Lia's Den.

There is this author both in here and in AO3 who is FLOODING the AOT tag specifically Levi x reader.

I can’t help but feel a deep frustration when I see this person in specific because the gull they have to put those works out and claim they write them themselves... For reference, In the span of a year they had more than 10 works out, thousands of hits, comments, and even get money out of it when it is NOT their writing. (Literally It takes a bit of sense, literacy and if petty enough a quick AI check to corroborate that they do in fact use AI to pull through chapters on chapters to the speed of light. Most of their works are over 90% AI generated.) Writing, for me, is a craft, something that demands patience, imagination, and countless hours of shaping words until they actually say something. When someone skips all of that effort and just outsources the work to a tool, it doesn’t feel like writing at all. It is pretending.

What bothers me the most isn’t just that they do it, but that it gets rewarded? The traffic, the praise, the monetization? It all goes to something hollow, while genuine, painstaking work often gets overlooked. It legitimately makes me want to give up my works. I take so long to make justice to the characters we love dearly, check for OCC'ness (is that even a word) have a rough outline of things planned for the timeline, erase and rewrite sequences that sometimes are 5k+ Like MAN, I am so fed up someone can just put a fucking prompt in ChatGPT and they get a story, and then call it a day.

The sea wrapped around you like a second skin. Cold and furious, but familiar. The salt pressed against your eyelids, and for a moment you thought the ocean would reject you, push you away as it had all these years. But to the contrary of what you had initially thought, the ocean pulled, drawing you downward with him.

Rafayel’s grip did not loosen. His body cut through the water with the grace of the predator he had always been. His tears mingled with the brine, indistinguishable now, but you felt them in the raggedness of his pulse against your temple.

The descent seemed endless. Light fractured above until it faded to nothing, swallowed by the depths. And then you saw it.

Chains.

They were rusted in patches, heavy looking, had any human being shackled with those, they wouldn’t have been alive past the hour. But you were not a human and neither was Rafayel. Those chains were meant to keep a beast controlled. If imagining hard enough they looked like discarded bones. Links thick enough to drown a god.

He slowed, releasing you only enough so you floated beside him. His hands brushed the corroded metal, his expression was… haunted at best. “This is where I was,” Rafayel’s voice echoed through the current, the Lemurian gift allowing sound where breath could not. “For centuries. Until Lia found me.”

Your chest ached. Just the thought of it was almost enough to break you. Rafayel, alone, chained here, heart beating slower and slower, until the same girl that unknowingly doomed him, touched him and brought him back. For a brief moment you envied that power she had, the heart of gold. 

“She gave me my heart again,” he admitted, voice carrying guilt like a tide. “I thought it was love. I thought I had been saved for her. That I had been waiting for her.” His jaw tightened. “But I was too young. Too broken and scared to know the difference between gratitude and devotion. Between needing someone and truly choosing them.”

The currents stirred your hair across your face, veiling the sting in your eyes. You wanted to be angry, wanted to spit out the ache that had been carved into you the night he let Lia go. But the truth of it… you understood. He had been a boy. A boy burdened with a god’s decision, with a kingdom’s survival. A boy who mistook the first hand that offered warmth for the entirety of love.... But what did that make you? Had you coveted your feelings so hard that you had misread all his prior advances as love? Did he really fall felt a fondness for someone for the course of one month when it took you a whole lifetime?

You decided knowing would hurt twice as much, you’d much rather live in complete ignorance. 

Your hand drifted toward the chains, fingertips grazing the bitting cold metal. “I don’t hate you for it, Rafayel. I have said it countless times now.” His eyes snapped to yours, storming bright even in the dark water. “I never have,” you whispered, voice trembling in the current. “I hated the silence. The fact I felt... as though I had been abandoned by you" Rafayel worried his lower lip in restraint as to not completely hug your waist and beg for forgiveness, but then... you continued "You were a child who bore the weight of gods. I told you up there moments ago. It hurt to be left behind to fend for myself and then thinking if I were to return I’d be questioned for my absence… because i was supposed to be…” You omitted the last comment. 

You both knew what you grew up to be, what could have been. 

He reached for you then, desperate, both hands gripping your arms as if anchoring himself. “Coralie… I do not deserve you to say that.”

“Perhaps not,” you said, steady now, though your chest burned with ache. “But it is the truth.” A silence fell between you, deeper than the abyss around. His gaze fell to your lips, then to the faint glow that traced the lines of your collarbones, the ancient shimmer of your Lemurian blood waking in the water after so long suppressed.

“I can’t undo the boy I was,” Rafayel’s voice broke, low, torn apart. “But the man standing before you now… he has never been more certain." And it was the truth, ever since you both were kids, to when he turned 17 then 18. He always followed you. "It was never Lia I was meant for.”

And yet, even as the ocean embraced you again, even as his hands trembled against your skin, you wondered.

Would he always doubt himself? Would you always wonder if you were his choice, or simply the current he had been destined to swim back into? 

"I find it hard to believe that though, Rafayel, forgive me." You took his hands off your shoulders to give them a small squeeze before you began swimming upwards. 

You felt... well, horrible. He had basically confessed and you had to draw your boundaries there. It was odd how sure he was of what he was implying, almost as if he... no, certainly not. 

If Rafayel had truly loved you in that all consuming way old tales carried. 

He would have stayed.

He would have grabbed your hand and laughed while you both swam past the undercurrents.

The walk home was silent.

Over the days that followed, you saw little of him. Not because he avoided you, not exactly, but because the distance had already been drawn in the raft you two had at the ocean itself. And so you painted. You found a strange peace in it again, brushes gliding over canvas, color blooming into fragments of memory you dared not speak aloud. Your studio is filled with salt-washed blues and fractured silvers, every painting carrying whispers of the sea, of Lemuria, of chains rusting in the dark.

Thomas had mentioned, almost casually, that he had been sent abroad to an art convention. Some gallery in Vienna or Madrid, you did not pay close attention to the details. You told yourself it was better that way.

But the truth was, Rafayel had not minded going. Not because of the convention, not because of Thomas. He went because there was someone there.

An ex-EVER collector.

A man who had made a living displaying stolen relics and bodies, relics that belonged to Lemurian families who had been butchered in silence. And rumor, well no, more than rumor one of his close contacts had reached Rafayel that one of the preserved corpses belonged to your bloodline.

That was reason enough.

He carried with him a canvas, deceptively simple: shades of indigo carved into waves, threads of white resembling spray, a hidden shimmer of pearl-dust pigment that seemed harmless under gallery lights. It was beautiful enough to tempt, ordinary enough not to raise suspicion.

The collector, Leo, had scoffed at first, then lingered, then listened. Rafayel, ever the siren, spoke of the piece with honeyed words. He was not one to do such a thing on an ordinary day. He would be bored out of his goddamned mind if he was honest. But he lucked out that day, not that he thought he was going to fail anyway. 

Leo purchased it without a second thought.

That night, when Leo slept beneath it, the ocean came for him. The painting pulsed, pigment liquefying into tide, indigo waves rising from the canvas like a mouth opening wide. His lungs filled not with air but with salt. He drowned in silence, sheets twisting around him like weeds. By the time dawn came, there was no trace of violence. Only a man who had “tragically passed in his sleep,” and a painting that hung quietly over his bed, unassuming once more.

Rafayel stood on the balcony of his hotel room the next morning, hands braced on the opulent balustrade overlooking Vienna. What a beautiful city. He wished you could see how the sunrise held the same shine as your scales when you would splash him when you both were teens and started to get flirty with each other. Sighing, head tilted toward the horizon. His chest still carried the weight of your most recent and hurtful rejection, but his heart pulsed steadier knowing one more name had been erased from EVER’s ledgers.

