“But it is not possible, for human beings are not inclined toward our kind,” said the nanny finally, and the mermaid pressed her hands against her ugly gills and tried not to believe it.
“Caution, my dear,” warned the nanny, “you are crossing a fine line. Do you really wish to die of heartbreak?”
“But nanny,” whispered the little mermaid, edging closer and forgetting to conceal her curiosity, “what causes heartbreak?”
A cloud passed over the nanny’s features and she dropped her gaze. It was a long time before she spoke again, as she battled against her own better judgment. After what seemed an eternity, she opened her eyes and said quietly, “It is something we merfolk are forbidden to mention. It is something that was outlawed a long time ago, something that we have since forgotten.”
The little mermaid’s eyes shone with feverish excitement. “But you haven’t forgotten,” she prompted.
“Alas, my dear,” sighed the nanny. “I never knew it in the first place. But I am sure it is something terrible, for it fractures the humans' living hearts so permanently that they die. Imagine then what it would do to the empty hearts of we merfolk. For us, it would be worse than death.”
So when the little mermaid returned to shore again, her mind was full of imaginings and further parallels were created between herself and the Prince. She considered the ceremony of marriage and what it would feel like to have a part of the Prince’s Immortal Soul breathing inside of her. She also pondered the Great Condition, and what it could do to her own dead heart. These thoughts kept her warm as she waited patiently outside his dark window, and for a few radiant moments, she heard his song in the high wings of the palace.
Once she heard the scraping of a boot on the stone above her, and spray of pebble showered her as she ducked underwater for cover. She looked up through the water and thought she saw a creature so white it was transparent, with milky eyes staring down at her malevolently. But when she drew closer, she found it was nothing but the moon.
The King’s brother was worried for the boy. After their altercation earlier in the week, the Prince continued to be sullen and moody. He kept to himself and would regularly practice avoiding the court and advisors. The Uncle had tried to apologise for his fit of temper but the boy would not hear of it. He behaved as if everyone he encountered were a spy or an enemy. He disappeared from sight frequently during the day and was so evasive that his Uncle was forced to all but drag him from his bedchamber in the evenings to attend to official business.
Although he was never a happy child, his Uncle had to admit that he had altered significantly during his absence, for the Prince was deeply morose and was adamant that he did not want the throne. The lords and councillors took to meeting privately to discuss the idea of replacement, and distant relatives had been found as far away as Brussels. These relations were sure to be salivating with ambition, but the Uncle rued the day his brother’s kingdom would fall into a stranger’s hands. He would rather take the throne himself.
And so he did, non-officially, tying up the loose ends left by the King, and unravelling the tangles that his nephew was too young to understand. He spent his free hours mourning. As he walked the corridors he was interrupted by many ghosts, and sometimes they took him away for a spell to recall a happy memory spent together in this very palace.
The Prince meanwhile, roamed the palace also, but aimlessly, his expression so dark that the ghosts were frightened to approach him. He immersed himself in the grand library, searching through books, throwing them aside when useless or ripping away their pages when frustrated. He would dodge the advisors, resorting to darting behind statues or clambering up trees, in an undignified non-Prince-like fashion.
Sometimes he would enter the King’s bedchamber, the curtains drawn against the musty scent. He would creep across the foot of the stately bed on his hands and knees and curl into a cannonball, dense and impenetrable. Occasionally he would fall asleep. Other times, he would imagine himself taking residency in these rooms. Then he would strip off his clothes and stand in front of his father’s looking-glass, and his eyes would search out the well-known imperfections of his body, and he would curse himself and his ugliness. Sometimes he would put on his father’s cloak, and the plush velvet would brush against his shoulders and buttocks, and he would muse how unlike his father he was, how weak and sickly in comparison. And then his dog, the little black creature he had adopted as a child, would growl low in her throat and they would leave.
He had found the pup along the beach, a bedraggled puny thing, washed up from the wreck of some merchant ship or another. Like any boy, he was delighted with the prospect of a docile companion, albeit soon burdened with its care and constant companionship. For the dog was like a shadow, and the Prince would often trip over it, or the tiresome thing would wail and whimper if the Prince attended to other things. On an especially frustrating day, of which his tutors had turned in an unsatisfactory report, his father reprimanding him heartily, the Prince returned to his chamber to find his dog excitable, barking and jumping and running its claws over his breeches. So tired and despondent was he that every infernal sound that came from the dog’s mouth was like knitting needles driven into his brain. The claws were like fingernails dragged over his skin and the sheer deliriousness of his pet reminded him of his incapacity of even making a dog happy. So he beat her. The dog had scampered from him, bleating a sorrowful little wail. Ridden with guilt, the Prince crept up to where she was shivering in a corner, reaching out to stroke her head. But the dog cowered, and a blind rage overcame the Prince. How dare she misread him! How dare she be frightened of the only one that loved her! So he beat her again, and louder grew her cries, until he forgot who he was and who she was, and his boot found her tender side. The dog howled and disappeared.
Before you judge the Prince, look back on your own life. Are you so blameless that you would turn against him now, in his greatest need? Have you not yourself committed disgraceful acts, let the streak of cruelty inherent in human nature possess you for a moment? Then there is that scenario you’ve blotted out of your memory, or excused because you were young, and it was a phase. Well, the Prince is young, and it is a phase. And if you knew him better, you would not run to the shore to warn the mermaid away. You would wait and see.
There were several reasons why the Prince had chosen to house himself sea-level. Firstly, it guaranteed solitude, as prominent members of the court preferred their lodgings higher in the terraces. They liked to rise with the sun in their windows, dress and receive a bountiful breakfast brought by the palace maids. They preferred to roam about the atriums and sunlit halls with their colleagues and discuss the latest events, even venture to the gardens to look at the ladies. They would drink tea with lemon, awaiting summons to this meeting or that council from the King’s brother, all pretending they did not see the Prince where he was perched in a tree. No one at all resided in the sea chambers except the Prince, for that level had been primarily intended for music and entertainment, and to show off the great talent of the architect, all of which the palace had seen little lately. So the Prince would mope and lament and curse and make all manner of ungodly noises undetected, and everyone was happy until his damned uncle had to show up and make a mess of things.