I figure out my next step," you carefully explain. Looking back at Uncle Hawkern, you give him a sincere smile. "So I'm very grateful that you're letting me stay here in the meantime. It feels good to be back in Romirro."

Uncle Hawkern chuckles and waves off your gratitude. "Oh please, you're welcome to stay here for as long as you need. Now then." He claps his hands together and makes his way over to your car. "Let me help you with your bags."

You had sold or donated most of your belongings after you had quit your job, eager to move out of your overpriced studio apartment in Linkon City. All you have left are two large suitcases, a duffel bag, and a backpack.

Despite your repeated refusals of needing help, Uncle Hawkern takes your two heavy suitcases, one in each hand, and heads into the house. You closely follow behind with your backpack and duffel bag.

"I'm sorry for the mess, dear. Haven't had company in a while. I'll try and clean up a bit while you settle in upstairs."

You begin to tell Uncle Hawkern that there is nothing to apologize for, but the words die upon your lips as soon as you step foot into the house. There is garbage everywhere—dirty takeout containers, empty bottles of liquor, scraps of paper and boxes all over the kitchen counters, dining table, and the floor. Your mouth drops open in silent shock as you survey your surroundings. You feel like a stranger in the same place you once called home.

A slightly musty, sour smell greets your senses as you carefully pick your way across the littered floor as you follow your uncle. You wrinkle your nose in disgust, unable to help but wonder what Grandma would think if she saw the place now.

As you climb the stairs, your stomach churns in apprehension for fears that the state of the second floor is just as bad as the first. But to your relief, it appears that Uncle Hawkern spends all his time downstairs. The small hallway is clear and as the door to your childhood bedroom is pushed open, a weight lifts off your shoulder as you realize your room looks exactly the same as you had left it all those years ago, except for a hefty layer of dust.

Uncle Hawkern leaves your suitcases in the corner and awkwardly hangs near the doorframe as you walk around the room, overwhelmed by the sudden influx of memories.

"I'm gonna clean up a bit downstairs, and grab us some takeout from the diner. You still want your usual, right?"

You pull your gaze away from your bookshelf where you were admiring your past collection of stories and trinkets. "You remember my order?" There's a slight twinge of surprise in your voice.

Uncle Hawkern nods with a crooked smile. "Of course! You have to have more faith in your old uncle. My memory isn't that bad yet!"

After you bid him farewell, you place your backpack and duffel bag on the floor. You open the windows to let in the fresh breeze and plop onto your bed as a large plume of dust flies into the the air. Letting out a giggle and a sneeze or two, you stroke your hand across your still soft comforter, reminiscing about the time you bought it with Grandma.

It was a birthday present. You had just turned ten years old when you had announced that you were all grown up after reaching double digits in age. Therefore, you wanted to redecorate your bedroom so that it was more befitting of your mature status. So rather than choosing a hot pink comforter set you secretly wanted, you had chosen a more subtle, light pink color.

Sitting up, you look at the sole picture frame on your nightstand and pick it up with a careful hand. You wipe away the dust that obscures the glass, revealing a photo of you and Grandma smiling brightly at the camera, taken at your favorite beach spot in Romirro. With a soft smile, you sent down the frame as another breeze comes through the open window, bringing with you the faint scent of the sea.

"Grandma, I'm finally home."

The first thing on your to-do list is tackling the terrible mess on the first floor that has likely accumulated for years at this point. Bit by bit, you throw away the garbage, recycle the bottles, disinfect the surfaces, and open up the windows to air out the space. And as the days pass by, the house finally starts to look and feel like the cozy space you once remembered as a kid.

Uncle Hawkern is astounded by your progress. You swear you can see tears in his eyes the first time he sees Grandma's dining table completely empty for the first time in six years. While he is incredibly grateful for your assistance, he is also deeply remorseful that he had let the problem get this out of hand.

You would be lying if you said you hadn't been upset at the state of the house when you first stepped inside, but you were able to set aside these feelings and sympathize with your uncle. He works long hours every day on his fishing boat performing exhausting, labor-intensive work. During especially busy times at your old job, maintaining the cleanliness of your apartment was the last thing on your mind, so you can understand how easy it is for a mess to become out of control.

Once you clear the kitchen and clean all the appliances, you begin to cook. It brings back fond memories of Grandma teaching you how to make your favorite meals. The pots, pans, dishes, and utensils are unchanged, giving you a sense of familiarity every time you prepare a dish.

