This is an Atlantis Secret Santa for the lovely clarounette, to whom I wish a very, very merry Christmas (or joyeux Noël)! I really hope you enjoy it!

Before you read it, however, I want to apologize for the colossal mistake I've made. I got sirens and mermaids mixed up because of my native language (the Spanish word for mermaid is "sirena"), and I'm really, really sorry!

PART 1: Night

Pythagoras had never really liked the taste of salt.

It didn't say much of his famed intelligence that he had, in spite of this, volunteered to go on a ridiculous quest that entailed rather a lot of travelling by sea. He had nothing against the water itself, or the ship, or the actual travelling, but the saltiness and the stench of seaweed that covered absolutely everything aboard the Argo had quickly grown tiresome.

He sighed as he watched the sun set, marking the end of their seventeenth day on the ship. According to Pythagoras' calculations, they should have arrived in Colchis already, but the winds hadn't been favorable. Barely half a month had passed since they'd left Atlantis for their quest to retrieve some sacred stones that were needed for the royal wedding, but it felt like so much longer. He yearned for his home and his triangles so much it was almost physically painful at times; he'd had to leave everything behind, aware that there would be no room for scrolls aboard on the Argo.

There was plenty of time, however. Endless hours that Pythagoras, lanky and weak as he was, spent staring at the waves or poring over maps as the rest of the crew kept the ship running. Not that him actually being able to pull an oar would have made a difference; being the best friend of the Atlantean King had many benefits, and being able to do as he pleased was one of them. But it wasn't as though he was entirely useless: geography (as well as any kind of science) had always been a passion of his, and no one else aboard the Argo knew the positions of the islands and coasts, or calculated the distances between them, quite as well as he did.

And it was because of this that, on that evening of the seventeenth day, Pythagoras approached the captain of the ship, walking past the rest of the crew while making his way below deck.

"Dion," he greeted as he entered the man's quarters.

The Argo's captain, who had been calmly reading through some scrolls that probably had something to do with supplies, which were beginning to run scarce, looked up. Pythagoras was surprised to see that he looked… old. Not that he was young, exactly, but his graying hair and lined face had never made him look anything but fierce in the mathematician's eyes. That new-found weariness was just another sign that the quest was starting to become a burden for them all, rather than an adventure.

If Jason hadn't been such a dear friend, and his future king, Pythagoras might have felt a smidge resentment towards him for sending them on such a long journey.

Then again, Pythagoras had actually volunteered, so he had to wonder if perhaps his mind hid some hint of stupidity under all that cleverness.

Thankfully, he was spared from continuing down that line of thought by the captain's reply.

"Pythagoras," he greeted, following the usual pattern of their daily conversations. "I trust that all is in order?"

Pythagoras nodded. "The wind has picked up and we've made good progress today."

"It seems that Poseidon is finally on our side. I was beginning to fear we had somehow offended him." There was a trace of amusement in Dion's tone that reminded Pythagoras of how much he liked the man. He was a warrior, yes, but not a brute, and he had a refreshingly reasonable way of seeing the world, very much like Pythagoras himself.

"If this keeps up, we should arrive in Colchis in about three days," he replied. "According to my calculations, anyway," he added, for fear of sounding overconfident.

Dion smiled. "I've never known your calculations to be wrong, so that is good news indeed. We'll have to celebrate when we reach the first city."

"Getting off the ship will be celebration enough, I think." He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to have flat, stable ground beneath his feet.

"True, true," agreed Dion. "Well, is there anything else you wish to mention?"

Now came the complicated part.

Pythagoras hesitated. "Yes and no. You see, we're quite close to Aeaea…"

"And there are sharp rocks and wrecked ships that we'll have to be careful with, yes. What of it?"

"There are other dangers, apparently," said Pythagoras, trying to come up with best way not to sound like a gullible fisherman. "Dangers of a rather… um… fantastical nature."

Dion raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. "You mean sirens? That's just a rumour, Pythagoras. I never would have imagined you-"

"No, no!" interrupted the mathematician. "I don't – I didn't want to – I'm not intimidated by sirens, I just wanted to make sure that you were aware of the… the possibility."

"If I were given a drachma every time a sailor points at a group of rocks and claims that sirens live there, I'd be a rich man," said Dion. He stood up and walked over to the other side of the table, where the mathematicians was standing. "Trust me, Pythagoras. There is no danger. And if there was, well, it would take more than a few lovely fish batting their eyelashes at me and trilling to wreck this ship." He put a hand on Pythagoras' shoulder and squeezed, trying to be comforting.

Pythagoras desperately wanted to believe him.

Night fell, but Pythagoras couldn't sleep. He was too alert, his mind a whirl of ideas and thoughts and worries – though this wasn't too unusual – and his hammock was probably more uncomfortable than the wooden floor. He made his way towards the deck, found a decent-looking pile of rope, and sat down on it, his gaze raised skyward.

As a child, before he'd had to leave Samos, he'd lain on the roof of his house with Arcas every night. He'd done this for two reasons: the first was his father, who liked to punch and scream and make his mother cry, and was always too drunk to follow his children to the roof; the second was his own natural curiosity, and his love for beautiful things. Deep down, he knew that watching the stars was a rather pointless activity, but he had enjoyed it nonetheless. However, the more practical part of him had tried to make it more stimulating.

And so he had begun to count them.

He did so now, too, not caring that his neck was beginning to ache because of his awkward posture. He counted the stars and remembered their stories, tales of gods and monsters and mortals whose lives became impossibly tangled. Most of them were rather morbid, full of greed, grief and deceit, but Arcas had always liked them, so he had told him a different one each night. His little brother was particularly fond of monsters: the Hydra, the Nemean Lion, the Aethon…

But not sirens.

He sighed as his thoughts landed on the very topic he'd been trying to avoid. If he was completely honest with himself, he wasn't sure why he wanted to avoid it. Up until not too long ago, sirens and other such creatures had been nothing but mere stories, far too outlandish to even merit thinking about. He had known they existed, of course, but they had always seemed so far away from his own reality that it was impractical to waste time with them.

And then the Minotaur had happened.

