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The harsh steel presses cold to Aventurine's jaw. A clean blade, a sharpened polished blade. The same cannot be said for the hand wielding it. Grime clings beneath yellowed fingernails and the stale breath ghosting over Aventurine's ears flows through rotted teeth.
“You may have convinced the captain you're just some bright-eyed little sailor,” the boatswain hisses and presses his front against Aventurine's back pointedly. “But I've seen the mark on your neck, boy.”
The shiver runs through Aventurine effortlessly. He stifles a terrified, pleading whine.
“Please don't tell anyone.”
“Or what? You'll cry? No one's gonna hear you.”
“I'll do anything,” Aventurine sobs. “I'll be quiet. Just don't hurt me.”
“Anything, really?”
“Yes!”
“I better take you somewhere more secluded then. If you scream, I'll slit your throat. Do we understand each other?”
Aventurine nods frantically, tears streaming down his face. The blade moves from his jugular vein to his trachea. He takes a loud hitching breath. No cut. Close but not that close. He shifts, quivering, and the dagger only follows halfway.
The boatswain whispers in his ear of all the things that can happen to a pretty face at sea. A precious treasure so foolishly walking into the lion's den. A sweet innocent hapless little puppet.
Aventurine cries a few more tears, dragged below deck to the cargo hold. The grubby hand on his hip burns like hot coals. The ocean falls quiet around him, far away on the outside of the galleon. Above deck, the crew roars and celebrates a haul well-caught. Above him, dim chandeliers swing powered by Destruction's flame.
“Now, be good and get on your knees,” the boatswain says.
Aventurine smiles at him. No pity for the fool. The blade is pathetically slow to follow, not nearly enough to cut.
The crew above does not hear the boatswain die, does not catch his feeble scream. He bleeds quickly onto the wooden boards. Crumbles into a heap of fresh meat. Aventurine nudges the carcass with a boot, satisfied. He laps the blood from his claws. A jagged incision, the boatswain's head barely connected to his neck anymore. The soul shrivels, too ugly to take.
Ghostly flame envelops Aventurine's hand and the corpse starts to dissipate. An acid bath for a grave. It leaves the cargo hold's key alone. Aventurine hums under his breath as he picks it up, body warm with bloodshed. The door is quickly locked, the crew above none the wiser.
The flame travels from his fingertips through the stale air, a blue spark, and seeks all that can be safely set aflame. It gnaws not on the wooden beams, only clings to it. Bite by bite, the cargo hold is revealed to Aventurine's discerning eyes.
The crew of this vessel has secured most of their bounty with greater care than they afforded their own well-being. Some of the newer spoils are still gathered closer to the entrance, hastily packaged, but everything beyond those crates has been securely fastened and tightly wrapped up. The ghostflame creeps over box after box, seeking and finding. Riches, hidden in every corner of the world and every last mile of open sea. Aventurine hums, tracing his fingers over the cargo. A pulse here, a pulse there. The bones of a cursed whale. A chalice that contains the tide. A compass made of brass that only ever points towards the closest harbor. He fishes them all from their caskets, breaks through flimsy human safety measures. Everything finds its proper place in his pockets.
The ship groans, old sturdy wood shifting and settling again. Aventurine pats its hull, a sendoff to a weary traveler. It won't be long now until it finds its home at the bottom of the sea where all boats go to die.
Something shifts in the dark closer to the stern. Aventurine squints, sending the flame to chase way the shadows. Slowly, hesitantly, the blue fire illuminates the last of the pirate's treasures.
A gigantic fish tank lines the back of the cargo hold. The water inside is murky, black as pitch. Aventurine falls silent as movement stirs those caged tides. The fear of the deep ocean remains branded into his bones, into his fragile human shell, and this ancient unfathomable thing awakens here in the bowels of the ship with its eyes on him.
Golden eyes, bright in the shadowy waters. They blink once and then close once more. Gaze turned, averted.
“Not sociable, are you?” Aventurine asks but his voice is thin and brittle. Weak and fearful prey. He clears his throat and smiles as best he can, presses close to the glass. Double down when you wish to run. Skirt the edge of danger when you dream of taking shelter.
