A/N: Shit!! I was doing some research on the Disney Wiki and I just realised that Ariel's father was Triton and NOT Neptune.
Apparently Poseidon is the grandfather, Neptune is the Great-Grandfather and finally Triton is the Father. Dammit.
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A/N: Do not mind the unrealistic distances and times between the places in this chap. e.g Port Royal is in Jamaica and Arrendelle is in Norway (according to my research). There is a distance of 8'078km between them. Separated by the Caribbean and North Atlantic.
Just to clarify, Agnarr and Iduna's ship are in the North Atlantic where Atlantis is in my book.
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[Location: Port Royal]
[A few hours ago]
[1st POV]
By the time the ship's weather-worn hull scraped against the sun-baked wood of Port Royal's harbor docks, the sun had already started its slow descent toward the horizon, casting long, honey-colored streaks across the waves.
I leaned over the side of the ship, arms resting lazily on the railing, watching dockhands shout at one another and scramble about with ropes and crates, their shirts sticking to their backs with sweat. Seagulls circled above us like gossiping old ladies.
"Twenty-three hours…" I muttered, tilting my head. "Or was it twenty-four?"
Puss stood beside me, perched coolly on a coil of rope, grooming one paw before giving me a sideways glance. "It matters not, amigo. We are here, yes? Port Royal, city of salty fish, crooked teeth, and drunkards who think they're philosophers."
"Sounds like home," I smirked.
Below deck, Jack had roused the crew like some unholy rooster, yelling about supplies, repairs, and the importance of acquiring more rum. The ship was tired.
She'd taken more than a few hard hits during our recent chase, and though we'd made it out in one piece, her rigging looked like tangled hair, and there were more creaks in the floorboards than I'd liked to admit.
By the time we disembarked, the dockmaster—a sunburnt man with a gut that rivaled the anchor—was already puffing on a pipe and eyeing our ship like a butcher inspects a cow.
"Repairs?" he asked, squinting at Jack. "This ol' bucket o' nails?"
Jack, looking more sober than usual for the first ten seconds of the conversation, nodded and tossed the man a fat coin purse. "Patch 'er up like she's your firstborn. And don't skimp on the nails this time."
The dockmaster's eyes widened at the jingle of gold. "Aye, sir. She'll be floating prettier than a pearl on a swan's belly by tomorrow."
Whatever that meant.
With half the crew set to stay behind and oversee the repairs, Jack motioned for the rest of us—myself, Puss, and about a dozen misfits—to follow him into the city. The sun bore down hard as we crossed the threshold into the bustling streets of Port Royal.
The smell hit immediately: sweat, spice, and something unidentifiably fishy that may or may not have been the reason a cat hissed from an alleyway.
Port Royal was alive—more alive than any city I'd seen in weeks. Merchants barked over one another, hawking dried meats, dyed silks, and pocket watches that definitely didn't keep time.
Women leaned out from balconies laughing, and somewhere a fiddler was trying to rally a tune out of his poor strings.
"Supplies first!" Jack shouted, elbowing a merchant away from a barrel of oranges. "And no one, I repeat, no one gambles the rest of our plunder unless I'm winning."
Naturally, five of them vanished down a side alley less than a minute later.
I stuck with Jack and Puss for a while, helping negotiate prices for gunpowder, fresh water barrels, and a suspiciously cheap crate of dried bananas. But after thirty minutes, my attention wandered—and so did my feet.
"Going for a walk," I said.
Jack, already haggling with a spice vendor over a jar of something that looked like powdered dragon breath, waved me off without even turning.
"If you find any boots with gold buckles, get me two pairs. One for each foot."
Puss gave me a knowing nod. "I shall keep our captain from trading his soul for fermented goat cheese again."
"Thanks."
I ducked out of the bustle and wandered deeper into the city, where the noise thinned a little and the cobbled streets grew narrower. The smell of bread and melted wax drifted from a nearby bakery, but what really caught my eye was the old shop tucked between two buildings like a secret—it didn't have a name, just a faded wooden sign with a painted key and a spiral seashell.
Curiosity's always been a bit of a weak spot for me.
A bell chimed above the door as I stepped inside. It was dim and a little dusty, and smelled of salt, wood polish, and old parchment.
Shelves and cabinets lined every inch of the room, filled with all sorts of oddities—spyglasses with cloudy lenses, rusted compasses, maps with corners burned off, and a cracked violin hanging from the ceiling for some reason.
