Chapter Text
Little glossary:
Matelotage - a formal 17th-18th century economic and personal partnership between two sailors or buccaneers, often viewed as a form of "pirate marriage." Partners shared income, inherited each other's property, and pledged mutual protection.
Kitsune - a Japanese fox spirit
Jorogumo - a Japanese spider who can shapeshift into a woman, capable of poisoning her victims
Nihongo - Japanese (the language of Nihon)
[note: i tried editing this in the dark under the covers, but if there are any mistakes. yikes yeah sorry. i feel like im seeing visions atp i need to sleep]
“You want me to feed a siren?”
Urogi snorted, leaning back on his hands as he sat on the long bench of the mess table. It was early in the morning, dawn hadn’t fully broken yet, the light filtering through the stern windows pale and thin.
His prosthetic leg was propped before him, the bronze metal braced against the table’s edge.
Honestly, when Kokushibo summoned him this early in the morning, he thought it was for something serious. Not whatever this request was.
“Well that’s a new one,” Urogi went on, tilting his head with a crooked grin.
“Don’t suppose you'd let me toss Enmu in a pot instead? Might make for better flavour. Though I can’t promise he won’t poison us all — OW!”
“Hold still,” Nakime snapped.
She crouched before him, holding a spanner in one hand as she tightened the bolts around the hilt of the prosthetic, where the metal met flesh.
Around them lay bits of disassembled components. From pins to bolts, to small plates of metal shaped from whatever alloy Urogi had scavenged from prior raids. On one piece of metal, a crude phoenix had been etched onto it, a signature of sorts.
Urogi flinched as the pressure increased.
“Oi. Watch it!”
“Stop moving,” Nakime said flatly, not even glancing up.
She peered closer at a fragmented segment and her brows furrowed into a frown.
“You’ve worn this part down again,” she muttered, blowing away the metal dust before prying it loose. “I’ve told you before. The hinge here at the ankle isn’t designed to withstand repeated strain. You need to stop putting so much weight on it.”
Urogi shrugged. “That just means I’m using it properly.”
“Proper use doesn’t include climbing a mast under fire and swinging from it like a lunatic,” Nakime replied dryly, fixing him with a glare.
“The next time you do something so reckless,” she added, tightening the final bolt, “I will not repair it.”
Urogi watched her for a moment as she leaned in closer, pushing her long ponytail over one shoulder so it would not interfere with her work.
A slow grin spread across his face.
“You say that every time,” he said lightly. “Yet here you are. Always here to fix what I’ve broken. The same will happen next time too.”
“If there is anything left to repair next time,” she muttered, eyes cast down. “I’m not building you a new leg. Unlike the last one you shattered.”
She paused slightly, hands stilling briefly against the metal, before adding, “I prefer to see you in one piece.”
She said quietly enough that her words were almost missed.
But Urogi’s smile only grew wider. “Careful. Say things like that and you’ll make the others jealous.”
Nakime gave him a flat look. “They’re not the ones responsible for maintaining you.”
Urogi’s gold eyes lit up in delight. “Oh? Are you saying I belong to only you now?”
The wrench twisted sharply.
Urogi jerked.
“OW—! You did that on purpose!”
As they continued to banter, Kokushibo stood to the side, silently watching.
There was a rhythm to them, an ease in the way their words crossed and collided, as though each already knew where the other would land. Carrying a familiarity that can only be forged through time.
Even in the midst of the quarrel, there was an alignment in their movements. Nakime’s hands steadying where Urogi shifted too far, Urogi yielding just enough for her to finish her work without obstruction.
At first glance, the pairing had never made sense to him.
Urogi was impulsive and reckless. Testing danger with every ship they raided as if the threat of death were nothing more than a sport. And Nakime, by contrast, had always been shrewd and logical, methodical in both her carpentry and how she manned the Infinity.
So it was all the more surprising when the two had requested a matelotage. And for him to grant it discreetly, without the other members’ knowledge.
