Chapter Text
He comes here often: to the coastline. Hurriedly rushing out of his café after closing, often early during slow afternoons, Sandalphon gathers himself and camps on the lowest rock face to the water; for every wave crashing onto those rock formations, the noise replays in his dreams, and in them Sandalphon feels unabridged comfort. He has grown up here, telling the ocean secrets that would likely never grace the ears of another person. Never before in his life has he felt so at peace than when he sits at the mouth of this bay, lighthouse in the distance to guide him back home after night falls. The sunset today is still a few hours off, though the chilling breeze of spring tempts him to follow the path back inland a bit earlier than usual.
While most of Sandalphon’s time is spent in thought, or in the yellowed pages of a book, there always comes a time in the day when he cannot help but look out. He is not so sure of what he expects to find under the surface of the water; he has learned through the years that even if he speaks aloud, he is not given an answer, so what, then? As mesmerizing as the light can be while it bounces off of the peaks, and as blue as it is stained even in the distance, Sandalphon can only come to the conclusion that he is waiting for something. And in all the disdain he holds for the sorry life he lives, there is a strange hope deep in his chest that one day, all of his waiting will have been worthwhile.
Escapism can be a dangerous thing. There are very few souls close enough to know even a fraction of his life at this point… Yes, to everyone in this small town, Sandalphon is an enigmatic figure, and as much as select kindhearted people may try, there are none left standing at his side. To be so lonesome...
There are not many others who come to this side of the beach. Most of them gather north of the lighthouse, close to the wharf; just south of the bay where Sandalphon sits is a steep rock face where the seaside comes to an end, supposedly known for its spontaneous landslides during the storming season. Supposedly , because Sandalphon has never seen it with his own eyes, and he truly does spend most of his time here— but he enjoys the simplicity in being alone, so he is mostly thankful that others tend to stay away.
...Still, considering the above, he does not tend to glare or scoff when he does see someone else. It is not unheard of; just uncommon. Most come and pass within minutes, and if not, an hour at most— but on this day, his company in the distance concerns him: the most rare thing of all for the solitary Sandalphon.
Holding himself in the cold wind, evening creeping with orange tinge to paint the very edge of the ocean’s horizon, he spots a contrasting head of white hair against dark sand. Previously, out of the corner of his eye, he suspected the glint of white to be a collection of shells, or bleached rocks, or perhaps even fish bones... but much more feathered in texture. After squinting and focusing, he sees that it moves with the wind. Against the sand, what look like shoulders move up and down in the same rhythm that might indicate breathing . A person.
The water’s edge covers the lower half of their body, but Sandalphon can see it now: the outline of a full torso. Who would swim when it’s this cold?
He stands in an instant, and then he hesitates. The sudden urge to come to their aid is overwhelming even when he thinks twice about it: that they are not in trouble at all, and that he might embarrass himself from the confusing encounter. But with every wave washing up, he swears that he sees a pool of red collecting underneath them, staining the sand and lingering in the foam. And when the pieces click together, he breaks into a run.
Notwithstanding his knowledge of things like band aids and first aid kits (being the owner of a café, he spends a great deal of time overseeing his small kitchen staff), Sandalphon is not sure what to do when he falls to his knees at the side of the injured person. They lay facing away from him breathing almost silently, clearly unconscious, yet defensively holding what Sandalphon assumes to be the source of all the blood. Just below the ribs… What a painful place to get so hurt.
He can see careful silhouettes of bone beneath the skin. Thin— but no, the muscle around their biceps hint that they are merely lean . Like someone who runs, or swims, regularly. Sandalphon figures that this falls in line with finding them washed up here on the beach… but if they had been a regular swimmer, they should have known to wear a wetsuit, right? As truly mild as the day is in comparison to normal wind chills of this season, swimming with bare skin in water that cold is reckless, foolish, irresponsible.
A deep, uneasy feeling wells in his stomach. He looks up; the top of the nearest ocean cliff is not far off. It is not difficult to guess that with a single strong gust, this person could have landed on the sand instead of the path of rocks that dot the border of the ocean to the steep wall. From well over one hundred feet up, could they have even survived?