There had been the Minotaur, the Furies, cyclopes, harpies and so many others that he had lost count. It was incredible, really, that he had spent his entire life ignoring the existence of such creatures, only to spend the past year trying to avoid being eaten by… well… all of them. He'd been so content with his scrolls and his triangles, and then everything had changed because…

Because of Jason.

He tensed. 'Don't think about him,' he reprimanded himself. 'What's done is done. It's illogical to keep coming back to it. It's impractical. Stop it. Stop itnow.'

If Jason had found a home and a future, he would be happy for him. If those did not include Pythagoras, he would smile nonetheless. If he wanted to marry a bright, brave, beautiful Queen, then Pythagoras would attend the wedding, and wish them joy and good fortune.

It was pointless to wallow in his own pain. He was no healer, but he had studied enough Medicine to know that there was no cure for a broken heart. He could only move on.

"What brings you outside on this fine night, my friend?" He wasn't sure what startled him most: the loud, unexpected voice or the hard slap on his back.

"Hercules!" he squeaked, almost falling off the pile of rope. "Gods, you could have warned me, you know!"

"It's not my fault your head was in the clouds," replied his friend cheerfully.

"It wasnot."

"Whatever you say, my friend."

"I was thinking, Hercules. You should try it sometime."

"And waste valuable time that could be spent sampling the many pleasures life has to offer?" The man raised an eyebrow before he burst out laughing at the mathematician's exasperated expression. "You take everything too seriously, Pythagoras."

"And you're here because one of 'life's many pleasures' has kicked you out of her quarters, aren't you?"

"Areto will come round eventually."

"I'm sure she will."

"Your blatant pessimism wounds me, Pythagoras."

"I'm being realistic."

"Are you?" asked Hercules, plopping down next to him on the ropes. The mathematician was practically squashed against the side of the ship, but he didn't mind; Hercules' presence was as large as it was comforting. "So tell me: what is a realist doing out here all alone in the middle of the night with nothing but the stars for company?"

"I've already told you. I was thinking."

"About?"

Pythagoras could lie, and he knew it, and Hercules knew it, too. He could say anything, or start ranting about triangles, and his friend would simply nod and continue the conversation. Hercules' words weren't a provocation, but a prompt, an invitation to talk about what was keeping him awake.

"You already know, Hercules," he whispered. Despite his friend's constant boasting and drinking and teasing, he knew Pythagoras better than anyone else.

Hercules sighed. "It's been a month, Pythagoras."

"Mmhmm."

"You can't let this keep dragging you down. He belongs to someone else now, and trying to hold on to him will only hurt you."

"Mmhmm."

"If you would just-"

"No."

"But-"

"No." Gods, how could he explain this? "It doesn't work like that for me, Hercules. I can't just… get drunk and sleep with someone and forget about him. I can't do that. I didn't… Jason meant the world to me. He still does. But not as much, not in the same way. I'm… I'm getting better. On my own."

Silence. And then…

"I hate seeing you like this." There was a genuine sadness in Hercules' voice, and the hand he put on his back was soft now, rubbing slow, comforting circles. "I just wish I could help."

Pythagoras gave him a small smile. "You already are."

"Yes, but-"

But Pythagoras would never know what his friend was about to say at that moment, as they were both interrupted by the bellows of the bow lookout.

"ROCKS! ROCKS UP AHEAD!"

The lookout's keen eyesight, aided by the full moon that brightened the night, almost saved them. Thanks to his warning, the sleeping rowers below deck were quickly roused, and they occupied their posts as Dion emerged from his quarters. The captain immediately began shouting orders, his powerful voice only slightly muffled by the piper, who played the rhythm the oars had to follow, and the grunts of the crew. It took no time at all for the ship to begin moving away from the rocks.

It should have been enough.

It wasn't.

Later, when Pythagoras tried to remember exactly how everything had started, he would never be able to pinpoint the exact moment in which the Argo had doomed itself. All he would recall would be a high, piercing wail, quickly followed by others, and then everything else would become a blur in his mind.

The sound didn't affect him. In fact, he didn't realize he'd heard anything at all until he felt Hercules stiffen at his side. He turned to look at his friend, who stood up and, as if he were drunk, began to stumble towards the bow of the ship.

"Hercules?" he called, still not understanding what was happening. "Hercules!"

He tried to get on his feet, but froze at the sight before him. Dozens of men were making their way up from below deck, following Hercules. The rowers. They were the rowers. But why weren't they rowing?

It was at the moment that he realized the piper's flute was no longer playing. In fact, the only sound he could hear was a distant screeching that could only be coming from the rocks.

And then everything clicked.

Sirens.

"You're not joining them?"

Icarus looked up at Elpis, who had just heaved herself out of the water and was currently sitting on a rock, her tail only half submerged. He wasn't sure how she could look so calm and poised with all that sand digging into her skin, but he knew better than to ask.

"You know I don't like this."

Elpis smiled and began to unbraid her hair. "A pity," she said. "We could always use a male voice. There's always one or two who can resist us."

"They'll die anyway," he said drily.

"That's true," she acknowledged. "But seducing them is so much more fun than killing them. You should try it."

"Hmm." He'd had this conversation a dozen times before, and had no desire to repeat it. With a small nod towards Elpis, who had already begun to sing, he dove into the sea and swam away.

He felt himself relax as the sound of the sirens' song grew muffled. Everything was so much simpler down there, where there were no bloodthirsty instincts or humans that could tempt him. For now.

He watched impassively as the first crewmember struck the water. A man. Not young, but not too old, either. Dark-skinned. Even from a distance, Icarus could see the panic that filled his eyes as the song's spell was broken and he realized what was happening.

Icarus could have helped him, saved him. Instead, he stood still as one of his sisters swam towards him and gave him a sweet smile before ripping his throat out with her teeth.

The moonlit water turned red, and Icarus felt something stir inside him. Hunger. Thirst. Need. He wanted to hunt, to fight the siren, steal her prey, sink his teeth into the man's soft skin and-

No.

He'd been fighting his instincts for so long. He wasn't going to give in now. He wasn't weak. Not anymore.

