by K. Martin

Content Warning: Blood

You thought you had more time—and instead, you learn that your father brokered your betrothal years ago. You’re only hearing of it at the celebration of your coming-of-age. It should be a joyous occasion.

Instead, you feel sick. You know of your intended, know that they will not love you—not as you truly are. You know, too, that your father will not reconsider, not when he refuses to listen to you, despite you being his precious firstborn.

In your desperation, you do the unthinkable: you seek out the Sea Witch, and listen carefully as she lays out her terms. None of what she says is a surprise—you grew up with these stories, knew that what you wanted would come at a cost. But you know, too, that everything does, and so you agree, knowing your sisters will be horrified when they find out, that they will say you’ve paid far too dearly, for much too little.

They won’t realize that you understand the price you paid. That you’re exchanging a gilded cage for a wider enclosure—but this one, at least, will be of your choosing, not an accident of your birth.

You didn’t expect the Sea Witch to be kind, for her smile to be genuine as she tells you what she wants in exchange. You say nothing of your suspicion that you struck a bargain others could only dream of. You simply agree: she can keep your shimmering silver scales, and the pearl-studded circlet from your brow.

You don’t tell her that it was never a gift, that the glittering crown has only ever told others what your family wants you to be, and not who you are. That it has always weighed on your head like an anchor, dragging you to the sea floor with the weight of expectations you never asked for. The smile she gives when you hand it over says she knows.

(She is a Witch for a reason.)

“You understand,” she says, as you lie upon her altar, “that I do not take pleasure in causing pain—but such sacrifices have always required blood.” She places a pearl on your tongue, hand sliding gently across your jaw to close it.

You grit your teeth and hold the pearl against the roof of your mouth as her knife drags down your side, blood forming dark curls in the water as she peels you from your scales. It feels like dying. Once finished, you feel it. Past the pain of bloodletting and the ache of unvoiced screams, there is a feeling of rightness.

You are reborn. Remade.

She guides you to the surface, knowing you won’t make it on your own. She’s a strong swimmer, easily able to pull your new, weak body through the water. Her eyes are softer than the velvet you once found in a shipwreck’s cargo hold as she lays you on an outcropping of rock. Land is in sight.

She doesn’t speak. She just kisses your forehead and disappears beneath the waves.

You don’t know how long you lie there, chill seeping into your bones in a way it never has before, but eventually, you struggle your way to shore. You, who have lived your whole life at the bottom of the ocean, can no longer rely on flippers and fins to propel you smoothly. You would be disgusted with your feeble paddling, if you didn’t feel so free.

You set foot on the shore, and a wretched sound bursts from your lips as pain, bright and sharp, tears through your new limb. (You knew there would be a cost.) You fall, your fragile balance crushed beneath the agony.

You get up, and it happens again. Every step is the same. But your balance improves.

You’re found by men, travelling with a cart and creature, and they scatter like a startled school of fish at the sight of you. They form around you in a ring, keeping some distance, as if more afraid of you than you of them. They wrap you in cloth and exclaim over your skin—one touches you, gently, and the heat of his hand is shocking.

They speak, and you think they’re asking questions, but you can’t be sure. You don’t know their language. You try to greet them, and they understand. Their mouths move, clattering quietly like river stones, before bundling the strange girl they’ve found into their cart.

One of them, a man with dark hair sprouting all over his face and eyes that remind you of the Sea Witch, takes you to his home. There is a woman there who gets very loud when she sees you, and when a child comes into view with his dark hair and her face, you understand. She’s his mate.

You try to tell her that you mean no harm, and she falls silent, eyes wide as she hears the strange syllables of the sea-language, so different from her own. She steps closer, and presses a hand to her chest. “Chantelle,” she says slowly. Then, she touches her mate’s chest. “Alexandre.”

She touches you—so softly you can barely feel the pressure through the cloth you’re wrapped in—and looks at you. You don’t understand.

The child comes forward—a boy, you think—and says, “Je suis Emile!” as he points at himself.

At that, you understand. Names. They’re telling you their names. You crouch down and wave at the boy, who giggles, as you think about what to tell them.

You have no name. You left it with your scales on the ocean floor.

You shake your head, and watch the woman’s—Chantelle’s—face change. You don’t know what that means, yet, but it makes your middle twist like it’s full of live eels.

You let her lead you away. Her eyes are kind, too, and you wonder if the Sea Witch sent you to them, somehow. (She is a Witch for a reason.)

𓆟

Adjusting is hard. The humans have so many rules. Some of them make sense to you—like wearing so many cloth layers, because they (and you, now) are susceptible to the cold. Eating hot food, both for comfort, and because their bodies cannot tolerate raw game. Learning their language also makes sense, and things grow easier once you do, once you can understand and be understood.

