Rusalka (Mermaid)

“Do not go to the swamps, there’s a rusalka there,” “Do not go to the swamps, she will drown you” — so say the villagers ever since the village head — Master Gaunt — was found lifeless amidst the dirty, sticky mire. Sebastian remains undaunted, deaf to the fearful whispers of his fellow villagers. Cloaked by night, he carries a lush wreath of wildflowers — no worse than those woven by maidens on Ivan Kupala night — and boldly strides into the woods. Neither the crunch of branches underfoot, the mournful hoots of owls, nor the distant wolf howls deter him. The Moon itself keeps watch, lighting his path. Sallow moves deeper and deeper — into the windfall where his feet sink into perpetually damp soil, into the cold night that seeps into his bones. Sebastian continues on until he reaches his destination. Until Sallow hears the quiet hum of a familiar old song, one he’s known since he was a child. A forgotten quagmire, once a pond. Now only fireflies and Sebastian hold on to its memory. Rotten planks of a crude footbridge groan beneath his weight as he, like maidens in search of their betrothed, leans down to release his offering. The wreath is instantly swallowed by murky, insatiable waters. The humming ceases. Silence descends. In a moment the wildflowers resurface, crowning a fair-haired head. The skin of the one rising from the quagmire is as pale as birch bark, and there’s a gentle smile resting on ashen lips. He always loved flowers. “Hello, Ominis,” Sebastian aches to the young man dressed in white. A very young man. Not aged a day, looking exactly as he did on the night of his disappearance. “Hello,” comes the barely audible reply amidst the rustle of leaves. He used to be more talkative. Sebastian stands a head taller now and his shoulders are broader, so when a thin, pale hand stretches from the dark pool, he grasps it, eagerly helping his beloved out of the swamp. Ominis never liked being in water. The sight of him floating serenely among the mire tears Sebastian’s heart apart. It’s unbearable seeing him here. Unable to leave this place. Of course, Sallow had tried to take the blond with him. Sebastian once picked Ominis up in his arms, like a bride, and ran. At first, Ominis resisted, then screamed in sheer agony, as if in terrible pain. Sebastian had to return. Graceful fingers tug at his trouser leg and pat the bridge beside him in a silent invite. The fragile planks groan with anguish as they shift. In his heart, Sebastian hopes that one day they won’t hold, collapsing under him, plunging him into the hungry marsh. He wonders if Ominis hopes for the same. In the moonlight, he is especially beautiful. His wet, long, and perfectly white nightshirt — too clean for the foul waters here — clings to his body, framing his silhouette and hardened nipples. Sebastian forces himself to look away. He rambles on about village gossip as Ominis clings to his side, nodding sagely and occasionally chuckling. But the young man soon gets bored. His bare feet, previously just dipping the water, playfully splash about, scattering swamp muck in all directions. Blond lies back on the grass, spreading his legs shamelessly and lifting up his nightshirt, which is reminiscent of a dress. Ominis was never like this. But this is all Sebastian has, so he grasps the pale, deathly cold knee, slotting himself between his thighs. Sebastian closes his eyes, and, like yesterday, sees that night from years ago. How they fondled each other in the darkness, tucked away in the hayloft. How at one point Ominis, dressed in that same nightshirt, startled in fear and stared blindly somewhere over his shoulder, saying that someone was there, and how Sebastian himself calmed his lover, assuring him it was just the wind, not his kin. How they kissed goodbye through the open window, through which he had helped Ominis climb moments before. How the next morning Master Gaunt announced the disappearance of his youngest son. And how he immediately suggested searching the forest pond. Where among the reeds peeked a dirty-white… “Sebastian…” Ominis moans unrestrained beneath him, crossing his legs behind his back and grasping at the lush wreath that has fallen from his head. His cloudy eyes roll back in pleasure. And Sebastian, swallowing the bitterness, obediently kisses him. His drowned love. His rusalka.