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In memories from his childhood, the castle by the sea was a place he had long associated with calm, and with safety. It was quieter than their home in the city, away from all the noise and annoyances of his uncle's court. It stood high up on a cliff, and from its towers you could see for miles. It was so remote and so different from everywhere else that, to Janus, when he was a child, it had seemed almost like its own little world...
It was the place he and his mother had often retired to in summer months to get away from the heat of the city, and during the wettest parts of autumn and winter to safeguard his mother from the illnesses of the season that she fell to so harshly and easily. As well, his mother's physicians had believed the air at the sea side might improve both her constitution and his, for she had always been of frail health and the circumstances of his birth had caused them to fear for him as well.
Janus, meanwhile, had never enjoyed their assumption that his mother's poor health necessarily meant that he should be treated like glass. Such attitudes had engendered in him a stubborn determination when he was growing up, a prideful impulse to show himself off as more capable, more mature, whenever others seemed to expect otherwise. And often it had served him well...
Other times, it had brought him trouble.
One such time—certainly the most memorable—came when Janus was ten. The weather was fair, if unseasonably chill for an early summer day. He had just finished that day's lessons—his tutor having given in to his insistent request to do his reading down on the shore beneath the cliffs.
With his reading and other work long since finished, Janus had insisted on being allowed to linger. He was more than old enough—by his own estimate—of keeping an eye out for himself. And it wasn't as if, on a normal day, there was very much to be concerned about. The little sheltered bay beneath the cliffs was neither particularly isolated, nor especially crowded. It housed a private dock and his family's ships were moored there. It was occupied only with the workmen necessary to keep those ships and the dock itself in proper working condition, and by the few guards stationed there to keep watch. No ships were allowed to enter the bay, save with his family's permission, and there were towers on either side of the bay that would long have given them word of any danger long before they would be able to see it from the shore.
At long last, his arguments had won out, and his tutor had left Janus to his own devices, at least until it came time for supper.
Of course, this hadn't precisely been an entirely normal day. There was one boat that shouldn't have been there—or that was, at the very least, out of place. It had been smaller and more battered-looking than any of his family's ships, but larger than those of the fishermen that went out on the waves to keep the castle's kitchens supplied. He had seen it come in when he was trying to focus on his lessons. Now freed of his obligations, Janus had decided it was his business to inspect the ship himself.
Its captain had gone into the small building where the harbormaster kept his office, and his crew had mostly disembarked, likely delivering some manner of cargo to the castle or headed for the village nearby.
Janus hardly bothered with stealth as he walked out onto the dock—foolishly, perhaps, but his family owned the dock and all of its usual ships, why should he need to hide? And even then Janus had mastered the secret that people bothered less if you looked like you thought you were supposed to be there anyway. The guards saw him, but while they might have looked uneasy, no one moved to stop him, and Janus was emboldened.
Again, the ship wasn't very large—it wasn't as if he could get lost on board, or even be missed if anyone returned, so he gave little thought to looking around.
He climbed up the ramp and onto the deck. It wasn't much sooner than he set foot onboard that he heard a sound from the far side of the ship—splashing and the soft sound of a gasp. Confused and a little alarmed at the thought that someone might have fallen overboard, Janus moved quickly to the edge and looked down.
Janus's eyes went wide at what he saw. There was a large fishing net hanging over the side of the ship, still half-way in the water, and inside that net was a boy about his age. He seemed to be struggling to get himself above the water, fingers curled in the ropes as he tried to climb his way upward, as if reaching for the top of the net. As Janus watched, he lost his grip and fell back into the water with another splash.
"Hey!" Janus shouted, still confused and, moreover, alarmed by watching him fall.
His shout caused the boy to look up at him, and he suddenly, as if afraid.
Now, needless to say, the sight of a boy being kept in a net on a strange ship was a situation that Janus knew wasn't right, and so the first thing he said made sense to him...
"Do you need help? Are you being kidnapped?" he had asked, "I can call the guards-"
And yet the boy's response had made no sense at all.
"No! Don't!" the boy cried, alarmed.
"'No', don't call them, or 'no' you don't need help?"
"No, I- D-don't call them."
