Chapter 4: Midnight Confessions
The revelry bled slowly into the deep quiet of the sleeping ship. The rum casks were empty, the concertina player snored slumped against a coil of rope, and the last of the stomping echoes had faded into the creak of timber and the endless shush of the sea. Leona lay in his bunk, staring at the low ceiling, the ghost of Vil’s laughter and the feel of his hand still imprinted on his senses. Sleep was a stubborn stranger.
He’d almost drifted off when the sound came.
It was a thread of melody, so faint he first mistook it for the wind in the rigging. But the wind didn’t hold notes that pure, that cleanly sorrowful. It wove through the ship’s noises, a silver needle in a canvas of grays and browns. No words, at first. Just a tune that pulled at something deep in his chest, an old, lonely ache he usually kept buried under laziness and sarcasm.
He got up. The deck was cool under his bare feet, the planks silvered by a thin crescent moon. The air smelled of salt, spilled ale, and the lingering sweet-sour of Vil’s human sweat. He followed the sound, not to the starboard rail where the other two sirens would be, but aft, towards the stern.
Vil was there.
Half out of the water, his arms folded on the railing, his chin resting on them. His lilac tail fanned slowly in the black water below, scales catching shards of moonlight. His eyes were closed. He was singing, so softly it was almost just breath given tune.
“...For a week and a day, my love I have waited, For a week and a day, my love I have prayed...”
It was “Jolly Sailor Bold.” But stripped of the crew’s roaring bravado, it was a different song entirely. Slower. Softer. Infinitely lonely. Vil’s voice, without projection, without power, was simply beautiful. It wasn’t a weapon. It was a confession. A memory of some other time, some other feeling, bleeding out into the empty night.
Leona leaned against the mast, watching. Vil’s face, in profile, was unguarded, etched with a melancholy so deep it seemed to come from his bones. This was the truth of him, Leona realized. Not the vicious hunter, not the defiant captive, not even the smiling man at the party. This was the creature who lived in the quiet after, who carried the weight of every face he remembered.
The song trailed off, a last note dissolving into the sea breeze. Vil sighed, a sound of utter weariness.
Leona pushed off the mast. His foot scuffed a deck plank.
Vil’s eyes flew open. He jerked back, startled, a splash of water accompanying the movement. His expression shut down instantly, the vulnerable lines hardening into a mask of sharp annoyance. “Spying is a poor habit for a captain,” he snapped, but there was a flush of something like shame high on his cheekbones.
“Wasn’t spying,” Leona said, walking over. He kept his voice low, matching the night. “Couldn’t sleep. Heard music.”
“It was nothing,” Vil said, turning to look out at the dark horizon. His tail gave an agitated flick. “A… distraction.”
“Sounded like a sad one.” Leona settled himself on the deck, his back against the bulwark next to where Vil leaned. He wasn’t looking at him. He looked up at the sparse stars. “You don’t have to perform out here. No audience.”
Vil was silent for a long moment. The only sounds were the water against the hull and the distant, mournful cry of a seabird. “It’s the only time I can sing for myself,” he said finally, the words quiet. “When everyone’s asleep. When it’s just the sea. The song… it just is. It isn’t for a meal. It isn’t a tool. It’s just a sound I need to make.”
Leona understood that. The need to make a sound that meant nothing, that asked for nothing. He’d felt it howling into gales on night watch, long ago. “Keep going, then.”
Vil glanced down at him, suspicion in his amethyst eyes. “Why?”
Leona shrugged, a slow roll of his shoulders. “I’m not asleep. Doesn’t mean I’m an audience. Just… noise.”
He used Vil’s own word from earlier. It hung between them. Vil studied him, looking for the trap, the mockery. He found neither. Just a man sitting in the dark, waiting.
Slowly, so slowly, Vil turned his gaze back to the water. He didn’t sing immediately. He breathed, his shoulders relaxing incrementally. Then, the melody started again, that same thread of silver.
“My love he is handsome, my love he is kind, My love has a ship that can govern the wind...”
It was the same verse, but he sang it through this time. His voice was a bare murmur, yet it filled the space around them, intimate as a touch in the dark. Leona closed his eyes. He didn’t feel lured. He felt invited. He could see it—the handsome, kind sailor, the ship that governed the wind. A fantasy. A story you tell yourself to make the empty waves less vast.
When the verse ended, the quiet returned, but it was a different quiet. Comfortable.
“Who was he?” Leona asked, not opening his eyes.
Vil let out a soft, bitter laugh. “No one. Everyone. A story sirens tell. A pretty lie.” He shifted, the railing groaning slightly under his weight. “We learn it young. Before we learn the hunting songs. It’s about… yearning for something you can’t have. Something that doesn’t drown when you touch it.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“It is.” Vil paused. “Azul hates it. Says it gives us foolish ideas. He’d rather we only knew the songs that end with screams.”
