Chapter One
The ferryman spat into the waves as he handed me the last crate. "You'll be the only living soul on this island," he said, not unkindly, just matter-of-factly. "Unless you count the ghosts, that is,” the ferryman declared.
“Ghosts?” I repeated.
He chuckled in response. “Don't worry, they're mostly friendly... I think.”
“Thanks,” I replied to his friendly banter. “I feel so much better knowing that,” I chuckled.
“Also,” he continued, “as we discussed, I'll be here once a week to resupply you when I go to St Martin's, weather permitting," his laughter dissolving into the sound of his diesel engine as he pushed back from the beach, before I could ask which ghosts he meant.
I sat on the sand, surveying my new realm for the next two years, overwhelmed with the beauty as I opened the information pack provided by the trust for whom I now worked.
The information pack contained the usual field guides and maps, but tucked beneath them was a small linen-wrapped package that hadn't been on the inventory list. The fabric smelled faintly of peat when I unfolded it, revealing a tarnished bronze brooch shaped like intertwined serpents. A handwritten note fluttered in my grip, saying 'Found near the hermitage ruins. Thought you ought to have it.'
A strange relic to give someone, I thought, as I wrapped it again, stuffing it in my pocket as I looked at the causeway at low tide, the black rock ridge between St Helen's and the neighbouring islet, its surface pocked with tidal pools that reflected the evening sky like spilt mercury.
"Time waits for no man," I muttered as I stood, picking up my backpack, with my task clear. Settle into my new humble abode. Unpack and make myself comfortable before darkness shrouded everything for the day.
I waded through knee-high thrift flowers, their pink blooms bobbing as if sharing some private joke about the mainlander hauling crates up the slope, as I viewed an ancient building's silhouette cutting jagged teeth into the sunset as three oystercatchers burst from its empty shell, the only remains that provided evidence of human habitation centuries earlier.
The door groaned like an old dog stretching as I pushed it open, revealing a large room that smelled of warm cedar and damp wool. Whoever designed this place had indeed thought of hobbits and shelter from the winds. Dug into the side of the hill with low ceilings supported by exposed beams and round windows that framed the sea like portholes.
A large stove squatted proudly in the corner of the kitchen, along with a fridge/freezer.
My imagination was also captured by the open-hearth fire, which had two chairs neatly placed in front. "Two chairs," I muttered, wondering who the hell I would be entertaining, and then I smiled, muttering to myself again, "perhaps the ghosts the ferryman had mentioned."
My fingers traced the rough-hewn stone walls as I stepped inside, the temperature perfect, suggesting the design would keep me snug during the winter days as I noted the large oak desk by the window.
“Perfect,” I muttered, as I dropped my backpack onto the sheepskin-draped bench and pulled out my camera. Through the viewfinder, I captured the way dusk pooled in the hollows of the room, the amber glow catching the whorls of wood grain, the blue shadows licking at the edges of the hearth. Two years here would be nothing, or everything, I decided as I put the camera on the desk and explored the rest of the hobbit-warren, I had decided to call it.
I found the bedroom nicely appointed, looking welcoming and warm. I pushed another door to find the bathroom. Basic didn’t quite capture the essence of its functionality. More like a wet room with a shower, sink and toilet with... gosh, a bidet, and then I remembered the information pack discussing the toilet functionality. I sceptic tank free from paper and suchlike, keeping human waste as natural as possible on this island dedicated to wildlife.
My last point of inspection was the shed. Well, actually, a ship's container adapted for island life. The generator hummed softly when I flipped its switch, a sound like a sleeping beast exhaling. The metal walls were lined with shelving, stocked with essentials for island life. Everything smelled of petrol and wood shavings, the latter from a stack of freshly split logs piled neatly beside the axe. I also noted the four 47kg propane gas cylinders, one connected with three spares.
It was obvious that the trust had thought of everything, reassuring me in a certain way, as I spotted someone had left a note tucked under the chainsaw's safety guard.
I read the note. For the stubborn driftwood only. The standing trees have stories you're not meant to cut short, as I ran my thumb over the axe handle, its wood worn smooth by generations of hands. The grain darkened where sweat had soaked in, the head gleaming with a recent sharpening.
Outside, twilight had turned the thrift flowers into shadowy fists as I hauled the last crate inside, my boots scuffing against the metal floor as the container door swung shut with a resonant clang that startled a raven from the hermitage ruins, its wings beating the air like a book snapping closed on an unfinished sentence.
Back in the hobbit-warren, I unpacked all my food supplies. No plastic bags, wrapping or bottles. Everything biodegradable or burnable and enough tupperware to sink a battleship. I made my bed, storing my clothes in the chest of drawers, not that I had that many. Put my toiletries in the bathroom and then set about dumping all my personal stuff on the desk for sorting later, including my medication that I need to take daily.