“Or maybe shy? Creature of the deep, are you frightened by me? How cute.”
L E A V E.
It echoes in his mind, harsh as a slap. Colors dance at the edge of his vision, purple and blue and yellow and-
“So impolite,” Aventurine replies. “I was only making conversation.”
I will not be your toy, human.
“Quite assumptive of you. I'd at least take you on a date before suggesting something like that.”
You are all the same. Unkind. Mocking. Cruel.
“And yet you're speaking to me, hm? Is it lonely in there?”
He gets no answer, only a profound and overpowering sense of sadness. The presence retreats from his mind, retreats into the depths of the tank. He hurt it, whatever is in there. No, them, not it. Aventurine tells himself it doesn't bother him, to be feared and dreaded by this person in a cage. It doesn't matter.
The ghostflame leads him to another piece of cargo, then another. It doesn't matter. He will sail away to better, richer shores and forget all about this ship and this thing and-
“Hey,” Aventurine calls out, softer this time, and sits down with his back to the tank. “Are you still there?”
No answer. Curled up at the bottom of the sea, forlorn and lost. His heart is not made of stone. Aventurine sighs.
“How long have you been in here?”
“How did they catch you?”
“What are they going to do with you, did they say?”
There is no response. He knows they can hear him, knows it in the same bones that were once equally as trapped. The same skin that was branded. The same blood so carelessly spilled.
“You know, I think I-”
First you mock me. Then you mimic sympathy. What next? Flattery? Bargaining?
“What's the harm in a little conversation, hm? From one prisoner to the next.”
You are not trapped here.
“I am trapped here until morning, at least, when my ship comes to pick me up.”
The silence does not feel as deafening as before. They are curious, confused, as well as wary.
You claim you are not one of the crew.
“You watched me kill one of them.”
I watched them kill each other over simpler things. A wrong look, a tankard too many.
“Fair point,” Aventurine says and draws shapes on the glass. “Well, I am a pirate who has come here to rob them. Snuck in, got into the cargo hold by playing the frail victim, now I'm here surveying the goods until my crew catches up with me.”
So what good is talking to you, then? I don't care which pirate holds me captive. I am still not free. How long would you keep me? How would you catch me? How would you torture me?
Aventurine hums.
“Not the biggest fan of humans, are you?”
You delight in my suffering. Why would I think highly of you?
The dark waters in the tank quiver. Aventurine can feel the sheer force of the creature's will, the hum of their tune. They choose not to hurt him. In every bitter biting word, they choose not to hurt him.
“What if I was different?” Aventurine asks. “Than those humans who have hurt you?”
You are so convinced I do not like humans as a whole. I'm aware you are not a monolith.
“What if I let you go free? No questions asked, no demands?”
Receiving no answer fills Aventurine's heart with smug satisfaction. So many assumptions, so many misconceptions. It takes a shift in the tune to realize he himself is no better.
Sorrow, all-consuming. Fear and shame.
No.
Aventurine blinks.
“No? You don't want to be free?”
The water once again refuses to answer. A bird that chose their cage, a current chasing one way and one way alone. Aventurine pats the side of the tank.
“I'll look through the rest of the cargo and if you change your mind about talking or being free from your watery chains, you know how to find me.”
The ghostflame keeps searching for what satisfies it. Spices and perfume. Oil and coin. It eats away, leaves treasures for him to lift from crate after crate.
Will the crew not come looking for you?
“They're all drunk out of their minds. Big haul today. Chances are they won't remember to.”
You're leaving it to chance?
“What's the fun in complete certainty, hm? Risk is the spice of life.”
You're not alive.
“So insensitive. I'm alive enough to speak to you.”
A pause.
I'm sorry. I did not mean to insult you.
Aventurine just laughs and continues his scavenging. The stone he keeps on a necklace does not yet pulse with energy. His crew and ship will find him but morning is still far. Whatever sun rises over the ocean today will find him in good spirits.
Once everything is neatly arranged in a crate he emptied onto the floor Aventurine returns to the tank. He settles down cross-legged to count the rusty ancient coins left in a jewelry box the flames took greedily. Insignias he does not recognize among familiar ones. The Xianzhou, the Architects... one coin carries the image of a clock. Aventurine turns it back and forth, curious.
