Page 5 of The Merman’s Betrothal (Outcast Hearts #2)

F ionn had only been on land a handful of times and none of them were experiences he remembered with any fondness. He hated how heavy his limbs felt in open air and how disconnected he felt without the pull of the ocean all around him.

Waiting with Neacel near the surface, he dreaded experiencing it once more.

‘ I think it’s clear, ’ Neacel sang after peeking his head out of the waves. He rippled with excitement, obviously keen to get going.

Fionn had met Neacel before sunset by the palace boundary so that they might travel the current together to reach Ullapool, the largest human settlement for many miles.

The group of warriors had apparently gone on earlier, and it occurred to Fionn that Neacel probably wasn’t comfortable joining them by himself.

But he seemed alarmingly comfortable with everything else about the adventure.

Once the current had deposited them in the ocean loch that reached deep inland, Neacel directed Fionn to a secluded cove on the shore just outside of Ullapool, explaining that there was a small cave at one end of the beach full of supplies.

‘ You’ve done this a lot, have you? ’ Fionn asked, following him with suspicion. ‘ And what kind of supplies? ’

Neacel beckoned him to swim faster, showing the first hint of impatience. ‘ Clothes and money. You’ve no need to fear, Your Highness. This is a regular base camp for Minchmen travelling to land. ’

Fionn tried to hide how unsettling he found the idea of a ‘regular base camp’ for mixing with humans, and also the fact that he’d never heard of it before. He wasn’t good at mixing with his own kind, let alone those of another species.

They reached shallow water and touched feet to the lochbed. Fionn walked slowly, giving his body time to adjust as it broke out of waves and supported itself inch by inch in the cold air. Saltwater drained from the gills in his throat before they sealed up.

As he stepped fully onto dry land, breaking contact with the water, Fionn’s skin tingled with the sensation of changing colour.

The chromatophores under his skin contracted, morphing the blue pigment into a pinkish tan colour that resembled a white human.

It was more instinct than intent, a natural kind of camouflage through mimicry, like the clever skin of an octopus.

A sliver of moon cast some light over the cove, but Fionn’s eyes were perfectly adapted to seeing in the dark. He found the cave Neacel described with ease.

It lay above the tide line, so the sand inside was dry. Fionn followed Neacel to a corner where the ground had been disturbed: hurriedly dug up and then patted back down in a rush. Neacel did the same. A quick scrabble at the sand unearthed several sealed casks.

Inside were kilts—the human kind, made of itchy tartan cloth—and shirts, socks, and boots in various sizes.

‘I hate socks,’ Fionn grumbled, struggling to pull the grey cotton over his damp feet. His throat felt dry already from breathing and talking without water. Bluefolk vocal chords couldn’t replicate DeepSong while filled with air, so he reverted to the human language he’d been taught growing up.

‘You don’t have to wear them, but you might stand out.’ Neacel’s rendition of the language was clearer than Fionn’s. He’d clearly had more practice.

Fionn inspected his human kilt which was an acceptable shade of dark green and blue tartan. ‘Are you sure humans still wear these? I had heard trousers were common now.’

‘Trust me, Your Highness. Other human fashions may come and go, but to our fair neighbours the Scots, the kilt will always be acceptable.’ Neacel flashed a grin that was veritably cheeky.

‘Besides, the locals will assume we are a gang of eccentrics from another part of the mainland who have come out purely to get sloshed. ’

‘What’s sloshed?’

Neacel looked a little guilty. ‘Have you ever had whiskey, Your Highness?’

Fionn frowned. The word was vaguely familiar but he couldn’t reach for its meaning and his ignorance irritated him. ‘No. Is it good?’

‘Aha—no. But it results in being sloshed, Your Highness.’

‘I see.’

Neacel’s smiling face radiated nothing more than honest helpfulness, despite Fionn feeling like the young Minchman was pulling his leg.

Fionn finished dressing, topping off his new outfit with a dark green jacket and brown leather sporran over his kilt that turned out to contain paper notes and metal coins. Human currency.

Neacel also passed him a towel and comb for his hair, suggesting (extremely politely) that Fionn could perhaps look smarter if he were less damp. Fionn had opted to keep his hair mostly loose for this trip with only a thin braid hanging by his left ear.

Finally, once the casks were safely hidden again, Neacel led Fionn from the cave to a sloping trail up the shoreline. The lights of Ullapool glimmered ahead.

Now that the town was in sight, Neacel grew more fidgety and nervous.

‘You have been here before, yes?’ Fionn pressed, raising an eyebrow.