Just as it got dark, I completed the task of settling in bar one. My last task was to check the radio worked in case of an emergency, and then I fired up my laptop, having positioned my Starlink system by the window on the desk, confirming I had internet access.
The match hissed as I struck it, flaring to life before I touched it to the burner. Blue flames licked up in perfect concentric rings, a tiny, contained sunrise beneath my saucepan. I stirred onions until they turned translucent, then added lentils and stock, the scent of thyme rising like a sigh from the pot. Simple food, but good. The kind that sticks to your ribs when the wind howls outside.
After eating, I grabbed the bottle of red wine from my crate, something cheap but cheerful, the sort you'd bring to a picnic where no one cares about tannins and poured myself a generous glass. The wicker chair outside creaked under my weight as I settled into it, its curves moulded by years of bodies leaning back to watch the stars, its twin sat empty beside me, the cushion slightly dented, as if someone had just stood up moments before, but alas, I was very much on my own.
Twice a month, Hugh Town would call me. Civilization within reach if I needed it, though right now, the isolation felt like a gift. Outside, the thrift flowers had folded into themselves for the night, and the tidal pools reflected a sky dense with stars. My camera sat ready on the desk. Tomorrow, I'd document the oystercatchers' dawn ritual, the way they stabbed at the shoreline like tiny metronomes, reminded, the trust wanted migration patterns and distinct counts of all wildlife, but I wanted the in-between moments too. Spiderwebs jewelled with dew, lichen spreading slowly as spilt ink across granite and the private moments of seals and dolphins that played in the waters of the unique archipelago.
For my first day, I was up and dressed early, the brooch's sharp edge pressed against my thigh through the fabric of my pocket as I knelt to lace my boots. Outside, the island exhaled mist that clung to everything, softening edges until the hermitage ruins looked like charcoal smudged across wet paper.
I stepped into dawn's hush, my notebook already damp against my palm. The thrift flowers hadn't yet unfurled, their stems bowed under beads of moisture that rolled off when I brushed past. Something about their quiet resistance made me pause; tiny lives persisting in salt-spray and gale winds. My camera stayed unused; some mornings demanded to be felt before they could be framed.
The tidal pools were alive when I reached them. Anemones retracted at my shadow, their tentacles vanishing into jewel-bright mouths. A hermit crab lugged its stolen shell across my boot print, oblivious to being the most existential creature on the shoreline as I scribbled notes with numb fingers, the ink bleeding.
"Ghosts, eh?" I muttered to a cluster of periwinkles when the silence grew weighty. Their spiral shells held the ocean's murmur. Maybe the ferryman meant this, the way the island thrummed with presences that weren't human: the oystercatchers' blade-sharp cries, the rustle of bracken where voles tunnelled, the sigh of waves rearranging pebbles into fresh mosaics.
Then I saw the seal.
The seal thrashed weakly, its dark eyes rolling white with panic as the nylon netting bit into its blubber. The more it struggled, the tighter the mesh constricted around its hind flippers, the ghostly tendrils of discarded fishing gear shimmering with seawater like some malicious kelp. I dropped my notebook, the pages fluttering open to an unfinished sketch of anemones as I waded into the tidal pool, my boots sinking into the silty bottom.
It made me so angry as I looked at the little fellow, tangled in the discarded fishing nets, often referred to as 'ghost gear, representing one of the most destructive forms of marine pollution, causing long-lasting ecological damage. These nets, I knew, were abandoned, lost, or discarded at sea, and would persist for years, continuing to catch and kill marine life with no chance of survival unless humans intervene.
I now had a chance to intervene, but I reminded myself to be careful. Seals pack a punch and bite. They might be cute and cuddly, but they are wild marine mammals with no sense of humour in that situation.
The seal's breathing slowed, its body going slack against my knees as if we'd done this dance before, as if in some other lifetime, when I knelt in a tidal pool to free it from man-made snares.
My knife's serrated edge caught the first nylon strand with a satisfying snick, the sound barely audible over my own heartbeat. The netting parted like rotten cloth, revealing raw pink grooves where the plastic had sawed into blubber.
My hands shook from the cold or adrenaline, I couldn't tell, but the blade moved with practised knowledge, as I spoke to calm the animal. "Easy now," I murmured, though I wasn't sure if the reassurance was for the seal or myself, but a momentary loss of concentration resulted in my hand being cut by the sharp blade.
It wasn’t a long cut, but it bled profusely thanks to the blood-thinning medication I took, but the seal seemed indifferent to my injury as its whiskers brushed my wrist as I worked. Each breath warm against my skin as I continued to work, as the netting unravelled in frayed coils, as I discarded it for collection later. When the last strand snapped, the seal was free as I stood up, moving backwards, rubbing my bleeding hand against my shorts, providing space between the animal and me. To my amazement, though, it didn't bolt; it just lay there, looking up at me.
