7. Cyreus
Cyreus
SEVEN
I n the depths, I stop fighting the transformation I've been suppressing all day. The human form I've worn like an uncomfortable costume begins to dissolve, replaced by my true shape.
The change is both relief and agony. Relief to stop pretending, to let my body assume its natural configuration. Agony because with each shift of flesh and bone, I move further from any possibility of passing as human.
My torso elongates, muscle and sinew flowing into new configurations. Appendages emerge from my core—dozens of them in varying sizes, each one as responsive as a hand, as sensitive as fingertips. My skin deepens to its natural dark red, burgundy undertones rippling with each movement.
This is what I am. What I've always been beneath the careful illusion of humanity.
I rise slowly, giving her time to process what she's seeing. When I break the surface, I keep my distance, ready to flee if her expression changes from wonder to horror .
But when our eyes meet, what I see in her face stops my hearts entirely.
"You're beautiful," she whispers.
Beautiful. In nearly a century on this world, no human has ever used that word to describe my true form. They've screamed, fled, convinced themselves they imagined what they saw. But she sits on her platform, leaning forward with fascination rather than fear, and calls me beautiful.
"You're not afraid," I manage to say.
"Should I be?"
"Most humans would be terrified. Your species has evolutionary fears of creatures like me."
She slides down to sit on the platform's edge, letting her legs dangle in the water. A simple gesture of trust.
"Maybe," she says. "But I've been dreaming about you for a month. This isn't exactly a surprise."
One of my smaller tentacles drifts toward her without conscious direction, hovering just beneath the surface. An invitation. A test. A plea.
"The dreams were real," she says, and it's not a question.
"Yes. I've been entering your sleeping mind, sharing visions with you. I know it was a violation, but I was so lonely, and your dreams welcomed me."
"How long have you been alone?"
The question opens wounds I've spent decades learning to ignore. "Nearly a century. My ship crashed here in the early 1900s. I'm the only survivor. "
Her expression softens with sympathy that makes my chest ache. "Your ship?"
"I'm not from this world. My people sent me here to make peaceful contact with yours, but the mission failed catastrophically. My vessel was destroyed, my crew killed, my technology scattered across the ocean floor."
I watch her process this information, see her quick mind working through the implications. But instead of backing away from the impossibility of it, she leans forward with genuine curiosity.
"What are your people like?"
"We're called the Agual. We come from a world that's mostly ocean, deeper and colder than yours. We're... explorers, I suppose you could say. Ambassadors to other water-bearing worlds."
"And you've been stranded here ever since."
"Yes. Unable to return home, unable to make the contact I was sent to establish." The words carry all the grief and failure I've carried for decades. "Until you."
Her pulse quickens—I can sense it through the water, smell the change in her scent. "What do you mean?"
"You're the first human who's seen me and not fled in terror. The first who's touched my mind in dreams and welcomed the contact. The first who makes me think that perhaps my mission wasn't a complete failure."
My tentacle drifts closer to her dangling feet, and I see the exact moment she notices. Her breath catches, but she doesn't pull away. Instead, she reaches down, extending her hand toward me.
The choice is hers. As it should be.
Her fingers brush against my appendage, and the contact sends electricity through every nerve I possess. Her skin is warm and soft, alien in the best possible way. I curl gently around her hand, not restraining but exploring, marveling at the reality of willing human touch.
"I've imagined this," she admits, color rising in her cheeks. "In the dreams. But this is... this is so much more real."
"The dreams were shadows compared to actual touch." My voice is rougher now, charged with desire I've suppressed for too long. "Would you like to experience those dreams in real life?"
Her breath catches, and I can smell the change in her scent—arousal mixing with anticipation. "What are you asking?"
"I'm asking if you want to feel what you felt in the dreams. Here. Now. With full awareness of what's happening."
Her pupils dilate at my words, and she leans forward slightly, drawn by the same magnetic pull I've been fighting all day.
"Yes," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the sound of approaching thunder.
Thunder rumbles overhead as the storm finally arrives, but here in our sheltered cove, it feels like nature itself is blessing this moment. The first drops of rain begin to fall, warm and gentle, as she reaches toward me with decision clear in her expression.
"Then show me," she says softly. "Show me what the dreams were trying to tell me."