"Well, you're a strange fish to catch." Salt water poured out of the woman's mouth as she spluttered, limbs still tangled in the net she'd been fished up in, steam roiling off her skin. She glanced up, nauseous, only to freeze at the sight of black sails on a lidless black sky. It wasn't exactly the saviors she expected that fished her out of the dark waves with their net. "What in blazes are you doing in the middle of the sea?" Came the gruff voice again. The woman shrieked, scrambling backward, nails clattering against hard oak, only succeeding in getting herself more tangled up.
"Put me back!" She demanded, the shakiness of her voice failing her, steam billowing around her in ribbons.
"Into the ocean?" one of the sailors sneered, brandishing a dagger. "Or do you want a different sort of death? But I believe my Captain asked you a question." The first speaker stepped forward suddenly out of the fog, eyes gleaming, placing his stunted dagger beneath the vein jumping in her neck to still her. Not sailors, pirates! She thought.
"What's a pretty thing like yourself doing floating in the middle of the ocean?" The woman glanced at the captain in the dim light of his blade, searching the metal for disturbances. A hard gleam began to dance in the shadows of his eyes. "Armstead!" He barked to another pirate, "Show our guest the courtesies awaiting in our brig," The woman from the sea kept her gaze sternly fixed on the captain and his perpetually downturned eyes. The quaking mole on his nose nearly broke her focus but the long hair sticking out of it was something, that while appreciated in the periphery, was a feature she did not want to become too well acquainted with. If the man quietly approaching her hadn't been as gentle as he was leading her into the depths of the wooden menace, things may have gone much differently.
The descent was quiet, with the exception of small squeaks and the squelching of boots marking any other presence than the man and the woman from the sea on the ship.
Do it! Do it now! The woman shook her head, trying not to give any heed to the voice drifting in the wind.
Armstead swung the door to the small cell open with a shriek that caused them both to jump. The woman cautiously tiptoed into the rancid chamber, eventually deciding upon a defiant perch on the three legged stool struggling to stay upright in the corner. Armstead watched as the woman plucked a leaf of seaweed stuck to the floor, examined it, and cast her piercing stare up at him. Hastily, he left to gather a meager portion for the prisoner.
"Do you drink rum?" Armstead asked upon his return, cautiously pushing a small plate and mug through the bars. The only answer awaiting him came in the form of more blank stares that caused his hair to stand up straight. As he decided to turn and retreat, the deeply sage eyes darted over him, from the budding lines of past smiles, down to the scabbard and sheaths hugging his right hip. The pommel of a plain yet manicured dagger peeked out over the leather of his belt, and she strained her neck for a better look at the blade.
A vague and distant memory surfaced in his head, a tanned face, striking in the moonlight, floating in front of him within a thin metallic ring of light. A simple melody accompanied the image, and just as he finally found himself again on stable ground and back in the belly of the boat, he saw the woman's long finger tapping a pattern, the whisper of a hum gracing her throat... the same one from his dream the night before her arrival.
Without knowing it, he moving closer to the bars and studied the woman a little more closely than when he first laid his eyes upon her. She was quite tall and strongly built, however, something about her physique put him off. She was beautiful, he couldn't deny that, but there was something dangerous behind the beauty, something wild.
Gupling, he dared,"Now... what did you say your name was, again?" His question was met only again with a biting stare that made his hands shake. Fingers shooting behind his back to grasp one another in veiled anxiety, for a moment he thought she was going to keep her silence. He contemplated turning away and going back to his bottled mistress awaiting him under his pillow.
"You first," Came the brittle tone from the back of the cell. Is now really the time to strike? She wondered, pointlessly.
"Who are you?" Came his only reply. A slight tinge of color blossomed across her cheeks and for a fleeting moment she seemed to lose her boldness. "What were you doing in the middle of the ocean? You shouldn't be alive." He asked again.
"I-" Her voice cut short as if someone had promptly plucked the words from her lips. "I was thrown off my ship." Good, Ilara, that's very good. She blinked the voice from her mind.
"Which ship was it?" He asked.
"A Royal Navy Galleon headed for South Garde," She said. This response caused him to doubt her claims. South Garde had long since passed their ship, three cycles ago. He could still see the fireworks marking the cold season.
"Right," He said tentatively, "Why were you thrown off your ship?" The woman turned, trying to hide a sudden vulnerability that overcame her face.
"They said it was bad luck to have a woman at sea," She whispered. Aggression he hadn't yet seen overwhelmed her and without a single change, she seemed to loom over him with just a glance, intensity pouring from her veins in hot waves. Hurriedly, Armstead turned and tried to look calm as he breached the stairs and returned to the upper deck, trying not to run.
The same white frigid wind stabbed his face as he emerged. "How's our new guest?" One of the pirates said, elbowing Armstead roughly.
"Feisty." He bantered back. The other pirates laughed and started boasting about women they'd had in the past as Armstead stared out at the grey waves, wondering from which of its frozen depths she came.
