Mesasge in a Bottle

To my warm-scale, my egg-mate, my heart-sister,

The sea is big. It hums and bites and whispers in my skull. The deep-beasts—aye, they talk without words. They crawl inside head, make hiss-sound in thought. I bite my tongue to stop them, but still they come. I fear them, though we say “fear is for prey.” Still… they make my blood go cold.

I miss thee, my shining one. Thy scales brighter than dawn-water. Thy claws soft when they touch my jaw. I dream of thee when I curl to sleep. The waves rock me like egg-nest, but it not same. I smell only salt and rot, not thee.

The crew hisses songs, but I sing thy name. I whisper to the wind, tell it “go, find her.” If wind listens, mayhap it kiss thy cheek for me.

The sea is cruel. She take shipmates. She whisper lies. But I hold hope. I think of thee and the clutch we will hatch when I come home. I fight the fear-beasts in my skull. I spit in their faces and say, “No. My mind is mine.”

Wait for me, bright-scale. When the moon grows fat, I come home. Tail to tail, claw to claw.

Always, S’shar of the Tidefang