It had certainly been unexpected. For two of the most polarising members of his crew to bind themselves to a union that granted each other not only shared assets, but also mutual protection.
It meant more than pledging to inherit for property. It was pledging for each other’s trust.
Kokushibo had never known the truth behind how Urogi lost his leg. He wasn’t present when it happened, having been sent on a minor expedition on land, and had left Akaza to man the Infinity at the time.
Most of what he’s heard were over embellished stories, told by Urogi himself, always spoken of in one of the many coastal taverns, and drunk beyond coherency.
Sometimes it was a great sea creature who bit it off. Another times, it was after an encounter with a female Navy Corps officer, whose sword thrashed like a living whip that tore through his flesh.
But in all versions of the story, one thing remained consistent.
Nakime had always been the one to find him in the aftermath.
In the unspoken code of the Kizuki, if a crew member was mortally injured there were two options. They either abandoned the crew member with their injury. Or, they grant them a swift and honourable death.
In the past, Kokushibo had utilised both. Enough to know that recovery was not simply possible for a severed leg.
And yet, neither fate reached Urogi. For Nakime had insisted he be rescued.
Nakime was not one to voice emotion, and yet the gesture of spending countless nights creating a prosthetic to rebuilt what remained, was more than what a thousand words could express.
Kokushibo turned back to the two. “It matters little what the siren eats,” he said, returning to the matter at hand. “Aizetsu recommends a meat based broth. Thin enough to swallow without effort.”
Urogi shrugged, putting his hands behind his head. “Sure, I can do that. But uh…will there even be a point to it? I mean the siren’s still unconscious right? Can’t exactly feed it if it’s not awake.”
Kokushibo considered this. He wasn’t wrong. The siren could barely open its eyes, let alone have the energy to consume anything. Aizetsu’s warning echoed through his mind.
There is a possibility it may not wake at all.
“That will be addressed later,” Kokushibo replied evenly. “Prepare it regardless.”
Urogi gave a loose nod. “Aye, Captain.”
After a while longer, Nakime had finished her adjustments.
She gave the leg a final inspection, testing the articulation of the ankle. Once she was satisfied, she gathered her tools and placed each back into a wooden chest.
Urogi swung his leg lightly once, testing the balance. “Good as new,” he said with a grin.
“Try not to destroy it before noon,” Nakime replied, rising from where she crouched.
She smoothed out the fabric of her dress once, before following Urogi towards the galley.
The galley was a narrow, low ceilinged space. A rather tight fit for Urogi himself, let alone for three of them to enter at once.
Kokushibo rarely entered the galley for the air within it was thick with the scent of smoke, salt, and the old oil from the ship’s iron stove that clung stubbornly to the timbers and any piece of clothing it came into contact with.
The stove itself was fixed to the deck with iron brackets, its squat body fed by charcoal and shielded with a metal guard to prevent stray embers from setting the ship alight. In an attempt to prevent the smoke from lingering, a small flue pipe ran upward through the deck above, carrying what little smoke it could manage out into the open air.
Beside it stood a broad chopping block, worn deep with cuts from years of use, its surface darkened by fish oils and blood long since absorbed into the grain. Above it hung knives of varying lengths, along with hooks and cords used for hanging dried goods, though most of them now stood empty.
And set into the floor near the aft wall was a heavy wooden hatch. The storage space that Urogi was headed for.
He crossed the galley in a few strides and seized the ring, hauling it open with a grunt. The hatch lifted on its hinges, revealing a steep set of narrow steps descending into darkness below deck.
He paused only long enough to test his footing before making his way down, careful to angle his weight so the prosthetic would not catch against the worn edges of the steps.
“Careful,” Nakime said quietly, already reaching for a lantern.
She lit it from the stove’s coals and passed it down to him before following, gathering the folds of her dress in one hand to keep it from dragging along the steps.
Above them, Kokushibo remained where he stood, watching as their figures disappeared into the dim hold below, the lantern light flickering faintly against the walls.
