Aquaman (2018): Pilot Fish

by Mirwalker

Beginning immediately after the Battle of the Brine, explores the personal aftermath of Orm's fall.

Prologue

"Highness, are you injured?" the alarmed valet asked, rushing up with a worried look for the prisoner, and irritated glances at the guards themselves. "Get the king's physician."

Orm waved them all down, sore and shamed, but not much physically harmed.

"He is no longer king," one too smug soldier reminded.

The manservant turned on him instantly, moving right up to his faceplate. "Sure as silt, your allegiance… And no matter, he remains a prince; show some respect."

"Inside," one of the other guards interrupted, opening the door to the once-king's suite. "He's to remain here until King Arthur allows otherwise."

Orm moved stiffly inside, eager to separate himself from the change in the tides, and more so the petty reminders of it.

His sole man followed quickly, not at all pleased with how the succession was being handled, never mind that it was happening at all. He took some comfort that Lord Orm had immediately helped himself to some kelp wine; and understood when he did not partake in the favored squid, also set out and kept warm in case he needed nourishment.

Following the prince into the dressing room, neither spoke as the simpler helped the finer man remove his scratched and dented armor, peeled away the sub-garments, and sponged away all other evidence of the battle. With a gesture, Orm indicated his choice in fresh fashion, still not making comment or eye contact as the attendant dressed him, and combed the honest disarray of his hair into its signature, regal fin.

Nodded done, the short-haired valet busied himself with carefully folding the unselected garments to be put away. His own simple, matte white tunic served to accentuate the elegance of the brightly-colored fabrics and adornments he curated. As every such option brought aboard the flagship had been chosen with victory celebrations in mind, even the most basic ensemble seemed out of keeping with the fallen king's status, and certainly his mood. Best to get them all put away and let the once-again prince brood.

Unnecessarily smoothing the shimmering patterns of his house arrest attire, Orm finally tossed over his shoulder, "Shant, why are you still here?"

The manservant immediately draped the shirt he was holding over his arm, and launched himself silently toward the service door.

"No," Orm turned to face him, with an intentionally softer tone, "that wasn't a command; it was an actual question. Why are you still here… attending me? As we are so well reminded, I am no longer king of Atlantis; I am dethroned, a prisoner… Nothing."

His hands folded before him and his eyes just peeking past the down-turned face, Shant explained, "Highness, whatever today's events, my role has not changed. I serve more than the crown or kingdom; I serve you."

Orm smiled, at first annoyed at the expected deference of an obedient servant, and then genuinely, as the fundamental message was unexpectedly encouraging. He chuckled, rubbed his forehead, and drifted toward the windows in the larger, main room. "You are a great comfort, as always. But today's events suggest that everything is changing. So, how is it I might share your stance against the current?"

"It is not my place to have, much less offer, an opinion. I am not a royal advisor."

Orm smiled at the irony. "You are more than an etiquette consultant, Subtenant; you were drawn as bodyguard from among the Men-of-War. And your family is a noble one. Besides, I am forced to question the official advice I have received of late… Or, at least my attention to it. In fact, it would seem new ideas, new ways are the order of the day."

Unsure of what to make of the philosophical turn at the end of this, entirely off-script day, Shant floated silently in place, until Orm waved him over. He waited at the end of the short observation bench where Orm had perched, until he was also nodded to its remaining space.

Sitting at attention in as informal a relation to the former king as he'd ever had despite their relatively intimate daily care interactions, Shant kept his breathing even and looked directly ahead, as Orm was doing.

They faced the slatted viewports, outside which indistinct lights and shapes moved incessantly in the depths as the forces that had been fighting a mere hour before, now awkwardly collaborated to heal, repair and clean the destruction they'd wrecked on one another and their shared seas.

It was perhaps several minutes before Orm finally took a deep breath, picked at his own fingers, and confessed, "I should have won; or he should have killed me. Either way…" The weight of the double Atlantian failure was clear on his usually squared shoulders. "I am usurped, by a mongrel who knows nothing of our world, and cared less, at least until he caught scent of the throne. I learn that the mother I thought long dead is actually alive, and prefers him, as does my betrothed. And the kingdoms I united are in tatters, with no gain against the surface incursions for the sacrifices. What have I done?"

Though Orm didn't noticeably stir, Shant could taste and smell the hint of altered salinity that indicated an emotional expression he'd never before known from his king.

"I will welcome being fed to The Trench."

TBC! Teaser prologue posted; sign up for alerts about eventual follow-up!