the Fierce & the LintKing's Amber Bits

There are boats built for a single man, and a young man I was then, testing some of my strength against the currents and the sharp rocks around Iron Point. The winds had died down, although I could see the clouds were not going to relent. I sat back to enjoy the view, all different shades of blue and grey towards the sea, all shades of green and grey against the shore. Errant rays of sunshine shoved aside nooks in clouds in order to spit gold against the mossy green of the hills in the distance.

I heard the whistle as the wind prepared its next assault. I stood to greet it, reaching out for the ropes to the sail, ropes I had made myself during the winter. It was something for my hands to do, something better than making trouble at the inn. I didn't need another lecture. I hold knives in both hands in my dreams, and what I kill leaks flame. I drink to excess only by myself; I am not the most sociable person outside the ships.

The wind beat at me, swinging canvas and wood towards me. I caught it but may have been lightly bruised from the force. The volatility of the breeze from gentle to savage was one of the reasons I was alone at Iron Point. Only the larger ships braved this part of the ports, and it was not a shipping day. I had intended to camp overnight in one of the natural caverns carved by the violence of the winter seas, and I was nearing my destination with more speed than I had expected. I brought the boat closer to the shore, splitting a beam of sun with the mast, and I was dazzled for a moment from the light. My hands moved automatically, my feet shifting to better hold firm against the rocking of the waves.

Mere seconds later, my vision cleared, and something was different. I could not place it entirely, but it was a feeling, something that had chilled my bones, something cutting that was not the wind. I resolved to look for the difference, but only so long as it did not distract from the requirements of debarking. I pulled my pack out and strapped it to my back, ready to prepare the boat for wind and the approaching rain. Thunder erupted above me, spilling against my ears, so close as to be absorbed by my skin, soaked up in the vibrations and the wet wind. I pulled the sail tight, the knots less a matter of strength and more a matter of my fingers dancing. With a hop, I felt the sand grit underneath my feet. It was cold and rough, painted with the sea's icy brush.

I lifted the frame of my boat, using it as a temporary shield against the elements as I jogged towards the shelter of the caverns. I could hear the gusts as they howled past me, and feel them against the frame as if we were wrestling for the same prize. It only took a few steps into the darkness to find peace, the storm having given me a moment of surrender. I set about making a temporary camp, looking for signs of potential neighbors before settling.

My steps and the storm were the only source of noise until the crackling of a fire replaced my pacing, and the patter of rain took over the sound of the winds. I closed my eyes. I do not seek solitude to dwell on any sins, but rather to give myself a chance to breathe. I focused on my breath, thinking of the force of the wind, of the importance of breath against the caresses of the sea. Sleep wrapped me in its gentle embrace.

The morning greeted me with the enthusiasm reserved for those who appreciate the sunshine and the playful slapping of restless waves. I took my time in stretching, and settled out in the sun for a while, warming bones that had not noticed the evening's chill. I nearly dozed off again, when I heard something...different.

I could not tell you what it sounded like, whether it was a song, or a beckoning, or even a silence that hushed the waves around her. It did not call to my thoughts, nor did it call to my mind, but rather, I was standing and moving as if drawn by a puppeteer to dance. At first I did not resist as my head turned to look at the source. It was a woman with pale green skin and long black hair, and the most beautiful blue eyes I had ever seen. They were neither green nor grey, but blue, the kind of pure blue that you get only between the pure shallows and the deeper ocean. They had no pupil that I could detect, nor any white, but an intense glow, blue on blue on blue.

I found myself knee-deep in the water looking at the pattern of blue on green that decorated the scales along her legs. A breath later, and while the pattern mesmerized, I wrenched control of my body back to look at her face. I could see the small spine-like teeth, the hooked and webbed claws of her hand as she brought it through her hair. Still, that sound, a sound I could breathe in, a sound that attempted to wrap itself around my spine, around my sex, a sound I matched, breathing out. A sound I did not know I could make, a song I had never sung like this, in the morning, in the solitude, shared with a creature intent on devouring me from toe to soul.

I knew the chorus, now. I reached up to her, hands brushing against the thin wires of her hair. It took a moment for the pain to hit, a number of seconds after I felt the moisture of blood. She continued singing, but brought my hands to her breasts. They were ample, far more ample than a creature of the cold depths needed, and I wondered briefly if she suckled her young. I obliged as the claws of her toes pulled at my pants. I felt the curves, and the weight, and looked back at her eyes.

The sound stopped. "You are not turned," she said, her voice lilting, with an accent I could not place. I did not even know how I understood the language, but it was something I thought I had heard in my youth.

I shook my head, hands pulling away and once again against the cutting strands of her hair. They were thin cuts, sealing almost as they were made, but the salt would irritate them. The sea would remind me of the cost.

She grabbed me, and for a moment, I wrestled against her. She was cold, almost as if made of ice, and I was warm, my breath steaming against her as she held me to her breast. I took a nipple with my tongue, tasting the sea, tasting salt. She sang a different song, her skin heating up as I touched her. Mermaids are parasites, I reminded myself. She arched her back against me, and for a moment, I nearly began to sing with her. I knew this song, too, and I like to think my voice was not rusty, and that I kept the right tempo.

"Drown me," she whispered in my ear.

The words chilled me more than her touch. I could see hints of blue where my hands had been against her skin, almost as if my mere hold bruised her. I stopped breathing for a moment.

"Drown me," she repeated.

I pulled her down into the water with me. For a moment, all I could taste was the sea foam, tingling like a kiss against my tongue.

She struggled, but I kept her underneath the water. My shoulders were still dry, remnants of the shirt I had been wearing still hanging from them. I caught glimpses of her eyes as they changed in the water, blinking away tears I could only imagine were of salt. She pulled me towards her, but I kept the promise she wanted of me. Her legs convulsed, once, twice, and I could feel the thin pricklings of her scales against my own. Her hair was soft in the water, but my hands ached from the cold, from the thin cuts, from the hold I had on her. My strength would not be limitless, but my will was not yet tested.

She cried out, a sound that echoed in and out of the waves. A second time, and she pulled from me a similar sound. Another kind of drowning, perhaps. Mine was born of air, of changes in breathing. Hers bubbled up from the depths. I pulled her out, water rushing past the both of us, a sound bringing us back to the morning, to the surface, to the places we were.

I kissed her, my lips against her thin ones, blood dripping against her shark-like teeth. At first she reciprocated, giving me back some of the heat she had stolen. I felt my toes again, I felt my strength returning. Then she tried pulling away, water draining from the gills at her back, legs limply pushing against the sand. I held the kiss until I was certain.

Then I turned, and I walked away.

My trip back was uneventful. The old man at the pier sold me a salve for my hands and lips. For a moment, I had forgotten... but I knew how to breathe. They say mermaids have long memories, but mine is longer. I would not drown for her.