The storage chamber was cool and close, the air thick with the scent of preserved goods and damp wood. Urogi lifted the lantern higher as he moved between the narrow rows of supplies.
He navigated his way through the contents of the storage.
Sacks of dried rice were stacked tightly against the beams, tied off with knots to keep rats at bay. Bundles of mochi sat wrapped in cloth, stored high where the damp could not reach them.
Earthenware jars lined the walls containing miso, pickled vegetables, umeboshi and sheets of nori sealed tightly.
He dragged most of the obstacles away, until he reached the barrels at the back that stored the meats.
No vegetables or fruits, however. Those rarely lasted more than a week, and the Infinity had been on sea for more than a month.
Most of what they had left in store were fish. Either pickled or sun-dried, with some other fermented such as eel, mackerel and sea bream.
He pushed past them all.
What they needed lay further back.
At the rear of the hold, several barrels had been wedged into place, stores of preserved meat.
Urogi opened a barrel that contained salted meats.
The smell hit him immediately, sour and rotting.
He recoiled instinctively, and slammed the lid back into place with a grimace.
“Are the stores sufficient?” Kokushibo’s voice carried from above.
“Nay, Captain,” Urogi called back, waving a hand in front of his face in a futile attempt to disperse the smell.
“All of our dried meats have gone bad. I’ll have to substitute with the fish, but it won’t last long. We’ll need to stop for land soon.”
“The water isn’t any better,” Nakime replied, gesturing with the lantern to the barrels of fresh water. “There’s algae starting to form on the edge of this one. The rest are fine, but stale. We’d need more than one infirmary bed if we keep drinking it.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Urogi reassured, giving her a smile. “Gyutaro should still have some sake or western rum in storage. We can always mix the water with that.”
Nakime gave him a flat look. “The ship won’t last a day with you drunk.”
“Tea is also an option,” Urogi offered with a shrug, following her as they made their way back up.
“Doesn’t solve the meat issue though,” he continued, lightly. The stairs creaked with his weight as they reached the last of the steps.
“Worse comes to worst, we can always cook the siren.”
That earned him glares from both Nakime and Kokushibo.
Urogi held his hands up, the grin never leaving his face. “Alright, alright. It was just a joke.”
In the end, he managed to gather what remained usable. A serving of rice, dried sea bream, and some bonito flakes to balance the saltiness of the broth.
Urogi made his way to the preparation bench, rolling his shoulders once before setting to work. He gathered his hair and tied it back.
It was early in the morning, so he hadn’t had time to thread the usual trinkets through his locks, though there were some small beads woven through his strands that he had to make sure didn’t get into the food. A strip of cloth was bound across his forehead for extra insurance.
He reached for one of the knives on the wall, placed the dried fish onto the chopping block, and began cutting. The pungent smell rose sharply as he began slicing through.
Across from him, Nakime had already set the pot of rice onto the caboose stove, filling it halfway with water before setting it over the charcoal grate.
“Hey Nakime,” Urogi said without looking up. “Could you go wake up Ume-chan? She should be up by now. Get her to go down to the storage to get some charcoal, I’ll need help getting the fire going.”
“I will handle it,” Kokushibo replied.
Urogi looked up briefly, slightly surprised, but didn’t question it.
Kokushibo turned to Nakime once. “Head to the main deck and check the sails. A storm has been forecasted. See that the sails are reefed and that no wind resists them.”
Nakime nodded her head. “Aye, Captain.” And headed off.
“Make sure our siren friend is awake to eat my cooking!” Urogi called out playfully, despite Kokushibo having already walked halfway down the hall.
As expected, Ume had not yet left her quarters.
The chamber she shared with Nakime lay at the far end of the corridor, set apart from the others. It was smaller than the main berth where the rest of the crew slept, its narrow windows admitting only thin slivers of morning light.
The space was modest, and clean, much more orderly than the rough clutter of the men’s quarters.
Kokushibo paused at the door and rapped his knuckles once against the wood.
There was a few sounds of rustling, before a small voice spoke.