You make meals for Uncle Hawkern, packing homemade breakfast and lunch for him every day to eat out on the boat during work. He normally returns from the sea by the afternoon, allowing you two to have a quick, early dinner together before he settles down in front of the television and falls asleep on the couch until he wakes up before dawn to get the boat ready for another day of fishing. Cooking for him is the least you can do to thank him for sheltering you during your well-needed break from corporate life. He refused your offer to pay rent, so you take the responsibility of covering the costs of groceries and other household goods.

You settle into a mundane routine of cooking, cleaning, and running errands. It's not the most exciting life, but it is quiet and serene—exactly what you need at the moment. Your favorite part of the day is being able to take a post-dinner walk by the sea. There's a well-hidden section of the beach you and Grandma frequently visited throughout your childhood—a family secret so to speak. It's a decent drive from the house and a rather long trek from where you must park your car, but the views are worth it.

The sand is soft and pure white, reflecting the brightness of the sun. The water is a luminous turquoise-blue color that is so clear you can often see the bottom of the sea floor where groups of tiny fish dart around. But when the sun begins to set, that's when the real beauty sets in. The sea becomes a vibrant blend of pink, orange, and red which never fails to take your breath away. This is why you spend nearly every evening on this beach, walking around for a good hour or so until you sit in the sand and admire the sunset. Only when the sun finally disappears behind the horizon do you finally take your leave.

You have fond memories of this place. It is where you first learned how to swim, holding onto Grandma's hands until you finally gained the confidence to let go and paddle on your own. It is also where you had your first experience camping overnight. You and Grandma had pitched a small tent on the beach and built a tiny fire pit where you roasted marshmallows and sang silly campfire songs deep into the night. Though many parts of Romirro have changed during your absence, your beloved beach still remains the same, much to your relief.

It is about two months into your move back home when you notice something unusual during one of your daily walks on the beach. There is a giant clump of fishing nets caught in the large cluster of rock formations that juts out a fair distance into the sea. Though you occasionally find a plastic bottle or two washed up along the shore that you always pick up and properly discard, you have never discovered abandoned fishing gear before. The local fisherman, including your own uncle, are well-trained and extremely conscious of their actions to avoid any further pollution to the sea.

Cursing the perpetrator under your breath, you make your way out to the rock formations. You hold out your arms out to the side, careful not to lose your balance on the slippery surface as the wind whips around you and the crashing waves spray water in your face. As you get closer to the fishing net, all the air leaves your lungs when you realize a creature is trapped inside. A large sea turtle.

"Oh, you poor thing," you cry out, frantically running over to where it is trapped between two large rocks.

In your haste, you slip and fall, cutting your knee against one of sharp boulders. You hiss in pain as a thin trail of blood drips down your leg, but you ignore it, climbing to your feet as you finally make your way over to the turtle. You crouch down in the crevice between the two rocks, careful to keep a safe distance from the creature. The turtle slightly lifts its head at your presence and slowly blinks at you.

You sigh in relief. "Thank goodness." It's still alive, but it looks weak. The turtle is severely tangled in the netting, unable to move an inch even if it wanted to. But at least its head still remains above the water, allowing it to breathe.

The wind is picking up, and the waves are getting stronger and choppier. You look out across the sea, heart pounding. The tide is coming in.

With a shaky hand, you reach into your pocket and pull out your keys. You crawl closer to the sea turtle, talking to it in a smoothing voice. "It's okay, sweetie. I got you, I'll set you free, don't you worry."

Likely too exhausted to react to you, it doesn't move and simply watches you with wary eyes as you pull back the netting on top of the turtle's shell, thinking it the safest place to start. You saw your key rapidly back and forth, hoping it would cause one of the strands to snap, but either your key is too dull or the net is too strong. Nothing happens. You grit your teeth, arms burning with exertion as you keep at it but no progress is made despite your best efforts.

"Damn it." You pull away and wipe the sweat off your face. Unfortunately, you don't have a knife or anything else sharp enough to cut through the net on your body or in your car. It would take almost two hours for you to drive to the nearest store and come back, but you fear you will have run out of time by then. With the tide coming in, you worry that the immobilized turtle will be become trapped under the waves and drown.

You cover your face with your hands and let out of a loud groan of frustration. "What should I do?" The hopelessness begins to sink in when you realize how bad the situation truly is. You're all alone with no help for miles. There's no way you can safely lift the turtle by yourself to higher ground. And if you don't do something soon, an innocent creature will die because of your inaction.

You let yourself wallow in self-pity for a couple of minutes, before you uncover your face and let out a deep, shaky breath. With no other better options, you're stuck with the only solution you have.

