3. Cyreus
Cyreus
THREE
I observe her from the depths, concealed among rocky formations that have sheltered me for decades.
The human female returns to these waters with persistence that simultaneously intrigues and troubles me. She remains unaware of my presence—few humans detect me, and those who glimpse my form dismiss it as shadow or optical illusion.
But she stands apart from others.
Her vessel cuts the surface overhead as I ascend cautiously, keeping to darker currents where my body melds with underwater shadows.
The craft she named Deep Pockets mirrors its captain—weathered yet resilient, patched but seaworthy.
For months I've watched her dive with expertise rivaling creatures evolved for these pressures.
Today she anchors above the remains of Caroline's Dream.
This merchant vessel has lain here since winter 1943, when storms claimed both ship and seventeen souls.
I witnessed her sinking—those screams silenced by frigid water, lights swallowed by unforgiving depths.
During the early years after my own crash, I attempted to rescue drowning humans when possible.
Yet storms never ceased, and vessels continued claiming the sea's benevolence while evidence suggested otherwise.
I learned simply to watch. To maintain distance. To rescue when I could and to let the sea take the ones I couldn't.
I learned to merely watch human affairs without intervention.
Until this one.
She moves deliberately overhead, examining equipment she's utilized countless times. Sunlight filtering through storm clouds catches her auburn hair, and despite sixty feet of separation, I detect her unease. Something has disrupted her pattern.
I advance closer, my body flowing through transformations that would horrify most surface dwellers.
In natural form, I comprise dark red flesh and powerful appendages, each tentacle capable of pulverizing steel or executing movements requiring surgical precision.
My home world Agual V produced us for environments far deeper and darker than Earth's oceans, yet these waters have sustained me through decades since my ship's destruction.
The crash. Nearly a century later, remembering still produces anguish in my hearts.
My vessel lies fragmented across the seabed, irreparably shattered.
Communication arrays that might have summoned rescue were obliterated first. Navigation systems that could have guided me home exist now as twisted metal and fused circuitry. My shipmates all lost.
I remain this world's solitary visitor. The sole survivor of a mission intended to establish peaceful first contact with Earth's dominant species.
Instead, I've become a silent observer, studying humanity through careful observation and rare, calculated interactions with those who mistake me for their kind.
The woman begins descending, prompting my retreat to a safer distance. She moves through water with economical grace born from years of practice. Pressure changes that would incapacitate untrained humans present no challenge as she navigates toward the wreck by instinct and experience.
I understand her attraction to these waters. Salvage provides livelihood, certainly, but deeper motivations drive her here. She seeks something beneath the surface—perhaps answers, or simply that rare tranquility found where terrestrial concerns cannot penetrate.
This need resonates with me. Ocean depths have served as my sanctuary too, where crushing solitude momentarily dissipates through simple immersion in waters that accept my true form.
She reaches the wreck and commences methodical investigation, employing the metal detector that reveals objects invisible to unaided perception. I've witnessed previous discoveries—jewelry, coins, artifacts she retrieves and eventually exchanges. This process confounds me.
On Agual V, resources circulate according to necessity. Human concepts of ownership and trading objects for survival rights remain incomprehensible despite decades studying them.
Yet other aspects of human nature grow clearer to me .
Her movements when believing herself unobserved. Precise maintenance of equipment, treating tools as bodily extensions. Satisfaction upon discovering valuable items, and determination compelling her repeatedly into perilous situations.
And the dreams.
Unintentionally, I've entered her sleeping consciousness these past weeks, drawn by solitude mirroring my own.
Initially mere curiosity—what experiences shape human unconscious states?
But her dreams called to me unexpectedly, and I returned night after night, sharing visions that intensified with each encounter.
This violates ethical principles. My people strictly forbid mental intrusion without explicit consent.
Yet my isolation spans generations, and her mind welcomes contact while her waking thoughts remain unaware of its source.
In dreams, my true form inspires fascination rather than fear.
In dreams, she meets my touch with desire instead of terror.
In dreams, isolation ceases.
She works steadily through the wreck below, discovering items her detector identifies as valuable. A pocket watch, tarnished but functional. A brass compass permanently disoriented. Personal effects belonging to humans who perished decades before her birth.
I wonder if she contemplates them—lives extinguished, aspirations terminated beneath these waves. Humans demonstrate remarkable empathy when inclined, though they exhibit cruelties that would disgrace even the most terrible predators from my world.