As the wounds of the sun reopened and began to seep dark blood into the ocean's expanse, the men aboard the ship watched the shadows elongate, imagining shapes moving within them, knowing what the sun brings to the surface when it bleeds.
"That woman will be the death of us," muttered a sailor named Blackmane, who really did have a black mane, as he shrugged past Armstead on the stairs, carrying a lanyard. Luckily enough, only a small amount of rum Armstead was holding sloshed out of the mug he carried. As he entered the brig, a loud clang came from the occupied cell, and then another one. Rushing over and setting the mug and plate on the ground, he found the woman sitting serenely on the stool, just like she had been when he left.
"Well, what do you think you're doing?" He asked, eyes wide and eyebrows crooked.
"I don't exactly want to be in this hole," She snapped at him, carved nose scrunching up in distaste. Armstead huffed as he pushed the mug and plate in her cell. Like a sailfish she rushed him, the bars, somehow unlatched, began to fall towards him as she pushed. He almost could have sworn she had the lance of one too. He threw himself out of the way to avoid injury, and as soon as he was again on his feet, he tackled her. The barnacles littering the splintered floor dug into the woman as Armstead wrestled her on the ground. She was much stronger than he expected and quite slippery. As they made eye contact, the dagger was wrenched from its sheath and the other hand went to her throat. Seeing her not lash out like he expected, he couldn't help but let go and back away. She had gone limp in his grip, but she was not surrendering.
"Who are you?" Armstead asked hoarsely. She pushed herself up too, crouched in a defensive position, staring at the metal inches away from her skin. "What are you? Answer me!"
"Siren," she stated quietly. He blinked in surprise.
"Sirens are children's stories! Myths!" The woman shuddered unexpectedly, seemingly unable to tear her gaze away from the gleaming metal, with a small stubborn bloodstain near the hilt. It must have been plunged deep into someone for the blood to still be there. Was this his crime? Had this man killed a woman with that very same blade? Had he plunged the knife deep into her chest, leaving those very same bloodstains? But when he saw her face, he looked almost guilty that he was holding her there with it. The knife faltered and dropped an inch. Startled, she made eye contact with him. "So why aren't you singing, or killing me or something?" He asked. She said nothing. "So you're not one for conversation," He said. She continued to stare. "What? Never been held at knife point before? Surprising, you know, with your sunny disposition." He gestured her back into the cell and drew his sword for good measure.
"I most certainly have not," She said, sounding offended, and barely inside the cell.
"Why are you staring at me like that?" He said, annoyance gradually overcoming the reserve in his voice. A deep line split her forehead, also becoming quite irritated.
"Because..." She started, then stopped abruptly, searching for something to say.
"What? Catfish got your tongue?" He asked. She glared daggers at his bushy eyebrows, nearly as threatening as the real dagger and blade. His lip stupidly curled to one side as he gave her a look. It was insufferable.
"I don't like you." She said curtly. Stepping back once.
"I'm not too fond of you either, to be honest." He snapped in retaliation.
"Well fine then, I guess I'll just go ahead and kill you." She bit. Silence filled the air. The dagger hunted the twitching pump in her neck even closer, the blade steady in his other hand.
"Why would that be again?" Apprehensiveness filled his voice.
"Because you're my first kill. It's destiny." She growled, glaring at him. He rolled his eyes and the dagger lowered again.
"Okay, first of all, destiny isn't a real thing. Second, what do you mean your first kill?" A look near to horror blanketed her face. The words felt absolutely ripped from her chest as she said them, acknowledging it to herself for the first time as well.
"I, uh... I've never killed anyone before?"
"But you're a siren." He said, with more than just a hint of mockery. "Right?"
"Well, yes... now," The woman from the sea suddenly appeared somehow smaller, more human. How do you manage to get yourself into these situations? Just kill him! She thought.
"I'm sorry, I'm not buying it." He said, frowning.
"Are you serious?" She asked, offended. "You see these?" She pulled her hair away from her neck to reveal the gills, thinking this may be the moment. "Are you 'buying it' now?" He gaped at her. He moved as if to step closer, then halted, remembering the weapons he held poised against her. Instead of pushing her further back into the cell, he carefully sheathed the dagger, still holding his sword in the other hand aloft. He stared at the gills, dumbfounded. Without thinking, his hand reached out, then he looked into her eyes, and saw fear.
Without knowing why, she nodded once and held completely still as he gingerly touched her neck where the gills began. She blinked fast, then looked at him. Mesmerized, his fingertips gently traced the gills. A strange jumping feeling filled her chest as she cleared her throat; this was the best time. He shouldn't still be breathing. He blinked, drawing away quickly, trying to shift the focus.
