The Lone Siren

WARNING: Mentions of alcohol, trauma, blood, vomiting, violence/gore, and death. Nothing too detailed, but please keep this in mind.

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The ocean is as beautiful as she is vast, and with that, she is full of terrors.

Arvid looked down at the tarnished heirloom in his muddied palm, the arrow shaking before landing west. The scent of brine coated the air, and the sensation of salty droplets kissing his cheeks brought him back to the world around him. It had been ages since he had gone out to sea, not since… no he still could not think of it. He once thought that there was not one thing that could bring him back to the water, not even his oldest companion Balor had been able to convince him to return over all the years. Until now.

At the sound of boots scraping across sand and pebbles, Arvid glanced to the side just enough to catch the sight of one of Balor’s crew.

“Balor wants us at the Sugarplum,” the young man informed him before walking off, his accent heavy and tangled. Arvid answered with a silent nod, glancing at his compass one more time before shutting it with a flick of his wrist and tucking it away in his pocket.

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The Sugarplum was a delicate bakery and confectionery in the middle of the village Arvid could not remember the name of for the life of him. The scent of sugar and warmth hit him and went right to his aching gut the second he walked in. How long had it been since he last ate?

An elderly woman behind the counter glanced up at him, her eyes roaming over him. Nora. He had never met her before, but he knew of her. She had taken care of Balor during a particularly low point in his life a few years ago, becoming a sort of mother figure for the man–then more literally when he married her daughter Aoife.

“You lookin’ for something, deary?”

Arvid’s mouth quirked up into a slight smile on one side.

“Do you only sell sweets? I’m craving a bit of salt.”

The woman returned his smile at those words, leaving a rag on the countertop as she guided him to the kitchen. It was late enough in the day that anyone employed by the woman was long gone, although he was sure it was just her and her daughter.

“I’m Nora,” she said now. “You don’t look familiar. Are you usually with Bally?”

Bally. Arvid wanted to laugh. There was no way anyone else could ever get away with calling the captain such an endearing name.

“Not for a long time.”

She hummed in thought as she reached a pantry door, looking him over again. There was a sullen, languid, looseness to his features and his gait that made it more than obvious that he would not be having his first drink of the day downstairs. 

“From the looks of you, I’d say you’re all set for the night,” she teased playfully and when Arvid’s attempt at a lighthearted smile ended up being a mere twitch, her expression hardened slightly. Nora opened the door, pointing inside.

“Towards the back, there are some shelves with bags of flour. Beside them is a wee door down to the basement,” then she added before he could even take so much as a single step: “It is understood that I and my belongings are to be left alone. You are welcome to have your drink and have your fun, but if I catch even a whiff of brawling or any other nonsense, you’re out on your bottom.”

Arvid couldn’t help but let out a laugh.

“Is there a problem with that? If there is, you can turn yourself right back around.”

He shook his head, amusement still on his features.

“Why would you take in a lot like us, and think there’ll be no trouble?”

Nora straightened out her posture, the wrinkles in her face soft like dough as she smiled.

“‘Cause Bally loves his men, but he loves me more.”

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Had it not been for the alcohol already warming him and easing his mind, Arvid likely would have felt a bit more churning in his gut at the sight of all the men bonded together by so many travels. Despite his connection to Balor, he felt like an intruder. Their energy filled the rather generous basement with its large cherrywood table and a small bar in the corner. Some of Balor’s weapons adorned the walls as decor–any that he associated with journeys or battles so magnificent that he’d rather treat them like a piece of history. The only weapon he never parted from in all his years was the whetted rapier that hung at his side.

Boisterous profanity and laughter caught his attention as he sat in a chair, attempting to slide into it smoothly but instead landing hard and slamming his back against it. Thankfully, all those around him were far too distracted to notice his pathetic entrance.

“I don’t believe one word,” Arvid heard one of the men bark after a hearty gulp of his drink. If he remembered correctly, it was Balor’s latest onboard carpenter.

“You don’t have to believe it, it still happened,” Balor said smoothly, before murmuring something soft to his wife as she brought him another drink and settled herself in his lap. She truly was stunning–in a way that was gentle and kind like warm, clear weather. 

“No one survives such a reckless encounter with sirens,” the seaman who had spoken to Arvid earlier chimed in.

“Well, I’m not just anyone now am I?”

“Oh, please,” Aoife laughed, causing his men to join in. Balor looked up at her fondly. “Well, be rest assured that you don’t have to worry about his confidence in himself and this journey, gentleman.”

“What happened?” Arvid asked now, bringing the attention of the whole group onto him. Most of them appraised him with muted or warning expressions but stayed still as a large grin appeared on Balor’s face.

