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Sirens were supposed to be many things. Alluring, seductive, enchanting.
Anything but lonely.
Historia reasoned that the legends served as more of a deterrent than a representation of reality—her inheritance was little more than an isle sinking into the sea and a voice that could not carry beyond the surrounding reef. She would fade into seafoam one day, no longer able to battle the waves that seeked to drown her in the undiscovered realm.
A fitting demise for someone like her, a bastard by all accounts, remembered by even fewer. Not that she minded terribly. The crabs made for good company on shore, and if she dared wander further, the dolphins would tease her, swim circles as they watched the little siren girl who could not chase their tails nor show them their place.
Perhaps she could try? Historia took a deep breath. Damp sand settled between her toes as the tide rocked against her feet. Water was supposed to be so comfortable, even inspirational to the point of song. She waded further in, but it was so cold, and slippery. Seaweed tangled around her ankles with a strong grip.
Except the seaweed was a peculiar shade of brown, and awfully hand-like. Connected to a person, who now raised their head, sputtering salt water over the hem of Historia’s dress.
Mother was going to be furious.
The human had breasts. Yet wore the distinct apparel of the sea-faring types who kept wandering too close to shore.
“You’re not a man.”
“Aye! Nor are you!” The sailor squinted at her before rising. “Do you have anything for me to eat before you drag me down to the watery depths or whatever else your people do?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not familiar with the siren customs but I am hungry. Anything will do. I’d rather not die hungry, that’s all.”
Even standing lower on the bank, the sailor was tall.
Historia was faintly aware of the dagger she was supposed to be carrying, the very dagger resting on her table. The dagger she had forgone to give her one less thing to put back on after her morning swim. The kinds of oversights that Mother would definitely have slapped her for.
“Stay away from me.”
“That is something I rarely hear from a woman, but as you wish. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The sailor raised her arms before turning in a slow circle. No blade, none of the loud weapons they had begun to don. Her blouse was transparent, the sight almost lewd, had she—
“How did you land here?”
The sailor snickered. “Not by choice, though I wish now that I’ve got a good look at you.”
“Where do you hail from?” Historia raked her head for the names of the land masses the dolphins had been sharing. “Paradis?”
“Sure, that might be where I was headed.”
“Tell me now, I do not wish to quarrel with you.”
“My lady, of course. I am a humble sailor from Marley, looking for better tidings.”
“And your name?”
“Ymir, but you can call me ‘your’s.’”
Historia didn’t understand these peculiar human customs. She took a deep breath, filling her chest with air so the words would come out strong and authoritative.
“I will feed you. And then you will leave my isle.”
The sailor—Ymir—gave a deferential bow. “If it is what my lady pleases.”
“Tell me, siren, is this a meal that helps round out my flavor, make my flesh more palatable for your aquatic tastes?”
Historia thought she had been quite gracious. Sea urchins, with a pickled kelp base and some sort of tuber she had found was quite nice when steamed—it was nice. Frieda had liked, even loved it. Frieda didn’t come by anymore, but Historia was sure it wasn’t her meals that had scared her away.
“I thought it was quite clear I had no interest in eating you, Ymir the sailor.”
“Oh I am well aware. I was speaking of the other acts that might involve tasting me.”
Hold on a moment. “Are you….”
“Yes?”
“Implying copulatory acts?”
“No, not at all.”
Historia did not get it at all. She was sure now—this sailor was being crude. She was almost certain, at least for a moment, that this sailor was making a pass at her. Of course it was ridiculous, a human being interested in a siren, much less a siren like her.
“So then why should I care how you taste?”
The sailor was silent. “You know, you’re far less wicked than I was told you’d be.”
“What do you mean?”
“All my life, I’ve been told things. Generally true things too. Sirens are wicked seductresses. And yet, I flirt relentlessly and at my blatant innuendo you doubt yourself. It’s just strange, that’s all.”
“I wouldn’t know much about my sisters’ tendencies.”
Ymir slurped at the sea urchin. “Eh, I like you better.”
The sailor was growing on her, albeit reluctantly. It turned out, Historia’s simple desire to be left alone was far less viable when they realized that first, Ymir had no ship, and second, Ymir had no real way to get off the isle. Siren homes were built to be hostile to humans—being prey—and with simple sea travel for her folk, they were generally barren of the sorts of materials a human would need to fashion together a raft, however crude.
“You know, siren, you never told me your name.”
“You never asked.”
“Would you tell me?”
“Historia.” Sharing her last name would be revelatory to the right parties, could change their dynamic forever, make her the hunted. Or it would just be…nice. To be known.
“My full name is Historia Reiss.”
“Must be nice to have a surname. I’m just Ymir.”
Historia wasn’t so sure. Maybe it would be nice to be just-Historia.
They had cobbled together some sort of rudimentary platform, with the help of the dolphins who had been intrigued by Historia’s new visitor. It seemed, in the damp fogginess of her isle, it was harder to tell when Ymir was sneaking about. But siren senses were attuned to movement despite the odds, and Historia was able to keep her wary distance from the sailor.
“Do you avoid me because it is hard to resist the desire to eat human flesh?”
Historia was sort of offended. “Do you take us to be brainless beings? Besides, the flesh of humans offers little sustenance to us. Eating anything isn’t a vital task. We live off the sea and salt and song.”
“Why don’t you sing?”
It was a good question. “It would kill you.”
That wasn’t, strictly speaking, true.
It came as it always did. A dream, a mirage over misty clouds and seafoam, punctured by the acrid taste of sea life that had been left to rot on the rocks.
