Fiction Friday: The Merqueen Who Loved Trees

Green was the colour of magic, she was sure. To see the green flutter in the wind, that was the height of her day. Green leaves dancing on the wind. She had thought it the most beautiful sight in the world, even before it meant her love was near, riding the green.

Blue was the colour of magic, he was sure. Magic was seeing pleasure travel down her face, framed in the cobalt blue strands of her forever moving hair. His kind lived in the green, flew in the upper heights of blue, swam in the bluegreen of lakes and streams, and drew breath in the vicious orange. But for him, beauty was in the deep blue.

It was her smile that made him see her, in the long-ago. The gills on her cheeks would crease just so, and the beautiful blue fins that were the tops of her ears would move ever so slightly as she floated shyly, peeking, just above the waves, at his trees.

In a flutter of green, he swam, moving to the slow rhythm of the tides, looking for the mermaid mesmerized by the trees, his fingers aching with the need to caress her fins and see that lovely smile tremble into desire, into Uranian blue.

In the wind, in the current, moving to the slow rhythm of the tides, she watched the green. And him, too. The green fluttered in the wind, and it touched her so. Suddenly she knew it for what it was: the touch of his heart. On the trees, on her fins.

The green did indeed make pleasure travel down her ultramarine face, down her gills, making her move her earfins just so, under his hands and under his lips. His world was for ages framed in the cobalt blue strands of her forever moving hair. She had drowned in his green.

Floating and interweaving, they created azure, cyan and turquoise.

From then on, in the East, a blue dragon floated in the air forever more.



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