Beta'd by the always amazing chaotic-panda
~
leg·end
noun
a story which usually includes an element of truth, or is based on historical facts, but with 'mythical qualities'.
The light of the moon feels brighter when Pete's seeing it from his bed. He's never noticed before how easy it can be to dull the celestial object, to ignore it, to trade the reality for the reflection in a merman's eyes. Though he had only spent a few nights on the rocks, it feels strange to be looking at the night sky from the safety of his room. The moon, framed by the stars, gleams in ways Pete had never noticed it do so before. Shining through the window, amplified by the glass, it grins. The distortion appears as an arrogant yet fragile bird.
The thought comes to Pete in the time between thinking and dreaming, the place between falling asleep and sleeping itself. His limbs, heavy and feeling nonexistent beneath a thin blanket, twitch in time to the creatures' voices in his head.
Pete shuts his eyes. They're still there.
They haven't changed their tones, haven't separated into voices Pete might want to understand. The words, though, have shifted. They've become one endless cycle of repetitions.
Sleep. Dream. This is sleep. This is a dream.
It still doesn't sound properly human but the continuous cadence is enough for Pete to accept it. So long as they stay calm, so long as they do not cry out in voices of thunder as before, Pete can put off his concern.
Sleep.
Dream.
This is sleep.
This is a dream.
Dream.
Dream.
Dreaming. Pete's eyes open to the grey light of the moon in the bedroom, casting impossible shadows and whispers along the wall. His thoughts and body are sluggish as he pushes himself into a sitting position. Everything is a shade fainter than when he had closed his eyes. Everything is a bit off, like the furniture has all been moved an inch to the left. The voices, too, have stopped, and Pete shoves his blankets away.
Certainly, he must be dreaming.
Pete rises from bed, eyes on the moon as it flies as no bird flies. Steadfast and hovering, eyes only on him.
Pete's feet land on the floor with a dull thud, his desire to explore the dreamworld growing at the sound. He turns with movements like a video game character, someone with no control of their own. He feels at the mercy of the dream he's awoken into. He feels like Alice through the looking glass, wondering which side she's on. He feels like Wendy gazing at the second star to the right, wondering if she can really fly.
Slowly, Pete makes his way to the desk, the soft sound of his own confident footsteps guiding him towards it.
Without time for blinking, he rummages through the pens and pencils he'd lined up before, tapping the pad of his finger against the tips and admiring the points. An alien feeling overcomes him as he lifts a newer pen, one still bleeding too much ink, and tests the tip. Unsatisfied with the result, he tosses it to the floor. It bounces once, twice, each sound twins, before landing on something with a more foreign sound.
It's something that has Pete turning his head with a happy noise, a noise like an infant seeing its mother. It's alien on Pete's lips but this is a dream, isn't it? There's nothing wrong with strange sounds.
And there's nothing wrong with feeling so pleased with the sight of a blade.
A Sunset Blade, his mind supplies as he walks towards the piece of knife he dug from Patrick's body earlier. Made from the bone of our warriors and blessed by the moon. The only weapon strong enough to destroy a—
Pete lifts the Sunset Blade before his thoughts become too complicated, a thrill rushing through his veins at the contact. He didn't notice before but something cruel surges through the weapon in his hand. It's not complete, barely the tip of a knife, and Pete obsesses over how strong the full blade must be, how powerful he would feel if he held it.
This is a dream, yes? So why shouldn't he be able to become a hero with this, slaying dragons and villains like a knight? Why shouldn't he vanquish all foes, one by one, with just one blow from this Sunset Blade? He could be great with this, he should be great with—
The softest of splashes echoes in the bathroom. Before he understands the rush of purpose in his blood, Pete stands and makes his way towards it, the blade still held tightly in his hand. He knows what's in the bathroom, in the bathtub, but he still struggles to control his excitement. In a dream, any manner of being could be in there.
And it is a dream, right?
As Pete opens the door, a piece of his mind isn't so sure.
It's just a piece, though, a dented portion of a puzzle that's easy to ignore in the larger dream in Pete's mind.
Because it is a dream, right?
The door opens with a click.
Patrick's leaning over the side of the tub when Pete walks in, resting his head on his arms and flicking his tail in bored back-and-forth motions. Pete's teeth clench at the sound of the water he displaces with each movement. Shouldn't his kind be asleep by now?
No matter. Pete stalks forward, the blade held in a bloodless grip as he continues, waiting for Patrick to notice him. When the merman does look up, it's with a surprised grin, a childlike smile.
"I was hoping you would not ignore me," he says, looking up at Pete the way he always did when they are out on the rocks. "I know we fought but I appreciate that you did not forget I like speaking with you at night. That was nice of you, Pete."
His smile grows. He pushes himself up higher.
Then he sees the blade in Pete's hand and his smile falls.
