It was long past night, and longer still past sunset, and there on a cheerless, broken stairway sat a young girl, lonesome and heart-tender. The broken stairway was one of the fewer, older stairways on the great, spiraling tower of the siren, the kind who's downward spine became treacherous and broke off high above the sea beaten rocks below. On that stairway there was one window out of the bulk that faced away from the eastern sea, and laid it's frame out onto the western skyline; just the right bit of land and the lingering curl of an overgrown estuary. This was where the little girl huddled, eyes squeezed shut. "Mama, papa... I miss you." She whispered quietly into the folds of her arms as she wrapped them about her knees and head. The trials of the day had been long, and her hardships all the longer.
Each day she grew, she felt a bit of herself shrinking smaller, as if some precious light she was supposed to keep lit was dwindling in flame with each passing breath. Try as she might, the violet haired girl never seemed to please the Elders of the nest. Every morning she slept too long and was chided for it, but it was only because every night she had the strangest desire to watch the moons and stars pan across the sky before the sunrise. Every meal time she ate too little, or pitied the contents of her belly too much, something that often gave her horrible indigestion; for that too she was berated. Every afternoon she was made to swim and sing, things that most young girls would love, but she so more often craved the soft, warm feel of the sun soaked dune grass and the kiss of the wind on her drying skin. She was always wrong, always indolent, always ungrateful, always stubborn; at least that was what the Elders said. Then again, the Elders often said much. They scolded the other girls as well when they tipped a toe out of line, never taking in account the nature of their paternal blood and how it may affect them when they grew. That was not the concern in their nest, the concern was progress, strength, and growth for the sake of growth. The Elders desired numbers, desired fealty and respect, catering to the ways of the old and the ruthless in favor of the old and nurturing; their reasoning seemed flawed, but it was absolute rule and not to be questioned.
Questions... Questions were something she was often wrong for as well. Why question the sky when it was clearly blue on crisp days and gray on the stormy ones? Why question the cycle of the seasons when it was so obvious they followed a regiment of four and never deviated? Why question the magic of a flower growing from a corpse long laid to ground? Question the flesh of your next meal, question how better you can serve your Elders, question how you were to become a better, more efficient siren of the nest; those were the questions that were expected, yet the ones she never cared to ask. The question she learned not to ask very often, however, was one of her firsts; where was papa? The beating swift and sound, not quite the reprimanding stare and matter of fact drone she was given when she asked about mama.
Mama was dead; an oddity like she, too old to be so weak and put to the sea in gory execution. There was never an elaboration past that story. The Elders said that was it, so that was it. It left her feeling empty of course, but given how easy she'd realized it was when she listened, the little girl let it go and turned her thoughts to papa. Papa did not exist, papas were not a part of siren life. Papas were nothing more than strong, proud donors of seed to a prouder, stronger race that existed outside the world of man. She learned, however, that not all papas were strong, in fact, the Elders had considered hers weak, and her mother weak for allowing such a creature to mount and mate her. Games and eating were one thing, but taking the child of a creature they considered weak, or worse, a human...
So beyond those realms of explanation, the little girl grew knowing nothing save the life she was told to live. It hurt her, but the hurt dwindled down to a bearable numbness when she just listened and did as she was instructed. That all changed, however, the day that the strange, tall outsider came back to the nest.
She heard whispers and rumblings amongst the Elders that the tall, bright haired lady's name was 'Anyanka', that she was an outcast and an invalid, and above all else, not to be trusted. She came to understand that Anyanka's mama, dead as her own, had mated with a human, not by choice, but by capture and force. Shivering at the very idea and all the cruel whispers that came with it, the little violet haired girl with her plump little limbs and stormy blue eyes watched Anyanka during her stay, though she quickly found she'd have begun watching her even if she were not so whispered about; Anyanka was beautiful.
The height and the hair were lovely things, yes, all siren were good-looking, but in the case of Anyanka it was not so much the physical pieces that made this strange siren beautiful, but the presence, the air she oozed. It was in how the elder creature moved and acted and thought that made her so beautiful to the small girl. Her eyes were cloudy and a brilliant cornflower blue like the sky through a summer's early morning smog. Every step and move she made was as slippery and perfect as the ocean waves. Anyanka did not laugh at all the same things the Elders laughed at, nor did she take all her meals with the nest. The strange siren was a creature apart, yet a part, looked at with disdain and sneered at when she turned her back, talked about by nearly every of the eldest, very much like the young, queer siren herself. She wanted to talk to Anyanka, because something told the little girl she would have a good, good chance of getting answers from the strange, elder creature's thin, pretty lips. Her attempts were always thwarted however; there was always an Elder of the nest there to stop her, or worse, pull her away to duties she'd been hoping to neglect. The cycle seemed as endless as it was hopeless, because the word was that as quickly as Anyanka had breezed into the nest, that she was due to breeze out... It was done, she was done. Her chance was lost forever.
That was why she cried, or, at least in part. She was still a child after all. Very tired, very hurt, very lonely, and so very, very cold. However, a familiar voice crept into the girl's ears, cutting through the ache of her lower than low moment so sharply it snapped her tear-damp lids back open.
