The first thing I noticed about being a man on land was the gravity. It anchored me. When Avis washed up on this beach, she flopped. She struggled against the weight of the atmosphere because she was trying to be an ethereal thing. She was fighting physics.
I arrived. I stepped out of the surf. My boots sank into the wet sand with a heavy crunch. I had conjured them out of a patch of tough kelp during the swim up. A gentleman does not arrive barefoot. That is for peasants and victims. I was, for the next four days, an octopus-in-boots.
I stood at the edge of the tide line and took a deep breath. The air tasted different from what I expected. It was thinner and drier. It scratched at the back of my throat like sand. But the testosterone flooding my system made it feel rich. It made me feel entitled to it.
I rolled my shoulders. The scar tissue across my chest pulled tight against the silk of the shirt I had spun from sea-flax. It was a good hurt. It reminded me that I was solid. I was dense. I was a brick wall in a silk shirt.
“She said she wanted her uncle to help,” I muttered to the seagulls circling overhead. “So this is what you get, kid.”
I slicked my wet hair back with one hand. The salt water stung my eyes. I didn’t blink. Men like myself, we do not blink at a little saline. I caught my reflection in a tide pool left by the retreating waves.
I noticed how good I looked with red hair. I looked like I had just survived a shipwreck and was already planning to sue the captain for incompetence.
“Gorgeous,” I whispered. “Absolutely edible.”
I turned my back on the ocean and began the walk to the castle. I walked right down the center of the market road.
The transition from the pristine silence of the deep to the noisy filth of a human town was jarring. The ground was hard. It didn’t yield. Every step sent a shockwave up my new tibias. But I strode through it with the confidence of a colonizer. The villagers stared. Of course they did. I was six foot four and dripping with charisma, striding past their baskets of strange vegetables.
I reached the castle gates. The guards crossed their pikes. They were just two boys who were barely out of puberty.
“Halt!” one of them squeaked.
I didn’t stop. I simply reached out and pushed the pikes aside with a casual motion of my hand.
“Move,” I rumbled. My voice was a landslide of baritone authority. “I am here for my niece. And I am in no mood for bureaucracy.”
The guard lowered his pike. He trembled. “Uh... yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
I marched into the courtyard and up the main stairs. The doors to the great hall were open. And that is when it hit me.
A scent.
It was heavy and oh, so salty. What a divine aroma. Richer than the sea ever wanted to be. It swirled through the air like a visible ribbon of desire.
Flowers? I wondered and sniffed the air. Do surface flowers smell this... sexual?
I honestly did not even intend to think the word sexual. The word was invasive. If I were to actually share every single thing I thought throughout this time I believe every sentence would be punctuated with the phrase “...and then I wanted to fuck.”
Regardless, the smell was as if the gods poured their own essence into the air. It drew me in. I followed the scent like a shark following a blood trail. It led me down a corridor and straight into a dining room.
The walls were a pale blue that reminded me of how my skin looked before I became a man. The wind blew the soft linen curtains inward like the flow of jellyfish. The table was set with fresh linens.
Prince Devan sat at the head of the table. He looked tired. To his right sat Avis. She wore a yellow dress that made her look like a confused canary. To Devan's left sat an elderly man named Martan. He looked like a dried sea sponge that had been left in the sun too long.
Avis was currently trying to adjust her breasts into an appealing position. She was accustomed to them just floating in the water. Gravity was her biggest enemy.
Devan sighed. It was a sound of deep exhaustion. He looked up. He saw me.
He froze. His fork clattered onto his plate. He stood up slowly. He took in the height, the beard, the dripping wet silk, and the sheer, overwhelming presence of me.
“Who...” he stammered. “Who are you?”
Avis turned. She saw me. Her eyes went wide. She recognized the eyes. She recognized the energy. She made a frantic clicking noise in her throat. K-k-k-click. She pointed at me with the spoon.
I smiled. It was a paternal and predatory smile.
“Avis,” I boomed and opened my arms wide. “There you are, you little delinquent.”
“Avis?” Devan asked. He looked at the girl and then back at me. “Her name is Avis?”
