16. Cyreus
Cyreus
SIXTEEN
I watch from the depths as Meri's boat disappears toward the harbor, her running lights fading into darkness. The taste of her distress lingers in the water around me, mixed with exhaustion and what I recognize as frustration.
She's frustrated with me, though she tried to hide it behind practical concerns and gentle words. I offered her everything I could give, yet she rejected it as if I'd insulted her rather than tried to show my devotion.
I don't understand.
On Agual V, when mates bond, they share everything—resources, territory, survival itself. The stronger partner provides for the weaker, ensuring their genetic line continues and their pod thrives. It's not charity or dependence; it's the natural way of a successful pairing.
But Meri views my offers as threats to something she calls her "independence," as if accepting my help would somehow diminish her. The concept makes no sense to me. How can partnership diminish either of us? How can love weaken rather than strengthen?
I settle onto the sandy bottom of the cove, replaying our conversation and trying to understand where I went wrong.
She said I was treating her like a pet, which stung more than I expected.
That wasn't my intention at all. I just wanted to solve her problems so we could focus on building our life together.
The insurance payment she's worried about equals maybe three or four pieces of salvage from the deeper wrecks I know.
The Coast Guard investigation would be meaningless if she no longer needed to work the restricted waters—I could provide her with enough treasure from international zones to make her financially secure for decades.
These solutions seem obvious to me. Logical. Efficient.
So why does she refuse them?
I rise toward the surface, letting my natural glow illuminate the empty cove.
Tomorrow she'll return, and we'll try again to navigate these confusing human concepts.
Maybe if I approach it differently, explain how my people view partnership and sharing resources, she'll understand that I'm not trying to diminish her but to strengthen us both.
The radio chatter from her boat has been constant since she returned to harbor—voices I recognize from months of watching, people checking on her and discussing her absence.
Fergus, the antique dealer who's like family to her.
Charlie Morrison, the harbor master who's been handling Coast Guard questions.
Other fishermen and divers who've noticed her unusual behavior.
She has a community, I realize. A network of humans who care about her wellbeing and notice when her patterns change. The thought should please me—she's not as alone as I thought—but instead it makes me uneasy.
These people will ask questions. They'll want explanations for her recent distraction, her failure to check in, the changes in her routine that my presence has caused.
And what can she tell them? That she's in love with an alien creature who lives in the depths?
That her equipment failures weren't accidents but the result of my careless interventions in her world?
They'd think she was suffering from decompression sickness or hallucinations. They'd push for medical evaluation, psychological assessment, maybe even hospitalization. The very community that cares for her could destroy our connection if they knew the truth.
Another problem that could be solved if she would just accept my help. If she had enough resources to disappear from their scrutiny, to create a new life that didn't need explanations or justifications, we could be together without the constant threat of exposure.
But she won't hear of it. Her pride, her independence, her need to "earn" her survival—these human concepts that make no biological sense—matter more to her than our future together .
I spend hours circling the cove, trying to understand these alien ideas that seem to matter so much to the woman I love.
Independence. Self-reliance. Pride in earning one's way rather than accepting what's freely offered.
None of it exists in my culture, where survival depends on collective effort and resources are shared according to need.
But I'm not in my culture anymore. I'm in hers. And if I want to build a life with Meri, I need to understand what motivates her choices, even when they seem illogical to me.
As the night deepens, I begin thinking of a new approach. Maybe instead of offering to solve her problems completely, I can find ways to help that respect her strange need for autonomy. Maybe instead of presenting complete solutions, I can offer resources she can use in her own way.
Maybe I can learn to love her as she is, rather than trying to make her life fit my understanding of how things should be.
It's a difficult concept, fundamentally at odds with how my people view partnership. But Meri is worth the effort. Worth the discomfort of adapting to a worldview that seems unnecessarily complex and risky.
By morning, I've settled into an uneasy acceptance that our relationship will require more compromise than I'd anticipated. More willingness to let her face challenges I could easily eliminate. More patience with human concepts that make no evolutionary sense to me.
I wait in our cove, rehearsing what I'll say when she returns. How I'll try to explain my perspective while acknowledging hers. How we can find middle ground that satisfies both our needs.
But as the sun climbs higher and the morning stretches into afternoon, I begin to realize that she might not be coming. That perhaps our disagreement meant more to her than I understood. That perhaps I've already damaged what we were trying to build.
The thought sends cold dread through my core. After a century of isolation, I've found the one being who sees me—truly sees me—and accepts what I am. I can't lose her now, not over a cultural misunderstanding about resources and independence.
I wait until sundown, hope fading with each passing hour. When it becomes clear that she isn't coming today, I make a decision I never thought I would make.
I'm going to her.
Swimming into the harbor after dark is risky, but I need to see her. Need to understand why she hasn't returned. Need to make sure she's safe and that our connection hasn't been irreparably damaged by my ignorance of human relationship dynamics.
I approach her boat cautiously, staying deep until I'm directly beneath it. The lights are on in the cabin, but I don't sense her presence aboard. Deep Pockets sits empty at her dock, secured for the night but unoccupied.
Where is she?
I drift through the harbor, keeping to the shadows as I search for any sign of her. The familiar scent of her skin, her hair, anything that might lead me to her location. But the harbor water is thick with engine oil and human waste, masking any trace of her unique signature.
Hours pass as I circle the marina, growing increasingly desperate with each circuit. Something is wrong. She should be here, on her boat, where she always sleeps. The absence feels deliberate, as if she's avoiding not just me but her normal patterns.
As dawn approaches, I'm forced to retreat to deeper water before the increased boat traffic makes concealment impossible. I leave without answers, without seeing her, without any resolution to the questions tormenting me.
Has she abandoned me? Is she in trouble? Did my cultural misunderstanding drive her away completely?
I return to our cove, settling onto the sandy bottom to wait once more. If she comes today, I'll be here. Ready to explain, to listen, to find a way forward that honors both our needs.
And if she doesn't come...
The thought is too painful to complete. After a century alone, I can't bear the idea of returning to that isolation. Not when I've tasted connection. Not when I've held her in my arms and felt, for the first time since the crash, that I might have found a home on this alien world.
I'll wait for her. Days if necessary. Weeks. Whatever it takes to bridge the gap between our worlds and find our way back to each other.