The world applauded his art.

They would never know it was also his most deadly weapon.

The radio hummed from the corner of Ms. Aerith’s porch, its static crackle threading through the warm air. You had just rinsed your hands free of soil, the scent of rosemary and damp earth clinging to your palms, when the announcer’s voice faltered into gravity:

“…tragic passing last night… prominent art collector… sudden heart failure after attending an international exhibition…”

You froze mid-motion, water dripping from your fingertips. Ms. Aerith’s eyes lifted to yours. She did not speak. She didn’t have to. She also had an inkling, the fact she was half Lemurian and her fast paced life when she was younger made her a keen woman. She was not fooled easily, and she had known Rafayel from Talia, she knew the signs when she saw them. 

The name followed a beat later. Raymond’s cousin. Leo, a 'esteemed' donator and co-CEO of the rehabilitation center in Chansia city. 

To anyone else, it was happenstance. A coincidence. A tired heart. Another life claimed by nature’s slow cruelty. No investigation would be launched, no autopsy ordered. The gallery would mourn politely, the family would whisper condolences, and the city would move on, eventually.

But you knew better.

The soil on your hands suddenly felt like rust, like those chains Rafayel showed you little less than two weeks ago.

By the time dusk fell, you were already slipping into Rafayel’s residence. What called you here? You were not sure. Did you want to admonish him? Did you want to see for yourself that perhaps you had thought ill of him for the first time of your life way too quick?

Whatever it was that drove you to enter his art studio, your unease grew knowing how little he valued his own safety too. His gates were opened almost as if he was tempting someone to go in and try to harm or steal from him. Silence greeted you, the scent of paint and sea-salt still clinging to the air like he had only just left. The easels stood abandoned, canvases leaned against the wall with half-formed storms painted into them, and his brushes lay in a water jar, their tips stiff with dried pigment.

You should have left. You should have respected the absence.

But something kept you moving, a small assessment of the space he claimed as his. 

Impressive how he lived little in the human world yet he carved such a name and wealth on his persona. You recognised that both things would always follow him regardless of what he reincarnated into. Almost as if he was always meant to be perceived as this superior, ethereal being that needed to be worshipped, whether it was in belief or in art. 

Entering a coat room, you saw maps. A lot of them. Pinned across the far wall, layered and overlapping until the plaster itself seemed to disappear beneath them. Old nautical charts, city layouts, sketches of galleries and estates. Interwoven between them were photographs that were extremely great quality, very few very grainy and candid, sometimes torn at the edges from handling. Almost as if he wished those edges were said people’s throats.  People’s faces stared back at you, some smug with champagne flutes in hand, others blurred mid-step in a marketplace. Men in suits, women in gowns, strangers to the unknowing eye.

But you knew their surnames. They were socialites, most of them anyway. Hard not to know. But hard to track them to this extent. 

Your stomach dropped as your gaze fell on the scribbled notes beneath each photo. Lemurian relics. Deceased bodies on display. Artifacts stolen, bloodlines erased, lineage shattered. Names that had once been whispered warnings in your family halls, the predators who had lived fat off the remains of your people.

And there, near the center, your bloodline. A painting of your aunt stood. Pictures were obviously not a thing in Lemuria, but paintings… it was clear who drew it with such likelihood that was not you. Next to it, a list that should never have been in Rafayel’s hands, let alone inked in his precise, elegant scrawl. Beside each, annotations: who had died naturally, who had vanished, who still walked free.

A ledger of vengeance.

You pressed a trembling hand to your lips.

This wasn’t even just retribution. Rafayel had been hunting. Quietly. Patiently. With his art as both weapon and disguise.

And if Raymond’s cousin was crossed out on this wall, then there were more names waiting, more red lines to be drawn.

The silence of the studio felt heavier than the abyss he had shown you days ago.

Rafayel had chained himself to a new prison built from his rage.

You had been so wrong. Rafayel was not a free man after regaining his heart. 

He had never been. 

You had very little time to react before the grandiose door creaked against its hinges, spilling a slice of amber light across the stone floor. 

Rafayel paused only long enough to take in the glow leaking from the coat room he “never used.” He already knew.

And still, when he pushed the door open and found you there, it was as though the sea itself clenched around his ribs.

You stood in the center of the room, the maps and photographs surrounding you like a tribunal. Your dress clung and shifted with the draft, the exact color of the ocean under moonlight. Pearls glimmered at your ears, soft echoes of a heritage the world had tried to erase. For a fleeting second, he thought you looked like something the gods themselves had carved from salt and sorrow.

And then you turned.

Your eyes, bloodshot red, your long lashes wet, snared him. No rage, no disgust, not even betrayal. Only worry. Worry that cut him deeper than any weapon.

Rafayel did not flinch. He did not scramble for words or attempt to mask what you had uncovered. He stepped inside, shut the door with quiet finality, and let the silence breathe between you.

“There is no point in pretending,” he said at last, his voice steady, almost resigned. His gaze flicked briefly to the wall before returning to you. “You’ve seen everything.”

You swallowed, the motion tight, visible even in the dim light. “Why, Rafayel?” Your voice trembled with restrained fury, but it was not directed at him. You were scared, not of him. Never of him. But it was fear regardless, aching through your syllables. “Why chain yourself to this?”

He inhaled sharply, chest rising as though he meant to argue, then stopped. His jaw clenched.

“It is not vengeance, Coralie. You are deeply mistaken” he said, low. “It is… reclamation. Justice for what was taken. A life for a life.”

A life for a life. Your hands trembled. It sounded... terrible. You could barely recognize the man standing before you. 

You shook your head, pearls catching the light. “Justice is not yours to take like this. This-” you gestured to the maps, the photographs, the ledger of names “... this is the same sickness that poisoned them. They hunted, they displayed, they desecrated. And now you would kill in turn?”

His stride carried him closer, slow and deliberate. The shadows bent with him, the predator he was etched into every movement. But his eyes, glinting in a brighter blue instead of its usual dual hue, betrayed the fracture inside.

“They displayed your family as relics, my aunts daughter, my own cousin.” he growled softly, like a wave breaking on stone. “They stripped bones from the sea and called it art. They profited off your bloodline, my bloodline too, Coralie. Off my silence. If I do nothing, they win.”

“Doing this means they’ve already won.” you whispered, voice breaking.

Rafayel reached for you, not in hunger, not in desire, but in desperation. His hands brushed your arms, light as though afraid you’d vanish if he pressed harder.

“I cannot be what they were,” he said, quieter now, more broken. “But I also cannot let them go unpunished. Tell me… what am I, if not a weapon against those who made us prey?”

“Rafayel,” you said softly, though your voice trembled. “This path… it will not free you. It will only rot your heart until there’s nothing left of you to save. Rage corrodes, it doesn’t cleanse. You deserve better.”

“Better?” he echoed, his mouth twisting bitterly. He stepped back, then forward again as if pacing inside a cage. “What better do I deserve? Tell me, Coralie.” His voice rose, harsh, ragged. “Do I deserve peace, after I ruined everything? Do I deserve love, after I let Lia walk free and left you to shatter in the wreckage? Do I deserve forgiveness when every breath I take is stolen from bones they strung up as trophies ?”

The air vibrated with his fury, and the walls seemed to close in. You stood firm, your dress clinging to your legs in the faint draft, your pearls glinting like droplets of ocean light.

“Don't speak ill of yourself like that. Those were mistakes yes, but how many times do you have to be reminded you were a child!” you answered, fierce despite the tears in your throat. “You punish yourself because you think grief can be undone if you bleed enough for it. But it cannot. Killing them all won’t bring Lemuria back. It won’t bring back what was stolen from us.”

