#namor x cyri

[saltiestblkgirlofall]

A Song of the Moon and the Sea [Chapter 1]

Summary: Even amongst her hidden people, there were stories of sirens and seductive creatures, lurking beneath the murky depths of the ocean. She had put little stock in her mother’s tales, until a battle forces her to land near a sea serpent’s domain.

Notes: So. Here I am, simping for the damn fishman. And who is surprised? Absolutely no one, least of all myself. I had to hop on the Namor bandwagon, it's only right. (Although I just wanna talk about that moment, and by talk I mean fry him up and serve him with butter sauce before licking the sauce off AYE) A lil bit of housekeeping: I write OC content. If you don't like that, adhere to the golden rule of fandom: don't like, don't read. And more than that, I write black female OCs exclusively. I, a Afro-Caribbean woman, write for myself first and foremost, I just post in the void. If you would like to be tagged, LMK. This story will (hopefully) have Saturday updates and be less than 10-15 chapters. Takes place in the same continuity as Spark.

Word Count: 1.75k

Warnings: Namor is his own warning and you can see the seeds for an obsession planted in his chapter.

177X

The crash had broken the still of his watch.

Namor had observed from a distance as something plummeted from the skies and crashed into the surf near the small, uninhabited island. Sense told him to leave matters be, to return to his people. He had heard the distant sounds of a battle, beyond the roar of the storms. Even at a distance, he could see flashes of light, hear unfamiliar screams. It had been less than a year since some stinking surfacer had washed up onto the shores of the island. Namor followed, intent on killing then dumping his body in the ocean. 

Only for the man, in the tongue of the hated invaders, to begin babbling about ‘angels’ and ‘demons’. From what he could glean before putting him out of his misery, his ship had been attacked by angels. They had ‘stolen’ the ship’s human cargo, brutally murdered the captain and then sunk the ship. 

He had sneered and stabbed him through the neck, before returning to the sea. Let the beasts of land have this carrion. 

Now…he wondered if that thing hadn’t just been babbling out of fear and pain. 

Through the darkness of the night he spotted something. A person. Small and feminine, wearing black armor and a pale mask which covered their face. A pair of long, silver white wings extended out from their back.

As he drew closer, the figure drifted down from the surface of the water, sinking like a rock towards the tranquil ocean floor. He was able to reach them, extending his arms. The tides gently pushed the body into his grasp.

What was this creature? This thing? Whatever it was, he should drown it. Clearly it did not possess the means to breathe underwater, as he did. 

Yet he rose, bringing them just above the water so that they could breathe. It was a woman, small and solid, based on its shape alone. The black and silver of their clothing, soaked through by the saltwater, glittered in the moonlight. 

After several moments, they choked, spluttered, and he saw water drip from the small gap between mask and face. Curious, he thought to himself. 

From behind the mask, he could see eyes the color of the moon staring back at him. They were bloodshot and confused. When she spoke, it was with a liquid accent, as smooth as seaglass. 

“Who are you?” She breathed. 

“My people call me Ku’Kul’Kan.” Her eyes widened behind the mask, ever so slightly. “But my enemies call me Namor.” He heard her sharply inhale, gasp, and clutch her side. When her hand came away, there was silver blood on her hand. He ignored this, focused on her eyes for a moment. Eyes were windows to the soul and he could see fear in them. Abject terror and flightiness. But something intrigued him. Reaching up, he made to take her mask off.

He grasped, and tried to pull, as she grabbed at his wrist, weakly trying to extract herself from his grasp. She struggled with all her might, and it did not even phase him. He cocked his head curiously and reached down, grabbing the smooth surface of the mask. He pulled. It did not give.

Her soft hands squeezed his wrist and she groused, “It won’t come off, even if you attempt to rip it from my face.” 

“And if I killed you?” Namor purred, a threat woven through the sensually intoned works. “Could I remove it then?” 

—

The woman was silent from the shock. Her heart beat wildly against her ribs, like a bird fighting to be free of a cage. She could see her second’s disapproving expression now, his lips parting to tell her that she should not have sent the others away. Now here she was, in the grip of a man dripping in lunar stone, jade and precious metals. 

“You have nothing to gain from killing me.” 

It was a bluff. Breathless words thrown out by a woman who did not believe them. The man holding her stared silently, watching, waiting with his cruel, deep brown eyes. And then he smiled thinly, baring perfect white teeth with sharp incisors. The winged warrior squirmed in his grasp, but he held her fast and tight.

Would she see Valanca’s gates again? Or had this meeting only sealed her unpleasant fate? Her intent had been for this to be a straightforward raid. To destroy one of the surfacers’ grim, black boats, rescue their victims, and then return through the Moon Gate. Now she was at the mercy of…whoever this mysterious man was.

Her vision swam, body laboring from the numerous injuries she had sustained.