"Welcome…" came a creaky voice from the back. I squinted into the gloom and saw a hunched figure behind a counter, a woman with sharp features and hair tied up in a nest of a bun. Her eyes glimmered behind circular spectacles. "You're not from around here, are you?"
"Just passing through," I said casually, running my fingers along a set of carved wooden birds on one shelf. "Looking around."
She said nothing else, just nodded and returned to polishing a silver astrolabe that looked older than time.
That's when I saw it—perched delicately atop a velvet cushion behind a glass case, like a gem from a forgotten world.
A conch shell, but not just any conch. Its colors were rich and shifting, like the ocean at different hours of the day—seafoam green, deep cerulean, and glimmers of gold near the spiral tip. It practically hummed with energy, like it had soaked up the song of the sea for centuries.
I stared for a good minute.
"How much?" I asked.
"Not for sale," she replied without looking up.
"Everything's for sale," I said, trying to sound confident but not pushy. "Even the ocean listens to the right offer."
She tilted her head. "That shell was taken from a drowned kingdom. It sings sometimes. It's not just a pretty trinket."
I stepped closer. "Exactly why I want it."
She considered me, then finally said, "Sixty gold."
I whistled low. "That's robbery."
"Then walk."
We haggled. Oh, we haggled. For twenty minutes. I pulled every trick I had—flattery, indifference, even suggesting the shell was slightly chipped (it wasn't). Eventually, with a theatrical groan, she rolled her eyes and said, "Thirty-five, and not a coin less."
I handed over the coins, thanked her, and left the shop holding my prize carefully. I turned it over in my hand. There was something… peaceful about it.
Not magical per se, not like the spells I'd used before, but old and knowing. It was beautiful.
I found Jack sprawled in the middle of a game of dice, three sailors yelling at him for cheating and one trying to balance a mug of ale on his head. Puss was nearby, shaking his head and sipping what smelled like expensive brandy from a teacup.
"Ah!" Jack said when he saw me. "Look who returns with empty hands. Did you find my boots?"
"No boots," I said. "But I did find something better."
I held up the shell.
Jack peered at it, blinked once, then grabbed it. "It's a snail house."
"It's a conch," I said, snatching it back. "Don't break it."
He narrowed his eyes, clearly uninterested in anything he couldn't drink or throw. "Fine. Now, boy, you're just in time. I'm about to win back the treasure of the cursed east quadrant from these smelly miscreants."
"That's not a real place," one sailor snapped.
Jack winked at me. "Yet."
I sighed and did what I always seemed to do lately—babysit.
As Jack proceeded to lose three rounds and insist the dice were haunted, I made sure he didn't bet away our hard-earned gold or start a duel in the middle of the square.
Puss joined me, and between the two of us we managed to keep the chaos contained—just barely. Jack was a storm in boots, and following him through town felt like walking a goat on a leash made of noodles.
At some point, he got distracted by a jug band playing on the corner and threw all his remaining coins into the banjo case. When I asked why, he said, "Their rhythm reminds me of my third ship. She exploded."
The sun had dipped low by the time we gathered the rest of the crew and headed back toward the docks. Jack was humming, off-key and loudly. Puss leaned against my shoulder, full of fish and whiskey.
"So," the cat said as we passed the edge of the market. "How do you feel being the responsible one?"
"Like I need a vacation," I muttered.
Jack suddenly shouted from up ahead. "I FOUND MY BOOTS!"
He held up two mismatched shoes, neither of which had gold buckles. One was clearly a woman's dancing slipper.
Puss whispered, "Should we tell him?"
"No," I said. "Let him have this win."
[Mid Afternoon]
We'd been walking around that damn market all day. From the crack of dawn when the salty breeze still smelled fresh and promising, to the lazy lull of afternoon when the sun really started to fry my shoulders.
I'd found this tiny barbershop tucked behind a rum distillery—quiet, no fuss. Paid the man a handful of coins to dye my hair jet black, all silky and shoulder-length, same style, just no longer a glowing beacon of gold.
If I was gonna keep moving around and not have every bounty hunter or pissed-off noble's son recognizing me from some wanted sketch, I needed to look... different.
Then, because apparently I didn't know when to stop, I walked into this fancy tailor's shop and walked out looking like a noble's bastard child who'd decided pirating was more fun than etiquette lessons.
My new jacket was deep navy blue, fitted and lined with gold stitching along the cuffs and shoulders. The shirt underneath was open at the collar, white, and loose—definitely not something you wear if you're trying to hide your pecs.
Pants? Black leather. Boots? High and polished. I even got a new belt to hook my dagger onto, just to sell the whole "rich, dangerous, and bored" aesthetic.
