The Snake
The snake only wanted to be human.
They didn’t even know where they came from or where they were going. As a species entrusted with life on this planet, their abilities lay beyond the comprehension of higher beings like humans, yet they were too pathetic—crawling on their bellies—to be called divine. The black snakes were cold and lewd, often scorned by others, but they didn’t care. After all, they mated for life, and though parental affection was rare, the bond between partners was as unyielding and unchanging as bedrock forged over millennia.
Their lewdness was always reserved for their mate. They loved burrowing into their own dens, especially the males, who delighted in nestling inside the females’ bodies for comfort.
Strangely, the adult black snakes were tenacious in life, sometimes possessing eerie abilities—like stealing the skin of humans or beasts to mimic their forms. A chilling power. Even if decapitated, their heads could reattach if placed back in position. Though neither god nor demon, their uncanny traits were mostly limited to adults; the young were fragile, struggling just to survive.
Over time, as the dominant lifeforms of this land, they gradually went extinct—partly due to their fastidious nature and lack of desire to propagate future generations.
The snake was born among them, a tiny, helpless creature. When it first awoke, it was so small it resembled a worm more than a snake. It was weak, with no memory of why it existed or who had left it there. All it knew was the massive, lifeless black snake beside it—its first meal. Starving, it gnawed at the flesh without understanding what it was, regaining just enough strength to slither away.
Once it could move, it abandoned the hollowed-out corpse and crawled onward, directionless. It wandered for a long time, hiding in the forest by day, scavenging fallen fruit, and drifting under the moonlight by night. Sometimes, as dawn broke, it encountered upright creatures—beings that walked on two stilt-like limbs instead of crawling. Curious, it approached, only to be met with screams or poked with sticks, learning too late that these humans were dangerous.
Time passed, and though the snake’s body was that of a beast, its mind grew sharper. It began to understand human words—sun, forest, wind, woman, man, child, elder, light and dark, comfort and danger. As its vocabulary expanded, it grasped full sentences.
After its first molting by a lonely stream, an instinctive realization struck: the black snake beside it when it awoke had been its father.
A patricide, surviving on its parent’s flesh.
If it had been human, the guilt might have made it retch. But the snake merely shed its old skin and slithered away, indifferent. Much later, it would briefly wonder—how had such a large snake gone unnoticed? Where had its kind come from, and why had they vanished?—but the thought was fleeting.
Now, the snake had grown to the length of a child’s arm, though its body remained slender as a thread. For a snake raised without adults, this was remarkable.
Many nights were spent evading predators, hiding to grow. One day, fleeing a hawk, it took refuge in a dense forest where the bird couldn’t follow. Days passed without food or water. The summer sun scorched the earth, and even at dusk, the heat was unbearable. The snake was dying.
No amount of vitality from its next molt could save it now. It was insignificant, wretched, pathetic—until a sudden deluge of cold water jolted its body.
“Baby snake, don’t die!”
Born of water, thriving in it, the snake writhed under the torrent, desperate to absorb every drop. It didn’t need to live, but the will to survive burned fiercely. It had been given life; it wanted to keep it.
“Young master! What are you doing?!”
A shriek pierced the air—a bad sign. The snake knew that sound. Sharp screams usually preceded being toyed with or nearly killed. This time, it couldn’t even flee.
Exhausted, it went limp again. A mere splash of water wasn’t enough. As it braced for death under cruel, contemptuous hands, a young, clear voice intervened.
“It’s Leira’s! Don’t touch it!”
Sudden hands seized its body. Had it the strength, it might have bitten back—but its fangs hadn’t even grown in yet.
“Young maaaaster! Oh my, oh my! How disgusting! And so tiny—it’s even more disgusting! Can’t you just let go?!”
“No! It’s mine! Leira’s!”
High-pitched voices clamored. The snake, too weak to resist, dangled helplessly in small hands, its thin tail swaying beneath the clumsy grip.
How long did it dangle there?
A woman with a high, soft voice sighed and hurried after the child, repeating warnings: Leira must feed it, bathe it, and never, ever let it out of the glass. The child mumbled vague agreements, giggling.