"I'll be back soon," you reassure the turtle, before rising to your feet and swiftly making your way back to the shore. Your mind races as you try to optimize the route to the closest store in your head and figure out how fast you can drive without getting pulled over by a cop or endangering yourself or others.

You're almost halfway to shore when something catches your attention in the corner of your eye. There's a glint in the light of the setting sun. Something on top of one of the rocks closest to the water. Turning your head to get a better look, you gasp in shock.

A dagger.

It's a dagger.

You almost trip over yourself as you run over to grab it, afraid a wave might steal it from you and take it out to sea. As soon as you pick up the dagger, a shiver crawls down your spine which contrasts the sudden warmth you feel from the handle in the palm of your hand. You open your mouth in awe as you admire the ornate blade in the glow of the sunset.

There's a slight curve to it. The blade is a gorgeous blue color that fades into a lighter shade at the tip with a rippling pattern that reminds you of the waves of the sea. The rest of the dagger is embellished with gold, white, and red accents. It's a beautiful weapon—one that you feel should be on display somewhere in a fancy museum for hordes of onlookers to admire. But at the same time, you have a gut feeling that it's not supposed to be decorative. There is something deadly about this dagger. You swear you can feel the power it radiates.

The loud crash of a wave jolts you back into reality. "The turtle," you mumble to yourself, as if reminding yourself of why you had picked up the dagger in the first place. As you retrace your steps back to the trapped creature, the rational part of your mind wants to understand how this blade happened to appear at the right time and right place, but you are so focused on your task that any other thoughts besides saving the turtle are pushed right out of your head.

"I'm back," you announce yourself as kneel back down beside the turtle. "And this time with proper help." With steady hands, you lift the netting once again on top of the creature's shell. You barely have to apply any pressure from the dagger for the strands to instantly split apart. A half-sob and half-laugh escapes from your lips as pure relief washes over you, giving you the strength to meticulously cut through the fishing net, careful to avoid harming the turtle which remains remarkably still throughout the entire process.

By the time you cut through the last strand, the sun has nearly set and you're struggling to properly see in the growing darkness. Setting down the dagger on top of a nearby rock, you carefully tug at the netting, allowing the turtle to slip right through until it is finally free. You let out an triumphant cheer as the creature dips below the water before resurfacing and giving you one last look before it takes its leave. With a soft smile on your lips, you watch the turtle drift further and further out towards the sea until you lose track of its shell among the darkness.

It is then that your exhaustion finally hits you. Chest heaving, you lay down on the flat expanse of a rock as you try to catch your breath. You're soaked from head to toe from the sea spray and with the warmth of the sun finally gone, you begin to shiver as a chill seeps through your body.

After a short break, thoughts of a hot shower lure you to your feet as you bundle up the shredded fish net into a ball so that you can more easily carry it to your car to be disposed of later. You glance at the rock next to you to bring the dagger along with you, lest another object be accidentally disposed of the in the sea, but it's gone.

"Huh?" You rub your eyes with one hand, wondering if your vision is playing tricks on you. But the dagger is still missing when you take a second look. You spend a fair bit of time searching for it among the rocks, wondering if the blade happened to be knocked aside by a stray wave, but you come up empty.

How strange.

Too exhausted to think more about the situation, you give up with a shrug and trudge your way back to the car. With the heat on full blast, it's enough to hold you over as you make the long drive home. You're careful not to wake your uncle who snores loudly in front of the television as you hurry up the stairs to take a long, hot shower and clean the jagged cut on your knee. And the instant your weary head hits the pillow, you instantly fall into a deep sleep.

That night, you have a strange sets of dreams. The dark sea under the moonlight. A beautiful song of mourning. A spark of fire and a glint of scales.

But when you wake up the next morning, you have no recollection of dreaming at all.

Chapter Text

It's a particularly hot and humid day, one that leaves you drenched in sweat after you finish your morning household chores. Unfortunately, Grandma's house has no air conditioning and fans can only do so much to cool the place down. The thought of melting into a puddle in your stuffy little room seems unappealing, so you decide to take refuge somewhere in town that has air conditioning. After all, there's still plenty of time to kill before you need to prep dinner for you and Uncle Hawkern.

You take a quick shower to cool off and change out of your sweat-soaked clothes into some new ones before getting into your scorching hot car and putting the air conditioning on full blast. Adjusting the vents so that the cool air hits you right in the face, you let out a sigh of relief and a take few minutes to appreciate the cold.

As you begin driving the familiar roads towards Romirro's Main Street which houses whatever small businesses are still left in town, you consider your limited destinations. You're almost resigned to aimlessly wandering around the grocery store when the perfect spot thankfully pops into your mind: the local library.