He turned away and, with a flick of his tail, he was gone.

Shabaka was the first to jump.

Pythagoras could only stare in mute horror as the Nubian, who he had long ago seen leap over bulls, now leapt over the side of the Argo and into the sea. Time seemed to stop for a second, but then he hit the water, and the sirens began to laugh and jeer, their voices growing stronger.

And then the others began to jump.

Soon the air was full of shrieks, the sound of teeth ripping flesh, violent splashes and the wails of the dying. The stench of blood spread, almost making him retch.

And he could only watch.

He took a step back, bile rising in his throat, only to be shoved away by a frantic Critias. He gasped, sure that the young man was going to jump, only to be left gaping as he saw him grab the back of Dion's tunic and pull.

The captain stumbled back, tripping and collapsing on top of Critias. He immediately tried to get up again, desperate to leap off the ship and into the welcoming, blood-stained arms of the sirens, but Critias was having none of that. He shoved the captain down with a strength Pythagoras wouldn't have imagined he possessed and held him there as Dion roared and punched and fought.

It suddenly occurred to Pythagoras that Critias appeared to be immune to the sirens' song, like him. It should have surprised him, but, considering the determination with which Critias was trying to keep Dion alive and the longing looks that he'd often give the captain, it wasn't surprising at all. Pythagoras knew love when he saw it, despite being unsure of ever having truly felt it himself.

The more practical side of him noted that the sirens' call wasn't as all-powerful and irresistible as he'd thought. If Critias and him were unaffected, it meant that it had a weakness. It could be fought. If they could save themselves, they could save others. They could save-

"Hercules," he breathed, his scattered thoughts snapping back into place. He immediately began to run towards the bow of the Argo, frantically searching for his friend among the dozens and dozens of men. He couldn't have jumped yet. Not Hercules. Surely not Hercules, who was big and heavy and probably the least athletic person Pythagoras had ever met. He couldn't possibly have beaten his faster, more agile crewmates. He was still on the ship; he had to be.

"HERCULES!"

He almost began to cry when he finally spotted him. He appeared to be wrestling with another man (Nereus, perhaps?), who threw him onto the floor before leaping into the water.

Pythagoras was at his side in a second, checking for injuries. His friend was badly bruised and he had a few cuts here and there, but nothing too serious. He was alive, and that was enough. That was everything.

"Hercules, thank the Gods, I-"

But he couldn't even finish speaking. With a snarl, the bigger man shoved him away. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, and he realized that the man he knew was no longer there. Hercules' gaze was unfocused, as if he were drunk, and he seemed unable to tear it away from the rocks, which were growing ever closer.

Pythagoras tried again.

"Hercules, please…"

Another shove.

"Hercules!"

Again.

Pythagoras tripped and fell backwards, landing painfully on his back. They were right next to the side of the ship now, and Pythagoras watched as Hercules prepared to go over it.

"NO!"

He was going to lose him.

"HERCULES! HERCULES, NO!"

His throat felt so raw he almost gagged, but that didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was Hercules, and his imminent death, and how Pythagoras had to do something, do it, do it now.

He lunged towards his friend, wrapping his arms around him and pulling back with all the strength he could muster. Hercules stumbled, and they both almost lost their balance

And then Hercules turned around.

The change of position was so sudden that he felt his hold on Hercules weaken. He let go and slammed into the railing. It was Pythagoras who was next to the side of the Argo now, and Hercules stood before him, eyes clouded by madness. There was a ringing in his ears, or maybe that was just the sirens' song, and he realized, as he lay there, that he was going to die.

It took him only a second to figure out what was going to happen. It took him too long.

"No!" he gasped.

And Hercules pushed him over the railing.

The blond one had been screaming for some time now.

Icarus had intended to go home and leave his sisters to their carnage, but that was before he'd heard him. That human. Before he'd realized what was happening, curiosity had taken his hand and gently guided him towards the ship.

From the rocks he'd watched the fight between the blond man and the other, bigger one. He didn't know why, but he couldn't look away, even though this scene had played out before him a hundred times before. There was always a man who could resist the call of his brethren and tried to save his crewmates. Once upon a time, Icarus might have even sung for him, to trap him under the spell. But that had been long ago, and he no longer took pleasure in toying with humans.

He watched the two men fight, his gaze fixed on the blond one. He held his breath when he was knocked down, and let it go when he tried to hold his friend back. For a brief moment, Icarus thought he would actually manage to break the spell. Surely such fierce loyalty was stronger than a siren's voice?

But it wasn't, so, when the blond toppled over the side of the doomed ship, Icarus knew what he had to do.

There was an unspoken rule among sirens: when a human hit the water, he was free game, regardless of whose voice had seduced him. Whoever got to him first, claimed him.

His sisters were fast, but Icarus was faster. It took only a few powerful flicks of his tail to reach the man, who had been knocked unconscious because of the impact. He wrapped his arms around his torso (Gods, he was thin) and shot upwards, breaking the surface of the water.

After ensuring that the human was breathing, he looked around. He spotted Korinna and Demetria circling around him like vultures, their expressions bitter with resentment. He returned their gaze with cold anger, making it clear that he had staked his claim, and that they would have to fight him if they wished to challenge it. They hissed at him and disappeared beneath the waves.

A wise choice. No one wanted to fight Icarus; he wasn't the strongest siren, but definitely the cleverest. You could give him a clump of seaweed and he'd find a way to turn it into a deadly weapon.

He sighed. He might be clever, yes, but there he was: alone, with a human in his arms, no idea what to do with him and absolutely no regrets. He was… glad. Glad that he'd saved that man.

The bloodbath before him was coming to an end. The ship would crash into the rocks soon enough, and then every single member of the crew would be dead.

He had to leave, find a safe place for them both, and think.

As he swam away, he saw Elpis give him a smug smile, as though she knew that he was too weak to resist the temptation of human flesh. She obviously thought he was going to find a place where he could tear the human apart in private.

He tried not to smile.

PART 2: Sun

Gods, he was thirsty.

