There were stories about her kind, stories old as islands and only slightly younger than the names of the stars. As she walked the shore, tide curling around her ankles, she sang. Pouring rippling waves of sound, draping the evening in an otherworldly cloth as her blue black dress clung to her sinuous curves. Stars began to dot the velvet dark of the sky and she made no attempt to disguise her nature. Her skin glinted with sharp edged scales, her teeth were too long and sharp in her aquiline face, and the perfect piercing notes she sang could never have come from a mortal throat.
In nearby villages and towns, doors closed, shutters latched, and parents made sure their children were safely inside. However no one felt the tug to go to the sea, for all the stories, there was no beckon in the siren’s voice, not that night. Hushed conversations around stoked fires wondered if she mourned, others said she was marking out a territory and hunts would begin in earnest later. Yet others posited that she was stood up by her love, her sisters had died, or she had been dealt a wrong by a man on the coast and she was calling him out in challenge.
None were correct, the siren herself barely knew why she’d come here, and why she was crying to the heavens. Unless for the sense of fruitless eternity that could sneak up on any immortal when you paid too much attention to time. So she wandered further and farther down the shore, the waves erasing her footsteps behind her.
I am a thief, a very greedy thief who held onto this line stolen from Gwen for a long time. Take a look at the other old stories here.