What was better: to suffocate, or to drown?
They were similar, of course-- the fatal flaw a lack of air in the lungs-- but realistically, what was the difference? Would it be simpler to drown? Faster? Would it hurt more to stay put, to cope with the building panic of being unable to draw breath?
For a dark, selfish second, Ingo wished he’d asked Palina what it had been like beneath the ice; perhaps, then, he’d know what to do.
Without meaning to, he shifted against the shoal, subconsciously preparing to push himself into the waters, and stopped cold when the drag of his coat jostled the subject of his internal debate. He had yet to remove the harpoon lodged in his side, some distant memory telling him it would only worsen the situation.
He should add that to the list of options, actually. Wait above, until his pierced lung collapsed entirely, dive down and allow it to fill with seawater, or rip the point out and exsanguinate. None of them quick, none of them anything approaching painless.
Distantly, he reminded himself that, in a sense, this was a quicker death. Merfolk needed companionship to survive and, while he was infinitely grateful to the clan for all they’d done, there was a void inside of him that had never stopped hemorrhaging that goodwill into the water.
Before Irida had deigned to take him in, he’d tried to treat the emptiness inside with fresh air and sun. Something inside of him-- the same something that insisted he not touch the harpoon-- thought sunlight was supposed to help. There was something good that came of it, that helped when one was feeling run down; the attempt hadn’t worked, of course, because it wasn’t what he’d needed. A mer couldn’t heal debilitating loneliness with nice weather.
And all the bonds in the clan couldn’t restore whatever he’d lost.
Could one form a bond so strong that its absence was enough to kill, even when surrounded by friendly faces? That’s certainly what it felt like. The net of friendships kept him from falling headlong into this yawning chasm, deeper than the isolation that had nearly claimed his life, but if he didn’t watch the currents carefully, he could always be dragged into its undertow.
The practical part of him that had taken root to survive Hisui’s waters reasoned that this was as much as he could ask for: to have spared a friend’s life and cut his own already-withering vitae short. The rest of him, idealistic to the last, rallied against the thought, unable to accept such a grim outlook.
There was a call over the water-- Dawn. Of course it was Dawn. She wouldn’t do the sensible thing and flee after being shot at. She wouldn’t continue on the track he’d sent her down, when he’d used his tail to propel her out of harm’s way. She wouldn’t simply return to the safety of the cavern when there were yet threats in the water, stirred by the activity of humans and merfolk alike.
The girl’s keening was overtaken by a more confident hail, one which demanded response.
More than anything, Ingo was surprised Irida would tolerate Dawn’s company long enough to get this far.
What to do? He was incapable of departing with them, but neither could he compromise their safety by letting them linger. What was the most humane option? To drown, to ignore their searching cries and let them believe him lost, or to slowly suffocate, to reach out and let them realize there was nothing to be done for him?
He thought of the harpoon, still wedged between two ribs, damming the flow of blood. For all his catastrophizing, he had yet to touch it; to pull it out here and now was a decision he wouldn’t come back from. He’d nearly returned to the water on autopilot, but his conscious mind had stopped him at the reminder of what that would mean.
It seemed, without realizing it, he’d made a choice: to hold on and hope, as much as it might hurt.
Inching forward to greet the sea, but not join it, Ingo took the deepest breath he could muster and called back.