“You idiotic child.”
Mother.
“I thought the creatures of the sea were lying to me. There was no way you could have been born of me, of the Reiss lineage. No child of mine would be fool enough to let a siren killer into their home as a guest!”
Mother, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.
“I should have done this long ago. I will be there in two days time. If you and your little pet are still there, I will not hesitate to strike you down where you stand. Begone, and let me be rid of your filth. Die, if that is the most useful thing you can do.”
“Hey! Hey.” Ymir’s voice swatted the mist away, and Historia felt a strong grip on her shoulders.
“What are you doing here?”
“You were making weird noises and I thought I would check it out. Was hoping it was a better type of dream but you looked like you were having a nightmare.”
“Thank you.”
Ymir gave a quick scan. “Right, well if you’re okay, I’ll be going back to bed now. I’m absolutely devastatingly tired.”
“Would you stay?”
“On the isle? Right now I don’t really have a choice.”
“No I meant here. Tonight.”
“Oh….” And though she paused, Ymir sank down next to the sandstone slab, her hand encasing Historia’s smaller one.
“Have you killed a siren before, Ymir?”
The grip tightened. “Once.”
“Okay.”
Ymir seemed to falter. “You’re not going to ask why?”
“I’ve killed a human before. You might have killed, but I don’t, well…I don’t think you’re a killer.”
“Little crabs, would you walk for me?”
A thousand little claws clacked.
Ymir frowned. “Well, what will you do? The raft isn’t large enough for both of us, and even with the crabs as our rudder, we need some sort of sail and you don’t have the cloth for that.”
Historia sighed. “I’d have to swim.”
Swimming with a human-sized amount of supplies and another human to boot against a tide that refused contrary movement under normal circumstances was hard enough. But even as her leg cramped, Historia moved because someone for the first time in her life needed her.
And it was enough.
“You know what I love the most about the stars? There’s so many of them. And no one gets to take them or keep them. It’s just up there, for everyone to share equally.”
Historia was inclined to agree. The most she had ever had was an isle, which was both a lot and tremendously little. A prison. Salvation.
“Where will you go after this?”
Ymir leaned over the side of the raft to peer at the siren in the water. “The real question is where will you go after this? You’d need to change your appearance at the very least, and your family name is a dead giveaway of your royalty status.”
“How did you know I was a royal?”
“Kid.” Ymir laughed out loud. “Yer joking.”
It was a lame question, Historia agreed. If you knew, you knew. Ymir hadn’t shown any blatant signs of knowing her family name, but she was a sailor. It would have been baffling to not know a sailor’s worst enemy by name.
“If I cut my hair do you think the humans would trust me more?”
“Are you going to drop the surname?”
“What should I write?”
“Well,” Ymir paused before swirling the water that lapped the raft. “You and I could always think up a new name together.”
In the darkness under the stars, it was hard to tell, but Ymir seemed to be staring at her more intensely.
She stumbled to continue. “Well of course we don’t have to I just think it might be easier if they think we are family and it—”
“That sounds lovely to me.”
It sounded better than lovely. It was exceptional. Historia knew now, that if she had a heart, this is where it would swell. And for the first time ever, in Historia’s short pitiful life, she understood why her sisters sang.
Because Ymir was worth singing for.
With a siren’s speed and a sailor’s agility, they made quick time across the sea. Landforms began peppering the sides of the horizon, and with an incredible seafaring device—a sextant Ymir called it—Ymir could start naming masses according to her map.
Historia’s legs cramped terribly, but the water was warm and Historia found her body enjoying the immersive submersion. Gills she had not used in a decade’s time now rippled with the water, and with the aid of the other sea creatures, she could direct their raft to undersea currents.
The dialect they spoke in was odd, more echolocation than verbalization, but it was not altogether unfamiliar.
“Ymir, they’re saying to go that way for a quarter sun rotation.”
“What would we do without you, Historia!” Ymir laughs again, and Historia basks in the sound.
When they hit land at last Historia cries. It is loud and Paradis is crowded with fishmongers and it reeks of human stench. But her tears are happy tears, because she has never seen so many people in her life.
Try as they may, they cannot shake the villager’s awareness of their arrival—a fair maiden and summer-warmed sailor washed up on the beach on a raft carried by crabs—and so they head inland.
Historia has never seen land that is so rich in greenery, a stubby sort that tickled her ankles and dirt that was brown and rich with moisture. There were odd goat-like creatures covered in hair that felt like mist and clouds, with long floppy ears and a more cowardly bray.
She frolics and Ymir stands by their wagon, a measly looking thing driven by a creature called a donkey.
And for the first time in her life, Historia sings for joy.
There is a cabin near the woods, with trees that stand tall with leaves that are a vibrant green, darker than the ashy olive trees on her isle.
The first night her voice is hoarse. She has sung too much and the dryness of terrestrial air does not soothe her vocal cords. But subsequent nights, other travellers that cross their firesite stop and gather to listen. At first, Historia feels shy. But then Ymir holds her hand and everything feels okay again.
It becomes a ritual, that by day they labor, and by night she sings.
She sings of the ocean, of sea currents and kelp that waver in the flow, of a sky darker than coal and water blacker than onyx.
She sings of a sailor, kissed by sunlight and hands rough like sand.
She sings of an isle, covered in mist, rocky and barren of life.
A cabin becomes an inn, and with that, they make their livelihood.
It is a year and some time before Ymir bends a knee and holds Historia’s hand again. She offers a name and a promise.
And for the first time in her life, Historia realizes she’s not going to be alone anymore.