Team Eridan<3Sollux

I'm so sorry ahead of time for the page stretching, if there's a way to put it under a cut pleasr let me know cause this is somewhere around 2,800 words OTL I'm gonna try to finish at least one more picture for this (either the clothe pile scene or the urn placement scene)

I was a Latin student for two years and a somewhat Roman history/art/architecture lover for longer than that... so there's a lot of technical info and references to history. I don't think it's enough to confuse or subtract from the story but let me know if it is? Since I don't expect a lot of people to be history/language buffs. I also did some research and the 3 islands briefly mentioned by Eridan actually exist. The Sirenuse Islands (Siren... Sirenuse) were one of a number of isles thought to be the Siren's home. Sollux's trip to Greece for education was usually reserved for the rich aristocrats, etc. There's a bunch. So yeah... fire away at this guys.

I also don't have a title yet?

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The interior of the vessel is in much better condition than the outside, which has large scrapes and panels missing. The mast is gone along with part of the deck surrounding it. You’ve set the sailor down on his modest cot; the blankets soaked with sea water cling to the chilled corpse. Two gold coins, a piece for each eye, are left to bribe the Underworld’s ferryman. You hesitate to call the thin body in the hull of this broken ship a ‘man’ or ‘sailor’ as he has yet to grow out his beard. The humans on that strip of land in the distance like to groom and grow facial hair for some unknown reason. Maybe just for the sake that they actually have it? Either way, he’ll never get a chance to grow one at this rate, since he’s… ya know, dead.

You feel a bit guilty for luring him to the rocky coast of your isle. It’s not like you eat any of the people that wreck on the rocks! That’s just a barbaric smudge to your name, meant to scare sailors away from your islands. It’s working because no one sails through this part of the Tyrrhenian Sea anymore for fear of ‘a siren on the off-shore isle who eats the hearts of men’. Ew, the marine life and poultry on the big island will suffice, thank you very much.

You don’t understand mortals and their made-up fables well; their history, however, is your favorite subject. They fight and quarrel and kill each other in splendid military conquests, each preserved in wonderful detail inside your library of scrolls and tablets. You’d love to get off this wretched archipelago and watch them in person but … this is your punishment for failing to find the Daughter of Spring before she wed the Ruler of the Dead.



You pick up the amphora you brought when you saw the ship impale itself on the spire-like rocks. The clear oil swishes around inside as you carefully drip some onto the man’s forehead and chin. It’s more of a personal practice than standard burial procedure because the oil tells the Queen of the Underworld, Aradia, he is one your ‘fatalities’. She’ll make sure to take care of him.

After all, it’s not like the Ruler is a horrid person or something, she’s perfectly sociable! She gave you some tablets from the battlefield of Metarus when your mistress, Feferi, visited before they eloped. Feferi’s mother didn’t approve of course and you took the brunt of her anger.

So, you’re stuck on this tiny cluster of islands, in forced isolation because whenever any boat comes close you can’t resist the urge to shout out to them. In truth, your ‘song’ is less flowery words and more of a tug on the souls that pass your isle. It’s demeaning and not fit for someone of your prestigious station… but there’s no one here to see your shame.

You murmur a small apology to the man before beginning to rummage through the small hull for articles to add to your library or treasury. You don’t have much hope for finding riches on this tiny skimmer. It had only one main sail and barely enough room to fit a cot inside. You managed to get his boat onto land, which was a stunning feat of divine superiority. (And had nothing to do with the fact that you’re no longer just an earth spirit, you have bits of water and air mixed in now.)

It comes in handy though, being able to fly or swim and sometimes control the water as you please. Of course, you are limited to about four stadia away from any of your three islands because if you go any further you get horrifically sick. And now there’s no one to hold you or comb your hair back or talk with you till dawn.

There is only the expanse of the sea with the distant mainland mocking you on the horizon. You’re terribly alone on this isle and it’s slowly suffocating you. It wears you down and gets into your bones till there’s no motivation for anything.

That very feeling encompasses you now as you peer into barrels and piles of shattered pottery. You were once like royalty, a demi-god of sorts, and now you’re nothing better than a highwayman with an abnormally long lifespan. You hurl the amphora in a fit of wrath, lashing out at the battered ship hull. With a snarl you abandon the worthless piles of cloth and wood, your form seething as you spread your arms and hands wide. Wings form and you fly out through the large gash in the deck above you.

You try not to think of the sailor inside the remains of his vessel for 7 days. By the moonrise of the eighth day, you go back to set the beached shipwreck aflame. You’re perched on one of the rocky spires looking inland to where the flames seethe and fan into a giant blaze. The light casts this side of the small island a bright orange-yellow; the sea is dark and ominous outside the ring of light. The light may reach you on the outcropping, but the heat doesn’t. So you stand, back ramrod and militaristic like the painted conquerors on your vases.



