Chapter Text
The Sea folds her lapping tide around the Siren’s stilled form, gently ushering them back into her depths.
The thick metal rod skewered through their side renders them paralyzed.
Black blood spills freely from the wound, blooming like storm clouds in the water. It is a gaping, ragged and glistening cavern of muscle.
They slip beneath the surface, agony twisting and curdling between their ribs. The ocean swallows the cry that tears from their throat before it can become sound.
They sink, finding themselves carefully lowered into a cradle of seaweed along a smooth shelf. The Sea moves around them with cold, careful hands, coaxing their body with the brush of fronds and the shift of soft sand.
They flinch violently as the current curls around the metal. Every tug sends a fresh wave of pain rippling through them until, at last, the rod slides free in a burst of black blood. Shadows dance across their vision.
For a century, the Siren has feasted on many a man and his foolish heart. Never before have they come so close to the jaws of death.
Seawater flows through their gills and courses through their veins. The Sea slowly threads together their torn fibers.
Above them, they sense the wind skimming across the sea, carrying the scent of every life borne upon its breath. They can practically taste it, the warm blood of man mingling with salt and iron, laying heavy on their tongue. The ship coasts on the northern wind.
Hunger, pain, anger. They grit their teeth until their skull aches, a hand clutching their side. The human Captain had slipped through their fingers like sand.
The torrential storm they summoned had not been enough for they had failed to account for the fellowship of man. Unlike Sirens, humans hunt in packs. Every hand, however small and weak, raises a blade for the sake of his brother.
The Siren must lure the Captain ashore, alone.
Only when the moon spills pale pillars beneath the surface do they find energy returning to their muscles. Inch by inch, they drag themselves through the dark water, willing the wind to shift, for the current to catch beneath their tail.
The pain is ever present. The wound beneath their ribs pulls hollow with every stroke, leaving ribbons of ink in their wake. They force themself onward. They cannot afford to lose the scent.
Their slender body glides beneath moonlit waves. They swim in murky water and cold currents, under constellations scattered across the heavens like shards of glass. Vengeance steeps in their nerves like frost. Hunger keeps their eyes unblinking.
There had been something different about the Captain’s flesh.
He tasted of honey lemon tea and smelled of smoke from a crackling hearth. He had filled their mind with visceral visions, of red cliffs bathing in hazy sunset, of coarse sand beneath feet that were not their own, as the tide rolled over smooth stone. Laughter and lantern light drifted from the golden hills. The breeze nipped at their dry skin.
The Captain gazed into their eyes. Shall we head home, Seonghwa? Careful hands met their face with a warmth they had never known.
Seonghwa. The name belongs to a dead man, burned in the memories they had stolen.
Sirens possess no memories of their own. Born of the Eastern wind and roiling seafoam, demons of hunger and song with neither kin nor home to call their own. They wear borrowed faces as man might wear a coat and devour his heart before casting his bones to the waves.
Somehow, in the Siren’s mind, the Captain’s memories have yet to dissolve with distance.
The port rises from the fog-covered coast, its weathered docks standing tall on wooden limbs. The ship glides in with battered, half-furled sails.
The Siren swims forward to press themselves to the hull, their face surfacing above the water.
They listen carefully to boots thudding above, humans moving without rhythm. Bells toll and hulls knock against their moorings. Beneath the dock, their dark eyes searching for the Captain’s departure.
They watch humans come and go with crates, baskets, sailcloth, and rope. But as time stretches on, the Captain still does not appear. The Siren waits and waits until the sun sinks behind the fog, until their fingers numb around the barnacled post.
Still, the Captain does not come down. He leaves the Siren with no choice.
Before the break of dawn, they swim to the shoreline. It bends away from the busiest docks, where black rocks are covered in seaweed and human debris. They drag themselves from the tide and collapse among stones, chest heaving through shallow breath.
The transformation begins.