She shows no cruelty. Months of observation reveal only competence, determination, and solitude that echoes mine.
When storms drive others to shelter, she remains afloat.
When regulations force dangerous compromises, she adapts rather than surrenders.
She survives as I survive, shaped by circumstances neither of us controlled.
Her detector guides her to the cargo hold, where she uncovers silver serving pieces that will command reasonable prices from her antique dealer associate that I’ve heard her speaking to on the radio.
Trust develops reluctantly for her. Another commonality between us.
As she collects findings and prepares to ascend, larger vessels of red and white register on my awareness. Distinctive signatures of authority craft approach. The Coast Guard has located her again, and even from below, I detect her sudden tension as she realizes her predicament.
I could assist her. My abilities would easily create distractions, confuse their instruments, ensure her untroubled escape. But such intervention would provoke questions I cannot answer. Better to remain concealed, observing as I have for decades.
She manages the encounter skillfully, deflecting suspicion and avoiding charges that might destroy her livelihood.
Her quick thinking impresses me, along with her ability to control fear without surrendering to it.
When the Coast Guard vessels finally depart, her relief mingles with frustration.
This encounter will complicate future salvage attempts, forcing greater risks or alternative locations.
Storm systems intensify overhead as she returns to harbor. I follow at safe depth, maintaining undetectable distance. Swells grow and skies darken, promising severe conditions that keep most humans ashore.
But she will return. She always comes back to these waters, drawn by forces similar to those binding me here. The ocean beckons us both, offering solitude and challenge in equal measure.
As her vessel disappears toward the harbor, I settle onto a sandy substrate and evaluate options. Our shared dreams intensify nightly, and soon she'll question their origin. Human minds create elaborate explanations for experiences defying rational understanding, but such self-deception has limits.
What happens when she discovers the truth? When she comprehends that the tentacled being from her dreams actually exists, inhabiting waters she considers her workspace?
Most humans would retreat in terror. Evolutionary history conditioned them to fear unknowns, avoid entities contradicting their conception of natural order.
Yet she differs from her species. Her defiance toward authority, willingness to work alone in hazardous environments, apparent comfort with the ocean's more forbidding aspects—these suggest she might respond uniquely.
Or perhaps I delude myself, projecting desperate solitude onto someone incapable of accepting my reality.
Storm intensity increases above, driving me deeper where currents carry surface world whispers.
Tonight she'll dream again, and I'll be present, sharing visions increasingly tangible with each encounter.
Perhaps tonight I'll reveal more of myself, testing whether her sleeping acceptance might extend into conscious awareness.
Or perhaps I'll continue as before, content with borrowed moments of connection that temporarily ease the vastness of isolation between worlds.
The ocean envelops me like a familiar embrace, dark and welcoming yet empty of companionship except for dream echoes shared with a woman unaware of my existence.
But awareness approaches.
Soon, circumstances will force our meeting, and I'll discover whether decades of isolation continue indefinitely or if redemption awaits through a human who challenges depths with determination mirroring my own.
An idea materializes, strange yet compelling. I've witnessed her delight in small treasures recovered from wrecks. The spark in her eyes when the detector signals discovery. Satisfaction radiating when she surfaces with objects sustaining her peculiar human economy.
I know where greater treasures lie. During decades traversing these waters, I've documented dozens of shipwrecks, observed precious metals and gems scattered across the ocean floor.
Items beyond her reach, resting at depths that would crush human physiology or in crevices too narrow for her equipment.
I could deliver these gifts that I have found during my long time alone.
Position them where her searches would naturally discover them, arranged as though currents had conveniently deposited them.
She would never suspect deliberate placement—humans excel at constructing rational explanations for impossible coincidences.
This approach feels right in ways I cannot articulate.
On Agual V, courtship involves presenting rare minerals from abyssal trenches, offerings demonstrating both devotion and ability to provide for offspring.
Perhaps the human custom of valuing recovered objects serves a similar function in their mating practices.
Yes! I will court her as my species courts, with gifts resonating with human conceptions of value and beauty. Tomorrow, when she returns to these waters—and return she will, regardless of storm conditions—she'll discover treasures exceeding expectations.
I watch tempests rage above while settling deeper into darkness, planning initial offerings that might span the impossible distance between our worlds.