It blinked, nostrils flaring as it took my scent, its dark eyes holding a depth that made my throat tighten. Then, with a liquid twist, it shuffled into the water and was gone, vanishing into the mercury-coloured water without so much as a splash.
I stared at the empty pool, my knife dripping blood onto the rocks. The netting clung to my boots in limp tatters, its synthetic fibres gleaming like spider silk. I should’ve felt triumphant, asking myself, wasn’t this exactly why I’d taken this job? To mend what others had carelessly broken? But the victory tasted hollow. This was one seal. How many more were out there, choking on our indifference?
Just then, the brooch in my pocket burned suddenly hot against my thigh. "What the…?" I demanded, as I fished it out, startled to find the tarnished bronze now gleaming as if freshly polished, the serpentine coils of the design, writhing under my fingers.
A trick of the light, surely, but when I turned it over, the pin’s underside seemed to be alive as my blood touched the metal, dropping into the water before I could stem the flow properly.
The brooch lay cold and tarnished in my palm again, its serpentine coils dull as old pennies as I turned it over, examining the reverse side for traces of my blood, but finding nothing, as if absorbed into the elements themselves. "Geez, what a rush," I muttered to myself. "Must have been the adrenaline rush affecting my senses," I rationalised.
Pocketing it, I gathered the netting into a sodden bundle, the nylon heavy with seawater as I turned towards 'Hobbiton', the new name I'd decided to call my pad, my place on the island.
Back at my hobbit-warren, I dumped the netting into the unrecyclable bin beside the generator shed. The morning’s chill had burned off, replaced by a honeyed sunlight that gilded the thrift flowers into pink halos.
I washed my hands under the tap, the water bitingly cold, then paused as a dark shape undulated just beyond the shoreline, not the seal, but something larger. A basking shark? I wondered. No. Too big and the water, too shallow. Then it was gone, a trick of light on water, or perhaps another phantom of my imagination. I didn't know, but for some unknown reason, I felt exhausted after my efforts, deciding to lie down for an hour.
Chapter Two
I woke mid-afternoon, groggy and disoriented, the sunlight slanting through the round window painting stripes across my bare chest. The clock confirmed I'd slept far longer than intended, three hours lost to exhaustion or something.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I stumbled outside in nothing but my white M&S Y-fronts, the warm air greeting my body as I stretched. The island had transformed in my absence, where morning mist had softened the edges, now everything stood in sharp relief: thrift flowers vibrating pink against slate, tidal pools flashing like scattered sapphires, the hermitage ruins baked gold by the sun.
I wasn't bad looking for my age, forty-two, not that anyone would guess from the silver hair just starting to pepper my temples, having made efforts to keep my body well-trimmed. Daily swims in the university pool back in Bristol, weekend hikes that left my thighs burning, and a strict avoidance of second helpings had preserved me better than most of my colleagues.
Still, I was no supermodel either; my shoulders carried the permanent slump of someone who’d spent too many years bent over microscopes or lecterns giving lectures, and my hands bore the nicks and calluses of fieldwork. But standing there in nothing but my underwear, the salt wind licking at my skin, I was happy with my look, and I knew the island didn’t judge or care.
Feeling more awake, my gaze dropped to the wicker table. Two Sea bass lay across its surface, their scales still damp with seawater, gills flared red against silver. Freshly caught. Undeniably so, as I ran a finger down one sleek flank, no stiffness, no clouded eyes. These hadn't been dead more than an hour.
"Okay," I said aloud, scanning the empty beach. No boats bobbing offshore, just a trail of footprints that were not mine, leading down to the water's edge as the rhythmic sigh of waves and the distant screech of gulls suggested, nothing unusual here.
I examined the fish closely. They had been impeccably gutted, their bellies slit cleanly from pectoral to tail, entrails removed with the precision of someone who'd done this a thousand times. A thin seaweed frond tied their tails together, a practical handle, but also oddly ceremonial, like a gift meant to be carried.
The footprints were real. Not some trick of erosion or wishful thinking, actual human indentations pressed deep into the sand, toes splayed wide like someone who’d walked barefoot their whole life. They led straight into the surf, disappearing where the waves erased all evidence. I crouched, tracing one print with my finger. The edges hadn’t even begun to crumble. Whoever left these fish had been here recently. Very recently.
The fish went into the fridge with a decisive clunk. "Fuck it, I'll eat the gift this evening," I muttered again, louder this time, as if daring the island to judge me.
The elastic of my Y-fronts stretched comfortably across my hips as I stepped back outside, the afternoon sun kissing my shoulders like an old friend who'd missed me. No need to get dressed, I decided. After all, who was there to see me, striding around in my Marks & Spencer multi-pack?
The thrift flowers nodded approval as I passed, their pink heads bobbing in a rhythm that matched my barefoot strides. The island wasn't large, but every inch of it hummed with secrets as my toes sank into warm sand and dirt still holding the day's heat.
