Page 99 of Wrath of the Never Queen

“Why?”

“You said you do not trust me because you do not know me. I cannot come onto the land with you, but for a while, you will be able to come into the sea with me.”

“Why can you not come onto the land?”

“I will turn to marble if I leave the water.”

The witch thinks for a moment, listening to the liquid as it sings to her softly and watching the figure as she waits patiently.

With one swift movement, she uncorks the bottle and drinks it.

At once, it is hard to breathe. The witch gasps, but it feels like there was no air left around her. She clutches at her neck and finds the sides of her throat are soft and wet as gills form along her skin.

“Quickly! Come into the sea!” the figure calls.

The witch stumbles forward, desperately wading deeper until she tumbles into the water. As soon as the sea hits her new gills, she can breathe again.

Relief floods through her as she takes another deep breath and then another until her heart begins to calm again. The water is warm and soft around her. In the gloom of the sea, she feels a hand grasp her own.

“What are you?” the witch asks, her voice somehow penetrating the water and sending bubbles to the surface.

“I am a siren.” Her voice is different underwater. She sounds like waves whispering against sand. “What are you?”

“A witch.”

The siren smiles widely, showing her sharp, serrated teeth. The witch blinks at her before smiling back, watching the siren’s hair as it floats around her. She wants to reach out to touch it, to see if it feels like fingers running through seaweed, but she holds back.

The bahk potion does not last indefinitely, but the siren and the witch spend many hours swimming together. When it comes time for the witch to return home, she finds she does not want to.

Nevertheless, the potion wears off, and the witch drags herself to the shore. Her body is tired, and her clothes heavy and laden with seawater. The smell of salt clings to her. She inhales it deeply and thinks of the siren.

The witch returns the next day, and the next, and the next. Each time, she drinks the bahk, listening to it sing, and swims next to the siren as she gracefully cuts through the water. And each time she returns to land, both their hearts are be heavy with longing.

Fifteen years pass. A few more crinkles appear in the corners of the witch’s eyes when she laughs, and a few scales become discoloured on the siren's long, emerald-green tail. The witch’s joints become sore, and the siren’s fins become ragged.

Regardless, they clasp hands and swim and talk and press their foreheads together at the end of each day when they must part. The witch keeps the smell of salt close to her heart.

And then, one day, the witch does not appear.

The siren waits for her at their spot by the shore, bobbing with the waves as she did that first day.

She waits.

The sun dips below the horizon and rises again.

She waits.

Her chest begins to ache, as heavy as lead.

She waits.

But her witch does not come.

A siren cannot cry tears but she feels the weight of them regardless, pressing behind her eyes. Slowly, she swims to the shore.

She knows what will happen. But she thinks of the witch, and she does it regardless.

The siren pulls herself from the sea, the safety of the water slipping away from her. She tries to breathe, but the air is oppressive and pushes in around her. She grits her teeth and reaches forward, digging her hand into the hard, wet sand and dragging herself forward.

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