Chapter Text
The story of how you met your lifelong friend is something you never really forget. Sure, the finer details might slip your mind, and you might exaggerate from time to time, but in your heart, you remember. And you are thankful for that, especially if you were alone in the world before.
Arin would never forget the night he met Danny. Weary from traveling and chilled down to the bone with the cold of the desert night, he stepped into a pub for a warm broth, washed in anonymity. There was a low murmur of noise, as there inevitably is in places like this. A pudgy bartender in a torn shirt with beer-soaked sleeves and a few young ladies in various types of provocative attire likely reflecting their cultures were handing the patrons drinks. As Arin looked around, he thought to himself that he had picked the best pub to rest for a while. Here was a traveler’s haven. There were a few bearded men, one with a parrot on his shoulder, talking to each other in heavy foreign accents. Sailors were gathered getting drunk, talking about the sea, and harassing the barmaids. Two older women were huddled in the corner talking to each other in low voices over a single steaming broth. Even a few children could be found, playing marbles under the tables or sleeping in a parent’s arms.
Arin received his drink and his meal. It was a watery meat broth with bits of leafy vegetables that gathered on the bottom, but could be coaxed onto the spoon by stirring, and fish eyes that seemed sad mixed in, but it would suffice. Arin didn’t have the heart to be picky when his stomach ached with hunger as it did now. As he drank and slurped, his eyes wandered.
Squeezed into the corner off to the left, a small stage made of wood was perched two feet off the ground as if it was an afterthought, half-hidden by tankards of ale. Movement there caught his eye, and he could scarcely believe it.
It was a slave. It had been a long time since Arin had seen one; slavery was falling out of favor, and only the truly rich could afford the upkeep. He was taller than his master by a head at least, though he bowed his head, almost shyly fooling with a beautiful blue-green silk scarf looped around his neck. Beads hung off the edges, and Arin fancied they would tinkle slightly, but he couldn’t hear for the noise. The slave wore nearly transparent silk pants that matched his scarf; clearly, this was for a performance of some kind. His working clothes would be of poor quality.
The reason he’d recognized the slave, of course, was the collar. Black and thick and probably made of leather, it was fastened tightly to the slave’s long neck, though it was slightly obscured by the scarf and the slave’s bushy curls. The slave’s master was a middle-aged man with gray hair and a black tunic and pants, carrying a small sword at his side. He looked to be kind, and the slave did not seem afraid of him, but that didn’t make slavery any better. Arin honestly felt sorry for them; due to slavery falling out of favor, most slaves these days were a forced necessity, usually by the families of said slaves. Arin couldn’t imagine being sold into slavery by his own family. He shuddered.
The master shoved some kind of retractable stick into the slave’s hands and uttered some gruff commands while the slave nodded. Arin could just about make out some of the features of the slave; high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and gentle lips and eyes. Arin shuddered again. Beautiful slaves were not often kept just to fetch and carry.
The slave stepped easily onto the stage while the master seated himself at a musty piano. Arin watched with amusement; this must be the bar’s show for the night. Some patrons were watching now, too, but others focused mainly on their drinks.
The slave planted the retractable stick on the ground, holding it in place. His gangly limbs could barely hold it steady, for it shook just slightly. The end of the stick was a voice amplifier. A singing act! Arin hadn’t seen one of those in a long time. He was suddenly excited.
The slave turned his head, gentle eyes watching his master with equal parts wariness and weariness. The master noted the shaking of the stick and loudly admonished the slave in a language Arin didn’t understand. Recoiling slightly, the slave shifted his grip and the stick shook no more. Satisfied, the master returned to the piano and sat down, beginning to play.
All murmurs in the pub stopped as soon as the slave began to sing. It was another language that Arin didn’t understand, but as far as he could tell, not the same one the master had used. The slave had a beautiful, melodic voice that sounded almost sad. Though Arin couldn’t interpret the lyrics, he heard in the song heartsickness and homesickness and the weariness of long days in the desert sun. He heard the call of sleep, and the escape of dreams, a light at the end of the darkness. The slave seemed to be baring his heart to the audience, though, Arin was sure, the language was foreign to all of them. It was simply amazing, hypnotic, and the notes matched each sway of the slave’s hips, each purposeful movement of his hands and canting neck.
By the time the slave had finished his song, Arin was about to cry, and several pairs of eyes were just as wet as his own. There was a hearty applause and a fair amount of inappropriate murmuring. The master stood from his piano and bowed while the slave looked on neutrally.
Arin finished his drink and his broth and left his seat at the bar. The slave had been ordered to sit on one of the tankards and was perched like a gangly bird, holding a sign written in High Common, the upper class dialect. As Arin got closer, he noticed it was a “For Sale” sign.
The slave’s head was turned, watching his master at the bar. As Arin approached, he could see the slave shivering slightly. His attire was not warm enough for the season, seeing as his only proper clothes were his pants. With his midsection exposed, Arin could see the faint ridges of ribs, hollows in the slave’s cheeks and collarbones, and the deep, bruise-like bags under his eyes. All of this was a sign of neglect. It made Arin inexplicably angry.
“Hi,” he said with some amount of shyness. He considered himself to be pretty confident usually, but he’d never spoken directly to a slave without the master’s permission before.
The slave turned his head towards him. Arin could see how tired and malnourished the slave looked, but his eyes were soft and brown and shone with a distinct sparkle. Arin also thought that, now he was closer, he could see scales dotting the slave’s body.
No wonder the song spoke of homesickness. A desert was no place for merfolk.
“Do you speak Common?” Arin asked.
The slave nodded.
“Are you allowed to speak?”
The slave rolled one shoulder in uncertainty, dropping his eyes. It took Arin a second to miss the eye contact.
“Look at me.” Arin realized too late it might sound like a command, but before he could rephrase, the slave’s head bolted upright, and two pairs of brown eyes met.
“What’s your name?”
The slave hesitated before speaking. “Danneleigh.” His voice was hoarse. Had he been singing all evening?
“I’m Arin. Or, well, Arian.” He chuckled, trying to lighten the atmosphere. The slave cracked a hint of a smile. Arin read the sign. “You’re for sale, huh?” It was incredibly awkward, but how did one talk to a slave exactly?
The slave nodded. “Master can’t keep me anymore. Master is hoping to get fifty pieces of gold for me.” He sighed. “I am…defective. I cannot lift even half my bodyweight, and it costs too much to feed me.”
Looking at the slave’s condition, Arin doubted that. “It doesn’t look like your master is feeding you at all.”
Danneleigh shrugged in defeat. The beads on his scarf tinkled in the way Arin thought they would. “I don’t mind. Master takes good care of me.” His smile became slightly more genuine, and it warmed Arin up inside far better than the broth had.
“I saw your scales.” Arin said at last. “Are you Marine?”
The slave nodded. “Sirenia.”
A siren. Oh. That explained the singing.
“I loved your song,” Arin praised. “It was beautiful, even though I didn’t understand it.”
Danneleigh smiled truly this time, lighting up his entire face. “Thank you, Arin. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Arin was about to respond with something just as sappy when the master called: “Danny! What are you doing?”
The slave straightened. “I was only talking, Master.”
“Do we have a potential buyer?” The master replied.
Before the slave could speak, Arin jumped in before he could think. “Yes, sir, you do.”