we are slaves to the sirens of the salty sea
She has always liked the darkness. Liked the weight of it as it presses down around her—a physical thing. It reminds her of the belly of the ocean. The way that it can surround you and lift you up. The way that you can feel the endless depths of it as it pushes you to the very brink and yet does not let you trip over it into oblivion. So she smiles when she sees that night is coming. Smiles when she realizes that the too bright sunshine would fade completely and leave her in the aftermath of silvery and milky light.
It is then that she catches the sight of him—or, rather, the idea of him.
He is almost impossible to see, to discern from the shadows, and she feels something lurch in her belly. Perhaps partly fear (she is, after all, a true animal of prey) or curiosity, but it grabs at her and she takes a step forward, her delicate ears turning toward him as her eyes widen. Her lips pull at the corner just slightly at the disembodied voice and she angles her fine head before nodding a little.
“We are of each other,” she says simply. It is impossible to imagine a world where she was not constantly drawn to the water like the tide to the moon. She wishes that she had the words to properly explain that kind of relationship. To try and describe what it was to be of the water. It was not love. At least not like they understand it on land, she knows. But the words fail her and she does not try any further.
“Perhaps the water is to me as the darkness is to you.”
She finds his eyes, the only piece of him that she can find, and holds his gaze steadily.
“Or perhaps not.”
His smile sends a chill racing up her spine.
“You do not strike me as someone who loves anything.”