"Pete?" He asks with worry and concern swimming in his eyes as gracefully as he does in the ocean. "Pete, what are you doing with that?"
Pete can't bring himself to answer, lowering to his knees at the bath's side. His mouth feels clamped shut like the door to a Trojan Horse, promising nothing but vileness and cruelty inside. No, he has to keep the curl of Patrick's smile— hidden and waiting— in the corner of his lips. He has to play along with the dreams for just a moment longer.
As he watches Patrick, time slows and Pete allows himself to notice things he's never cared to see before. This close, the gold in Patrick's eyes is just a ring around the middle, a band of something unreal. Scales, a lighter green than the rest, dot up the sides of his torso, unsure of whether or not to consume him entirely. And the rise and fall of his chest, the breath filling the air, the immobility of his gills... It's all too human for Pete's liking.
Patrick reaches for Pete, though, and then he looks like only a monster.
It takes a blink, a recoil, a blurred moment of confusion where Patrick's teeth extend into fangs and the pupil takes over his entire eye. Before Pete, Patrick's skin shifts to a deathly grey and his words— his choked off "Pete, please" — is nothing more than a screech.
The arm that had been extended towards him lashes out so Pete does the same.
He throws himself towards the monster, the being where Patrick was, and refuses to hold back, wielding the Sunset Blade the way he'd imagined he could. Water explodes around him, wetting everything and blurring his vision further but he finds no reason to care. He's as feral as the monster before him, as wild as the blade makes him feel.
It's a struggle neither side is willing to lose, Pete halfway in the bath as the creature holds onto his wrist, holding the knife far away as possible. Sharp teeth snap towards Pete, never close enough to wound but more than enough to cause his heart to pound. He needs to bring the blade into this creature's heart, into it's skin. He needs to end this nightmare and return to the dream state he'd accepted this to be.
He's so lost in his own self-hypnosis, his own desperation to return to serenity, the mermonster takes the upper hand, ripping the blade from Pete with a howl and tossing it to the floor.
Pete sees no reason to end his fight. Knocking shampoo bottles and soap bars to the floor, Pete reaches for the monster's throat with the intent to kill.
He's nearly there, so nearly there. His fingers brush the creature's skin.
Then his ears fill with a word that isn't English, isn't human, isn't Patrick or monster or him.
The water on his skin scalds.
Pete pulls back with a shout, all haze and fog clearing from his thoughts and sight. He lands on his back on the floor outside the tub, frantically wiping away the water— the water that should have been cooled by now, the water that should have been lukewarm at most— from where it's burning into his skin. It takes too long, far too long, to remove it all, to recover from the pain and ease the wounds. Red marks like kisses line his arms and hands. Black dots like flies flutter in his vision. He blinks and sits back up, shaking as he does so.
When he looks towards the bath, looks for the monster, he sees only Patrick.
Patrick, whose eyes blaze a scorching amber shade.
Patrick, who's unaffected and unbothered by the boiling water surrounding him.
Their eyes meet and Pete wonders if he had the metaphor wrong when he'd seen himself as a Trojan horse. Is this how it feels to witness a blessing, a beautiful gift from the universe, become a nightmare? Is this what it means to fear?
Slowly, the gold melts from Patrick's eyes and the water lowers to a simmer, still steaming as Patrick stares mercilessly at Pete. He settles down into the bath, blinking and returning the blue shade to his gaze.
It's nothing Pete's mind could ever concoct. It's nothing he's ever imagined before.
It's nothing like the dream he thought he was in.
His stomach turns as the past events catch up to him, the compelling thoughts of murder he had as he found the blade and brought it here to kill a monster he so vividly saw. That wasn't a dream. It couldn't be.
No. It wasn't a dream. It was a possession, a hypnotism, another being in his mind controlling his thoughts and sight. A being that wanted him to see Patrick as a monster, a being that wanted him to...
Pete shuts his eyes and swallows down the sick feeling crawling up his throat. Patrick's eyes still rest heavily on him but Pete can't bring himself to speak. Not now, perhaps not ever.
Water shifts and Pete opens his eyes in time to see Patrick move, a lifting of the merman's hand that has Pete jerking to be sure he's not attacking or defending.
Instead, he watches as Patrick wipes away a thin line of blood from his cheek. Pete should shut his eyes before he throws up, before the red shade imprints itself on the back of his eyes and haunts his dreams.
The blood, though, is as hypnotizing as those monsters had been in his mind and the voice he hears is all his own.
You hurt him, it whispers. You hurt Patrick. Magical, mythical Patrick. Your only friend here, your best friend here.
And you hurt him
A cut across Patrick's right cheekbone now drips blood into the water, a result of Pete's inability to keep his mind safe from those demons. Patrick swipes his thumb across the injury one last time with barely a wince, eyes darting from Pete to stare at the wall. He swallows, gills twitching from the action, and then nods to himself.