Hard truth that left your mouth with more venom than you initially expected, but loving meant also giving those you loved tough love when needed. 

“Then what would you have me do?” he spat, finally snapping. He slammed his hand against the wall beside him, a map crumpling under his palm. The sound cracked like thunder in the confined space. His chest heaved, his shoulders quaked, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked ready to splinter. “Stand idle while their descendants sip wine over the bones of MY people? Smile politely while your mother’s bloodline is reduced to an exhibition? If I do nothing, I betray them all over again!”

Your heart hammered. For a moment, you almost feared him, not because he would harm you, but because he was unraveling before your eyes, a storm contained too long.

“Your people” You said sneering “OUR people.” you pressed your finger to his clothed chest.  “You know? That’s your problem Rafayel. You think it’s your sin alone to carry. That if you avenge one by one those we lost we will repent their souls. Let me tell you they would RECOIL from this. Human blood is not worth wasting for those we lost. We are above that Rafayel. You are above that. Yet... Why" You shook your head "You never once bothered to tell me what the relics said, checked if I could help you, checked if your aunt could help you. Never once bothered to confide about Lia, never once shared ANYTHING. How do you expect me to understand massacring.” You snapped at him 

You stepped closer despite his and your own rage. “Listen to yourself. You are not reclaiming us, you are chaining yourself AGAIN. You speak of justice, but this is vengeance. And vengeance is endless. It will eat you alive until there is nothing left of the boy who once laughed with me in the tide.”

The boy I mourned once you wanted to say.

He froze. His breath came ragged, uneven, and his eyes burned with an anguish so raw it nearly undid you. He looked at you like you had struck him, not with cruelty but with truth.

Rafayel’s chest heaved, the tight muscles of his shoulders trembling as his eyes bore into yours, fire and storm coursing through his veins. “You’ve changed, Coralie,” he spat, voice low and venomous. “You’ve grown soft, complacent. You speak of mercy as if it were your right. You walk on land among them yet you refuse to give them justice, to reclaim what remains of Lemuria! And yet, you dare speak to me as if you understand sacrifice? As if you know the weight of what I carry?”

You felt the room shrink around him, the walls echoing his rage. But your heart hardened, your spine stiffening. “Do not dare,” you said, your voice slicing through the thick tension, “do not dare stand there and tell me I’ve given up and any of that shit." You fumed "Do you even know what it is to be left to rot in silence, to watch everything you loved vanish into the currents and never have a hand to save it? To claw scraps of your people from the wreckage.”

His lips twitched, a snarl pressed tight. “You-”

“I fucking survived” you cut him off, stepping closer so that the glow of your pearls caught the dim light and fractured across his shadowed face. “I survived alone! While you were chained in some abyss, yeah how bad, yet you left me to sink into grief and despair alone. You left. You were gone, Rafayel. Gone. And don’t you dare speak of justice, don’t you dare call yourself their savior when I clawed my way through every damn day without you!”

For you not to hate him back then for his decisions... you sure had a lot of resentment. But that was the reality of it, you could not resent what you didn't love.

And you had loved him. Painfully so. 

Rafayel’s hands clenched into fists, knuckles white beneath the layers of cloth. His lips parted, as though to strike back, but your words tore at him before he could.

“You think this make you righteous?” you seethed, eyes flashing. “You think this endless hunt, this ledger of names, this… obsession makes you noble? You are nothing but a boy who abandoned the sea and me. You are no savior. You are no god. You are… a coward dressed in the lie of vengeance. And now you, now you dare lecture me? You dare judge me? You are not allowed." You digged your finger to his chest, eyes stinging with tears of sheer rage "You are no one to tell me who I am, to tell me how I should survive, or who I should punish.”

Your voice broke, raw and ragged, each word sharpened with every year of loneliness, every scraped hand, every sob swallowed beneath the waves. “So do not you dare, to ever, tell me I am soft. Do not ever dare to judge my heart. You were gone. And I am still here. Alive. And stronger than you could ever hope to be" You took your finger out of his clothed chest to fist his shirt instead "You have no right. None.”

Rafayel froze, eyes blazing in the dim light, his chest shaking as though the words themselves had pierced him, sinking deeper than any blade could. He opened his mouth, closed it again, swallowing whatever retort rose in his throat.

You turned sharply, pearls bouncing like shards of moonlight, and strode toward the door. Your fingers clutched the handle with trembling fury, your back straight, your jaw tight.

“Think on that,” you hissed over your shoulder, voice ice and fire all at once. “Think on what you’ve lost… and who you abandoned. Because I am done, Rafayel. I am done listening to your rage. And if you think for a single second that your guilt binds me, that your vengeance commands my heart… you are gravely mistaken.”

You pushed the door open, the warm amber of the corridor spilling into the shadowed studio. Your steps echoed, steady and deliberate, each one driving you further from him and from the cage he had built around himself. Behind you, Rafayel stood frozen, fury and heartbreak warring across his face, a storm in the ruins of your confrontation.

You did not look back. Not once.

The door slammed behind you, and for a heartbeat the city night swallowed you whole. The air was thick with salt from the sea drifting off the cliffs, mingling with the faint scent of paint and pigment still clinging to your hair. You didn’t stop walking, didn’t even glance back, but the sound of Rafayel’s boots hitting the stone steps behind you was a drumbeat of inevitability. It gnawed at his chest the realization, this was the second time a confrontation happened between the two of you within weeks of reuniting. 

“Coralie! Wait!” His voice cut through the night, sharp and raw, carrying desperation you could feel in your bones.

You whirled, tears already brimming, and shoved him, hard. “Do not follow me!” you spat, your voice trembling with fury and grief. “Do not come into my life, Rafayel! You think you can waltz back because your aunt breadcrumbed you and told you I was alive? That’s your excuse? You return after all these years, and what? To parade your guilt in front of me? To wave your ledger of names and think it redeems you?!”

Rafayel caught himself, arms outstretched, but you shoved him again, the force igniting something raw in both of you. “And now what, uh? now you show up and act as if you are the victim?”

Your voice broke as the grief you’d held at bay for years surged forward. Your chest heaved, and you didn’t notice the subtle, horrifying changes taking place. Small hives erupted across your skin, delicate and iridescent, your scales shimmering faintly as the heat of your emotions collided with the tide of Lemurian power long suppressed. The moonlight caught them, tracing patterns across your cheeks and neck, glinting like the shards of a shattered crown.

Rafayel’s eyes widened in panic. “Coralie... no, don’t!” he cried, stepping closer, reaching for your arms, but you shoved him away again, desperate to create distance.

“I don’t want to see you!” you sobbed, voice cracking, the Ebb that had been sleeping inside you flaring prematurely, spilling from your skin like silvered water. “I don’t want you anywhere near me! I don’t want your guilt, your ledger, your fucking teary eyes or flowery words, less you!”

Rafayel hesitated only for a breath, then lunged, trying to keep pace with your flight. “Coralie, stop! Please! Look at meI-”

But you could not stop. You ran, stumbling down the uneven cliffs, tears stinging your eyes, the hives spreading and your scales shimmering more brightly with every step. The ocean below roared in sympathy, crashing against the rocks like a chorus of warning. Your lungs burned, your legs ached, but the need to escape, to put distance between him and your fractured heart, was all-consuming.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t follow me!” you screamed, your voice raw, cracking under the weight of grief and rage. The Ebb within you pulsed uncontrollably, small waves of water shimmering in the night air around you, almost like a physical echo of your panic.

Rafayel skidded to a stop several meters behind, hands shaking, his chest heaving. “Coralie-please, I didn’t mean to”

But you didn’t look back. You didn’t listen. The jagged cliffs blurred in your tear-stung vision as your heart pounded, as though it might shatter at any moment. Your body, your scales, your very essence was rejecting him, rejecting the pull he had always wielded.