Though you had spent most of your childhood playing in the sand and drifting among the waves of the sea, Grandma had also frequently took you to the library so that you both could pick out your own separate stack of books. Every night before bed, the two of you would sit side-by-side on the couch, immersed in the different worlds and characters of your respective stories.

When you enter the library, you're hit with a gust of air conditioning and the comforting smell of old books. You smile at the attendant sitting at the front desk as you make your way inside. Not much has changed. The fluorescent lighting is still harsh and the worn carpet is still stained, but the space is just as charming as you remember.

There are only a few people seated inside, mostly older folks who are hunched over today's newspaper. You consider grabbing a random book off the shelves and settling into one of the unoccupied armchairs, but you figure you might as well be productive with your spare time.

Since moving back to Romirro, you have yet to think about your next step in life. Though you have saved up a fair amount over the past years, it won't last forever, especially with the student loans you still have to pay off on a monthly basis. You know the more you delay thinking about the future, the harder it will be to eventually face. Perhaps now is the time to muster up your courage and finally ease into what is sure to be a long and arduous process.

Logging onto one of the public computers, you scroll through a popular job listing site to get a good sense of what industries are hiring and what they are looking for. You stumble across a couple of interesting companies whose type of work aligns well with your own goals and aspirations, but unfortunately none of their current open positions are a good fit for you. Opening your notes app on your phone, you jot down their names to remind yourself to keep an eye out for any future listings.

Your research feels easygoing at first and surprisingly even a little bit fun. It's exciting to daydream about finding the perfect job and fixing your sad and lonely life. But the more you scroll, the more the questions and uncertainties start to gnaw away at you and plague your mind.

What if you couldn't find a new job? How far were you willing to move? Could you get a good reference from your old company or had you completely burned that bridge? What if you found a new job and it was just as bad as the old one? Could you ever find happiness while working?

An overwhelming sense of dread suddenly overcomes you. There's a tightness in your chest that makes it hard to breathe as your heart rate begins to spike as well. You're suddenly self-conscious of how loud your breathing has become. With quick, frantic glances to the sides, you swear you're getting some nasty glares from the other older guests.

With a shaky hand, you exit out of all the windows on your computer screen and quickly sign off. Grabbing your things, you retreat to a quiet corner in the library among the stacks, needing a quiet, isolated spot to calm down. Resting your back against one of the shelves, you close your eyes and take a deep breath through your nose and exhale through your mouth. You repeat this process over and over again until the tightness in your chest finally lifts and you can breathe normally again.

By the time you feel steady enough to stop leaning against the bookshelf for support, you're drenched in sweat. You let out a quiet groan of disappointment. Hadn't you come here to avoid this exact problem?

"Can I help you with anything, miss?"

You flinch at the sound of the unexpected voice. Looking to your left, you see a short elderly woman who gives you a kind smile but there's also a hint of concern in her eyes. She has short gray hair, styled in the same way that Grandma used to. You almost want to hug her, desperate to seek comfort from someone that reminds you of your grandmother. But instead, you take a step backwards and fiddle your hands together.

"Oh, um, I'm okay, actually," you manage to stutter out. "Just looking around. Thank you though."

Thankfully the woman simply nods in acknowledgement and does not press you further. You notice the name tag on her shirt says Jenna. "Feel free to reach out to any of the staff if you need anything." She gives you another smile and goes back to pushing a small cart of books through the stacks.

You mumble your thanks again and wipe the sweat off your forehead with the sleeve of your shirt. Keeping your head down, you speed walk towards the library's exit, careful not to make eye contact with anyone else in your sorry state. You let out a deep sigh once you're back inside your boiling hot car. As soon as you turn on the engine, you're pulling out of the parking lot and on the way back home, not even waiting for the car to cool down. The heat of the steering wheel stings the palms of your hands, but you do your best to ignore it.

Maybe you would have been better off roaming around the aisles of the grocery store.

By the time you finish cleaning up from dinner, Uncle Romirro is passed out on the couch in front of a fan on high speed. You're once again sticky with sweat and you figure a quick dip in the sea during your beach walk today would be a good idea. After you change into your bathing suit, you throw on a light cover-up and stuff a towel and a water bottle into a tote bag. The sounds of Uncle Romirro's snores are barely audible over the noise of the fan as you exit the house, taking care to make sure the doors don't slam shut with a loud bang.

Once you park your car and begin trudging through the soft sand of the beach, the breeze begins to pick up and you let out a happy hum as it feels like heaven against your overheated skin. When the sea finally enters your vision, you pick up the pace, suddenly giddy with excitement. Sand flies everywhere as you clumsily jog toward the water until you find a good spot to put your stuff down.