“Gods above, I never expected to get a funeral pyre. What, you couldn’t just bury me like any other downtrodden moron? Seriously, I’m well beyond the city gates, or is there not enough space for graves on the island anymore?”

Great. You’re going insane. It took longer than expected, but you’ve finally been isolated for so long that your mind decided to conjure an imaginary friend. You still have enough decency to resist waving your hands around to ‘dispel’ the voice like an idiot. There’s at least that you suppose.

“… You’re ignoring me? Really? Wow, I sailed all the way over here, through two storms and visits to Aradia mind you, shipwrecked on your isle and DIED. FOR THE THIRD TIME. Just so you could ignore me?”

You’re glancing around by now, subtlety of course, because you don’t have a lot of experience with the realm of the dead… but you think you’re talking to the spirit of the young man in the burning vessel. The boat has gone up pretty well and the last bits are catching flame.

“Okay, wwhat wwent wwrong because I did the same ceremony I’vve done for the last 4 centuries an by all accounts you should be skippin’ down the Styx. Is the wwine part really needed? Cause it’ll take at least 3 hours for those flames to die an then cool down an I have so many better things to be doin’ than standin’ on this cold rock.”

It’s unnerving to speak to thin air since you have no idea where this… spirit is floating or whatever. You don’t know where to look; after all it’s only polite to maintain eye contact when speaking. Really, this man is just plan inconsiderate for not managing SOME kind of corporeal form. Your skin is prickling with anxiety and you spread your arms wide, shifting your shape for flight.

“Wow… you really do have wings… can you fly with those watery things?” The voice is loud and right next to your left wing and ear, startling (not scaring) you into a tumult off the rock and toward the sea. But flying (and therefore falling) is second nature to you now and the water curves away from you as you arc back into the sky. You can hear the snickering getting closer to you from the starboard side. He keeps pace with you as you catch an updraft near the burning hull. “Heheheheh, twitchy, huh?”

There’s a thoughtful lull while you bear your needle teeth in his direction. “Not much convversation on these isles… especially from inconsiderate spirits wwho like to pop up all wwilly nilly.” The difficulty in admonishing someone when you don’t even know if you’re making eye-contact is staggering.

“Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to get off on the wrong foot. Sheesh. Here I am being considerate: Name’s Sollux Captor, blind prophet in training. I’m here to be your guide, blah blah. Nice to meet you, okay?” You’re glad there isn’t much distance between your islands because you have a sinking feeling about this disembodied voice. But guide generally implies leading… which means traveling? But humans are known for being deceitful, especially for their own ends. You concentrate on the largest island ahead where your domain rests. You’re almost there; you can make out the jutting crags and the 3 masts.

“Uh huh. Your name means ‘sunlight’ in your language, right? Or do you prefer ‘sunshine’ to match your personality? So what wonderful quest are you, a deceased mortal with no affect on my current situation, going to lead me on?” When in doubt condescension is always a wonderful fallback.

“Oh, cut the ‘diviner than thou’ crap. You’re stuck on this isle for eternity without my help. Besides, you sounded desperate to get out of this ‘wwretched hell’ when you were singing to me.” There goes your pride and concentration, down they go. You follow them down into the dark water to hide your embarrassment. Oh HELL, you hadn’t even thought about the fact that he’d remember your ‘singing’. At times like this you wish you could drown, instead the wings wither away into transparency and gills protrude from your once downy chest. It’s uncomfortable and the rush of cold water at the bottom of the sea makes you curl up.

“Not used to compliments? Or is it your victims chatting with you over choral arrangements?” You should’ve known he’d follow you underwater. With a sigh you sluggishly roll over in the water, swimming toward the rocky shore of the biggest island. It’s beautiful underwater at night; everything is dark except the surface that glows an eerie pale blue.

“There’s no point in makin’ me feel guilty for somethin’ I can’t control. You shouldn’t havve been sailin’ around here, wwhat wwith all the wwarnin’ tales about me an all. It’s your owwn fault, just accept that an movve on to the next life or somethin’.” You try not to grimace as you swim on through the shallows. The surf near the base of your shipwreck abode is treacherous for mortals, but the water is no enemy to you. It cradles and lifts you up to the side of the great 5-tiered vessel.

“So it’s true, huh? Cursed by the Goddess of the Earth and Se- you live in a shipwreck? Seriously? With all of the people you drowned and ships you crashed? Doesn’t that make you the least bit uncomfortable?” He sounds more incredulous than disgusted but it makes you shift awkwardly over the bulwark. You haven’t really thought about it too much after 5 or so centuries.