“And you said you would never… I hadn’t been sure but–” Balor laughed out, Aoife moving off of him for him to get up and clasp Arvid’s hand before pulling him into a bear hug. Arvid never considered himself a small man by any means, but Balor seemed to tower over everyone, his large frame full of muscle and heavy weight from years of indulging on drink and salted meats. Having the man’s arms wrapped around someone meant to be engulfed, and to smell smoke and the salt of his sweat and the sea. 

“I knew you would show,” he heard his captain and closest friend whisper, keeping it between them.

“I’m–”

“A man of your word–always,” Balor beamed as he pulled away, gesturing to his companion as he turned now to face his men.

“Men, I would like to formally introduce you to my old friend, Arvid. And the best artist we could ever ask for.”

“An artist?” One of the crew asked, likely a new member considering the youthfulness of his features and the naiveté of his question. “He work with paints or somethin’?”

“No, you fool,” the carpenter was speaking up as others laughed and nudged the young man. 

“He is our new Sailing Master,” Balor clarified.

Plenty of men sobered at that like it was expected, but a harsh reminder that their old navigator was gone. Arvid could guess that he was well-loved and respected amongst those who knew him, and perhaps Balor had even told him, but he forgot. He forgets a lot of things these days. Around then Aoife returned–Arvid had not even realized she had gone after moving off of her husband–and gently handed a mug to him. She offered him an encouraging smile, nodding at Arvid’s quiet thanks.

“If he’s so good why’s he not worked with us before?” a voice chimed in, followed by some mumblings of agreement.

“He was always on my journeys before I met you fine men,” Balor answered, his features becoming sharpened with seriousness. “Before the Gully of Blood.”

Something soured within Arvid at the mention, despite having known that the topic would come up. Legends had already formed about the battle that he had been involved in back when he was only 18 years old. The sort of legends that resulted in its name claiming that the skirmish had gotten so horrific that the bloodshed alone dug a new gully into the nearby land. Simple lies by locals to make others gasp and eyes widen. The horror and bloodshed, yes, but…

He hated that it was turning into a tale. It made the day that tore his entire life apart into a mere story.

But at least the fellow men recognized what that battle had really been, and what it meant that he had gone through it and survived, and their questioning ceased. Instead, they gaped at him or their eyes remained turned down onto their drinks.

“What was his name? Your Sailing Master?” Arvid asked now after clearing his throat, so aware of Balor’s heavy arm still slung across his shoulders. The bear paw of a hand gave him a subtle squeeze.

“Conall,” a man spoke up, grief lacing his tone. A cook, Arvid guessed, considering his missing arm.

“To Conall,” Arvid raised his cup before taking a solid swig of his drink, the others following suit.

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As the night passed, Arvid grew more comfortable with his surrounding company who successfully pulled genuine smiles and laughter from him. However, he still tried to remain in the background as much as possible. He was an observer and a listener if nothing else. It was part of why he was so good at navigating and likely why he and Balor got along so well. The captain was always the one to talk, seeking out listening ears, but while he loved the amusement of those who gave such potent reactions to his stories, he valued Arvid’s presence the most because it has proven time and time again to never be temporary.

“So, what happened? What about sirens?” Arvid asked now, speaking up for the first time in probably a half hour.

“Absolutely nothing, he’s full o’ it,” one of the crew, Lugh, chimed in with a laugh as he jutted his thumb in Balor’s direction.

“Have I never told you about the Siren of the Southern Waters?”

One of the men muttered something about “Here he goes again.” Arvid shrugged, responding that he did not believe so.

Balor let out a long breath, one of his hands settling on his gut.

“It was five years ago,” he started, still getting a few snickers from his usual dramatics. “I had a full crew, even some artists such as yourself and Madoc.”

He nodded to the carpenter.

“Had even afforded a doctor, not that it mattered,” he laughed sardonically. “He was the first one to die. The rest followed.”

He paused, a seasoned storyteller watching this information sink in.

“We were sent out to hunt the sirens. The man offering payment had lost a son to the seas around the area, and a cunning woman told him his son had been bewitched and torn apart by sirens.”

“He wanted every last one dead, and he was ready to provide a hearty tip if we brought the bodies so he could hang their bust up onto his wall like prize bucks. It has been done before over the centuries, but it is rare. Not many survive interactions with the creatures.”

“And you did?” one of the men asked in disbelief. Balor’s usual humor seemed to have been completely drained of him as he looked at the man.

“Yes,” he responded flatly. “We were able to kill all but one. Kept ourselves safe by putting wax in our ears, but she was enraged. She dropped all of her usual tricks and got as brutal as those beings truly are.”

