Dawn
Sonata guffaws. Aria presses her hand into her forehead. Adagio rolls her eyes with a smirk. It has been weeks since the sirens had all sat around a dinner table together, just the three. Before them is a chicken, now all torn apart, the remains upon three plates, some more full of bones than others. A mess of cinnamon sugar and crumbs graces Sonata’s plate. It also graces a good bit of the rest of the table. Sonata never was good at holding back her laughter.
The sight is enough to compel Sonata into an impromptu squeeze of Aria, who rewards her with a huff and some mix of a push and hug in return. Something about spending too much time with a pink-haired nutcase. Something about how they’re changing her, and not for the better. Sonata stops laughing, starts bristling. Now Adagio has started as well. Something about the three having to stick together, being the only true kinship they have. Something about how only they care about her, truly care.
Sonata, for perhaps once in her life, is furious. They dare make fun of the people who took her in, gave her something new? The girl who found her by more than chance, who understands her like no other? Part of her still dimly fears retribution, still feels too naïve to talk back. But that pales now to her newfound confidence in something she may not fully grasp, but can still feel. The chair slides out from under her. Now she is on her feet, salsa bubbling around her.
Aria’s eyes widen slightly. The balloons have been popped, and replaced with blades of steel and bows of horse hair. No longer is this the old silly Sonata. No longer is the pecking order intact. Someone dares challenge her claim, her right to authority. And Aria never backs away from a challenge. Her eyes narrow.
The shouting continues, until Sonata drops the hammer.
And sings.
She reaches in, tries to find that primal spark, that cry that started her journey. She finds it, grasps it, and dares not let go. Her voice is sprinkled with cinnamon sugar and soda pop. She gazes up, not at the ceiling, but beyond. She sees wonders beyond comprehension, glories beyond words, joys beyond emotion. Is it a vision or a sugar rush? She can’t tell. It makes no difference to her. She has no words, there are no words. But there is music, a song, and she sings. She reaches out, tries her best to describe the indescribable. For all the things she can see, she can’t see her mouth curve up as she sings. But as she sings, she does see someone. It’s almost like looking into a mirror.
She has something in her now; what it is, she does not know, nor care. She has no need for words, not here, not now. It’s not about proving a point, about proving them wrong, not anymore. This is about reminding herself about her new song, that she still can sing, that she now has a reason to sing, a smile.
How dare she, wave her singing in front of her. How dare she presume that she, Aria, she still lies as broken as she was on that fateful day. Aria stands herself, and sings her own song. She hushes the musicians with her voice. It rises above the drabble, the plebian. It is a relentless declaration of something, each repetition sprouting a new branch, a new flourish. She stands before not Sonata, but an audience, a crowd. They will judge her, pick at her, search for any weakness. They will find none. They will cite her history, her past, her failures. She will wash those away, wipe her slate clean. She will make sure of it. The past has been written, the book has been shelved. It is time to start anew.
This isn’t about Sonata, about that impudent upstart anymore. Sonata is the target of her song, of her glorious vocalizations, but not the goal. Aria’s dreams are still but clouds and colors, but even the greatest of stars are born from the stellar dust. Even the smallest specks of dust still glimmer in the light. And Aria will have the spotlight on her.
Adagio is frozen. She can’t break up this fight, not with a glare or wave. Whatever authority she once had is gone. Her voice may be broken, but her ears are not, and she can hear the beauty of the songs of her fellow sirens. But they overlap in all the wrong places, construct dissonances where there should be harmonies. The medium may have changed, the tempo and tonality, but before her is still a shouting match, a crude vocal brawl.
She cannot sing. But she must still cling to the order of old, must try to remind them who is in charge here. She has only ever done it one way. She stands, joins in the vocal bludgeoning. Her voice is still off-key, embarrassingly so in the face of her fellow sirens. Mercifully, neither seem to have noticed her yet. She keeps singing, struggling. She will not see those two fight any longer. She will remind them about everything they’ve been through, everything she has led them through. She reaches out to them. This isn’t just about the old order. This is about keeping the only two companions, maybe friends, she has ever had. Somewhere, the fire in her wakes up. Her song turns authoritative, commanding… beautiful. Suddenly, Aria and Sonata are silent. They turn and listen to her beckon them to her once more.
No! She will never be under her rule ever again. Aria shouts, sings back, refusing Adagio’s cry. Adagio replies in kind with a scathing chord. Back and forth, the tones fly. Sonata will not be forgotten as the grown-ups talk. She will be respected as an equal. She screams, sings into the arguing pair. The two turn on her for perhaps a second, before verbally shoving each other. Dissonance reverberates around the table.
The Sirens are no more. Now three sirens stand around a table, trying to climb a ladder that isn’t there, ascend a staircase that is only an illusion. Each tone is another upward grasp, another reaching step. So focused on what lies above that they cannot see they are trampling one another. Adagio takes a step too far and stumbles, falls flat. Aria plants her foot on top of Adagio’s posterior, only to be yanked down by the hair as Sonata climbs another imaginary rung. But her feet find no footing, and she falls as Adagio rises.
Similar thoughts echo through all their minds. Fear of being left behind. A broken amulet, a long shadow. Sessions hidden away in a bathroom or bedroom, trying to reclaim what was lost. They have tasted song again, and they will not let it be taken away again. Their thoughts, their songs, now turn squarely about each other, at each other. Visions are forgotten, dreams fade from sight, unity is left by the wayside. But the singing continues. They cannot hear the singing deteriorate, not against the already mismatched notes. They still jostle against one another, pushing and shoving and grabbing and –
Adagio is the first to notice. Her voice no longer rings, no longer shines. Soon enough, she sees in the others’ eyes that they’ve noticed. The singing, shouting match winds down, but no breath slows.
With a cross of a huff and a humph, Sonata storms out.
Slowly, Aria and Adagio take their seats once more, resume eating their food. Silence haunts the dinner table. Aria looks down at her food. The cinnamon sugar sprinkled around the table. The unattended plate. Adagio. The empty seat. The open door. Adagio’s eyes. They come to a mostly silent agreement.
They rise and walk out the door.
They find her on a park bench on the way to school, sitting. Not quite crying, not quite composed. They find her silent. She turns to face their footsteps, their faces. Silently, she stands, and walks home alongside them. The sky has the faintest glow of dawn.
In the afternoon, they will wake up. They will not bother dressing themselves. It will be Saturday. They will have the day off. They will mull about the house in silence. Sonata will plop in front of the couch. Aria will sit down on the couch. Adagio will lie across the couch. The television will be off. They will gaze into the blank screen, deep in thought. Sonata will suddenly suggest a party. Aria will mention how she’s spending too much time with that pink-haired girl. Adagio will fail to realize she is holding her breath. They will order pizza and cheap Chinese takeout. They will sit around a dinner table.
But for now, they walk. And they remember they are not alone.
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Good chapter, and the tail end of that AN was gold.
This style of yours is still super weird. But holy crap, is it powerful.
I love it.
You monster
A nice set of character pieces for the post movie sirens.
Oh my gosh, that's amazing! Completely amazing! Good work.
Pick. A. Tense.
You can't keep mixing up the present and past tense in your writing, it's incredibly distracting.
5241183 This is what happens when I try to release stuff without sending it to my editor first. Even if she never gets back to me....
I will say I saw the tense differences, and I just couldn't bring my self to bring to make the change at the time. Fear not, reason has won out in the end, and along with the next chapter will come a balance patch to Dawn, hopefully fixing the tense confusion.
5242759 It's cool, it happens.