Puss, walking beside me with his big feathered hat bouncing slightly as he strolled, gave me a long look and said, "You look like a man who's about to seduce someone out of their inheritance."
I gave him a sideways glance. "And you look like a cat who talks."
He tipped his hat. "Touché."
We regrouped with Jack near the shipyard, his arms already full of completely unnecessary things—a jug of honeyed rum, a new compass that didn't work, and a three-legged stool that he swore had sentimental value.
I'd spent the rest of the afternoon playing babysitter, snatching his coin purse back every time he got that look in his eye—the look that said he was about to make a "fun and completely irresponsible decision."
"You ever not cause trouble?" I asked him, pulling him away from a dice game with two shady-looking blokes missing more teeth than they had fingers.
"I tried once," Jack replied, squinting against the sun. "It was horrible. Never again."
Eventually, with our arms full of supplies, my hair no longer glowing like a sunrise, and Jack thankfully too tired to make more chaos, we made our way back to the docks.
The ship—good ol' battered thing—was waiting patiently in the harbor, looking a little less worse for wear after some decent repair work.
The sails had been patched, the hull reinforced, and the wheel had been replaced, which was good, because the last one sort of detached in the middle of a storm.
Once aboard, we cast off.
It was late in the day when we finally pushed out to sea again. The sky was that soft orange hue, like it was melting into the ocean, and the breeze had picked up just enough to puff the sails and send us drifting away from land.
I stood near the bow for a long while, arms crossed over the rail, just watching the coastline disappear behind us.
Puss was off somewhere polishing his boots—yes, he actually does that—and Jack was at the helm, doing his whole tipsy-but-weirdly-competent captain thing.
I felt... calm. Like for the first time in a long time, no one expected me to be anything but what I was: a guy on a ship, going somewhere new.
But peace is never the final note in my song.
Hours later, when the sun had fully sunk and the stars were blinking lazily overhead, we crossed a certain line on our chart that pushed us further into the open Pacific. And the moment we hit that point, I felt the change.
The air grew heavier. The sea's mood shifted. The wind became sharper, angrier—like it had just remembered something that pissed it off. I squinted up into the sky, where clouds were beginning to gather like storm-brewed soldiers.
"Uh," I called out, not moving from my place. "Anyone else feel that?"
Jack, leaning lazily over the helm, squinted forward. "Might be indigestion."
We didn't have time to debate. The clouds swirled fast, almost unnaturally fast, and the sea beneath us started to rise and fall in deep, rolling breaths. I stumbled slightly as the ship groaned under its own weight, waves slamming into the sides harder now.
Then we saw it.
Up in the sky, cutting through the rolling clouds like a spear of hope—or maybe desperation—was a bright red flare.
I straightened at once, "Someone's in trouble."
"Nooo," Jack said slowly, "someone's out there trying to look dramatic."
Puss elbowed him in the knee. "A flare like that means distress."
Jack scratched his chin. "Or... someone needs a party."
Ignoring them both, I turned my eyes to the horizon. That flare was no ordinary beacon—it was fired high, fired fast, and it burned with the kind of intensity that only comes from a last resort.
I had no idea who it was.
But the sea had changed, and it wasn't going to calm down until we found out why.
I turned to Jack. "Adjust course."
"Why?" he asked, already spinning the wheel.
"Because someone just lit a fire in the middle of a storm, and we're pirates... not monsters."
Jack grinned, then winced. "No smiling. Right. Sorry."
I nodded. "Let's go see what the sea dragged in." I stood at the bowsprit, hanging on a rope as I peered into the distance, specks of arcanum already gathering at my fingertips.
"Fire the flare!" I heard Jack shouting behind me, an instant later, the sky above us was bathed in blue light.
***
[Elsewhere]
[King Agnarr and Queen Iduna POV]
The storm was merciless.
Rain lashed down like arrows from the heavens, striking the deck of the royal vessel with a fury that no man could tame. Wind howled like wolves circling their prey, and the sea itself heaved and rolled like a creature awakened in wrath.
Great walls of water slammed into the hull of the ship, the creaking wood groaning under the strain as though begging for mercy.
Captain Halstein's voice rose above the chaos.
"Secure the mainsail! Lash it down! Helmsman, fight the rudder—don't you dare lose her! MOVE!"
His boots pounded against soaked timber as he sprinted across the deck, clutching the railing for balance. His soaked beard dripped with saltwater, half from the sea, half from the sweat of trying to keep death at bay.
