Arlwith, once lord of the swamp-bound city of Iber, held the candied date between the pincers of his great claw, pondering how best to drop it into the tendrils, spikes, and horror of his mouth.
Once, he had long delicate fingers whose penmanship ruled the lives of thousands, but it had been seventeen winters since then, since he dared tax Pisgot on the haul of his trawlers. Since his life was ended by a sorcerer for the souls of a hundred net workers.
At least he froze over winter, the first time he’d tried to weep with joy as the darkness took him, yet he had thawed with the rest of his shelled brethren in the spring. He died many times, from fall, gull, and deep water. Always he woke, whole and healthy, but for the memory of pain, and a phantom body that ached and crushed yet never yielded to his commands.
Last winter he was netted, shelled, and put into five dishes for guests of the harbourmaster. Five of him rose, yet could only wave. They dispersed to meet again at the end of it all.
The date was bland, alien to his jaws and tastes. The shell wanted worms and slime, yet Arlwith hated seafood. Eyes staring, forever open, he willed his mind back to a balcony with fresh flowers, a hot cup of steaming coffee, and a bowl of dates. He could languish here, if but for a moment.
Tears would not come, but he wept.