Work Text:
The cove was a place meant to be forgotten, nothing more than a dent in the coastline, unmarked on any imperial map. Captain Sung Hanbin should have known better.
But his ship had limped into the bay, wounded from a skirmish with raiders. The cove with soft, white sands had felt like mercy.
It was not mercy.
He discovered that on the second night, when he wandered listlessly along the shore. In the moonlight, he saw it— perched atop a rock that jutted from the water.
A creature, not quite man nor beast. Bare skin glistening in the moonlight. Long hair spilling down his back. Eyes beguiling, curious.
He’d grown up hearing stories, whispered in ports by drunken sailors: Beware the ones who cry diamonds, sing storms into your mind and kiss you before they eat you.
A Siren.
Their eyes met. Hanbin’s hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword.
The creature flinched but did not flee. Instead, it tilted its head and blinked slowly, like it was trying to recognize him. Then it said, haltingly:
“Ham… bin?”
Hanbin kept returning. Each midnight before dawn, while the crew slept. He told himself it was curiosity, but the truth was less noble: he wanted to hear him sing again.
The siren sang wordless melodies of tides and longing. It didn't enchant or drive him to madness like they warned. It filled the places in Hanbin's chest where war had hollowed him out.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Hanbin knelt beside the pool where the siren sat half-submerged. The creature blinked slowly at him.
“This place... s-safe. Not many… humans.” He tilted his head. “Hambin here.”
He’d picked up words. Too fast for comfort.
“How do you know my name?”
“You say… on ship.” He shrugged. “I like sound.”
“You're saying it wrong though.”
A small pout, “Ham...bin?”
Hanbin swallowed. He should turn him in. He's bound by duty to the crown. Sirens were meant to be harvested, their tears a royal commodity, cut into jewellery. It was treason to harbour one. The empire didn’t care how sweet their voices were. They were resources, not people.
And yet…
“What’s your name?”
The creature frowned. “You… can’t say.”
Hanbin smiled. “Try me.”
He sang it— one long, keening note followed by a cascade that skipped like wind over waves. It was beautiful. Hanbin could never replicate it.
“I’ll call you Hao,” Hanbin said instead.
The siren blinked. Then smiled, softly. “Hao…”
It sounded like a lullaby from his lips.
Hao couldn't speak much. His tongue stumbled over even simple words. When Hanbin brought seashells, Hao would repeat their colors, sometimes correctly, more often hilariously wrong.
Shell became chel. Crab became creeb.
And Hanbin remained Hambin.
“Say it again,” Hanbin insisted. “Hann. Bin.”
“Hah... Han.”
“Han,” Hanbin nodded.
Hao lit up. “Han,” he echoed. “Bin?”
Hanbin smiled encouragingly.
Then Hao beamed and said, bright and certain, “Hambin.”
Hanbin blinked. “No, not—” he began, laughing despite himself. “Han. Bin.”
“Hambin." Proud this time.
Hanbin sighed, “You’re doing that on purpose now.”
Hao blinked innocently. Then laughed, light like windchimes.
How could this be the monster they spoke of?
Hao sang sometimes, but not to lure or destroy. He sang absentmindedly, as he twisted seaweed into garlands or played with little fish. His songs were lilting and wistful, made of vowels Hanbin didn’t recognize, and they never made Hanbin feel anything but warm.
Hao never asked for anything — Not Hanbin's ship or his heart. Only time. And Hanbin gave it, freely, foolishly.
“You’ll get me killed,” Hanbin said absently once, fingers gentle as he braided the siren’s hair.
Hao peeked up at him. “Kill?”
“If they find out I’ve been with you, they’ll say you enchanted me.”
Hao frowned. “No… chant. No hurt.”
“I know,” Hanbin said, “But they don’t.” He brushed a wet strand from Hao’s brow, “You’re not a monster, Hao.”
Hao seemed to hesitate for a moment, then slowly, he reached up and pressed a palm right where Hanbin's heartbeat.
“No monster,” he said, then, softer: “My Hambin.”
Hanbin's breath caught. He closed his hand over Hao’s and kissed him. It tasted of something both forbidden and inevitable.
When they pulled apart, Hao looked dazed, pupils wide and shining, cheeks flushing with something oddly human.
Of course, it couldn’t last. One evening, Hanbin returned to find his own crew, and knew before he even saw the struggling net.
“HOLD HIM!”
A splash. A scream. Not words— just sounds— wild and terrified.
“Get the chains! He’s crying already— Gods, look at this!”
A handful of glistening diamonds hit the sand. Hanbin’s stomach turned.
“Captain!” a soldier shouted, “Sir! We caught one!"
“No,” Hanbin said, voice flat. “Let him go.”
The men paused.
“…sir? You’ve seen what it is!”
Hanbin stepped forward, blade drawn.
“Drop the net. Now.”
Reluctantly, they obeyed.
Hao collapsed into the shallows, trembling, his tail bleeding from the net. His eyes met Hanbin’s— uncomprehending and afraid.
Hanbin dropped to his knees.
“It’s me,” he whispered. “Hao, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”
The siren flinched when he reached out. His lip wobbled, another tear slipping down.
“No… no cry,” Hao whimpered. “No want… cry.”
Hanbin caught the crystallizing tear on his fingertip.
Almost inaudibly, Hao whispered, “No monster.”
Hanbin looked up at the crew.
“If any of you touch him again,” he threatened, “I’ll slit your throats.”
The men backed away.
“Hambin?”
Hanbin lifted Hao gently into the tide, wading out with him until the waves reached his chest. “You have to go. Even if I leave, someone else will come.”
Hao clung to him, fingers tightening.
“Hambin stay,” he whispered.
“I can’t. I… I want to. But I can’t,” Hanbin spoke brokenly.
Hao’s lips brushed his cheek.
“My… Hambin.”
Hanbin held him one last time, then let him go. With a splash and a flick of his tail, the siren vanished into the depths. Hanbin waited until the ripples faded. Then he walked away salt-kissed, and utterly wrecked.