Chapter Text
He’s tired. He’s so tired.
He tries to keep smiling. Tries to be encouraging. Tries to do as he’s told, and satisfy the pirates who’ve taken him, and a few of his fellow crew members as slaves, but it’s never enough.
They kick him. They punch him. They pull his hair and run blades across his neck just deep enough to draw blood. They twist his arm behind his back, until he’s sure it’s about to snap, then tie him in that position for hours. They hang him from his wrists off the bow, over the weathered mermaid, because he’s such a pretty boy, surely he’ll bring them luck.
That’s why they kept him. His pretty face. His big, baby blue eyes. His softly freckled face. His curly blond hair. His slim waist and slightly rounded cheeks, giving him a young, boyish look.
They enjoy that. Enjoy tracing patterns across his freckles with their knives. Enjoy grabbing his wrists and forcing kisses against his cheeks. They enjoy leering and staring and grabbing and pulling.
But he smiles, though he hates his face, now. He laughs, though he’s breaking. He plays along, though every night shame and disgust curdle in his chest, ripping at his lungs, clawing apart his heart.
He’s hollow. His eyes don’t shine, anymore, sunken into his skull. His ribs show through his shirt. His body is scarred and bruised and scabbed. His hope, his life, his soul, is fading away exponentially faster every day. It makes the pirates bolder, as he lets them get away with more and more, as hours, days pass without him realizing, lost in a fog of exhaustion and apathy. His former crew members, those that are left, worry, try and get him to talk, try and give him their rations, try and get him to eat something, anything, but he just smiles, pushing it away.
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. But it’s still there. His last act of defiance. No matter what they do to him, no matter how bad it gets, he smiles, because it infuriates them, and that is the only thing he has the power to do, anymore.
…
He’s on deck, when it happens.
His ankles are tied together. So are his wrists. He’s tied to the mast, arms stretched above him, feet barely touching the ground, rope around his neck, so he has to stand on tiptoe to be able to breathe.
He’s exhausted. He’s sunburned, skin red and hot, blisters forming across his back, sticking to the fabric of his shirt. He hasn’t eaten in days, and his throat is dry, mouth parched. His eyes are closed, breathing ragged, heart beating wildly and irregularly. His hair is matted to his head, and he can’t even sweat anymore, doesn’t even have that small relief of coolness against his skin. Colors are dancing behind his eyes, and he struggles to stay awake, because every time his legs give out the noose tightens, and despite himself, his body is fighting to live.
“Feeling comfortable, pretty boy?” He forces open his eyes at the gruff, growling, taunting voice of the pirates’ foul excuse for a captain. It takes a moment, for his mind to comprehend what was said, to remember how to speak, to force his tongue into action.
“Yes, captain.” He rasps, not breaking his gaze from the pirate’s eyes, forcing his mouth into a small, smug, upturn, despite everything in him screaming to cower and submit and give in, he won’t. He won’t let them break him completely. He won’t give that to them, give himself, to them. The captain’s eyes narrow, and he scowls.
Faster than he can understand, the captain draws his dagger, and plunges it into his shoulder. His vision goes red, and he hears a distant scream, tastes blood on his lips as he bites his tongue, feeling the dagger piercing through his muscle, pinning him to the mast. He realizes he’s the one screaming, as the captain laughs, twisting the knife deeper in the wound, his head spinning, body sagging, unable to care about the rope biting into his throat, cutting off his air, whimpering as he feels the tension leave his arms, his neck, falling forwards so all the weight is on the dagger, ripping it further across his shoulder as it is the only thing keeping him upright. Then a hand is around his throat, and he is slammed back against the mast, hard enough he feels blood trickling down the back of his skull.
“How about now, my lovely?” He shudders at the perverse stroke of his cheek, the softness underlined by his cruelty. He spits, a glob of blood, pleased as he hears the captain splutter, cracking open his eyes, a grin on his face as he sees the captain wiping his spit off his face.
“Perfectly content, sir.” The captain roars in fury, drawing his sword, growling as he raises his arm, and he closes his eyes.
This is it. Finally, this is where it all ends. He lets out a soft breath, a softer smile on his lips, because he can live (ha) with this. Tears prick his eyes as he feels the wind from the sword, the silence like a crash of thunder in his ears.
Then-
Then the music.
The captain falters. Instead of coming down across his neck, the sword slashes across his chest, biting deep, and he gasps at the pain, hands futily flying to the wound, trying to catch the blood, trying to press it back into his body, but it simply burbles around his hands.
He hears the sword drop to the deck as the music grows louder. As it swells.
It’s beautiful.
Summer days in the fields of his childhood, laughing as he chases the chickens, his mother scooping him up and scolding him, tickling his belly until he devolves into giggles.
The soft ocean breeze on a clear day, the sparkling water stretching out until it met the endless horizon, the orange and pink and glowing sun reflected perfectly, a blazing beauty sinking until the moon slowly replaces it.
Safety. His crew around him. His captain at the helm, standing beside his son, pointing out the constellations they use to navigate. Jeremy singing from the crow’s nest, his sweet voice carrying across the entire ship. Llewyn with his stories, capturing them all in his tales, enthralled. Marvin whistling as he swabs the deck, humming as he prepares dinner, laughing at every one of his terrible jokes.
