My heart is pierced by Cupid,
I disdain all glittering gold.
There is nothing can console me
But my jolly sailor bold.
His hair, it hangs in ringlets
His eyes as black as coal.
My happiness attend him,
Wherever he may go.
Should he return in pov'rty
From o'er the ocean far,
To my tender bosom
I'll press my jolly tar.
Come, all you pretty fair maids,
Whoever you may be.
Who love a jolly sailor
That ploughs the raging sea.
While up aloft in storm,
From me his absence mourn.
And firmly pray arrive the day
He's never more to roam.
My heart is pierced by Cupid
I disdain all glittering gold
There is nothing can console me
But my jolly sailor bold..
(John Ashton, 1891)
And in an instant, somehow, she was back there.
Enveloped in the eternally welcoming embrace of the sea. Her sea. There could never be another one like this one. Endless stretches of open ocean, as far as the mind could fathom.
Shallow waters, turquoise-blue and sparkling in the sun, carpeted with silken white sands. Stormy seas with waves higher than the tallest mountain a mortal could dream of; oh, how she remembered riding those, and touching the clouds in the sky above.
And the Deep. Black, cold, haunted. Full of white, blind things that writhed and hunted. Where the ancient ones slept, and Dreamed. To hear them was madness; to see them, death; but ah, how sweet their voices were.
She was singing. She always was. Always the Foremost Siren, while her sisters looped intricate, frenzied circles around the tall ships of the surfacefolk.
Minthe was the prettiest of pictures. It was her calling, after all. Her fins were onyx, dark as night, absolutely unique amongst all the Mer she’d ever encountered. White gems, formed into the shapes of the strange and wild constellations of her night sky, sparkled from between her delicate scales.
She reclined atop a wide, flat plateau in the center of the tiny coral atoll, her amethyst hair blowing free and wearing naught but her gems. She was amidst a sparkling pool, just a few inches deep, and she sang.
Listing dangerously to port, the tall ship drew nearer; mast half-furled. A massive crew of corsairs, the largest she’d ever seen, hung over the sides, eyes glassy and mouths agape. The helmsman had long leapt overboard, the wheel spinning freely in the whipping wind that so efficiently carried her voice to them.
Child’s play. How she hated it.
My heart is pierced by Cupid,
I disdain all glittering gold.
There is nothing can console me
But my jolly sailor bold..
She stretched languidly, fully displaying the dazzling beauty of her scales with coy grace. She didn’t – couldn’t – stop singing.
The men were silent; their cries of alarm turning into whimpers and panting moans long ago. A dropped lantern burst into a thousand tinkling shards, the only sound in existence beyond Minthe’s song.
Until the flames reached the powder magazine.
Sound, and then no sound.
The bejeweled fins of her sisters churned the water around the remains of the ship to a crimson froth, and she turned away.
And she was staring directly into the wide, frightened, unfocused eyes of the captain.
She knew it was he – his bedraggled, elaborate hat and ornate cutlass marking him the way they always marked them. He clutched an empty, splintered chest that floated high above the waterline; blown by the heat and force of the blast to her side.
Minthe opened her mouth to begin the song, as she always did, and…
She couldn’t.
Because he was. Or at least, he was trying to. One hand held up in a bleary, pleading motion, he roughly began to hum a few bars of the shanty that the crew had been dancing to the moment before she had ensnared them.
A feeling she did not understand washed over her like the jagged, smoking ice of the northern seas. This could not happen.
She cut him off abruptly, averting her own sapphire eyes from his wide, dark, frightened ones.
My heart is pierced by Cupid
I disdain all glittering gold
There is nothing can console me
But my jolly sailor bold..
All remaining traces of fear left the captain’s eyes. He was at peace, and he reached for her more boldly.
She had him.
His eyes fell closed, and she took his Dreams into herself. If one was watching closely, and their wits were unbewildered, they might have seen a small, sinuous, misty stream of silver fog escaping with the man’s shuddering exhales. But no one was watching.
She closed her eyes, as well, and allowed the shimmering mist to surround her. Minthe breathed deeply.
His Dreams tasted of lust and blood and cruelty and terror; harsh, unyielding, but… something else, something beneath. She shuddered.
The man’s body was now limp, slumped against the razor-sharp coral surrounding Minthe’s pool. She was unsure if he yet lived. She was unsure if it mattered. Deftly slipping into deeper, more comforting waters, she made to join her sisters.
And then she woke up, back in this strange, new place. The shop, where she’d been graciously allowed to sleep, was dark. Nothing remained to Minthe of this life before, of her life, but her voice. And her Dreams.
All of them.
I disdain all glittering gold.