Something prods at his mind, as quiet and subtle as the ghostflame.
“Don't do that,” Aventurine says, sharp. It retreats, that consciousness. Back to the ocean floor.
Sorry.
“Just ask if there's something you'd like to know, sweetheart, maybe I'll be in the mood to answer.”
The water ripples.
I don't know how long I've been in here. It's dark. To keep me drowsy. Sometimes they come in here and hurt me. I don't know.
And it is much smaller a voice this time, much softer a song. Aventurine raises an eyebrow. Wonders, briefly, if they took a page out of his book to seem helpless and vulnerable.
“They hurt you? Did they say why?”
To see what I'd do.
“You're stronger than they are. Why don't you just tear the whole ship apart, hm? Same reason you don't want me to free you?”
No answer is enough of an answer. Aventurine runs his fingertips up and down the glass.
“It's a bit impolite you've let me talk to a drop of deep ocean, you know,” he drawls. “Let's continue this face to face, okay?”
He kneels in front of the tank and waits, patient. Almost a full minute later something shifts in the water, twisting serpentine and elegant as it approaches the glass. Aventurine still can't peer through the inky depths. He squints, leaning closer. The ghostflame flickers, clinging to the glass, gently weaving through the water.
They are eye to eye then, him and the ocean. Aventurine winces and so do they, wide featherfins beside their face flapping erratically. They stare and he stares back. When the initial shock fades a breathless laugh escapes Aventurine's parted lips.
“Oh my,” he murmurs. “No wonder they stole you away from the sea to keep for themselves.”
They frown at him, golden eyes bright against the ghostflame. When they speak in his head their plump lips do not move but Aventurine still catches a delightful glimpse of their sharp fangs.
What is that supposed to mean?
“You're very handsome, darling, that's what it means,” Aventurine says. “Nothing more than that.”
They shift and the shape of their body is humanoid only to the waist. A fish's tail beats the waves behind them, silver scales with blue hues. All of their folded fins resemble wings but only the two near their neck move, puffed up adorably.
Why did you want to see me?
“To properly greet you, your Highness,” Aventurine says with his sweetest smile. “It isn't often a humble captain such as myself gets to make the acquaintance of royalty, let alone a figure as alluring as the missing Halovian crown prince.”
Sunday does not recoil. A shadow falls over his pretty face but he stays close to the glass, silent and unmoving.
“They're gonna get rich off of your ransom,” Aventurine muses. “Although it is in very bad taste to harm you. That lowers the sum, usually.”
I am not a hostage.
“Oh? What are you, then? An honored guest?”
Sunday keeps his frown. The spiked halo behind his head glows even in the deep waters, an eerie shine to all his brilliance.
There is no bounty to collect.
Aventurine doesn't miss the sadness in everything this siren says and does, in the gentle sway of his fins and tail. He lets the ghostflame linger, lets it waft through the water like drops of blood. It finds the real blood without fail, the cruel cuts on Sunday's shining skin. Pokes and prods with spears, no doubt. Blemishes near his back where those filigree wings should unfold. The smile melts from Aventurine's face.
“Oh, sweet thing,” he whispers. “Even if I freed you, you couldn't get to the depths of the sea anymore, could you?”
Sunday's jaw hardens. His featherfins quiver, hopelessly sad.
No. Does that make you happy?
“No. Surely traveling the shallow seas is still better than this?”
I can't leave.
“Why not?”
I just can't.
“C'mon, darling,” Aventurine says and presses his forehead to the glass, as close as they can get to each other, his breath fogging the glass. “Get it off your chest at least, hm? Even if it turns out there's nothing I can do.”
And he knows he has won when Sunday's featherfins fold towards his jaw, when he averts those golden eyes.
There is no harm in letting you know, I suppose.
“There isn't.”
I am being brought to the edge of the world where I will be returned to the ocean. Through my sacrifice peace will return to my people and many others, everything below the surface.
Aventurine blinks at him.
“Returned to the ocean? What does that entail, exactly?”
A place much like this. No sights and sounds to tempt me. Only a forever-song. Only a forever-tune.