You ran until your legs could no longer carry you, until the night swallowed your footsteps and only the wind and waves answered. And in that distance, even as your body shook and your chest ached with Ebb-induced fury, you vowed: I will not let him see me break like this. Not again. Not ever.

Rafayel had followed the trail you’d left in your fury, desperate and frantic, crashing through alleys, leaping over walls, scanning every shadowed corner. But by the time he reached the cliffs, there was nothing. No sign of your footprints beyond the jagged rocks, no trace of your desperate flight. Only the salt-sweet air, the ocean crashing like thunder beneath the precipice.

A cold dread crept up his spine, threading through his veins with the weight of inevitability. He pressed his hands to his temples, heart hammering against ribs he couldn’t loosen. You probably went to the sea, he thought, bitter and panicked. Or maybe… you returned home. Surely you made it home.

But the gnawing sense of wrongness refused to loosen. He had no proof. No certainty. Only the taut, raw thread of his fear pulling tighter.

By morning, he found himself at Ms. Aerith’s house, the air heavy with the scent of herbs and faintly burned candles, signs of her restlessness. She met him at the doorway, eyes wide, hands wringing a cloth as if it could absorb her worry.

“Rafayel,” she said, voice urgent, tense, “have you seen her? Coralie… she hasn’t returned. I’ve searched the streets, checked the neighbors, called every place she might have gone…”

Rafayel’s chest tightened. A cold, sharp pang stabbed beneath his ribs—the same place he always felt it when his Lemurian intuition screamed disaster. “She… she ran last night,” he admitted, voice low, rough with unease.

Ms. Aerith’s hands froze, eyes widening further. “Ran? Where? Why? Was she with you?”

He swallowed hard, the iron taste of dread settling at the back of his throat. “I… tried to follow her. But she vanished. There was nothing. I couldn’t” His words faltered.

Her brow furrowed. “What?"

Rafayel shook his head, the weight in his chest growing unbearable. Each beat felt like a drum of impending doom. “I… I think she may have gone to the sea. Or she… didn’t make it home. I don’t know.”

Ms. Aerith’s eyes went wide, panic tightening her features. “Not… not make it home?” she repeated, voice trembling. “She.. she always returns Rafayel! What on the bloody earth are you talking about?”

The pit in Rafayel’s chest grew, spreading into a cold, heavy stone of dread. He could feel it in his bones. The invisible tether that had always guided him to you, that had drawn him through years of silence, had failed. And that failure was unbearable.

He failed again. That fucking word failure. Failure always following him only when it came to you. 

He had no sense of direction, no certainty, only the gnawing, icy fear of the unknown. And worse, the certainty that whatever had taken her was not a random predator, nor a wandering human thief. His chest hurt, deep and unrelenting from the slow, terrible awareness that something was very very wrong. 

The first blow came before you could even register the danger. Three men materialized from the shadows, their movements precise, almost surgical, as if they had rehearsed this capture for months. Your Ebb, still flaring from the confrontation with Rafayel, left you sluggish, your body weighted with exhaustion you hadn’t felt in years. Each breath burned; each step faltered.

You tried to fight, a desperate flurry of fists and kicks, claws scratching the stone of the cliffside, shadowed very conveniently in the dark, but they were too many, too coordinated. One caught your wrist, the next shoved you against the wall, and the third… the third pressed some strange device against your temple. The metallic click of restraint echoed in your ears.

“No! Let me go!” you screamed, your voice hoarse, raw with rage and panic. Water shimmered faintly in the air around you as the Ebb flared uncontrollably, your scales lighting in iridescent streaks across your arms and neck, your face glinting in the dim streetlight. But even that, your greatest strength, offered no escape.

The men were patient, methodical. They didn’t strike with violence, they didn’t need to. 

Pathetic. That's how you felt. 

Your weakened state was more than enough. You thrashed, cursed, even spat at them, but it was futile. Every ounce of energy you had burned in frantic defiance, until finally, they subdued you entirely.

When Rafayel arrived at the cliffs in the dead of night, the waves crashing beneath him like thunder, he found nothing. No trace of your desperate flight. Nothing but the memory of your small, iridescent hives glinting in moonlight and the faint, residual shimmer of your Ebb in the air. 

The facility smelled of antiseptic and cold metal, a scent that burned your nose and clung to your skin. Harsh white lights above flickered, reflecting off the stainless steel tables and the smooth, sterile floors. Your wrists ached from the restraints, your Ebb still simmering uncontrollably beneath your skin, shimmering faintly in the dim shadows.

Three men hovered over you, voices low and mocking. Their innuendos twisted in the air, taunting you with suggestions that made your stomach knot and your cheeks flush with terror. They called you delicate, exotic, rare even... words meant to wound, to unsettle, to strip away your dignity.

Lab coats shuffled around, clipboards tapping, pens scratching. Machines beeped, needles glimmered. Strange instruments hovered over your skin, probing, analyzing. Words you didn’t understand flew past; Protocols, chemical names, measurements of pulse and Ebb. Everything was clinical, cold, unyielding. You felt the fear settle in your bones like ice, the weight of helplessness pressing down on you.

You struggled against the restraints, but it was useless. Each time you flinched, tried to resist, the men merely exchanged amused glances, murmuring to each other. One of them leaned close, a predator smiling, and whispered, “You’ll make this very easy if you just calm down, sweet thing…”

A shiver of disgust and terror ran through you. You couldn’t speak; your throat burned. Your hands scraped at the metal cuffs, at the table, anywhere, as the reality of your vulnerability pressed in.

And yet… in the pit of fear, the spark of your Lemurian heritage stirred.

Your thoughts faltered, then clenched, searching for that one thread, that single connection that had always existed in secret. Rafayel… you whispered silently, barely a thought, a pulse, a vibration in the depths of your mind. It had been long dimmed, long suppressed after the fall of Lemuria, after the betrayals, the silences, the years spent surviving alone. But now… necessity clawed at you, demanded you reach across the distance, to touch that bond.

'Please just this one time. I am sorry... Sorry for what I said to you. I need you.'

Your heartbeat synced with the memory of his presence. The warmth of his hands, the pulse of the ocean in his chest, the countless times he had unknowingly drawn you to him. Your Ebb flared, faint but enough to shimmer across your face, small sparks tracing the edges of your scales.

You focused, desperate. 

'Hear me. Please… hear me.'

A faint vibration whispered at the edge of your mind. Not yet him, but… the bond stirred, a tremor in the darkness, a whisper that felt like hope itself. Your breath caught in your throat. If he could feel it, if he could follow it… maybe, just maybe, there was a chance.

The men didn’t notice the subtle shift. They prodded, whispered, analyzed. You felt their tools against your skin, cold and probing, but your focus held. The bond, the thread to Rafayel, was fragile, but alive, pulsing through you like a lighthouse in the storm.

And in that moment, even as terror threatened to break you, even as your Ebb surged dangerously, you clung to the thought that he would come . That he could come. That bond had survived centuries, betrayals, oceans, silence, and yet here it was waiting for you.

Fragile but unbroken. Much like the two of you after that fight. 

Because it didn't matter the amount of hurtful things you hurled at each other. It came from the same place from both of your bodies. 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65576791/chapters/179228326

In many myths and stories there is always the saying ‘Walls have eyes and ears’. Eerie, almost laughable to an extent when you get to adulthood and realise this saying can only be scary to children. 

Well… walls had eyes and ears and so did EVER. The organization was growing specifically angsty about the lack of Lemurian subjects. The last two captured subjects perished within a month of heavy exposure to dry elements on their weakest day of the year. 

