24. Chapter Twenty-Four #2
She would sit by the rocks near the shore, stroking my hair, still damp from a day spent in the water.
Most nights, she stayed with me until my eyes grew too heavy to keep open, her voice and touch the only things that kept the dark at bay.
I was always exhausted, but that never stopped me from trying to keep up with the swarm.
My father had shown me how to build a small fire, and I would sleep beside it, the warmth chasing away the chill that clung to me after the sea.
The sand beneath me was soft enough, though I never gave it much thought.
I would lie there, watching the flames flicker, listening to the waves, and wait for the next day to arrive.
The memory makes it easy for me to shape the lullaby into something gentle and sweet. My siren claws at my insides, desperate to take over, but this time I don’t let her.
It costs me a lot of power and energy. My muscles tense as the power inside me swells and tries to burst free. It’s hot as it pumps through my veins like thick, heavy oil, causing my limbs to feel weighted and laborious to move.
But it is worth the price. It works. And it works well. Lark slowly folds into my arms, his body no longer shaking but loose and relaxed. I keep my voice gentle as I carefully run my fingers through the soft waves of his hair.
There in front of us, his shadow shifts.
I look at him in wonder as I continue the lullaby.
He doesn’t seem as scared as Lark. He doesn’t shake or whimper, but still appears to me somewhat restless, pacing back and forth, shadows whirling and dragging behind him as he moves.
As if he doesn’t know where to go, or what to do.
The shadow stops his pacing and turns his head towards me ever so slowly, then tilts his head, the way Lark does when he’s slightly puzzled by something.
He looks at me as though he recognizes who I am, before blinking.
Once.
Then again.
He takes a careful step forward, then another, moving toward Lark and me with a childlike hesitance that mirrors Lark’s own.
Each step pulls him closer, the darkness pulling inward instead of spreading wide around him.
When he reaches Lark, I do not stop my hum.
I keep it steady, pulling another thread from the power inside me.
It is in this moment that I realize that I am no longer only singing for Lark, but also for his shadow.
The song not only soothes it, but seems to call it back to where it belongs.
My eyes widen as the shadow gravitates forward, folding back into Lark’s body which swells slightly, as his shadow returns to him like breath returning to lungs.
The edges of the silver silhouette dissolve.
The darkness sinks into his chest, his legs, slipping beneath skin and into bone until there is nothing left on the deck but the faint glow of lantern light.
Every instinct in me urges me to keep going, to hold the song steady and press further, as if letting go would undo everything.
I still feel Lark’s shadow testing the hold I have on it, and I fear it might tear free again if I loosen my grip.
So I don’t. I push, drawing more and more power, forcing the song deeper, to not just return the shadow to Lark, but to bind him there.
Finally, the resistance falters, and it feels as if two halves no longer pull against each other but align, coming together as one.
Lark releases one long gasping breath, and my hum comes to an abrupt stop. His hand flies to his chest as he seems to come to life again, the boy and the shadow made whole. He looks down at himself, then around the deck, eyes wide and searching.
The space at Lark’s feet is no longer empty. His shadow lies where it should be, tethered and flat, in the distorted shape of his tiny body. Most importantly, it is synchronized with the boy’s movements, its arm retreating from the shadow of my skirts when Lark hesitantly lets go of my gown.
“See,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Everything is fine. You’re fine. All is well.”
He doesn't respond, but I don’t expect him to, seeing him calmer and looking more like himself is enough for me. As I glance up toward the helm, Grim looks at me with his brows set in a straight line and his jaw set tight, like he’s asking me a question I don’t have an answer to.
It is only then that I notice the silence around us.
There’s no singing anymore, no splashing against the hull, and when I look out across the dark surface, it lies unnaturally still.
My fingers tighten slightly against Lark's back.
The dark water sirens surely would not simply let us pass, and yet there is not even a ripple to suggest they are circling below.
I glance toward the helm, then lift my hand and gesture for Grim to remove the wax from his ears.
“When did they stop singing?” I call out, my voice carrying across the deck as I keep my other hand moving over Lark’s back in slow, steady circles to settle him.
Grim pulls the wax free and pushes it into his pockets before straightening, then puts his hands back on the wheel.
“It looked like they retreated when you started singing,” he says, his gaze fixed ahead. “Maybe they showed mercy because you’re one of them, or because they heard Lark.”
Swallowing, my eyes drift back to the water, as if one of them might just break the surface.
Maybe they really retreated. They are sirens, and they are the most vicious kind, but I know for a fact that we do not kill without reason, and we are not without a heart, no matter what the sailors might believe.
“Put the wax back in,” I say, quieter now, though the unease has not left me, my gaze lingering on the dark stretch next to us before I force it away. “It’s not worth the risk.”
I adjust my hold on Lark, settling his weight more securely against me as I turn toward the cabin.
“I’ll bring him inside.”
Grim nods, takes the wax out of his pockets and pushes them into his ears again.
I wonder where his shadow is, and what it costs these men to lose them. But one question outweighs all the others, growing in my mind like an uncontained flame.
What have I just done?