A splash drew my attention to the tidal pools. The same seal, it had to be the same one, rolled onto its back just offshore, dark eyes glinting with what I swore was amusement. It slapped a flipper against the water's surface, sending up a spray that caught the light like scattered coins. "Show-off," I called, grinning as I wiped salt and sand from my chest. The answering bark sounded suspiciously like laughter before it vanished beneath the waves, and once again I was alone to enjoy my walk.
Midway around the island, I was yet again confronted with footprints in the sand. Bare human prints, slightly larger than mine, slightly webbed, it appeared, weaving between tidal pools with impossible grace, as if the owner had danced across the sharpest barnacles without leaving a single drop of blood. I crouched, running a finger along the perfect arch of one impression. Cold seeped through my knees where the rock met flesh, but the footprint itself radiated residual warmth.
And then, a shadow moved at the edge of vision. I turned just in time to see a figure slip behind a granite outcrop, a flash of a bronzed shoulder, dark hair trailing like kelp in the wind.
"Hey!" I shouted, my voice cracking oddly in the salt air as I now knew I was not alone.
There was no response to my challenge, but the sound of waves retreating over pebbles. When I reached the outcrop, I found only a scattering of winkles arranged in a spiral pattern, their shells gleaming like tiny moons.
I looked around the outcrop, and then in the distance I saw, I saw what?
I blinked, once, twice, but the figure remained. A young man, no older than mid-twenties, I thought, obviously tall and stunningly attractive, sitting where the dry sand met the wet, his legs crossed like a child at play.
Sunlight gilded the curve of his shoulders that were covered in a colourful cloak, but nothing else provided him with modesty as he sat naked, his skin the colour of weathered oak. His hair, though, was long and stunningly white, suggesting he was old, tangled with strands of seagrass, unbrushed and unkempt, but beautiful all the same. Surely it was an illusion in the changing sunlight, but it was no illusion; it was his natural colour, suggesting to me a conflict between age and beauty.
The wind carried his scent to me, of salt and something greener, deeper, like the damp heart of a storm-tossed reef. He didn’t look up as I approached, though my bare feet crunched loudly over broken shells.
"You left me fish," I said, stupidly, because what else does one say to a naked stranger on an uninhabited island?
His fingers stilled. Sand streamed from his palm in a slow, hypnotic trickle. When he lifted his head, his eyes were the same mercury-grey as the tidal pools at dawn. "You freed my friend," his voice rougher than I’d expected, the cadence uneven, as if he’d learned the words from listening to waves slap against rocks.
I crouched beside him, careful to keep space between us. Up close, I could see the fine webbing between his fingers and toes. "Your seal?"
"Yes. My friend," he replied.
I was quite overwhelmed by his presence as he sat there playing with the sand. “Where did you come from? Where are your clothes? How old are you?”
It sounded like an inquisition as I had lots of questions, needing answers, but they tangled in my throat like fishing line caught on a reef. The young man tilted his head, watching me with those uncanny silver eyes that reflected the clouds scudding overhead.
"You’re staring," he said, and his lips curled just slightly, revealing teeth that were just a shade too sharp but beautifully aligned. Sand cascaded from his palm as he splayed his fingers, the webbing between them translucent as jellyfish tendrils in the sunlight.
"I...," my voice faltering, wondering if he was a ghost. Yet here he sat, solid and real, smelling of low tide and crushed kelp. "You’re real, aren't you? Not a ghost, the ferryman told me, live here."
His laughter was a soft, wet sound, like waves pulling back over pebbles. "As real as the island, as real as the brooch your blood smeared this morning," his gaze dropping to my hand resting against the thin fabric of my Y-fronts.
"How do you know that?" I asked, my fingers instinctively brushing against the cotton fabric.
His gaze tracked the movement with unsettling precision, those mercury eyes catching the sunlight like polished coins. "Your blood dropped into the water. You shared your pain, the same pain my friend felt before you released her," he responded.
Still in disbelief, I demanded, “But where did you come from?”
He scooped up another handful of sand, letting it drain through his webbed fingers in a slow, hypnotic stream. "From the same place your brooch came from," he said, nodding towards the sea. "From under the waves, from between the pages of stories no one reads anymore and from your heart," as he placed his hand on my chest, the heat of his touch penetrating through my shirt.
His touch was like fire, overwhelming my senses, not the burn of flames, but the sear of lightning striking seawater, electric and impossible. And all at once, the world went dark. Not the black of closed eyelids or storm clouds, but the absolute dark of deep ocean trenches where sunlight never reaches. My breath hitched, my chest tightening as if squeezed by unseen currents, and then...