"Then how can I help? Were you reaching for something?"
The boy looked up at him, confused and a little bit wary, but finally he let out a faint hiss and reached a hand through a gap in the net and pointed.
"Do you see that...wooden...stick...thing stuck on the side of the boat?"
Janus followed his gesture to the belaying pin around which the hauling ropes attached to the net were wound.
"I was thinking if I pushed that out from the bottom, I might set the net loose-"
"But then it'll just fall in the water," Janus said.
The boy stared back at him for a moment, frowning as if confused.
"Yes, I know!" he said. "And then I can just swim out."
The boy seemed fairly certain of his plan, but Janus was less so. The net looked heavy, and he wouldn't have wanted to be the one caught in it once it sank into the water. Eventually, the boy grew impatient with his pondering and shouted back.
"Well, are you going to help me, or not?"
And Janus, suddenly annoyed with him, didn't bother to respond, he simply reached out and began pulling the belaying pin from its hole on the pinrail. Of course it wasn't as simple as that—the pin really was set rather snugly in its place, even without the weight of the rope coiled around it, and his height didn't give him the best leverage to start with. It took several tugs and a lot of twisting for it to even begin to budge, let alone come free. But finally, the pin slid loose and the rope began to unwind itself, releasing the net and all that it held to sink into the sea.
Janus leaned over the bulwark, staring intently down into the waves, his eyes watching anxiously for any sight of the boy. But he hadn't seen a thing by the time he heard a shout, and a clatter of footsteps coming down the dock behind him.
Janus turned around just as the captain of the ship arrived, irate, and snatched the belaying pin from his hand-
And promptly struck him across the face.
Janus hadn't seen the blow coming, and he fell down onto the deck as much simply from shock as from the sudden, blinding pain. And he lay there shaking a few moments more, hand over his face as he endeavored not to cry, not where anyone could see. By the time his daze had cleared, the guards had joined them on the boat and one was reaching down to help him stand. Another had pulled the captain away from him, pinning his arms, while a third was arguing with the angry captain.
"This little rat just cost my crew and I a fortune and the catch of a lifetime-"
But the captain found his words cut off abruptly.
"That 'little rat'," the guard said evenly, "is nephew to the King, and his family owns half the coast. You'll be lucky only losing the hand that struck him. And that's if the young lord decides to be merciful."
Their eyes all turned to him, just then, and he saw the captain's ruddy face turn pale. And, as his cheek continued to throb, Janus had half a mind to follow through on the guard's threat of punishment. But in spite of the pain, Janus really only had one thought on his mind just then...
"Why did you have that boy in a net?" Janus demanded.
Now the guards were all watching the captain, who began to grow even more panicked at the accusation.
"It wasn't a boy, my lord," the captain insisted quickly, shakily. "It was one of the sea folk. My crew caught the little beast trying to take a peek at our hold. 'S why I was so angry, m'lord, if you'll forgive me. Selling that thing would have set myself and my crew up for life. I beg your mercy. Please..."
And Janus had still been just a bit too young back then to really understand the full seriousness of what it meant to have the power of life or death over someone, but what he did understand was that this was an opportunity for him to show his maturity.
"You're forgiven," he said—sternly, he hoped, doing his best to stand up straight and look as imperious as his uncle always did. "But I would think twice about ever returning to this bay or this dock if I were you."
The captain gave a shakey nod, and Janus turned around to walk away, shrugging away from the support one guard attempted to give him. It was important, after a pronunciation, to walk away with dignity, after all. And Janus headed away from the ship and from the docks, trying very much to look like he had a destination in mind.
Eventually, he wandered far enough along the beach that, beneath the shadow of the cliffs, no one would easily see him. Far enough to hope that the guards would assume he had gone back to the castle. There, Janus let up his facade long enough to give into tears. The place where the captain had struck him still ached horribly, throbbing with knew waves of pain when he prodded it even lightly. But the worst was that, by suppertime when he needed to return to the castle, he was sure it would have bruised. And, once his mother saw it, she would surely demand an explanation. He hated the thought of showing up with the damage so plain on his face, staining his skin like that of a peach. He hated the thought of enduring his mother's fussing and the inevitable chiding that would come from allowing himself to get hurt. In fact, it was very possible that he might no longer be allowed out on his own without a minder because of what happened today...