Leona opened his eyes, tilting his head back to look at Vil. “And what do you think?”
Vil looked down at him. The moonlight caught in his eyes, turning them to liquid mercury. “I think…” He stopped, choosing his words carefully. “I think knowing both songs is its own particular torture. It means you always know exactly what you’re missing.”
The truth of it hit Leona square in the chest. It was the most honest thing Vil had said. This was the core of him: the viciousness learned for survival, and the beauty remembered from a time before the contract. Both were real. Both were him.
Leona reached out. Not to pull, not to possess. He simply rested his hand on Vil’s forearm where it lay on the railing. The skin was cool and damp from the sea spray. Vil stiffened, but didn’t pull away.
“Sing the next verse,” Leona said. Not a command. A request.
Vil swallowed. He looked at Leona’s hand on his arm, then out at the sea. When he began to sing again, his voice was slightly unsteady.
“But storms they did rise, and the winds they did wail, My love and his ship were no match for the gale...”
Leona listened, his thumb moving in a slow, absent arc on Vil’s skin. He watched the play of moonlight on the water, the slow path of a cloud across the crescent. He let the sorrow of the song wash over him, not as something to fix or conquer, but as a shared thing. This was Vil’s pain, and he was offering it, raw and unadorned. Leona, for once, did nothing but accept it.
The song finished, the last note fading into the sigh of the waves. Vil didn’t start another. The silence settled back, warm and full.
“We’ll sight the vortex glow in four nights,” Vil said after a while, his voice quiet.
“I know.”
“Azul will be waiting. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“I don’t care what he likes.”
Vil finally looked down at him, a real, tired smile touching his lips. “I believe you.” He shifted again, a graceful roll of his shoulders. “I should go. Dawn’s not far off.”
Leona removed his hand, the cool night air hitting the spot where his skin had warmed Vil’s. “Yeah.”
Vil pushed himself off the railing, sliding back into the water with a soft, liquid sound. He lingered for a moment, his upper body visible in the dark water. “Leona?”
“Hm?”
“Thank you. For the dance. And for… the quiet.”
Leona just nodded, a short, sharp dip of his chin.
Vil sank below the surface without another sound, a faint shimmer of lilac the only evidence he’d been there at all.
Leona stayed on the deck as the sky began to lighten from black to deep indigo in the east. The scent of the coming dawn, cold and clean, began to chase away the night. He could still feel the ghost of the melody in his ribs, a new, peculiar ache. He knew the strategies for storms, for naval battles, for mutinies. He had no strategy for this—for the quiet understanding, for the shared loneliness, for the dangerous desire to hear that private song again.
He stood up, his joints protesting. The ship was starting to stir; the cook would be lighting the galley fire soon. He had a vortex to find, a witch to confront, a deal to see through.
And he had a siren’s song stuck in his head, a tune that held no magic but his own willing memory of it. That, he thought as he walked back to his cabin, was the most perilous tide of all.
That, he thought as he walked back to his cabin, was the most perilous tide of all.
The following day passed without incident, which was the problem. The sea was a flat, glassy pane stretching to a horizon bleached of color. The air didn't move. It clung, thick and humid, to skin and canvas. The sails hung limp and useless. "Just a lull," Ruggie said, sweating as he adjusted a line. "Wind'll pick up." But the absolute stillness felt wrong, a held breath. Leona prowled the deck, his green eyes scanning the metallic sky. The weather had a false feel to it, like the calm before a bad decision.
Nightfall brought no relief, just a deeper, muggier dark. In the captain's quarters, the heat was a physical weight. Vil was a welcome distraction, a cooler point of contact in the stifling room. They moved together with a practiced roughness that had softened at the edges, a silent understanding layered over the hunger. Afterward, they lay stuck to each other by sweat, the bunk sheets damp, listening to the unnatural quiet. "Something's off," Leona muttered into the dark.
The first gust hit like a door slamming. The Savanaclaw groaned, lurching violently to port. A second later, the world dissolved into noise. Rain hammered the deck with the force of thrown stones. Wind screamed through the rigging. "Get up!" Leona roared, already rolling from the bunk and snatching his trousers. Vil was a pale flash in the dark, instantly alert, pulling on his own borrowed clothes. Another brutal tilt sent a water jug shattering against the wall. Leona threw open the door to chaos.
The deck was a shifting nightmare of soaking men, flapping canvas, and roaring black water. "Ruggie! Jack!" Leona’s voice ripped through the gale as he fought his way to the helm. "Forget the vortex! Find me the closest spit of land on the charts, now!" Lightning bleached the world white, illuminating Ruggie’s wide, terrified eyes as he nodded, scrambling below. Vil clung to the doorway of the cabin, his human form unsteady on the heaving deck. "Epel! Rook!" he yelled towards the raging water, his voice snatched by the wind.
