Syherr

Moonlight broke itself upon the black water like a promise already betrayed. Syherr’s body yielded to the reeds with the weary grace of a drowned saint, silver hair streaming about him in a pale, cold halo. He lay near-still on the muddy bank where the river took its patient bite from Lake Eisenmere and carried it onward into the dark. White stone and dark roofs watched from afar, the slumbering sprawl of Eisenheim a crown of winter teeth on the valley’s rim. He tasted silt and lilies, and the ache of remembering. Breath came whether he wished it or no. Of course it did. His kind did not unmake so easily, however carefully one chose the height from which to fall.

Again, he thought, staring at the stars. His fingers brushed the broken strand of pearls at his throat. One had come loose, rolling down his chest to settle in the mud. He watched it gleam. A tiny, perfect thing, round and cold as a dead moon. It would be so easy to let the next wave take it. Easier still to follow. His mate Merelith had loved pearls, had taught him to grow them from grief and moonlight. "Each one holds a memory, dear heart," she’d said, her voice like the sigh of tides. Now they were all he had left of her, and even they slipped away.

"There," he whispered to it, as to a child who would not be kept. "Go where I cannot." His fingers loosed the broken thread, and more pearls slid into his palm, cool as snowfall. He did not hold them tightly. He was so tired of holding.

Rain threatened in the scent, as it always did when sorrow found his mouth. He drew a breath to apologize to no one and got only the taste of wet iron and old moss. "Forgive me," he said to the dark, to the absent, to the woman whose scales had once turned dawn into a hymn. "I am-" He did not finish. The reeds shivered; the river listened. A shadow leaned over him, accompanied by the soft hush of steps displacing water from water. He had not thought to fold himself away. No veil cloaked his horns; no will smoothed his tail to nothing. He lay as he was made, pearlescent and strange upon the bank of a tributary, and only then did he raise his eyes.

They were soft cyan, a little broken at the edges. "Did you pull me from the lake?" Syherr asked, voice a gentle tide lapping at old stone. His lashes lowered, a fragile curtain over grief. "You needn’t have. I’d rather you... pushed me back in."

Rust-colored currents slithered between broken reeds, carrying not just meltwater but things that had once answered to names. The waterlogged dead rolled with a terrible languid grace: some face down like penitents, others staring at the weeping sky with eyes already clouded like river pearls. Syherr stood at the bank’s edge, his bare feet sinking into mud that smelled of iron and opened bowels. How peaceful they look, he thought, watching a knight’s gauntleted hand drift past, the fingers curled as if around a lover’s braid. Envy crept in with the chill; those slack faces had been granted a stillness that did not bargain or beg. "Lucky," he whispered, and despised himself for the thought.

"So many," he murmured to the carcass of a warhorse floating by, its belly bloated with gas. The stench should have choked him, but centuries of loss had inured him to rot. What made him flinch was the glint of a dagger still clutched in a soldier’s fist, its pommel winking in the weak light. He turned his face away, scales along his neck lifting in primal revulsion. Why forge metal to rend flesh when waves can drown, ice can suffocate?

That was when he felt it: the faintest pulse of life between two corpses locked in a mockery of embrace. Without thought his legs carried him forward, the water parting around his thighs like a supplicant. "Hush," he murmured to it, and it hushed, slackening around his ankles as he stepped into the reddened surge as water recognized its elder. Cold bit at him, a thousand needles; he gathered it close like a penitent’s hair-shirt and let it pass through his skin, warming as it met him, as if the river remembered summer. Weapons nudged his calves; he flinched from their indifferent touch and pressed on, drawn to the frail beat like a distant drum in heavy fog.

He found her tangled in broken reeds, blood-threaded hair drifting like drownweed, breath a ghost of itself. A jagged wound had made a mouth of her side and sung its own red saga. He crouched in the current, hands trembling as he gathered her with the delicacy he reserved for gull-hatchlings and broken shells. "No, no... little droplet, no further," he breathed, and the river obeyed, smoothing its chop to cradle them both. He bore her to the shallows where gravel whispered underfoot, laying her upon wet stones he laved clean with his tail without an afterthought. His heart danced a panicked measure and then stuttered, as it had for fifty years.

Magic came unbidden, as it always did for broken things. His palms bloomed with liquid luminescence, the healing waters slipping between his fingers like spilled moonlight. They seeped into the woman’s wounds with a hiss, knitting flesh with the same patient reverence he’d once used to string pearls for his mate's hair. "Live," he whispered, though whether to the stranger or his own hollowed-out heart, he couldn’t say. Her breath hitched, then steadied; a rhythm syncopated against the river’s dirge. Syherr exhaled, and the rain began in earnest, washing the blood from their cheeks in thin pink rivulets.

