#thindol

You lounge across the couch—white, the only person you know who has white couches, another one of the underpinnings of her wealth—watching as Zaria sits down at her harp. She looks to you, studying your languid repose with a sharp eye.

Getting her to agree to this had been a trial. But you want to hear her, the actual her, not the human veneer she puts on. She’d warned you of the effects, and you’d accepted the risks. You’re not a mortal after all.

The first step isn’t entirely pleasant, a sort of dislocation of your energy within your shell. It’s not enough to slip outside of the fleshy protection of your skin, but it’s enough to let you passively access more of your Grace, enough to hopefully protect you from the mind-altering effects of her voice.

Long fingers dance across the thin wires, and at first you don’t hear anything, but you can feel it, resonating along the edges of your Grace. Closing your eyes, you lean into the sensation, and slowly the sound swells in your ears as you adjust your auditory receptors to hear the appropriate frequencies.

It takes a touch more of your power than you probably should be using, but surely the low-level power you’re giving off will go unnoticed. If it isn’t, well, you’ll have your evening interrupted by either an extremely irate guardian angel overseer, or some other uninvited guest.

Her strumming is loose, the sounds beautiful but not forming any sort of coherent piece. Opening your eyes, you can see the tight line of her mouth, the only sign of her nervousness. She’s good at closing herself down, at hiding her thoughts and feelings behind an impassive mask. Society has taught her to hide herself away, to be practiced, perfect in every interaction. More-so because a single lapse, a moment of anger could easily have major repercussions. Sauti ya hila weren’t a populous race, and few resided in this plane, but there’s a reason humans fear sirens.

“You won’t hurt me.”

Her eyes flash to yours, wide with surprise that she can hear you. You’d pitched your voice to the same range as the harp string, startling her.

“Suggestion is… a powerful tool. We are meant to… prey on those who hear us.” She’d told you about how she’d fought with her mother to spend time on earth, to live and work here. How her mother had considered it perfect for honing her hunting practices.

How she’d muzzled herself, how she’d swallowed her words as much as possible. Stay quiet, work hard. But she spoke in other ways, with her body, with the way she dressed, with the written word.

“Oh, am I your prey now? Kinky.”

She snorts, one side of her mouth twitching up in an unbidden smile. It’s not as good as her full-blown smile where the white of her teeth flashes against her dark skin, her whole face lighting up with joy, but it’s a start.

This time when she caresses music from her harp, the sound has purpose, sliding into a soft, deep lullaby. After a few stanzas she begins to sing, an ethereal, haunting sounds that bypasses every safeguard you’d put in place. The sound builds, swells within your chest and though the lyrics are nothing you understand, no tongue spoken by the native inhabitants of earth, you know what the words say.

Your eyes fall obediently closed as her power washes over you. You can’t fight it; there’s nothing tangible to push back against. Who doesn’t want to close their eyes for a bit? Let your worries drift away to be replaced with the echoing chords. You find yourself humming along, impossibly, to this song you’ve never heard before, a smile curving your lips.

The urge to tell her how exquisite her playing is passes, replaced by a knowledge that it’s better to sit quietly lest you disrupt a single note of this masterpiece. That would be a trespass not easily forgiven, since she’s deigned to give you a personal recital.

Somewhere in the deep, infinite recesses of your soul something stirs, a warning, a discordant cry that clashes horribly with the peaceful waves of sound washing over you. But like an undertow, before you can surface you’re pulled deeper, drowning in the song.

A hand shakes your shoulder and you stir, brow furrowed as you stare up into a pair of anxious violet eyes. Amethyst, some might say, but not the cloudy version you see most often. No, this is like the deep purple of a geode cracked open, pried from the depths of the earth but glowing within.

Her hand points at you and then her thumb moves in a circle, and though you’re fluent by this point it still takes a moment to process her question.

“Yeah,” you croak while nodding, your voice dry like you’ve been out for hours. In fact, you feel like you’ve rested for days, though you have no recollection of falling asleep. Her shoulders sag and her eyes close, the tension bleeding from her features and leaving them slack.

Reaching for her, you cup her cheek, waiting until her eyes open again. Love you, you mouth, refusing to let go of her face and your other arm too weak with lingering drowsiness to move.

She sighs, shaking her head.

“That was a dangerous request,” she signs, her eyes narrowing to convey her displeasure.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, sitting upright and signing back.

Her lips purse and you know she disagrees with that statement. It’s why she wears contacts more often than not. It’s why she hates to speak unless absolutely necessary.

“You are no monster.” Not human, certainly not, but neither are you. And she doesn’t hunt humans. When she uses her powers, sparingly, begrudgingly, only when all other avenues have been exhausted, it’s for the greater good.

She has a human heart, you think.

And, while it might be the lingering effects of her voice—it’s interesting to note how easily she affected you, and you wonder if it’s because of your relationship, since Sauti ya hila usually appear as exquisite specimens of humans, the better to lure them in and then devour them—but of all the ways you’ve contemplated your own ending, dying to nourish her isn’t such a terrible fate.

“I know. But power is a temptation, and I prefer to avoid unnecessary temptations,” she signs back, her motions subdued, small and tight. “Let’s not do it again.”

“I had a good nap though,” you reply cheekily as you coax her into sitting on the couch beside you. “And I like listening to you be yourself.”

She shakes her head, folding her long limbs onto the couch like a tulip closing its petals at night as the light fades. “That isn’t me.”

“But it is part of you, Zaria. And I don’t want you to feel like you ever have to hide any part of you from me.”

She leans forward, pressing her forehead to yours, pushing until you’re once again flat out on the couch, Zaria hovering over you.