Their spine arches abruptly, vertebrae clicking beneath wet skin. Fins along their arms fold inward. Webbing splits between their fingers, leaving thin red seams that sting in the air. Glistening scales and sharp teeth recede. The effort leaves them shaking with one hand clamped over the wound in their side.
Blood, red and human, slides between their fingers.
They glance down. Two narrow, breakable legs are attached to feet that insist upon the ground. The Siren pushes themselves upright and immediately falls. It has been far too long since they have walked the land. The thin air around them offers no resistance.
Dragging themselves on the ground, they search for the rest of their human disguise. Their hands reach for a damp shirt between the rocks, stiff with salt but whole enough to cover their chest. Breeches hang tangled in kelp, silvered by wet sand. The cloth clings and rasps against their skin.
A faint memory stirs at the sensation.
Seonghwa’s gentle hands smooth over white linen, dark hair gathered neatly at the nape of his neck. A final glance into the mirror by the door, then he lifts the latch to greet his waiting customers.
Dazed, the Siren’s palms drift over the front of the shirt, flattening the wrinkles. The creases return the moment their hands lift. Their fingers smooth them away once more.
The Siren’s hair hangs wet and unruly over their shoulders. They pluck a long strand of seagrass from the rocks and collect the spill of dark hair with two hands. The knot holds.
Catching their reflection in a tidal pool, they find Seonghwa staring back.
They sit in a moment of awe, breathing slowly, conscious of the cold air entering his sloping nose and leaving his pink lips.
They brush away dark strands slicked to his face. Seonghwa’s skin is warm.
They slot his knees beneath themselves and hold onto a rock in order to lift his body upright. They wobble, but do not collapse. They find the strength to take a tentative step forward, sliding his feet over the stone.
The hunger returns so violently in their gut, his legs give out.
They force themselves to stand once more, shaking, and begin the arduous journey to the docks.
The morning is awfully loud. Gulls shriek overhead, wheels and barrels grind and rumble over warped planks, all the men are rushing about, cursing and caterwauling.
The smells are far stronger. Tar, smoke, salt cod, wool, grease, ale, fresh blood. So much life gathered into one place, hot and thick in his nose, that the Siren nearly forgets how to breathe.
Every body is a meal. Human memories sink into their senses and invade the corners of their mind, the cusp of a song dancing on the tip of his tongue.
They pass a vendor with flour on her sleeves, feeling the blazing heat of an oven and the ache of tough bread against his teeth. They walk by an old man in the corner, the scent of whiskey and grief rolling from him in waves.
The Siren stumbles their way out of the crowd and press his back against a stack of crates.
They could take any of them. They could lure a body into the shadows and put an end to this unbearable hunger.
But they mustn’t let up their disguise, not until the Captain’s blood is theirs.
Each passing day, the Siren stalks where the fog hangs lowest and watches the ship stir awake. Her silhouette is crisp against the gray sky, her men crossing the deck.
At noon, the Siren drifts between crates and stalls, wandering the market while their gaze is fixed to the gangplank.
When night falls and the taverns begin to glow along the street, they sit at the end of the harbor, barren feet dangling over the edge.
Four days have passed and still, the Captain has yet to leave the ship.
Every now and then, they catch his visage in fragments. A dark coat sweeping in the wind, hands adorned with gold, bracing polished wood.
In truth, the Siren can see the Captain more clearly with his eyes closed. The man stands in a quaint shop behind a smooth counter, walls lined with glass jars of dried leaves, roots, and dark seeds, smelling of lavender and chamomile.
I haven't finished closing, Seonghwa chides.
The man leans against the counter, a smile pulling at his lips. Then I’ll wait.
Their memory abruptly ends when their face slams hard into a wooden surface. The Siren is sent careening backwards, crashing against the planks.
A human’s scent reaches the Siren before any words do—barley fields and fresh soil—one of the many scents from the Captain’s ship.
“Sorry,” the human says quickly, shifting the weight of a large crate to his hip.
