One is the loneliest number.

The loneliest whale in the world flicked her flukes, corkscrewing into the infinite black of the sea. And as she went, she sang.

It was a song about the salt of the water, the crunch of squid; about floating and diving, and breathing and breaching.

But it was a lonely song. It was a solo, where there should have been a choir; it was the song of a fragment seeking to be whole.

The loneliest whale had been alone for almost longer than she could remember; but only almost.

She could still, just barely, recall the smooth bodies of the pod as they arced through the water, the sound of their voices raised in song.

It had been many years since she had last heard that song, and she had long since stopped singing it herself. But she still sang in hope of a reply.

She sang to the God of the Deep, the Master of the Ocean: the one that men call Poseidon, but the creatures of sea know by a much older name.

She sang a prayer, a plea for benediction, hoping that once, just this once, there would be a reply.

And this time, she realised she was not alone in the fathomless void. That something vast, and ancient, and unfathomable, was with her.

And then she heard its voice, impossibly deep and impossibly strong.

And it said:

“I AM LEVIATHAN”. ##