The snake realized it had survived—saved by hands too gentle to harm even a fly.
And so began its strange new life. A glass tank lined with soft wood shavings, timely fruit and water, even baths. After scraping by as an outcast, this felt like the “heaven” humans spoke of. Not that it differed much—here, too, the small-handed human’s whims bent even the largest servants to their will.
Thus, the snake assumed Leira—the tiny human—was a godlike figure, until it learned they were merely the youngest master of the estate, wielding immense power.
Still, the snake liked what Leira gave it. Tiny berries instead of meat it couldn’t yet swallow, daily baths in fresh water, clumsy but improving scrubbing. The brush hurt at first, but the hands grew gentler.
The estate always had plenty to eat. The snake’s past struggles felt like someone else’s. As its body finally grew, a knight gifted Leira hunted meat. The snake ate it, swelling larger each time, until the servants gasped during cleanings. Whispers arose—perhaps it should be released or killed. After that, the snake refused meat. It didn’t want to die, nor return to the forest.
At bedtime, Leira would tuck the tame snake into its glass tank and whisper, “Goodnight, baby snake.” Then, in the dark, the nocturnal black snake would watch with glowing green eyes as plump cheeks and moonlit golden hair shimmered faintly through the window.
It didn’t yet understand joy, but one thing was certain: it wanted to keep seeing that golden hair. In the forest, such a sight was impossible.
The estate’s people indulged the young master’s odd attachment, laughing as Leira carried the snake in a leather pouch, occasionally showing it off. It was strange—a snake that tolerated human touch, almost seeming to understand words. Some found it unsettling; others, charming.
And with no venomous fangs, small and frail, it was doomed to die soon anyway. Better this than the child pestering the staff all day.
Accidents happened. Knights frequently visited the estate, and horses roamed more freely than in other noble houses. One day, as Leira toddled near a horse, the snake—distracted from its pouch—was sent flying when the child tripped.
The horse panicked at the sudden snake beneath its hooves, but Leira was unharmed. The snake’s tail was barely grazed, yet afterward, it cowered at the sound of hooves, refusing to emerge even when coaxed. Only the memory of Leira’s tearful embrace, gently stroking its body as it whimpered, lingered—a sensation it craved again. But once its tail healed, the touches stopped.
A month passed like this.
A noble couple, long acquainted with the Duke’s family, visited with a daughter Leira’s age. A brief courtesy call, but for the friendless Leira, it was thrilling enough to abandon the snake and rush out.
Leira and the doll-like girl giggled, sharing toys and rummaging through his room. The snake watched from its half-covered glass tank as tiny hands made dolls greet each other: “Good day, madam. Lovely weather. Shall we stroll?” “Yes, sir. Let’s walk the forest path.” Their bright voices wove a world the snake—limbless, belly-bound—could never enter.
As afternoon came and the guest prepared to leave, Leira threw himself onto the floor, wailing: “Nooo! Don’t go! Stay with Leira!”
“Oh dear, why is our sweet young master like this?”
Tears streaked the child’s face, but it was time to part. The nobles, amused yet helpless, promised another visit before departing.
Leira sniffled in a servant’s arms before being passed to his much older brother—a man grown for years. As the brother soothed him with gentle pats and a lullaby, the snake watched from its tank, transfixed.
Curled in those strong arms, Leira’s sobs faded. His brother’s voice murmured a song, and soon, the child’s warm, pliant body relaxed, eyelids heavy with tears finally closing.
Before leaving, the brother glanced around the room—then locked eyes with the snake. He clicked his tongue at the odd pet but made no move to harm it.
Left alone, the room filled only with soft, rhythmic breathing. The snake slithered from the tank, climbing the bed to gaze at the sleeping child—rosy cheeks, lashes still wet, golden hair aglow in the moonlight. A face it couldn’t look away from.
For a long while, it studied that face, soaking in the warmth unique to children. Then, a thought struck it:
—I want to touch that again.
Author: Hyacinthus B
Hyacinthus