That was the first thing that crossed Pythagoras' mind when he woke up. Never, not in his entire life, had he ever felt so poorly. Every part of him ached, his head was practically thrumming and his throat felt as dry as parchment. Worst of all was the sharp taste of saltwater, which would have made him gag had he been able to actually move.

Was this what death felt like? Was he in Tartarus? No, no; even though his eyes were closed, he could tell it was too bright. Elysium, then? No, he wasn't worthy enough to be admitted into Elysium. He was probably in Asphodel, doomed to live a dull, tasteless afterlife.

Or, his rational mind pointed out, perhaps you're still alive, but dying.

Either option sounded lovely.

He tried to open his eyes, but the brightness was too intense. He shut them again with a groan, and threw an arm over them for good measure.

"I was beginning to think you wouldn't wake."

He shot up from where he was lying, uncomfortable brightness be damned, and looked around, squinting.

"To your right."

He finally managed to focus on the speaker and, when it did, all thoughts of death and Asphodel swiftly disappeared.

The speaker was a man, and a breathtakingly handsome one at that. He was a beautiful blend of shades of brown, with a tangle of curls that framed his face and eyes as dark as molasses. Pythagoras' gaze strayed to the man's lips, which were full and sensual, and currently pulled up into an amused smile that made his throat feel even drier than before.

Surely such beauty could only belong in Elysium?

But then the man shifted, and Pythagoras noticed for the first time that he was half submerged in the sea. He was momentarily distracted by his chest, which was smooth and tanned and so perfect that he was sure only Hephaestus could have sculpted it, but then he realized how odd it was that the man wasn't wearing a tunic. And then his gaze strayed lower and lower, and at that moment the sunlight hit the water just right, and he saw it.

A tail.

Siren.

He scrambled back, trying to get as far away from the creature as he could, but it was useless. He appeared to be sitting on some kind of rock which was barely large enough for him. There was no escape.

The events of the previous night flooded back to him, and he felt his chest tighten with panic. Not only for himself, but for the others, for his friends, for Hercules-

Oh, Gods, Hercules. Was he dead? Of course he was. He'd still been on the ship when Pythagoras had passed out, but that didn't matter. Without Pythagoras there to stop him, he had almost certainly jumped into the water. And even if he hadn't, it was of no consequence, because the Argo had doubtlessly crashed into the rocks.

He was dead, he was dead, and Pythagoras would soon follow.

"Are you alright?"

The creature was talking to him, no longer smiling, and the concern in its voice sounded so honest that Pythagoras wanted to scream. He'd just lost his closest friend to cruel, bloodthirsty monsters, and there he was now, alone with one of them. The concern in its voice was surely a taunt, a trick, part of a game that Pythagoras would unwillingly play until the siren grew bored and ended it all.

"Calm down. Please," it said. It tried to move forward, but Pythagoras flinched back, almost falling off the rock, and it immediately stopped.

"I'm not going to hurt you," it said, raising its hands, as if that was supposed to prove that it was harmless. "I swear it."

"What do you want from me?" Pythagoras whispered, and winced. It hurt to speak.

"Nothing." The siren slowly lowered its hands before adding: "I saved your life, you know."

Pythagoras had always thought that sirens were supposed to be good liars.

"Yes, because it's entirely logical that a hunter would save its prey."

The creature didn't seem to like that, and Pythagoras felt smug with triumph. Yes, let it grow angry; perhaps then it would all be over sooner.

"Is it more logical to believe that you just magically appeared on top of that rock after fainting when you hit the water?" the siren asked drily. "I carried you here and spent half the night trying to get you onto that godsdamned piece of dirt, and it hurt like Hades." It gestured towards its arms, which were covered in small cuts. "But you may believe whatever makes you feel better."

The creature's explanation made sense, even though it stung to admit it. Pythagoras knew that he should have died, torn apart by sirens, the second he entered their territory, and yet there he was. Had he been a simpler man, he might have forced himself to believe it was a gift from the Gods, but that was impossible. The siren's logic was sound, but still…

"Why did you save me, then?"

The siren frowned, but the expression did nothing to diminish its beauty. How could something so beautiful be so monstrous?

"I don't know," it whispered, and this time Pythagoras believed it. The answer, however, brought little comfort. It looked as though he wasn't going to die just yet, but that didn't change the fact that he was stranded somewhere in the Mediterranean, with no way to return home.

The siren was watching him, and it seemed to follow his line of thought.

"Where did your ship come from?"

"Atlantis." As the word left his lips, he realized how much he missed the place. He had left it barely eighteen days ago, but it felt like a small eternity.

The siren raised an eyebrow. "Ah, I'd forgotten you humans insist on giving everything a name."

The slightly mocking tone when it spoke of humans irritated him. "Of course we do. How else would we be able to tell one thing from another?"

"You think that giving things a name makes them yours. There's nothing logical about that."

"We call this sea the Mediterranean, but we don't claim it as our own."

"The Mediterranean." The siren made a face. "And you'd claim it, if you could. It's in your nature. So tell me," he continued, "which strip of land is Atlantis?"

"It's in the south of Greece." Pythagoras hesitated. "Greece is-"

"I know what Greece is," said the siren, rolling its eyes.

"Well, Atlantis is in the south. It's quite far, actually. We'd been travelling for seventeen days when we…when we were attacked."

"Oh."

Pythagoras pursed his lips after that, reminded of exactly what he was talking to, and refused to speak. Instead, he watched the sun make its way across the sky, increasingly aware of how thirsty and hungry he was. He needed to get to land as soon as possible, but how? He didn't know where he was, though he could always ask the siren…

No, he was too proud to do that.

He looked at it out of the corner of his eye. If he let himself, it would be so, so easy to forget it wasn't human. It looked human, it sounded human… but it was a monster. It didn't matter that it had saved his life. All sirens were monsters. He glanced at its tail, but he couldn't see it well from his current position. It was little more than a dark shape in the water, but, instead of feeling intimidated, he felt… curious.

He turned his head slightly to get a better look, and it was then that he realized the siren was watching him.

"It's rude to stare, you know," he blurted out, cheeks reddening.

"Says the one who's been staring at my tail," replied the creature without missing a beat.

"I…" he began to reply, but quickly closed his mouth. He was curious, yes.

