Page 33 of Music of the Ocean

He withdrew his awareness as much as possible, letting Saxby believe himself alone, but kept a flicker of attention burning for any shift. He’d learned sometimes even the strong required the illusion of solitude before daring to reach out for help.

He waited. Time did not pass for Indigo in the same way it did for the short-lived species, and so he measured moments by the calming thrum of the city’s core, by the minute contractions of his own bioluminescent skin.

Such restraint didn’t come easily, not with the bond so new, so raw, so unshielded. He felt every tremor of Saxby’s pain, every pulse of lostness, as a tide against his mind.

He would wait as long as it took. He always did. So, he waited in the silence. After several moments, he heard Saxby’s voice whisper along the link.

I still want my life back.

And if that is not possible? Indigo asked.

The silence stretched.

Saxby didn’t answer. But he did rejoin Indigo. Immediately, Indigo felt Saxby’s fatigue. His jaw was unclenched and the new, webbed hands hung loose at his sides.

It was easy to see that the bright, warlike flare of Saxby’s resistance had dimmed to a faint, stubborn afterglow. The effort to shield had scraped Saxby’s nerves raw, too.

Indigo had witnessed the same cycle of fight and fade and, finally, acceptance in countless species. Yet, each time it struck him as unbearably intimate to be privy to the moment when another’s agony ceased to be a force of destruction and became only a memory of what once was.

Saxby wasn’t at acceptance yet, but he would get there. It was both a relief and an ache.

Indigo wanted to reach for Saxby, to offer assurance, but held himself back, aware that even comfort could be unwelcome when one stood at the ragged edge of selfhood.

Instead, he watched and waited, allowing the silence to fill the space between them, trusting the next move would reveal itself in time.

Saxby looked at Indigo helplessly.

The powerlessness and confusion hurt Indigo’s heart in a way that was almost physical, a twinge not in the muscle but in the deep recesses of his mind.

He had seen plenty of newcomers freeze due to the shock. Some lashed out, others shut down, but Saxby’s way was to look straight at him, to lay bare the fear and want and not bother to hide the terror in his transformation.

Indigo could not have glanced away even if he’d wanted to.

Saxby’s gaze was strangely direct, even in its defeat. He was not looking for rescue, Indigo realized, or for answers. He was simply trying to understand how to keep going when nothing felt familiar.

It bothered Indigo in a way it had never before, watching Saxby floating there and not reaching out. He hated to be the unyielding thing when what he wanted was to offer solace to Saxby.

He considered the brittle line of Saxby’s posture, the press of his lips, the restless twitch of his new still-awkward hands. He weighed the risks. Move closer and risk rejection? Or hold back and risk watching Saxby spiral deeper into isolation?

Indigo’s instincts warred within him. For a moment, he understood Saxby’s turmoil perfectly. Still, he could not stand by and watch Saxby’s suffering. So, with deliberate slowness, Indigo approached, bracing for any flinch or recoil.

He extended a hand, signaling not dominance but support. If Saxby wished to refuse, he would have every chance. Instead, Saxby closed the gap between them, letting Indigo’s tentacle coil around his wrist.

There was no resistance, but Indigo sensed the fatigue that hollowed out Saxby’s core, a deep ache that went beyond muscle or bone or even blood. This was the exhaustion of transformation.

Indigo took Saxby back to his chamber where they’d first slept. There, the walls were softer, the water warmer, the glow of the bioluminescent flora tuned to a low and comforting hum.

Indigo released his hold, watching as Saxby drifted down to the sleeping alcove and collapsed onto the yielding mesh. Then, he rolled to make room for Indigo. Shock hit Indigo hard.

He wanted to ask if Saxby was sure, but he wouldn’t even glance at Indigo. Instead, he folded in on himself, breathing steady but shallow.

Indigo eased into the mesh. Within minutes, he noticed the telltale drop in Saxby’s brain activity that signaled true sleep. But even then, Saxby’s mind never seemed to stop. There was a buzz of tension, of dissatisfaction, that chased itself through every layer of consciousness.

With a careful tentacle, Indigo reached out and brushed the back of Saxby’s hand. He jerked in surprise when Saxby’s fingers curled around the appendage. Saxby had reached for him! Joy shot through him.

Yes, Saxby was asleep, and yes, he probably wouldn’t remember such a gesture, but it meant everything to Indigo.

The mental link shimmered, then settled like a gentle current rather than a riptide. He could taste the exhaustion. The stress hormones were thick as copper in the water. It would get better. It usually did.