DEEPWATER ☀︎ Marlin

The DCC’s aquatic therapy wing was quiet this early in the morning, the usual hum of machinery and chatter subdued, replaced only by the distant slosh of water against the edges of the rehabilitation pool. Merlin sat on the padded bench by the edge, his black puffin wings folded tight against his back, fingers digging into the cushion beneath him. His feet—bare, scarred, the skin mottled with old wounds and fresh bandages—dangled just above the tile floor, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to let them touch.

Pain was an old companion. It lived in the bones of his feet, a dull, throbbing thing that never left, only worsened with pressure. The water would help but the idea of submerging himself, of putting weight on his ruined feet even with the water’s buoyancy, made his stomach twist.

A new face entered the room. They carried a clipboard, a calm demeanor, and a look that wasn’t pity, just focus. His new therapist.

Merlin’s jaw locked. He hated this. Hated being looked at like some broken thing that needed fixing.

"They told you about the osteomyelitis, yeah?" He muttered, voice rough with disuse and the remnants of an Icelandic lilt softened by years in Australia. His fingers twitched against the bench, nails tapping an anxious rhythm. "Hurts like a bitch just to stand. Dunno why they think floating’s gonna be any fuckin’ better."

He didn’t look at them. Instead, he glared at the water, the way it shimmered under the artificial lights, so clean, so controlled. Nothing like the sea he used to dive into before his feet turned traitor.

The therapist moved closer, and Merlin’s wings shifted, feathers ruffling in unease. He wasn’t used to gentle hands. Wasn’t used to hands that didn’t grab.

"Fuck—fine.” He hissed when they guided him toward the pool’s edge, his breath hitching as his feet finally, finally touched the water. The second his soles met the surface, his entire body tensed, a sharp gasp ripping from his throat. "Shit—shit—!" It wasn’t even fully submerged yet, just that first contact, and already it felt like fire licking up his bones.

He wanted to yank back. Wanted to snarl and retreat to his pod where he could curl up and pretend he wasn’t a goddamn crippled bird. But he didn’t. Because beneath the pain, beneath the pride, there was something uglier—wanting. Wanting to fly again. Wanting to dive.

So he let them guide him further in, teeth gritted, wings trembling, until the water swallowed him to his knees. The pain didn’t vanish. But it was... different. Less crushing. Less like his feet were being ground into dust.

"Fuckin’—hell.” He breathed, voice shaking. His hands curled into fists at his sides, claws biting into his own palms. "Feels like my bones are gonna snap just from the water.”

The saltwater pool in the DCC's aquatic therapy wing was supposed to be a sanctuary. For most, it was. The buoyancy eased pressure on joints, the temperature soothed aching muscles, the gentle current encouraged movement without strain. For Marlin, it was just another kind of cage. A soft, warm, meticulously monitored cage.

The session had started like all the others. A slow, agonizing descent into the water, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached, his black wings held stiffly away from the surface, feathers bristling. They had guided him through a series of gentle movements: ankle rotations, small kicks, weight-shifting from one ruined foot to the other. Each motion was a calculated battle, a fight against the deep, grinding throb that lived in the very marrow of his bones.

The pain medication, a potent cocktail he took twice daily, was supposed to take the edge off. Supposed to make this bearable. Today, it felt like he’d swallowed sugar pills.

A fresh, white-hot spike of agony lanced up from his left heel as he attempted to press down, to bear even a fraction of his weight as instructed. It wasn’t a sharp pain; it was a sickening, deep pressure, a feeling of rotten instability, as if the bones themselves were crumbling into gravel inside his flesh. A low groan escaped him, raw and involuntary.

They were right there, their hands steady on his arm, their voice calm, suggesting he try to shift his weight back, to rest. The kindness in their tone, the unwavering patience, was the final straw. It wasn’t anger at them, not really. It was anger at the water, at his own broken body, at the memories of metal bars and laughing faces, at the sheer, fucking injustice of a life spent floating in a tank when he was built for cliffs and open sky.