This brought on a full on sighting and capture bounty, it was a difficult task for most, if anything Lemurians were extremely intelligent and cunning, like sirens.

But…

The Ebb day. 

That day when Lemurians were specifically weak and easy to capture, was the prime of bounty calls. It was hard work to lure them in, the subjects growing more and more weary on where to put their trust. But just like now, it seemed that it was through close bonds that they could manage to meet the ambitious data Dr. Lucius wanted. 

So why did calling feel like betrayal? Perhaps because it was?

The phone screen glowed cold. The name on the contact list was listed only as ERC . A number the orphanage was never supposed to know. That they would never know.

A protocol put in place years ago, after the reports of Lemurians hiding in society became more than myths. After EVER started offering “rewards” for sightings.

Pulse beat faster.

The thought of your smile was fleeting

So was the one of your kindness.

God forgive what was about to unfold soon, and hopefully you’d have in your heart to forgive again.

But what about the thought of national safety? Of science? Of duty? Of orders.

Send was not pressed then but the knowledge of you and your kind was enough. 

Enough to make the move if the balance tickled enough to the wrong side.

Baking muffins and cookies with Rafayel was definitely not how you expected your evening to go. 

Kneading the rest of unused pastry dough you and Rafayel, side to side like many times before, felt comforting. 

A sense of comfort you felt extremely conflicted to feel. 

You were glad he was alive, well and that his bodyguard girl, Lia, even after everything seemed to be healthy and a fierce force of nature this lifetime.

Rafayel settled to speak little about trivial matters. 

This was not the time or place to speak. 

He knew, so did you.

A feeling akin to outlandish isolation settled in your lungs. You were trying to covet with little smiles. Gods know coveting was dangerous, after all the grief you had to go through alone. You chose it to be alone, yes, but it still did not feel like you were worth the relief to feel at home when home itself did not exist anymore. 

It felt wrong to want to sing again… it had been too long. 

Were you worth the love of the ocean again after you had damned it under your breath so many times in a single hour ever since bumping into him?

Rafayel’s POV

Rafayel’s jaw flexed as he watched you gather your things, your answers to his lighthearted questions growing shorter, tighter. He could feel the invisible wall between you, the one he’d been trying to dismantle all evening without touching Lemuria directly.

When you excused yourself, muttering something about needing to check in with Ms. Aerith, he moved without thinking.

“I’ll walk you,” he offered, his tone deliberately even, almost careful. “It’s dark, and—”

“No,” you cut him off. “I’m fine.”

He studied your face for a moment, and in that second, his resolve to tread lightly cracked. “Coralie… I know you’re not fine.”

Your spine stiffened, and the half-second you took to respond told him exactly how right he was. “And what makes you think you get to decide that?”

“Because I…” He stopped himself, but the moment’s hesitation turned into a step closer. “Because I still know you.”

The air in the room seemed to shrink. You exhaled sharply. “You don’t. You clearly do not.”

His next words weren’t calculated. They weren’t careful. They were the one thing you feared most from him. “If you’d just stop pushing yourself away” He gestured vaguely between you. “-we could actually talk like before.”

Your throat burned. The past was a splinter you had been living with, and he had just pressed on it with his whole palm.

“Like before?” Your voice cracked sharp as glass. “Before you destroyed everything? Before you” You bit off the rest and slammed your hands on the dough you carefully had rolled into small croissants and threw your apron into the table before storming out. 

How fitting… a storm. 

Rain was hammering instantly against your face, the wind whipping your hair into a dark halo. Rafayel was only a step behind you, calling your name, his designer shoes splashing through puddles as he followed, not caring if it was Lavin, Tom Ford or the likes of it

Lightning flickered against the wet streets, painting him in pale light. His hand caught your elbow, not hard, but enough to make you stop just short of Ms. Aerith’s porch.

“Coralie—”

“Let go.”

He didn’t. Not until you turned sharply toward him, water streaming down both your faces, and he could see the betrayal in your eyes more clearly than the rain.

“Stop running.” Rafayel’s voice broke over the wind, low but sharp.

“I’m not running!” you shouted back, the words almost lost to the rain. “I’ve been standing still for centuries, Rafayel! Alone!”

His eyes flinched at the word, but you didn’t stop. “Do you know what it’s like to swim in silence for so long that the sound of your own heartbeat feels too loud? To feel your tail lose its color because the world you loved is gone ?” Your voice cracked, part fury, part grief. “And all I could do was keep moving before I broke completely.”

“I never wanted that for you,” he said, his tone suddenly desperate. “I just—”

“You were a boy!” you cut in, rain and tears indistinguishable on your face. “A boy who thought saving one life was worth gambling the rest. And maybe it was. I’ve never hated you for it. Never.”

Rafayel internally knew. You were above hate. You had always been so lovely - so, so kind. But hearing the words from your mouth after centuries… after being breadcrumbed with hope by Talia and then met with probably the most beautiful but devastating surprise to know you are still alive despite what Elder Amund had told him. 

He gained hope, but he could see you were at your ends with yours. 

“Then why” He murmured and somehow you heard. 

Lemurian hearing. 

“Because you make me remember,” you whispered, the admission torn out of you like something painful. “All these centuries I have bypassed seeing your face.. Yet it took one day” You sobbed “One fucking day of seeing your face, hearing you say my name… to  drag me back into that night. Into the moment I watched you let her go. Into the moment I knew Lemuria would never come back.”

Rafayel’s mouth opened like he wanted to fight back, but the words never came.

You shook your head, stepping past him toward Ms. Aerith’s porch. “I can’t do this with you. Not now. Not when I’ve spent lifetimes trying to bury it. I do not want to do anything with this community. You can relay that to Talia too.”

But before you could take another step, strong arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you back against the solid warmth of his chest. His breath was ragged against your ear.

“Please…” His voice was hoarse, almost childlike under the pounding rain. “I am not here to convince you or drive you to do anything but-.”

You froze, his grip trembling, not with cold, but with the force of holding you. Something wet slid against the side of your neck, and only then did you realize he was crying too.

“I can’t lose you twice, Coralie,” he choked, his voice breaking entirely. “I don’t care if you hate me, just… don’t go where I can’t follow.”

A pause. Heavier than oxygen on your bodies. 

The storm raged around you both, but in that moment, the thunder felt quieter than the sound of his breath catching behind you.

The storm churned above, thunder rolling like a living thing. Your words tore out ragged, laced with every ache you had tried to smother for centuries.

"Where were you, Rafayel?" Your voice cracked, fists striking weakly against his soaked shirt cuffs. "Where were you when I was the one chasing after you? When I—" You throat closed on the words, but still forced them out. "When I was the one losing my color?"

His hands only clutched you tighter from behind, trembling.

Lightning split the sky, and for a long, endless moment, you two just stood there, two shadows locked together in the torrent, the rain masking both of your tears.

"Let me go," You whispered.

"No."

"Rafayel—"

"No," he said again, but softer this time, almost breaking. His head lowered until his forehead pressed into your wet hair. "I won’t let you walk away this time."

Then, before you could ask what he meant, his arms scooped you up in a single motion. A startled gasp was drowned by the roar of the storm. He turned toward the cliff’s edge, everything was happening too fast for you to catch on. The sea raging below like it had been waiting for you all along.

"Rafayel?"

"I will show you," he said, voice fierce through his tears.

And then… he jumped.

The world dropped away.

The wind and rain tore past you in a blur of salt and light, arms instinctively clinging to him. For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the fall—nothing but him holding you as if letting go meant dying.

And then the impact.

The ocean swallowed us whole.

Lemuria. Age 3

At three, you were the demure little darling of the nursery, always humming, always trailing after him with wide eyes and a bashful smile. 

