[ in the end, it's his own choice to die. the demon that resides within him howls louder than the tempest that batters his ship and claims his crew, but sheer force of will — or bravery, or stupidity, or cowardice — keeps him human. keeps him sane. it keeps him lucid enough to see the darkened skies and unforgiving seas, his final glimpses of life. it's fitting, really, for an errant prince who'd run away to make the ocean his home to find a watery grave. at least his monster will die with him.
death turns out to be short-lived. and, maybe as punishment for his woeful lack of prayers to the saints over the years, shockingly painful.
he comes to with hard sand beneath his back and a live current pulsing hot through his body. the response is immediate — he turns over and expels seawater from his stomach or his lungs, he doesn't know which. his heart beats an irregular staccato, his chest throbbing in agony. too weak to hold himself upright, he sinks face first onto the shore — only it isn't a mouthful of sand he catches, but shining waves of dark hair and soft, damp skin. his green-gold eyes turn blearily skyward, burning bright with fever. ]
You. [ his voice is a hoarse rasp, recognition hitting him like a dead weight. his heart already feels fit to burst; he isn't sure he can take much more. ] Saints, I must be dead.
[ or having a very vivid episode whilst in the throes of certain death. it's the only way she could be here now, impossibly strong, impossibly real. nikolai shudders, vacillating between a fiery heat and unbearable cold, his golden hair curling against his clammy skin. through his wet, torn clothes, colorful ink sprawls across his skin, sea snakes and firebirds and magnificent ships tattooed over a sculpted chest and down muscular arms — and there, commemorated on his right bicep, is the siren he saved from a ship of poachers, the same dark hair and full mouth and glittering blue scales that sit before him now. he'd learned her name only through an obsessive hunt for answers that spanned nearly six months. ]
Zoya. [ he reaches weakly for her, his hand finding the slope of her waist, tangling into a fistful of her hair. his fingers are like ice, his lips tinged blue as he takes shallow breaths. still, somehow, his expression eases despite his dire state. ] I've been looking for you.
[ he burrows into her exquisite neck, a delirious huff of something akin to a laugh escaping him. perhaps this isn't death. but he's certain if he lets go, it will be the end for him. ]
no subject
death turns out to be short-lived. and, maybe as punishment for his woeful lack of prayers to the saints over the years, shockingly painful.
he comes to with hard sand beneath his back and a live current pulsing hot through his body. the response is immediate — he turns over and expels seawater from his stomach or his lungs, he doesn't know which. his heart beats an irregular staccato, his chest throbbing in agony. too weak to hold himself upright, he sinks face first onto the shore — only it isn't a mouthful of sand he catches, but shining waves of dark hair and soft, damp skin. his green-gold eyes turn blearily skyward, burning bright with fever. ]
You. [ his voice is a hoarse rasp, recognition hitting him like a dead weight. his heart already feels fit to burst; he isn't sure he can take much more. ] Saints, I must be dead.
[ or having a very vivid episode whilst in the throes of certain death. it's the only way she could be here now, impossibly strong, impossibly real. nikolai shudders, vacillating between a fiery heat and unbearable cold, his golden hair curling against his clammy skin. through his wet, torn clothes, colorful ink sprawls across his skin, sea snakes and firebirds and magnificent ships tattooed over a sculpted chest and down muscular arms — and there, commemorated on his right bicep, is the siren he saved from a ship of poachers, the same dark hair and full mouth and glittering blue scales that sit before him now. he'd learned her name only through an obsessive hunt for answers that spanned nearly six months. ]
Zoya. [ he reaches weakly for her, his hand finding the slope of her waist, tangling into a fistful of her hair. his fingers are like ice, his lips tinged blue as he takes shallow breaths. still, somehow, his expression eases despite his dire state. ] I've been looking for you.
[ he burrows into her exquisite neck, a delirious huff of something akin to a laugh escaping him. perhaps this isn't death. but he's certain if he lets go, it will be the end for him. ]