He opens his eyes at the sound of splashing, vision blurred and sense of reality hazy, lungs heavy and chest tight. Dimly, he realizes the pirates are wide eyed, looks of pure extasy on their faces as they approach the edge of the ship. He watches as the singing grows louder, sweeter, more voices joining in harmony, and one of them lets out a call of awe, leaping over the side. Then all the others follow. It’s like moths to a flame, and he closes his eyes, hearing each splash, the hauntingly sweet music sweeping him up once more, tears leaking from his eyes, and he wishes he could make it to the side. He doesn’t need the music to coax him overboard. He’s going to die from his injuries. He’s already slipping away. But being dragged down by Sirens, being sung to as he drowned, being held in their gentle embrace even as they pulled the air out of his lungs, would be better than this slow death. He would die for that gentle touch alone. No matter how much of a lie it was, at least it was something.
He chokes out a wheezing sob as the music starts to fade, the lilting voices start to drift off, choking on despair and his own blood.
“Please! Please don’t go!” He manages to shout, scraping at his throat. “please…” he whispers, as the voices go completely silent. He yelps as he falls to the deck, the dagger having come free from its mooring at all of his weight being put on it, though it’s still embedded in his flesh.
He gasps at the force of the impact, vision swimming, curling up against his knees, shivers and gasping sobs wracking his body. He is going to die alone. Afraid and hurt and alone.
He hears footsteps. He hears a whispered word, a language he doesn’t know, but he can guess it’s a curse from the intonation. He blearily blinks open his eyes, breath catching at the vision before him.
A man, strong and toned, clothed in thin, flowing red fabric, a crimson circlet around his forehead, red tattoos coiling up his arms, his face perfect, his eyes deep and endless, and he smiles, closing his eyes.
“go ahead. I’m ready.” His voice is a wet whisper, red staining his lips as he coughs, curling tighter. He hears the man inhale sharply, gasping as he feels a gentle touch, a soft hand cupping his cheek, and he leans into the touch, more tears leaking out, because this is nothing like the pirate’s crude possessiveness. This is soft, and kind, and gentle. “please.” He looks up once more, though most of his vision is dark spots, everything swirling and fading in and out, and he smiles.
Smiles like he used to. Like he did before everything went wrong. Like he did before his life ended. Like he did before this living hell. A soft, warm smile, that brought out his dimples, that lit up his face, that crinkled his eyes and somehow made his cheeks ruddy, his freckles show, the kind the crew always said made him look like a master’s carving of a cherub. It feels nice, to smile. To smile and mean it. He’s glad he’s going to do die like this.
“you don’t know what you’re asking.” The voice is soft, but honey sweet and beautiful, a music to it even now. Oh, he’s glad this is the one that will be dragging him down.
“you’re a S-siren. You’ll d-drown m-me. B-ut it’s ok. You s-ing so ni-ce. Feels like h-ome. That’s where I’m go-ing anyway. H-home. I’m r-ready, to go w-ith you.” He mumbles, vision going dark, and he can’t tell if his eyes are still open or closed, not that it really matters. It’s over. There’s sweet relief in that simple fact. It’s over.
Distantly, he hears the siren mutter another curse. He feels the rope cut from around his neck, his ankles and hands cut loose, numb from loss of circulation. He whimpers, as he feels himself lifted, jostling his body, every small motion piercing agony through his bones, but he settles at a soft hand pushing back his hair, a murmured, musical assurance that sets his mind at ease, that sets him drifting off into oblivion.
It’s warm, cradled against the siren’s chest, careful arms holding him gently, that sonorous voice murmuring promises of safety. He lets out a soft sigh, folding closer to the warmth, his own body so cold, now. He’s glad, this will be his last memory. Not the pirate captain, not his misery, not his pain, but this.
This is nice.
…
Roman is speechless.
Not much can make him speechless.
But this human has.
He’s such a small thing, so light, far lighter than he should be. He can see the gauntness to the human’s face, can tell where there once was cushion around his cheekbones, around his ribs, and there’s so much blood. His heart is hammering like a hummingbird.
“Roman. What are you waiting for?” He looks up at Logan’s stern voice, though he tilts his head and softens at the distress on Roman’s face. “What is it?”
“He knows what I am, Lo. And he wasn’t afraid. He said… he said he was ready to go home.” Logan takes a deep breath, coming closer, eyes widening at the state of the human, feeling his own heart breaking at the cruelty with which this person was treated. He lets out another breath as he hesitantly reaches out, brushing back his soft hair, feeling the burning heat of his forehead with a frown, surprised as the human easily leans into his touch. One would think, after all the abuse he’d clearly suffered, he would flinch from it.
He can feel the goodness of the human. The strong, protective instinct within him, his soft, gentle nature, his kindness. He knows Roman won’t leave the human here to die, and won’t drown him, either. Logan knows he can’t, as well.
“He may not make it, Roman. And Virgil will not like it.” Logan warns, the third member of their party already having departed, “that being said, the sooner we get back, the sooner we can tend to his injuries.” Roman nods, looking up at him with relief in his eyes.
“thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You still have to convince Virgil.”