"You've never seen a tail, have you?" It sounded almost cocky.

"Well, considering that your kind kills every human that gets too close, no, I haven't," he snapped.

"Hmm." The siren looked uncomfortable, and Pythagoras wondered what it thought it was playing at.

"So, what's it like, having legs?"

The change of subject surprised him. Pythagoras had always prided himself in being an eloquent, intelligent man, but when faced with such a question…

"Normal?" he said, and he couldn't stop himself from making it sound like a question.

The siren snorted. "Fascinating."

"What's having a tail like, then?" Pythagoras countered. He was annoyed, but mostly at himself.

The siren looked at the sea for a few seconds, lost in thought, before it smiled. "Fast." And, before Pythagoras could reply, it leaned back, letting his tail break the surface of the water. The mathematician stared at it, mesmerized. It was dark and smooth, completely different to what he had expected. Even though it was completely still, it seemed to radiate strength.

And then, before he could blink, it flicked some water at his face and disappeared beneath the water.

The siren burst out laughing when it saw his face. "Close your mouth, you look like a fish."

"Says the one who's half fish," Pythagoras retorted. He wasn't sure he wanted to, but he felt himself smile nonetheless.

"If we were to follow that line of logic, then you'd be half siren, wouldn't you?" The siren rolled its eyes. "Thankfully, that's not the case. Sirens are… well, sirens. Not half and half, thank you very much."

And it was true. The siren's tail seemed as much a part of him as his arms.

They watched each other for a few moments. The siren's hair was wet, but the water seemed unable to weigh down its curls, which were as unruly as before. Pythagoras was briefly reminded of Jason, but he shoved that thought away before it could fully settle in his mind.

"My name's Icarus," the siren said abruptly, and then he tilted his head and smiled, as if he had just come up with an extremely funny joke.

It took Pythagoras a moment to realize that he should give his own name in return, as he was too busy analyzing every inch of the siren's one. Icarus. It was as lovely as the creature itself.

"I'm Pythagoras," he said simply.

"Pythagoras," the siren repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. The mathematician had always thought his name was a bit of a mouthful, but the siren's smooth, sweet voice made it sound beautiful and mysterious. He felt a shudder run down his spine.

Gods, what in Hades he thought he was doing?

He didn't know why Icarus had saved him or what he was playing at, and he didn't know why he was so…. so calm about the whole thing. It was as if the Gods had taken not only any potential for self-defense that he might have had, but also any instinct of self-preservation. There he was, calmly talking to one of the flesh-eating creatures that had wrecked the Argo mere hours before.

But no, he was starting to see that Icarus wasn't like that. His feelings were a confused, messy tangle, but he felt with an absolute certainty that he could trust the siren. It no longer bothered him that he had let down his guard so quickly. The siren wouldn't harm him, that was obvious, as it would have already if it wanted to. The creature was almost… friendly. As if it really, really wanted to be liked by Pythagoras.

He would be lying if he said he wasn't beginning to enjoy talking to it.

Talking to him.

Icarus almost felt tempted to take them away from that place.

He hadn't told Pythagoras just yet, but that lone, solitary rock marked a spot that many fishermen used as guidance when navigating through that area. It was only a matter of time before a boat sailed by, and then Pythagoras would be able to go home.

Without him.

It was so disgustingly selfish he felt sick with himself, but Icarus wanted to keep the man by his side. Perhaps he was being too rash. No, he definitely was, but in the brief time he'd known Pythagoras, Icarus had realized that the man was everything he'd been looking for.

The ocean was larger than the land, and it was a terrible place to be alone in. And Icarus was alone, very much so. But now...

Pythagoras was… interesting. No, he was lovely. He was like rain, like a warm current in the cold winter months. As soon as he'd heard him speak, he'd known that he'd found an equal.

He didn't want to lose him. He wanted to know more about him, to protect him like he had the previous night, to hold him…

But when he saw the small boat in the horizon, he knew he couldn't.

"There's your way back home, Pythagoras," he said quietly. The man had been silent for some time now, obviously tired, but he perked up when he heard the siren's words. He looked at the boat, and the smile that appeared on his face was so bright it was almost painful.

"Atlantis," he breathed, the name like a prayer on his lips.

And Icarus knew it was time for him to go.

"May Poseidon grant you safe passage," he said. With a half smile, he added: "And please, stay away from the rocks. I might not be able to save you a second time."

Pythagoras' own smile faded a little. He looked almost sad, but Icarus knew that that was just wishful thinking.

"I… Icarus," he said, as if his name was somehow important. "Thank you. For everything. Truly. I… I owe you-"

"You owe me nothing," Icarus interrupted. "Just… stay safe, alright?"

If he stayed there for one more moment, he wouldn't be able to leave, and he knew it. With a wink and a wave, he dove back into the water and swam away from everything he'd ever wanted.

And he was alone once again.

PART 3: Stars

Pythagoras thought of that night a thousand times.

Every day, when the sun set and the stars filled the sky, he would lie on his bed and think, think about the blood and the screams, think about what could have been different, what he could have done to stop everything from happening. If he'd spoken to Dion and insisted that they change their route, if he'd warned them all about the sirens, if, if, if…

He was the only survivor.

He would never forget the look in the future King and Queen's eyes when he'd staggered into the throne room of the Atlantean palace, wearing a borrowed tunic that was too big for him, covered in half-healed cuts and bruises, and alone. Jason had wanted to know what had happened, but Ariadne, who had always been more perceptive, had lain a hand on his shoulder and shaken her head.

Pythagoras told them the whole story. Eventually. He told them about the long days without wind, the painfully slow journey towards Colchis, the conversation with Dion, the high-pitched wailing of the sirens, Shabaka's jump, Critias, Dion, Hercules…

But not Icarus.

He kept that part for himself, for when every other thought was too sharp. That particular memory felt soft and blurry, though he remembered every detail clearly, and he knew it would never hurt him. It was a good memory. A good dream.

He also told them about the kind fisherman that had saved him, fed him and clothed him, and the long journey back home. He barely remembered most of it.