Somewhere above deck someone laughs loud enough for the sound to travel below deck. In a void this would not reach. In a void, a deep water abyss, no ghostflame could bring light.
“And you're alright with this?”
Sunday squirms.
It's my duty. I was decreed the singer so I must sing.
Aventurine studies him intently. A lot to see, a lot to covet.
“Bullshit,” he says.
Sunday blinks.
What?
“You have doubts,” Aventurine says. “You're scared and people hurt you already and you don't even know what day it is, how close to your execution. If you were so certain this is for a good cause you wouldn't be radiating misery at all times, doll, you wouldn't be drawn to this flame at all. You don't want to die.”
This silence does not feel good or comfortable or warm. Sunday withdraws, only a little.
Please stop.
“They never stop if you ask like that, do they? They just keep going. They don't care.”
Do you?
“There was a boy caught on a vessel not unlike this one, once,” Aventurine says. “Dragged and bought and reduced to property. He hadn't seen land in years, his home scorched to cinders. Do you know what he did?”
Sunday shakes his head. Aventurine smiles at him.
“He drowned them all, including himself. It hurt but it was fine. A good trade. He didn't want to die, he just didn't care if he did. So no, handsome, you don't want to die, either.”
The flame traces along one of the folded wing-fins on Sunday's back. He allows the touch, seeks it out.
Did he ever return to land?
It is soft enough for the flame to fade from Aventurine's eyes. It returns to his palm, as it always has since that day. He rests his forehead to the glass once more.
“Sometimes he does. It never feels the same anymore.”
May I ask your name?
“Aventurine.”
A-ven-tu-rine.
Sunday repeats it a few times, getting used to the shape of each syllable. It sends shivers down Aventurine's spine.
“That's right.”
I don't know what to do, Aventurine.
“Can't give up on your principles, hm, no matter how much you doubt whoever sent you to die?” Aventurine says. “Well, what would you say if a pirate stole you away, angel? You'd be guilt-free. There's no keeping a pirate from his treasure, after all.”
The celebrations above them are dying down, leaving only embers. The dark waters in the cage-tank shimmer only blue, only illuminated by an accursed sun. Sunday sways in imaginary waves. There is no tide here. Only void.
What do you want with me?
Aventurine scoots backwards, beholding the angel in his forlorn glory. There are golden tear tracks dripping down his pale face even underwater but Sunday still meets his eyes, still listens. The despair is habitual, is routine. The tendrils of his siren song do not reach for Aventurine's mind again.
“If you let me, I'd carry you out of here,” Aventurine says and traces small circles against cold glass. “Dashing rogue that I am. Bring you to my ship, wine and dine you. Caging you is incredibly tacky, if you ask me, so none of that. We have a competent doctor who could help with your wings, we have the means to bring you to whatever part of the world you wish to go... whether you stay will be up to you. Does that sound good, angel?”
There is no immediate reaction. Sunday watches, caressed by the ghostflame, and stirs only in single twitches. Fluttering and swaying, fangs poking over his bottom lip.
I'm tired.
“I know, darling, I can see that.”
Do it, A-ven-tu-rine.
The stone dangling over his heart is brimming with energy. Morning isn't far now, just beyond the horizon. Aventurine feels it in the sea around them, the wood creaking subtly as the vessel prepares to die. Morning comes with steady steps.
The ghostflame sears through the glass, every minute fracture filled with fire. A field tilled and flooded, a river swelling over its bank. He steps backwards, unhurried. The crate he loaded his spoils into is lifted with a bit of effort and left on top of another, anticipating the deluge.
When the glass breaks it is with one decisive crack. Splinters rain upon the cargo hold before the murky waters ever do. Aventurine hops onto a second crate, avoiding the first wave that drenches the ship's bowels. Only a small drop in the ocean, all of a splinter in the skin of the sea.
Sunday flops gracelessly onto the wooden boards. It gets a pained sound out of him and before Aventurine can fully process it he is on his feet and hurrying to the siren's side.
“Ah, sorry,” he says. “I did not fully consider where it would leave you if I did this.”
Sunday frowns at him.
“Ow.”