His skin is tan and his black hair is pushed back messily from his damp forehead, a healing cut near his brow. “Didn’t see you there.” He offers his hand.
The Siren says nothing, scrambling to stand up on his own. They have not had the chance to use his human voice, and to one of the Captain’s men, no less. His throat is bone dry.
The human looks them over, eyes catching on the dirty shirt, then the bare feet. “You alright?”
A simple question. “Yes… I am.” Their answer comes too rhythmic, a ghost of song beneath it.
The human adjusts the crate once more. “I keep seeing you ‘round the pier. You work here?”
“No.”
“Looking for work?”
“No.”
“What do you do, then?”
The Siren pauses. “I sail.”
The human accepts this as if it is enough. “Me too! We always stop here for repairs.”
“Where is your Captain.” The question comes out rigid, like a statement.
“My Captain? Why, you know him?”
The Siren stiffens. “...I’ve heard about him.”
“I reckon he’s more popular by the day, the Pirate King.” A proud grin spreads across the human’s face. “He’s aboard. Stubborn that way.”
“Stubborn?”
“Captain never goes on land. Don’t know how he does it, I’d go mad.”
The human shifts the crate again, and several fruits roll dangerously toward the edge. The Siren catches one on instinct before it can fall, an orange firm and bright in their palm.
“Thanks,” the human says. “You’re quick.”
The Siren looks at the orange, the small dimpled skin, the color of sunset. The human’s memory blooms.
Dirt-streaked knees. A boy laughs as he runs between rows of barley, parting the sun-baked field like the tide. A farmhouse with its windows creaking open. A sister seated cross-legged on the floor with a blanket around her shoulders, her voice bright as she tells him of krakens and cunning pirates and shining treasure.
The Siren nearly crushes the orange in his hand.
The human reaches for it. “Careful. Those are for the cook, and he gets mad when citrus goes missing.”
The Siren gives it back quickly, swallowing down the notes that claw up his throat. They absolutely cannot make a meal of the Captain’s men. They would know if one of them went missing and come hunting with their sharp silver rods.
They scurry off without another word, fingers sinking into the fabric over their scabbing wound.
The next day, the Siren wanders through the market, where the reek of salt and gutted fish muddle the living scents of the crowd. They weave between bodies and watch where they place their soft feet, wary of puddles and splintered planks. They can see the Captain’s ship just beyond the forest of masts.
A familiar voice stops them in their tracks. Somehow, the human from yesterday has found them again.
“You,” he calls out, pleased by the recognition. He hurries over, a small handcart rattling behind him. “You left before I caught your name.”
The Siren has never understood the purpose of names. Humans name everything, wearing down the sounds until they dull upon the tongue. Yet the Captain seemed to think them terribly important. Even as darkness closed over the Siren’s eyes, he had begged for nothing but his name upon their lips.
They wonder, suddenly, what the Captain is named.
“I’m San.” The human offers his free hand. “And you?”
“I’m Seonghwa.”
San keeps his hand between them, palm open and waiting. Seonghwa carefully lays a few fingers across it, warm and rough like driftwood.
San studies him for a long moment. Seonghwa shifts under his gaze.
“You're always alone,” San says at last. “You sail with anyone, Seonghwa?”
“No.” Seeing San’s brow furrow, Seonghwa adds quickly, “Not anymore.”
San falls quiet for a moment, fussing with his cart, shifting ropes and canvas before tightening the cord across them. He says, “I used to be on my own, too. This world can be lonely.”
Sirens hunt alone, die alone. It has never occurred to them that either should be lonely. Seonghwa nods anyway.
This seems to satisfy San. His smile returns as he takes up the handle of his cart.
“I’ll see you around, Seonghwa.” He lifts a hand in farewell and pulls away. The wooden wheels clatter over the plank, and the human’s memory follows.
