“Humble..?” The word caught Uban off guard for a moment, as if he hadn’t ever pinned that word to himself in any capacity. But with a moment’s thought, he seemed to accept the notion, then snorted derisively. “In Oak Hill? No. Unata as a whole is a kind of...err...rustic kingdom, as they go. But it’s got its urban spots and they got schools for learned folk. Nothing like yours, of course. But Oak Hill is very far from all that. We’re a simple folk. But that doesn’t make a man humble.” Uban gave a humorless chuckle. “Ho no. To be honest, i wasn’t always humble, myself. After all, humble men don’t get into deadly barfights over women and honor and pissing contests.” He smiled. And without a hint of self consciousness he continued, “Being locked in a stone box for two years changes your perspective on things though. Gives you a lot of time for thinking about your life, and once the shock of everything wears away, you start asking questions of the world. Wondering where stars came from or what draws the tides in and out. Those are not questions a farmer asks. He is too busy plowing his fields and feeding his livestock.”

Uban gave an easy shrug and an even easier smile. “I did find answers to a lot of those questions since I met Berlin. And pretty soon, once you see the world, you begin to realize how small you are. And if I don’t know about erm...particles in the air, well...” another shrug. “Not like it’s any fault of mine. I grew up a farmer. What was I supposed to do? Teach myself to read instead of doing my chores?” He looked at her, an almost childlike honesty in his still slightly gold-toned green eyes. “Lemme tell you, I done me a fair share of bemoaning my life and the choices I’ve made, stewing on the regrets I have. I have borne my shame until I simply learned to abandon it altogether. What’s left is quite nice, actually.” Another easy smile. Uban smiled so often and so quickly, it was almost like a reflex for him. Yet not one of them seemed disingenuous.

Uban helped her gather food as they stalked through the forest. He peeled out of his shirt and used it like a sack, filling it with mushrooms, tubers, and some chance herbs. This once more exposed his scars and his one crudely done tattoo to the open air, making him look more hard around the edges than he usually did. Hana bumped him and he staggered, laughing. “Elbari wine, you say! I ain’t never been to Elbar or had their wine, you’ll have to enlighten me.” His grin was devilish. “Is it strong?” He asked hopefully.

—-

Rohaan watched the sway of her hair in the soft, undulating current like a child dazedly watching a smooth pendulum. Back and forth. Back and forth. It spread around her like his own tentacles did around his soft body, swishing around gently. 

Distantly, Rohaan recalled swinging from a hammock between two palm trees, sturdy and steadfast as mountain peaks. A fresh salty breeze cooled his skin and tickled the palm fronds above him to make a light hissing that sang in harmony with the lapping waves. A little bell chimed with each gust, the windchime adding its clear peals to the symphony. And somewhere nearby there was the sound of a woman humming, and of a man splitting wood.

He suddenly felt very drowsy. He could have easily have dozed off, anchored to a rock only by a set of suction cups on one tentacle, but she spoke again and her musical tone snapped him back into awareness. She had a lovely voice, like the sound a flower would make if it could sing. 

She invited him to come touch her glimmering tail, and he found himself wanting to dearly. He did not approach strangers, let alone make physical contact if he could help it, though that didn’t seem to apply here. He knew also that octopus tentacles were marvelous for grabbing, but not for feeling. He wanted to know the true nature of how those smooth, glittering scales felt, so he reverted to his natural form and swam comfortably and easily to her. Rohaan had free-dived since he was a babe, so his ability to hold his breath was exceptional. Still, even he needed to breathe and so when he needed to, he shifted briefly to an octopus again to take a few breaths, then back again.

Rohaan’s blonde curls splayed about his head like hers, though his was shorter, wilder, and far less elegant.  Without much hesitation, he reached out and petted her scales like one would the velvety nose of a horse. She was right. They were soft, not like he’d expected them to be at all. As he stroked them, he asked, “What’s your name? Mine is Rohaan.” If that was not proof of a mermaid’s mystical powers, then nothing was. Rohaan did not give his second name to any stranger. Even a crew member like Hana. Yet she had earned it in the space of a second.