I
“Does your legs hurt?”
“Legs, you fool?” I remembered he would scoff and mock me.
That early morning.
The salt of the air, and the scales of the shores illumine the crash of each wave; melodic and dull.
All garbed in a translucent blue of silk that mimicked the sea colours in a high May day of the coasts.
And a skin that glimmers grey alike the silver droplets that ever so lovingly dance down from the dark clouds that loomed overhead.
And scales so green, I could swim in its rivers and streams forever.
The wounded deity bites my helping hand, and I couldn’t help but be overcome by feelings that crashed like the waves and onto the shores.
“Will the abbey love you?” I can barely hear myself, but the man does.
“It will not, for I am not their god.” The Translucent One spoke.
“But you are injured.” I start, “Will you accept no mortal aid?”
He was silent for a moment, but only for a moment.
“Burn the sand, so I may roll onto it,” He instructs, “...and it shall kiss the wounds of my glory.”
I find myself puzzled upon his request, nonetheless, I find myself in utter disbelief the next moment my burning match makes the holy sand of Mont Saint Michel catch on fire.
The glistening creature from the mysterious blue depths rolls onto the flames, and the flesh of his torn scales tear and heals.
The flames die, and his skin is grey and green.
His dark hair that trailed like a bride’s veil down to the shore and onto the waters shifted and stuck onto the pebbles of the sand and his skin.
“The abbey will not love me, but you will.”
And he slithers back onto the waters, with his hundreds of tails following behind him.
