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In his chant laid a trap.
An invitation de rigueur on a golden envelope, sealed with the velvety waxed stamp of life and with the addressee’s name fancily handwritten by Death. The delivery was the coup de grace for anyone who would listen, a lethal correspondence with no return address. From the moment the sound of his voice reached a human’s ears, they would be welcomed into an illusion of cordiality; glowy visions of stepping into an Eden of whatever they wanted to see.
Shiro would sing to them about sex. About an embrace, or a kiss, sometimes nothing short of a caress; whatever he saw that their souls craved. Shiro would answer their prayers without them preaching ahead, and would make his victims kneel before him as a new beloved deity to be worshipped until the water filled their lungs and the flesh was ripped from their corpses.
While his features were predominantly of human nature for the sake of camouflage, his jaw was slack, mouth unable to close due to the size of his fangs, spikes of white marble poking out, his eyes round and as black as the water he resided in. His skin was of a mystical snowy alabaster, so clear that the glowing blue veins underneath the layers were visible. Along his pale neck, gills slashed the skin in elegant cuts, repeated in a linear pattern down the sides of his ribcage. Hair an onyx-iodine color was slick against his skull save for the patch of white that flopped over his forehead. The pattern traced by the gills led downwards to a fully-scaled, dark oil-purple tail with years-old scars too faded to hurt, forgotten with the tide, and once wounded dorsals and caudal fins as majestic as any deep-sea creature. His fingers, bony and long, were united by nearly see-through webbings, his nails sharpened by ravished bones. An overly long tongue ran across the digits to taste the last of his meal.
Shiro was a monster, and that much he knew. The reflection on the fetid water showed him as he was, the image of myths and legends, of nightmares and fairytales, of sleepless hours and midnight horrors. The guilty party behind broken dams and lost items, the drowner of animals and the seductive voice behind a wife that never comes home after doing the laundry by the river, a son lost to the water, or a man seeking a shortcut to death. No one, in their perfect minds, would look at him and see more than what he showed.
But he couldn’t consider himself to be as atrocious and vile as whatever made a little boy cry.
In the quietude of the lake, small hiccups of a child disturbed otherwise unrelenting peace. The waters wavered as the slick scales of Shiro’s lower half swam past in slow strokes. Near the shore, little bare feet almost touched the water but didn’t dare to poke at the cold, legs pulled up to the chest and head buried between the knees. The boy’s fists groped at the fabric of his shirt, tugging out of the pure desperation of holding back a yell.
Shiro didn’t approach the human too closely, just enough to make out the clear crystals that poured from indigo eyes—to witness as they snaked down puffy red cheeks.
In centuries of living, Shiro had seen quite a wide range of situations unique to the species; disrespectful fucks taking a piss in waters that didn’t belong to them, stray children stepping too close to the shore, a young lady out for a swim in the middle of the night, a heartbroken man seeking an end to his pitiful life by tying a noose on a tree. Humans were complex in their emotions, be it bewilderment, adventure, selfishness or despair.
But the unfathomable helplessness, anguish and torment that filled the tears of this child, no older than eight, was simply abysmal. It caused Shiro to retreat - was it pity, was it fear? - sinking into the shiny freezing surface that was his home, so that only his glassy eyes would peek through.
Maybe he could help this boy.
His instincts told him to stay put and take advantage of the unaware victim that had been given by chance. Seize the child, invite him for a quick little swim with the promise that everything would be all right if he were to just listen to the pacific underwater wonderland that awaited him in the depths of the icy lake. Convince the boy to hold his breath just long enough for a peek, let him marvel at the sparkles of pearls and gold and colour and let him catch his breath.
The second time he'd dive in, he wouldn't be as lucky as to paddle back up again. Then the cold would chill his bones, constrict the blood vessels, tighten the muscles until a single yank of a leg or a stroke of an arm would prove too painful, swimming back up for a breath impossible, mouth agape out of carelessness - a mistake, he would realize then. Water would replace air and the lungs would become swarmed of liquid. A claw would grab at his leg, a weight to drag him further down, much like the oxygen levels, little young heart rapidly struggling and ceasing to effectively pump blood until it just...
Stopped.
If Shiro were lucky, he mused, running his tongue across the front of his teeth, he would sink his fangs into the youngster's carotid and have a taste of life before it greyed into an inanimate meal.
Such was the way of the Vodyanoy , the spirit of the lake. A blighted existence with the sole purpose of harvesting human flesh to feed upon. He needed only one meal every three months or so, but he wouldn’t be the one to refuse a snack whenever an unwary human came a little too close to his lair.
Cutting through his thoughts, a pebble was thrown close to his location, ricocheting on a large boulder before sinking into the water to cause ripples. Shiro tilted his head when a second stone followed, the aim clearly missed until he realized there was nothing to aim at. The boy threw stones compulsively, not even caring that he was grabbing two at once, a fallen leaf, a little bug.
Still he cried, muttering words indecipherable between sobs. Dad, dad, dad. Words of loss and anger and regret and... loneliness.
