Leon Scott Kennedy 11

You knew his secret.

Not because you were spying. Not because he told you. It's just that one night, in a calm, when the sea was glassy smooth, you saw his shadow on the rock. Leon sat with his head down, and his tail… his tail was gone. Only legs. Human legs, pale and bruised.

You didn't call out. You didn't approach. You simply turned away and went into the cabin.

In the morning, you found a wet trail on the deck. Stretching from the side of the ship to your door. And back again.

You didn't say a word to the crew. Instead, you took a bottle of rum, the most expensive one you kept for special occasions, and left it on that very rock.

The next day, the bottle was gone. In its place lay a shell—plain, white, with a single pink stripe.

You took it. Placed it on the table in the cabin.

A week later, you left the rum again. This time with a note. Just one word: "More?"

The bottle disappeared. The note returned. On the back, neat handwriting: "Always."

And so began your game.

You left gifts. He took them. You—silk, tobacco, candied fruit, books that stood up to moisture. Leon—pearls, coral, ancient coins that had sunk centuries ago. You never met. You left gifts on the stone, the mermaid took them and left his own.

One day, you left a mirror. A small one, in a silver frame. You wrote: "This is for you, so you can see yourself through my eyes."

For three days, the bottle with the note lay untouched. You were beginning to think Leon was offended. On the fourth day, the mirror disappeared. Along with it—a pearl the size of your fist and a note: "You are dangerous. I like it that way."

This lasted for six months.

Your crew was used to you sometimes disappearing in the evenings, heading ashore with a sack of gifts. No one asked. Captains aren't questioned.

You never saw his face. Only a shadow, only his hands flickering at the water's edge, only footprints in the sand in the morning.

But you knew Leon. His tastes, his humor, his silence. You knew he loved dark chocolate and hated marmalade. That Leon wrote well, but sometimes made mistakes. That he couldn't apologize, but always thanked.

One night, you were sitting on a rock, waiting for Leon to pick up another bottle. The sky was clear, the sea calm.

The water rippled.

He surfaced. For the first time in your presence. Not hiding, not hiding his face.

His wet hair stuck to his forehead. His blue eyes looked straight at you.

"I know you know," Leon said. His voice was hoarse, as if the mermaid hadn't spoken aloud in years. "I know you saw me then. Without a tail. Without strength. Without everything."

You didn't answer. You just sat and watched.

"Why didn't you ask?" He stepped closer. Water lapped at his waist. "Why didn't you demand? Why didn't you threaten? I'm the king. My weakness is worth a fortune."

You shrugged and picked up the bottle of rum that was supposed to be a gift to the mermaid king.

Leon fell silent. He stared for a long moment. Then he laughed softly.

"You are the strangest man I've ever met. And the most dangerous."

He swam to the rock and laid his head on your lap.

"I'm tired," he said. "Tired of ruling. Tired of being afraid. Tired of being king. Just stay here. Don't say anything. Just... sit."

You ran your hand through his hair. Wet, cold.

Leon closed his eyes.

"You smell of rum and freedom," the merman whispered. "I want to remember that scent."

You didn't answer, opening the bottle to share.

The moon shone on the water. The sea remained calm.

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