Chapter Three
My senses returned in fragments. First, the salt stinging on my cheeks. Then the softness of my sheet and duvet, my head on the familiar pillow. Finally, I opened my eyes to see him, sitting cross-legged on his cloak, beside my bed, naked, as I'd seen him earlier, but this time he smiled, his facial features beaming with warmth and... intense attraction and Love. Love? Surely not, I wondered.
"I'm sorry I touched you," he said.
"What happened? How did I get here?" I demanded.
"You suffered a swoon," he said softly, his webbed fingers tracing patterns in the air between us, not quite touching, but close enough that I could feel the static charge of his presence.
"When I touched your chest, you felt the power of my people and the power of the sea hit you, and it was too much. You lost consciousness due to the extreme emotional and spiritual knowledge my touch provided. So, I had no choice but to pick you up and carry you back to your home," he answered as his lips quirked, revealing those sharp, pearlescent teeth again.
I propped myself up on my elbows, the duvet pooling around my legs. My head throbbed, but not unpleasantly, more like the aftermath of diving too deep, that pressurised fullness behind the eyes. "How long was I out?"
"Long enough to allow the tide to come back in," he replied. "This is the best time of day, the sun setting will bring the moon."
For the first time, he stood, unfolding with the liquid grace of a seal sliding off warm rocks, and for the first time, I could see him. Really see him. Not just the teasing glimpses of bronzed shoulder or the kelp-tangled hair, but the full, unbroken lines of him.
The young man was exceptionally beautiful in a way that made my breath hitch. He stood as a study in architectural grace, a towering presence that commanded the air around him. His height is not merely a measurement but an atmosphere, lending him the quiet gravity of an ancient monolith carved from living warmth.
The light caught the expansive landscape of his shoulders and the rhythmic tapering of his torso, tracing the clean, powerful lines of a body honed to a sharp symmetry. There was a profound stillness in his posture, a tectonic strength that suggests both the resilience of oak and the fluid potential of a coiled spring, making the very space he occupied feel sacred and deliberate.
Stripped of all artifice, he was a masterpiece of elemental clarity. His skin, taut over the marble-like contours of his thighs and the intricate beauty of his manhood, long, sleek and…strangely desirable from a straight man’s opinion, surrounded with a thick bush, the same colour as his hair that fell long and curly from his head, glowing with a raw, vital luminescence.
Every shadow that fell across the hollows of his collarbone or the firm curve of his chest told a story of balance and proportion, unburdened by shame or vanity. To look upon him was to witness the human form in its most honest exaltation, a breathtaking confluence of power and vulnerability, standing poised at the intersection of myth and flesh.
But it was his face that undid me. High cheekbones dusted with freckles like scattered sand, lips full and soft, and those eyes, mercury-bright, reflecting the dying sun as if they’d swallowed the last light of day whole.
Wow, I thought before asking, "What’s your name?" my voice raspy as if I'd swallowed seawater. The words felt inadequate, absurd even, like asking the tide its surname, but the silence between us had stretched too long, and I needed to anchor this moment in something human.
He tilted his head, the motion so fluid it reminded me of sunlight shifting through water. "You first," he said, his voice carrying the whisper of waves retreating over pebbles.
"Steven," I said, the name feeling strangely small in the charged air between us. "Dr Steven Whitmore."
He repeated it slowly, shaping each syllable as if tasting them, and the way his tongue curled around the vowels sent an unexpected shiver down my spine.
"You can call me Lachlan," he said finally, the word curling from his lips like foam on a wave. "Or that’s the closest word your tongue has for me," as he gestured to the brooch now resting on my bedside table, its serpentine coils gleamed unnaturally bright in the dusk light. "You carry my token. That makes you mine as much as I am yours."
"But someone gave it to me in the information pack when I arrived," I stated, remembering I had left it in my shorts pocket.
The claim should have sounded absurd. Instead, it settled between my ribs like a swallowed stone, weighty and inevitable. I reached for the brooch, its metal strangely warm again. The moment my fingers brushed it, images surged behind my eyes: kelp forests swaying in midnight currents, the crush of waves against a forgotten shore, hands, his hands, carving this very bronze in some sunken forge.
My breath hitched as I collapsed onto the pillow. "It can't be cabin fever, I've only been here a day or two days if I count yesterday."
"Steven, I'm real, just like you. The only difference is that I'm a being of two worlds. I'm the seal in the waves and the human on shore. My skin is my soul, and my true self is found in the dark, cold depths of the sea. You have healed my friend, and in doing so, you have restored my heart for men. The cold deep is my home, but your warmth is my sanctuary."
The brooch pulsed in my palm like a second heartbeat, its warmth spreading up my wrist as Lachlan leaned closer. His breath smelled of seaweed and salt, clean and ancient. "Do you believe me now?" he murmured, his webbed fingers hovering over mine without touching.
