Diana is fascinated by the stories about dead sailors who are said to enter the bodies of huge, black cormorants and visit the living in that guise. One night she is visited by one of the dead men–who has come borrow her warmth. (F/M)
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A sigh then, so soft, she barely heard it, but there it was again: a sigh. A breath of air, right by the bed.
“You dream of me, then,” said a voice. “Why? Have you fallen in love with the dead?”
He chuckled softly. “But I think you have. You call to me with this passion…”
“No.” Her voice came out just a whisper.
“When you die at sea, like I did, the water is your grave. You feed it with your flesh,” he said. “So cold down there, for marrow, bones… tissue coming undone… Have you ever made love to a dead man?” he asked. “Have you ever made love to the sea?”
“No…” Shivering slightly, at the verge of tears, her voice hardly carried the word.
“But will you lend me your warmth for tonight?”
She said yes. She was scared. More than scared; terrified. But who was she to deny the dead? Death had already been within her. In her yes was a sweet surrender.