Page 65 of The Noble's Merman

“Oh no, Kent?—”

“We can’t worry whose fault it is. Perhaps it was just by chance.” He fastened on his breeches. “What we do need to do is get you to safety and help the rest of the crew.”

Mo couldn’t argue with Kent’s words. He knew he was right. “Yes,” he said solemnly.

Kent continued wrapping himself up in clothes as fast as he could—waistcoat, frock, stockings, shoes. “If we are to meet pirates up there, I can’t be in such a state of undress. Fuck—” He fumbled with a button on his coat, sighing, collecting himself. “There, good enough.” He left off his eyepatch and didn’t bother tying his hair back. “Here, I’ll carry you up. We don’t have time to wait and call for someone stronger.”

“All right. Don’t strain yourself; if it becomes too difficult, I can crawl.”

“All right.”

Kent reached for Mo’s body, under his tail and behind his back, lifting him like a princess off the hammock. Though he could tell Kent was struggling, waking up suddenly with little energy, grunting as he shimmied their way out the door. His delicate hands clutched Mo’s skin and scales firmly as they whisked down the corridor, his own arms clinging around Kent’s shoulders, shouts and foot stomps still bellowing overhead.

He had to dive back into the water. What else could he do? He couldn’t use his Song, no, that would endanger everyone and be the stupidest idea he’d ever thought. No, no, no. He’d be no match against a pirate’s weapons with merely his claws and fangs—with their long, sharp swords, and not to mention those horrifying metal things that shot deadly projectiles. If he was stuck on the ship, no way to run without any legs, he’d be done for. It was no wonder ordinary merfolk were so terrified of humans. If a mer was dragged above the surface, they simply held no chance.

Once they got to the stairs, Kent huffed—and fell to his knees, reluctantly dropping Mo as he tumbled onto the floor. “I can’t…” he panted, “I can’t carry you up…”

“I can climb,” Mo reassured him, petting his lover’s shoulder. “Watch my back.”

“All right.”

Kent stood behind him with shaky legs, still breathing heavy breaths, as Mo reached for the stairs. He pushed himself up each step with his hands and elbows, kicking himself forwards with his tail. It wasn’t as hard as he’d imagined, and soon enough, the dim morning sunrise greeted him as he rose onto the main deck.

Beautiful red blood was splattered everywhere.

At least two bodies he could see were lying past broken wooden floor boards, limbs twisted, a single arm resting in a puddle of blood next to its owner. The gorey sight rumbled something magic inside himself, but he swallowed it down. Now was not the time—the absolute worst time actually. He had to control it. Men were scrambling, holding their crumbling morale together as tightly as they could as Captain Brooks halted them to stand back.

Mo could understand why as soon as he turned his head and saw it for himself.

Another large ship sailed parallel to theirs, close enough to see the pirates’ faces.

“Mo, you need to flee! Now!” Kent yelled as they both made it out fully to the upper deck. His face twisted in despair as he glanced around at the carnage, mouth agape, bringing a hand up to cover it.

“What about you? How will I know you’re safe?”

“If the cannon fire has stopped, hopefully I should be fine. Please, you need to hurry!”

Mo gulped, unable to stop the lump from still clogging his throat. “I’ll stay nearby. I won’t lose sight of you. I love you, Kent.”

Kent nearly stumbled as he knelt down and pecked Mo’s lips. “I love you too, Mo. Now please…” So much anguish made his eyes glassy, with such intense concern. Mo could see how his shoulders were shaking.

Mo nodded, his heart clenching, then he quickly crawled his way to the edge of the ship. His carry-bag was thankfully right where he’d left it, and he snatched it, swinging the strap over his shoulder. He avoided sharp loose wooden planks and he found a blown-out hole in the railing, kicking himself with his tail off the vessel and diving into the sea below.

Kent rose to his feet as he watched Mo leap into the water. At least he knew Mo would be safe—he couldn’t say the same about himself. By the looks of it, two men were already dead from the cannon fire he heard earlier. Thank God the ship was still afloat, and the damage to the hull was subtle enough to where it hadn’t sunk them all completely.

“Is anyone here injured that needs my help?” Kent asked around.

“Yes. Allen,” said Walker, amongst the men standing.

Allen walked with shaky legs to the front of the crowd—Kent couldn’t hold back a gasp. A large chunk of wood cut through Allen’s once white shirt and sank deep into the skin of his bicep, painting the fabric red with blood. The sailing master groaned in pain, holding his injured arm steady with his good one, and Kent’s heart sank.

“Allen! Please, let me see you.”

Kent stepped forward and brought his hands close to Allen’s wound. But he didn’t touch it; he didn’t wish to make matters worse without the proper care yet.

His attention was diverted when he heard more gasps from the surrounding crew.

“Everyone, stand back. Let them board,” Brooks called out, standing only a few feet away. The captain’s golden hair shimmered in the faint morning light; an intimidating yet protective glare was shadowed by his feathered tricorn hat.

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