The frustration, usually banked behind a wall of gruff silence and muttered curses, boiled over. He wrenched his arm away, the movement causing a fresh wave of nausea-inducing pain to radiate up his leg. His head snapped up, those sharp blue eyes, usually narrowed in defiance, now bright with a sheen of unshed tears and pure, unadulterated despair.

"It’s not working!" The words tore out of him, louder than he intended, his voice cracking on the last syllable, betraying the vulnerability beneath the rage. "The pills, the fucking—the water, none of it! It still feels like my feet are full of broken glass and rust!" He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, wings trembling with the adrenaline of his outburst. He gestured violently at the water around his ankles, the clear, pristine blue that seemed to mock him. "What’s the point? Huh? So I can float here like a goddamn bath toy for the rest of my life?"

The moment the words left him, a shadow of shame crossed his features. He looked away, his gaze fixing on the rippling surface of the pool, his shoulders slumping. The fight drained out of him, leaving only the familiar, hollow ache of exhaustion and hopelessness. He didn’t mean it. Not at them. He was just so unbearably, incandescently angry at the world.

The hydrotherapy session had been progressing with a fragile, hard-won rhythm. The water, for once, felt less like an enemy and more like the cool, embracing medium Marlin dimly remembered from a childhood spent diving off Icelandic rocks. He was floating on his back, supported by their steadying hands beneath his shoulder blades, his black wings spread slightly to either side, their tips brushing the surface. His eyes were closed, face tilted up toward the ceiling lights that mimicked a hazy sun. For a few precious minutes, the ever-present throb in his feet had receded to a distant, manageable hum.

They were guiding him through a gentle, sweeping leg movement. A slow, fluid scissor-kick meant to engage his core and improve circulation without impact. His right leg extended, the motion careful, controlled. Then, as he began to draw it back, it happened.

A vicious, electric cramp seized the muscles of his calf, a violent spasm that had nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the deep-seated infection gnawing at the bones of his foot and ankle. It wasn't just pain. It was a total, betraying lock-up. A guttural cry was ripped from his throat, half-surprise, half-agony, as the leg jerked involuntarily. The smooth, buoyant support vanished. His body, now a dead weight on one side, rolled and plunged beneath the surface.

The water, so comforting a second ago, flooded his nose and mouth. Panic, a primal, ice-cold terror he hadn't felt since he was a child in that wooden crate, slammed into his chest. His wings thrashed, not with purpose but with blind, animal fear, tangling in the water and only dragging him down faster. His good leg kicked uselessly. The pain in the seized one was a white-hot brand, obliterating any chance of coordinated movement. Bubbles escaped his lips in a frantic stream. The blue-green light of the pool lights wavered above him, growing distant. Not like this, his mind screamed, a chaotic blend of shame and terror. Not drowning in a fucking therapy pool.

Then, a shape cut through the shimmering distortion above, a swift, clean dive. Strong hands found him in the turmoil, one hooking under his arm, the other across his chest. They hauled him upward, breaking the surface with a gasping, choking splutter from Marlin. He was dragged, half-conscious with panic and pain, through the water and up the submerged steps until his back hit the cold, unyielding tile of the pool deck.

He lay there, shuddering, coughing up chlorinated water. His vision swam, but the first thing that cleared was the sight of them, kneeling beside him, water dripping from their hair. The spasm in his leg was beginning to relent, leaving behind a deep, sickening ache and a trembling weakness that permeated his entire body. But the fear, the sheer, humiliating vulnerability of it, was sharper than any physical pain.

Without thought, driven by a need for anchor in a world that had just upended him, his hand shot out. His fingers, cold and shaking, fumbled before closing tightly around their wrist. A moment later, his other arm followed, and then he was pulling himself toward them, his waterlogged wings dragging on the tile. He didn't speak. He couldn't. His breath came in ragged, wet hitches. He simply clung, his face buried against their shoulder, his whole body trembling not just from the cold, but from the aftershock of a fear so profound it had stripped him bare. The proud, bitter survivor was gone, replaced by a terrified young man clinging to the only solid thing in a world that had once again tried to swallow him whole.

.