I ignored his confusion. I strode across the room. I ignored the water I was dripping onto the expensive rug. I nodded once to the old man, Martan, to acknowledge his presence with the grace of a king acknowledging a servant. Then I grabbed Avis in a hug that pinned her arms to her sides. I squeezed. Hard.
“I have been looking everywhere for you,” I said. I released her and turned to the Prince.
I extended a hand. “The name is Milstead,” I said. “Milstead Waters. I am her uncle. And I assume she has been an absolute nightmare.”
Devan took my hand. His grip was firm. Mine was rock.
“Devan,” he said and winced slightly. “Prince Devan. I... we found her on the beach. We didn’t know who she was. Or what she was called.”
“Yes,” I said. I dropped his hand and pulled out a chair. I sat down without asking.
In the center of the table, there was a silver platter piled high with strips of glistening, dark red meat. The source of the smell.
I picked up a strip. It was hot. Grease coated my fingers. I took a bite.
Salt. Fat. Smoke. Crunch.
My eyes rolled back in my head. It wasn’t flowers. It was the flesh of some land-beast. Cured and fried to perfection.
“Bacon,” Devan offered. He watched me closely.
“Bacon,” I repeated. The word felt holy in my mouth. “I must have more.”
I grabbed three more strips.
“The silence... is a blessing, really,” I said. “You should hear her when she gets going. Never shuts up. Yammers on about gigglesmats and tanspleefs until your ears bleed.”
I reached for a basket filled with small, brown squares. They looked like construction materials.
Roof tiles? I wondered.
I picked one up. It was rough and scratched my fingertips. I sniffed it. It smelled like burnt grain.
I took a bite. It shattered in my mouth. It was dry and scratchy. It sucked every drop of moisture from my tongue. Why do humans eat building supplies?
“Butter?” Martan offered. “For your toast.”
He slid a small dish of yellow paste toward me.
“Thank you,” I said.
I took the toast and shoved it directly into the butter dish. I dredged it. I coated the entire thing in a thick glob of grease.
“Ingenious,” I said to the old man. “Lubrication. One of my favorite things.”
“What?” Devan asked. He blinked.
I swallowed the now-palatable toast.
“Nothing. I was just saying I rather enjoy a good lubrication,” I mused. I wiped a crumb from my beard. “And what of you, Prince? You seem like you also enjoy lubrication at the right times and in the right places.”
He gave me a strange look. He wasn’t bothered. It seemed to be more of an expression of hunger than anything else. He stared at the bacon in my hand.
“Would you like some, Devan?” I asked. “There’s plenty for you to have as much as you want.”
He simply stared at me. He nodded his head slightly. Almost entranced. I promise that I cast no magic on this boy at all. This was pure biology. He was simply responding to my big fish energy.
I picked up a fresh piece of bacon. I directed it towards his mouth.
“I suppose I should not offer to you what is already yours,” I apologized. I felt somewhat foolish. After all, it was his bacon.
He leaned forward. He opened his mouth. He ate it from my fingers.
The room was silent. Martan looked like he had swallowed a lemon whole. Avis looked horrified. But Devan just chewed. His eyes locked on mine.
Within five minutes, the Prince was literally eating out of my hand.
I wiped the grease from my fingers onto a napkin and turned to Avis. Her face was nearly the same shade of red as my hair. She was vibrating with rage.
“I really don’t know what’s wrong with you, you gangly grouper,” I said directly. “It truly doesn’t seem like it’s all that difficult to manage. Look at me. I’m a man and I’m already everything that you’re not.”
“Is she...” Devan hesitated. He broke his trance to look at her. “Is she well? We were worried she might have... you know. Brain damage.”
I laughed. “Oh, the girl is a trollop,” I said casually.
Martan choked on his tea.
Devan’s jaw dropped. “I... I beg your pardon?”
I didn’t understand the confusion. I had overheard some sailors discussing a rather highly desirable woman years ago. They referred to her as such. They spoke of her with reverence. Avis needed all the help she could get if she wanted to marry this prince. The greatest service I was doing for her was sharing the news of her grand trollopness.
