Salt water laps at boots, steadily higher as the tide draws; and wind wills it. Muddy hues mindlessly scour- not truly looking, but observing, as the storm throws spray. He's all but salt crusted, the dark pigment around his eyes pulling tight as saline dries, eyes a permanent squint. He hadn't bothered to scrub his boots prior to walking down the docks- the evidence of his trials plastered there, on black leather.
Blood, and mud. Debris that swirled into the water, as he haunted the ocean's edge. It was not something he'd grown accustomed to, this aching wanting that he so greedily hoarded- back curled to inner hate.
He didn't know how long he sat, as it began to drizzle and the water licked up his midcalf- as though ravenous to pull him in. Or how long he stayed there, for his legs to hurt, and his back to pinch when it straightened.
He 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 to spy that circling fin; and a mask of falu pulchritudinous familiarity. So akin to his own- and with great blue hues beneath; analytical and unimaginably intelligent. Sharp nails and teeth he'd only spied that one fateful day- sharp enough to dissect with bare movement of the jaw.
He 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 the blood to alert him- whoever he was. Wanted to see yet again, that dusty grey, slice through the water toward him. His heart- and his freakish mind, so attuned to this- being, this beauty, that could tear him to pieces if he wanted. A heavy sigh, had boots scuffling against wood, as he arose; soaked feet and stinging eyes, to make the trudge back, turning from the view. Missing, the trilateral shape that sluiced lazily towards the dock.
And he likely wouldn't ever have known, if it wasn't for the wet thud that sounded; slapping against wood with finality that had him rounding; to be greeted by ghoulish red features, and perhaps the biggest mackerel he'd ever lain eyes upon, artfully skewered through the eye, on an imposing metal tipped spear.
@s0fter-sin <3
It became routine; almost a form of worship. When time and duty freed him, to pad down that dingy dock, familiarised with the instability of particular slats. More than once, he'd arrived lugging something dead; a sacrificial offering, it felt; watching as water consumed what which he would bring. More than once, that sleek spear arrived, bearing upon its head an offering. The mackerel, first. A small shark, next. Then a sea snake, its jewel coloured body contorted.
Simon stared down at the inky water, sloshing frigid against the beams of the pier, his reflection taunting him. He bore no bloody gift today, but in his curled fist, a gift all the same. He waited, huddling in on himself against the wind, sitting at the end of that pier as he always did. In bare half an hour, that lazy approach began. Unhurried movements, and eventually, a head rising beyond the water to stare. Brown and blue, meeting, until he ducked beneath the water again, coming closer.
He'd tried telling Simon his name once- a hissing sound, with an abrupt end; but it had to be downplayed to be ease on the tongue. Simon gave him a name. Johnny. Just as Johnny gave him one, he'd recognised. The sound that he made, when his head again broached the surface; that rufescent skull angled up in the waves between his dangling feet.
Simon swallowed, let his hand unfurl, dipping it between knees to push metal against Johnny's hand, watching the tilting of that head. A necklace. A token, really. Jewel-like scales, imprisoned behind glass, bound in metal. One of the snake's fangs, the centrepiece. Recognition gleamed in those aquamarine hues, which turned to stare at him again.
Simon shifted, feeling dissected by that cutting gaze, pulling the matching token from beneath his collar, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. Silence, and stillness, prevailed for several moments; long enough that he began to worry. Then, all too quickly, movement. Clawed hands upon his knees, and the pressure of weight upon his chest. His hands went to sheaths. Toppling backwards, thumping against creaking wood, as a slippery, imposing figure loomed over him. It took several moments for him to realise John wasn't looming- he'd paused. A blade nicking against his throat- held by Simon's own shaking hand. A hand that pulled away, in unsteady realisation.
Again, John moved, slower, now. His mask, bumping against Simon's own, foreheads meeting. Simon felt a palm, still cradling the token, pressing down where his heart should be.