Gingerly, he tries to lift them from the sand into his arms, at first cradling their shoulders, and then moving their right arm to—
To…!
The push and pull of the tide slows enough for Sandalphon to see that there are no legs to hold, but instead, bright, smooth scales. They shine a gleaming white against the setting sun, at their very dullest glowing so silver that they look tinted with blue. His hand pauses; thinned streams of blood stain the blend of human skin and a fish’s tail.
Sandalphon is almost scared to touch them. But clearly, they do not hesitate in touching him, as shortly after making the discovery, he feels a wet, cold hand against his cheek.
Weak eyes catch Sandalphon’s. It becomes difficult for himself to breathe, but their eyes only flicker open for a few seconds— there is little time to waste in saving their life, and Sandalphon has already chosen to make this commitment. Anxiously, he checks behind and around them before lifting them into his arms. As long as no one else can see, the two of them would be safe.
Whatever this person was, seeing them reminded him of…
…
There is a hidden alcove further down the coast that Sandalphon rushes off to: a place where the tide gathers into pools, and the break in the seashore keeps most other people from entering. But he is far used to the pattern in the rocks. As a young boy, he skipped along this narrow path more times than he could count, in spite of the many warnings he always received. It is the distance itself that wears down on him; with only a fraction of a mile left, and the light beginning to fall low in the sky, he knows he will collapse soon. That ache in his muscles... Pulling sacks of flour and heavy crates of plates could not hold a candle to the extra weight of such a large tail.
His company did not speak, but they could see the struggle in his step. Hold on, they wanted to say. The sun… it won’t set anytime soon, but please—
Sandalphon’s knee gives way, nearly sending them both into the current. The opening of the cave is just at the end of the straight, he sees now, going back and forth from the cave to the creature’s face. With a single look, the creature understands his intention, and is much more forgiving than another might have been when, upon the attempt to stand again, Sandalphon instead loses his balance and his grip on the life he had intended to save. Together, they fall. He cannot remember his last thought; almost instantly, he hits his head on one of the pointed rocks beneath.
Perhaps it is the coming night tide that intensifies each wave, or the absence of a sandy break in the rocks, but against the sharp edges, the creature feels that their situation is much more dire. Why would a human choose to save something so strange? Something so unheard of? Even if they have the face of a human, it is clear that they lead a very different life— one that this human has had no way of knowing. And still...
The creature cannot leave him to die. With the last of their strength, they swim into the alcove, but not before securing Sandalphon in a close embrace. Sharks are sure to follow, the creature thinks. I’ve been bleeding into open water for what feels like hours. But there’s… a shore in here…? He knew all along… a perfect place to hide.
Who are you?
As they lay Sandalphon onto the flat surface of sand within the cave, they take a careful look down at him. Soft, brown hair. A surprisingly peaceful expression— he had looked so worried when he carried them across the rocks. The hit against the side of his head did not look so serious; they gathered a small bed of seaweed to act as a bandage, to which they began to sing.
In Sandalphon’s dreams, he can hear the song, and he can feel something hot against his head. Blood? No… he cannot feel any pain. It feels more like a hand holding him in place. In the throes of his unconscious dreams, he knows he cannot protest, so instead he lays in blissful sleep. The sound of the ocean is close.
For hours, the creature sings, ignoring what could only be described as a burning, searing pain in their side. That thing they had been hit with… what was it? A regular spear could not have done so much damage beneath the water’s current, not to them. A creature of their nature takes their very magic from the tide, and the waves… but on this day, they were left to drift in pain. The moon will rise soon, they think. It will rise soon and I can make more of a difference for him.
I wonder what he dreams of all the while.
I wonder what he’ll think in the morning.
In his dreams, Sandalphon sits on the coastline alone, as he usually does. There is no one to disturb the sand behind him or up the shore.
Out into the usually barren ocean, there is a head of white hair, and two bright blue-gray eyes looking back.
He stares out, but before he can blink twice, the person sinks back beneath the water, and the remainder of his dreams swirl into blackness.