Bound By The Sea

PART 01/02
The water ripples as his boat floats by. The moon reflects off its surface, casting an almost ethereal glow around it. The night air is cool and the gentle sounds of the waves soothe his weary soul. It's been days since his last catch. Doubt lingers in his mind. The sea has always provided, but lately, it has been silent.
But the silence won't feed his family.
He looked over at the water, its surface shifting under the moonlight. His net lay empty at his feet. He exhaled slowly, watching as his breath curled into the cold air.
He was a fisherman and that's all he had ever known. The waves lapped against his boat as he dips his fingers into the water, letting the chill seep into his skin. It is an old habit--one he does not remember when he started. Perhaps as a child, when his father first brought him to the sea. Back then, the water had always felt alive, pulsing with the promise of abundance but now it felt empty.
The city at the shore has gone quiet for the night, its lights flickering like distant stars against the darkness.
The world feels smaller in the stillness, as if the sea has swallowed up all sound, all movement--leaving only him and the restless water.
He pulls his fingers from the sea, rubbing them together as the cold bites at his skin. His stomach twists with unease. He has never feared the ocean before, but something about tonight feels different.
He gathers his net and gazes up at the moon, his lips moving in a silent prayer. Then with practised hands he casts the net, waiting, watching.
The net spreads wide before sinking beneath the surface, swallowed by the dark embrace of the sea. He grips the rope tightly, feeling the familiar weight of anticipation settle in his chest. The ocean has always tested his patience, but tonight, the wait feels heavier.
The seconds stretch, his heartbeat keeping time with the lapping waves. He knows patience--has lived by it all his life--but tonight, every moment feels heavier, pressing against his ribs.
Then, a pull.
Subtle at first, just a faint tug against his hands. His breath stills as he tightens his grip, his muscles tensing. Another pull--stronger this time, insistent. His pulse quickens. It has been days since he last felt this resistance, this promise of a catch.
Whatever the net has caught, he is going to make a good fortune out of it.
He steadies himself, bracing his feet against the wooden planks of the boat. His hands tighten around the rope as he begins to haul the net in, the weight of his catch heavier than expected. His muscles strain, but there is a flicker of hope in his chest.
He struggles, just for a second, his heart beating away with a excitement he hadn't felt for days. The ocean has certainly not abandoned him. He pulled the net as fast as he could but as the net neared the surface, something felt off.
He didn't catch a school of fish... something far from it. He has heard stories about it but never thought is could be real.
Entangled in the net, struggling with frantic desperation, was something that should not exist. A monster known for her songs that lured men like him to their doom.
But nothing about her seemed montstous at that moment
This wasn't the predator the old men warned of. This wasn't a hunter dragging him toward ruin.
This was a creature fighting for her life.
The net had tangles around her arms and the more she moved, the tighter it got.
He was frozen in place. He had never seen such a think in his life. He could still use her to earn some money.
Creatures like her were worth more money than any fish he could ever dream to catch in his net.
His family needed food. His debts loomed over him like storm clouds. The temptation was undeniable.
He looked at her and took a step closer. All her thrashing against the boat almost tipped it over. She was trapped. Helpless.
And he was the one who held her fate in his hands.
He knelt down infront of her and grabbed her arm, 'you want to escape?' he asked, 'then stop moving around so much. I don't know how to swim and I don't want to get wet.'
'Then let me go, human. Why do you have me trapped.'
The fisherman hesitated, his grip tightening around the rough, wet rope. Now that he was close, he could see her properly.
Her skin, though smooth, was pale beneath the moonlight. Too pale. Her arms were slender, too thin, as if she hadn't eaten in days. Her ribs were faintly visible beneath the shimmer of her skin, and her cheeks were sunken in.
'You are starving.'
It was more of an observation than a question.
The siren's gaze flickered, her lips pressing into a thin line as if debating whether to answer him. Then, slowly, she nodded.
"How?" he asked, his voice quieter now. "How does something like you starve?"
'you are the one to ask?' she hissed, 'the sea is empty. Not just for you but for us too.'
She looked at him, 'i know you just want to survive. But have you ever wondered how much your kind is taking from us?'