Jason and Ariadne had been horrified, of course, and tears had been trailing down their cheeks by the time Pythagoras finished his tale. They had cancelled the wedding, given the crew of the Argo a proper funeral, and offered Pythagoras permanent rooms in the palace.

He'd refused, and gone back home.

That had been a month ago.

It had been terrible at first, being alone. He'd wake up, expecting to hear Hercules' loud snoring coming from the other side of the house, and be greeted with silence. The food didn't mysteriously disappear, but he didn't eat much, anyway. He had more money than he knew what to do with.

What slowly began to bring him back were his triangles. He simply sat on his table one day, picked up his wooden pen, and began to write numbers. They kept his mind occupied during the day, which helped, but the real problems were the nights.

He'd toss and turn, plagued by nightmares full of monsters with sharp teeth and sweet voices. One night in particular was so violent that he woke up screaming, and he knew that he couldn't go on like that. Hands shaking, he made his way towards the balcony, hoping that some fresh air would clear his mind. He breathed in, looked at the sky, and knew what he had to do.

Making his way towards the beach in the middle of the night wasn't easy, but at least the city guards were too exhausted to notice him slipping by them. In what felt like no time at all, he was standing on the sand, which felt delightfully cool against his hot skin. He spotted some rocks that looked comfortable enough to sit on and made his way towards them, but not before taking off his sandals.

'And please, stay away from the rocks. I might not be able to save you a second time.'

There are no sirens in Atlantis, Icarus, he thought, and felt a strange pain somewhere inside his chest.

The rocks were smooth and slippery, but he'd done this dozens of times in Samos, and his body remembered how it was supposed to move. He stepped from one onto another, eyes on his feet, intending to reach the one that was furthest into the sea, but he suddenly sensed that he wasn't alone.

He looked up. There, in front of him, was a man, comfortably leaning against the rock he'd been trying to reach. Pythagoras could only see his back, as he was half submerged in the water, and a tangle of dark curls-

He slipped.

He waved his arms in an attempt to regain his balance, but it was useless. He resigned himself to the fall and the pain that would inevitably follow it. The rocks were smooth, yes, but still hard.

Except he didn't hit the rocks.

He fell against something softer that wrapped around him, making sure he didn't get hurt.

"This is the second time I save you, you know."

Icarus.

He opened his eyes and there he was, smiling the same way he had that first time. They were almost nose to nose, and Pythagoras' heart skipped a beat. There was a strange intensity in Icarus' eyes, as if he was holding himself back from doing something. He was as beautiful as he remembered.

He'd been so wrapped up in his own grief that he hadn't realized he'd missed him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, still unsure if it was all a dream.

"Saving you, apparently."

He felt himself smile for the first time in weeks.

"It's your fault I slipped."

"Of course, blame the siren."

"Don't play the victim." Pythagoras rolled his eyes. "But really, what are you doing here?"

He suddenly realized that the answer mattered to him. A lot. The fact that Icarus was there, in Atlantis, could be nothing but a mere coincidence, but on the other hand…

"I wanted to see you."

The words were uttered nonchalantly, but Pythagoras could immediately tell that it was all an act. However, Icarus didn't give him enough time to reply.

"And what are you doing here?"

"I wanted to look at the stars." His reply was automatic.

Icarus hesitated for a moment. "Can I look at them with you, then?"

Pythagoras smiled. "Of course."

He'd forgotten how relaxing it was, just lying there. He'd finally managed to get onto that rock, and Icarus lay at his side, occasionally diving into the water to stay hydrated. Whenever he did, Pythagoras would sneak looks at him, fascinated by the way his tail glistened in the moonlight.

"I used to count them," he confessed a while later. "The stars."

He couldn't see Icarus' face, but he could tell he was smiling. "How many did you count?"

"I don't know. I started again every night. Sometimes I counted two hundred, sometimes five hundred. One time I got to a thousand." He sighed. "I put them into groups, and named those after plants. When I woke up the following morning, I would write down the name and number of stars of each one. It was a way to keep my mind busy."

At some point while he spoke, Icarus had turned to look at him. Their eyes met, and Pythagoras saw something soft and warm in the siren's gaze that made him blush.

"Sorry, this is silly-" He began to move away, but Icarus wrapped a hand around his wrist and pulled him back.

"No, it isn't," he whispered. "Tell me more."

And Pythagoras did.

Sneaking into the beach at night to meet with Icarus became a habit, and one that Pythagoras slowly began to enjoy more and more.

He was thoroughly enchanted by Icarus, and his quirks, and the way his dark eyes always glinted with humour, and the small dimple that appeared on his left cheek when he smiled. He loved hearing his voice and his stories, and hoped the fascination he felt would never truly disappear.

Too soon, it seemed, reality decided to burst his little bubble of delirious happiness.

It had been exactly twenty-nine days since his first midnight rendezvous with Icarus, and he'd gone to the market to buy some parchment. Perhaps, if he hadn't wasted time considering the pros and cons of buying a new pen, he wouldn't have seen her.

The woman.

The crowd parted for her as she staggered into the market square. She looked half-crazed, covered in cuts, bruises and dry blood; her clothes were in tatters and she couldn't seem to stop shaking.

Pythagoras, driven by curiosity and kindness, approached her slowly.

"Are you alright? What happened?" he asked gently.

It wasn't too uncommon to stumble across people like her, people who'd been robbed by bandits on the road or by pirates in the sea.

"S-s-sirens," the woman stammered, her eyes filling with tears. Pythagoras froze. "T-they took my father and my husband, they s-s-sank our ship…" She began to cry.

He tried to comfort her, but she was hysterical, and he was too lost in his own thought and worries. Soon enough, the city guards arrived and took her away to see a healer.

As he watched her leave, Pythagoras couldn't help but think that he was seeing a mirror of himself, of what he'd been not too long ago.

Icarus knew something was wrong.

He'd been able to spot it as soon as Pythagoras' feet hit the sand. As the mathematician came closer, he noticed the tension in his shoulders and his emotionless expression.

"What happened?" He didn't mean to whisper.

Pythagoras sat down, not looking at him. "I saw a woman in the market today," he said. "She was wounded, half mad. She'd been attacked by… by sirens."

