Page 22 of Drown Me Gently (Flipped Fairytales)

Auren expected the pain to greet him. But his awareness of the world came first through scent.

Pine and linen. Smoke and sea-brine. It was comfortable. Warm. Then another scent, one that rivalled all the others. That sparked understanding in his brain like the pop of a woodfire.

A wild scent. Deeply familiar. Boiling tides over volcanic stone. The chill of the blackest ocean canyon. It was the scent of the deep, here to run a salve over his wounds.

It crawled into his lungs, coating them in a healing balm.

For a moment, Auren thought perhaps he was dead. Maybe this was Poseidon’s mercy after all. A final kindness—a phantom scent to carry him gently into the dark. Auren thought it fitting that his last memory be the scent of him . Of Ulric. Of his sweetest regret.

But it didn’t fade. And neither did Auren.

He breathed easier. Warmth spread through his limbs. The ache remained, but it no longer swallowed him whole. Slowly, he blinked, focusing enough to catch the sway of sea foam curtains rustled by a breeze. A window cracked open, welcoming in the cry of gulls and the crashing lull of waves.

Auren lay on a proper bed. Not a table. No cold iron and tight restraints. Thick blankets covered him, tucked tight around his battered frame. A hearth crackled nearby, radiating a gentle heat that sank into his bones.

He didn’t dare speak, didn’t dare break what had to be an illusion created by his own delirious mind.

What is this place?

A door creaked behind him. Boots on wooden floors. Auren didn’t have the strength to turn, but when the figure stepped into view, his breath caught.

Black linen trousers, worn leather boots, and a loose dark shirt unbuttoned to reveal a torso of swirling tattoos. His hair was damp, curling wild and loose. And his eyes, those deep, dark eyes, were fixed on Auren.

Ulric.

No. That’s not possible.

His mind reeled.

I’m dead. This is a trick of my dying brain. One last memory of him before I slip away.

Because surely, no vision, no memory, could conjure the shine of tears in Ulric’s eyes.

Tears in his eyes… for me.

The illusion didn’t vanish.

“You’re awake. Welcome back, young prince.”

And at the sound of his voice, the tears finally escaped the confines of Auren’s eyes and fell freely. This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t the illusion of death.

He’s here. He came back for me.

Ulric crossed the room in three long strides. He dropped to his knees beside the bed and took Auren’s limp hand in both of his.

Warm. Solid. Real.

“You’re awake,” Ulric breathed. His hands tightened around Auren’s, the tremble in them unmistakable. “Gods, you’re awake. I thought—I thought I’d lost you.”

The dam broke with a shudder. Auren sobbed, his whole body shaking with the effort. Not from pain, but from release. From the overwhelming, impossible reality of being alive.

Ulric climbed into the bed beside him, boots tossed to the floor, coat shrugged off to settle around both of them like a second blanket. His arms curled around Auren with so much ease; it was as though he’d pictured holding Auren this way a thousand times.

“I’ve got you,” Ulric whispered, voice rough as waves on stone. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now. It’s all over.”

Auren was so overcome, it took him a moment to realize Ulric was kissing him.

A kiss to his forehead. Then his temple. Then Ulric tucked his face into Auren’s hair, the bristle of his beard scraping gently against his skin as he exhaled a shaking breath.

He’s kissing me. He’s touching me. He… he is here.

And for some reason, that only made Auren sob harder.

He clung to Ulric with everything he had, curling into him like a drowning creature latching onto driftwood. He clung until his knuckles went white against Ulric’s chest. Still, no sound escaped him—only the ragged, wheezing breath of a broken creature.

“Drink this,” he murmured. “It’ll counter the side effects of the potion. You’ll be able to speak again.”

He held out a small decanter of clear liquid. Auren lifted his hand to take it, but trembled so violently the bottle nearly slipped to the floor. Ulric stopped him. He took Auren’s hand in his, weaving their fingers together.

“Let me,” he whispered.

Ulric shifted, propping Auren more securely against his chest, one arm wrapped around his back, the other carefully guiding the decanter to his lips.

The first drop was warm, soft as down feathers, and strangely familiar. Like karsa-root broth —the warm, briny Merfolk stew the palace servants used to feed him as a child when he was ill. A comfort food from simpler days.

The familiar taste shattered him.

A fresh wave of sobs wracked through him, body hitching uncontrollably.

He choked on the first sip and turned away, unable to hold it in.

Ulric didn’t flinch. He shifted the bottle away, curled his arms tighter around him, and held him through it.

