"Our song will tear open your heart, and you will beg for more. It will tease you with your greatest desire till you grow mad. And this desire will eventually burn so fierce that you will drive yourself directly to us. Then it is our charge to deliver you to those to whom we answer."

―Morveren, Aquala and Aquila to Jack Sparrow


He pierced her fin with his blade.

These men, who thought with their hearts and not their heads, and allowed themselves to be led by their groins and not their legs- one had managed to capture her. She froze. He watched her. His tanned face flickered in the firelight with disbelief as he registered her presence. At that moment, her eyes pierced his soul.

And so she singled out the holy man.

She saw in him a certain righteousness, a determined protectiveness- a weakness that could be exploited.

She was sure he pierced her body with his body in his mind. He was a man, after all. She could feel the way he trembled as he carried her; weary, yes, exhausted, nearly, but she could feel his abdominal muscles clench and loosen as he fought his arousal, every step and every bounce of her nude body flush against his rubbing him raw. She could hear the prayers muttered silently through pressed and salt-cracked lips. She could see the faith leaving his body more and more with each and every shaky exhale.

Her very existence had pierced the foundation of anything and everything he had never known. She had grasped him by the shoulders with both hands and dug her claws into his skin, shaking the piety out of him. She lured him to the pool with the illusion of temptation. She lured him away from the smoke and mirrors of his religion.

Her pride had not allowed her to have her tear wasted. A tear shed only at the prospect of a vessel that could be used to escape. He was the vessel. And now she had him at last.

He asked if she would have him.

Streams of crimson mingled with dirt and sweat and dripped into the water. He lay there, dying. His breathing came in bursts, heavy panting as he struggled to hang on to his miserable, human life.

The mermaid purred in his ear, promises of eternal life and salvation; he asked for forgiveness. Whether he asked for forgiveness from her, himself, or his God, she couldn't be sure.

His life was ending. Her charge sputtered and she could feel the splatters on her face as she joined her lips to his. She pulled him down with her, into the darkness.

His vulnerability, his sacrifice, his lust for her, his love for her, it made his blood all the more sweeter when immortal fangs pierced mortal skin as they plummeted, entwined, into the depths of the sea.

She would deliver him to her Queen, or the Sirens, or whoever may have him, but it would not be her.


I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS. But wouldn't it be interesting if Syrena actually was like the other mermaids, and the entire time she had only been seducing Philip, who was foolish enough to fall for the damsel-in-distress routine? If survival was her first priority, she would do just that.