"Take me back to the ocean," he say— no, demands. "Now."
"Tell me what's going on," Pete's voice is a demand of its own, albeit shakier and less forceful. "Tell me what that was. Now."
Patrick shuts his eyes, clenching his jaw as his muscles tense. "It is too dangerous to tell you."
"Dangerous? Then what the hell do you call that?" Pete tosses himself forward until he's on his knees once more, at the side of the tub with whatever words his mind can compose. "Something got into my head and you want to pretend you can't tell me why? I know it was one of those monsters, I know it has to do with you. So tell me what it is because, goddamnit, I'm not going to go through with the belief that I might be crazy! I'm not going to let you make me believe I might be insane! They can't do that to me. You can't do that to me. No one can tell me I'm crazy again."
The words are hopelessness masked as desperation, tearing from Pete's throat with the force of a sob, the force of the terrified tears on his bottom lashes. Pete refuses to wipe them away, refuses to admit they're there. This scene is too familiar, too comfortable for his liking. Pete's skin crawls and, for a moment, he's back in a therapist's office, on his feet and screaming that no one's allowed to have a claim on his mind.
But, unlike any therapist, Patrick remains cold. All Pete can do is shake, red-hot anger burning on his vision but his lips only forming trembling words of fear.
"Just tell me what they did to me. Tell me how they got into my head," he begs, hating that he's doing so. "I promise, if you answer this question, I won't ask another. That's a fair trade, right?"
A soft-silver glow seems to filter into the room from the opened door, fighting with the manmade lights, a darkened quartz reflection on the side of Patrick's eyes as he opens them. Outside, through the thickness of the moon's light and the night's darkness, Pete hears the splashing of creatures too terrible to exist.
"A trade," Patrick says, at last, each word chosen carefully. "Do you know, it was your trade for my singing that led them here?"
Heat rushes into Pete's cheeks but it's not enough to make him apologize or turn away, not enough to distract his horror.
He rests his head on the edge of the bath, eyes shut. "Just... Please."
Patrick won't answer, Pete knows he won't. The silence that follows is expected.
The soft touch of fingers against his cheek, however, isn't.
Pete looks back up, eyes widening once more as Patrick pulls away with a similar expression.
An exchange of breaths. A shared moment of fear, neither understanding why the other feels such a way.
Without reason or prompting, Pete nods. It's a simple dip of his head, a sign that could be reverence or acceptance. It's enough for Patrick's muscles to ease, for him to relax and force his lips into an awkward curve of reassurance. When he reaches out this time, Pete doesn't flinch.
Gentle fingers brush across Pete's temple. Water drips down his cheek, unforgivingly lukewarm and nothing like the brisk cool of the ocean.
"The moon," Patrick says, voice softer than the subtle worry in his eyes. "They are using the moon."
Pete bites back frustration, the emotion swelling in his chest as he chooses instead to focus on Patrick's touch.
"That doesn't make sense," he says, trying to sound calm but aware that he's failing. "Fucking... Make it make sense."
Maybe he's asking too much. Maybe he will wake up and discover these past few weeks have been nothing more than a delusion— the only theory that makes sense.
"It is hard to explain," Patrick says. Pete presses a white-knuckled grip into the edge of the bath.
"Try."
Patrick sighs, pulling his hand away and dipping it back into the water. Pete's sigh at the loss is covered by the harsh breath Patrick sucks in.
"The monsters... They can do things. I suppose you would call it a power. For us, they were just abilities. Things we accepted. My people had our own abilities so it was fair. For a while." Patrick pauses as if doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to explain the simplest pieces of his culture to a panicking human. "But our gifts only came from the stars. They have the power of the moon."
"Skip the history," Pete interrupts, his grip on the side of the bath tightening enough for his fingers to ache. "Just tell me what it has to do with... with what happened."
Patrick bites down softly on his lip, the hesitant expression changing as he runs fingers through his dripping hair. Pete struggles to read what emotion now rests on his face. Hopelessness? Anger? Fear?
God, no, not fear. Anything but that.
"The moon shines down on the water all night and, when the monsters are lucky, it is there at day, as well. It is charged with their essence." The words cast a foreboding shadow that collapses on Pete's shoulders, a weight like the one in his mind. "When you jumped in to... to save me, water collected on your skin. The salt dried in your hair and on your lips. It gave them an opening, a crack between water and sand, your mind and theirs. It means they can affect your thoughts, send messages and visions. And, if you are tired or not paying attention, even your actions are compromisable. Which means..." Patrick trails off, suddenly sounding unsure.
Pete looks back to the blade on the ground, tossed aside but unforgotten. Patrick's unfinished sentence lingers in the air, waiting for his response.
"It means that I can hurt you."
A giant's hand, unseen and unyielding, presses down on Pete's chest as he says the words, horrible words that leave no breath in his lungs.
