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Ah, the solitude of being a lighthouse keeper. Lighting the lamp, writing the logs, aiding stranded sailors. Every day repeated itself with only the smallest of variations.
Sandor Clegane had taken the post after the Battle of Waterloo, sent there to recover under Brother Ray's guidance. After all, getting half your face blown off doesn't exactly leave a man in the best of spirits.
Pushing himself off of his scarred, squeaky wooden chair, Sandor scaled the steep, narrow stairs to light the lamp. Clutching the cloth rag, stained with soot and salt spray, he wiped down the windows surrounding the lamp. He trimmed the wick, poured the thick oil into the reservoir, and struck a flame to set it alight.
Time to fill the logbook. The swish of the waves lapping at the sharp crags below alongside the occasional chattering of razorbills filled the silence once more, and Sandor peeled the stained, wrinkled pages of the logbook open with a crisp rustle.
Storm expected in the coming days. High winds and heavy rain forecast. Lamp lit at 7:20. Several boats travelling south. Visibility clear at present; fog likely by nightfall.
Slamming the hardback closed with a harsh crack, Sandor moved to observe the coast as the sun climbed down from the sky. He breathed in the salty perfume that stung his nose, and buttoned his heavy oilskin coat tightly around him to shield him from the chills of Autumn. Slumping on the hard bench by the railings outside, Sandor prepared himself to stay awake until the sun rose again. The prospect of a storm called for constant monitoring, as ships had low visibility which often resulted in sinkings or crashes with other boats.
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Wind whistled through gaps in the stained windows, rain hammered the doors, threatening to extinguish the light. Sandor had fallen asleep. After wakening, and checking the time- 12:40- he refilled the reservoir with oil and stood to check the shore once more.
There were no boats as far as he could see. Many experienced sailors would have seen the storm coming a mile away, and only idiots would set sail in weather like that. Scratching his chin, Sandor gazed upon the sands close to the lighthouse. There was a dark lump to the north of the beach, where ripples of the tide swept to softly lap on it. A beached seal, perhaps a rotting porpoise. He'd throw it over the cliff in the morning.
Then it moved.
Narrow limbs unfolded from a bed of kelp, and a head emerged from the sand. It looked almost human, except its lower half was all wrong. In the darkness of night, Sandor squinted to peer at the creature as it dragged itself forward, toward the hilltop. Its legs were far too long, and they looked as though they were wrapped in seaweed or wet cloth.
They weren't legs. The creature had a tail tapered like a great fish's, broadening at the fin to a fan-like shape.
Before Sandor could think, he was sprinting down the stairs, lacing his boots, and rushing out towards the thing, that had ceased movement. As he approached, he found it lying on its belly, hair sprawled wildly from it's head to slim waist.
A mermaid.
Her tail glimmered and shone like wet pearls, fins that stretched from the swell of her hip to her knees unfurling like silk in the damp, rough sands. Her shoulders trembled, milky-white skin gleaming with an otherworldly iridescence. Scales caught the moonlight, shifting from a deep sapphire blue to an almost purple hue.
Her hair clung to her back, slick with seawater, auburn waves dark and glossy like red seaweed caught on driftwood.
Reaching out a rough, callused hand, Sandor rolled the girl onto her back. He couldn't quite believe what was in front of him. She didn't look like anything he had seen before. She had a light smattering of pale freckles, a slim, sloping nose, and high cheekbones that created hollow dimples in her cheeks. Fine slits under her graceful jaw had edges tinged with pink, like the delicate inside of a shell, pulsing as seawater drained from them. The fan of her ribs faintly inflated when she took a breath, translucent skin stretching over lean muscle.
She had sharp nails on elongated fingers, and serrated canine teeth, visible through her partly unsealed, reddened lips.
Then she opened her eyes.
Deep blue like the depths of the ocean, lashes glittering with beads of water. Her eyes searched his, and her quivering hands grasped at the damp sand beneath her. Help, her eyes said, and she looked down toward her naked waist. Sandor followed her gaze, kneeling beside her, and found a gaping slash across her side. Red wept from the gash, sliced deep, blood congealing slightly around the edges. Sandor peeled the kelp from her body, unravelling and pushing her hair beneath her. He pressed a hand to her wound, feeling cold flesh under his clammy hand.
She reached for him, clutching the collar of his coat, drawing his face down towards hers. Sandor's free hand cupped her cheek, holding her firmly, but not forcefully.
Her lips met his, and languid, soft tongues swirled against each other, connecting them.