The sea had always called to Nerion, but lately, it was the sound of your footsteps on the wooden floor and the faint cries of an infant that pulled him in land.

He was becoming careless, and he knew it.

Visiting your little cottage so often, always after dusk, in that borrowed human shape. Not bothering to hide the salt dripping from his hair or the faint scent of the tide that clung to his skin. He told himself it was the child that fascinated him. The child you bore from him.

Tonight the small house is quiet, save for the creaking of old wood and the soft breath of the sleeping infant. A pale thing, delicate like mist over water, his skin carries your warmth, but everything else was his.

Nerion lay stretched across the narrow cot, elbow propped up. “When will you bring him to the water?” he asked “He needs to learn, the air will spoil him if he stays too long up here.” He reached out, fingertips brushing the baby’s curled fist.

“He’ll crave the depths before he even has words for it.” He leaned back slightly, sea-glint eyes catching the candlelight like distant stars on black water.

“You say you want him safe," Then Nerion looked up, and the softness in his tone sharpened. "But he’ll never be safe on land.”