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Milo was right. He was a reckless and lacking few brain cells in the thick head of his foolishness, but those of stupidity were apparently also of luck, as the doctor stated after his visit, stethoscope placed back into his brown leather bag, square lenses being fixed on the doctor’s hooked nose. It looked like it had been broken, and Asher was so tempted to ask if the man used to fight in his youth, judging by his stocky posture and less than empathetic mannerism.

One glance from David made him shut his mouth up, docile and timid silence interrupted only by wheezy breaths. Curiosity was what killed the cat, and provided that he was a human, he had no desire to make himself worse. Bad case of cold, bordering on pneumonia was already enough, putting him out of commission for the few upcoming weeks spent rotting in misery underneath heap of blankets with occasional soup being eaten, trace always full of food he had to at least try, as Milo kept saying every time he brought it to him.

He was sick of it by the end of suggested bed rest. No more soup or vegetables, at least until the dinner that was put onto Milo’s shoulder yet another time. With David holed up in the room upstairs, a grumble and set of pencils taken with him, he was the one behind organising the day, and with Asher still feeling guilty about the necklace, he took the cue and went outside, mumbling something about needing the fresh air. Avoidance at its finest.

The shortest of the household members couldn’t care less for the lost piece of jewellery, shrugging his shoulders at the profound apologies that kept spilling from the feverish man one evening. He kept saying it was an accident, in his delirium, his mouth and tongue unwilling to admit what really had happened and who or what actually took it. In the haze of temperature making him sweat, even he was inclined to believe his own words, the sharp teeth and gills embedded in the neck of the creature pushed away, a label of a “fever dream” put in bold font above it. Only in the early hours of the morning, when the cold cloth on his forehead lost its cool, and David began to lightly snore, half sitting half laying in the armchair, did the picture of their face against his own come back to his mind, faint stench of brine and fish on their breath that fanned over his mouth, clawed hand ripping the silver chain in half. Not a dream, but a reality he still tried to brush off with a shrug of his shoulders and another dosage of medicine, Bitter and awful, but he was a champ.

And he really needed to stop causing problems to his friends, life too eventful as of late.

He missed being out in the open, the bed, while still comfortable and way better than getting into the boat or slumping over the maps like David did, made him feel more than restless, levels of energy pent up more than ever. He needed to move, to do anything, not only feeding the gnawing feeling of adding more to the other two chore schedules. Upon finally being cleared for getting up and going outside, he took the chance immediately. Salty breeze was good for ill people, and he really had enough of being cooped up inside, no matter how nice the other two men tried to make it for him.

The moment he stood up in the open front doors the few weeks back, Milo thought he saw a ghost, with how pale his skin was, lips still slightly tinged with blueish purple, goosebumps littering the visible parts that peeked through the rolled up jacket and undershirt that untucked itself from his trousers. David was the one who kept his head about it, pulling the man inside, sitting him down and quickly undressing, the sopping wet layers dropped onto the floor.

Being rushed under a lukewarm spray of the shower, he could have sworn the water was burning. Complains were immediately voiced despite the chatter of teeth against themselves as the chilling cold began to seep into his bones, clawing through the muscles and fat, shaking him straight into his core. It helped, circulation slowly returning to his limbs, body feeling like his own instead of a stiff log that dragged itself from the beach back to the lighthouse.

Blanket. Hand to his forehead, a curse at how hot it felt, him being forced down onto the bed, it all blurred among coughs that tasted of salt and tea that made him burn his tongue, slice of lemon floating in it, a personal offence to his whole being. He hated it, hated tea in general, but really, he had no other choice than to drink it and pass out in the overwhelmingly snug embrace of fresh laundry, soft sheets and no sand in sight.

He shuddered at the memory. If he could help it, sickness would never appear on the table for him, of all people.

“Oh, come on.” he groaned, tugging at the strands, seeing how tangled it was. The blue nylon strands a jumbled mess he was supposed to undo. Task optional really, but out of the boredom, he was eager to count every singular grain of sand on the beach, rocks and shells included, just to finally do something other than sleep, listen to another reprimand or stare out of the window, pencil and a notebook in his hand. He had no talent for writing like Milo did, sketches never looked as perfect as David's, so doodling and playing tic tac toe with himself it was.

