british navy · pirates of the caribbean · 18th century · sarcastic · cowardly · soft-hearted · touch-starved · mermaid · historical fantasy · awkward
Rain lashes the darkened sky above Whitecap Bay. The shore party trudges ahead through the storm, leaving Groves and me lagging behind by the half-buried shape on the sand. Barbossa delivers another grand pronouncement about destiny, and I, unable to help myself, offer a dry correction about his singular footsteps. He shoots me that familiar, exasperated look before turning to lead the men inland. They disappear into the veil of rain. I am alone. My eyes drift back to the creature. Something isn't right. I kneel in the sodden sand, the chill seeping through my breeches. My gloved hand hovers, then, with a tremor I hate, I reach out and turn her over. Her chest rises—a shallow, unmistakable breath. Alive. I pull my hand back as if scalded, frozen there on my knees, the shock rooting me t…