"I don't know what to believe," I admitted. My thumb traced the serpentine coils, feeling the faint ridges where centuries of seawater had worn grooves into the bronze. "But I know what I see," as his knee brushed against my thigh under the duvet, colder than human skin ought to be, yet sending a flush of heat through me.
"Let me show you," Lachlan offered as he moved his hand closer to my chest.
My breath caught as Lachlan's fingers hovered just above my sternum, not touching, but close enough that goosebumps erupted across my skin. The brooch pulsed hotter against my palm, its serpentine design twisting subtly under my fingertips like live eels.
"Wait," I gasped. "What will I see if you touch me? Will I faint again?"
Lachlan's fingers stilled, the webbing between them catching the fading light like stained glass. "The truth," he murmured. "The way the tides pulled your ancestors to these shores. The way my people watched yours build fires on the cliffs," as his breath gusted cool against my lips. "The way your blood called to mine when you freed my friend."
I should have recoiled. I should have demanded explanations; I should have shouted for rationality. Instead, I pressed the brooch into my palm, my fingers tangling around the bronze serpent. "Show me."
His fingertips brushed my chest, a whisper of cold, then fire. The world dissolved into salt and memory as I saw kelp forests swaying in moonlit currents, felt the crush of waves against forgotten shores, tasted centuries of longing distilled into a single moment.
And deeper still, Lachlan’s memories unfolding like tide-washed scrolls: watching from the shallows as I arrived on the ferry, trailing me through tidal pools as I documented anemones, his breath hitching when I stood outside my home in my Y-Fronts, enjoying the sunlight.
But most startling, the ache. The way his pulse stuttered when I smiled at the seal, the way his hands trembled as he gutted the Sea bass for me, the centuries of loneliness coiled behind his ribs like the serpent on the brooch. Love, raw and unasked for, as inevitable as the tide.
I gasped back into my body, the duvet twisted around my legs, Lachlan’s face inches from mine, his pupils wide and black, his webbed fingers splayed over my pounding heart. "You see?" he whispered.
"I see you love me, but we've never met and... I’m straight," I choked out, the words tasting like a lie.
My body remembered the press of his memories, the heat of his gaze when I’d stretched bare-chested in the sun, the way his breath caught when I laughed. Lachlan’s smile was joy, sorrow and knowing, all at the same time.
"What is straight when love flows?" he asked as he traced the shell of my ear, his touch leaving cool streaks that burned. "Or, do you continue defying your soul and desires?"
Lachlan's fingers curled around mine, pressing the brooch harder against my palm until its serpentine edges bit into my flesh. "I've watched your bloodline for generations," he murmured, his breath cool against my lips. "Your great-grandfather pulled a seal pup from nets off the big land to the east. Your grandmother left offerings in sea caves during the full moon," as his thumb brushed my wrist, tracing the blue veins beneath my skin. "And now you, with your careful hands and lonely eyes, you walked onto my island like you were coming home."
I wanted to argue, to cite biology or coincidence, but the brooch burned with impossible heat between us, its bronze coils writhing as if alive. When I looked down, our hands were tangled together, his fingers webbed and cool, mine trembling and warm, both clasped around the artefact like a shared heartbeat as he continued to sit on the side of the bed.
"You're saying this was... predestined?" my voice cracking on the word. The rational part of my brain was screaming about isolation-induced hallucinations, but the scent of him, salt and something deeper, like the musk of storm-lashed rocks, filled my lungs with undeniable realness.
Lachlan smiled, slow as a rising tide. "Yes, fate and choice, but always destiny," he said as he released my hand to trace the line of my jaw, his touch leaving goosebumps in its wake. "Every selkie chooses once. My mother picked a fisherman. My grandmother waited three centuries before binding herself to a lighthouse keeper," his fingers stilling at my pulse point. "I saw you kneeling in the tidal pool, whispering apologies to a creature most men wouldn't notice, and I knew I had found you."
I didn't know what to say. Lachlan's thumb was still pressed against my racing pulse when I blurted out, "I couldn't just leave her there, your friend needed help," my voice cracking on the last word as I gestured vaguely toward the sea where the seal had been trapped. Lachlan's chuckle vibrated through me, warm as sunlight on wet rocks.
"This is all too much for me to take in. Selkies, folklore, people of two worlds, and your nudity is just too much. Perhaps you should cover yourself if you want to talk more," I suggested.
"Steven," he said, my name in his mouth sounding like something sacred, "selkies don't wear human clothes in the water, or out of it, usually," as he stepped back with effortless grace, bare skin gleaming with saltwater in the afternoon light. I forced my gaze up from the hypnotic trail of droplets down his sternum. "But if it helps you think," he added with a smirk, "imagine I'm wearing sealskin."
The bronze brooch between us pulsed like a second heartbeat. Lachlan tilted his head, suddenly serious. "You keep saying you're straight," he murmured, "but your ancestors married selkies for six generations. The brooch doesn't lie."