The fisherman frowned. He had never considered it before. The sea had always been vast, endless in its generosity--until it wasn't.
He opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught in his throat.
She laughed half heartefly, 'you people think that we are monsters. You drain the sea, strip it bare, and then call us monsters when we struggle to live. My people never wanted to hurt you but you leave us with no choice.'
He had heard stories of sirens dragging men into the depths, of their haunting songs luring sailors to their doom. But maybe, just maybe, those weren't songs of hunger.
Maybe they were songs of desperation, something that could help them save themselves from the monsters of the land.
'We don't prey on humans' she said, 'we never did.'
he exhaled. "Then why do people go missing? Why do ships sink? If not by your kind, then who?"
her lips curled in something between bitterness and amusement. "You think the sea is kind? You think she only takes when we call for her?" Her eyes, sharp even in their exhaustion, met his. "Humans build ships too heavy for her to hold. They sail into storms they do not understand. They take and take, and when the sea reclaims what is hers, you blame us."
She leaned in, whatever distance the net would allow, 'the sea gives but not without limits.' she whispered, 'and when you take too much, she will take something in return'.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked, his voice quieter now.
'Take what you want to survive. No more no less.'
He looked down at her, at the way her breath came shallow and uneven. He could still trade her for more money than he had ever seen. He could take her to the market, to the men who would pay handsomely for a creature like her. His debts would be gone. His family would eat.
But at what cost?
He took a knife out of his pocket and watched as her shoulder tensed. But he didn't use it on her, instead he cut her free.
The net was dear to him but he had no other choice.
'Don't go just yet' he said, 'i don't want to be the monster you believe i am.'
He pulled out a piece of bread from his supplies and handed it to her, 'this is not much but just know i am not like the others.'
The siren stared at the offering, her expression unreadable. Her fingers hesitated before curling around the piece of bread. It was rough, stale from the salt in the air, but to her, it might as well have been gold.
She didn't thank him--perhaps it wasn't in her nature--but she took a small bite, chewing slowly. The fisherman watched as her shoulders relaxed, just slightly, as if the weight of her hunger had pressed too heavily upon her for too long.
'My wife baked it for me. But it is not as fresh as before. I have nothing else to offer but i hope this is enough' he smiled.
He sat back, giving her some space. He pulled a medicine kit as she ate and slowly pushed it to her.
The siren eyed the small tin box warily, her fingers still clutching the piece of bread. "What is this?" she asked.
"Medicine," the fisherman said simply. "For your wounds."
She scoffed, shifting in place. "Do you think a little human remedy can mend what your kind has done?"
He exhaled, glancing out at the endless stretch of water. "No," he admitted. "But it's a start."
He glazed at the water once more, 'i know you don't trust me. I wouldn't trust someone like me either. But i work only for myself. Call it selfish if you want' he shrugged, 'but other fishermen who come here? They are worse.'
'I know.'
'I am not saying that i am all high and mighty. But on our behalf i apologise'
"You think an apology is enough?" she asked, voice quiet but laced with something sharp.
"No," he said honestly. "But it's all I have to offer."
She looked down at the bread in her hands, turning it over slowly as if she wasn't sure what to do with it. "Your kind takes and takes," she murmured. "But you... you give."
The fisherman let out a dry chuckle. "Don't make me sound like a saint. I'm just a man trying to make it through the day."
"Your people," he said after a moment of silence, "do they still sing?"
The siren's eyes narrowed. "Why do you ask?"
"I've heard the stories." He shrugged. "But if it's true that you don't hunt men, then why the songs?"
She tilted her head, considering him. "You assume we sing for you."
His brows furrowed. "Then who--"
"For the sea," she interrupted. "For the ones we have lost. For the ones who will never return." Her voice was quiet, carrying the weight of something old and aching. "We sing to remember."
The fisherman swallowed. He had never thought of it like that.
"You know," he said after a moment, "I lost my father to the sea."
The siren's gaze flickered to him, something unreadable crossing her features. "Did you?"
He nodded. "Years ago. He set sail before dawn, just like always. But the waves were cruel that day. His boat never came back." He exhaled. "People said it was your kind. Said you dragged him under."
He scoffed,
"You know how people are. They always need something to blame."