“Stropha or ‘The Gambit’ wwas supposed to be some sort a trade for safe passage durin’ the consuls Regulus an Manilus. She had no one mannin’ her an drifted to me about a moon cycle before a large fleet of Roman’s sailed by the isle. I nearly ran out of urns an oil… But she’s a marvvelous ship and I changed the rowin’ galleries into rooms.”

You hurry across the deck to the entrance to the lower levels, heading to what you’ve deemed as your room. Every now and then Sollux would make a small noise or comment on decorations. You suppose it’s to let you know he’s still there. The entrance to your room has no door since there was no need for privacy when you set up the walls and archways.

“… did I offend you or something?” he sounds almost regretful. You lay down on a vast pile of stuffing and fabric, all that remains of your attempts to sew pillows. You tossed your misshapen first attempts out the oar hole in the hull.

“It takes a lot more than a couple of wwitty remarks to offend me, Sol. There’s just… no point in daydreamin’ about leavin’ the isle. I’m bound to these islands and I’ll probably die if I’m taken from them. An if I don’t… wwell then, empires wwill fall.” Great, now you’re in a horrid mood again. You hiss and burrow into the pile, wringing a piece of smooth cloth between your clawed hands.

“Care for an explanation, or are you going to continue ripping that poor swatch into shreds?” If you close your eyes you can imagine him sitting alongside you, peering over the nest-like mess you’ve made. You exhale sharply and fiddle with the frayed fabric with one hand. The other rises to where his voice emanates from, fingers spreading to show off the length of your claws.

“I’vve changed. Even if you managed to get me awway from here… I’d kill evveryone wwithin range. There’s no choice in the matter for me. There’s no sacrifice or ceremony to unmake me.” He must not have anything to say to your admission because the room, the boat, the island, hell! your whole fucking world is silent. Just like it always is and always will be.

“Fuck, don’t cry man, shit! For what it’s worth, I’m trying to do the whole ‘hugging to comfort someone’ thing. It’s kind of hard when you keep phasing through the person and they can’t feel it though. Um, swatting at the air isn’t going to make me go away. I’m stuck here and I’ll be haunting you till we get this sorted out.” You’re exhausted and even though you don’t need to sleep you just want to curl up. You’re in a disgraceful position but all you can do is cover your face so no one can see your shame once more.

“The chances are not in our favvor. You not only lack a body but any revvivvals wwill just lead to me killing you again. I can’t leave the isle, especially if I’ll end up killing evveryone. The gods won’t let a monster exist unchecked. They’ll find a Perseus or Hercules to cut me down. There’s no magic fix for this situation, there’s nothing.”

You can almost feel the ghost of breath brushing over your ear. You can practically imagine the thin body behind you. The cheek of a boy that hasn’t grown a beard yet. Everything is wrong and fake and horrid in your life.

“Hey… you never told me your name. Will you tell me it? Or should I spend the rest of forever referring to you as ‘that amphora throwing siren with the curly head of hair and unnaturally hairless extremities. Who also jumps off rocks or dives underwater to get away from ghosts.’ It’s a really long pseudo-name to be throwing out left and right.” You can tell he’s moving to lie in front of you; his voice drifts past your ear until it’s coming from in front of you. He’s probably trying to make eye contact with you over the tops of your hands as well. “Needs a bit of ‘And tries really hard to hide his smile’ don’t you think?”

Your hands are on your chest now and your cheek muscles hurt from trying to smile around your teeth. They’re thin but large and numerous so it stretches your lips real thin trying to get it look right. “I’ll let you call me Eridan if, and only if, you tell me about the places you’ve been. And there better be details!”

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You spend two hours listening to him talk about his port home of Ostia, of conning the rich out of their money so he could travel to Greece for his education. Even as you get up to collect the burial wine and urn he talks on and on; an endless chatter in your ear as you fly through the night to the ashy remains of the ship. You sprinkle the wine and collect the ash to the descriptions of the Archway of Scipio Africanus.

You add your own stories, mostly historical accounts of battles and such, when he mentions a name you recognize. Sometimes he knows the story already, other times you’re overjoyed to give a detailed retelling. Dawn comes and neither of you need to sleep so your discussions continue onwards to planning how to turn you back to a demi-god. Or in the worst case, mute you.

You both tire of this route of conversation pretty soon and you head back home with the urn and empty wine amphora. You place Sollux’s urn alongside the hundreds of others on the bottom-most gallery of your home. It’s soundless without him speaking and you worry he left or went back to the Underworld. The stillness is broken by him asking you if anyone famous ever crashed here.

You’ll cherish this lapse in silence for as long as it lasts. Every conversation and quirk and memory is inked onto your bones and stored in your mind. Unlike the scrolls or tablets, it will not fade with time. You won’t let it fade now that it’s yours.

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