It is always the sea.
It shows him then, when she glimmers a grin so wild he has only seen its glint in the depths of muddy waters once before, and recoils against the waves that bath her greedily. They lap at her curves, drag against her muscles, pulling at the fine tendrils of cream-white hair whose salt-rind is like moonlight waning against the froth. And then – and then – there is more, and there is less, and there is ocean that stares at him with all the wonder of a world. There is not an ocean between them, because she is the ocean, and when the water bubbles up against his hooves and hisses, come in, come in, he takes a step away.
He watches.
He watches as she unfurls, not unlike a flower – as blooming, silvery petals unfold in the moonlight, so does she unravel. First there are legs and waves and then waves and then fins and waves, and Erasmus is unsure of whether it is her or a great serpent that wags in the waters. And he does not impress that she is beautiful or horrifying, when his eyes take to every fall in her curves and every wisp of frills that rise from them. There is no expression that cannot divulge both, or either – his breathing laxes in his chest, and he looks at her like he is looking into the dark, fathomless leagues of jetted waters.
His mother has warned of deep forests whose mouth of pines opens jagged and broad for young men too bold for their own good. She has warned him of the skies that open for thunder and the cracking of dragons' wings, and she has warned him of rattling snakes and jeering coyotes and all the things that eat and ruin on those great, desolate plains. But never had she warned him of hurling black waves set aflame in the moonlight, and the way sharp things wait for him just out of the shallows, or the way beautiful women can become monsters in the lap of a furious ocean. So he is unsure if she is a god or a woman or a monster, but knows that all three can be worshiped with the same veneration.
When she begs him to the waters he contemplates deeply as his eyes will roam, but they can't be steadied to her because they've forgotten her pulse and the warmth that lays beneath the surface. And he moves, but only slightly, because the waters rush to him just as swiftly as he has. They collide against his feet and rush over his legs, crash against his knees and drag the sand from beneath him. All along they hiss, come in, come in, and she says, the water's nice, and he thinks of how cool it feels on his hot skin. How cool it feels, its vapor rushed against his belly that churns with a great hunger.
And oh, gods, is he hungry.
He remembers then, and he can't help but lap in the moonlight and the silver and the brine that rests against her neck when the breeze tangles her hair damply against it. His blood is singing and hers is roaring like the ocean when he takes another step and thinks that the salt of the sea on his tongue when he breathes must not be too unlike the taste of her blood and the thought is as refreshing as it is terrifying. Because he has never tasted anything like her but the precious hot ichor of young men too bold for their own good.
But before he can move more, he is laughing. Its sound is cold, hollow, and dark as a morbid lull on the breeze.
A predator cannot help but think of the ways of weakness, of vulnerability, in its prey. And as he watches her tail whip against the waves and she float among them like a ghost, he thinks of how he had fumbled in the ocean like an adolescent thrown into a pit of snakes. He then thinks of running swiftly over The Wilds, with the wind and the moon and the blood across his chest. Would she run swiftly, across the sand and the brush and the jungle green, as beautifully and tragically as she drifted in the sea like a lounging dryad? He stopped laughing, and a grin dared to tread where his once desolate expression bore her with wonder. It stretched, handsome and devilish, his fangs kneading the soft line of his lips. "too cold, for me."
Not without a wink and a crooked smile he swung, dancing as gracefully as a warrior may, and snatched the limp cat from the sands. Without further hesitation, he dove into the dark of that humming wood, carrying her once-meal far from the roaring sea that sounded too much like a tomb. He thundered on, on, the great cat abreast as it hung from its scruff; and while he dreamt amusedly of angry, beautiful women who floundered on the beach like gasping fish, he was not often one to look back.
It shows him then, when she glimmers a grin so wild he has only seen its glint in the depths of muddy waters once before, and recoils against the waves that bath her greedily. They lap at her curves, drag against her muscles, pulling at the fine tendrils of cream-white hair whose salt-rind is like moonlight waning against the froth. And then – and then – there is more, and there is less, and there is ocean that stares at him with all the wonder of a world. There is not an ocean between them, because she is the ocean, and when the water bubbles up against his hooves and hisses, come in, come in, he takes a step away.
He watches.
He watches as she unfurls, not unlike a flower – as blooming, silvery petals unfold in the moonlight, so does she unravel. First there are legs and waves and then waves and then fins and waves, and Erasmus is unsure of whether it is her or a great serpent that wags in the waters. And he does not impress that she is beautiful or horrifying, when his eyes take to every fall in her curves and every wisp of frills that rise from them. There is no expression that cannot divulge both, or either – his breathing laxes in his chest, and he looks at her like he is looking into the dark, fathomless leagues of jetted waters.
His mother has warned of deep forests whose mouth of pines opens jagged and broad for young men too bold for their own good. She has warned him of the skies that open for thunder and the cracking of dragons' wings, and she has warned him of rattling snakes and jeering coyotes and all the things that eat and ruin on those great, desolate plains. But never had she warned him of hurling black waves set aflame in the moonlight, and the way sharp things wait for him just out of the shallows, or the way beautiful women can become monsters in the lap of a furious ocean. So he is unsure if she is a god or a woman or a monster, but knows that all three can be worshiped with the same veneration.
When she begs him to the waters he contemplates deeply as his eyes will roam, but they can't be steadied to her because they've forgotten her pulse and the warmth that lays beneath the surface. And he moves, but only slightly, because the waters rush to him just as swiftly as he has. They collide against his feet and rush over his legs, crash against his knees and drag the sand from beneath him. All along they hiss, come in, come in, and she says, the water's nice, and he thinks of how cool it feels on his hot skin. How cool it feels, its vapor rushed against his belly that churns with a great hunger.
And oh, gods, is he hungry.
He remembers then, and he can't help but lap in the moonlight and the silver and the brine that rests against her neck when the breeze tangles her hair damply against it. His blood is singing and hers is roaring like the ocean when he takes another step and thinks that the salt of the sea on his tongue when he breathes must not be too unlike the taste of her blood and the thought is as refreshing as it is terrifying. Because he has never tasted anything like her but the precious hot ichor of young men too bold for their own good.
But before he can move more, he is laughing. Its sound is cold, hollow, and dark as a morbid lull on the breeze.
A predator cannot help but think of the ways of weakness, of vulnerability, in its prey. And as he watches her tail whip against the waves and she float among them like a ghost, he thinks of how he had fumbled in the ocean like an adolescent thrown into a pit of snakes. He then thinks of running swiftly over The Wilds, with the wind and the moon and the blood across his chest. Would she run swiftly, across the sand and the brush and the jungle green, as beautifully and tragically as she drifted in the sea like a lounging dryad? He stopped laughing, and a grin dared to tread where his once desolate expression bore her with wonder. It stretched, handsome and devilish, his fangs kneading the soft line of his lips. "too cold, for me."
Not without a wink and a crooked smile he swung, dancing as gracefully as a warrior may, and snatched the limp cat from the sands. Without further hesitation, he dove into the dark of that humming wood, carrying her once-meal far from the roaring sea that sounded too much like a tomb. He thundered on, on, the great cat abreast as it hung from its scruff; and while he dreamt amusedly of angry, beautiful women who floundered on the beach like gasping fish, he was not often one to look back.
@