Icarus didn't understand what that had to do with Pythagoras' sudden change. It probably brought up painful memories, but he'd already spoken about them to Icarus. He'd spoken and cried and let himself be comforted, and Icarus thought he had begun to move on.

"I'm sorry," he said hesitantly, unsure of what Pythagoras expected him to do.

The mathematician inhaled sharply. "Why do you do it?"

Icarus opened his mouth, bewildered, but Pythagoras kept talking.

"Do you do it for fun? Does it amuse you to… to trick us, play with us before killing us?"

The reason behind Pythagoras' distress was clear now, and it felt like a knife in Icarus' chest.

"You think I'm a monster?" he asked quietly.

Pythagoras was silent for a moment. "Your kind kills people for sport," he said finally.

"I don't."

"And you never have?"

Why was Pythagoras doing this? Why was he hurting him?

"I used to," Icarus whispered. "A long time ago."

"I see."

"You see?" He was growing angry now. "You don't, Pythagoras. You really don't. You don't know-"

"All I know is that you kill innocent people for no reason."

Icarus was breathing heavily, his fists clenched at his sides. "For no reason? For no rea- so it's perfectly fine for you humans to attack our homes and try to claim what isn't yours, but when we kill you, it's a crime?" There was a dangerous edge to his voice now, sharp as steel. "We don't do it for sport, Pythagoras. It's our way of protecting ourselves. It's in our nature. The Gods made us this way."

"They made you murderers."

"Would you blame a shark for trying to kill you? Would you blame snake for trying to bite you? Would you immediately call them murderers for doing what their instincts tell them to?"

"I…"

"You wouldn't, would you? Then don't blame a siren for trying to drown you."

A heavy silence fell between them, and it quickly grew thick with tension. Icarus had never been particularly violent, but at that moment he felt like punching something, anything.

Objectively, he could understand Pythagoras' reaction, but that didn't change the fact that it hurt. He'd worked so hard, done everything he could to set himself apart from the other sirens, to be different. He thought he'd succeeded. He'd been so sure that Pythagoras saw him for what he was.

Perhaps he'd been wrong.

But he couldn't stay angry at Pythagoras, not when he looked so… so lost. He would have tried to touch him, comfort him, if he hadn't feared that he would flinch.

"I don't do it, Pythagoras," he repeated. "Yes, I used to, but I haven't, not for a long time. I swear it."

Pythagoras looked tortured, and his dilemma was written plainly on his face.

Icarus had saved Pythagoras.

But he was a siren.

But he hadn't killed him.

But he had killed others.

"You're afraid of me," Icarus said, his tone void of any kind of emotion. He couldn't show how much it hurt, not now. If Pythagoras decided to leave, if he walked away and never looked back...

No, that couldn't happen. It couldn't.

Pythagoras wanted to leave.

He couldn't think clearly, not with him there. He sounded so heartbreakingly sad that Pythagoras wanted nothing more than to forget that day had ever happened.

And that was exactly why he had to leave.

"You're afraid of me."

No, not of him, but of what he made him feel.

"I don't know," he whispered. He began to stand up, careful not to slip on the uneven ground, but Icarus' hand shot out of the water, holding him in place.

"No!" He sounded desperate. "Stay. Please."

How could he be sure that the plea in the siren's voice, so painful and irresistible, wasn't a trick? How could he be sure of anything? There were too many variables, too many things completely outside his control. He felt adrift, panicked, uncertain. Those feelings went against everything that he was. Gods, this was too much, he couldn't do it, he couldn't.

He wanted to leave. He wanted to stay. He wanted to jerk away from Icarus' touch. He wanted to embrace him and never leave his side. He wanted, he wanted…

"Icarus, I don't… I… You… I just can't know…"

"You don't trust me?" Icarus was shocked, as if the possibility of the mathematician not trusting him had been completely unthinkable until then. "I saved your life, Pythagoras. I helped you, I've never been anything but-"

"That's not the problem."

"Then what is? I…" Pythagoras saw the exact moment in which understanding dawned in his eyes. "You think I'm using you? Manipulating you? With my voice?"

Pythagoras couldn't meet his gaze. He simply nodded, eyes fixed on the rocks beneath him.

That did not sit well with Icarus.

"I… I would never, Pythagoras. Not with you. Do you understand? Never with you."

"I want to believe that."

"Do it, then."

But Pythagoras couldn't.

"Look at me. Please. Look at me, look beyond the monster. I'm not like them. I would never hurt you, or anyone. Please."

Pythagoras wanted to, he really did. He wanted to look into those warm brown eyes, so out of place on a creature fashioned for the cold, dark ocean. He wouldn't even have to try to look beyond the monster Icarus thought he saw, because he knew, deep down, that the siren would never be anything like that to him. He wanted to believe his words. He wanted to do a thousand things, but he couldn't get rid of the little voice in his head that warned of danger and the pain of a broken heart.

He didn't move.

Icarus sighed, and it was incredible how such a small sound could convey so much hurt. He went very quiet after that, which piqued the mathematician's curiosity, but even that couldn't make him lift his gaze. If he had, he would have seen hints of the fierce battle that was taking place in Icarus' mind. The siren bit his lip, torn between what he should do, and what he wanted to do. In the end, need won over his own wishes, though it was obvious his choice pained him.

He took a deep breath, already regretting what he was about to do.

"Pythagoras, look at me."

Pythagoras' mind went completely blank before a rush of sound filled it. A voice. A melodious voice, sweet as honey, the most beautiful music he had ever heard. It echoed in his thoughts like a bell, and the need to obey it was overwhelming. He reacted instantly, looking up so fast he almost snapped his neck.

He looked at Icarus, just as he had been ordered to, ready to do anything he must in order to hear that sweet sound again. However, the sadness he saw in the siren's eyes made him hesitate. The voice's echoes grew muffled, and Pythagoras' mind began to work properly again.

"You…"

"I'm so sorry, Pythagoras. I didn't want to, I swear, but it was the only way I could think of to show you I-"

"Stop," he ordered, and the siren obeyed. Pythagoras noticed that his hands were shaking, and his lips were pressed into a thin line. He looked terrified. Terrified of Pythagoras, as if he, weak and lanky as he was, held some kind of power over him.