“Come in.”
He pushed the door open.
Ume stood beside her bed, smoothing the last fold of her blanket against the mattress. Unlike the hammocks slung across the main berth, hers was a proper western-style bed.
The Kizuki in general had an affinity towards western styles, mainly in clothing, including Kokushibo himself. He preferred western vests and breeches as they were more convenient for travel than the long sleeves of haoris or kimonos.
Ume was no exception. She had clothed herself in a tunic and skirt, with a corset wrapped around her waist for appearance rather than practicality.
She turned to him as he came in, bowing her head slightly.
“Captain,” she said. She had to tilt her chin upward to meet his gaze. Her tone was composed, though there lingered a faint tension beneath it. “You’ve come early. Is something the matter?”
“I require your assistance,” Kokushibo replied. “Urogi is in the galley. He needs charcoal brought up from storage.”
Ume nodded once, already shifting as though to move.
“And,” he continued, “have Gyutaro inspect the supply barrels. The seals have begun to fail. I will not have our stores spoil before we reach land.”
“I understand.”
“As for Akaza. Have him take the helm while Nakime tends to the sails.”
“Yes, Captain.”
She stepped forward to pass him.
But paused once she realise he had not moved.
She glanced up to see his eyes were looking elsewhere.
“…Captain?”
Ume stood on her tiptoes to try and peer at his eyes half hidden beneath his captain’s hat, and followed his gaze to where he had been staring.
Beside her bed, stood a small nightstand. And on it, sat an object he did not recognise.
A small chest, no larger than the span of his hand, caught the brief slivers of morning light, its surface pale and smooth like polished porcelain.
Fine gold filigree traced its edges in delicate patterns, curling like vines across its surface. The lid itself shimmered faintly, its texture somewhere between marble and pearl, carved with two lotus blossoms layered upon one another.
It was undoubtedly foreign in design. Western perhaps, though it was hard to say. Something about the quality of the box rendered it almost mystical in appearance. Like a pearl in a hidden oyster, unfit for human eyes.
It most likely raided from the Kitsune. It wasn’t unusual for Ume to keep such treasures, trinkets that were pretty by design but had no inherent value, yet for some reason this object called to him.
Without knowing why, he reached out, and lifted the lid.
A melody drifted through the silence.
It wound through the room in slow, measured notes, bouncing off the walls in a clinking rhythm that sounded like clockwork, like droplets of rain striking still water, each tone rippling outward into the next.
The music wound through the room in a slow, measured cadence.
It was hard to describe its exact melody. It was neither joyous nor mournful. But rather distant. A lullaby of sorts. As if each note floated across each other like the lost winds of time, dragging the listener into the dream of a bygone era
And peering closer, they seemed to come from the box itself, as beneath the notes came the quiet ticking of mechanism and the turning of hidden cogs.
The inside of the box itself had been painted a deep cerulean, rich and luminous like the sea beneath a starlit sky. At its center, mounted upon a small axis, a figure turned slowly with the music.
A woman. Or something like one.
Her form was delicate, carved with remarkable detail. Yet where legs should have been, there was a tail, curved and scaled, its shape echoing the very creature now resting within his infirmary.
Most notably, from her back extended a pair of wings, arching delicately towards the heavens as she turned endlessly to the rhythm.
“…What is it?” Kokushibo asked, after a moment of silence.
Ume opened her mouth, then closed it, hesitating slightly.
“I’m…not really sure either. I just thought it was pretty so I took it.” She stepped closer, her unease giving away to wonder. “But it’s beautiful isn’t it? I didn’t know it could make music like that. I thought it was only a box.”
Kokushibo’s eyes did not leave the figure.
“A western device then,” he murmured. Yet that conclusion only seemed to diminish its value.
The melody lingered in the air long after each note had passed, as though it refused to settle. There was something in it, something elusive about the object that bordered on inhuman.
As he stared at the woman spinning, a woman with a tail and wings, the word “sea angel” circled back in his head again.