You were the one who swapped the temple’s ceremonial orbs with glowing fish eggs with him, the ones who would chase down the other kids of the temple with crabs.

He took the blame every time.

And when you kissed him on the cheek as a thank you, his cheeks would turn molten.

...

It started with a crab.

No bigger than a sand cookie, bright blue, and utterly furious at being poked by a stick.

You were the one wielding said stick, unrepentant, curls tied up in two stubby tails and your cheeks puffed in serious concentration. Rafayel, barely taller than a conch shell himself, stood behind you like a loyal footman-slash-snack provider, chewing on dried kelp and watching your “expedition” with wide, mesmerized eyes.

“Corawlie,” he whispered, already mispronouncing your name with a bubble of reverence. “You gonna make him mad…”

“I want him mad,” you hissed, eyes sparkling. “So he’ll do the claw dance . Talia said that’s how crab gods sing.”

“She also said lemon shells make your pee glow in the dark.”

“Well,” you said confidently, “she’s right about that too.”

He squatted beside you, plucking a pebble and offering it to the crab like a peace treaty. “Crabby-crab, you can be our pet. You can live in the Cowal Cave with us. But you gotta share snacks and not bite Corawlie.”

You grinned at him. “Deal.”

He grinned back. His developing tail curled in delight.

Lemuria. Age 7

You followed Rafayel like a shadow that smelled of coral and mischief.

You had grown demure but precise, voice always a little softer than the girls around you. But your pranks were sharp. Deliberate.

“You won’t,” Rafayel dared, watching the ceremonial pearls tremble in your tiny palm.

You tilted your head, slow and sweet. “ Ei sei’a i’thara, ” you whispered in Lemurian. 

He did.

The pearls exploded mid-sermon, and you just blinked wide-eyed and held his hand as though you had been the victim.

When scolded, you looked up at the priestess and said, “But I’m only little.” Batting long lashes and suppressing tears. 

And somehow, Rafayel end up taking the blame. Again.

...

“I told you this was a bad idea!” Rafayel hissed, legs dangling from the coral scaffolding.

“And I told you ,” you grunted, halfway through an air vent above the Elder pantry, “saltberries don’t steal themselves.”

“ Kama-tesh, kama-tesh… ” he muttered, invoking every sea-spirit he could think of as you wiggled forward, your tail swishing dangerously close to his face.

You were fearless. And very bendy.

“Got it!” you whispered, triumphantly holding up a small sack of glimmering saltberries. “Dinner’s going to be deluxxxxe. ”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t help grinning.

When you wriggled back and fell right on top of him with a squeak, the two of you tangled up in a mess of limbs and laughter, the saltberries scattered like stars over the floor.

You didn’t even care.

You fed each other handfuls of them by moonlight, juice staining your fingers, cheeks warm.

Something had begun to bloom, and it was not more saltberries.

Lemuria. Age 11

The first time Rafayel noticed your lashes were longer, you were tending to his scraped fin after a failed attempt at wrangling a wave serpent.

“You’re really bad at this,” you murmured, gently dabbing his cheek.

“I saved you.”

“I saved you ,” you corrected, glancing up at him through your lashes. “You’d be fish food if I hadn’t pulled you out.”

He stared.

Your fingers lingered on his cheek a moment too long.

“ Why are you looking at me like that? ” you asked softly in Lemurian.

He flushed. “No reason.”

You smiled.

You knew.

...

“Rafayel,” you whispered, cradling a starfish like it was treasure, “If you tell anyone I kissed it, I’ll cry.”

“You kissed a fish.”

You blushed. “It was cute.”

He laughed until he choked on bubbles.

When Talia found you both cuddled up in a tide pool, you had one arm around Rafayel and one hand stubbornly clutching the soggy starfish. You looked up with wide eyes and said, “It needed love.”

Talia said, “I know dear one, I know.”

Lemuria. Age 15

Fifteen. And everything began shifting.

He was taller. Voice lower. His tail had developed sleek streaks of night-cerulean. You wore your hair in ocean-knots now, pearls braided through. He noticed.

Rafayel couldn’t stop noticing.

You caught him staring once during diving drills. You swam up close, so close your noses nearly brushed.

“Bet your heart skipped,” you whispered, in Lemurian. “Like a coral crab.”

He blushed. “N-No.”

“Yes.”

He swam into a reef wall fifteen seconds later.

You helped him bandage the scrape with a mischievous grin.

...

Fifteen, and you had blossomed.

Still girlish, still gentle, but your tail had fully developed, and so had your skill to shift from human legs to tail and vice versa. Your hair fell in soft, curling waves, often pinned back with bits of shell. You spoke little in public, but your voice in private always had the effect of being stronger for its softness.

Rafayel caught you humming once—your hands trailing along a water thread, making it dance mid-air like silk.

He stared too long. Again.

“What is it?” you asked shyly.

He did not have a tangible answer for you. 

You blushed, hiding your smile behind your hair.

He pretended not to notice.

But he did.

Every time.

...

Rafayel started realizing you smelled different from other girls—like sugar kelp and something softer. It drove him insane in a way he didn’t have words for yet.

One day, while trying to “impress you” by riding a reefwing fish, he faceplanted into barnacles.

You gasped and rushed over, pressing your hands to his bleeding cheek.

He hissed.

“You’re so reckless,” you scolded in a whisper. “Why do you always try to act strong?”

“To impress you,” he mumbled.

You paused.

Then leaned in—and licked the cut on his cheek.

He yelped.

“W-what the shells was that?!”

“Lemurian healing,” you said, turning pink. “That’s what Talia said. I didn’t mean to… I just…”

His heart exploded.

Your hands were trembling as you brushed his curls away. “You don’t need to bleed to impress me, Rafayel.”

His voice cracked. “You like me?”

You blinked. “...I think I always did? As a friend, yes. A friend.”

Lemuria. Age 16

Your rituals had become more elaborate, your hair pinned in intricate plaits woven with tiny ivory beads. Your tail shimmered in a beautiful blue, greenish celadon in moonlight, fins moving like petals. You'd grown quiet, ethereal, aware of the space you held.

Rafayel had drawn you again—secretly.

He left it by your cot in a rolled scroll, no signature.

The next morning, you slipped a single seashell onto his palette as thanks. He made a bracelet out of it. 

That evening, you found him watching you from the reef edge.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” you whispered.

“ Ei’ven ae’ari, ” he murmured. I can’t help it. He truly couldn't. 

...

You were nearly seventeen now. A vision. A siren sculpted by the latest sea gods.

Your conch-shell bustier clung like a spell, shimmering light blue, kissed by ivory pearls and crushed crystal dust. Your tail had finished blooming into its full colors— glimmers of cerise and celadon —and ceremonial ink swirled down your arms in ancestral script. Your hair was draped over your shoulder, silky and perfumed with saltflower oil. You glowed.

Rafayel stopped breathing.

The drumming began. You turned to him before you entered the chamber, gaze steady.

“Do I look foolish?”

He swallowed. “You look…”

You tilted your head, bashful.

“Pretty.”

He didn’t sleep for two nights. He wishes he could have told you what he really thought of you. 

He dreamed of it instead.

With his hand on your hair, the other cradling your waist as he murmured the words atop your lips.

Breathed them in.

Nelei'ka elen thari, solmira’el ven korvian — ni'len thari'ka solé, sael vyrra velen to'veth em.

'You appear like you were shaped with sacred love, because only someone who has known you deeply and loved you so fiercely, could make you this devastating.'

He kept thinking of you this way past the destruction of Lemuria. 

He met Lia by accident.

A land girl. Frightened. Fragile. Forbidden.