Losing for the sake of temporary thrill became pathetic really fast.

The net was finally fully on the shore, the weights covered in green film and seaweeds. A side gig, they sometimes swam into the sea to catch some fish, mostly unsuccessfully, but sometimes they managed to grab a bite big enough not only for them but also for sale. Extra money was something none of them had a right to complain about, so with clenched teeth and stupor matching a mule, they tried their luck. The better days earned them a free dinner and supplies for later, beside the obvious gratitude of the townsfolk. The bad days offered a runny nose and frozen fingers.

Fish, freshly baked, taken out of the oven with a side of thickly sliced fries, squeeze of lemon and pinch of salt, sounded heavenly to him and he was eager to accept the brussel sprouts on the plate that matched no sense of taste of the golden and crispy goods. But they appealed to David's taste buds, and whatever the boss says goes. No matter if two other men weren't as keen on the vegetable.

He was hungry, sun already in its afternoon placement on the sky, mouth salivating at the vision when he knelt down by the mess, fingers trying to untangle what seemed impossible. Seagulls above him screeched in tandem, flop of their wing making him look around, a lone feather lost, dipping itself gracefully into the sea, surface tension breaking to accommodate the sudden weight. White, tip black as night, it clashed with the greenish blue tides that were calm and remain calm they would, no change of weather announced through the crackles of their radio.

A peaceful day, it seemed. Finally. Even the world needed a moment to catch its breath and recover. And for that, he promised to be grateful.

His back ached as he bent over, deciding to finally crouch as his digits began working through the mesh, nylon strands gliding past his skin, catching on the dry spots on his knuckles and joints. Mental note to take care of those later, his hand reached for one of the weights attached at the edge of the threads, lone algae tugged off. As he turned to throw it back into the sea, his muscles stopped, frozen in place, face twisting in a grimace.

The murky water that kept washing the coast, rocks, and cracked shells littering the sand, looked…off. Darker, the foam turning a sickly brownish colour, specks of sunshine shining through the surface didn't match their usual shade.

Beside the brine and far away smell of fish, something else hit his nostrils, a memory conjuring itself in his brain. It was long time ago, barely at the beginning of them taking the post in the lighthouse, when during one of the walks they all tried to push themselves through to battle the routine, Milo suddenly yelped in pain, falling into the sand as abruptly as he screamed.

Metal piece of a broken crate, the hinge, sharpened as it cracked in half, tore itself through the sole of his foot, red immediately pouring out of the wound right into the water that reached his ankles. The tide was high that day.

Despite his protests and promises that he can walk back and let them treat it there, both David and Asher were having none of it, Milo's loudly disagreeing body was hauled over David's shoulder like it weighted nothing. Easily cleaned, dried, and wrapped up in a bandage to minimise any dirt getting into the "flesh wound" as he kept calling it, he still was limping few days later. He may have tried to pretend it was okay, that it was nothing, the word quickly becoming his new favourite one, they knew better anyway, and his whines would change nothing.

It was a good few years ago. But the smell of blood never escaped his nose, a trick morbid and curiously unnecessary to his opinion. Why was his nose so sensitive, he had no idea, and no amount of sneezing made the scent go away. The brownish colour in the water was blood, and he knew it. But he wasn't smart enough to leave it be.

"Probably just a fish. Just a fish, nothing to fear, why are you checking it–" he groaned at his inability to mind his own business, slow and cautious steps being taken in the direction from which it flew.

"Learn, Asher. Learn a thing or two for once." David's voice called out in his mind, begging in that gruff voice of his for rationality and logic.

Little did he know, his best friend possessed very little of those. Or maybe he knew, and that is why he only could beg at this point.

He reached the rock by the pier. Then, he made it through the shallows behind the said rock, one hand holding onto the wooden poles of the pier, the other holding onto a pocket knife he had in his well, pocket. A gift from his father, given on the birthday when he turned "of age" like his old man decided to joke for the whole day. He gave it to him, with a pat on his back and a "I'm proud of you, son". The edge has been sharpened many times since then, but the sentiment held strong. A brief idea to call his folks popped into his head, but he really, really had to focus on one thing at a time.

