Cerastes

The ocean prince permits entrance to the merchant caravan, ordering guards to pull open the doors to the great hall and allow their train of covered wagons inside.

The prince's voice echoes through the hall. "You've come to bring us water?" A smile tugs at his lips.

The head of the merchant caravan looks on thoughtfully. "I don't suppose you have a need for it, no."

"Then why have you approached our city?"


-

When he is around the newcomer, the prince appears his age again. He's tersely discussing new building plans when his companion comes up behind him.

Cerastes lowers his head slightly, dropping his voice to a whisper. "I do not think that is wise."

The ensuing animated argument unexpectedly loosens the tension in their prince, and appears to brighten the room.


-

A cluttered, decrepit house is not a place Cerastes would have chosen to make a trade in, but they're short on time. The current situation is precarious for his supplier.

While swapping merchandise and coin, the fellow wildclaw leans in. "I heard an interesting rumor..."


-

He'd left Cerates seated placidly on the rich, wine-colored cushions to await his return. His eyes blink away daydreams when Jarvis pulls aside the curtain - dark lashes brushing shadows against soft brown cheeks.

All Jarvis can think is: He's beautiful.


-

Christos looks down at him with disdain. "He is not Alrin. He will never be Alrin."

Jarvis tightens his jaw. "I know."


-

Of course, someone has come to stop him. Cerastes huffs, barely slowing his pace - letting them speak, but not bothering to turn back.

The hurried voice carries down the hall. "There is much more to be gained from staying and thinking this through than from your dungeon-delving and trinket-peddling. A treasure far more valuable."

"And what is that?"

"Why - the title of Prince Consort."


-

Cerastes knows the power he holds. He knows how the conversation with Jarvis would go. He can hear it perfectly, in Jarvis' voice: "Of course I trust you"—breathy and sincere, his eyes bright.


-

The moment holds too long - the pause turning shaky and awful. Jarvis looks at Cerastes.

He darts out his tongue and bites his lip - hesitating. "My prince..."

"My prince—I..."

"She made it happen," Jarvis says in awe, swirling the oily iridescent liquid inside the glass tube.


-

He swallows the thick, gel-like substance in gulps, baring his teeth at the taste and the warmth spreading inside his throat.

Jarvis comes forward. "Steady," he calls, and grips his claws.

Cerastes allows himself to be led to the edge of the water, grateful for the splash of icy surf against his skin.

"Keep going," he hears, and Jarvis' wet paws slide to clasp his wrists. Cerastes focuses on them—on their dampness, their shade of cool blue-green. He tries to push away the discomfort and his awareness of the bright, bright sun.


-

The process takes days.

Jarvis leads them to a space in the shallows nestled under a cliff—a quiet, shadowy pool.

Cerastes can barely eat. He sits with his head bowed and grits his teeth against the cramping, skittering, itching pain.

He pictures himself swimming, breathing, floating just under the surface of the water in the muffled quiet, watching the dappled sunlight with new eyes—

Water splashes around him as another surge of pain makes him duck and coil.


-

When Cerastes wakes, he feels clear-headed. He can breathe easy. He can move.

A strange stretching makes him jerk his head to look behind him. The wings on his back have turned orange—webbed fins now swaying in their place. They shimmer and shine, reflecting light back onto the water.