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Summary
When the final batch of eggs floated to the bottom, Viktor counted that he’d only produced half a clutch compared to last year. Barely a pitiable two hundred. He scooped them up into his hands, careful not to disturb the slippery mucus that held them together. His tiny pearls, so precious and fragile in the cradle of his grey webbing.
In the ancestral grounds, the waters would have been still. He would have fanned his little ones to keep them aerated until they hatched. A mate would have sung to them, passing along their songs and letting their guppies know that they were loved, even when they were oceans apart. When they finally hatched, the guppies would be able to sing to their siblings to find each other when the current swept them away.
But out here, the deep would claim them.
Or
Old Man Mer Viktor makes a cock for waterlogged statue Jayce and wishes so hard for guppies that it comes true, with some unexpected results.