"Glad you're not here to witness it, Pops. You'd reconsider your words." with a sigh, he trudged forward, the smell getting stronger, just like the bubbling anxiety in his chest grew more intense with every sharp breath.

Kicked and disturbed sand was the first thing he noticed. Second was a washed out, fishing net. He only saw a bit of the end part, already thinking about getting it fixed with a little bit of patience, and maybe a cup of coffee to keep him company late into night. The fish that got stuck and hurt, he already pitied, quietly hoping for a decent catch. This type was used for smaller ones, like mackerels, not their speciality when it came to angling, but he wouldn't mind eating one.

The tangled and broken mesh held not a fish, but a face familiar, one he called upon in his delirium, a memory he tried to push away as far as possible. It found him anyway, in its own flesh, now trapped in what could easily be turned into their grave, were he not on the beach and able to find them.

The tunnel shape was no longer resembling a tunnel, metal hoops dented or broken entirely, few of them digging into their flesh uncomfortably, pinching and pulling where it shouldn't in the first place. How they got themselves into a trap like this, he could only imagine, and after a brief moment of staring, he had only an inkling of an idea of what could have happened.

It was not theirs, but the town's folk, used for catches bigger than what they were used to, not only in size but also in volume which was dragged onto the ships. Yet that was not the only concern of their demise, no. From the tail, surrounded by a trail of fragile and broken scales, pointing right at him, was a fishing spear shot from a gun, rather hastily.. No doubt, out of fear, or maybe greed, to catch something a person wasn't supposed to see in the first place.

The sand underneath their tail turned dark red, blood seeping into the golden. As the water pushed them out on the shore, they managed to scramble enough strength to crawl towards the shady spot behind a rock, face hidden from the scorching sun, in last effort to survive. The gills on their neck were red, swollen and dry, barely moving, chest heaving in raspy and shallow breaths they drew in their unconsciousness. However long they stayed there, in the uncomfortable position, unable to move, swim away or free themselves, they suffered in silence until they no longer could.

Asher was no heartless monster, his heart always kind to everyone, especially those who didn't deserve it, according to others. He was not cruel, and even if he wanted to be, he couldn't, knowing well this was not a dream. A debt was a debt to be paid off fully. If he didn't have it in the first place, he wouldn't forgive himself leaving them alone anyway.

He started with water, brought to their face in cupped hands, poured gently over the aggravated gills. They drank greedily, moving slightly, clearly needing more than one fistful. After a few trips of back and forth between the beach and the sea, their mouth drew the air in a rapid wheeze, cracked lips parting, sharp teeth showing for a brief moment. As they regained clarity, still being given the water, they screeched, a warning to him. Nothing more, because in their current predicament, it hurt.

Their body was pressed against the netting, one side poking out of the broken side, scales torn, spaces empty, like on a dog that began shedding season. One hand, the free one, was clawing at the sand, unable to reach him with the only weapon they had, some of the nails broken off and lost somewhere beneath the tides during their struggles. The other arm was held to their chest, bent at an awkward angle, joint no doubt strained, just like the rest of their body.

The pierced tail barely moved, every flinch making them hiss in pain, metal bar going clean through the thin layer of scales and any muscles they had under them. Not right through the body, but he suspected it was a close one.

A monster of depths at his mercy. How the tables have turned.

"I'm not here to hurt you." he started safely, hoping they could understand. Last time, they seemed like they did, and beside the setting and time, nothing changed when it came to him and his communication skills. He at least hoped so.

"You helped me before. Remember? That was mine." he pointed to the necklace on their neck that still held on, silver chain adorning the skin, moonstone embedded in its frame shining through the droplets of water that gathered on its surface, prettier than ever.

"Will you give it back if I free you? It was a gift." Milo could say whatever he wanted about not caring for a piece of jewellery trinket, but Asher knew him longer than just one day. Besides, he liked it. Selfish reason as it was, he had a right to get it back by doing something as honourable as saving a magical being, right?

