Page 8 of Drown Me Gently (Flipped Fairytales)

Ulric had to admit—Auren surprised him.

A full moon cycle had passed since the Queen’s decree forbade him from surfacing, and yet the prince hadn’t tried again. Not once. Not even with his usual reckless defiance. That alone was enough to make Ulric suspicious. But the truth was…Auren had found other ways to breathe.

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.

Not in great swells, but in small, insidious ways. The floating blue flames that lit Atlantis’s halls began to go out more often. Tonics he’d brewed for centuries started misfiring. Potions for healing, clarity, fertility… all flawed now.

A potion for dreamless sleep made the user speak in riddles for days. A tonic for clean skin had the user referring to everyone as “Uncle Sebastian” for hours. Finally, a draft intended to aid in a healthy birth led to the mother’s sneezing bioluminescent boogers.

Once it was determined this wouldn’t harm the baby, all was well—but Ulric was displeased.

These errors. This lapse in his magic was his fault.

He knew the rules.

He had carved them into his very flesh.

No mate. No desire. No love.

But Auren had never followed rules.

And Ulric—Ulric was starting to forget why he’d ever believed in them.

Their relationship had shifted. Grown too soft. Too easy. He found himself laughing more. Teasing, even. Relaxing.

It terrified him.

Now, Ulric lounged in the narrow cave, his tentacles lazily sprawled across the stone, twirling a tarnished pudding spoon between his fingers.

It had come from a shipwreck Auren discovered a few days ago—one he’d begged Ulric to help lift from its half-buried state.

They’d swum through the wreckage for hours and returned with so many trinkets that Ulric could hardly swim for how many of his tentacles were occupied holding the treasures.

Ulric couldn’t explain how he’d gone from chastising Auren for this behavior to helping him.

As long as he is staying in the water.

Across the chamber, Auren worked in focused silence. A new sculpture took shape beneath his hands—a seabird, immortalized in wire and gems. When Ulric recognized the creature’s form, his chest tightened, remembering the quiet grief in Auren’s voice as he’d cradled its broken body on the sand.

The wings were slight and graceful, mid-stretch as if caught in flight.

The skeleton was fashioned from twisted brass and smooth, bleached shell, delicate yet sturdy.

But it was the feathers that caught the eye.

Each one carved from nacre and layered with colored sea glass, their edges tinted in soft gradients of pink, blue, and teal.

They shimmered as if still wet with sky.

It was a tribute.

It was Auren’s way of giving the seabird the flight it had been denied.

And even half-finished, it was breathtaking.

So was the one making it.

Ulric watched Auren, brow furrowed in concentration, hair falling loose from its braid. His long green tail coiled beneath, fin unconsciously swaying side to side. The way his hands moved, the way his eyes lit with quiet purpose, it had Ulric enraptured, mind, body, and soul.

Ulric had seen nobles dressed in the finest gems and silks the sea had to offer. He had seen warriors wreathed in blood and salt and triumph.

But nothing—nothing—was more beautiful than Auren lost in his own creation.

And still, that damn silver scarf was braided into his hair. Always that scarf. High-quality human silk, tied in a delicate fishtail braid. Ulric tried to ignore it.

“There’s another Council session tomorrow,” he said at last. “Both of us have to attend.”

Auren groaned. “Why? Are they plotting another hour-long lecture about algae allocation?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them. But it’s a royal appearance, not a debate.”

Auren sighed, rubbing the side of his face. “It’s going to be hours, isn’t it?”

“Probably,” Ulric said, then smirked. “But I’ll make you a deal. If you sit through it without glaring, groaning, or rolling your eyes, I’ll take you to see something afterward.”

Auren arched a brow. “What kind of ‘something’?”

“You’ll have to wait and see,” Ulric replied.

Auren narrowed his eyes, suspicious now. “That’s what you said before you dragged me to the Murkmire flats.”

“It was ecologically important,” Ulric muttered.

“It reeked,” Auren shot back, lips curling in disgust. “I couldn’t get the smell out of my hair for days.”

Ulric fought the urge to smile. Even the way Auren complained stirred something in him lately. He kept his voice even. “This will be different.”

Auren abandoned his sculpture and drifted closer, his body language trying for casual but failing. Ulric didn’t react when he settled so close that their shoulders almost touched. “You’re awfully cagey for someone trying to bribe me.”

“I’m not bribing you,” Ulric lied. “You just need to trust me.”