The siren's lips pressed into a thin line. "And you? Did you believe them?"
He was quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing the grain of the wooden boat. "I did," he admitted. "For a long time, I hated the stories. Hated the idea of creatures lurking beneath the waves, waiting to steal men away."
She hummed, a low, knowing sound. "And now?"
"Now..." He sighed, shaking his head. "Now, I think the sea just takes what it wants." His gaze drifted to her. "Maybe it was never you at all."
"The sea takes," she repeated. "It takes without reason, without mercy. Just as it gives." Her fingers curled around the last crumbs of bread. "You think we are its monsters, but we are just another piece of it, caught in its will like you."
He nodded, his gaze distant as he considered her words. "I suppose we all are," he murmured.
The siren watched him, something shifting in her expression--something almost like understanding.
"You lost your father," she said, tilting her head. "And yet, you still go to sea."
He let out a dry chuckle. "What else would I do?" He gestured around them, at the boat, at the horizon stretching endlessly before them. "It's all I know."
The siren studied him for a long moment, her fingers idly tracing patterns against the worn wood of the boat. "And if the sea takes you too?"
'Then i'll just take it as a punishment for my greed.'
The siren's eyes darkened, her gaze lingering on him as if she could see straight through to the depths of his soul. "Punishment?" she echoed. "You think the sea chooses who deserves to be taken?"
He let out a slow breath, staring at the water's endless, shifting surface. "Maybe not. But sometimes, it feels like it." His fingers tightened around the oar. "Men like me... we take from the sea, more than we should. More than we need. Then we boast around for taking innocent lives but we too have no choice. My men know nothing else. How are we to live without anything else. This is all we know."
The siren's gaze didn't waver. "You think survival is an excuse?"
He hesitated, then shook his head. "No. But it's the truth." His voice was rough, edged with something heavy--guilt, maybe, or just exhaustion. " we aren't proud of what we do. But we do it anyway."
She was silent for a long moment, watching him as if weighing his words. Then, she sighed. "The sea does not care for excuses."
He let out a dry chuckle. "No. It doesn't."
He took the bandages out and silently patches her wounds up. He didn't say a word, just mended the wounds he had caused.
'I could have easily sold you but then....taking another life for my comfort? That's not what i do.' he said.
She should have left the second she was out from that net, but the honesty in the man's voice kept her still.
He had shared his food with her even though he was starving himself. He had used his meagre amount of medicines on her and he had not asked anything in return.
Yet...
'What makes you so different?' she asked
The fisherman exhaled, his fingers tightening around the edge of the boat. "Maybe I'm not different," he said. "Maybe I've taken just as much as any other man who's cast his net into these waters."
The siren watched him, waiting.
He shook his head. "But I know when to stop." His voice was quiet, steady. "The others--they risk everything for more. More fish, more coin, more than they'll ever need. They push past the warnings, past the storms, thinking they can take without consequence." His gaze drifted to the endless horizon. "But the sea doesn't bargain. It doesn't care how much you want or how much you lose."
Her fingers traced the wood beneath them, thoughtful. "And you?"
"I've seen men drown in their own greed," he murmured. "Seen them sail too far, take too much, and never come back. I know what happens when you try to own something that was never yours to begin with." He met her gaze, something resolute in his eyes. "I take only what I need. Nothing more."
He looked at her and smiled.
'When you take too much from the sea' he said, 'she takes something in return...that is something my father always used to tell me. And i have lived by it ever since. You didn't have to tell me that earlier and that is why i work all on my own. The others take more than they need and i don't want to be a part of it.'
'Then it's not selfish at all. That's what makes you different' she returned the smile.
A quiet understanding passed between them, carried by the gentle lapping of the waves against the boat. The siren looked at him--not as a fisherman, not as a hunter, but as something else. Someone else.
"You choose to be different," she said. "Even when it would be easier not to."
She picked the torn net and gave it back to him, 'but you still needed it to survive'
He hesitated before taking the net from her hands, his fingers brushing against the frayed edges. It was ruined--torn and barely usable--but he understood what she meant.
It was damaged--just like everything else in his life--but still, it could be mended.
'I can fix this but those wounds...'
He lowered his gaze, 'i am sorry.'