Crewmen scrambled like ants in a thunderstorm, hauling ropes, tying barrels, yelling over each other in desperation. One sailor had already been swept clean off the deck an hour prior, screaming, vanishing into the roiling deep with nothing but a splash and a fleeting echo.
Halstein spared no time for mourning. He had a ship to save.
Below the quarterdeck, sheltered under the splintered remains of the awning, Queen Iduna sat curled against King Agnarr's chest. Her once-smooth hair clung to her face in wet strands, her eyes red from tears, her arms clutched tight around her husband.
The ship tilted again, violently to port, and Agnarr wrapped his arms tighter around her as they both slid across the wooden floor until they hit the starboard wall. Neither screamed anymore. They were far past panic.
"I don't want to die out here," Iduna whispered into his chest, the words barely audible over the storm. "Not before I see my daughters again."
Agnarr brushed his trembling fingers through her hair, pressing his lips to her forehead. "We won't," he said, though the conviction in his voice was gone. "We'll make it."
The thunder cracked, louder than before. A flash of lightning cut the sky in two. The sails shuddered, one tearing free and flying off into the void.
The sea had turned a shade of black so dark it looked unnatural, and from every direction, it seemed like the storm was closing in—like the ocean itself wanted to consume them whole.
Then came the a flare. Faint at first, but unmistakable—a burning blue light arcing upward through the clouds like a dying signal fire. Blue signalled that their own flare was seen and was being responded to
Captain Halstein saw it from the helm and muttered, "Aye... someone saw us. May the gods be kind."
But even hope felt distant under this sky.
The storm wasn't letting up. In fact, it seemed to grow more furious, as if offended by their defiance. Agnarr felt it too, "Iduna... if anything happens to us... I need you to know—"
"Don't say it," she said quickly. "We're not dead yet."
And then... from the horizon... came light.
Not from lightning this time.
It was different—deeper. Blue. Ethereal. It shimmered like the first rays of dawn piercing a clouded sky, and it pulsed in a steady rhythm, almost like a heartbeat.
The silhouette of another ship rose into view—larger, stranger, with jagged sails and a mast that curved like a spine. It cut through the waves like it was being guided by something more than wind and rudder.
A pirate ship.
At its prow, standing atop the bowsprit with rain pouring over him like a baptism, stood a figure. His black hair whipped behind him in the gale, wet and wild. His new clothes clung to him, soaked but defiant. Both of his hands were raised to the sky.
Camden.
A swirling circle of luminous blue magic had formed above him, its glowing runes spinning slowly, humming with power. He didn't flinch as the wind screamed past his ears, nor did he stumble as the deck of the ship swayed violently beneath him.
His eyes were locked on the ship in distress—Agnarr and Iduna's ship—and he spoke, low and clear, though the sea tried its best to drown him out.
"By wind and wave, by tide and storm, I command thee still… hear me now, O restless sea… obey."
"Valgor Y Anul!" (A/N: Do not try and translate this, its utter nonsense)
The glowing magic circle flared brighter, so radiant it hurt to look at. Its reflection danced across the ocean's surface like moonlight through a broken mirror. As the final rune locked into place, a pulse of energy rippled from Camden's hands down into the sea.
And suddenly, the waters near Agnarr's ship shifted.
Not stopped completely—no force alive could halt the full rage of this storm—but the churning wrath of the ocean lessened in that sacred circle.
The crew seized their chance, yelling and moving fast. Sailors hurled crates and broken wood overboard to lighten the load. Others rushed to tie down sails, patch holes with tar-soaked cloth, and secure the rudder.
They weren't out of danger, but they'd been given a moment—a brief window between death and survival.
Iduna pulled herself to the railing, her eyes widening as she saw the source of their salvation.
"Is that… a boy?"
"A teen," Agnarr muttered beside her, equally shocked.
But just as some semblance of calm returned to the waters around them—
BOOM!
A bolt of lightning, thick and blinding white, slammed down from the sky like the wrath of the gods. It struck the sea just meters from Camden's magic circle, causing an explosion of steam and foam.
The shockwave rocked both ships, and the spell momentarily faltered as the circle flickered and dimmed. Camden staggered backward, nearly falling from the prow, but managed to regain his footing with a burst of air magic cushioning his feet.
The winds roared louder than ever, and the rain came down in sheets. Another crack of thunder, closer this time, shook the sky. The clouds above swirled and twisted like something alive.
Captain Halstein screamed, "TO YOUR STATIONS! WE AIN'T OUT YET!"
Agnarr gritted his teeth. "That boy… he just might be our only hope."
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