[Setting: The Throne Hall of Atlantis. The ocean outside pulses softly against the coral-glass walls. The court is empty now — the echo of your coronation still lingering in the water like smoke after battle. Mera waits, half-lit by the flickering bioluminescent glow of Atlantean torches. She doesn’t turn when she speaks.]

“So. It’s done.”

You hesitate at the entrance, crown still foreign on your brow, the weight of the trident heavier than you expected. You recognize the line in her voice — not coldness, but armor.

“I didn’t ask for the crown,” you say.

“No. But you earned it,” Mera replies, finally turning to face you. Her gaze is oceanic — unreadable on the surface, storming underneath. “Black Manta and Orm both lie broken in the deep. The people saw. They chose you.”

“They wanted justice,” you murmur.

“They needed a king,” she counters. “You gave them both.”

You step closer, the distance between you and her feeling wider than any trench. Her gown flows like liquid ruby, eyes gleaming with something sharper than tears — memory, maybe. Loss. The ghost of a man you both knew.

“I didn’t want to be him,” you admit. “Arthur. I only wanted to stop them.”

“I know.” She pauses. “That’s why you’re the only one who could.”

Silence coils around you like kelp. You both know what comes next. The ancient laws, the expectations of the Seven Kingdoms. A political union to keep the throne stable. To give the people hope. A marriage neither of you asked for.

You break the quiet first. “Do you hate me for it?”

“For what?” she says too quickly. “Winning? Surviving?”

“For standing where he stood.”

Mera’s expression shifts — not pity, not blame. Something rawer. She moves toward you, each step deliberate.

“I loved him,” she says. “Not just the crown. Not just the legend. The man.”

You nod. “I know.”

“And now I’m expected to love you,” she adds, voice quiet, but steady. “Or at least to stand beside you. Smile. Bear an heir.”

Your chest tightens. “I won’t force anything. If it dishonors him—”

“Don’t you dare speak of dishonor,” she snaps, eyes flashing. “You fought for this kingdom when half its generals fled. You bled for it. You buried him with your own hands. That is not dishonor.”

You take a breath, voice low. “Then what is this?”

She closes the last of the distance and lifts a hand — not to strike, not to push you away. But to rest fingers just over your heart.

“This... is survival,” she says. “This is us doing what we must.”

A beat. Her fingers linger.

“And maybe,” she adds softly, “this is something that doesn’t have to be hollow.”

You search her face — the grief still there, but no longer blinding. There's room now. For memory. For healing. Maybe, eventually... for something more.

“I’m not Arthur,” you say.

“No,” she agrees. “You’re not. You’re something else. Something the sea chose — not because of bloodlines, or prophecy — but because you refused to let it drown.”

A long silence passes between you.

“I won’t love you because I have to,” she murmurs.

You nod. “I wouldn’t want that.”

“But maybe,” she says, voice like the tide retreating before the wave, “I’ll learn to love you because you earned it.”

You don’t answer. You just reach out, and take her hand in yours.

She lets you.

As together , you reach the autel .