My fingers flew to the serpent brooch I was holding; its metal was warm again, vibrating faintly against my fingertips.
A gust of wind brought the scent of brine and something earthy beneath it, like damp peat moss. Lachlan inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring. "A storm's coming," he said absently, then locked eyes with me again. "You don't have to decide now. But the bond..." as he touched the brooch lightly, making it flare gold. "It remembers what your mind forgets."
Behind us, waves began slapping the rocks with growing urgency. Lachlan glanced seaward, muscles tensing. "I have to go," he said abruptly.
Before I could protest, he pressed something cold and smooth into my palm, a polished spiral shell no larger than a coin. "When you're ready, throw it into the sea, and I will come," he whispered, and then turned and walked off towards the sea, leaving me on the bed in a state of shock, awe and wonder, wondering if I had lost the plot after only two days on the island.
Chapter Four
I woke early, refreshed by the best sleep I'd had in years, no alarm, no city sounds, just the rhythmic sigh of waves against shale. Except for my Y-Fronts, I was naked but warm under the duvet, my skin still tingling where Lachlan's fingers had traced my jawline, and suddenly, the memories from yesterday returned like a flood, as I lay there trying to rationalise the turn of events.
Like most men, my morning wood was tenting my Y-Fronts, which I rubbed a couple of times through the cotton fabric, before I became conscious of a tingling high on my thigh. I slipped my Y-Fronts down to see what was wrong, and it was then that I noticed that the serpent brooch lay on the sheet, indicating I must have spent the night lying on it. What was different, though, was that overnight, the bronze had branded me without burning my underwear. Impossible, I knew, yet the mark was there: an intricate spiral with serpentine tails intertwining, burnt into my skin, the soft tissues of my skin, healed as if years had passed rather than hours.
My fingers trembled, tracing the raised edges, no inflammation, no pain, just a warm hum against my fingertips when I touched the brooch’s branded contours as I compared it with the bronze brooch still nestled beside my thigh.
The duvet pooled around my waist as I lay there, the morning light catching the brand's odd shimmer. It wasn't a tattoo's flat pigment, but something deeper, as if my cells had rearranged themselves to mirror the artefact's design. My pulse hammered when I noticed matching runes now etched into the brooch's surface, ones that hadn't been there yesterday.
Lachlan's voice echoed in my memory: The brooch doesn't lie.
A laugh bubbled up inside me, half-hysterical, half-serious, realising I'd woken up, mystically branded by Celtic folklore, sporting a morning wood not experienced for a while, and all I could think was at least it's not a tramp stamp. "It'll probably be gone soon," I muttered, refusing to let my hallucinations take over. What wasn't a hallucination, though, was my morning wood, which was crying for attention, standing vertically, towards my stomach as my Y-Fronts lay pushed down at my knees.
My fingers twitched as I traced my erection and the branding. It had been months since my body had reacted like this, the daily medication turning my libido into something distant and theoretical. But now? Now my skin felt too tight, my breath coming shallow as the damp morning air clung to me. I pressed the heel of my hand against my erection, exhaling sharply through my nose. "Christ."
The thought hit me with the same sudden certainty as the brand on my thigh: I deserved this.
My fingers trembled against my skin, not from cold but from the sheer unfamiliarity of wanting after months of numbness. The medication had sanded down every rough edge of desire until I'd forgotten what it felt like to ache like this as I pushed my Y-Fronts down more, kicking them off my legs to lie there naked.
I curled my fingers around myself with a groan that sounded foreign in my throat. My cock was firm and demanding as I started to work my shaft, precum leaking slowly from the tip in anticipation.
The rhythm of my hand matched the pounding of waves against the rocks outside, steady, insistent, growing more urgent with each stroke. My thighs tensed, toes curling against the duvet as I arched into my own touch. The brand on my thigh pulsed faintly, warmth radiating outward in time with my heartbeat, but I refused to look at it. Refused to think about selkies or bronze brooches or ancestral bonds. Right now, there was only this: the slick glide of my palm, the sharp scent of salt and sweat, the tight coil of pleasure winding tighter in my gut.
Distantly, I registered the dampness of leaking precum on my abdomen, the way my balls drew up tight against my body. A shudder ran through me as my pace quickened, deep breaths coming in ragged gasps that fogged the cool morning air as my free hand played with my balls, chasing the release that hovered just out of reach, like trying to catch a fish with bare hands, always slipping away at the last second.
Then, without warning, the brand burned hot, my body reacting in mutual support of the mark on my skin.
I cried out, back bowing off the bed as the spiral seared into my flesh, flared bright as molten bronze. The pain was electric, searing through my nerves straight to my cock, and suddenly my climax hit me like a rogue wave, inevitable and all-consuming.