Meant to be sacrificed so he could complete the rite and awaken his powers as the last Sea God, and the wick that would illuminate Lemuria would do it forevermore.

Yet.

Rafayel spared her. Lied to the temple. Said she was taken by the sea.

Doomed everyone. You.

And now you were here walking in front of him as if you both were back to being 11 and naive, with trays of ingredients to nurture those kids that had starry eyes everytime you so turned their direction. 

Rafayel lied.

Butterflies were real, so damned real they didn't have the business taking up so much space in his stomach.

He had started showing up at the orphanage more often.

He told himself it was for the kids. For the art. To evade Thomas with the excuse of community and good deeds.

And yes, technically, he had promised to demonstrate fog-wash techniques and teach the basics of brushstroke breathing (a totally real thing he may or may not have made up on the spot). But really, deep down in the seafoam-shaded chamber of his heart, he came for one reason.

Mia.

Or as he called her, tiny sea tyrant.

Not quite three, as tall as a fire hydrant and sassy like she’d been born under a diva moon, with curly hair tied in chaotic ponytails and a glitter habit that could only be described as criminal.

She adored him. Which was unfortunate, because she also considered him her personal butler, horse, and emotional support pillow.

“Wafayel!” she announced one morning, marching up to him with the intense purpose of a tax auditor. “I need you for something important.”

He blinked. “Important like how important?”

“Big! Important like cake day. Important like water time!”

…So, a felony.

“Ah, the Empress returns,” he murmured, smoothing her hair as she beamed up at him. “Should I bow or bring an offering of cupcakes?”

“Yes,” she said seriously. “Also, come see my castle.”

“Your what now?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she grabbed two of his fingers in her small hand and started tugging him down the hallway with surprising strength for someone who still needed help opening juice boxes.

“You’ll like it,” she promised. “My castle’s pink, and we have tea and magic juice and my lamb named Steven is the..." She put her tiny finger to her chin "Ah primary ministry.”

How did a kid even know about prime ministers? Anyway it was Mia. Or M-Y-A, here we were talking about. She probably knew about taxes too.

“…I’m sorry, did you say Steven?”

“Oh, Keep up.”

He let himself be dragged.

The “castle” turned out to be the nursery’s nap room, hastily converted by Mia and the rest of the under-five squad into a blanket fort empire. Inside were beanbags, crayon wall art, plastic tea sets, and the holy grail: a tiny pink chest of princess dresses.

Mia stood proudly by a beautiful crib. “This is where I nap with my no-sisters. And also where Steven does s’peaches.” She pointed at a limp stuffed lamb currently wearing a tiara and one of Rafayel’s old silk scarves. “He’s very poweful.”

“I can tell.” Rafayel said gravely.

Then, before he could say another word, Mia shoved a sparkly teacup into his hand. “You’re late for tea.”

“But—”

“Sit.”

He sat.

The tea party was chaotic. The tea was imaginary. The cakes were plastic. Rafayel had to pretend to eat twelve. He was knighted with a shoehorn and declared the “Duke of Butter Sandwichland.” At one point, Steven the Lamb gave a speech on friendship (as interpreted by Mia in an overly serious tone that reminded him eerily of his Aunt Talia).

Rafayel did his best to try to change his title to ruler of the Butterland but Mia said it was taken, thinking he was playing along Rafayel of course wanted to know who was the absolute fiend that took his title was, after hard earned horse carrying work. And just when he thought this couldn’t get any more ridiculous, Mia turned and began digging through a nearby toy bin.

“Wait—wait, I want to show you her” she mumbled, flinging a Barbie, a singing unicorn, and half a glitter sticker book over her shoulder until—

“Dis!” she shouted in triumph.

It was a slightly bent photo. Glossy. Clearly loved despite being very recent. Clearly handled often by tiny, grubby fingers.

Rafayel blinked as she thrust it into his lap.

It was you.

You, crouched down beside Mia, a lemon tart on your left hand, a streak of sugar on your cheek, and a lopsided flower crown made entirely of clovers perched on Mia's head. Your eyes sparkled mid-laugh. And even frozen in time, Rafayel could smell the memory: peaches. Peaches and warm sugar.

“That's...."

Come on get it together.

"Very lovely, who is she?” he asked, heart thudding.

Mia nodded solemnly. “Dat’s my bakin' teacher. She sings like a mermaid. And smells nice. And she knows how to make swirly cookies. With sparkles. She is the princess of stawberryland”

He stared.

“And she’s soooo pretty,” Mia added helpfully, rolling her eyes like this should’ve been obvious to him. “She even has a real tail.”

Rafayel’s mouth went dry.

What the-

“huh?”

Mia leaned in, whispering like it was the most sacred gossip in the world. “She said once, when I was ‘sposed to be asleep, that when she was little she had a tail. Like a fish! But pretty. Like mine when I dress up as Ariel. But she doesn’t show anyone.”

Rafayel stared at the photo. Then at Mia. Then back at the photo. "I think she is magic but sh Issa secret".

The hair was longer, your eyes more tired, but your smile… that smile was the same.

Suddenly, everything clicked.

That artwork that was displayed that had your exact tail colors, the traces of blood in the cerise. Subtle but a cry call of Lemurian lament The bracelet. Talia’s too-fast nodding. The not-so-subtle questions. The foghorn-worthy dodges. The glimmer of something familiar in a child’s laugh.

His Aunt had breadcrumbed him.

With weaponized toddlers.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, putting a hand to his temple.

“Are you okay, Mr. Sandwich Duke of buttland?” Mia asked, peering at him.

He nodded slowly. “Just realizing I've missed peach pudding.”

Mia frowned. “You want a hug?”

He blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

She threw her arms around him like a baby bear tackling a log, her tiny hands patting his back with expert toddler empathy. Funny how cuddly the little humans could be.

“Better?” she asked.

He nodded again. “Yeah.”

He was in fact, not very okay.

Verona 11:32pm

Talia received a single text from Rafayel.

You breadcrumbing puppet master.

I’m onto you.

Also: thank you.

She smiled at the screen, stirring her tea with the spoon he once tried to paint a seagull on.

Replying:

I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Also: you’re welcome.

Rafayel exhaled through a laugh, looking at the picture again—at you, at Mia’s proud little face.

Butterflies were real after all.

Real and so scary.

And maybe they didn’t flutter.

Maybe they painted.

Sang.

Baked.

Smelled like peaches.

Maybe they looked like you.

You’re ankle-deep in flour, elbow-deep in batter, and somewhere between the second cinnamon accident and the marshmallow rebellion, you realize: you’re definitely outnumbered.

The orphanage kitchen is a full-on war zone of giggles and sticky fingers. Tiny hands dart past you like sugar-powered hummingbirds, some wielding spoons, others brandishing frosting with the fearlessness of miniature warriors. Your hair is a mess—half tied, half escaping into whatever batter dares to get in the way—and you’ve accepted that you’re now permanently dusted in powdered sugar.

But you love this.

Integrating in the community started small, not directly putting yourself in front of Lemurians but getting close, slowly but surely.

It’s loud and messy and alive in a way that reminds you of the ocean when it’s playful—foamy and teasing, full of hidden things. You hum a tune under your breath, something soft and salt-sweet, and several of the kids stop to listen, caught by the melody like fish in a net. Briony, always wide-eyed and bold, stares at you with reverent suspicion.

“Are you sure you’re not a mermaid queen?”

You blink at her, laugh. “I mean, if I was, do you think I’d tell you?”

She gasps. “So you ARE one!”

You wink. “Let’s keep that between us and the cookies, okay?”

Briony nods solemnly like you’ve just sworn her into a glittery, frosting-covered secret society.