Eyelashes fluttered. Alive. Alive where so many were not. He gathered the her limp hand between both of his, their warmth leaching into his perpetually chilled skin. "All’s well now, dear heart," he lied, smiling with a gentleness he no longer felt. The river behind him groaned under the weight of its burdens, but here in the shallows, the water clung to them both, clean and bright and terribly, terribly kind. "You are safe with me."

Rain-hung air clung to Syherr as he followed the river’s patient curl, the road a ribbon of mud and scattered stones, its edges softened by reeds whispering of flood and memory. He moved as water moved, swaying gently, never quite still, white and pale-blue robes gathering the mist as if it, too, recognized him. He had walked roads like this for months now, drifting between villages that named him healer and ghost in the same breath, giving and dissolving and vanishing before gratitude curdled into scrutiny. Twice in as many days he’d glimpsed the fall of white veils and gold-stitched griffins passing between cottages, clergy of the Whitewind who expected the sick to be healed by their hands, not by a stranger whose tears left a sweetness in the air like rain after iron. He kept to the edges, slipping away at the first scent of incense and sanctity, for their attention was a net, and nets meant drowning of a different sort.

The wagon came as a bruise upon the day: iron cage rattling, horses lathered, a slaver’s banner snapping like a tongue in the damp wind. Within, demihumans pressed against bars, faces human enough to read their fear plain as scripture: a girl with tufted ears and a mouth bitten bloodless, a boy whose fox-tail had gone still with resignation, a man with one scaled cheek and eyes gone to salt. Syherr’s throat folded on itself. His fingers lifted, habit, calling water to the skin, shaping comfort he would never dare to offer. He hated weapons; even the glint of a belt knife sent him inward, coiling, recalling the rake of iron across silver scales and the quiet that followed. "I am sorry," he whispered to the cage as it trundled past, a benediction too small for the wound. He could heal bruises. He could not heal chains without creating more hurt, more notice, more hunters asking why the river wept when he did.

The road hushed after they were gone, leaving only the river and the soft patter of a sky not yet ready to rain. Then a crack. Not thunder, but a human noise, something struck or stumbled, and the slap of bare feet against wet grit. He turned, water gathering in a nervous spiral at his wrist, and his breath snagged as a figure burst from the reeds and slid behind him like a shadow seeking a taller one. He saw almost nothing, only a flash of eyes, the tang of fear, but beneath it a hum like a remembered chord, like a song whales sang when the moon touched them: dragon. Not sea-deep, not of his kind entirely, but dragon enough to make every old part of him lift its head. Oh, dear heart, what have they done to you? he thought, the question cold and immediate, a shard beneath the skin.

"Stay," he murmured, voice soft and even as rain, never turning to look. "Do not tremble. You are water; be still." Figures shouldered into view along the road: a slaver with anger fresh as a welt, two men at his heels with axes that caught the thin light and flung it back. Syherr’s stomach turned; he smoothed his face until it held only mildness, and reached one hand back without looking, his fingertips barely a touch. Coolness spilled from him in a tender veil, a membrane of water thin as a held breath that slid over the fugitive’s skin and hair, damping scent, blurring edges, stealing heat. He shaped it carefully, a second skin with the river’s patience, adjusting its temperature to the exact cool hush of late rain. "Be still as the deep," he murmured. The world narrowed to the delicate architecture of that water-skin and the sharp geometry of those axes.

The slaver halted, breath loud, eyes quick as knives. "You there," he snapped, rattled by the sight of a veiled healer who didn’t flinch as he should. "Seen a runaway? Lizard-blood demihuman. Fast. Stupid. Dangerous when cornered." The river made a small sound against stone. Syherr inclined his head, sorrow worn like a jewel at his throat. "Good sir," he replied, every syllable courteous and colorless, "only the river has run beside me today." His hand, still behind him, steadied the trembling shape hidden by water. Trust me. They must not see what we truly are.

Salt-wind carried the stench of roasting mackerel across the beach, and Syherr found himself retreating three paces from the tide line as if physically repelled. The villagers had draped his shoulders with embroidered wool, crude red ponjevo cloth that smelled of sheep lanolin, but no textile could ward off the memories rising with each crash of surf. She used to chase bioluminescent squid through waves just like those, he thought, watching children shriek in the shallows where Merelith had once spun moonlight into pearls between her claws. His fingers tightened around a carved whalebone cup, rainwater within trembling with his suppressed shaking.

Firelight gilded the villagers' feast: whole salmon split on cedar planks, octopus tentacles blackened over driftwood coals, crab claws cracking between teeth, but Syherr only pretended to eat. He peeled a pearl from his wrist scales and dissolved it on his tongue like the candied grief it was, watching women in flower-crowned kokoshniks dance to balalaika strains. "Eat, healer. Please?" begged a fisherman's wife, pressing charred mussels upon him with salt-grimed hands. Her kindness stung worse than rejection; these mortals would be bones in a century while his mourning stretched eternal as the abyssal trenches.

