The first thing I register is voices. Scratch that, a voice. And the sound of waves breaking. Crashing against rocks, maybe?

Then there's the cool ocean, lapping against my upper thighs. It feels as though my legs are in the water, but I can't feel them. They seem to be numb. Coarse sand under my arms and torso, but there's something wet and sort of spongey under my head. Moss or seaweed, perhaps?

The voice, again. His voice. He's close, but talking low. It sounds like he's in front of me, in the ocean still.

I'm not dead.

My head lifts up and my eyes spring open at the realization, but I quickly close them again, throwing a hand up to shade them from the bright sun. I try again, more cautious this time. I blink rapidly, trying to adjust to the light and then slowly focus on the hand in front of my eyes. It's covered with sand, but the blood and the scrapes are gone. Besides the sand and the freckles, my whole hand and arm are completely flawless. Not even a hair.

I try to lift my other hand to inspect it, as well, but yelp as a stab of pain reminds me that my shoulder is dislocated.

I can hear the sound of water being displaced and look up to see the guy who saved me is wading towards me in the water. He stops at about waist-high water with his stupid trident in his hand, but calls out, "You're awake."

I let my head flop back down, use my good hand to cover my eyes and groan.

"No shit, Sherlock," I mutter softly to myself. I take a few seconds to breathe and try to dispel any irritation. After all, this guy somehow managed to get me to land. "Yes, I am," I call out, in a slightly strangled voice.

I prop myself up on my good arm and glance around the beach I'm on. It's small. There aren't any humans, but I locate the rocks I heard the waves crashing on and grant myself a small smile of pride at my deduction skills. But my smile fades quickly when I realize why the beach is so small. There's somewhat of a jungle behind me and in a few places I can see through the trees to the ocean behind them.

"Where are we? Is this an island?" My voice sounds accusatory even to me, but I can't help it. What kind of a rescue ends up with you on a desert island with no food or water?

"Yes, it was the closest land and you couldn't swim," he responds, casually. I glance over at him and his eyes say he's a bit more irritated than his voice lets on.

He's irritated with me? The guy who wanted to play pretend while I was dying and then "saved" me by marooning me on an island. The guy who is still in the water. Who didn't even get me all the way out of the water, before jumping back in to play mermaid, or whatever the hell he's doing out there. He's mad at me.

I do my best to push myself into a sitting position with just my left arm before attempting to scoot away from the water's edge. I know I can't stand, yet, because my legs still feel numb. Probably from all that kicking. But I don't want to stay halfway in the water anymore. I want to start to dry off so I can find some food and shelter and begin to plan my way back home.

As soon as I start scooting out of the water, my legs begin to warm up. He must have gotten us farther north, because the water doesn't get this cold off the California coast. There's a notable difference now in the temperature of the upper and lower parts of my legs. The part below my knees are in the water and my upper thighs are starting to get hot.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he says lowly.

I'm too shocked by the skin of my upper thighs turning a bright red to respond to his thinly veiled threat. What is this? Is he gonna kill me? Did he save me, just to bring me here to his island and kill me?

My thighs are downright burning now, their color brighter than my worst sunburn. It feels like someone lit my legs on fire, it's so unbearably hot. Without a second thought, I scoot right back into the gentle waves, letting the coolness of the water erase the heat. I watch through the crystal clear waters as the red disappears from my skin. Within seconds, my legs are numb again. Now I'm sitting mostly in the surf, where the small waves roll in over my lap at about belly-button height.

Without realizing it, I've pushed myself closer to my possibly psychotic hero.

"You need to stay in the water," he tells me, as he swims closer to me. He's only a few feet away. Surely, he can stand by now, but he stays hunkered down where the water reaches his shoulders, the trident horizontal in his grip.

"I don't want to stay in the water," I retort. I don't feel the pout until I hear the whining in my voice. I clear my throat and glance away at the sun setting in the horizon. "I want to go home."

"You can't," is his reply.

My breath catches and I whip my gaze over to his. Fear grips me once more, but his eyes look sympathetic and sad.

"What are you talking about?" I breathe out, slowly backing away towards the shore once more. It might have hurt before, but I'll just have to deal with it. He's still a few feet away. I can get a head start and run towards the trees behind me. Maybe climb one. Or find a few coconuts to throw at him. He might not even get out of the water, since he's such a freak about it.

"It's a long story, but if you keep backing away, you're just going to cause yourself more pain," he sounds like he's genuinely worried about my personal health. That would make sense if he wanted to kill me himself and not see me die of my wounds.

That reminds me of my arm, clear of injury. I lift my good hand to the back of my head, but I can't feel blood or a bump. It doesn't even hurt. I glance down at my legs and they're flawless, as well. No scrapes, not even the scab from a shaving incident a few nights ago. And again, no hair.

"What the hell, is going on?" I demand of him, glancing up at him with a fire in my gaze. "Who are you? Where are we? And what happened to me? Why am I not bleeding anymore?"

He chuckles softly and asks, "You wish you were still bleeding?"

"Of course not, asshole!" I yell. "And that doesn't answer any of my questions."

He takes in a deep breath and nods. "Like I said, it's a long story. So no interruptions, got it?"

I open my mouth to respond, but he shakes his head. "No interruptions, that's the deal," he says. I reluctantly nod my head. "Good, now where to start."

"How about the beginning?" I suggest sarcastically, with an eye roll. He glares at me and I shrug my good shoulder, "Fine, no interruptions."

"I am Lukianos, son of Triton, son of Poseidon, god of the Sea," his shoulders straighten and he holds his head high with a sense of pride.

"And I'm Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain," I retort. "Cut the bullshit, I want the truth."