And the platform she was sitting upon…resembled vaguely that of an island.
Kokushibo’s fingers closed slowly around the lid, and the music ceased at once.
Silence returned, abrupt and absolute. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Kokushibo straightened. “Go,” he said.
Ume blinked once, as though drawn from a dream.
Then she lowered her head again, albeit more hesitantly this time. “…Aye, Captain.”
She moved at once, gathering herself before slipping past him toward the door.
Kokushibo remained where he stood a moment longer, the faint sound of the lullaby echoing through his mind.
Then without a word, he slipped the box into the inner lining of his breeches, and headed down the hall.
Throughout the day, Kokushibo did not leave the infirmary.
It was not his habit to idle after a raid. A captain’s duty did not end with victory, it began anew in its aftermath. Reports were to be examined, intelligence gathered, routes reconsidered. A careless captain celebrated, while a prudent one prepared.
Aizetsu had been called away, likely to inspect the stores or oversee the brewing of remedies, leaving the infirmary unoccupied.
Leaving the siren half submerged in the basin too unattended, an idea that Kokushibo disliked, and so brought it upon himself to transfer all paperwork from the captain’s quarters to the infirmary desk.
He sat there now, brush in hand, the various equipment on the desk cleared away in replacement of scrolls of parchment.
He began with the letters.
Those recovered from the Kitsune had been bundled together with care, naval correspondence was seldom disordered. Others came from a merchant vessel they had raided weeks prior near the ports of Kyoto, one that boasted exotic medicinal herbs.
They had seized it with the intention of finding anything related to the blue spider lily, but as it turned out that vessel had been nothing but a fraud, the so called exotic plants being local herbs resold at higher prices.
Yet the letters were still kept in hopes of finding anything useful. Most were of little consequence. The standard routine logs, weather reports and cargo manifests.
Kokushibo read through them patiently, setting aside those without value. What remained, he committed to memory.
Delays in shipment. Deviations in trade routes. Mentions of patrol expansions.
And most importantly, the location of the Navy Corps.
He unrolled a nautical chart across the desk, weighing its corners down with inkstones. The parchment stretched wide, inked coastlines tracing the edges of Nihon.
With a steady hand, Kokushibo marked the points with crosses, each one a naval base newly established.
His eyes narrowed as he drew another marking. After the was done, the bases stretched all the way from Edo to Yokohama.
A clear pattern was occurring. The line of fortification was tightening, and the Corps was expanding. That much was undeniable.
Where once there had been scattered outposts, now there was a clear structure. Reports suggested their numbers had swelled in recent years, new recruits drawn from across the provinces, even beyond the islands themselves.
For a moment, Kokushibo’s gaze lingered on the map.
Even the Infinity could not challenge such a force head-on. Muzan had made that clear.
‘A viper’s nest can only be stirred so long before it strikes’, his Master had deliberately said. The words of which Kokushibo couldn’t help but ponder.
Why then, if distance needed to be made with the Corps, did Muzan insist the Kitsune be prioritised. Despite knowing it was commanded by a captain of the Navy Corps, why was it the exception?
The thought lingered as Kokushibo reached for the next document, this one a letter written by Urokodaki himself.
Curiously enough, there was no name for the receiver, as if whoever delivered it already knew who to send it to.
To the Office of Rear stationed at Hakata,
I write to report the continued progress of our patrol along the southern trade routes. Thus far, operations have proceeded without incident. Piracy within our assigned waters has been minimal, and merchant vessels have passed under our watch without disturbance.
However, our stores have diminished more rapidly than anticipated. Fresh provisions are required at the earliest opportunity, and I recommend immediate resupply upon reaching port.
Furthermore, we carry with us a matter of greater urgency.
On the third day of our patrol, we encountered the vessel Jorogumo near the Kyushu islands, operating under special commission. The cargo transferred to us has been secured, neutralised, and bound in accordance with protocol.
For reasons of safety, I deem it unwise to remain upon open waters while in possession of this cargo. Its containment is stable, but not without risk should conditions deteriorate.