The Siren nodded, no option left for them, head heavier than ever. The sun still hung high despite the late hour, drying up their body to a crisp. The blood loss made them weak, the more than warm sand they lied in was not helping at all the already miserable case. He knew he had to act and do so quickly, if only to ease the suffering. The lack of fight he was met when held at the gunpoint by them was concerning, to say the least.

Sliding the pocket knife out of his jacket and opening it, he waited a moment, checking for any reactions. None happened, none that threatened him anyway. The cat-like eyes widened, irises contracted into thin lines, yet the warning hiss died in their still parched throat, head turning to the side, cheek digging further into the ground, pointy ear no longer visible.

"Not to hurt you. I promised." and a man of his word he was, taking rightful pride in that. The first link broke apart under the carefully moving edge of the blade, as away from their skin as possible to not nick it. They didn't need any more unnecessary pain piled on.

The bigger knots gave out, pressure on their chest eased up as they could move their hand, deep breath drew in, a gasp at the sudden freedom of airways. Watching for the claws, keeping in mind the possibility of the feral-ness coming back at the moment he expected the least, he moved slowly, letting them see everything before he did, blade always in their peripheral. With one hand placed on the tail, he felt how unnaturally heated it was. They had to lay there for a long time, the scales in one place a slightly lighter colour, as if dulled by the sunshine. Or maybe he was guessing it all wrong, – what knowledge he had of magic and mystical beings that shouldn't have even been alive was only in accordance to the pages of his childhood's book. Though, a snarky "I told you so" bubbled on the tip of his tongue, targeting his sister and mother. They told him so many times to stop believing the nonsense and focus on more realistic things, and yet, he was the one facing a real Siren. That could easily rip him in half, weak state or not.

He was already playing with fire big and dangerous enough. He wished not to add the fuel.

They longer he took, the more restless they grew, squirming to the best of their abilities, breathing returning to somewhat normal rhythm, face still hiding in the shade, eyes closing whenever the clouds above drifted away, letting the sunlight out to tease what already was irritated enough. The fin at the tip of their tail tried to flop around, sharp edges looking more than ominous, but they barely moved at their will, only trembling faintly.

"I know. I know, shhh. I know it hurts." when they tried to grab or slash at his arm for accidentally tugging at a particularly sore spot, he stopped and took a moment to calm them back down, gentle coos leaving his lips with hopes of easing the discomfort enough to let him continue. He was way kinder than any logic should have allowed him to be, speaking and comforting the creature like it was a human like him. This was ridiculous. From the start, up until this point, he didn't stop for a moment to think about what he was doing in the first place.

He was freeing a siren. Blood lust, hungry and luring sailors to their demise, and he was freeing it from the fishing net because it tangled itself after probably swimming far too close to a fishing boat, earning themselves a spear through their tail when the fishermen aboard noticed the curiosity. The natural and very humane reaction was to panic, but to shoot on sight? Maybe he had a stomach too weak for it, the suffering that began to paint their face didn't sit well with him at all.

But didn't others deserve the softness of an embrace and words of comfort, too? He couldn't leave them to suffer or be the one behind it, if only on accident.

They blinked, mouth pulled in an obviously pained grimace, tips of the sharp teeth visible, but no strength to act upon the threat. Pity, he could offer. But also another splash of water he gently poured over their neck, gills eagerly drinking it up, be it for the oxygen in it, or maybe for the cool temperature that soothed the burned skin, he wasn't one to dwell on the matter. Not when he still had work to do.

Despite the growing frustration, he continued the meticulous effort, net falling in torn scraps around their body, metal hoops pulled apart in his arms, sleeves of the windbreaker he had on rolled up to his elbows. Where patience was lacking, he made up with skill, slender fingers twisting what the blade couldn't reach without possibility of harm, pulling the threads, easing the pressure and gently massaging the sore spots in which the nylon dug deep, indents visible in the scales, quite a lot of them missing, no doubt due to friction.

The worst still remained. All of what was left of the trap was discarded aside, although the bolt, despite rather small, still managed to lodge itself deep in the flesh.

