pairing: denmark/norway
theme: fishermen & drowning sailors
dawn scrapes the horizon, floods it with cold sun. lukas drags the net over the side of the rowboat, grunts and breaks his nails on the wooden edge. emil sits across from him, knotting rope and pressing fish down into the barrel. svaneke is colder than most port cities, births raw winter in his throat.
“fokus, emil,” he snaps. lukas is swept with impatience. “the fish will not catch itself.”
“i am focused,” emil counters, muttering. lukas isn’t fond of his brother when he’s petulant and bored, disinterested. emil is on the cusp of sixteen, face sharper than most boys his age. lukas knows he would rather read than trawl, but there is no life for them but this.
“more, then,” lukas stands, throws the net further. “i cannot be doing this on my own. this is not why i bring you.”
“why bring me at all?” emil knots with more fury. “you have it all figured out, storebror.”
lukas bites back a remark. it is always like this, but today is worse. today is worse because it is emil’s birthday. lukas sighs, drops down with a gust from his chest. “sorry. i know you’re tired.”
“i am,” emil looks up, icy. he directs his eyes elsewhere when lukas glares. “i suppose you are too.”
“i will survive this,” lukas sets a hand on emil’s knee, squeezes. “you will be more than a fisherman someday.” but not today, little brother.
emil makes to say something. it is caught in his throat, much like the thick knot his fingers loosen around. his eyes hinge over lukas’ shoulder at the shoreline, and lukas sighs. “we will get off the boat in an hour. be patient.”
emil’s mouth gapes. snaps closed. “brother.”
lukas wets his mouth, gets up again to tend the net. “what is it, emil?”
“i—” emil stops himself.
lukas rolls his eyes. “has the seawitch stolen your voice?”
“brother,” emil’s paling face has lukas’ focus. dials him in. “look.”
lukas frowns, turns to glance over his own shoulder. he isn’t sure where he’s being directed, scans the shoreline with vacancy. they’re not too far from land, hardly at all. lukas’ eyes pull apart the dark sand and the short pier and then he sees it.
a man.
a body, pressed into the sand, sea casting over it.
his words lose power. “row, emil.”
emil scrambles for the oars, composure lost. lukas hisses and heaves and brings the net into the boat before helping him. cold water hits his abdomen, but lukas’ pulse is hot, furious; that is a deadman. he is dead. he must have been.
he must have been—
without a word, lukas drops the net and flies over the edge of the rowboat in a dive. emil’s voice is replaced by water—arctic and stinging, lung-cramping. lukas swims under, pushes with his feet, pulled back by his own clothes. he swims like he can save something. he’s dead.
breaking for air, his boots hit the seafloor and lukas treads with clumsy, rushed indignance. closer, the body is lulling in the shallow water. bigger than his, stronger. lukas grabs the man by his lapel and drags, forces them both out onto the beach.
dropping to his knees, he crosses palms over the man’s chest. pushes, pushes. his hair has come loose from its clip, dripping down onto a pale cheek. the man is drained of colour, his nose too white and his mouth parched with salt. lukas pushes down on his chest, frustration coiling his expression. he’s desperate. faen.
pinching the man’s nose closed, he brings their cold, open mouths together and breathes. full breaths that hurt his freezing lungs. again. again.
he’s met with salt water against the chin and a furious fit of coughing.
lukas’ relief drops him back onto the sand. the adrenaline has singed his nerves to the point of numbness. lukas closes his eyes, prays.
the man makes no move to get up, groans and turns on his side against the sand. he’s facing lukas, eyes pinched, starting to open. he’s a sailor—maybe. something more, by his rings and his wool. lukas stares, terrified, until the man finally opens his eyes.
he is staring right at lukas. lukas is staring back.
“where,” he croaks. it’s danish.
“here,” lukas answers dumbly. “i—svaneke.”
the man hisses and tries to sit up, falling back on his elbows. “sød guder.”
“stay still, dane,” lukas urges. emil has somehow made it to the coast as well, and lukas hisses at him to seek help. the boy scrambles off.
“you saved me,” the man rasps, failing once more to sit up, words broken over with fits of coughing. he lays back and stares at the sky. “your name, siren?”
“lukas,” he supplies. “i am a man.”
“you are no man,” it’s scoffed, like he cannot believe it. “you are divine to have found me.”
lukas swallows. he is a fisherman. “i am not.”
the man turns his head, cheek pressed into the wet sand. “you are more than man—to have countered the sea.”
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