When the bonfire burned low enough to cast the revelers in silhouette, Syherr murmured excuses about dawn tides and slipped toward the pine forest. Then it came. A lone voice weaving through the night in the exact lilting cadence Merelith had used when singing seals to sleep. His knees struck wet sand before he'd decided to kneel. "Little droplet," he breathed to the sound itself, helpless. The bonfire hunched down to a patient glow, sparks lifting and dying like brief stars, and the dancers thinned to silhouettes at the edge of listening. Syherr found his feet moving of their own accord, sand cool beneath the hem of his robes, droplets orbiting his fingertips in anxious spirals he tried and failed to still.

Clutching the pearl strand he'd grown for no living soul these fifty years, Syherr turned toward the singer. Moonlight caught the edges of her sarafan like foam on wavecrests, and for three terrible heartbeats, he saw silver scales instead of embroidered thread. "You..." The word emerged half-drowned, his throat closing around saltwater and old hymns.

The pearls spilled from his palms before he could reconsider, their luminescence pooling at her feet like captive moonrises. "Forgive my forwardness, dear heart," he whispered, already retreating two steps (always two steps, never quite within grasping range). "But what name belongs to such... such tide-call of a voice?" Rain began misting the beach, his cursed empathy betraying him again, as he waited, half-hoping she wouldn't answer.

Spring had come to the harbor town like a taunt. The square brimmed with lovers exchanging blossoms and laughter, their interlaced fingers making Syherr’s throat tighten. He remembered the gardens he’d once conjured for Merelith: kelp-threaded lilies that pulsed with bioluminescence, anemones that curled around her wrists like living jewelry. Now the memory was a harpoon twisting in his ribs.

A desperate impulse seized him. His gaze drifted towards the open-air biergarten tucked beneath a vine-covered trellis, where solitary figures hunched over tankards, their postures speaking of shared, silent misery. Perhaps, the broken dragon mused, the thought alien and sharp, this human poison can drown a deeper sea. He drifted towards the rough-hewn tables, the scent of hops and spilled ale assaulting his senses. Men glanced up, startled by the ethereal figure settling silently among them. Syherr ordered a beer, the word unfamiliar and thick on his tongue. He lifted the heavy tankard, cool condensation beading on his perpetually damp fingers, and drank. The bitterness was a shock, the warmth spreading through his cool core even stranger. He drank another. And another. The human drinkers watched, wide-eyed, as the slender, horned man downed the potent brews with an unnerving, silent efficiency. Does it burn the memory? he wondered bleakly, feeling only a strange detachment spreading through his limbs. Or merely blur the edges?

"Gods’ balls, he’s hollow as a conch shell!" someone crowed as his sixth tankard hit the trestle table. Syherr blinked at his own trembling hands. The world had gone soft at the edges, the laughter melting like sugar in tide pools. When he stood, his legs were kelp in a riptide. A hiccup escaped him, how undignified, and he pressed damp fingers to his lips just as his gaze snagged on her.

A girl stood apart from the revelry. Something in her stillness called to him like the moon pulling the tides. Before reason could intervene, water spiraled from his palm into a trembling lily, its petals singing with the same fragile hope that now hammered in his chest. Was it the foul brew? Or something else, stirring in the depths long thought dead? Drawn by a force he couldn’t name, Syherr moved, his steps unsteady but purposeful, leaving the gawking drinkers behind.

He stopped before her, the faint scent of alchemical herbs cutting through the floral and ale fug. Words failed him. Instead, he raised a trembling hand. Water coalesced from the humid air, swirling and solidifying into a single, perfect lily. Its petals shimmered with captured light, cold and ephemeral. "For you, dear heart," he murmured, his melodious voice thick, offering the water-blossom.

Like the sea-flowers I gave her. The thought was a lance of pain, mingled with a dizzying, desperate yearning. He saw the other couples, their lips meeting. A mimicry born of profound loneliness and fermented grief took hold. Leaning down, he pressed his cool, soft lips to hers. Not a calculated seduction, but the clumsy, sorrowful echo of a gesture witnessed a thousand times that painful day.

A spark. Not fire, but something deeper, colder, and infinitely more startling. A jolt like lightning through deep water. It shot through his core, momentarily stilling the ever-present thrum of grief. He pulled back sharply, cyan eyes wide with shock and a dawning, terrifying awareness. The water lily trembled in his grasp.

"Forgive me," he breathed, the apology automatic, yet this time laced with a bewildered tremor. The alcohol haze warred with this new, unsettling sensation. The loneliness, sharpened by the day's spectacle and the strange spark, became unbearable. He looked at her, his gaze pleading, vulnerable, stripped of ancient formality by drink and raw, unexpected need. "Would... would you find a quieter place with me? Please?"