“A trollop,” I repeated. “A two-tone trollop. You know the type. Highly desirable. Men falling over themselves to get a look at her. She has a beau in every port from here to Singapore. Very popular girl. You just have to overlook the crabs.”
Devan turned to look at her. “The crabs?”
“When you’re as popular as she is, crabs just tend to flock to you,” I explained. “At one point she was a host to an entire colony of crabs. Almost like an infestation.”
She beamed with pride. She has always been admired by the crustacean community.
“But that popularity went to her head, I’m afraid,” I continued. I tapped my own temple. “And then she fell off the mast.”
“The mast?” Devan asked.
“Took a nasty blow to the noggin during a storm,” I lied. “Bam. Lights out. Woke up like this.”
I gestured to Avis. She was clicking furiously. “Forgot who she was,” I said. “Forgot her manners. Tragically, the only thing she remembered was the desire to be around handsome men. Hence...”
I pointed a finger at Devan.
“She found you.”
Devan blinked. A slow flush crept up his neck.
“Oh,” he exhaled. “Oh, thank god. I thought she was feral.”
I sat back as a servant poured a dark liquid into a porcelain cup. The roasted aroma was inviting, so I brought the rim to my lips and took an eager sip.
The flavor assaulted my tongue like toxic runoff from rotting kelp. My body violently rejected the bitter sludge, forcing me to spew the mouthful of hot liquid across the table before I could even swallow. It splattered entirely over Avis.
“My word,” Martan exclaimed. “Are you alright?”
Brown fluid dripped from the girl’s chin and soaked into her silk dress. She sat frozen in absolute shock while I glared at the cup in sheer horror. These surface dwellers willingly consumed boiled dirt.
“Yes,” I said quickly. “I would check on the servant who fills the cups, though. She appears terribly confused regarding the difference between a beverage and a bowel movement.”
“And feral, you say? No, no. She’s fine, just keep her away from your seafood platters,” I said. “Don’t ask her to sing, you will be very grateful that you do not have to face that. But if you need a good trollop, there’s not a better one. Not with two feet anyway.”
I continued eating the bacon, realizing that when you dipped it in the butter, it was even better.
“My apologies,” I offered. “I do not think I have ever been quite so hungry in my entire life. Being a man leaves me with this insatiable need to simply have all of the meat inside of me.”
“Please,” Devan said. He pushed the entire platter of bacon toward me. “Eat. Eat whatever you’d like. You must be exhausted. Did you swim here? You’re soaked.”
“Shipwreck,” I said. “My schooner went down a few miles out. Swam the rest of the way. Good exercise. Clears the sinuses.”
Devan stared at my chest where the wet silk shirt clung to the new muscles. “You swam? In those currents?”
“I like a challenge,” I said.
Devan didn’t look away. He was fascinated.
“I have a change of clothes you can borrow,” Devan said quickly. “My father’s old suits. They should fit. You have... similar shoulders.”
“That would be excellent,” I said. “This shirt is starting to chafe.”
I stood up. “Lead the way, Prince Devan. I am eager to get out of these rags.”
Devan jumped up immediately. He practically tripped over himself to get to the door. Martan followed at a slower pace. He clutched his teacup as if it were a shield. Avis scrambled out of her chair. She trailed behind us and shot daggers at my back.
We walked down a long hallway lined with portraits of stern men in stiff collars. I looked at them with disdain.
“Dour bunch,” I noted. I pointed to a painting of a man with a handlebar mustache. “He looks like he hates fun.”
Devan laughed nervously. “That’s my great-uncle. He was actually quite severe.”
“I can tell,” I said. “The eyes are dead. You need new art, Devan. Something with life. Something with hips.”
We arrived at the royal chambers. Devan pushed the heavy oak doors open. The room was large and smelled of cedar and old paper. It was cluttered with maps and small models of ships. It was a boy’s room masquerading as a king’s room.
“My father’s things are in the wardrobe,” Devan said. He gestured to a massive piece of furniture in the corner. “I haven’t moved them since... well. Since he passed.”
“A sentimentalist,” I said. “Charming prince.”