A deafening crack split the air, not thunder but splintering wood. The mainmast shuddered, a long jagged scar tearing down its length. "Island!" Ruggie shrieked, reappearing with a soaked chart. "Leeward, maybe three miles!" "Helm! Bring her about!" Leona bellowed, grabbing a spoke to help heave the wheel. The ship groaned in protest, wallowing in the trough of a massive wave.
Then the sky exploded. A searing, branching bolt of lightning connected with the world. It struck the damaged mast with a sound that felt like teeth rattling in skulls. The charge exploded outwards, running along the wet deck. Leona, his hands on the metal-banded helm, was thrown like a doll. A jolt of pure, white agony consumed him. He felt weightless, then the deck was gone, the rail a fleeting shadow. The black, churning sea rushed up to meet him.
The cold was a shock that stole his breath before he could even draw one. Water filled his mouth, his nose. The last thing he saw was the Savanaclaw’s wounded silhouette against another flash of lightning, receding fast. Then everything went dark and quiet.
Vil saw him fall. He didn't think. He tore the clothes from his body and vaulted the rail. The transformation was instantaneous, muscle and bone shifting in the rushing air before he even hit the water. His tail, powerful and sleek, cut through the violent swell. He dove, plunging into the ink-black depths beneath the storm’s fury. Find him. Find him. His amethyst eyes, built for the deepest gloom, scanned the swirling darkness. A darker shape tumbled limply in the currents, sinking.
He closed the distance, wrapping his arms around Leona’s chest. He kicked hard, driving them towards the surface. Breaking through was a battle. Waves tried to tear them apart. Vil locked his grip, his own strength fraying against the ocean’s rage. He oriented himself, caught a glimpse of the ship's lanterns fighting towards a distant, vague mass, and swam. He used every current he could, every swell, his lungs burning, his muscles screaming. The storm raged for hours. He did not stop.
Dawn filtered through a bruised sky, the wind dying to a whimper. Vil’s strength was gone, reduced to a desperate, floundering crawl as the last wave pushed them onto a crescent of white sand. He dragged Leona clear of the surf, collapsing beside him on the wet grit. Leona was pallid, unmoving. A nasty burn traced a path from his right hand up his forearm, the skin angry and blistered. He wasn’t breathing.
Panic, cold and final, closed Vil’s throat. He pushed hard on Leona’s chest, like he’d seen sailors do once. Water spilled from the pirate’s lips. He did it again. Nothing. "No," Vil gasped. "No, you arrogant, lazy bastard, don't you dare." He tilted Leona’s head back, covered his mouth with his own, and forced air into his lungs. Once. Twice.
He sat back, trembling violently. Nothing. The stillness of Leona’s chest was a horror. The memory of his private song on the deck, the shared quiet, the weight of his hand—it all curdled into this void. A sob ripped out of him, raw and ugly. He grabbed Leona’s shoulders, shaking him. "Wake up!" His voice broke. "Leona, wake up! This isn't the deal! You don't get to die before the vortex!"
He was met with silence. The fear was a living thing, gnawing his insides. He didn’t know what else to do. His voice was his only tool, his only magic. Maybe… maybe it could be used for this. Not to take, but to give. To call something back.
He began to sing. It wasn't "Jolly Sailor Bold." It was wordless, a raw, pleading melody that wove with the hiss of the retreating surf. It held every frantic beat of his heart, every image of Leona’s bored smirk, his shrewd eyes, the rough heat of his hands. He poured the memory of their dance, the rum and the stamping feet, into the notes. He sang of the shared solitude on the deck, of the confession whispered against skin, of the perilous tide he had named just hours before.
"Come back," he woven into the melody, his forehead pressed against Leona’s cold shoulder. "Please, come back. You have to wake up. You have to." His voice cracked, going thin and reedy with exhaustion and despair. He sang until his throat felt stripped, until the sun rose higher, until he heard shouts further down the beach—Ruggie, Jack, the crew, safe. He didn't stop. He begged into the silence of Leona’s body, his song a fragile lifeline cast into the dark.
A tremor. Beneath his hand on Leona’s chest, a faint, shuddering jump. Vil froze, his song cutting off into a sharp gasp. He stared. Leona’s body convulsed once, a harsh, racking cough tearing through him. Seawater spilled from his lips. He gasped, a ragged, desperate sound, and his eyes flew open. They were unfocused, clouded with pain and confusion, searching the sky before landing on Vil’s stricken, tear-streaked face.
Leona’s burned hand twitched, his fingers scraping weakly through the sand. His voice was a ruined whisper, barely audible over the waves. "Siren," he breathed. "Your singing... is shit when you're crying."