Patrick, though, it seems, has more than enough for the both of them.
"So I cannot tell you the truth," he says with a shaking sigh. "The monsters can hear what you hear. They are blind outside of the water, sensitive to light, but their hearing is exceptional. And, now, through you, they can listen in to whatever I say. So I can say nothing."
Nothing. The same amount of this entire situation that Pete understands— nothing.
He doesn't understand-- doesn't want to understand-- what it is Patrick can't say. He doesn't want to imagine the secrets lingering atop his tongue, hiding behind his lips. He doesn't want to focus on the buzzing between his ears, the muted roar. He doesn't want to know what they might hear.
But, with the silence, the buzzing only grows and Pete's not sure what's mermonster and what's the insanity of static.
"Oh." Patrick shatters the stillness he had created, laughing to himself and raising his hands to his eyes. He holds them there a second, palms flat against his face as his shoulders shudder softly. "I do not like being out of the water when this happens. Water will wash it away. I do not like showing how I feel."
"What—"
"It was a lie," Patrick says, spitting out the words as if he may regret them. He breathes deeply, his chest rising and falling in unstable but controlled movements, face still covered by his hands. "I mean, yes, it was the truth. They can hear but the information would all be secrets they already know. I have nothing new to say to them."
Pete blinks, growing cold at Patrick's confession. "Then, why—"
Patrick cuts him off again, pressing his hands harder against his face as if it can somehow make him disappear. Still, behind the pale expanse of his hands and wrists, Pete can see the red blotches forming on his cheeks. "Because I do not wish for you to hate me. You saved me and protected me and you are the closest friend I have had in a long time. I do not want to lose that over something I cannot control."
An unsettling feeling takes hold within Pete, claws and fangs prodding at his guts. A dozen needles and a hundred whispers fill the air, all imaginary but no less disturbing as Pete processes Patrick's words.
Pete's a writer and he needed a story. He didn't need this.
"I can't promise I won't freak out," he says, words tasted and tested before leaving his lips. They rattle like homes in a storm as they enter the air, shaking and shuddering from the earthquake of his own emotions. "But I can promise I'll try to understand."
Patrick's next sound— a broken laugh, a scratched record of the joy he's expressed so many times before— lights Pete's nerves on fire and, for a horrible second, he's afraid Patrick may be crying.
"The last man who promised me that... A human I foolishly thought I could love and be loved by... He promised the same thing." Patrick pauses, rubbing his hands across his eyes. His voice shrinks with proceeding word, smaller than the hints of fear he's shown all night. "And then he called me a monster and a liar. He left. Abandoned me. There are many things I can survive but abandonment... loneliness... I cannot go through that again."
A blade twists in Pete's heart at the merman's words and he reaches out, unthinking, as if his touch will help this pain in any way. Before he makes contact, though, Patrick's hands fall into the water and his eyes, dry but red-rimmed, meet Pete's.
"And it hurts to talk about. All of it hurts," he says. His eyes pierce a hole in Pete's gravity, flipping his stomach and stealing his reality as they tear through him with an age and pain Pete's never seen before. "If I had the choice, I would never remember what those monsters did. For years, for nearly twenty years, I have fought to forget everything that came before my time at this beach. And I know I have to tell you but it hurts. It... It... Will it ever stop hurting?"
I wish I could tell you it does. But, no, pain never stops.
Pete's words dry in his throat, his own question from years ago repeated back at him. He won't destroy Patrick's hope, the optimism Pete was so lucky to see before. A pain radiates from his chest, spreading through his body with each pound of his heart and, he imagines, he aches nearly as much as Patrick appears to.
Somehow, Pete finds himself reaching once more, succeeding and surprising himself with the merman's hand in his own. Their fingers link together, puzzle pieces, and Pete fights to find words to say. He's a writer, he should have something to make this all better.
But the only words he has are obvious truths Pete feels he shouldn't have to say. "You don't need to tell me anything."
"No." Patrick shakes his head, a guilty relief pressing into Pete's mind at the action. To make up for it, his grip on Patrick's hand becomes a caress. "You saved my life. I owe you this."
He pulls his hand from Pete's. He shuts his eyes and turns away. Pete finds no reason to argue with either action.
"Alright," Patrick says, hiding his shaking hands in the water. "Ask me. Ask me the same thing you did before."
It's a script Pete no longer wishes to read, a line he has no desire to say. If such a question, if such a thought, can tear Patrick apart so easily, why should he ask?
Because he's a writer in need of a story and, this time, Patrick's permission is clear.
Staring at Patrick, staring at his scales and skin and closed eyes, Pete gives in.
"Why do those creatures want you dead?"
A merman's breath fills the air. Patrick's lips tremble.
His words are nothing but a whisper.
"They want me dead because I am the last siren."