You take off your pull-over and place it in your bag. Standing up straight, you bask in the coolness of the sea breeze. Despite the high heat and humidity, today is still a gorgeous day. Only a few stray clouds float across the sky as the sun continues its gradual descent towards the horizon and the vibrant colors of the sea shimmer at you in an inviting manner.

The lingering stress in your body from today's events seems to instantly melt away as you step in the water and wade up to your knees. You close your eyes and listen to the comforting and rhythmic sounds of the crashing waves. Breathing in the slight saltiness of the air, you feel at ease with your mind blissfully empty for once, devoid of all its earlier troubling thoughts.

You wade out further into the sea until the water hits your chest. Taking a deep breath, you dip your head below the waves and resurface a few seconds later. Feeling refreshed, you wipe the water from your face and exhale slowly. The gentle coolness of the sea soothes your body, leaving you lighter than you’ve felt in months.

You swim further out until your feet can barely touch the sandy floor. Flipping onto your back, you stretch out your limbs and float in the water. As you stare up at the beautiful sky, you try not to focus on anything but the gentle lapping of the small waves against your body. At some point, you begin to drift in and out of a light sleep, completely losing track of time. It's only when your eyes flutter open from the cries of a nearby seagull that you notice the orange hues of the setting sun. You figure it's finally time to head back to land, so you flip back over onto your stomach to swim back to shore when you let out a little gasp of surprise. You've accidentally drifted farther out to sea than you intended to. The shore is just barely visible from where you find yourself.

Taking a deep breath, you begin to swim back to shore, arms propelling you forward as your legs flutter through the water behind you. Once you're a little more than halfway there, you take a quick moment to catch your breath before you're on the move again. However, a wave of exhaustion suddenly hits you from the culmination of stress from the entire day. It begins to weigh down on you and slow your pace. Doing your best to ignore your growing fatigue, you push on—motivated by the thought of collapsing on the sand and chugging your cold bottle of water. Maybe you'll even swing by the bakery on the way home to get a sweet treat because surely you deserve a nice pick-me-up after this terribly long day.

Having grown up in Romirro, you consider yourself a strong swimmer since you were practically raised in the sea by Grandma. So when you check on your progress and find that shore hasn't gotten any closer since your short break, you realize something is wrong. Terribly wrong.

"Shit."

You should have noticed the signs sooner. The water around you is a darker, murkier color than it should be. The waves are unusually choppy, and there are multiple lines of foam being pulled further out to the sea. 

It's a rip current. You are stuck in a rip current.

You do your best to try and remain calm, but the terror begins to rise within you as your exhaustion continues to wear you down. Your arms and legs feel like lead and it takes all your willpower to just barely keep them moving. Gritting your teeth, you begin to swim parallel to the shore to escape the rip current. Your breathing gets heavier as you continue to exert yourself and it soon becomes difficult to even keep your head above the water.

Flipping onto your back, you try to float in order to take a quick break, but it's difficult to find your center of gravity as the once calm waves have become more violent. After accidentally inhaling some water, you violently cough to try and clear your airway as another tall wave crashes over your head. Managing to resurface, you take gulps of fresh air as panic seizes your body. Your eyes dart around desperately looking for anything or anyone that can possibly help you, but all you can see is the endless sea stretched in front of you. You're not even sure you can see the shore anymore.

The water is aglow around you in the vibrant warm colors of the setting sun, but you barely notice as the reality of the situation finally sinks in. You're going to die due to your own stupidity. How many times did Grandma tell you never to swim in the sea alone? How many times did she tell you to always stay alert in the water? A small, sick part of you is even secretly glad that she isn't around anymore so that she doesn't have to see the utter failure you've become—someone unable to listen to her advice or find success as a working adult.

How pathetic.

When another wave submerges your head, this time you're unable to resurface. You thrash about, trying your hardest to pull yourself out of the water but the light above you grows fainter as you slowly sink towards the bottom of the sea.

Drowning is painful, excruciatingly so. It's not at all the calm, peaceful death you thought it might be. Your mind screams at you, begging for air as the rest of your body is overwhelmed with sheer panic and alarm. As you inadvertently take in more water, your chest burns like there's a fire raging uncontrolled inside of you and your vision begins to blur. You can no longer see the brightness of the surface mocking you.

Help me.

A silent plea. Your last coherent thought before you succumb to the growing darkness around you.

