It was a cold autumn night. Moonlight shimmered above dark waves, peppering star reflections blurred upon disturbed water. There was no telling where the ocean met the sky, no telling what might be lurking below the surface. It was cold in this secluded cove, made more ominous with the sound of water slithering up coarse sand. Surrounded by jagged edges and treacherous rocks, this place was untouched by man.
Upon a slab of rock stretched over dark waves, a figure perched.
Silver was his hair, ever-shifting to a pearlescent blue even in the dimmest shimmers of moonlight. Braided and woven around curved horns, adorned with thousand-year-old gold and sea-polished gems, it was an illusion of a halo. Trimmed waist tightly coiled with elusive power.
A gradual shift started there, with fanning pelvic fins and luminescent spines that were more wicked than the sharpest spears. A pair of wings sprouted further down his back, marbled with lapis, ice and gold, resting against his slick body. Flowing fins were of the same colours, yet unlike well-looked after wings, they were tattered with age and worn with use.
The creature was a sight to behold, a beauty that would make men throw all their caution out the window.
There, over the edge of a brewing storm, the siren waited.
He only had all the time in the world to spare, after all.
Long had passed since the ages his kin lured sailors to their demise. Longer since they stirred the oceans with glittering fins and honeyed songs. And even longer yet, the days they soared the skies.
Lax tail curled in sea water, the siren stretched his body, listening to the wind.
How long since he’d last flown?
When they lost to the Muses. Golden and joyous above the clouds. So they were laid to the sea, to roam in dark waters and beneath cold waves, where their voices echoed on and on into the abyss.
Many of them could not withstand the changes.
Sirens only ever craved for those who would listen to them. They were born to sing. And songs were meant to be heard. In a sense, it was both a Gift and a Curse, for their songs were not only the prophecies of one’s life, they were also the harbinger of one’s death.
Enthralling were their songs, and people would die, just to listen till the last of their breaths. Even as their skin and bones rotted away, even on their last breath, they listened on as the sirens sang.
Sirens sang because more than anything else, they wanted to be heard. It was an obsession, a kind of sickness that ate into their subconsciousness. They sang despite the sorrow and the tragedy that followed. They still sang even as the skies were no longer open for them, when their tales faded into obscurity.
As more and more travellers were able to ignore the songs, they flung themselves into their own demise, their will shattered and their hearts withered in sorrow.
It was ironic.
All sea-folks had something in common. Sirens, Nereids, mers, selkies,...their tales were tragedies. But Nereids were everything beautiful and kind about the sea. Mers were wondrous illusions, flickers of hope in a raging storms. Selkies were gentle and forgiving, as they forgot just like the ocean waves overlap one another.
But sirens...Sirens just faded away.
And here he was.
The last of his kind.
Hesiodos had always been stubborn. A trait uncommon for his whimsical folks. Strong enough to defy Death.
He sought for magic he did not possess, when it became clear to him he would be the last one.
He shed his tail to walk amongst humans, to reacquaintance and shift with the world. Time had changed so much, and changed him so little. So he became more attentive to his needs, to give into the craving of company instead of stowing himself away in the dark depths of his depression, listening to ghosts of memory. He gave into his more primal instincts, but skirted away before the peak of consummation. After all, those brief, fleeting touches of a beguiled lover were the thing Hesiodos could never get enough of. His company to a mortal was short, and his affection shorter.
The years were evanescent. And like all things mortal-made, the magic did not last.
To the sea Hesiodos returned. To the vast empty space where he was alone.
A little fish told him he shouldn’t dwell too hard on his solidarity. And so Hesiodos wandered. To the far reaches his kind had never crossed. To the dark depths where both terrors and wonders thrived. To coral reefs that boated beauty and masked danger.
All by his lonesome.
Hesiodos sang to himself. Sometimes. Somewhere along the way, he had lost the desire to sing, to lure unsuspecting sailors astray. Somewhere along the way, he preferred silence over the music he was born to make.
Somewhere along the way, he had forgotten how to be a siren.
Perhaps that was why he survived.
He met his little friend one pale morning on a bed of rocks stretching into cold waves. Bare feet and bundled in soft wool, tooth-gaped smile spotted him before he could disappear under silver foam. Hesiodos had thought nothing of it, or so he thought. But in the emptiness of his forever stretching time, he wondered.
Why would a child be there, alone at the edge of the world?
And so Hesiodos returned, shortly because mortal time was unlike his, and waited. Pearly white grin greeted him. Sky blue eyes sparkled in a way that made his heart ache, a reminiscence of days long passed. The child was alone. And so was Hesiodos.
He was mistaken to be a mer. Easily so, for he never sang. His little friend was mesmerised enough, he needn’t drive the poor creature into Death’s hands. He never bothered to correct that mistake.
Hesiodos’ little friend was eager to talk. The siren simply listened, and it pleased the child so, to command such mythical attention. They met every full moon, when the light shone his scales the prettiest. Always barefoot and bundled in wool, the child would dangle small feet on the rock stretching over the waves, chattering to fill the night. Often it would be about new books, sometimes it would be about strange studies.
The child was magic, Hesiodos had known the moment their eyes met.
As time ticked by, faster than Hesiodos ever experienced, the child spoke more and more about the world. A growing curiosity about what it could offer.
Hesiodos didn’t offer his input. There needn’t always be answers, as not all void could be filled. It was something one must experience firsthand.
Sooner that he thought, but not all too unexpected, the siren came to an empty beach. It was perhaps a hasty departure. Unplanned. Sudden.
