Eirēn Before Sirens

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The Eirēn sisters lived at the very edge of the village, where the narrow dirt path wound down toward the rocky shore and the sea breeze was strong enough to lift the laundry right off its lines. Their home was small, a whitewashed cottage with a faded blue door and windows that always smelled faintly of salt. From their back steps you could see the ocean spread endlessly, its surface glinting silver at dawn and gold at sunset.

They were said to be among the most beautiful women on the island—not the kind of beauty that made men stop and gawk in the market square, but the kind that drew people in and held them. Their eyes were the deep, shifting blue of the tide; their skin, browned from years under the sun, seemed to carry the glow of morning light.

Their beauty, however, was not their only defining trait. Orphaned at a young age, the sisters had learned to fend for themselves in a place where survival was never guaranteed. In a fishing village like theirs, you either took to the water or you went hungry. And so, barely into their teenage years, they took up nets and oars and began fishing for their livelihood.

It was hard work—aching arms, salt stinging in every cut and blister, storms that could roll in with no warning and drag a careless boat under—but the sisters never faltered. By the time they reached their twenties, they were not just surviving, but thriving. Their catches were always bountiful, their fish fresh and plump, and their prices in the market so low that the townsfolk swore they were doing it out of kindness.

In truth, it was partly kindness and partly strategy. The sisters had no husbands or children to feed, no dowries to save for. The sea provided enough for them, and they took only what they needed. Every extra coin they earned was spent repairing their boat, mending nets, or putting away jars of preserved fish for the leaner months.

People liked buying from them. The old women in the market would praise the quality of their catch, running calloused fingers over smooth fish scales and nodding in satisfaction. Young wives would save a few coins by buying from the sisters instead of the other fishermen, then spend the extra on spices or cloth. Even the village children adored them—especially when the sisters would toss a few small, wriggling fish into their baskets “for the cats,” though everyone knew those fish usually ended up in the family stew.

But not everyone in the village smiled at the Eirēn sisters. Some of the other fishermen—men who had been hauling nets since before the sisters were born—watched their customers dwindle and their profits shrink. They complained quietly at first, muttering under their breath about how the sisters were “ruining the trade” with their cheap prices. But over the months, those mutters turned into something harder, sharper.

“They’re not just lucky,”

One fisherman growled late one evening as the men gathered around a fire on the beach, repairing their nets.

“No one gets catches that good every day. Not without help.”

“What kind of help?”

Another asked. The first man spat into the sand.

“Sea help. You’ve heard the old stories of the creatures who live beneath the waves, luring fishermen with songs or spells. They could be in league with them. Or worse—be one of them.”

It was absurd, of course. Everyone had heard tales of mermaids and sirens, but they were stories told to scare children or explain why a man never returned from sea. Yet in the quiet between the waves, superstition had a way of creeping in and taking root. It was not long before suspicion became resentment, and resentment became a plan.

The idea was simple: catch the sisters far out at sea, where there would be no witnesses. Accuse them of being sea creatures. Creatures that had killed honest fishermen to protect their secret—and return to the village as heroes. They would have to be careful, of course. People liked the sisters. But grief could be shaped into anger, and anger could be aimed at whatever target you chose, if you told the right story.

At dawn, the sea was calm, a glassy sheet rippling gently beneath the pale pink of the rising sun. The Eirēn sisters had set out early, their small boat slicing through the water. They laughed as they pulled in their nets, heavy with silver flashes of mackerel. The air smelled clean and cold, the kind of morning that promised a good day’s work. They didn’t see the other boats until they were surrounded. Four of them, circling like sharks. Men stood at the bows with oars and gaffs in their hands, their faces shadowed and grim.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

The elder sister called out, her voice sharp. No one answered. The first blow came from behind, the crack of wood against the side of their boat. The sisters staggered, nearly dropping the net. Then the men came at them.

It was chaos. Water sloshing, shouts echoing across the waves, the sickening thud of wood on flesh. But the sisters were not defenseless. Like all fisherfolk, they carried long-handled knives for gutting their catch. The younger sister struck first, slashing at a man who leaned too far over the gunwale. Another man lunged, and the elder sister drove her blade into his side. Blood spilled into the water, blooming like ink.

Two of the fishermen went down, their bodies tumbling into the sea. But there were too many left. An oar struck the younger sister across the temple, and she crumpled. The elder turned, eyes wild, and for a moment it seemed she might fight to the last. Then a gaff caught her in the ribs, and she fell to her knees. They didn’t speak as they finished it.

The bodies of the Eirēn sisters were heavy and limp as the men rolled them overboard. The sea closed over them without a sound, leaving only a faint swirl of bubbles. Their catch was hauled into the other boats, the sisters’ nets and baskets emptied as though they had never belonged to anyone else.

By the time the fishermen reached shore, the story was ready.

They returned not with the sisters, but with the bodies of the two dead men, pale and still in the bottom of a boat. The villagers gathered quickly, their voices rising in shock and grief.

“They weren’t human,”

The leader of the fishermen said, his voice steady and mournful.

“We found them far out, singing to the fish, drawing them in like no human could. When we confronted them, they changed—faces twisted, teeth like knives. They killed these men before we could stop them.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Someone began to cry. The fishermen spoke of scales glimmering on the sisters’ skin, of eyes gone black as the deep sea, of voices that could charm the wind itself. The sisters had been beloved, yes—but fear is stronger than fondness. By nightfall, the village was whispering not of the kind-hearted fisherwomen they had known, but of creatures that had worn human skins as a disguise.

Their names were not spoken as before. From that day on, the Eirēn sisters were remembered only as Sirens. Even now, years later, the older fishermen tell the story when the weather turns and the sea grows restless. They speak of two beautiful women who lured men to their deaths, who sang to the fish and cursed the waves. They do not speak of the low prices in the market, or the laughter in the early morning light, or the kindness that once lived at the edge of the village.

But sometimes, when the tide is high and the wind is low, the village children swear they hear singing far out beyond the rocks—two voices, soft and mournful, rising and falling with the sea. And those who have been at sea long enough know better than to listen.