Chapter Text

The first thing you register when you wake up is pain. The back of your throat burns like it's been scraped raw with rough sandpaper. There's also an unpleasant bitter taste in your mouth which you try to clear by swallowing the buildup of saliva in your mouth, but it instead triggers a severe coughing fit that further exacerbates the discomfort in your throat.

The sand is soft and cool beneath you as curl up on your side and try to catch your breath, panting softly with short, shallow gasps. A sharp ache pierces your chest every time your lungs expand and contract. With a grimace, you wrap your arms around yourself, hoping it might relieve some of the pain.

Your eyes flutter open and it's only then that you realize you're still on the beach. The sky is pitch dark with only the faint twinkle of stars and the cold gleam of the waxing moon providing the light which reflects off the waves of the sea, bathing the area in a soft, ethereal glow.

This doesn't make any sense. Why are you still here? You should have been home hours ago.

Letting out a quiet groan, you rub your forehead with one of your hands. Despite trying your hardest to recall whatever the hell you were doing earlier on the beach that led to your poor condition, your mind draws an unsettling blank. In that exact moment, a particularly large wave crashes loudly against the shore and it triggers something inside you.

With a sharp gasp, you dig your hands in the soft sand, seeking something to anchor you down as a flood of memories threatens to consume you. By the time it finally subsides, you're trembling from head to toe and your skin has broken out in a cold sweat.

That's right.

There was a riptide. You got caught in it.

You were drowning.

No, you had drowned.

Wait.

Your jerk upwards into a sitting position and quickly scan your surroundings. Well, unless the afterlife is the exact replica of your favorite beach spot, you figure you're still among the living. Plus, you're not supposed to feel pain when you're dead, right? Your throat and chest still ache, but for good measure you pinch yourself on the leg just to be sure. And yup, that hurt. You're most definitely still alive.

But how?

Now that the gap in your memory has been filled, you distinctly remember sinking far beneath the surface of the water before losing consciousness. Even if by some miracle the sea had decided to show you some mercy and somehow spit you back onto land, you shouldn't be this far up the shore. You're practically next to your bag which you had placed a safe distance away from the waves when you arrived to the beach.

Reaching inside, you pull out your water bottle and quickly chug half of it down. It removes the lingering bitter taste in your mouth and soothes the burning sensation in your throat. With a sigh of relief, you wipe off the excess water on your lips using the back of your hand.

As you return the water bottle back to your bag, you notice your beach towel is missing. With a frown, you wonder how it could have disappeared when a sudden gust of wind sweeps over you, causing you to shiver from the nighttime chill it carries. You instinctively shift your knees closer to your chest to converse your body's warmth, and it is then that you realize something is covering your legs.

It's your missing beach towel.

"I knew it," you mutter to yourself as you yank the towel up your body, using it as a makeshift blanket as your mind processes this new information.

Someone must have saved you. They had fished you out of the water after you lost consciousness, set you down next to your stuff, and kindly covered you up with your towel. But why had your good samaritan left before you woke up? And who could it possibly be?

To your knowledge, only your family knows how to access this secluded part of the beach, and your only living relative left in Romirro is Uncle Hawkern who is most definitely still snoring in front of the television right now. Maybe someone else had stumbled upon this spot and became a frequent visitor in the years you've been away in Linkon City? And perhaps they wanted to stay until you woke up but had to leave due to another obligation?

You take a deep breath and exhale slowly. The pain in your throat and chest has subsided to a dull ache that is barely noticeable unless you choose to focus on it.

Well, some things might be better off as a mystery. If you're savior doesn't want to be known, you will respect that. Might as well just count your blessings and move on.

Rolling up the beach towel, you shove it inside your bag and put on your cover up. You're about to begin the long journey back to your car when something catches your attention. There's an object partially buried in the sand near your feet—it's exposed half gleaming in the pale moonlight. Curious, you lean down and pluck it from the ground. It sends a strange shiver down your back, one that feels oddly familiar.

Holding it up to the moon to get a better look, you realize it's a scale and a beautiful one at that. Even in the faint light, it shimmers a pale blue iridescent color with hints of pink and purple depending on how you twist and turn it.

You let it lie flat in the palm of your hand and wonder what sort of critter could have left behind such a pretty scale. There's no way it came from the typical fish you find in the sea near the shore. The scale must have come from a much larger creature, something the size of—

You pause.

An old saying from your childhood resurfaces in your mind, one that Grandma always quoted whenever you had acted up as a kid.

"If you don't behave, a Lemurian will snatch you and gobble you up the next time you step foot in the sea."

Children grew up in Romirro listening to the myths of Lemuria, an ancient underwater city that was home to a large civilization of merpeople. However, these tales weren't used to inspire wonder or encourage imagination. They were used as a way to scare misbehaving kids.

