The sailors see only the waters. In the vastness of all this blue the eddying currents have no meaning, the whitecaps around my feet bear no significance. Besides, by then they've seen her, alone under the sun, and it is far too late.

She's beautiful in a way God never intended. Golden hued skin and hair as pale as the eyeless fish that haunt the ocean depths, their luminescent scales giving fire to her eyes. Seaweed twined about an ankle, wrapping around the bony limb and dangling from clawed toes. Unearthly, the angel fallen from grace, and so very beautiful.

The sailors cannot see what lies under the waves. This is their mystery – the wind and skies and surface has been documented and added to the culmination of human lore. But not the depths. Not the bone-crushing trenches or the leafy forests of kelp. These are her domain and perhaps that is what makes her tangled salt-wet hair and wild, feral movements such a enticement. Or maybe it is her song.

Come to me.

They hear it and know it for what it is. Something stirs, deep within, and they think of the stars above, the depths below, and somehow the two become one. Around the ship, seals dance, quivering at the sound of the music and the sailors tremble in fear, wondering if they will be able to resist the sound.

I saw you, I call you to me.

She's beautiful. And the sailors cannot –will not – know what lies beneath the waves. There's rocks there, jagged and broken spires upon which the siren climbed, clawed hand on wet stone, to where sky broke ocean in two. And there she sits, staring at the stars, the wind raking across skin that still feels the seaweed's embrace, and she longs.

I call, I call. My desire, I call.

The voice is haunting, heartbreaking, and tells of those cold depths the sailors know nothing about. The bony fingers of those that have heard the siren's song before them. The luminescent fish darting in and out of the skeletons of ships.

Come to me.

There is urgency in her voice. So they come and do not see the whitecaps, only the seaweed entwined skin of the siren. They come, and she watches, still singing, as the ship breaks in two upon the rocks, the hull ripped out and scattered across the waves and into the depths. A hand, a sailor's drowning hand, and she stretches out her own, clawed fingers reaching sun-tanned fingers. Then it slips away and is gone.

I need you by my side.

Her voice pauses on a low note, quivers. The wind almost covers her song, the wind and the murmur of the waves as they take the ship into their own.

I am all alone.

There is nothing else to do. Lost, lost again. Into the depths where she will stray among the broken hulls and luminescent ships, straying to the kelp forests to stare up at the sun, so far away. There is nothing else she can do. Eyes to the stars again. Ocean depths meet endless skies. And she sings. There is nothing else to be done.

Come to me.