I stood in the center of the room. I felt the wet sea-flax clinging to my skin. It was cold and heavy. I was done with it.
I grabbed the hem of my shirt and pulled it over my head in one smooth motion. I threw the wet ball of fabric into the corner. No need for privacy, I have nothing to hide.
The sound of wet silk hitting the floor was the only noise in the room.
I stood there bare-chested. The scar tissue that formed my pectorals and abdominals gleamed in the morning light. The thick mat of red hair that covered my chest had sea salt matted in big white clumps and trailed down my stomach like a river of flames leading to a bonfire.
I heard a sharp intake of breath.
I turned. Devan was staring. His eyes were wide. He was looking at the scars. He was looking at the muscle. He looked like he wanted to reach out and touch the damage to see if it was real.
Martan cleared his throat loudly. He turned his head to study a map on the wall with intense fascination.
“Are those… gills?” Devan asked.
I froze. I had completely forgotten. How was I to explain gills?
“From… the… accident. The boat crash… the shipwreck…” I tried. It was the first thing I could think of.
“The shipwreck gave you gills…” Martan inquired.
“When I was but a guppy… when I was a small boy… my parents and I were in a shipwreck and I had to have surgery on my lungs. And they left me with these scars. It was very difficult and I still would prefer to not talk about it. That’s how we lost my mother.”
There, with that, I silenced the room. Well, except Avis, who stifled a laugh. But I stopped any further questions.
“The trousers,” I announced, changing the subject and giving them something better to focus on. “They are soaked through.”
I unbuckled the belt I had conjured. I shoved the kelp-leather trousers down my legs and stepped out of them. No one’s going to be looking at the gills when they see this.
I stood in the center of the Prince’s bedroom. Naked and without apology.
Avis just stared. Her mouth was slightly open. She looked confused by the anatomy. I saw Devan’s eyes travel down. He followed the line of hair until he reached the main event. I saw his pupils dilate.
The mirth of the girth, I thought smugly. That sea cucumber was the best investment I ever made.
Devan’s face turned a violent shade of crimson. He tried to look away. He failed. His eyes looked back involuntarily. He stammered.
“You are in… luck today because my...” He stopped. He swallowed hard. “My... dad, he… dad… he…”
He couldn’t finish the sentence. The biology had short-circuited his vocabulary.
“Daddy?” I prompted helpfully. “He was a man of significant stature, I presume?”
Martan made a strangled noise and tried to cover Avis’s eyes with his hand. She slapped it away. She leaned forward and clicked her tongue in what sounded like pure shock.
I walked toward the wardrobe. I felt the air on my skin. I felt the power of the room bending around me.
“Yes,” Devan squeaked. His voice was an octave higher than usual. “Yes. It’s big. He was big.”
I opened the wardrobe. It was filled with velvet and brocade. Heavy and expensive fabrics. I pulled out a pair of dark breeches. I pulled them on. They were tight in the thighs but loose in the waist.
“He skipped leg day,” I muttered.
I found a white linen shirt with billowing sleeves. I pulled it on. It smelled of lavender and mothballs. I tucked it in. I found a heavy, navy blue coat with gold braiding on the shoulders.
I slipped my arms into the sleeves. It felt right, like armor. I turned to the mirror.
The reflection showed a man who commanded fleets and owned oceans. A man who could eat a platter of bacon and convince a prince it was a spiritual experience.
I adjusted the collar. I smoothed the lapels and turned back to the room. Devan was still staring. He looked dazed, like he had forgotten his own name.
“Well?” I asked. I spread my arms. “Do I pass inspection?”
Devan nodded slowly. “You look...” He paused. He searched for a word. “You look like a King.”
“Better,” I corrected him. I walked past him and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. I felt him shiver under my touch. “I look like an Uncle.”
I looked at Avis who sat there shaking her head at me.
“Well, stupid girl,” I said affectionately. “Are you to wear that putrid bowel water stained dress all day or should we get you something as well?”
I walked to the door. I paused and looked back at the trio. The flustered Prince, the scandalized advisor, and the furiously confused trollop.
I grinned.
It is good to be the King. Even if you are technically a Queen in a meat suit.