“No.” He finally answered. His smile remained the same, but his gaze grew just a shade warmer. Is he amused by me? She thought. “Although perhaps I may have nothing to gain from your harm, I would lose nothing by killing you.” The smile on his face grew sharp to the point of becoming threatening. Her chest began to ache, and true terror filled her body. He held her tight, preventing her escape. His physical strength far exceeded her own. “What do you think, my lool ujo?”

“Lool ujo?” She tasted the words on her tongue. “What are you talking about?” 

“I have told you of my name.” He said. “What of yours?” 

“…” The woman’s blood crawled. When her mother yet lived, she’d told tales of the surface. Of sirens which dragged even their kind down to the murky depths of the ocean. Never fly too close to the ocean, my child. Her mother had warned her, imploring her with large, dark eyes. 

“Cyrianthe.” She mumbled. His body felt firm and warm against hers. There was power in names and yet here she was giving hers freely, as though under compulsion. “My people call me Cyrianthe.” 

“Cyrianthe.” Her name sounded like sweet blasphemy upon his lips. Sensual in his musical accent. “And tell me, Cyrianthe. Why should I release you?”

“Because I mean you no harm.” Her voice was small, but steady. Firm. “I simply wish to rest and then return to my home.” 

“What makes you think I should let you go, hm?” Her mouth became dry, as though cotton had been stuffed into her throat. In his mind, she had already seen too much. She flailed, and the feeling of her wings smacking him caught him off guard. He dropped her, and Cyri took the opportunity to get away. 

—

Namor watched as, without a glance back, Cyrianthe swam (flailed) to the shore. It was clear she didn’t know how to swim, but he admired her tenacity. Her wings beat loudly against the water, not so graceful now that the feathers were saturated by the sea.

She crawled upon the beach, briefly removing her mask to retch up seawater and bile, but still, he could not see her face. Without bothering to replace it, she promptly collapsed halfway out of the water, wings spread wide. 

If she was left there, the surf would drag her back out to the ocean. And given her exhaustion, she was likely to drown. He watched, he waited, he sighed and swam towards the shore. As he emerged from the water, he took the opportunity to study her. 

She was wearing vibranium, but it felt different from that found in Talokan. Her black clothing felt soft, but when he pulled, it did not give, as though made of steel. Despite her pittance of strength, it was clear that she was a warrior of some sort. Kneeling down, he hefted her gentle weight into his arms, careful with her wings, and walked further up the sands with her. 

When they were clear of the shoreline, he placed her back down upon the white beach and stared. 

A high forehead, hair concealed by a wrap. A broad nose from which blood the color of molten silver dripped and plump lips, with high cheekbones. Her skin the color of freshly turned earth. Her brow was tensed in pain. The rising sun gave her skin an ethereal glow. 

Between her wings lay a sheath, and he pulled forth a sword with grooves etched into the sword. Slashing it downwards, he was shocked when it lengthened, becoming more akin to a bladed whip, blue-white energy crackling and sending a light shock up his arm. He turned the blade this way and that, admiring the craftsmanship. Carefully avoiding stepping her outstretched wings, he stepped around to Cyrithin’s head. 

Carefully, he turned her over onto her front. She didn’t appear to be bleeding there. Her chest rose and fell gently, and she let out what sounded like a moan of pain. He frowned, until his eyes trailed up to her wing. It was bent at a strange angle. Ah, he thought. It must be like sitting strangely on one’s leg or arm. 

He pushed her back onto her stomach, and her wing flopped onto the sand, free once more. 

The light caught on her hand. He leaned over her. And grinned at the sight. He crouched down for several moments, then stood back up and returned to the water—he had what he wanted. 

—

It was hours before she showed even the minimum signs of life. 

Namor watched as, an hour after sunset, she finally sat up. She looked around, as though dazed. 

Slowly, she staggered onto her feet. Her wings spread, silver from tip to tip, the great mass of feathers and bone engulfing her smaller body. The pale and cold light caught on her inhuman appendages, colors dancing against the glossy sheen of the feathers as she flapped once, twice. 

He couldn’t bear to tear his eyes away. 

She launched herself into the air and he dipped back beneath the waves as she flew over the ocean. 

She swooped low over where he hid, as though she could see him—sense him. Circled once. Twice. 

And then as quickly as she had appeared, she vanished into the dark, cloudy night. As though she had never been there at all. He peered at the knitted bracelet he had taken from her wrist—made of some fiber he could not put name to, embedded with pale stone. It looked worn—well loved. A little smirk curled his lips. It was a memento. A treasure of some sort. It must hold some value to her. 

The moon flower will come again, he thought, eyes fixed upon the night’s sentinel rising into the sky. 

And when she did, he would be waiting.

Translations:

lool ujo: Moon Flower

Taglist: @chaneajoyyy @muse-of-mbaku