James Davis - The Restless Shore

He stumbled on his feet, finding his balance and feeling a warm, steady drip of wetness on the back of his neck. Lost for a moment and staring at the ground in confusion, he fought the urge to shake his head. Breathing deeply, he faced the blurred forms of Khault and Vaasurri, just as the killoren’s body was hurled past him. Uthalion slashed into the first tentacle that reached for him, but could not move fast enough to stop the next.

Tiny teeth bit into his armor as the tentacles bore him down, holding him in a vicelike grip that brought stars to his eyes. The crystal spires reached for the moon overhead as he groaned and tried to sit up, to fight the pressure that held him down. Khault crawled closer, leaning over him and staring at the cavern mouth.

“You struggle in vain, Captain,” Khault said. Long streams of wildflower-smelling spittle and blood dribbled between his teeth. “The twins embrace even now.”

Uthalion fought the nauseating dark that trembled at the edges of his sight. His arms felt like leaden weights, his sword just an immovable length of steel. He kicked and pushed against the ground to no avail. And as he turned his face away from Khault’s hot breath, he caught sight of irregular ripples flowing through the mist-grass, and beyond, the dreamers’ glassy eyes had turned to the north.

“The flesh is weak, Captain,” Khault muttered. “It bends to the will of the Song and cannot stand when the Lady calls.”

A droning growl emanated from the spires, and Khault turned, hissing as the dreamers prowled to the south, their flashing stares fixed upon him. The immense weight of Khault lifted from Uthalion’s chest, and he coughed, fighting for air as the tentacles slid away. He staggered to his feet as Khault snarled at the seemingly defiant beasts among the spires. Behind him, lurching quietly from the north, a shadow fell upon the mist-grass.

“I’m still standing,” Uthalion grumbled hoarsely, spitting up blood and wavering on his feet. His sword dragged weakly through the grass, the smoky tendrils lapping at the blade. “I suppose you’ve forgotten just how strong flesh can be.”

Khault stalked forward, his clawed hands twitching and the tentacles sliding through the mist-grass like a low tide. The dreamers stilled their growling and anxious pacing, lowering their heads as a piercing note keened loudly through the clearing. Khault’s body tensed, his back arched in pain, and blood streamed from what remained of his ears. A sword ripped through his chest and tore at his pale skin like a knife through paper.

Uthalion stumbled, his sword falling from his hand as he spied the bloodied face of Brindani at Khault’s back. Deafening roars shook the clearing, rippling outward in waves from the struggling pair as they fell back in a tangle of blood, steel, and thrashing flesh. Khault screamed in denial of the blade that worked its way through him. Uthalion tried not to see the details of the half-elf’s injuries-the limp broken arm, the hideous wound across his stomach, or the exposed section of scalp over his right eye-but his eye was quicker than his good judgment.

Uthalion fell to his knees, his hands clasped to the sides of his head as the ground quaked and the air hummed. The endless song embraced him through it all, caressing his tired limbs with a soothing melody, a silken thread of beguiling voices amid the chaos and blood. He glanced down into the cavern, and the flickering shadows of nightmare clawed at his ability to resist as he fell forward and crawled to its edge.

Howls carried softly down through the cavern, an uncanny compliment to the song as the dreamers raised their voices in either sorrow or exultation, Ghaelya wasn’t sure. Tessaeril shivered on the rocks, weak and almost frantic with barely hidden impatience, her blue-black eyes fixed on the sword at Ghaelya’s side.

The dreamers were here first… They despise the Choir … and rejoice that one of them has fallen …

The words were quiet and muttering, absent thoughts drifting through the song as Tessaeril reached out tentatively, her fingertips crawling toward the sheathed blade then drawing back. She shuddered and twisted her bound torso, her eyes pleading for release.

“Does it hurt?” Ghaelya asked as she let her hand slip to the sword at her belt, feeling the rough surface of its leather-wrapped handle and pulling clear the fastening loop of the sheath.

No … not anymore … There is no sleep here … not for me … Her dreams are all I have, all I see … endlessly … The sword …

Ghaelya’s body was numb, moving slowly and almost of its own accord, distant and mechanical. A handspan of blade cleared the sheath, and Tessaeril looked upon its edge almost hungrily, her lip quivering at the sight of a promised freedom from the sirine.

“I love you, Tess,” Ghaeyla said. The words slowed the steady pull on the gleaming blade. The steel reflected the ethereal glow of the sirine’s body like a beacon. Her sister did not answer, straining as the song rose and fell, shaking her frail body and digging deeper into her nearly translucent flesh, her once strong fire drowned in the sirine’s grip.

The blade continued.

“It’s always blood,” Ghaelya whispered softly, remembering the previous night’s dream and speaking the words that had been spoken to her. She swallowed hard, and the blade fell free, scraping on the rocks and shining brightly. It blurred her vision, and she blinked, releasing the tears that had collected there. “I’m sorry.”

There’s nothing to be sorry for .

Her arm struggled with the sword’s weight, and she tried several times to lift it, to break it free of her every impulse to cast it away. Inexorably it rose and hovered over her shoulder, tapping lightly on the leather guard. Her arm obeyed her commands, though her heart had not yet joined in the necessity of the act.

“I want to believe that,” she said, her voice breaking. “Forgive me.”

There is nothing to forgive .

It seemed a gentle push, lifting the blade and letting it fall. The steel blurred at the end of her arm and buried itself deeply in weak flesh, breaking easily through brittle bones. Ghaelya couldn’t breathe-she didn’t want to. She cursed the pulse that pounded in her ears and the sudden inability to close her eyes, to not see the strange dark blood and the slowly withering expression of shock. Vines shook and twitched, ripples flowed through the sirine’s mass, and the great dark eyes turned in their slumber.

Somewhere inside of her, ice-cold and overpowering, there was a scream, but she couldn’t find it. The sword fell from her hand.

And the sirine screamed for her.

Damps rocks cooled Uthalion’s palms as he stared into the ethereal blue glow, the song’s endless tide washing through his body. He pulled toward it, enthralled and unable to resist. At the bottom of the cavern entrance he found Ghaelya sitting with her back to him, a nightmarish mirror image slumped on the rocks in front of her. Dazed, his eyes wandered to the sword lodged in the lifeless body. Whispered words echoed over and over through the song, growing faster and faster as they blurred together, ripping through the air at a frantic pace until they were little more than a discordant keening.

“Forgive me.”

There is nothing to forgive .

Gods have mercy, he thought, as the song was unleashed.

Whatever veil had kept him from the true force of the sirine’s singing was lifted. He gasped at the exultant power and thought his heart would burst. A single wave of perfection flooded his senses, a thrall so deep he never wanted to be free. And he was ashamed at the meager, imperfect soul he brought to lay upon the glowing altar at her feet. Every muscle in his body flexed, and his back arched painfully, assaulted by what seemed an entire lifetime of memories in a long, rattling breath of transcendent joy and sorrow.