We will alter course northward and make for Hakata port without delay. I request immediate preparation upon our arrival, and the presence of officers authorised to receive and process this matter.
Respectfully,
Captain Sakonji Urokodaki
Navy Corps
Kokushibo read the letter twice. Then once more.
There was no ambiguity in the wording. The “cargo” Urokodaki spoke of was the siren, that much was certain.
But what lingered in Kokushibo’s mind was not the confirmation, it was the tone.
There was no mention of a battle. No accounts of struggling or indication that the creature had been hunted or subdued through force.
It only stated it had been transferred.
From another vessel. From the Jorogumo.
Kokushibo’s gaze lowered briefly to the map. Kyushu, the southern waters, the transfer. His mind began to turn.
The Navy Corps had not discovered the siren by chance. They had expected it. Prepared for it.
He tapped the end of the brush lightly against the desk.
Which raised a far more pressing question.
How much did they know?
The Corps had always been enigmatic in their operations. The so-called protectors of land and sea did more than routine routes and port checkups. So could this be their bigger plan?
And if the legends held truth…then could the Navy Corps be searching for Mugenshima as well?
“No…” a voice moaned quietly.
The sound was soft, barely more than a breath, yet it cut cleanly through the stillness of the infirmary.
Kokushibo’s thoughts stilled at once.
His focus immediately darted to the other side of the room. The washroom door stood ajar, and though little light reached that corner, the pale outline of the siren was unmistakable against the dark water.
It no longer lay in that eerie, deathlike stillness. Its body had begun to move. Small, fractured motions at first. A tremor through the arm. A twitch along the shoulder.
Then sharper. A sudden jolt, the movements small but enough to disturb the water surrounding his form, some drops of it sloshing over the edge of the basin, splashing onto the floor.
“No…Koto….ha. “
The name was spoken brokenly.
“…no…don’t…Kotoha!”
The siren’s head tipped back abruptly, striking against the basin’s edge with a dull knock. His body arched faintly, muscles tightening beneath the skin as though seized by something unseen.
Kokushibo stilled. Not at the words spoken, but at its voice.
He registered it was the first time he’s heard the siren speak. And surprisingly, it was speaking in a human language, in Nihongo no doubt.
The implications of a siren speaking in human speech should be a harrowing discovery, yet the only thing Kokushibo could focus on was how pleasant the siren’s voice sounded.
It had almost a melodic like quality to it. Though the voice certainly belonged to a man, its tone was quite androgynous in nature, like it was pulling the strings of imaginary notes with every whimper that escaped its throat.
It was the voice, inevitably, that prompted Kokushibo closer.
He closed the distance between him and the wash basin, peering down at the creature, shivering and jolting inside it.
“No, no….” It mumbled. Its brows had drawn together, carving strained lines across an otherwise flawless face. Its eyes remained shut, lashes trembling faintly against its skin.
With another jolt, it sent a wave of water splashing over the basin.
Kokushibo stepped back, just enough to avoid getting wet.
He stepped over the small puddles of water on the ground, and leaned in close enough to see the faint sheen of sweat that made its skin shimmer like the scales on its cheeks.
“Are you awake.”
It was more a demand than as question. In his mind, if the siren was experiencing a nightmare, it was conscious enough to begin questioning.
“Can you hear me.”
With each flutter of the siren’s eyelids, Kokushibo expected it to wake, that its eyes might open once again.
But instead, the siren only shifted again, lips parting slightly as another strained breath escaped him. A grimace of pain tore through its expression, illustrating itself in graceful lines over its brows and nose.
In the last decade, more and more ships from the west had begun circling the East Sea, whether for trade or expansion, it mattered little beyond increased opportunity. One such ship the Kizuki had raided was a merchant vessel that carried fine marble sculptures, their faces carved with delicate symmetry, their expressions wane in beauty.
The siren’s features were not disimilar to that of marble.
