He was dragged down faster than before—but still not too far from the raft. The creature was angry— pissed even—that he had tried to escape. Its claws bore into his skin, gaining a gasp from the man. Richard looked back at the thing, its menacing, purple eyes glaring back at him. It snarled, dragging its nails around his calf. He struggled, kicking his leg a bit so the thing would let go, and when it didn’t, he used the pole in his hand, vigorously hitting it a couple times on its tail. He whacked with all his strength until a sudden snap of bones cracking was heard.

That was when Richard made his move, and started propelling his arms back to the surface—accidentally letting go of his only weapon in the process.

It tried to bolt back up and chase after him, but it halted, and wailed miserably instead.

Richard made his way back up the beaten up raft, coughing up blood and excess sea water. On his hands and knees, he crawled himself back into the same spot in the middle of the pile of wood. He winced, and bit his lips. Large yet weakened hands made their way to compress his wounds. They throbed; the puncture wounds were deep, and bleed profusely; the smell of the sordid iron invaded his nostrils and he inwardly cringed; but the horrid scent was the least of his troubles. He had to cover them or else he would bleed out.

His hands gripped at his tattered shirt, and he ripped the dirty fabric into uneven strips. Richard the wrapped his lesions tightly, wincing from the tenderness. He was tired, more exhausted than before. The moments he fought with that thing—it was unbelievable.

What was it, anyway? He asked himself. It looked like—Richard didn’t even want to think of such possibilities. It was ridiculous, completely insane---but--- he couldn’t deny what he saw down there. It was something straight out of the Lore. Straight out of one of his grandfather’s fairy tales.

He reminisced about the old man. His grandfather, Constantine of Verhan, the 50th king, was a tall burly man, who had a long, white cotton beard that dangled to the bottom of his collar bone. He smelled slightly of peppermint and cigars--mainly because he always drank peppermint tea habitually and then would smoke right after. The former king hardly smiled or laughed, his lips always seemed pursed in the same position daily, and there even were times Richard had pondered if the old man was capable of doing so, but the few times he did, belied this to be false. By day, the man acted more of an instructor than anything else. He would teach him how spar, remind him of his princely duties, and tutor him in various diplomatic approaches that were key in running a kingdom; during these hours he was strict, and disciplined, however at night, he was a loving grandfather.

He missed him dearly.

“Richard?” He heard his grandfather’s throaty, deep voice say. The man held a book, Fables and Legends of the World, in his hand, and stopped his reading momentarily. His light blue eyes turned his attention towards his grandson.

“Yes, grandpa?”

“Do you believe?” The man had unexpectedly asked the boy, and Richard gave him a bemused look.

“Do I believe in what, grandpa?”

“Mermaids.”

“Do you?” The boy asked curiously, tilting his head to the side. The man smiled genuinely. One of the rarest things he saw the wizened man do. His grandfather reached out, and combed his hand through the mop of dark locks.

In many ways, Richard resembled his grandfather; he was tall like the man, strong, was skilled in combat, intelligent, but he was also different. He didn’t like to hunt, didn’t like to swim, didn’t share the same golden hair the man once had, and he definitely didn’t believe in fairy tales like the man—well, until now.

“I do,” he spoke softly, “Once when I was a small boy, I saw one.” The older man didn’t elaborate anymore about his childhood. He seemed lost in thought, reflecting on something from long ago. The most vivid thing Richard could recall, is how oddly the man’s usual stern eyes seemed to light up in strange manner.

He looked, almost overjoyed.

“I don’t, grandpa.”

“Hmm.. and why not little one?”

“Because, I haven’t seen one.”

“Well, I suppose you’re right then.”

The older man ruffled his hair once more, and continued on with the story. A week later, his grandfather had a heart attack. It was during his sleep, and his father had reassured him that the man had passed peacefully, but those words didn’t console him much. After the death of his grandfather, he hadn’t been the same.

The man had been right. Mermaids existed, but they were nothing like the ones in the lore; in the stories his grandpa read, they were depicted as playful, humanoid creatures who sung songs for pleasure. The real mers, as far as Richard could tell, were completely contrary to that; they were apex predators, monsters of unimaginable deception who enjoyed feasting on the flesh of man.

Moments later, the raft swayed, and the same hands that dragged him down, were making their way to the makeshift boat. His hand reached out to grab out for the metallic pole again, but he recalled he had lost it, and instead stood far back, when the creature made its way back up.

“Shit,” Richard mumbled, his hand on his forehead, forcing his face down. “Shit.”

Immediately, when its eyes met his, it gave out a cat hiss in displeasure, flaring its gills on the side of its neck. Its large eyes peered, staring him down; the mer looked like it was about to strike--similarly in the same fashion that of a cobra--finish what it intended, but when he noticed its tail was badly bruised—a courtesy from him— that the thing wouldn’t be moving from its spot anytime soon. The once shimmering tail was now a lackluster; the some of the scales fell off and in their place were pachy bloody marks. The tail had cuts, and it was leaving a muddy rouge trails all over the plank raft.

He couldn’t get the thing to move off on its own. Every slightest movement he made, had the creature snarling at him. So there was nothing more than he could do, then stay in his spot.

Evening soon fell, and the creature was eerily quiet. It made no sounds, and it did not move. Richard thought it was dead, until an intense and grueling screeched escaped its lips. Its webbed hands and tail began convulsing severely. It kept crying, and the long talons of its hands scraped against the planks, trying to mollify the pain.

And then slowly, but surely it happened.

The tail began to become paler until it was a cream color; the scales embellishing it fell off and the fin began to separate until they were two distinguishable entities. They became feet, and slits on his neck were dissipating as well. When they were completely gone, the mer’s eyes jolted open, and it began hyperventilating; it was obviously not used to breathing air. Its head was turned down, long waves of its hair covering its face as it was gasping for oxygen.

Richard watched as the creature went through its change. An amalgam of ambivalent emotions coursed through him; on one hand, he was quite fascinated on the creature's ability to adapt in both the sea and land, yet on the other, he was alarmed about its unknown capabilities.

It was completely human, if one disregarded the sharp nails and razor blades for teeth.

His eyes had blown themselves opened, wide, staring. He was afraid that it would run across the plank and tear him limb by limb, but when he gazed downwards, he could tell clear enough that it was still hurt. Both its legs were badly bruised; purple, black, and some green discoloring littered its legs.

Its limbs were white and creamy like the rest of it, and when Richard looked towards the, um, the front view, he could clearly see that had androgynous genitals--however it was more physically feminine; The mer, did indeed have a penis, but it was too small and underdeveloped, making the prince to assume that it was a vestigial organ or a mutation.

It had tilted its head up and caught him staring , and quickly bared its teeth, growling. Richard held his arms up defensively in response, but it only took it as a sign of aggression, galvanizing it to continue the low, guttural sound.

“Okay, okay. I’m not going to do anything,” he reassured, speaking softly. He turned to his side, away from the creature, the opaque nothingness of ocean in his view. It seemed to notice his submission and ceased its growls, but its eyes were still sharp, filled with immense hatred and distrust.

It was watching him.

This was going to be a long night.