No scolding. No impatience. Only a steady strength anchoring Auren in place.

Three times, Ulric tried again.

And on the third, Auren finally stilled enough to drink the rest.

All the while, Ulric remained there, closer than he had ever been. Holding him not like a sorcerer, not like a guardian. Something Auren dared not name.

A shield.

A harbor.

Auren stilled in the safety of that presence. The crackle of the fire, the scent of Ulric’s skin, the steady thump of his heart—it wrapped around Auren until the storm inside went quiet. It didn’t erase the pain. But it gave it shape. It gave it reason. It gave it a place to rest.

And as the tears ran dry and his breathing slowed, Auren whispered. His voice was cracked, but finally free from chains.

“…Don’t let go,” he rasped.

Ulric’s arms pulled him tighter.

“Never, my prince.”

Auren only managed to stand once. Just long enough to stumble to the basin while Ulric held him steady, and that alone left his limbs trembling. The rest of the time, he remained tucked beneath thick quilts in Ulric’s cabin, resting on a bed that smelled of cedar.

It was modest. Lived in. The shelves were lined with dried herbs, driftwood carvings, and worn books with softened corners. A fireplace crackled at the far end of the room, casting shadows across the walls. Outside, the ocean hissed against the cliffs.

And Ulric was always there.

The Kraken didn’t leave his side—not once in the five days Auren remained bed-bound.

He was either perched on the edge of the bed with a book resting on his knee, or seated in a wooden chair beside the hearth, watching the flames with distant eyes.

And when Auren stirred from fevered dreams, nightmares soaked in jars and blood and metal, Ulric was beside him, arms waiting.

“Gentle, my sweet prince,” he murmured, gathering Auren close. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

And gods, how those words stopped the nightmares.

They wove around Auren like silk. That voice could’ve called back the tide. Could’ve commanded storms to still and the earth itself to quiet. It carried the weight of oceans and the hush of sand.

It felt as though Ulric’s words could stop the very sun from rising, if only to let Auren rest a little longer in that safety. Wrapped in Ulric’s arms, his mind finally let go of the horrors—the blood, the jars, the knives—and returned to the one thing that still made sense.

Ulric.

Auren spent too long just… watching him.

Ulric’s human form was unfamiliar, and in the quiet intimacy of the cabin, Auren was given an unobstructed chance to observe. His top half looked much the same—broad shoulders, arms dusted with ink, his scars and sharp lines exactly as Auren remembered. But lower down…

His legs were sturdy, long, and powerful.

Muscle shaped the curve of his thighs, the solid line of his calves.

Auren flushed the first time he caught himself staring when Ulric bent low to tend the fire.

The hem of his tunic shifted just enough to reveal the sharp lines of his back and, lower still, the firm curve of his ass.

Auren buried his face in the blankets and groaned. “Unfair,” he muttered into the pillow.

“You said something?” Ulric called over his shoulder, glancing back.

“Nope. Nothing. Sleep-talking.”

Ulric gave a suspicious hum but said nothing more.

The next day, Auren woke, and as they talked over a breakfast of fresh fish Ulric caught that morning, he asked, “How… am I still human?”

Ulric glanced up from his plate, his expression softening. “Once you’re strong enough, I’ll give you the transformation tonic, and you can return home. You’re too weak to survive the transformation right now, or I would have given it to you already.”

Auren nodded, swallowing against the lump of guilt.

“Oh.” His gaze dropped to the blankets curled around his legs—whole now, healed.

The horrible places where Elias had cut into him were nothing but faint pink scars, like echoes on his skin.

He didn’t deserve to feel whole. Didn’t deserve Ulric tending to him for days, all because of his own stupidity.

“I’m so sorry,” Auren blurted out. It was the first time he’d managed the words in all the days spent in the house. “I stole the potion. I thought I knew better. I didn’t know what I was walking into. You tried to stop me, and I—I should’ve listened.”

Ulric didn’t look surprised. He nodded, like he’d been waiting for this moment. He set his plate on the coffee table before the hearth, but the food was only half finished.

“The blame isn’t with you alone,” he said quietly. “I bear half the blame. I took your freedom, tried to cage you, and when I did that… I made you desperate. It should never have happened the way it did. I shouldn’t have allowed it to happen.”

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face, rising from his chair and pacing the small room.

“Ulric, you can’t truly believe?—”

“What happened to you,” Ulric’s voice rose in volume. “It should never have… What you had to—I could have?—”