The siren was alone once more. So he moved on.
Another magic source he sought out. Another era to walk the earth.
The world had changed much since he last slipped into this role. The past he knew had long since wilted. Humans built their own mountains now, and they worshipped entities unknown to him. Hesiodos had seen metal ships crossing his waters, and now he was surrounded by metal buildings.
The Fae must have loved this.
There were people everywhere. Hustling and bustling, immersed in time so short and soon forgotten. He needn’t sing to attract them. They rather him keeping his mouth shut and giving into carnal desires.
And he did, for a time.
But it wasn’t the pleasure of the flesh that Hesiodos searched for. And though he knew it was foolish to hope, the siren pressed on, wandering and lost, in this new world that he did not belong.
He found some of them, those who he used to know, alive and yet withered husks compared to what they once were. He tread places he had once been, to marvel at the changes or lament at the loss. He visited the graves of those who passed, for there was none for his own kind. And when his human feet were tired, he would return to the sea, to the bed of rocks at the edge of the world. Waiting.
For what, Hesiodos was not sure. He knew his little friend would never return. But it was here that he had found a tiny fleck of companionship in his long life of solidarity. And in the childishness of his ancient heart, he hoped it would happen again.
And it did. Just not in the way he had imagined.
The Warlock was a collector of curios. And the last siren would make a perfect centerpiece.
Hesiodos thought of singing, but decided against it. Magic of every kind was flung at him, and the blue abyss protected him at every turn. Their chase lasted seven days and seven nights. And it would have been longer if Hesiodos was not greeted by warm water. If the sun did not hit the waves just so and if he did not see the isle.
His scream deafened the world.
A siren’s song was a wonder in its sweet treachery, pouring honeyed death into the veins of unfortunate souls. A siren’s silence was an omen, a cold grasp that caressed one’s heart and broke it.
Naturally, the Warlock’s resolves crumbled. Wide eyes watched in despair as Hesiodos circled back, swishing tail left a luminescent trail in its wake. Pale and all angles, he was a true predator, dangerous and mesmerising.
He watched as life left the Warlock’s eyes. He watched in crushing silence, watched as the creature died, without ever experiencing the wonders of a siren’s song.
He watched the corpse disappear, down, down, down, into the ocean’s gaping maw. He turned his head and gave the turquoise shore one last heartbroken gaze.
The sounds returned all at once. Rushing currents, lapping water, even a distant whale song.
Hesiodos left unspoken, for this was no longer home.
The next period of his life was...hazy. Once again he shed his tail, once again he walked amongst mortals.
Once again he came back to this slab of rock, stretching over disturbed waves. At the edge of the world.
He remembered his first flight. He remembered his first swim. He remembered seeing the world with awe and the rolls of laughter amongst his kin. He remembered his first song. He remembered riding the storm for the first time and the elation upon hearing his voice above the wind.
He remembered belonging somewhere.
And now he was here. Waiting.
His little friend was no longer little or young. Golden hair had faded to white, wide smile losing its childish innocence. But the sparkle in endless sky blue eyes was the same as Hesiodos remembered, looking upon him with such joy that could make an ancient heart crumble.
With warm hands that buzzed with both age and power, the Witch reminisced. The happiness of an enchanted companionship during a lonely childhood. Sorrow when it was torn away. Guilt for never saying goodbye. Hope upon knowing he was alive. Peace came with an easy reunion.
Then came the tentative request for a song.
The sea churned in anticipation. Hesiodos sought eyes that he missed, and found only tranquility.
A kiss placed upon weathered brows. And Hesiodos began to sing.
There was no existing word to describe the sound he made. It was the sound of silk and spun gold. It was the sound of rain, dancing upon blades of grass and twirling upon river pebbles. It was the sound of filled sails, of wind rolling beneath the eagle’s wings. It was the sound of a lover coming home, of a child basking in his father’s warmth. It was the sound of bread rising, the sound of nectar gracing the tip of one’s tongue.
His song was incredibly sweet, an inhale that filled one’s chest to the brim, so full it hurt.
It was the song of those who were lost at sea. It was the song of desperation, of a writhing yearning without ever finding an answer. It was the song of broken promises, of slipping words and forgotten memories, of the prickling pain that tugged at the furthest corner of one’s heart. It was the song of sickness, a loss that could never be turned around. It was a song of tears, shed with the rain upon the casket of a loved one.
It was just as irresistibly beautiful as it was sad. It was not a devastation of the flesh, but a lolling melody that ate into the soul with a lethargic fatality, a foreteller of death and corruption. It chipped away at the spirit, an offer of truths, yet at the same time a false promise. There was no method of resistance, for the Song of the Sirens could pierce through everything, and the purest form of it was never meant for any particular sense, nor was it a form of magic that humans could comprehend. The Song was not tangible enough to fight, but it wrapped itself around the most basic components that made a being’s conscience.
Sirens were the Muses of the lower world, continually calling on Persephone with joy and sorrow that could bury the world whole .
Soft hair leaned unto scaled shoulders, light breaths became deeper and deeper. He could feel it, as the gentle spirit spun to the rhythm of his song. He didn’t stop singing, even when it slowed. He saw the moment it dissolved, the moment the light danced away from the weary soul. Gently, he lowered his friend to the water. Lay floating with a smile, a single tear rolled down still rosy cheek.
Then, only then, Hesiodos quieted, the last note of his song lingered like a soaring bird. A feather-like touch to cooling hands, he looked skyward with glassy eyes.
And there, on the slab of rock at the edge of the world, the last siren finally mourned.
