The knife glistened in the moonlight and the hilt was smooth as stone and cold as death in my hand. The bridal music had faded and only the drunkard's and servants danced in the moonlight. In the cold dark waters my sisters waited, their eyes glistening, here blue, here red, here purple and their pale rainbow skin shone. The scales on their tales glittered wetly as they slapped the water fiercely. The sweet femininity of their delicate face and soft breasts contrasted grotesquely with their sharp pointed teeth and bald heads.
"Little sister, little sister," crooned my eldest sister, "he is but mortal, destined to die old, withered, and mad. Little sister, little sister what is mortal blood in the face of our sacrifice."
I couldn't bear to look at her raw scalp, a silent testimony to the demands of the witch, gift of blood, a gift of spit, a gift of hair. Rage warred inside me. It was my own foolish pride that had brought me to this place. I was sure I could win the heart of any mortal. The penalty of failure was death. I had failed and my sisters bargained their freedom for a reprieve, for my life they gave blood, spit and hair. They gave it to a witch who would use it as bits and harnesses to ride my sisters as she pleased. If I died, if I tossed myself on the water in the rising sun, the witch would still hold my sisters hostage. In the distance I could hear his voice rising in celebration with his men, bragging about his tight, virginal wife, bragging, crowing over his own prowess and the amount of blood he had left upon her thighs. I knew that voice well.
"I love you," he had said as he settled between my legs, "You are beauty and you are grace," he cried as he pierced my body and filled me with his heat. "I worship you," he murmured his head lost between my thighs, his face buried deep in my hot, moist passion. "I love you," I cried as I exploded, lost in the feel of fullness, the feel of heat, the feel of him.
"Little sister, little sister," my second eldest sister cried. "Do you not miss the cold blue sea; do you not miss the kiss of the triton, the sweet silk of his tail, the sweet silk of his body in yours? Little sister, little sister, what can this foolish mortal offer you that can compare to the love of the triton or the power of the sea?"
"I still love you," he had said as donned his wedding garments. "I still want you," he cried as he crushed me to his chest, the scent of his weeding bouquet filling the air. "I marry for the good of my country, she is a virgin, a princess and will one day be queen," he said as he walked out the door.