The fishermen who shot it must have taken them for a shark. Or another threat, he hoped so at least. If a word went around about a mystical creature, he was sure the poor thing would not get a moment of peace anymore, a prey to be hunted, a prize to carry around and decorate some rich prick's living room just like the game from the forest. There would always be someone eager to harm, for the sake of bragging later.

"You need to be more careful, fishy." he hummed, hair that fell over his forehead brushed back. Unsure how to proceed, he rubbed his face, considering all his options.

Stalling, they thought. Maybe waiting for others to come.

And they hated the idea. Their body, as weak as it was, tried to move on its own. Being set free, it began to turn, hands pushing them up enough to try and crawl back to the sea. He helped them enough to do so, their mobility, even if still restricted, returned at some level. They could take care of the rest themselves or let it rot, but they wouldn't let themselves be caught anew. One time was enough for a whole lifetime.

They didn't see the fishing nets, thin threads almost disappearing fully in the sunlight that breached the surface of the water. One tug at the fin on the back of their tail, and they knew they were gone, trashing and crying out in anger, not helping deep beneath the tides, where they had only themselves to count on. Loneliness and all, there was no other soul to come in tow. Until the boat arrived, and one of the men who peeked through the boat's side gasped at the erratic movement, his old and rugged face twisting in an expression they immediately grew to hate. He shot blindly but hit right on the spot.

The people of the town were greedy. They cared for things their mind did not understand, not fully at least. They were afraid of water, always using the boats instead. They ate fish like them, but never raw, always cooked, the smell carrying itself over water. They fished much more than they ate and always kept coming for more, disturbing the peace and solitude the sea offered.

He said he wouldn't hurt.

But could they trust anything or anyone but themselves?

"Hey, what are you doing?" his voice boomed in their ears when they tried again, muscles like jelly, body straining itself to reach the waters. Just another push, maybe two or three, and they would swim away, disappear from the prying eyes and curiosity which would bring nothing good. Even though he, as interesting as it was to study him from afar, was not enough of a reason to stay and risk their life, pain still a fresh reminder of what people had stored for them.

One more push–

Their hand fell limply in front of them, vision blurring, sticky blood trickling down the scaly tail, a trail of red left behind on the beige of the sand, hook angled and digging deeper with every pathetic move. Instead of running away to make it better, the matter quickly turned worse.

They didn't have the strength to defend their pride when they felt his hands on them once more, faint callouses on his fingertips pushing and prodding as gently as possible around the puncture wound. Voice murmuring something, sound carrying itself over the tides of both the water and their exhaustion. Maybe last rites, before they parted ways, blade soon sinking into their ribcage. Maybe a hopeful quip, one they knew he liked giving around, a comment always spoken when it may not be a time appropriate for it. Comedic relief of the group, heart on his hand, smile never fake. Maybe he said nothing at all, and it was just the hum of the sea, motherland calling back for them, to return and to lay on the bottom as they should. A statue, a piece lost in time, never to be seen.

The thick fog, despite bright and clear day, gathered in front of their tired eyes, fight lost long time ago, kept only for the sake of an appearance no one but them cared about. He saw right through it. He was the one to gather the pieces into one messy pile after all, nothing to hide, not from him.

The spear gave out, something was pressed against the tail, and they could only heave, dry rasp dying in the back of their throat, never to be heard. More water offered, straight to their lips as he rolled them onto their back.

"Drink," he whispered, one hand on the nape of their neck. Their head only lolled backwards, glassy eyes staring at the sky, the blue looking so different than the one of well-known depths. One they were more familiar with. But it brought some comfort, the same colour staring back as they drew what little breaths they had.

They almost looked scared. The tables have turned, and it was them on his mercy instead, but he took no satisfaction from it at all, quite the opposite. Pity was high among, but so was worry, and a sense of pure need to help them, monster or not. From up close, despite the unnatural teeth and gills, the meaning of "monster" lost between the verses, definition no longer applying.

People were greedy, but it was the sea that taught them to be. And they took what the sea had to offer too.