But it makes things harder, too. Chantelle wants to know where you’re from, if you have a home and family to go back to, why you have no name. You don’t want to lie, but the truth feels sharp, dangerous in your mouth. The warnings you received as a hatchling—that humans would try to hunt you, that they will kill you if they can catch you—echo in your mind.

You tell her that you come from a faraway place, and that you had a home, once. No longer. That you left your name behind—it hurt too much to carry with you, and it doesn’t fit you anymore. (It never really did.)

Chantelle holds you, and nicknames you “Belle”. It sticks. You don’t mind.

𓆟

The pain doesn’t fade. You thought it would, once you adjusted, once the muscles grew strong with use, but it remains. Every step sends agony lancing through your feet and legs, as if the ground beneath you knows you have no right to walk on it.

You knew there would be a cost. You don’t fall anymore, don’t cry or stumble. It’s enough.

𓆟

You’re in the marketplace with Chantelle when you see it—an image that makes your breath catch. It’s a girl, her skin oddly colored and unusually bared, body arched and free in a way that reminds you of floating on the ocean currents. There are pangs in your chest, and you touch the paper as if it will let you feel free, too.

“C’est une ballerina,” Chantelle says, and you turn. You shake your head, not understanding. You don’t know this word.

Chantelle tries to explain. “Une danseuse?”

Dancer. You’ve heard of dancing, but never seen it. It seemed another of the bizarre human customs that would never make sense to you. You wonder, now, if you should have paid more attention, asked more questions.

You leave the image and follow Chantelle, the danseuse etched in your mind.

𓆟

Alexandre takes you to see ballet, and the danseuse you cannot stop dreaming of. You clutch his hand, weeping quietly. They remind you of your sisters—graceful and ethereal, perfectly in their element. Everything you always wanted to be.

𓆟

You dream of her, and wake with your lungs craving saltwater and the ability to move smoothly through the deep. You take Emile to the seaside, and let the waves break over your feet.

The pain in them eases, becomes the throb of a bruise, duller than the knife-sharp heat you’re used to. But you go no further, afraid you’ll be tempted to slip beneath the waves. It’s hard, to remind yourself that you can’t go back, that there’s nothing waiting for you there.

That, for all you miss it, the sea and what lies beneath was never your home.

𓆟

You don’t know how, but Alexandre and Chantelle secure you a place with the ballet mistress. Chantelle asks you many strange questions, first, tells you things that are unbelievable and horrifying by turns. But you give her your word, understanding that she cares for you, wants you safe.

The ballet mistress doesn’t like you. She says you are too old to begin training, that you’re the wrong shape. You ignore her words—they’re not what you’re here for. (You have been the wrong shape before, and you know it doesn’t feel like this.)

You work hard, and the burn in your legs feels different, now—better in a way you can’t describe. The pain in your feet stays the same, and you bleed through your slippers without noticing. Chantelle scolds you gently, like Emile, as she carefully scrubs out the rust-colored stains. You can only smile at her, because the joy you feel is more than worth bleeding for.

(You knew there would be a cost.)

𓆟

Things change, when you move to pointe shoes. It’s harder to dance on your toes but you still push yourself to learn. This is how the danseuse did it.

What you don’t expect is for the other girls to cry as their feet bleed. You didn’t realize it would strain them so much, because you can’t remember what it’s like to be without this pain. You do what you can to comfort them, brushing their cheeks when their eyes spill over, and the saltwater on your skin reminds you of the sea, familiar and bittersweet.

The ballet mistress smiles at you for the first time, and says she believes you’ll go far. Pride swells beneath your breast, and you have no words. You never expected praise. Even the reminder that there’s a long road ahead, hours upon hours of toil, can’t dim your smile.

𓆟

Sometimes, at night, you go down to the seashore. You let the waves break over your feet and imagine you can feel the deep currents move through your bones. Once, you hear your sisters, and your throat grows hot with the urge to speak your mother tongue, your jaw aching to form the words that are more music than language.

But you swallow the heat and stay silent, because the name they’re crying out is not yours anymore. They are calling for a brother who doesn’t exist.

You stay until you can no longer hear the echoes of their voices, until the moon shines bright in the sky, and then you go home.

K. Martin (she/her) is a queer disabled writer of colour from Canada with a Bachelor’s degree and gold medal in Faculty of Arts from WLU. She's published poetry in ImageOutWrite Vol. 5, short fiction with Torquere, and erotic fiction in NSP's Erato and Duck Prints Press’s Many Hands anthologies. When not writing, she's on Tumblr as @queerfictionwriter, or talking about writing over on Patreon.com/K'sCorner.