He glowers at me, "That is the truth and if I were you, I'd show some respect. I command the waves and the tide. I rule over merfolk and fish, alike. You have no idea how powerful I am," he bellows, his trident now vertical again, pointing up at the darkening storm clouds above us. He continues, "I found you dying and I have given you a new life. I have given you time for shock and adjustment, but now you need to stop being so disrespectful and ungrateful. Your sharp tongue does you no good here. Now sit still and keep your mouth shut while I finish talking."

A very small part of me is offended by his words. Another small part is ashamed of the way I have been acting when he was the one who saved me. But mostly, I'm in awe by the power and authority in his voice. And slightly intimidated.

"Good," he says, as if I had verbally agreed. He doesn't necessarily shrink, per se, but he assumes a much more casual body language than the towering, powerful one he had recently taken on. The dark storm clouds suddenly dissolve into a clear blue sky. "Like I said, I'm Lukianos, I am a descendent of Poseidon and therefore, I am a god of the Sea. Do not be frightened," his voice is much gentler now as he nears me. "I wish only to show you something so you can understand."

I watch the muscles in his forearms as he pulls himself closer to me, using one hand and the bottom end of the trident to make his way across the ocean floor. I finally realize why he was so low in the waves. He's dragging his legs in the sand, for some reason. They must be tangled in seaweed, because the clear water allows me to see that they look green from this far away.

As he gets closer, it doesn't seem like there's any seaweed on him. Maybe he has some kind of disease that made his legs turn this weirdly bright green color. That's the only logical explanation.

I look back up at the horizon where the sky and the ocean seem to dissipate into one another, refusing to look at this man and his weird, green legs. I don't want to see whatever he wants to show me.

"I want to go home," I repeat, this time quiet and broken.

He hesitates for a second and I can see in my peripheral that he's only about an arm's length away now. He doesn't reply. Instead, he settles himself in the surf next to me. I still refuse to look at him. I'm mesmerized by the sun slowly setting and creating a gentle purple hue along the horizon. The purple fades into a reddish orange which lightens to yellow as it nears the sun and the sky above that is blue. I've seen a million sunsets over the ocean, yet somehow this one is much more beautiful than any I can recall.

Am I about to die, is that why I'm reveling in the beauty before me more than usual? Or is it because of my recent near-death experience?

The man clearing his throat next to me, shakes me out of my thoughts, "You're going to have to look at some point. You can't just ignore this new life."

"I honestly have no idea what you're talking about," I respond. My voice sounds monotone because my focus is still on the deepening purple stretch where the sky hit the water. "You keep talking about some new life. You're not trying to tell me you're Jesus, are you?"

I snort at my own comment, but he just sighs. The water droplets that hit my cheek and arm make me think he's shaking his head, as well. I don't glance over to check my theory.

"Just look at me, it'll make more sense," he answers, in a pleading voice.

I give a small shake of my own head. My hair is clumped together in damp chunks, like that one time in junior high when I tried to make it into dreadlocks, and it whacks my shoulders a few times before settling on my back once more. The shake isn't a refusal, it's in disbelief. How could looking at him answer all my questions? I'd looked at him before in the ocean. Was he trying to hypnotize me with those bright green eyes so he can force me to live out whatever weird fantasy he has that involves a gold trident and a desert island?

I suck in a large breath to calm my nerves and strengthen my resolve. Then I glance over at him.

He's sitting next to me, the arm closest to me is resting in the sand behind him so he's somewhat facing me. His eyes lock with mine the second I turn, but I quickly divert them. His face is the same as before, but drier. His hair is also drying and I can tell that it was the water that had made it look light brown before. Here, in the sun with it mostly dry, I can tell that he's a blonde. A few still wet strands are sticking to his forehead, but the rest of his short hair is sticking up in a tussled and ruggedly handsome looking way. I want to hate him for his good looks.

The sun glints off his trident and blinds me for a second, until I shift my head. He's still got it in his grip, but it's laying horizontally in the sand next to him, the pointed part facing towards the ocean. And towards his…tail?

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment to get the image out of my mind and then try to look at his legs once more. It's no use. There are no legs to look at. His finely toned torso disappears into a green, scaly tail.

Is he wearing one of those mermaid tails that people sell on etsy? It's so real looking, like his skin actually turns into the scales.

I lean closer to find stitching or a gap between his skin and the costume. It's excellent craftsmanship, I can't see anything. I reach out slowly with my good hand to tug at the top of the tail, but before I can touch it his hand grabs my wrist.

"What are you doing?" His voice is rough and low. Scary.

I slowly lift my chin up to make eye contact, worried that if I move too quickly he'll get angry. I clear my throat once, "I just wanted to see how the tail was made."

He releases my wrist and my hand falls into the water with a slap and a splash. Then he actually laughs.

"What do you mean, how the tail was made? It's made of scales! What would you think if I asked you how your legs were made?" He asks with a smile. Is he… teasing me?

"Well, that's ridiculous because my legs are real. They weren't made, they were born," I shoot back.

"Exactly," he lifts an eyebrow and smiles smugly.

"What do you mean, exactly? That makes no sense, your tail wasn't born. Someone had to make it. Unless," I stop talking for a second and look between his eyes cautiously for any sign that he's getting angry with my words. He still looks smug and a bit amused. I continue, "Unless you think you're a real mermaid."

"Merman, actually," he scoffs with an eye roll.

"Oh my God," I breathe, looking at his tail, then his face and then back. "You think you're a merman."

In my peripheral I can see the hand on his trident tighten and there's a bit of annoyance in his voice when he says, "I don't think, I know."

I look up at his eyes. He's certain. He is absolutely, without-a-doubt certain that he is a merman.

"And you're about to become a mermaid."