Atticus sat upon a lonely rock, barely large enough for a two-person picnic, protruding up from the sea. A stone finger piercing the water’s veil to accuse the sky of some unknowable crime.

“It is so quite unfair!” his companion whined in a sing-song voice, each word flowing into the other, an eldritch harmony supporting them. “They come at me with harpoons and canons, terrible things! Oh Atty it simply isn’t fair!”

Pout. A downcast eye and turn of the lip that belied the water nymph’s age by several lifetimes as humans reckon things.

“Give me your side of the story, my droplet.”

“Well,” a sniffle, “maybe those sailor boys wanted to drown, what of that? I sit and I sing, that is all I do. They came here! I dinnay ask them here.”

“They did, yes, and you did not, no,” the villain agreed, wisely smothering a chuckle.

“Maybe after my song, they had enough adventure, enough of life. Maybe I am who they sought through all their days, and after meeting me,” from petulant to prideful, “they had their fill. Life is a meal and I was the final desert.” Pleased with her self-given realization, the water nymph began combing the tangles and snarls from her hair. It wasn’t long before the pale green and deep blue tresses were once again defined in thick, lazy curls.

Atticus smiled. He knew this dangerous, unpredictable creature well enough not to argue.

She laid her head against Atticus’s leg with an expectant air, closed her eyes, and waited patiently for him to bring her stories, gossip, and news from his world.