A wheelbarrow trundles down a dirt lane. His sister walks behind it, black hair loose in the wind, golden fields stretching toward the horizon. She points, telling him of faraway places waiting beyond it. Then, one morning, she is gone. Bare feet pound the same dirt lane as he runs after her, calling and calling until his little lungs have no breath left to give.
By the time the memory recedes, San has disappeared into the crowd. Seonghwa’s chest is heavy, and he cannot begin to understand why.
It has been nine days since the ship has docked. The harbor wakes earlier than usual, crates thudding into place, ropes creaking through wet hands, sails loosening with heavy snaps that send gulls crying from the posts. Seonghwa stands at the end of the pier, like always.
He senses San walk up behind him, a satchel slung across his body.
“Still here?” he asks, tapping his shoulder.
Seonghwa turns to him. “You as well.”
“Not for long.” He points at the ship, where someone is shouting his name, then pretends not to hear. “We sail with the tide.”
This is good. Once the ship leaves, Seonghwa can shed these clumsy legs and return to the Sea, where his body belongs. He can glide beneath the waves, strong and swift as the current, with neither crowds nor feet to slow the hunt.
San opens his satchel and pulls out a pair of hemp shoes. They are plainly the work of unpracticed hands, coarse cord braided into thick soles, the weave crooked in places and the knots pulled unevenly.
“These are for you,” San says. “I thought—well, I don’t know what I thought.” He sets them on the planks beside Seonghwa’s bare feet. “I hope they fit.”
The Siren crouches down, studying them closely. One finger traces the coarse weave.
“Why?” Seonghwa asks.
San rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking almost embarrassed. “Because I think you’re nice. And you can’t keep walking around barefoot.” He nudges one of the shoes toward him with his boot. “Just take ‘em, all right?”
Seonghwa looks down at the crooked shoes again.
Sirens take.
They take names from screaming mouths, warmth from bleeding bodies, faces from the dead. They take grief and love and wear it until humans foolishly reach for their own undoing.
No one gives things to Sirens. Not willingly.
From the ship, someone calls San again, louder this time. San winces. “I have to go.”
The thought of San gone with the Captain and the others, swallowed back into that tight-knit warmth of voices and hands and belonging, leaves a strange ache beneath the shell of his ribs.
“What’ll you do now?” San smiles as if the question is easy.
He replies slowly, “I think I’ll leave soon, too.”
San beams. Then, he runs back to the ship, light-footed across the pier.
Seonghwa closes his eyes and feels the breeze against his skin. The wind tells him that the ship’s sails are unfurling. It is pulling slowly from her berth before the tide catches beneath her hull.
He opens his eyes. With the sun barely breaking the horizon, he can make out the Captain standing upon the quarterdeck.
The distance between them is softened by mist and sea-glare, but Seonghwa knows the shape of him with the same instinct by which he knows blood in dark water. His coat stirs in the wind. His hand rests against the rail. His seeing eye scans the harbor.
Then it finds him.
It is as if they are meeting gazes for the first time in the apothecary. Clay mortars beneath careful palms, wooden counters polished by years of use, and customers leaning close, speaking in hushed tones.
The Captain had stood in the doorway, rain silvering the dark strands of his hair, one hand braced against the frame. He looked exhausted, asking if the shopkeeper had anything strong enough to make the sea stop moving behind his eyes.
Seonghwa’s borrowed heart hollows at the look.
He does not know what the Captain sees. A ghost, perhaps. He wants, suddenly and terribly, to call out, though he has no right to the name that would leave his mouth. For one impossible moment, he thinks he will come down, that the Captain will order the ship halted and he will cross the distance between them.
But the Captain only turns away. The ship carries him into the Sea.
Seonghwa remains standing at the edge of the harbor, long after the ship has become a blur against the glittering water.
This world is full of flesh, full of warmth. Hunger is all-consuming. It hangs like an anchor beneath his ribs, an icy current winding through his bones.
He watches a ship leave with everyone warm aboard it. He listens for a name that is not his and longs, still, to be the one who answers.