Shiro… He knew of loneliness.
Exhaling through elongated nostrils, forming a few bubbles to erupt on the flatness of the water, he lurked forward, swimming in the swaying form of an S. His head only popped back up to look the child in the eye, carefully, so much closer than he would normally allow himself to come, so much closer than he should be and yet not as close as he wished to be.
So beautiful, in an innocent manner. A boy so youthful, so inexperienced in the unfairness of life and yet yielding so much pain under a lifted fist, ready to strike the unknown. The lad gasped.
I won't hurt you. Not you, so precious and tiny, so needy and perfect... Let me know you.
Out of pity, the compassion he didn't fully understand, Shiro metaphorically sewed his big mouth shut. If he kept his mouth closed... If he didn't sing to allure like a cursed merman, then the kid would be safe. He could protect him, shield him of whatever harm was too much to bear. A webbed hand was slowly extended, its size so great compared to the child.
The tears had ceased with the sobbing, tiny mouth pressed together in a tight line. The kid’s eyes reflected the water, the sky, and every single constellation Shiro could only dream of touching in the mirrored expanse of his putrid lake. The tips of the youngster’s small feet barely brushed the water, and a smaller palm was pressed against his with no hesitance.
Maybe, just maybe and just this once, Shiro could be more than just a monster.
“Look what I found!” Keith said one night, as Shiro lounged silently on an arguably comfortable rock, scaly tail wagging underneath the bed of water. Now thirteen, Keith had brought a book and began reading one of the pages, slowly and stumbling over longer syllables.
“‘In Slavic mythology, Vodyanoy is a male water spirit. His appearance is said to be that of an old man with a frog-like face——’” A fit of giggles erupted from Keith’s lips, and Shiro self-consciously touched his own face, cheek puffing in silent questioning. Was it really…? “Don’t worry, that’s a lie for sure!”
Shiro smiled at the kind words as Keith continued reading the absurd description.
“— greenish beard, and long hair, with his body covered in algae and muck!’” There wasn’t even any actual algae in his lake, except for a thin layer of blue-green bacteria on the surface.
“It says here that you take offerings from fishermen!” Keith—oh what a precious name rolling around Shiro’s tongue without making a sound—faked the thick and raspy voice of an old fisherman, throwing a pinch of dirt to the water as he spoke. " Here's your tobacco, Lord Vodník, now give me a fish! ”
So went the tale. Keith’s smile dissolved into a pensive line, fingers following the sentence he was quietly reading.
“They say here you aren’t real.” Shiro’s eyes rolled lazily until they found Keith on the shore, head upside down and tilting to the side, lips heavy with unasked questions. “At least… they say you aren’t kind. So it can’t be the same lake spirit.”
Were they wrong? What did they know? And who were “they”, who wrote this gibberish? What did they have to do with whatever happened in his lake past midnight? Shiro wished he could ask without luring Keith—a precious name, a name Shiro would mumble over and over only when Keith wasn’t around to listen—into his final tomb.
Keith bit his peeling lip. “Is it true, though? Do you lure people into the water with a song and then eat them?”
That question made the spirit roll on the rock and gracefully slide into the glossy water, until he popped back up closer to the shore, to Keith. Shiro lifted himself on his arms, pulling up just so that his eyes could meet Keith’s without either of them having to look up.
How he wished he could lie, how he wished he could promise that if it hurt him, he would never do it again. But the price of the life of a monster was also its bane, the curse whose weight he would carry until another came to take his place.
“Is that why you never speak to me?”
Shiro made a soft gurgling noise, close to a purr, and Keith, silly human, scratched his knees on the rocks to get closer to him, both hands resting on Shiro’s features in gentle caresses.
“... Don’t worry. I’m not scared of you. If I could eat people I don’t like, I would too. But I would be full and probably nauseous all the time.” Keith smiled, and Shiro - the monster - might have too.
“Can you teach me how to swim?” Keith asked, in the bloom of his fifteenth year, even though he already knew the answer. “Maybe some time…?”
Shiro slapped the surface of the water with his tail. Across the years they’d known each other, that gesture had been the agreement of a very firm “no”. Not a chance. It was enough that Shiro would allow him to dip his feet in, but he would never let him any further.
Not because he didn’t want to; the reason was one he couldn’t say, for if he did, there would be nothing keeping him from stealing Keith away.
He would bring him into his world, keep him, as close as he craved, disregard the function of Keith’s lungs and his need for air; how long until he ran out of breath under the immense pressure of the water? How long until the fiery boy he saw to the beginnings of adulthood went limp in his arms?
“My dad died. When we met.” Keith said. “I probably mentioned it to you at some point, but that’s why I was crying. We were going to run away from the war. He promised he’d pick me up, we’d go on a journey together, an adventure to somewhere warm with a huge sea, and he would teach me how to swim.” He chuckled with no amusement. “Pop even said he would take me to meet my momma. But… War took him before he could outrun it.”