‘The club? Oh, yes. It’s called The Loch-Up . It gets busy enough that they shan’t take too much notice of us.’

This information very much confirmed Fionn’s suspicions. Neacel was a regular human fraterniser.

‘You are nervous to see Seòras?’ Fionn deduced from his squirming.

Neacel’s newly pink cheeks flushed pinker. ‘I am terrible at approaching prospective mates, Your Highness. I get very, um…. I lose my, ah… words.’

Fionn felt sorry for him. ‘I think Seòras is a man of few words, anyway.’

Neacel nodded meekly, rubbing his neck. ‘Sometimes I think it might be easier to have an arranged prospect. Do you look forward to meeting yours?’

Fionn flinched, stumbling in his stride. ‘It’s my duty,’ he snapped. ‘Looking forward to anything is quite beside the point.’

He raised his pace to march ahead, leaving Neacel startled and gaping an apology in his wake.

Fionn’s feet clapped onto tarmac. It sent an unpleasant reverberation through his body as he met the solid surface of a road too hard.

His footsteps drummed stiffly on the unnatural path.

As he passed under a streetlight the yellow glare sent his night vision swimming.

Fionn slowed down to rub his eyes, giving Neacel chance to catch up.

‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ Neacel said hastily, perhaps in fear of Fionn storming off again. ‘I am honoured by the great service you do for us.’

‘Oh, fool yourself,’ Fionn said miserably. ‘Would you like to be forced to marry and bond with a Redfolk mate without a choice in the matter?’

Neacel bit his lip, seeming to catch himself from saying something. Fionn gave him a scathing look. ‘What? Out with whatever it is.’

‘What are the Redfolk like, Your Highness? I’ve never seen one.’

Fionn studied him with renewed incredulity. ‘Nor have I.’

‘Never?’ The answer apparently stunned Neacel. ‘But surely… Haven’t you met your betrothed’s family? I thought there were negotiations and… um, the king speaks with them, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes. The king,’ Fionn said slowly. ‘Obviously not me. Don’t you know how the First Prince’s soul bond works?’

Neacel’s eyes widened like he’d been caught out by a school teacher’s question.

‘Sh-should I? I thought you… I thought because you are our emissary that you would be involved in their affairs already.’ He backed off, holding up both palms in a peace gesture.

‘I apologise for my ignorance. Royal business is above the heads of many of us outside the palace. My world is one of clams and oysters.’

It hadn’t ever occurred to Fionn that there was any member of his kingdom that didn’t know what he was about to go through—the knowledge had been so ingrained in his life from the very beginning.

But now, faced with Neacel’s sincere cluelessness, Fionn wondered how many of his kin did know what the royal marriage bargain entailed.

It wasn’t like he spoke about it with anyone himself.

He’d just sort of assumed that people… knew.

And now, witnessing Neacel’s innocence on top of his cluelessness, Fionn almost didn’t want to break the reality to him.

‘There is no choosing involved on our side,’ Fionn said carefully. ‘I suppose the Blue King could, theoretically, request certain qualities in the mate that the Redfolk will pick for me.’

‘You don’t get a say at all?’

‘None.’

‘But what if you don’t like your betrothed when you meet him?’

Fionn barked a rough laugh. ‘Ha! What, indeed. By then it will be too late anyway.’ He feigned the action of brushing hair out of his face to mask the stinging of his eyes.

‘Why too late?’ Neacel sounded fearful, like the question was a rotten clam he wasn’t sure of opening.

‘I’ll have seen him,’ Fionn said. ‘The magic of the marriage bargain is simple. The First Prince forms a soul bond with the first member of the Redfolk kin that he lays eyes on.’

Neacel walked quietly beside him for a moment.

There were stars shining overhead. Fionn picked out familiar constellations: the selkie, the sea serpent, the oarfish.

It might be the last time he’d see those stars.

He couldn’t imagine what the firmament of the fae realm would look like.

Surely nothing so beautiful as this, as his home.

‘Just like that?’ Neacel asked.

‘Just like what?’

Neacel’s petite brow was deeply furrowed. He seemed pained by the situation he was contemplating. ‘Your soul bond. I thought your wedding would be like a normal Bluefolk bonding ceremony. Where the king ignites the soul bond between you both. It’s such a sacred thing.’

Fionn supposed he could forgive this assumption from Neacel. A normal soul bond was entered into voluntarily. It was a choice made by individuals who wished to share the rest of their lives together: the ultimate act of devotion. Sacred, like Neacel said.