You were raised to fear the ferocious, violent nature of Lemurians. A simple flip of their giant tail could shatter your bones into numerous tiny pieces. Their sharp fangs could tear through the strongest of metals. Listening to one of their siren songs could lure you towards a watery grave. Basically, if a Lemurian saw an opportunity to torment and kill a human, they would always take it. No exceptions.

When you were young, you had fully believed in the existence of Lemurians and always made an effort to be on your best behavior as you loved being in the sea and feared being abducted among the waves. However, after a particularly bad temper tantrum on the beach one afternoon, Grandma tried to coax you into getting back into the water after you had finally calmed down, but you had vehemently refused over your fear of Lemurians. To your shock, Grandma had simply laughed at you and told you that they didn't exist. It was just a silly made-up myth all the adults in Romirro told their children to make sure they behaved.

Betrayed by this sudden revelation, you had stubbornly refused to talk to Grandma for the rest of the day until she made it up to you by gifting you your favorite dessert from the local bakery.

As you stare at the large scale in your hand, you begin to wonder. What if the myth wasn't as untrue as you were made to believe? What if Lemurians actually did exist? And what if one of them acted against their nature, saved you from drowning, and left behind this scale before they disappeared beneath the waves and back into the depths?

You shake your head, trying to clear your head of such silly thoughts. Why are you wasting time ruminating about creatures that don't exist when you could be on your way back home and that much closer to collapsing in your warm bed? With a sharp exhale, you carefully place the scale in your bag for safekeeping and trudge through the sand back to your car as your exhaustion weighs down on you. You blast the radio on the drive home, using the noise to keep you awake as it becomes harder to keep your eyes open and focused on the road in front of you.

When you safely make it back home, you're surprised to see that the television is off and Uncle Hawkern is seated at the dining table, hunched over several messy stacks of paper. He lifts his head when he hears your footsteps and sets down the pen he had been fiddling with in his hand.

"I didn't realize you were out. Where were you? Why are you coming home so late?" Thankfully, his questions don't come across as accusatory. He genuinely sounds concerned about you.

Adjusting the strap of the bag on your shoulder, you flash him an apologetic smile. "Yeah, sorry. I was at the beach. Decided to lay down in the sand for a bit and ended up falling asleep." You figure you don't need to bother him with the truth as you recognize the mistakes you made and don't plan on repeating them. Plus, you came home alive and that's all that matters at the end of the day. "I'm surprised you're still up. What are you working on?"

Uncle Romirro haphazardly shuffles the papers closer to him, covering them with his hands, You take that as a clear hint to back off and not sneak a peek at them.

"Ah, just some bills and stuff. Nothing you need to worry about, dear. I've got it handled."

You shuffle your feet awkwardly. "Okay. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help."

Uncle Romirro grunts in response as he starts clearing up the table, preparing to put the paperwork back in his bedroom on the first floor. You hesitate near the entrance of the dining room, wondering if you should ask him about the scale you found. As a seasoned fisherman, Uncle Romirro might be able to better identify the creature it came from than you. But for some reason, your gut tells you to keep it a secret. Though you decide to listen to it for now, your curiosity cannot stop you from asking, "Do kids in Romirro still grow up believing in the existence of Lemurians?"

Your uncle stills. He taps a finger once, twice on the table before he stands up straight and looks at you with a strange gleam in his eyes. "They do. My buddies like to scare their grandkids with those Lemurian stories." He pauses and then clears his throat. "Any specific reason you're asking?"

"Oh." You tighten your grip on your bag. "No particular reason. I was just reminiscing about my childhood earlier, especially the time I got so mad at Grandma I refused to speak with her after I found out all those stories were fake." You let out a chuckle but Uncle Romirro doesn't join you in your laughter. Instead, he regards you with such a serious expression that you immediately shut your mouth and gulp nervously.

"If you hear anyone mentioning anything about Lemurians when you're in town, let me know."

"Oh, uh, of course," you respond, nodding your head in an exaggerated fashion. Internally, your mind is reeling.

Why is your uncle so interested in these mythical creatures? Why does he seem so serious about it? Does he know they are real? Is he trying to find proof that they are real?

Itching to get out of the uncomfortable situation, you bid Uncle Romirro a hasty good night and quickly scurry up the creaky stairs into your bedroom. You shut the door quietly behind you and let out a deep breath you didn't realize you were holding. With a shaky hand, you fish out the scale from your bag and admire its beauty in the proper lighting of your bedroom. You let the tip of your finger run over it, feeling its small grooves and ridges.