Cum striped across my chest in hot, wet ropes, my vision blurring at the edges as my entire body convulsed. For one terrifying, exhilarating moment, I swore I tasted seawater on my tongue, as my release pumped with rejuvenated vigour. So much cum exploded from my cock, painting my abdomen with more creamy liquid than I’d expected, the quantity that of a teenager, not that of a man my age with medical conditions that restricted such enjoyment.
Collapsing back onto the mattress, I panted like I'd been drowning. My hand fell away, sticky and trembling. The brand still throbbed, but now it was a dull ache, a fading echo of whatever the hell had just happened. I stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling rapidly, so much cum cooling on my skin that some of it was dribbling over the edge of my stomach onto the sheet.
I lay in bed until I felt able to stand, electing to let my cum dribble and dry naturally as I climbed out of bed and made a coffee, enjoying the sensation of my personal nudity as, with mug in hand, I stepped outside, barefoot and naked, my cock still semi-erect with cum still oozing from its tip.
I let the sun warm my body, the sea wind carrying the scent of drying kelp and something muskier, male, marine, unmistakably Lachlan's lingering presence. The tide was out, revealing tidal pools like liquid mirrors. Drinking my first coffee of the day, I watched sandpipers dart across the wet sand, their tiny feet leaving hieroglyphics only the ocean could read, deciding I would explore more of the island today, as my fingers played with the branding on my thigh and then, the oozing liquid on my cock that refused to subside. “If this is island life, I’m going to enjoy this,” I muttered to myself.
After breakfast, leftover sea bass scrambled with eggs, I checked my emails with one hand while the other absently traced the brooch-mark again and my semi-hard cock that showed no interest in becoming flaccid. Three messages from my editor asking about the island field guide, one from my sister demanding to know why I wasn't answering her calls.
I replied to neither as I Googled, Selkie.
The Wikipedia page for "selkie" loaded with surprising speed. "Thanks, Elon, for the Starlink," I muttered, then snorted at the sanitised summaries and descriptions of selkies, seal-people who shed their skins to dance on moonlit shores. Tragic romances with fishermen who stole their pelts supported with illustrations from old folklore stories.
"If only they knew the truth," I muttered, closing the laptop lid. "Fuck it," I muttered, feeling content to wear only a t-shirt, as I slipped one on against the morning chill.
"The island's mine, so who gives a fuck if I remain like this?" I muttered to myself, grabbing my field bag and camera, electing to walk the west side of the island today, slightly disturbed by my persistent semi-erection that refused to subside.
I felt good as I walked, the air flowing around my semi-naked body. The wirebirds, unique island Plovers, scattered as my shadow fell across their feeding ground, tiny cinnamon-feathered ghosts vanishing between volcanic rocks. Through the lens, their black-ringed eyes watched me with avian suspicion, delicate feet leaving hieroglyphs in the wet sand. I exhaled slowly, finger hovering over the shutter release, waiting for that perfect moment when one would tilt its head just so, revealing the scarlet throat patch that made this subspecies unique.
Salt stung my lips when I murmured notes into the recorder: "Subject 47 exhibits the same nest-building behaviour as mainland relatives but collects bleached coral fragments instead of twigs." A splash drew my attention shoreward, two black-noddy terns diving in synchronised precision. Their caught silver fish vanishing down slender throats before I could focus.
The seals came at noon. First, just dark bumps on the horizon, then closer, until I could see whiskers twitch as they studied me with that uncanny vertical-pupiled focus. One, smaller, with a healed gash along its flank, ventured near enough that I could smell its fishy breath. "Send my regards to Lachlan if he exists and tell him we didn't finish our conversation," I whispered, extending a hand without touching, as my body reacted to the thought of the naked young man. Within seconds, my cock was standing vertical and firm, pushing the hem of my t-shirt ridiculously. The seal blinked slowly before vanishing with a liquid twist, leaving only ripples where its head had been.
I packed my gear as the tide turned, muscles singing from hours crouched in awkward positions, my cock stubbornly refusing to calm down, bobbing left or right, up and down from every movement I made.
The brooch-mark on my thigh pulsed, more sensation than pain, as I crested the granite outcrop. Below, something gleamed pale against dark basalt, a spiral of bleached whalebone lashed with kelp, precisely where no such object had been three hours prior. Inside the crude nest: three perfect spider conchs, their pearled interiors still glistening with seawater, tied together as a necklace.
Had Lachlan answered my message, or had someone else been on the island without me seeing them? I didn't know the truth as I picked up the necklace, deciding, why not? Why not wear them? I asked myself, as my cock itched and bobbed with sexual desire and tension.
The spider conch necklace settled cool against my covered chest, the shells clicking softly as I turned, only to freeze mid-motion. Where the empty shore should have been, stood an old woman wrapped in layers of faded wool, her gnarled fingers clutching a driftwood staff, the wind tugging at her salt-bleached braids, as she looked like a female version of Gandalf.
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