There is nothing can console me
But my jolly sailor bold.
His hair, it hangs in ringlets
His eyes as black as coal.
My happiness attend him,
Wherever he may go.
Should he return in pov'rty
From o'er the ocean far,
To my tender bosom
I'll press my jolly tar.
Come, all you pretty fair maids,
Whoever you may be.
Who love a jolly sailor
That ploughs the raging sea.
While up aloft in storm,
From me his absence mourn.
And firmly pray arrive the day
He's never more to roam.
My heart is pierced by Cupid
I disdain all glittering gold
There is nothing can console me
But my jolly sailor bold..
(John Ashton, 1891)
And in an instant, somehow, she was back there.
Enveloped in the eternally welcoming embrace of the sea. Her sea. There could never be another one like this one. Endless stretches of open ocean, as far as the mind could fathom.
Shallow waters, turquoise-blue and sparkling in the sun, carpeted with silken white sands. Stormy seas with waves higher than the tallest mountain a mortal could dream of; oh, how she remembered riding those, and touching the clouds in the sky above.
And the Deep. Black, cold, haunted. Full of white, blind things that writhed and hunted. Where the ancient ones slept, and Dreamed. To hear them was madness; to see them, death; but ah, how sweet their voices were.
She was singing. She always was. Always the Foremost Siren, while her sisters looped intricate, frenzied circles around the tall ships of the surfacefolk.
Minthe was the prettiest of pictures. It was her calling, after all. Her fins were onyx, dark as night, absolutely unique amongst all the Mer she’d ever encountered. White gems, formed into the shapes of the strange and wild constellations of her night sky, sparkled from between her delicate scales.
She reclined atop a wide, flat plateau in the center of the tiny coral atoll, her amethyst hair blowing free and wearing naught but her gems. She was amidst a sparkling pool, just a few inches deep, and she sang.
Listing dangerously to port, the tall ship drew nearer; mast half-furled. A massive crew of corsairs, the largest she’d ever seen, hung over the sides, eyes glassy and mouths agape. The helmsman had long leapt overboard, the wheel spinning freely in the whipping wind that so efficiently carried her voice to them.
Child’s play. How she hated it.
My heart is pierced by Cupid,
I disdain all glittering gold.
There is nothing can console me
But my jolly sailor bold..
She stretched languidly, fully displaying the dazzling beauty of her scales with coy grace. She didn’t – couldn’t – stop singing.
The men were silent; their cries of alarm turning into whimpers and panting moans long ago. A dropped lantern burst into a thousand tinkling shards, the only sound in existence beyond Minthe’s song.
Until the flames reached the powder magazine.
Sound, and then no sound.
The bejeweled fins of her sisters churned the water around the remains of the ship to a crimson froth, and she turned away.
And she was staring directly into the wide, frightened, unfocused eyes of the captain.
She knew it was he – his bedraggled, elaborate hat and ornate cutlass marking him the way they always marked them. He clutched an empty, splintered chest that floated high above the waterline; blown by the heat and force of the blast to her side.
Minthe opened her mouth to begin the song, as she always did, and…
She couldn’t.
Because he was. Or at least, he was trying to. One hand held up in a bleary, pleading motion, he roughly began to hum a few bars of the shanty that the crew had been dancing to the moment before she had ensnared them.
A feeling she did not understand washed over her like the jagged, smoking ice of the northern seas. This could not happen.
She cut him off abruptly, averting her own sapphire eyes from his wide, dark, frightened ones.
My heart is pierced by Cupid
I disdain all glittering gold
There is nothing can console me
But my jolly sailor bold..
All remaining traces of fear left the captain’s eyes. He was at peace, and he reached for her more boldly.
She had him.
His eyes fell closed, and she took his Dreams into herself. If one was watching closely, and their wits were unbewildered, they might have seen a small, sinuous, misty stream of silver fog escaping with the man’s shuddering exhales. But no one was watching.
She closed her eyes, as well, and allowed the shimmering mist to surround her. Minthe breathed deeply.
His Dreams tasted of lust and blood and cruelty and terror; harsh, unyielding, but… something else, something beneath. She shuddered.
The man’s body was now limp, slumped against the razor-sharp coral surrounding Minthe’s pool. She was unsure if he yet lived. She was unsure if it mattered. Deftly slipping into deeper, more comforting waters, she made to join her sisters.
And then she woke up, back in this strange, new place. The shop, where she’d been graciously allowed to sleep, was dark. Nothing remained to Minthe of this life before, of her life, but her voice. And her Dreams.
All of them.
Contrary to popular belief, the wings of demons are the same as the wings of angels, although they're often better groomed.
--Neil Gaiman
--Neil Gaiman