11. Cyreus
Cyreus
ELEVEN
I watch her from the depths, hidden among the rocky outcroppings that have sheltered me for decades. For three days now, she has returned to these waters with a persistence that both breaks my three hearts and fills me with a longing I'd forgotten I could feel.
She doesn't know I'm here. I've made certain of that, staying deep enough to avoid detection while close enough to reach her if danger threatens.
But watching her call my name to the empty surface, seeing hope drain from her voice with each unanswered plea, inflicts a torment I never imagined possible.
On the first day, I nearly surfaced when she said my name. The sound carried down through the water like a prayer, and every instinct I possess urged me to respond. But I forced myself to remain hidden, telling myself it was for her own good.
She deserves better than a creature who nearly killed her through selfish carelessness. Better than someone whose very touch endangers her. Better than a being so desperate for connection that he would claim her without fully explaining what that means.
The second day was worse. I could sense her growing distress, hear the frustration building in her voice as she attempted diving, then abandoned the effort when the water yielded nothing. Every part of me wanted to wrap her in my arms, to show her I hadn't truly left.
But I stayed in the shadows, watching her pain and telling myself it was temporary. That she would heal from our brief connection and return to her normal life. That I was protecting her from a choice she couldn't fully comprehend.
I was wrong.
Yesterday, when she spoke with the human male on the dock—Fergus, whose presence I sometimes sense when the wind carries his scent—I heard something in her voice that created a painful tightness in my chest. The same loneliness that has defined my existence for nearly a century.
The same desperate search for connection that drove me to enter her dreams.
I am not protecting her. I am destroying her.
When she returned for the third time, I followed her approach with growing concern. She moved differently, spoke differently. Hope was draining from her, replaced by resignation that tainted the water surrounding her boat.
I couldn't bear it.
I rose closer to the surface than I had dared, close enough that my movement disturbed the water near her stern. When she rushed to the rail and whispered my name, I nearly revealed myself completely. The longing in her voice nearly shattered every rational thought I had about maintaining distance.
But fear prevailed. I retreated to the depths before she could see me, leaving her with nothing but ripples and false hope.
Now, I sense her approaching again. This visit carries a different quality. Something final. As if she has reached a decision that will change everything between us.
I rise carefully, staying deep enough to avoid detection but close enough to hear her clearly. Her boat appears overhead, the familiar silhouette of Deep Pockets cutting through the surface swells.
She cuts the engine and drops anchor. No eagerness, no anticipation. Just the methodical actions of someone completing necessary procedures.
For long minutes, she sits in silence. Her scent reaches me through the water—salt and woman and something uniquely hers, now layered with a sadness that creates an ache within me.
When she finally speaks, her voice has changed. Quieter. Resigned.
"I don't know if you're real," she says to the water. "I don't know if any of it happened. But if it did... if you're listening..."
She pauses, drawing a shaky breath.
"I understand why you haven't come back. Maybe what happened between us was just... adrenaline. Or gratitude. Or me projecting something onto a near-death experience." Her voice steadies, as if she's rehearsed these words. "Whatever it was, I get it. You don't owe me anything. "
The pain in her voice is unbearable. She believes I've rejected her. That our connection meant nothing. That I saved her life only to abandon her when she sought meaning in what we shared.
"I just want you to know that it meant something to me," she continues. "Even if it was all in my head, even if I imagined most of it... it was the most real thing I've ever felt. So thank you. For whatever it was."
No. She has it completely wrong. What we shared was the most profound experience of my very long life. The first time in a century that I felt truly connected to another being. The first time I understood what my people mean when they speak of bonding—finding another soul that complements your own.
But she believes I used her and discarded her.
I cannot let her leave believing that.
I rise slowly through the water, my three hearts racing as I approach the surface. Every rational thought warns me this is a mistake, that I should let her go and accept the solitude that has been my companion for so long. But the sound of her pain overrides every logical argument.
She deserves the truth. Even if it drives her away permanently.
I break the surface twenty feet from her boat, keeping only my head and shoulders visible. Human enough not to frighten her, but clearly myself.
Her breath catches when she sees me, her knuckles whitening where she grips the rail. For a moment, neither of us speaks. We simply stare at each other across the water that has both connected and divided us.
"You came back," I say, my voice cracking with emotion I haven't allowed myself to feel for three days.
"You were here," she replies, accusation mingling with relief in her tone. "You were here the whole time, weren't you?"
I nod, unable to deny it. "Yes."
"Why?" The single word carries three days' worth of pain and confusion. "Why didn't you answer when I called?"
How do I explain the fear that consumed me after our encounter? The way her blue lips and shaking hands haunted my thoughts? The growing certainty that loving me would destroy her?
"Because I was afraid," I admit. "Afraid that what happened between us was a mistake that could have killed you."
"But it didn't kill me."
"You nearly died of hypothermia because I lost myself in touching you, neglecting your wellbeing. Because my need for connection made me risk your life for my own selfish desires."
She studies me for a long moment, then does something unexpected. She laughs.
"You idiot," she says, but there's affection in her voice alongside the exasperation. "I nearly died because I chose to stay in the water with you. Because what we were doing felt more important than being safe or smart or careful."
"Meri." I begin, but she cuts me off with a decisive gesture .
"I haven't survived two decades of solo diving by letting others decide my risk tolerance.
" She leans forward, her gaze unwavering.
"I'm a grown woman who's been navigating dangerous waters since before you knew I existed.
I know the risks, and I accepted them. What happened wasn't your fault—it was my choice. "
The certainty in her voice undermines every justification I've built for staying away. But there are still truths she doesn't understand, choices she hasn't been asked to make.
"You don't know what you're choosing," I say.
"Three days ago, I thought I was losing my mind. I couldn't work, couldn't sleep, couldn't think about anything except whether you were real. Whether what we shared actually happened or if I'd finally cracked under the pressure of too many years alone."
She stands up, moving to the edge of the platform where she can see me clearly.
"The only thing that's scared me this week is the possibility of never seeing you again. That I'd spend the rest of my life wondering what might have been."
The hope in her voice creates an almost unbearable pressure within me.
For three days, I convinced myself that staying away was the noble choice, the selfless act of a creature who loved her too much to claim her.
But looking at her now, seeing the pain my absence has caused, I realize how wrong I was.
I wasn't protecting her. I was protecting myself from the possibility of rejection .
"I've been alone for so long," I admit. "I don't know how to navigate this. How to be what you need without destroying what you are."
"Then we'll figure it out together," she says, echoing words she spoke in the cave that feels like a lifetime ago. "But first, you need to come closer. I'm tired of shouting across twenty feet of water."
Despite the fear, the uncertainty, the knowledge that this choice will change both our lives irrevocably, I find myself swimming toward her. Toward the connection I've craved for a century. Toward the woman who calls me beautiful and chooses me despite every rational reason to run.
"Closer," she says when I stop just out of reach. "Close enough to touch."
I drift near her platform, close enough that she could reach out and trace the line of my jaw if she wanted. Close enough to catch her scent, to see the determination in her eyes, to understand that she's not going to let me retreat again.
"Better," she says softly. "Now we can talk properly."
But talking from the water while she stands on the platform still feels like maintaining distance. Like keeping one foot in the world I can retreat to if this goes wrong.
I allow the transformation to flow through me, my true form dissolving back into the human shape that has become comfortable around her .
As I take my human form, I allow myself to hope that this magnificent, stubborn human is exactly what I've been waiting for my entire long life.