His lips move when he speaks outside the water, his cute fangs much more visible than before. Every word is accompanied by a trill or chirp. Catlike, birdlike. Aventurine can't help his smile.
“Alright, alright. C'mere, let's get you ready to leave.”
Sunday's skin is not as cold as expected, cool from the water's embrace but the underlying warmth bleeds through soon enough. Aventurine hoists him up, one arm below his back and the other underneath the elegant tail. Sunday relaxes almost instantly.
“Oh,” he says and nuzzles Aventurine's shoulder. “Warm.”
When a purr runs through the siren's whole body Aventurine knows he is fucked. There is no salvaging this, no denying how extremely horrifically screwed he is. Some pirate he is, an armful of pretty angelfish to completely unmake his composure. All the purrs are close to his heart. Sunday smells like a sweet drink on a winter night and freshly baked cookies.
“Are you using your powers on me?” Aventurine asks without any heat behind it.
Sunday shakes his head, yawning loudly.
“Too tired even if I wanted to.”
There is no call of the Harmony in Aventurine's mind, no blurriness or psychedelic colors clouding his vision. He sighs and comes to terms with the fact that this is not hypnosis.
By the time the ship shakes with the last dying breaths of the crew Aventurine has resigned himself to his fate.
“You know,” Topaz says as she breaks breaks the door to the cargo hold open, “I'm not even going to ask.”
“Appreciated. Someone else is going to have to grab the spoils, as well, as you can see my hands are a tad full.”
“Is that why you didn't open the door as promised?”
“I did get the key as promised. As far as I am concerned that means I followed the plan.”
“As far as I'm concerned, it sure doesn't,” Topaz says. “But enough of that. Your fish looks injured.”
The rest of his crew does not bat an eye as the ghostflame consumes the ship. They do, however, stare at him with varying degrees of smug satisfaction and exasperation.
“He will need to be monitored for a few days at least,” Ratio informs Aventurine with his usual scowl. “But I assume you did not consider who would do the honors if such a thing became necessary.”
Aventurine shrugs.
“I'll do it.”
It is enough to even quiet Ratio. Feixiao and Fugue both seem supportive of their newest addition, fugitive or not. The more the merrier.
“Fished up the Halovian crown prince, eh?” Feixiao comments. “And here I thought your luck could not get any more unpredictable.”
It is what it is. Aventurine finds himself with a siren in his bed. Sunday loves his sheets and pillow cases, he loves the way the mattress dips and the boat gently rocks on the waves at night. Any attempt to get him to sleep in a tub or tank is met with the unstoppable force of Sunday's disappointment.
“Oh, alright,” he will say, forcing a smile. “If that is more convenient for you.”
So every night Aventurine finds himself once again with an armful of pretty siren, that long tail wrapped around them both. Sunday sings to him, quiet songs for good dreams and courageous hearts. He listens, too, to all of the strange things Aventurine may ramble about in the grey hours of morning.
“You know you don't have to stay, right?” Aventurine might ask one of those times. “You could leave. Return to the sea. Find yourself a nice mermaid husband.”
Sunday nuzzles his jaw. Sometimes he gnaws on Aventurine's skin, never quite drawing blood.
“I don't want to leave.”
Aventurine can only stifle a sharper inhale, settle on a breathless little huff.
“Okay.”
“Why would I want to leave? You're here.”
When the injuries on Sunday's back have healed he dips back underneath the waves during the day, following their ship. Miraculously there is always ghostflame to guide him. Miraculously the best slices of fish are always reserved.
“Captain, you don't even like swimming,” Fugue comments, smiling with all her teeth showing, as she notices him hovering near the railing.
“I love swimming,” Aventurine lies. “I've always loved swimming.”
Sunday greets him below the waves, chirping and humming in his head. He kisses air into Aventurine's mouth, blessing him for however long they stay underwater. Pulled along through the waves Aventurine beholds coral reefs, schools of fish serenely passing them by. The sharks and morays do not bite, let him stroke their snouts and fins as Sunday nudges him to.
There will come a day when Sunday makes other friends on other vessels, when he ventures out to meet with his sister who believed him long dead. But when night falls over the ocean, when the waves are painted silver, he will always follow the ghostflame home to a pirate's humble vessel.