Shiro swam to his dear friend. He blew some bubbles underwater to massage Keith’s delicate feet and, as he had grown accustomed to doing, he leaned forward, sharp teeth playfully—yet carefully—nibbling Keith’s toes, tongue coming out to tease at the sole. The cackle that resounded in the darkness was magical, the right kind of music for Shiro’s ears.
The laughter eased into a mute humming, as Keith’s hand came to comb through Shiro’s long hair and eventually both his arms enclosed the spirit in a hug.
“When I’m about to die, I want you to teach me how to swim.”
Keith was seventeen when he first skipped a meeting with Shiro. It was an unspoken ritual of years, nothing they had agreed upon, but Keith always came, he always did , where was he? A promise demolished without warning, without satisfaction, without knowing for sure if Keith was intending to not appear, if he was safe and all right—
He had to be.
For all the nights bathed in the moonlight they had made beautiful together, Keith disappeared. Shiro waited; it may have been a week, a month or several, a year, but it felt like the eternity they had shared only doubled; oh it was so painful without him, so agonizing in the limbo of not knowing. The Vodyanoy’s tears were like blisters in his black eyes, shocks of pain itching every time they rolled down his face.
He had never ventured to land before but as desperation built into nothing left to lose, he pushed himself forward onto the shore. He crawled into the trees, his scales sticking on the dirt. Lightning tore the sky down in a flash of blue, and with it his tail, splitting it in half.
He bit down on his hand, face scrunched and twisted in anguish. The pain was too much, too much . He could swear he wouldn’t be capable of moving from where he was. He sobbed, he was sure he did, but the physical pain, almost like an amputation, was nothing in comparison to the loss of Keith.
The war. The horrendous people and their need to conquer over living and let live… Humans had their share of monsters masked as their own. But Keith, his Keith. He couldn’t bear another minute without knowing of his fate. Using whatever strength he was left with, Shiro lifted himself up, tentatively supporting his weight on a pair of limbs he didn’t have before. Staggering, he barely managed, but the closest village was within sight.
Keith.
Behind him, a permanent trail of water followed. And he walked, he walked until his feet burnt in contact with a soil he didn’t belong on. He had no idea where he was, where he was heading, but he felt the ghost of Keith’s presence. Villagers pointed at him, threw rocks, yelled.
The yelling, the accusation he couldn’t stand-- but if he were to open his mouth to use his only weapon… If Keith were within range, he couldn’t forgive himself. In fear, he was struck. His arm, his head, his torso. The Vodyanoy let out a weak warble as he fell, a faint name his final call; all he could see was a flash of white. And then, at last, morbid black.
“Ke...it...h...”
Shiro did not expect to open his eyes again.
Feeling warmth was something foreign for a being who knew nothing but the icy surface of a contaminated lake, but he found himself drawn to it. Pelts. Fur? His hands curled around the blanket beneath him, skin itching with the strangeness of being clothed. Something inside his chest was swelling, about to burst, just about to—
But then it eased through his nostrils. He frowned at the sensation, lips parting, tongue experimentally poking out.
The lump in his chest returned yet again and the expelling of air made him realize he was breathing. Breathing .
“Mum? Is he awake?” From a distance he heard a voice he would have identified anywhere.
Forcing his eyes open through crusts gained from keeping them closed for too long had proven rather difficult, and even when he did manage to blink, his surroundings were... extrinsic. Weird. Human .
“Keith…?” His hand flew to slap his own mouth out of reflex. His vision took a little too long to focus and it first fixated on his palm. His left hand… His human hand…? The membrane that held his fingers together was no more. He tried to lift his other arm, a phantom ache itching him in the place of a limb that wasn’t there any longer.
The worst thing about breathing, he learned fairly quickly, was suffocation. He choked on nothing, panic bubbling from deeper than he knew it could, twisting his belly in knots, cutting his breath at the neck.
“Hey. Calm down, it’s okay.” The voice he had fallen in love with came from closer than before, a soothing touch holding his face up to meet the universe, his eyes, Keith’s little infinities. Shiro sobbed, hand of flesh and no claws coming to caress Keith’s face. “That’s right, it’s me. Keith .”
“Keith.” He repeated, tongue no longer hitting large fangs, voice unharmed, heart content for once in his horrid life.
“I’m sorry. You’re safe now, I’ve got you,” he promised, and Shiro would always believe him. Keith glanced over his shoulder to the woman by the door, arms crossed over her chest. Krolia , Shiro later learned. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but some things… changed.”
A hand mirror was held in front of Shiro. His face had been shaped just like what he saw, his cheekbones high and nose straight, skin of a healthy tone, his hair once fully black now fully white. The curse had disfigured him completely, so much that he had forgotten he had once been human.
And human he looked, once more. He was no longer a monster; no longer a beast of horror tales, the fuel of nightmares or the fear in the tears of those about to take their last breath. “Keith...” he repeated, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He said it, over and over, because he could . The name that had cured him of his misfortune. The name of his lover.
The assurance that he could say it whenever he pleased came with the first kiss untainted by a spell he couldn’t control.