You’re mixing dough again when Ava, princess-in-residence and unrepentant truth-teller, tugs on your apron. Her curls are bouncing, her face is covered in what you sincerely hope is strawberry jam, and she has that look—like she’s about to drop a truth bomb and walk away.

“My art teacher,” she announces, “has purple hair. And he’s very handsome.”

“Oh?” you say, keeping your tone neutral as you scrape batter from the sides of the bowl. “That sounds...stylish.”

“He’s like a prince,” Ava continues, undeterred. “But, like, a cool one. With swirly art powers. And he could totally make a princess like you.”

You blink. “What kind of princess am I, exactly?”

“Princess of peaches and sparkles,” she says confidently. “You smell like both. He’d probably make your dress floaty and paint stars in your hair.”

Your heart hiccups. Something stirs. You glance out the kitchen window for no reason at all, like you’ll catch someone standing there. But the courtyard’s empty.

Still, the name echoes faintly in your chest, like a song you’ve forgotten the words to.

“What’s his name?” you ask casually, turning back to the dough. You knew it was Rafayel but denial was a river in Egypt you were deep diving right now.

Ava scrunches her nose, trying to remember. “Rafy-yel?” She shrugs. “Mr. Purple Paint.”

You drop the spoon.

“Sounds like a very talented man.”

Ava nods, pleased. “I think you’d like him. Mr. Charles says he is half seagull.”

Later, when the cookies are cooling and the frosting war ends in a declared truce, Mia waddles over.

“Come,” she says with the regal command of someone who has yet to understand age hierarchy. “I show you my new dress!.”

And so you follow her. Into the baby room, then she opens a drawer.

“Dresses,” she says proudly. “Princess ones. This one’s for baking. And this one’s for ball. And this one’s for dragons.”

You smile, utterly smitten. “You’ve got all your events covered.”

She plops down on a beanbag, rummages under a pillow, and then—very casually—pulls out a crayon drawing. It’s crude, as toddler art goes. But you recognize yourself instantly. The big smile. The flowy sundress, the hair. The apron... And next to you… a man.

Purple hair.

He’s holding your hand.

“That’s me and the pretty teacher who smells like clouds,” she says. “You sing like a mermaid. He’s got paints. You both my favrit.”

Your breath catches.

Mia’s already distracted by her tea set, muttering something about glitter cookies and assigning you the role of “Princess Peachberry of Snackland.” But your eyes are still on the drawing.

You trace it with your thumb, and your heart is suddenly full and aching, like the tide crashing into memories you buried long ago.

It happens like all the best mistakes do.

Fast.

You’re balancing a tray of cooled honey-melon muffins in one hand, a child’s forgotten stuffed narwhal in the other, and your head is a little fuzzy from too much powdered sugar inhalation. You turn the corner out of the hallway, mind already halfway into tomorrow’s menu—when bam.

You walk straight into him.

Or rather, he walks into you—but you’re the one who drops the muffins.

A strangled sound escapes from him, something between a gasp and your name. Your real name, not the one the kids call you. Not “Miss Peachy” or “Princess of Snackland”

“Coralie—”

You freeze.

You both freeze.

There’s a pause in the world, like time holds its breath. The kind of pause that carries too many things in it—loss and longing and "what the hell"—wrapped in a moment you weren't prepared to feel.

He looks—

You blink.

He looks exactly like you remember. No—better. Hair still the same ridiculous, inky violet that curls like it’s auditioning for a dramatic wind tunnel. A scarf you know for a fact he didn’t need but wears anyway. The faint scent of sea salt and something old and familiar that hits your lungs too hard.

His jaw works silently. His pink and blue eyes are wide, disbelieving. Like the universe just pulled a magic trick and forgot to warn him.

You, on the other hand, feel… oddly calm.

It’s a strange thing—seeing a ghost and realizing you don’t want to run. You’re not even mad. Not right now. Just... quietly floored.

He says your name again. Softer this time. A breath. Like he doesn’t believe you’re real.

And you—despite everything—smile. Just a little. “Rafayel.”

His knees almost give out.

“I—I didn’t…” He gestures vaguely at the air between you two, as though trying to push it back into something rational. “You—you're—you’re here.”

“Well,” you say, bending down to collect the fallen muffins, “unless I’ve become a ghost baker, yeah. I’m here.”

He crouches too fast to help you, and you both reach for the same muffin at the same time. His hand brushes yours.

He flinches.

You glance up at him. He’s still staring. Like he can’t quite believe his eyes.

Your hair’s longer than it used to be, and you’re thinner too—maybe a bit too much—but your face is still the same, eyes soft and sea-colored, with that tired, moonlit edge he remembers. And yet, somehow, you still look radiant. Not in a glamorous way, not the way Lemurian ballads described love interests—but like someone who has survived something vast and decided to keep going.

And that glow… gods, it knocks the air out of him.

He swallows. His voice wobbles. “I thought you were dead.”

You laugh under your breath. “That’s funny. I thought you were dead.”

A pause. Then:

“I got better,” he says, because his brain is melting.

“Clearly,” you answer, standing and dusting off your apron. “You’ve been teaching my kids how to paint sea monsters again. Mia’s been emotionally invested in the kraken for three weeks.”

His face contorts. “You knew?”

“Oh, I didn’t know you were the ‘Mr. Purple Paint’ until about a week ago. But I figured out someone was teaching them chaos disguised as art.” You pause, then arch an eyebrow.

He groans into his hands.

“I knew it,” you say, sighing with exasperated fondness. “That woman can outmatch any spy organization.” he said under his breath about Talia.

Rafayel looks up again, eyes still flickering between joy, disbelief, and about eight unprocessed emotions he hasn’t labeled yet. “I thought—when I dreamed of you—I thought it was just dreams. Like memory echoing. I didn’t dare think you were…”

He trails off, words not finding the right shapes.

You nod once, letting the silence settle with something softer this time. “Yeah. Same.”

The hallway stretches behind you. The scent of warm sugar hangs in the air. From the far room, a child screams something about glitter pancakes and someone else shouts, “Not the narwhal!”

You tuck the muffin tray against your hip and smirk at him. “So. You gonna just stand there having a breakdown or help me deliver these muffins?”

He finally smiles—lopsided, dazed, and very, very Rafayel.

“Right,” he says, brushing flour off your shoulder before he can think better of it. “Muffins. Yes. Muffins are real. You’re real. This is happening.”

“Mia likes the warmest one, make sure you give it to her first, she already took a claim on you”, walking ahead.

He follows you without thinking.

He always had.

Back then in water, and now on land.

'Welcome back, Coralie'

Chapter 4 is up after a brief writers block and struggling with keeping the plot in, Rafayel is such an amazing, stunning character with so much complexity that makes him SO hard to write and make justice. In this house we won’t mischaracterize our Sea God 😌✊🏻

Any comments are more than welcome since I get extremely self concious of my work once posted 🥺🫰🏻

Crossposted in A03 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/65576791/chapters/169877347 --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mr. Charles, the orphanage’s enigmatic benefactor is slowly dying. So are the comissions and funding for Thyros Bey the opulent orphanage he opened with his wife Althira whom he lost to the sea. Intrigued and restless by the paintings that certainly didn't belong in an orphanage, Rafayel finds himself delving deeper into the mystery of the author's anonymity, as he struggles with his own identity and heritage as a Lemurian and the deep-rooted grief in the shell where his heart used to reside before he gave it to her.

Was this artist perhaps trying to communicate with him through their work? — a message from the depths of the sea.

➽───────────────❥

"Vaylara solth, rheneth ilnora." Rafayel resonated your same words while closing his hands around the conch shell, the name engraved perhaps not in blood, but grief, mourn, deep rooted devotion masked in the facade of love.

The meaning you might ask.