nightsinger (currently updating)

04 - inception

JAMESON DOES, IN FACT, MESS THINGS UP. When he enters the human's home, he knocks over a flower vase, smears dew over the walls, and nearly trips thrice over chairs all in one attempt to use his newly minted legs. Except this time, someone's arms wrap around his shoulders to keep him steady. He wavers with newfound hesitation.

Iris, he reminds himself, tasting her name as he mouths it in secret. Her name is Iris. How far from the sea she is, this purple flower that blooms when the summer is young, her roots attached to the very grass he crawled on. Iris, Jameson repeats again, rolling the letters around. The name tastes of a promise he hasn't made. He isn't used to her company yet, but something inside of him eases at her touch instead of rearing back in discomfort. He pushes down a deep-rooted urge to snap at her for such brazenness, for her limb slung around his own.

"How do I—how do I walk?" he asks, strained, voice breathy with exertion. Jameon's lungs burn. His head feels light from all the overwhelming sounds and muddy scents slamming into him. Iris hobbles alongside, not so gentle in the way she yanks out a dining chair and plops him into it. When his legs splay out, useless between them, Iris bends over and places her hands on her own knees, breathing fast from dragging him over. His limbs are long, but not gangly. As Jameson tries tightening the muscles on his upper thigh, he marvels at how different the control is compared to his tail. He must be strong in this form, too, in order to survive.

Everything is new here. He takes in the oak floors and the bookshelves that line the walls in the back, a large couch turning to face a line of windows that extend from floor to ceiling. The wood is painted the color of seashells. Jameson rests in an adjacent section with a circular table he imagines is for eating, but his gaze snags on where he can see the rolling waves outside of the glass. The sea is marvelous today. She is unrelenting and majestic.

He yearns to be back there. Back home.

Iris blows a piece of hair away from her face and slings her body into the chair next to his. "You're heavy," she complains, tilting her face upwards to stare at him. "I thought you've been alive forever, water prince. Never learned how to walk?"

"Not like this," Jameson snarls, glaring at her and the newly-minted name. "I have never been in mortal form. I feel weak."

Iris grins, but it's maddening. He grips the table until it creaks, irritation prickling his skin like the sun. "Welcome to mortal life," she says. "It sucks. We get hungry and fall sick to caffeine addictions and can't hold our breath underwater."

Jameson shakes his head. The sound of her voice would be soothing despite how out of place he felt. "That is a very odd list. And it all sounds terrible." He shifts his legs, lifting the left one to bend at the knee and cross over the right. Jameson repeats the same thing with the other, and then does it six more times, wiggling his toes. "Help me," he demands, looking at Iris and pointing to his feet. "I should learn how to stand, at least."

Iris nods, and when she comes closer, Jameson can smell the scent of flowers on her neck. It makes him miss the sea, the way he would swim with schools of fish and greet his pod when the sun began its descent. He misses the way his shoulders would become slick with scales during his visits to his cove of treasure when he completed his duties. There is a freedom he can only find in the ocean that is absent here. He must grow accustomed to life above the water rather than inside of it.

Here, in mortal territory, Jameson feels incredibly strange despite the ancient power he possesses. He's at a loss for words, in both Iris's human language and the language of the sea.

"Okay," Iris begins, serious as she looks at him and offers her hand to have him stand. His gaze snags on the ring again, and then travels up to the pink, star-shaped mark on her neck. Something inside of him wants to touch it to make sure it's real. "Bend your knees a little, but don't lock them—no, that's too much," she instructs. When he gets the pose right, she nods encouragingly. "Okay! Good. Reach out a hand and wrap it around the back of the chair to support yourself, and... yes, good. Like that. Please hold onto your towel. Nudity isn't supported here."