So Janus was settled in, very much engaged in feeling miserable about it when, for the second time that day, he heard a sudden splash and a gasp.
Looking up, Janus saw a creature watching him from behind a rock near the water's edge. There was no mistaking it now for a human boy. The hands clutching the rocks were webbed, and clawed, and the rest of their body was covered over in delicate white or crimson scales. A large red tail trailed out behind them. But while the sight should, perhaps, inspire awe, in that moment all Janus managed to feel was anger. Picking up a stone from the ground next to his feet, he threw it at them sullenly.
"You tricked me," Janus accused. "I thought you were being kidnapped, and now I'm going to be in trouble!"
The rock sailed into the water next to the creature with a small splash, causing them to duck back behind the rock for a moment.
"I'm sorry!" the creature shouted. "I didn't mean to, I promise."
"I don't believe you."
"It's true, though!" the creature insisted. "The Sea does Her best to protect us. People who aren't expecting to see one of us usually don't!"
Janus paused with another rock poised to be thrown, unsure. After all, he hadn't heard much about the sea folk since he had outgrown both his nursemaid and her stories. He couldn't know if what the creature was saying was true or if it wasn't.
Taking another look as the creature—cautiously—took another chance at peeking their head around the rock, Janus realized that, despite the shocking length of their tail, they really weren't any larger than he had thought they were at first glance.
"How old are you, really?" Janus asked, lowering the stone in his hand.
The creature seemed confused at first about the question.
"Humans count it in years, right?" the creature asked. And, at Janus's befuddled nod, they answered. "I'm nine."
"And are you a boy?" Janus asked, just to be certain.
"I- Yes?"
Janus felt his ire leaving him.
"So you really are what I thought you were anyway," Janus said, tossing his rock aside. "Just a little kid."
"I'm not!" the creature protested, clearly affronted. "I'm bigger than you."
"You're younger than me," Janus argued, "by a whole year, so you definitely are."
The creature subsided with a huff, crossing his arms. Janus grinned, but the movement pulled at the sore patch on his face, so it was very shortly lived. His sudden wince seemed to draw the creature out of his sulking as well.
"Are you- Did they hurt you?" the creature asked. "For helping me?"
"Only a little," Janus admitted, not wanting pity from the creature as well, not when Janus had been the one to save him. "They were made to regret it, though. They didn't know who they were bothering. I could have had them killed if I wanted!"
The creature looked back at him dubiously, as if he didn't believe he could be that important. And Janus was poised to go on when the creature asked a question that shut him down abruptly.
"Then why were you crying?"
"It's not because it hurt," Janus insisted.
It was mostly the truth—it did hurt, but that hadn't been why he was crying.
"It's going to get all ugly and purple, I know it," Janus explained crossly. "And then I'll have to tell my mother what happened, and she's going to get worried and make a fuss and then she won't trust me to be out on my own without getting into trouble."
"I could-" the creature began, though he cut himself off, hesitating a moment before speaking again, more certainly. "I could help with that. I could heal it for you, if you let me."
Janus frowned.
"How?"
"I could give you a Kiss," the creature said.
Janus laughed.
"Aren't you a little old to believe in kissing things better?"
The creature bristled—quite literally, there were sharp spines on his back and on the billows of his tail that stood up with his displeasure.
"Not a regular kiss," the creature said irritably, "the Kiss of the Sea."
As if that should mean anything to Janus.
"I think I'd want to know what that is before I accept it," Janus said.
"It's a...gift," the creature explained. "A special gift."
"And it would heal my bruise?" Janus asked, uncertain. "Do the sea folk just go around kissing each other's injuries all better?"
"It's one of the things it can do," the creature admitted uneasily, "but we don't do it very often. The Sea's Kiss is a special kind of magic, so it's saved for important things. We can only use it three times for any one person—and only twice for any human—but you saved my life, so I think that's special enough. And it's not like we'll probably ever meet again."
Janus decided to put the ridiculousness of how it sounded aside, because obviously, to the creature, it was very serious indeed. And he supposed there was something to be proud of in earning the offer—he had saved the creature's life, hadn't he?
