Chapter Text
David’s first encounter with acceptance is not one that he enjoys. There is a desperate, clawing need inside him- to be known, and loved, and to love in return. And, quiet and alone as he is, there is a certain irony in his following of the hivesong.
It is not alone, he knows. The reef he has found is covered in light, and shapes, and color; crawling and squirming and swimming and living, existing. It is something solid. It is proof of something, something that curls its way around his tongue as a concept and leaves the taste of copper but nothing else substantial. He knows what drew him here; the curl and swirl of water around the spindly arms of coral has created songs, beautiful tunes with so many layers, so many intricacies and layers and a duet of a melody. It is waiting only for him to hum along, and what is the duty of a siren but to sing the song of the sea? To create with what nature gives them?
And so he hums. He joins the chorus, twisting and twirling and dancing if only in his mind along to the maze of creatures before him. Moments of euphoria, of feeling part of a thing larger than himself; what is a chorus but many minds working as one? It has been so long since he has felt confident enough to sing along with his family. He isn’t sure if he ever wants to, as much as he loves them (surely it is love, that is what you are supposed to feel for family, after all). But, as much as they might be family, he is sure they aren’t his School. They do not have the sense of unity that being in a School, connected and humming and safe and learning, creating, dancing and rejoicing through life, brings.
But, no. He doesn’t want to think about that right now. He has had enough of thinking about what could be better; sometimes he finds comfort in looking at what is good despite it. Sometimes he cannot think of his situation as a whole, sometimes reality must be superimposed with flower petals, looked at through shades of glass. And so he looks down.
The coral is curling, growing, breathing in the way underwater coral does. The current drifts David further over the bright expanse of the reef, beckoning, and he is shocked by one thing the most- there is no movement of small fish or mollusk, no, only the groaning, creaking growth of the land. One of his paws almost brushes the rough texture of a branch, but he pulls it away at the last second.
This world is so beautiful. He knows enough not to touch the coral, not having experienced its bite for himself but knowing it can make a stingache last for days, weeks, even months. But it is still so, so beautiful. The dazzling colors oscillate in front of him; this is the most vibrant reef he has seen, he is sure. It feels like something that would creak and groan like tall trees in a windstorm above the water. There is a power here.
He is still mesmerized, naturally, of course. How could someone see this great, wonderful, beautiful example of life and living and not be entranced? But maybe it is his history that rings the bell. Something from the stories and tales, something from the ability of the humlights to create and layer an illusion over what other creatures see, to draw them in.
Something is not right here.
There are no fish. No fish in this bright, colorful, rainbow-like forest, spattered with white sticks, the remnants of old coral. Not even shrimp or something smaller. It is a reef that was once dead, but has been reclaimed, surely- this coral has grown over the old cracks and turns and fallible skeletons, only shells of what they were.
Only shells. Husks.
It is a good thing that, while David is a freshwater siren, saltwater does not harm his gills. Because his next moment is one that stabs his lungs with an inhale.
That is not old coral he sees.
He turns, tail almost touching the closest branch. When had he become so surrounded? It is growing now, curling around him, building a nest, a cocoon. When had he lost sight and hope of the sky?
It is not a reclaimed reef.
That copper taste is back, the water around him is permeated with the salty tang. He sees bright pink and purple and red and green and orange and blue- none of the colors are safe, but he knows, somehow, the blue is most dangerous of all. He cannot escape from this home, built around him and starting to curl. No false hope will save him. His movements are starting to stiffen, slow, something like armor but infinitely more confining aggregating on his fur. Deep, deep in the sea, these bright colors would simply be camouflage. This is not the deep. This is on the surface, light and full of air and living water.
This is no camouflage. This is warning coloration, false brightness and happiness and excitement, almost stinging his eyes in its intensity. How could he not have seen? Not have noticed?
The coral is as strong as brick around him. There are no soft sponges, no malleable algae, no waxy seaweed. It is rough, and uncaring, but masquerading as friendly life. He knows better. This is not love or appreciation, from the coral. It is not an invitation to join the song. It is a trap, cold and bright like the brightest summer day, too bright to look at. It tells him he will be safe. He knows it is lying.
There is so much he hasn’t noticed. So much he wants to experience. Those concepts feel as far off as the light, calm, blue of the sky. No, he is buried in cyan and pink and purple, colors he would say were lovely if they weren’t so careful and gentle in their construction of his cradle. He is being bonecoddled. It is a kind of love he has not asked for, but one he cannot break. Not with the ideas that they bring with them- they are pastel, soft in shade, cute. Not things he would ever describe himself as, but things ascribed to him all the same. They wrap over his ribs like a hug, but all the more confining. This is not an embrace he can say no to. And that is what makes it terrifying.
He closes his eyes. He will not watch his own demise. This is no simple loss of consciousness- it is a death of the self, a death of his being. If he dies here, it will mean the death of the truth of who he was, he knows. And, rather than harm his walls in trying to escape, David relaxes, lets himself sway. He could never hurt those around him in his attempt to break free. He would never. And this is not a good thing, he knows, that he lacks the energy to willfully break out, to correct what was assigned to him. What he is being held in, he has grown to embrace it just the same.
There is a sure sense that it is too late for him, now. He is calm in the way you can be when loud voices and shattered glasses are your tempo, when huge noises are what surrounds you. Maybe, maybe he simply wants to be quiet. A small song of his own to sing, mezzopiano, with none of the triple forte of before.
As he drifts off to the sway of the water around him, all he can think of is his family, surely, hopefully not following too close behind. This may be his gravesite, but he only hopes it will not be theirs.
He is found, awake, two days later drifting in open sea. There is no coral growth in his fur, no shield from the outside world to speak of. Only him, far from his family, alone.
He isn’t sure what to think of it.