Cupping it to your chest, you feel oddly protective of it, especially after hearing Uncle Romirro's request. His plea leaves a bad taste in your mouth, and you begin to wonder if he has more malicious reasons to learning more about Lemurians.

"Don't worry," you whisper to it. "I'll keep you safe." You feel silly talking to the inanimate object, but it fills you with a strong sense of purpose—something you haven't felt in a while. Opening your jewelry box, you're greeted with the few pieces you have. A necklace from Grandma. Your high school class ring. A pair of pearl earrings you've never worn. There's a small, hidden compartment inside the box where you stash the scale. It's the perfect place to protect it from any wandering eyes. Shutting the box closed, you give it a small pat on top before climbing into bed and falling fast asleep.

You don't go back to the beach for over a week. You tell yourself it's because you're too busy (sitting in your room doing nothing). Or that the weather forecast looks bad (there's only a 10% change of showers). In reality, though you don't want to admit it, you're scared.

The morning after you had nearly drowned, you had woken up early from a nightmare. In the dream, you were swimming leisurely in the sea when something grabbed one of your legs and yanked you underneath the waves. The water was dark and murky. You couldn't see who or what had latched onto you. No matter how hard you struggled, you were unable free yourself from its tight grasp. And when you could hold your breath no longer, you woke up with a startled gasp, heart racing and limbs thrashing about until you realized you were tangled in the sheets on your bed and not drowning in the middle of the sea.

The nightmares didn't stop there. They plagued you every night, so much so that you began dreading going to bed. You purposely stayed up late, scrolling mindlessly on your phone in the darkness until you could fight sleep no longer. And when you inevitably woke up to a nightmare, you stayed huddled in bed, wide awake and waiting the sun's rays to finally peak over the horizon. Only then would you get out of bed and start your day, giving yourself some meaningless task to pass the time like scrubbing the already clean kitchen tiles.

You also spend a fair amount of time researching Lemurians online, trying to determine if there is any definitive proof that they actually exist. Unfortunately, there isn't much information out there. It seems that the myths of Lemuria haven't traveled far outside of Romirro, and the few websites that do mention them are far from reputable.

Your continued curiosity is what brings you to the local library for a second time but for a much different purpose. You head directly to the information desk and as you get closer, you recognize the little old lady staffing it. Jenna smiles at you as your approach, and you give her a little wave as a greeting.

"How can I help you today?" she asks kindly.

You lean a little closer to her and lower your voice so that the other guests in the library don't potentially overhear. "Do you happen to have any books on the mythology of Lemurians?"

To your surprise, Jenna narrows her eyes at you, almost as if she is now regarding you with suspicion. You lean back and blink several times, taken aback.

"What for?" The warmth in her voice is gone, replaced with a sharp, curt tone.

"Oh, um." You stumble over your words a little, still blindsided by the sudden hostility. "It's for a personal research project." When Jenna continues to give you a cold stare, you decide to elaborate further. "I actually grew up in Romirro listening to stories about Lemurians from my grandmother. She has since passed, and I don't remember a lot of the details. And now that I'm back home, I wanted to learn more about them because it helps me feel connected with my grandmother."

Bringing up your dead relative seems to do the trick. Jenna's eyes soften as she nods in understanding. "We only have one book about the topic you requested. However, it is part of a special collection that requires additional permission in order to check out." She pulls out a piece of paper from one of the drawers of her desk and places it in front of you. "Please fill out this form. Processing can take up to one month."

You press your lips into a small frown, displeased at both the long waiting time and the fact that only one book about Lemuira exists. However, you still grab a nearby pen and start filling out the form, recognizing that this is the only option you have. Luckily, the application doesn't ask for much, only your name, address, phone number, and a brief summary of why you need to access the special collection are all you need.

Once you're finished, you hand the form back to Jenna who looks it over with a brief scan. "Perfect." She returns to her previously friendly demeanor. "We'll call you once you're cleared."

"Thank you so much!"

As you pull out of the library's parking lot, you continue to ponder Jenna's sudden hostility at the mention of Lemurians. You have a strange feeling that some of the residents in this town might know more than they're letting on. With a sigh, you lean back in the driver's seat. You realize that you're letting yourself get sidetracked. Once you get bored of researching this whole Lemurian thing, you promise yourself that you'll get serious and start job hunting for real. You just need a few more weeks to yourself and then you'll be completely back to normal, ready to contribute to capitalism again. You repeat this thought to yourself over and over again throughout the drive home until it finally starts to sound like the absolute truth and not a desperate lie you're trying so hard to believe in.