"Alright," Janus said. "But I'm not going to let anyone kiss me unless I know their name."
"Roman!" the creature said—practically shouted. "I- That is- I'm Roman. Do you- I mean. Can I have yours?"
"You're not like a faerie, are you?" Janus asked. "Because I'm too smart to fall for that one."
"I don't- No? I don't think so?"
Janus didn't know how well he could trust that answer from a creature that claimed he could heal with a kiss, but then he would never learn the truth if he said nothing, would he?
"Well, either way you can't have it," he said, pointedly, "but you can call me Janus."
"Janus..." the creature—Roman—repeated slowly, then gestured toward him. "Okay. Come here."
"What?"
"I can't reach you all the way up on the shore," Roman explained. "Some of the rocks up there look kind of sharp, and I don't want to crawl over them. Besides, for the Sea's Kiss to work, you'll have to be in the water..."
"I'm not getting in the water," Janus protested. "I'll get wet."
Roman looked back at him as if what he was saying was somehow both obvious and entirely nonsensical. Which...he supposed it might be to a creature that didn't even know what being dry felt like.
"You don't have to come in all the way," Roman insisted. "Maybe just your feet, if you take those bits off that you wear over the end..."
"My shoes?"
"Yeah, those," Roman said, patting the rock beside him. "Just come sit over here. You can do that, can't you?"
Janus considered. It very wasn't far out into the water. And the rocks did look rather sharp for crawling over. In fact, they didn't look like they would be very pleasant to walk on either, but they were sparse enough to be avoided if he was careful. After a moment's deliberation, Janus toed off his shoes and removed his socks, carrying both with him as he stepped gingerly over the stony beach and out into the waves. At least the water there was shallow—reaching up just over his ankles. The waves were calm and the water clear, so it wasn't that difficult to watch his step.
And Janus could admit to himself, though he never would out loud, that he felt a little nervous as he approached. Up close it was even easier to see how different they were. The features of Roman's face weren't placed or proportioned quite right, his eyes too large and far apart, and slightly lower on his face than a human's probably should be. His nose was strangely flat and his mouth rather wide and the teeth behind his lips looked pointed. And those claws on Roman's hands might not have been large enough or strong enough to slice through rope, but they still looked very sharp indeed.
Still, there was something about his excitement as Janus drew near—something eager in the spark of his eyes, something in the smile that revealed those teeth—that had Janus's worries and his suspicions evaporating completely.
Janus sat down on the rock and set his shoes behind him, and let his feet dangle into the water. He looked to the boy from the sea expectantly. And Roman reached up, slowly, to take one of Janus's hands in both of his gently pulling until he was forced to bend down to meet him.
The lips that touched his cheek were somehow warm and cold at the same time, and he felt that warmth rise up through the water around his feet as well. For a moment the sounds of the sea swelled in his ears so that he could hear nothing else save for the movement of the waves and the beating of his heart and—and Roman's, he realized, aware of it somehow as all three fell into the same rhythm for the very briefest of moments...
And then the sound fell away and the world rushed back and Janus lifted a hand to where the forming bruise had been. The spot felt odd beneath his fingers, cold and warm at once just like the kiss, but the pain was gone and Janus-
He opened his eyes, unsure when he had closed them, and as Janus looked around the rocks and out at the waves he realized he was alone.
Janus waited longer than perhaps he should have before returning to the castle that day. To his relief, his face never bruised and the guards seemingly never reported to his mother about the encounter on the docks. And if the memory had been all he was left with, Janus might almost have believed it was a fantasy or a dream...
Except that any time he closed his eyes, no matter where he stood, he always knew the direction of the sea. Each time they left to visit his uncle's court in the city, Janus would dream of the waves. Every time they returned to the castle, the smell of salt on the breeze started his heart racing. And, in the years to come, sometimes, Janus would hear the sound of the waves grow to a roar in his ears, and he would know that a visitor was waiting for him in the bay...
Because of course, in the end, Roman would turn out to be very wrong about one thing—that day was far from the last time the two of them would meet. Nor would it be the last time that Janus would receive his Kiss of the Sea.