“Hard to believe that when you’re still here,” Madoc argued, arms crossed over his chest.

“That’s because I saved her. And now… I am asking you men to join me in finishing the job.”

Arvid glanced around as the crew was in uproar with accusations and questions. They wanted to know how and why he had supposedly saved a siren, and if so: why kill her now? Why tell them now? As usual, Balor’s closest companion was silent, observing all those around him, but even his own frustrations and questions rose to the surface. With everything that has happened to him… the men he had been with before the battle…

“Why risk our lives for one siren? They hunt in packs. If she is alone, she’s harmless. Probably dead.”

Arvid noticed the way Balor’s knuckles blanched around his mug’s handle, bringing it up to his lips as he held his gaze. He placed it back down with a thump.

“A fisherman went missing last summer and when his remains were found… all signs pointed towards a siren. I figured you all would appreciate being spared the details, but–”

“Darling,” Aoife whispered, the color gone from her complexion, which gave Balor pause. Her face seemed to draw him back from his memories and ground him again, his gaze going to Arvid.

“How can we trust you?” the cook asked boldly, weathered and harmed and not much left to lose. Balor was building up to confront him for doubting his own captain before he continued: “Legend says that any man that escapes a siren’s song remains obsessed with her forever.”

The captain bristled slightly, before laughing. His gaze trailed from Arvid to Aoife now, his body settling again. He reached up a broad hand to brush her auburn hair back.

“Clearly... that’s not true.”

   ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The journey itself had been going smoothly. Arvid however… Those first two weeks, the responsibility of guiding the ship and once again being on board another ship left him reclusive and sick, frequently vomiting off the side of the vessel. Then the nightmares… oh, god, the nightmares were horrific. Filled with memories or memories collaged with the faces of Balor and his men. Then the anxieties around a potential confrontation with a siren, even alone, filled with such a vengeful rage towards men. Sometimes when he was planning with the current, the weather, and going over old charts, he considered providing the wrong instructions to Balor or his helmsman, Angus. He would sit at his charts, nauseous and sleep-deprived, considering the repercussions on his relationship with Balor to disobey his orders. 

Arvid went up onto the deck, his stomach turning and the taste of acid in the back of his throat again after doing so well the past few weeks. It was deep into the night, but the skies were clear putting the bright stars on full display. The light from above glittered off the black waves occasionally tilting the vessel one way then another as they moved along. He had sworn his stomach was about to lurch when he saw Balor, his back towards him.

“Captain?”

Balor turned, hand reaching for his rapier before his body went lax again with a light laugh. For once, the man was silent though even as Arvid approached, both now leaning their forearms against the edge.

“If you are having second thoughts…” Arvid started slowly, noticing the circles under his companion’s eyes. Had he been missing as much sleep as him?

“No, I will see this to the end.”

Arvid nodded, sitting with the silence that was so unfamiliar with Balor at his side.

“Are you?”

The navigator hesitated.

“No, captain.”

Balor huffed out a laugh.

“Be honest. And stop calling me captain. It feels… unnatural from you.”

Arvid snorted at that, nodding in understanding.

“I have had second thoughts the second I knew exactly what your plans were,” he noticed the way the man beside him bristled but continued despite it. “Considering what happened in these waters before, you must understand… it is not easy to lose your men.”

Balor parted his lips, but Arvid did not let him interrupt.

“It was my fault my men died during the Gully of Blood,” he practically spat the title that battle was given. “I guided them to the wrong waters. Their blood is on my hands, and if you have brought me on this journey only to put me through it all over again, I swear–”

“Swear, what?” Balor challenged, moving from leaning against the edge to pulling himself back up to his full height.

“I…” Arvid sighed, his gaze trailing up to his hard expression before returning to the waters. “I could not handle it again.”

“I have to avenge what happened to my men on that day. If this ends in losing all of our men–my men–it will be because of my demands. Not yours.”

Silence fell between them again and Arvid was beginning to taste acid again.

“We should be around those waters within a month, if the weather remains this steady, which I doubt.” 

At that, Arvid turned to leave his companion until he heard Balor break one of his own rules aboard this ship: he whistled.

Softly, shakily, but he whistled. Arvid’s blood turned to ice, feeling it was a call to something deep within the waters. And as that song called back to him, Aoife was back in the home she shared with Balar when he was not out at sea. She went through his study, wishing to feel him, smell him, look at his writing, when she came across a journal bound in leather. It was sloppy with some pages half sticking out, and when she opened it she found drawings upon drawings and paintings of a red haired woman, chest exposed, and covered in scales.