"Don't leave me..." Philip gasped, his vision blurring with the pain of his sliced stomach. Blood ran down on to the rocks. "Please"
"I can heal you" Syrena whispered, nimble fingers moving to cup Philip's sweating face, trailing water.
"Please. I want to spend my life with you" the dying clergyman pleaded.
"You have only to ask..."
Syrena slipped under the water, and Philip desperately plunged his hand in after her, screaming unintelligible words.
"No! Don't leave me! Please, heal me..." He sobbed.
Philip's vision began to darken, and his breath came in rasping sobs. All seemed lost.
Then, cool hands graced the skin of his face yet again, as Syrena pressed her soft lips to his gasping ones. Soundlessly, his body entered the water, sliding under the smooth surface with barely a ripple.
Once underneath the water, time seemed to slow for Philip. Syrena began to encircle him, humming unknown mermish words that sounded like the songs played on Angel's harps as they descended from heaven. Indeed, Syrena looked like an angel herself, swirling in the water as she sang.
Philip didn't even notice as water began to seep into his lungs, choking off his oxygen supply. It felt like he was breathing air as a warmth came over him, drastic to the chill of the water before.
Everything slowly faded to black.
Philip awoke on land, days later. The sun above assaulted his eyes as they fluttered open. He groaned, sluggishly sitting up. It felt as if he had been wrung through a washerwoman's press then logged full of beer and dumped on a deserted island.
As he looked around his surroundings, the former clergyman realized he had gotten one out of three right. He was on the Fountain's island, and no other mortal was to be seen around him. The only sounds were the birds in the coconut trees and the waves coming in naught ten feet from his boots.
His stomach growled, and Philip was faced with the challenge of food. He had lost his knife back at the pool, and had carried no other weapon. That ruled out the chance of meat for a suitable meal.
Philip groaned and rubbed his temples. He needed water as well.
Standing on shaky legs, Philip expected to have the same burning pain across his chest and stomach where he had been stabbed, but was amazed to find his wounds healed.
"Praise to god" He muttered, crossing himself. Of course, it wasn't god's work that had brought him this, it was Syrena's.
Through his groggy senses, Philip felt a pang of loss when he didn't see his mermaid fancy materialize in front of him. He set off down the beach, unable to keep his eyes from wandering to the ocean surf, just to catch a glimpse of a certain mermaid.
Under the baking sun, Philip walked on. He had absolutely no clue where he was, and less of an idea where he might find nourishment and water. He began to strike into the trees, murmuring prayers to bring him good fortune all the while.
After a good time, he heard the tell-tale sound of running water. He broke into a run, pushing through the trees with a speed only the most thirsty of men possess.
Surely enough, a lengthy stream ran through a clearing that was soon visible to Philip's eyes. He fell down to the cool liquid eagerly, lapping it up in great gulps. Nothing had ever tasted more delicious.
After he had drank his fill, Philip looked for a source of food. Not being familiar with the geography, he was careful not to eat anything unless he knew exactly what it was. Finally, after hiking for what seemed to be hours, he found a coconut that had fallen to the ground and cracked it, eating the meat inside with vigor.
Now he was at a loss. With his physical needs met, Philip was consumed by his anguish over Syrena. Why had she left him? Why did she leave after placing him on the beach? Why did she abandon him to fend for himself?
He fell to his knees, throwing his hands in the air as was custom to the deepest, most devout prayer. He prayed for his survival, he prayed for Syrena, and he prayed for a weapon.
As if god himself had come down to earth to offer up a solution, Philip opened his eyes to see a large stick in front of him, sharpened perfectly at the end. The ultimate weapon and walking staff.
He crossed himself yet again, and picked up the staff, hefting it in his hand. It was magnificent, and just what he needed.
Philip struck out in the direction he thought was the beach, it would be the safest place for shelter, and as long as he stayed a good distance from the waves, he would not be prey to anything within the waters.
By his estimate, the sun was at high noon position, which gave him a good amount of time to set up a defendable shelter.
Clergyman though he was, Philip Swift was going to survive.