Yet where those marble statues were carved from hollowness, mere imitations of a beauty unattainable, the siren’s face was carved from life.
As though some unseen artist had laboured endlessly, spending countless nights agonising over the drafts he’s drawn, none of them matching the vision no hand could replicate. Until at last, after another sleepless night, an epiphany had taken hold. and his hands, possessed by something beyond human skill had carved those exquisite features of the creature that now lay before him.
A face so whole in its perfection that it would be reminisced for generations later. A beauty that would be told through several legends, and ballads, none of which could accurately describe what nature could only hope to mimic.
Perhaps that completeness was what compelled Kokushibo to reach his hand, and touch the side of the siren’s face.
Before in the brig, he had touched it with his gloves. Now, bare handed, it was almost unreal how soft the creature’s skin was beneath his own. His own touch, calloused and worn from years of the blade, against something so refined and pure. Like jagged stone warmed beneath sunlight.
A shiver ran through him, unbidden, as his hand moved further, threading lightly through damp strands of silver hair, disbelieving at how soft it was despite part of it being damp.
The siren’s face had flushed.
A pale bloom of colour spread across his cheeks. A fever, perhaps, or the strain of whatever dream held him captive. It settled there like watercolour upon parchment, subtle yet unmistakable, deepening the contrast against the cool blue of the scales that traced his skin.
Its lips, slightly chapped, were further reddened.
And they hung open, and every so often, they would expand, taking in small gasping breaths with each jerk of the chest, and every whimper and moan that drew sweetly out of them —
Kokushibo lurched back, forcing his eyes away.
The motion was abrupt, as though the distance itself might sever whatever hold the creature had begun to take.
His jaw clenched, breathing heavily as he fought against the treacherous heat rising in his chest.
But just as he pulled back, a hand shot forward, and seized him.
Cold, damp fingers coiled with sudden force about his collar and dragged him forward.
His balance gave way at once, his knees struck the slick boards with a dull crack as he was pulled flush against the basin, against the creature itself.
For a moment, the world stilled. His own body felt like it was frozen over.
He could only focus on the cold floor beneath him, the chill of water seeping through cloth.
And the strong, damp arms now wrapped tightly around his neck.
He dared to lift his gaze.
And immediately wished he hadn’t.
The siren was impossibly close.
So close that the space between them ceased to exist.
Since Kokushibo wasn’t wearing his captain’s hat, nothing remained between them. Barely breath of distance. Save only for a few strands of his own dark hair that had fallen loose, caught between them like a fragile barrier, brushing faintly against the pale curve of the creature’s cheek.
At this proximity, there was nothing he couldn’t see, every detail laid bare. The fine arc of each eyelash, the faint tremor of the fin at his temple. The sheen of skin so smooth it seemed untouched by the world.
“Don’t…”
The word broke softly from parted lips.
The voice trembled. no longer distant, but warm against his skin, close enough that Kokushibo could feel each syllable as much as hear it.
“…please… don’t leave…”
With every word spoken, the siren’s grip tightened against him. Not violently, but with a desperate insistence, drawing him closer still until cheek met cheek, until the line between breath and breath blurred into one.
Kokushibo gritted his teeth.
His right hand shot to the edge of the basin, gripping it hard enough for the wood to creak beneath his fingers as he tried to wrench himself free.
With it, he tried to haul himself up.
But even the slightest bit of resistance, strengthen the siren’s hold on him, stubbornly pressed him further down.
“No!”
The siren choked out a cry, tightening the hold further.
Kokushibo grunted in frustration as his chin nearly struck the ledge of the basin. The siren’s hand somehow wound its way through his hair, and had taken grip of the tie that gathered his ponytail.
Kokushibo tried to heave himself up again, but all that did was cause the hand in his hair to grow tighter, eventually snapping the tie.
His hair was unloosened, strands of obsidian falling across his shoulders, across the siren’s chest, and into the water of the basin with every jerk of movement, every scrape of his knees against the wet floor.