In that moment, he understood a lot of things.

Perhaps he wasn't the only one who was afraid of having his heart broken.

Pythagoras had been silent for some time, and it was driving him insane.

He was looking at Icarus, analyzing every inch of him, and the siren couldn't help but feel that this was some kind of test. It didn't matter if it was; he'd do anything it took to make Pythagoras trust him, especially after what he had just done.

The silence stretched on and on and on until, finally, it broke.

"Your voice made my head hurt," said Pythagoras.

The comment was so unexpected, so utterly ridiculous, that Icarus actually laughed, and felt a shiver when Pythagoras joined him.

"Sorry," he said, still half-smiling. "I didn't know that would happen. It should wear off soon, I think. It's just supposed to stun you for a bit."

Pythagoras nodded. "It's fine," he replied, looking him in the eye, and it was incredible how such a small phrase could have so many meanings.

It's fine.

Don't worry.

I'm sorry, too.

I forgive you.

Icarus felt his heart lift.

"With your voice… You could make me do anything you wanted?"

"Anything."

"But why didn't it work when I was on the Argo?"

He'd been expecting that question for a while now, but that didn't make the subject any less delicate. The answer was simple enough, but he didn't know how comfortable Pythagoras would feel with it. "Because… well, our voices stimulate emotions like lust and desire. Obviously, if you're not interested in men, or women, or anyone at all, then it won't work. So… " Gods, he felt like a child. "My voice worked on you because you prefer men, basically."

"Maybe not."

He blinked. "What?"

Pythagoras breathed in. "You said that your voice stimulates… preferences. Well, maybe my preferences don't include men. Or women. Maybe they include you, specifically. Or maybe just dark-haired, idiotic sirens who won't stop avoiding the subject."

He couldn't understand, couldn't think. "There's a subject?"

"Yes."

Pythagoras was looking at him so intently it was almost uncomfortable. Almost.

"Why did you save me, Icarus?"

Ah.

A thousand answers crossed his mind in a second. Because you didn't deserve to die. Because I didn't want to be alone. Because you were brave. Because I think I love you. Because I think I loved you, even then.

"Because I'm selfish," he whispered.

Pythagoras didn't ask for an explanation. Icarus watched him, wishing he could smooth the lines on the man's face with his fingers. His gaze travelled lower, to the man's hands, which were tapping a nervous beat against his knee. He wished he could hold them. He wished he could-

"Can I be selfish too, then?"

He frowned. "You're the least selfish person I've ever met, Pythagoras."

"But can I be? Just once?"

"You know I can't deny you anything."

"Not even a kiss?"

Now it was Icarus' turn to look up. His eyes met Pythagoras', and he saw dozens of emotions in their blue depths. Fear. Determination. Shyness. Wariness. Desire.

Icarus felt heat rush to his cheeks. He briefly wondered if he should be disgusted at himself, because blushing was such a disgustingly human thing to do, but he really didn't care. Pythagoras wanted a kiss, and nothing else mattered. He could already see himself leaning forward, feeling the warmth of Pythagoras' breath on his lips…

He'd never thought it would be this terrifying to be so close to everything he'd ever wanted.

'No. Don't be selfish. Pythagoras couldn't possibly want you. This has to be a mistake, a dream-'

But then Pythagoras leaned forward, pressing his lips to Icarus' in a simple, chaste kiss, and just like that the siren was lost.

The mathematician started to pull away, but Icarus was having none of that. Not anymore. Pythagoras wasn't going to leave him ever again.

He pushed himself off the water, not caring about the harsh texture of the sand and rock beneath his tail, pulled Pythagoras towards him by the arm, and kissed him, properly this time.

He almost melted at the sweet sound of the man's startled gasp, and slid an arm around his waist, bringing him closer, closer, closer. Gods, he was so warm, or maybe Icarus was just too cold, and the feel of his skin was almost as delicious as the taste of his lips. One of Pythagoras' hands made its way up his back and tangled itself in his hair, and Icarus moaned, gently biting the man's lower lip before leaving a trail of kisses down his neck.

"Icarus." Pythagoras breathed, and the siren was reminded of the first time he'd left. He'd whispered the name of his home, Atlantis, the same way he now whispered Icarus' name. With the same reverence, the same longing.

Icarus kissed him again.

After a while, he noticed that his tail was growing uncomfortably dry. He leaned back and began to ease into the water, but Pythagoras didn't seem to want to let go of him. Or perhaps Icarus was the one who was still holding on.

Either way, they were both to blame when they lost their balance and toppled into the water.

Pythagoras came up gasping and spat out a mouthful of seawater. He made a face, and it was so endearing that Icarus had to kiss his forehead.

Gods, even like that, soaked and frowning, he was as bright and enchanting as the sun and stars. Icarus had always wondered what it would be like to fly, to reach the sky and be able to see and feel those wonders for himself, but with Pythagoras at his side, he felt like he no longer needed to.

"I hate salt," Pythagoras muttered.

Icarus gave him a wicked smile and pressed him against the rock, kissing him again on his chest, his throat, his jaw.

"You'll just have to get used to it," he whispered against his lips.

When they were done, they lay on the rock again, legs and tail and arms tangled in such a way it felt as though they would never be able to break apart. Not that they wanted to.

They gazed at the night sky, Icarus' hands lazily stroking Pythagoras' curls.

"How many?" he asked quietly.

"Hmm?" Pythagoras nuzzled the crook of his neck and planted a small, sweet kiss there.

"How many stars do you think there are?"

"As many as there are grains of sand in the sea," Pythagoras whispered, smiling. "And then some."

"That's an awful lot."

"It is."

"Then we will count them all," Icarus said fervently. "Every night, we will count them."

And so they did, every single night.

And Pythagoras swore to give him a kiss for every star there was in the sky, but there were too many to count, so he had to settle for giving him an infinity of kisses, lest he fall short.

It would mean a lot to me if you could leave a small comment to say what you thought of this!

Happy holidays!