"So... if you haven't killed anyone before, then you must be very young. Do sirens mature quickly?" He asked. Her eyes began to dart around the room quickly. He knew too much. She shouldn't be 'playing with her food' as the Queen had phrased it. Why am I talking to him? There was nothing she could do to ignore her mounting aversion to killing Armstead. Does he really deserve to be executed? She thought. Her perpetual silence put him on a razor leaf edge.
"Well?" He asked. She couldn't resist. He's the first man I've spoken to since...
"It hasn't been that long..."
"Wait what? You were human?" He seemed completely taken aback by this idea.
"Well, yes... three days ago." Stupid, stupid, stupid! Stop talking!
"How... How did you become a siren?" He asked, eyes wide like he was hearing a mid winter epic.
"I died." She said, a note of pain rang in the music of her voice. Before he could respond, the sound of creaking metal and wood banging against wood cascaded throughout the small brig. Now everything is ruined. She thought.
"Back up, quick!" Armstead whispered, already pulling the row of bars into an upright position. "How did she even do this..." He muttered under his breath. Without question, the woman sprang back and shrunk into the darkest corner, which didn't conceal her like she may have hoped it did. A few pirates began to trickle down the stairs, drunken gaiety proclaimed.
"Oh good grief, men! Look at that, she's hiding. Armstead, bring her out, you've had your fun," The pirates who joined them slurred and smelled of urine and bile. Breath sourly crashed in waves across Armstead's face as they laughed, exposing the lone gravestones in their dark mouths. Reluctantly, Armstead carefully opened the door to the space and approached her. Her eyes screamed words he couldn't understand but without much to go off of, he began to lead her towards the door, praying the men were too drunk to try anything. The moment one of them reached for her a shark-like frenzy took place, one that happened too quickly for Armstead to even understand. In a flash she was pulling him by the collar up the stairs to the deck, the rising sunbeams striking her, bouncing off her dark skin and cutting the fog like his dagger. Suddenly he was fighting back to back against the other pirates with her, and couldn't understand why. It was like an unseen force was moving his arms, his legs, his sword. He was unsure how, or even why he was effected by this woman. Before he could even catch his breath they were in the ship's only lifeboat, frantically paddling away as the Captain screamed curses in his name. Good riddance, seemed to be the message. He didn't want the bastard and a woman on his ship anyway.
It was a pleasant surprise how quickly the pirate ship faded into the sea. What was not a nice surprise was that he was now stuck in a small dinghy with a woman who had told him she was going to kill him not an hour ago, and who nearly massacred the hardened crew he had carefully navigated the last six months. If only he had traded up and been able to sleep peacefully next to this company, unlike on the ship. According to her, he would be dead before dessert.
"Catfish got your tongue?" She said. He was surprised at her. She could be funny.
"Just me waiting for my destiny I guess." She looked away, rigidity locking her in a place he didn't comprehend.
"Why did you help me?" She asked.
"Help you?"
"Yes, on your ship," She said. Armstead had flurries and showers of rain for thoughts. He didn't mean to help her, he just couldn't resist it.
"I guess I was just... really tired of being treated like that," Again, distaste and unease spread across her. A few hours passed as Armstead gingerly paddled away into the vast beyond. The sun was scorching despite the season due to his constant rowing, which may have been harder than all the other things he did on board. His face twisted with every row he managed, the current hating him. He huffed and dropped them with a clang. "So are you going to tell me more?" He asked as she smiled at her reflection in the grim lapping waves. The voice struggled to get a word in edgewise, but her thoughts were full of other things. That night not too long ago. As she gazed upon his face through the mirror many nights before, she wasn't sure she was really supposed to kill him after all.
His eyes darted to her hands. How did he not see before? They were the same, she was the same. She was the woman from that dream, the one from nights before. Something within them both knew their meeting wasn't by chance. The rage she felt deep within herself since turning seemed to be lapping away by the gentle waves against the hull. Was he really so bad that a sea goddess would turn her into a siren to avenge his crimes? What could this man have done to warrant that fate? She shook her head to herself, wondering what to do.
"Hey, I never learned your name," Armstead said, more gently than she expected.
"My name? Oh right, yeah. Um... it's, um... Ilara." She said. He had half expected her to not have a first name.
"What about you, Armstead? Is that what you're usually called?"
"Well, they called me that. My name is Cedric." Cedric. Something about that name struck a deep chord within her, and she struggled to hold her resolve.
"Don't get too comfortable with names, Cedric," She stated, "We may not be seeing each other very often at all,"
"Yes ma'am," He said sarcastically. Thunder clouds rolled in, quite out of nowhere, and caused a general feeling of annoyance and discomfort in the pair. Ilara looked at Cedric, knowing she was supposed to kill him, but finally also admitting to herself that something deep down in her didn't want to. The thunder again rumbled. You must, there is no other way. Sighing, she scooped up his dagger from its tossed sheath on the bottom of the dinghy. Quickly she held it up to him, preparing for what must be done.
"I'm so sorry Cedric," She whispered. The rain began to fall softly. Good. Very good, Ilara. Finish him.