"... would you like me to tell you a story, симпатичная девушка?*"
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http://fc06.deviantart.net/fs27/i/2008/040/d/a/t_e_a_r_s_by_islandtime.jpg
Anya Translations:
*"pretty girl/nice girl."
Each day she grew, she felt a bit of herself shrinking smaller, as if some precious light she was supposed to keep lit was dwindling in flame with each passing breath. Try as she might, the violet haired girl never seemed to please the Elders of the nest. Every morning she slept too long and was chided for it, but it was only because every night she had the strangest desire to watch the moons and stars pan across the sky before the sunrise. Every meal time she ate too little, or pitied the contents of her belly too much, something that often gave her horrible indigestion; for that too she was berated. Every afternoon she was made to swim and sing, things that most young girls would love, but she so more often craved the soft, warm feel of the sun soaked dune grass and the kiss of the wind on her drying skin. She was always wrong, always indolent, always ungrateful, always stubborn; at least that was what the Elders said. Then again, the Elders often said much. They scolded the other girls as well when they tipped a toe out of line, never taking in account the nature of their paternal blood and how it may affect them when they grew. That was not the concern in their nest, the concern was progress, strength, and growth for the sake of growth. The Elders desired numbers, desired fealty and respect, catering to the ways of the old and the ruthless in favor of the old and nurturing; their reasoning seemed flawed, but it was absolute rule and not to be questioned.
Questions... Questions were something she was often wrong for as well. Why question the sky when it was clearly blue on crisp days and gray on the stormy ones? Why question the cycle of the seasons when it was so obvious they followed a regiment of four and never deviated? Why question the magic of a flower growing from a corpse long laid to ground? Question the flesh of your next meal, question how better you can serve your Elders, question how you were to become a better, more efficient siren of the nest; those were the questions that were expected, yet the ones she never cared to ask. The question she learned not to ask very often, however, was one of her firsts; where was papa? The beating swift and sound, not quite the reprimanding stare and matter of fact drone she was given when she asked about mama.
Mama was dead; an oddity like she, too old to be so weak and put to the sea in gory execution. There was never an elaboration past that story. The Elders said that was it, so that was it. It left her feeling empty of course, but given how easy she'd realized it was when she listened, the little girl let it go and turned her thoughts to papa. Papa did not exist, papas were not a part of siren life. Papas were nothing more than strong, proud donors of seed to a prouder, stronger race that existed outside the world of man. She learned, however, that not all papas were strong, in fact, the Elders had considered hers weak, and her mother weak for allowing such a creature to mount and mate her. Games and eating were one thing, but taking the child of a creature they considered weak, or worse, a human...
So beyond those realms of explanation, the little girl grew knowing nothing save the life she was told to live. It hurt her, but the hurt dwindled down to a bearable numbness when she just listened and did as she was instructed. That all changed, however, the day that the strange, tall outsider came back to the nest.
She heard whispers and rumblings amongst the Elders that the tall, bright haired lady's name was 'Anyanka', that she was an outcast and an invalid, and above all else, not to be trusted. She came to understand that Anyanka's mama, dead as her own, had mated with a human, not by choice, but by capture and force. Shivering at the very idea and all the cruel whispers that came with it, the little violet haired girl with her plump little limbs and stormy blue eyes watched Anyanka during her stay, though she quickly found she'd have begun watching her even if she were not so whispered about; Anyanka was beautiful.
The height and the hair were lovely things, yes, all siren were good-looking, but in the case of Anyanka it was not so much the physical pieces that made this strange siren beautiful, but the presence, the air she oozed. It was in how the elder creature moved and acted and thought that made her so beautiful to the small girl. Her eyes were cloudy and a brilliant cornflower blue like the sky through a summer's early morning smog. Every step and move she made was as slippery and perfect as the ocean waves. Anyanka did not laugh at all the same things the Elders laughed at, nor did she take all her meals with the nest. The strange siren was a creature apart, yet a part, looked at with disdain and sneered at when she turned her back, talked about by nearly every of the eldest, very much like the young, queer siren herself. She wanted to talk to Anyanka, because something told the little girl she would have a good, good chance of getting answers from the strange, elder creature's thin, pretty lips. Her attempts were always thwarted however; there was always an Elder of the nest there to stop her, or worse, pull her away to duties she'd been hoping to neglect. The cycle seemed as endless as it was hopeless, because the word was that as quickly as Anyanka had breezed into the nest, that she was due to breeze out... It was done, she was done. Her chance was lost forever.
That was why she cried, or, at least in part. She was still a child after all. Very tired, very hurt, very lonely, and so very, very cold. However, a familiar voice crept into the girl's ears, cutting through the ache of her lower than low moment so sharply it snapped her tear-damp lids back open.
"... would you like me to tell you a story, симпатичная девушка?*"
_____________________________________________
_____________________________________________
http://fc06.deviantart.net/fs27/i/2008/040/d/a/t_e_a_r_s_by_islandtime.jpg
Anya Translations:
*"pretty girl/nice girl."