Page 19 of Drown Me Gently

He still slipped out of the city— because, of course, he did—but now it was to visit that charming cave of his. Or the disabled orca he’d rescued, who adored him with a devotion Ulric tried not to envy. The boy was wild, yes. But he wasn’t disobedient. Not where it mattered most. And Ulric, who had feared this last heir would become his greatest challenge, found himself—reluctantly, stupidly—proud.

Auren hadn’t surfaced. Ulric would take the win.

Without meaning to, Ulric grew fond of the cave.

At first, he’d visited only to ensure the prince wasn’t secretly sneaking away. But over the passing weeks, it became a habit. A ritual. He would drift inside while Auren worked, sometimes asking about a new artifact he’d found, sometimes just to listen. Auren always answered eagerly, his eyes lighting up in a way Ulric had never seen in the throne room.

Now, sitting amongst the court nobles, Auren looked like stone carved from obligation. Stiff and unsmiling. Miserable. He barely spoke unless spoken to, and when he did, it was short and sour.

But here… here in this space of curiosity and obsession, the Merman transformed into something vibrating with a passion for life.

Auren worked like a scholar. Organized, meticulous. Every item catalogued and arranged. A web of meaning existed behind each bit of broken glass or torn fabric, and gods help him, Ulric found it captivating. He asked about the objects to hear Auren speak about them. Just to watch his hands move with purpose, his lips parting in explanation, his eyes fierce with thought.

Ulric already knew what most of it was, of course. He’d been to the surface far more times than he’d ever admit.

The Merfolk of Atlantis depended on herbs and minerals only the surface could provide. The ocean didn’t grow dandelion root or white sage, didn’t offer eucalyptus or bitter bark. So Ulric ventured inland— using methods of magic to hide what he was, and blend in with the humans.

He came and went quietly.

In and out. Never lingering longer than necessary.

He avoided the villages when he could, slipping into the forests or overgrown gardens under the cover of mist and early morning light. If he had to enter a town, he did so with care, keeping to the edges, moving like a wraith through human life.

No one ever recognized him for what he was.

And that was how it had to be.

But as Ulric listened to Auren’s passionate raves, guilt sank into his stomach like a burning coal, melting through him, leaving sickness behind.

Auren would hold up a bit of snapped metal or a rusted hinge with excitement in his eyes, guessing its function. A cooking tool, he’d say, when it was part of a clock. A blade, when it had once been a piece of a wagon. Or he’d tilt his head, puzzled, asking why a human might wear shoes with spines protruding from the heel.

Ulric would know the answers. Every time.

He knew the name of each object, the shape of its use. Knew the scent of fire-forged steel and the sound of church bells echoing over hills. Knew that the “ugly spines” were spurs for riding boots. He could’ve told Auren what it meant. Could’ve fed that quick-burning curiosity, watched the fire in those eyes flare even brighter.

And gods, how he wanted to.

He wanted to teach him everything. Not just about human tools, but about the world above. About birds and wind and bonfires. About books with paper pages and laughter that echoed in wooden taverns. About music that wasn’t just sound but story.

But he couldn’t.

Because if he did… Auren would know.

He’d know Ulric had touched the world he so desperately longed for.

Auren couldn’t know that.

Couldn’t even glimpse the idea that the surface was reachable. It would destroy him. Because it would mean the barrier between worlds was not an insurmountable prison. Just a sentence. And that it was his name written on the warrant.

So Ulric said nothing. He just asked questions, let Auren ramble, and watched him burn with life.

And all the while, Ulric remained careful—painfully, obsessively careful. He hadn’t touched Auren since that night on the reef. Not in any way that could be misconstrued. Not in any way that might rouse the wrath of the magic carved into his skin. He allowed only the smallest points of contact. The acceptable ones.

A hand on the small of Auren’s back to get his attention in a crowded hall. A steadying pass of fingers over his arm as he helped him into royal sashes. The barest brush of his palm to Auren’s chest when pinning the golden trident insignia over his heart. Tasks any palace servant might perform. But Ulric always volunteered. Always ensured it was his hands. His touch. If only for a moment.

The magic never burned him again. But it flickered. Just enough to make him retreat.

And still, despite every effort, despite every guarded breath and reined-in impulse, his magic began to fail.