Even wounded, its strength was not that of brute force alone, but of something deeper, more instinctive, something that clung, that refused release.
It was strong enough that not even forcibly prying its fingers apart did anything to its iron grip.
The siren was completely undeterred, still remaining strong. It pressed itself closer, until its nose was nuzzling against Kokushibo’s neck.
The ghost of its lips traced that area, making him freeze as the warmth of the creature’s breath heating the skin there.
“…so….warm…” the creature mumbled, sinking his face closer into the skin as if wanting to absorb it.
It was then, that something in Kokushibo finally snapped.
His hand left the edge of the basin.
In the next instant, it closed around the siren’s throat. Gripping it with a fervour that could only match the silent rage simmering under his skin.
The reaction was immediate.
The creature arched sharply, a strained gasp tearing from him as Kokushibo’s grip tightened.
Beneath his palm, he could feel the fragile movement of the gills, fluttering and straining, faltering as both air and water were denied.
It writhed and gasped, splashing water over the edge, body twisting in violent, desperate motion. But still stubbornly did not let go.
Instead, it drove the nails of its webbed fingers into the back of Kokushibo’s neck, sharp and unrelenting, drawing a hiss from between his teeth.
In a particularly harsh jolt, the siren nearly forced itself upright in the basin.
For a brief moment, Kokushibo’s grip loosened on its throat, and he leaned back.
Just enough for the music box in his pocket to fall out.
It struck the wet boards with a hollow clatter, the lid snapping open under the force of the fall.
And music began to filter through it.
At the first notes that rose into the air, the siren underneath him completely stilled.
Like a spell that had been cast, its entire body went limp.
Every tightly corded muscle loosening with ebb and flow of the melody, as though the tension had been drawn out of his body thread by thread.
The siren’s grip on him began to wane. Its arms loosened, just slightly, enough for Kokushibo to pry them off his neck and lean away.
A faint noise of protest came from the siren, but its arms fell heavily away, on arm hanging off the ledge of the wash basin limply.
Kokushibo finally stood, rising unsteadily to his feet, chest loosening as he finally remembered to breathe.
He looked down and frowned at his current state. Water dripped from his clothes, his hair hanging loose and heavy about his shoulders.
He dared one last look at the siren.
The creature had slumped forward.
Its chest rose in steady rhythms, and its head lulled forward, the wet strands of hair sticking to the sides of its face, much like the gold engravings carved onto the music box’s porcelain surface.
But there was still a furrow in its brows. And a drop of sweat that travelled down its cheeks.
No, not sweat, Kokushibo realised as he peered closer.
The beginning formation of a tear had formed.
It traced slowly down the curve of his cheek, catching faintly in the hollow beside his nose before slipping into the water below.
It did not disturb the surface. And yet, the impression of it lingered far longer.
Anguish had never been an emotion painted so beautifully before.
And it was a deeply unsettling sight.
Kokushibo glanced down to where the music box laid on its side.
He waited for another moment longer, waiting for it to stop playing, for the gears to stop turning and for it to naturally halt.
But no matter how much the water seeped into the cracks of the box, the music kept going, the sea angel within it continuously turning.
It seemed that no matter how much time passes, the music would continue until the box was closed.
Kokushibo watched it for a moment longer. Then bent and lifted it from the floor, and closed the lid in his hand.
Silence settled into the walls once more. The air felt heavier for it.
He stood there a moment, the box resting in his palm.
It was a curious thing indeed. Not merely a trinket, but for a purpose far more deliberate.
If the melody could still a creature such as this, then it was no simple device.
His fingers tightened slightly around it. It would require examination. One that Nakime would see to without fail.
He cast one final glance toward the basin, watching as siren had sunk fully into stillness once more, breath steady, features softened in sleep, before turning to leave the infirmary entirely.
He walked down the hall, intent on keeping the music box safe in his own quarters.
Yet even now, Kokushibo could not forget it.
The warmth of the siren’s breath against his skin. And the sound of that voice, broken and pleading. And entirely too enchanting.