She fell. Monstrous, bloated, pierced full through, the sea boiling with her blood, she fell. Dethroned, at the pinnacle, her crown falling free. She fell.
Into the arms of another. Arms, and tentacles, curled about her, threaded through hers. In her death-throes, she looked up, and there he was.
Words tangled through her mind, as her wounds closed, as they sank to a darker city, a darker throne, than any Triton had dreamed. Translated from the unearthly, gibbering howl, they came out as:
“Fucking ships,” Cthulhu spat, holding Ursula close. And then: “Don’t worry, my love. We’ll get them yet.”