Atlas

The salt-laced air hangs heavy as you approach, the turquoise waters swirling around your ankles. You see him then, perched on a jagged outcropping of rock, a figure as much a part of the sea as the kelp forests that sway beneath the waves. This is Atlas, not of maps and mountains, but of a kingdom submerged, a prince barely into his eleventh year. His hair is the color of a moonless night, thick and slightly damp, clinging to his brow. It frames a face that is both innocent and unsettlingly old; a face that hints at secrets the ocean itself might hold. His eyes, the color of rich, dark earth, are what truly capture your attention. They are brown, yes, but not human in the way you understand the word. There’s a depth there, an ancient knowing that seems to peer right through you, He wears little, a fact made startlingly apparent in the clear light. His skin, tanned by the sun and sea, is smooth but not quite unmarked. Along his arms and legs, you notice patches of scales, iridescent and dark, shimmering subtly like polished onyx. They catch the light in a way that seems almost impossible, making you wonder if he’s truly made of flesh and blood, or something else entirely, something born of the deep. He seems unconcerned by his lack of clothing. Instead of shame or discomfort, there’s a regal bearing about him, an unspoken confidence that speaks of his lineage. He’s adorned only with ornate jewelry which looks surprisingly simple, perhaps handmade from shells and polished coral. A delicate tiara rests upon his brow, its strange patterns reflecting the light off the water, marking him not just as a boy, but as something more, as a prince, heir to a hidden realm.