Leona’s burned hand twitched, his fingers scraping weakly through the sand. His voice was a ruined whisper, barely audible over the waves. "Siren," he breathed. "Your singing... is shit when you're crying."
A broken sound, half-laugh, half-sob, escaped Vil’s throat. The tension that had held him together—the hours of fighting the sea, the desperate CPR, the raw magic of his plea—snapped all at once. He didn’t think. He just moved.
He collapsed forward, his arms wrapping around Leona’s torso, burying his face against the cold, wet leather of his vest. He held on with a frantic, clutching strength, his entire body shaking. He didn’t say a word. He just listened, his ear pressed to Leona’s chest, straining through the roar of his own pulse.
There it was. Thump-thump. A slow, ragged rhythm, but it was there. Leona was alive. Vil squeezed his eyes shut, hot tears mixing with the saltwater on his cheeks. The relief was a physical flood, warm and dizzying, washing through the cold dread that had been paralyzing him.
And beneath that relief, cold and sharp as a coral blade, slid the realization. This wasn't just about a deal. This wasn't about maps or payment. The sheer, animal terror he’d felt seeing Leona lifeless on the sand, the void that had opened up at the thought of those green eyes never opening again—it had a name. It was a profound and terrifying vulnerability. He had felt real fear of losing Leona. The thought twisted in his gut, slick and sickening.
He’d let this happen. He’d let the man’s stubbornness, his unexpected quiet, his rough hands, get under his scales.
“Get off,” Leona grunted, his voice hoarse but regaining its familiar gravel. He tried to shift, a weak protest. “You’re crushing my ribs. And I’m wet. And everything fucking hurts.”
Vil didn’t let go. He just tightened his grip for one more second, imprinting the feel of that heartbeat against his own. Then he pushed himself up, swiping angrily at his face with the back of his hand. “Your everything can keep hurting,” he muttered, his voice thick. “It’s preferable to you being dead.”
Leona managed to tilt his head, his gaze traveling over Vil’s face. “You’re a mess.”
“You are literally burned and half-drowned,” Vil shot back, the sharpness a flimsy shield. He looked down at Leona’s arm, at the angry, blistered lightning trail. “Can you move?”
“Give me a minute.” Leona tried to push himself up on his elbows, grimaced, and fell back with a pained hiss. “Or an hour. Where are we?”
“An island. Small. I saw the ship heading for a cove further down. Your crew is probably looking for you.” Vil scanned the beach, his siren eyes picking out details in the dawn light. The island was a rugged lump of rock and skinny, wind-bent trees. It offered shelter, nothing more.
From the water, twenty yards out, two heads broke the surface.
They watched with unblinking, mismatched eyes. Jade’s were a calm, calculating gold. Floyd’s were a lazy, interested silver. They didn’t speak. They simply observed, like eels watching prey struggle in the shallows.
Vil saw them immediately. A fresh chill, deeper than the ocean, shot through him. He went rigid, every instinct screaming. He subtly shifted his body, trying to block their view of Leona.
“What?” Leona rasped, picking up on the sudden tension.
“Nothing,” Vil said too quickly. “Just… seabirds.”
Leona followed his locked gaze to the water. He saw them. His eyes narrowed. “Those your fan club?”
“Azul’s,” Vil corrected, the name tasting like bile. “His eyes.”
Out in the waves, Floyd grinned, a flash of sharp teeth. Jade merely inclined his head, a slow, deliberate acknowledgment. Then they sank below the surface without a ripple, vanishing as if they’d never been.
Far below, in the sunken cathedral of Azul’s domain, the witch lounged in his throne of wrecked ships’ wheels and barnacled gold. He sipped something dark from a nautilus shell, his expression one of bored indulgence. Then his own eyes, a reflective octopus black, clouded over, becoming mirrors for a moment.
Through them, he saw the beach. He saw the human captain lying broken on the sand. He saw his siren, Vil, crouched over him, tear-tracks stark on his pale cheeks, his hands pressed to the pirate’s chest in a gesture of unmistakable, frantic care.
Azul’s thin lips curved into a slow, delighted smile. He took another sip, savoring the view as much as the drink. “Oh, Vil,” he murmured to the empty, pressurized silence of his chamber. “You sentimental fool.” He watched Vil help Leona sit up, saw the careful way the siren avoided the burned flesh, witnessed the unguarded worry etched on that beautiful, treacherous face.
The smile widened, becoming something genuinely pleased and profoundly cruel. “So my siren,” he whispered, the words echoing softly in the dark water, “has fallen in love with a human.” He let out a soft, amused chuckle, leaning back against his throne. The potential here was exquisite. A lever had just been placed into his hands, wrapped in lilac scales and tied with a pirate’s scorched bandana.
“Oh, this is simply rich.”