THE CLASP OF afternoon heat beats the tranquillity of the atmosphere with a possessive touch. 

Bastian sits on the now-empty table with two empty glasses of dried orange juice sticking against the hard surface. In the backdrop of his mind, Bastian can hear the whining of the kid next door, pleading with his single mother to get him ice cream. While she ignored his relentless pursuit for a single scoop of icy softness, Bastian knew the lady would buy a tub of ice cream later to satisfy her child. 

He is lost in his mind, trying to connect the untouched dots. Something is not adding up, but he cannot decipher what it is. Victor joins him holding a thick book, something that could pass for an encyclopedia from how thick it is, but he knows it is not one. 

The words Mythology of the Ruined World take a peek at him from the book cover, and he stares at it, equally surprised. 

“Why that book?” He enquires in surprise. 

Victor hummed, flipping through the pages of the book. “I was going through the book the previous week for my work when I saw something inside this. It looks similar to the stone Clara has given us.”

Bastian raises a brow. “Is that so?” He glances down at the chain in his grasp. Why on earth was Clara suddenly inquiring about a stone? Clara, who is always disinterested in anything and everything apart from her brother?

“Hey, look at this.” Victor passes the book to him. He taps twice at the image drawn in it, one that looks as old as time. It is a darker shade of blue, one that is an attempt to capture the exact shade of the stone that, for some reason, looks eerily similar to the stone in his grasp. 

Bastian, without blinking an eye, lifts the chain and dangles it before the page of the book in a way so that it is right next to the image. The duo gasps. “It's almost the same.” Bastian mumbles. “What is it called?” He asks and finds the answer himself. 

WARENA’S TEARS.

Warena's tears….where have I heard of it before?

“Warena's tears? Warena as in goddess Warena?” Victor mumbles. He grabs the chain from Bastian and places it down on the table. Victor moves the book to his lap and continues flipping through the pages, hungry for more. 

“The origin of sirens,” Bastian mutters and Victor hears it. 

“Huh?” 

Bastian brushes away the lone strand of hair falling over his temple and says, “Cameron was always obsessed with that particular tale. Don't you remember?” He then smirks, a sight pleasant but a bit humiliating at the same time. “How would you remember? You were always looking for ways to meet with his sister all the damn time.

Victor’s pale skin gets tinted with a bright shade of red. He coughs and looks away. “Anyways. I do remember. Some random guy called Ignis, Warena and the sea goddess.”

“Yep, that one.”

Victor frowns. “It is understandable if it were Cameron who approached us with this stone, but Clara?” Bastian nods. “I know. It's strange. The sudden appearance of that man and their strange relationship…it's all just baffling and-” 

‘Siren.’ Clara's whisper came back into his mind, along with the stranger’s eyes. The first time they met and found the duo in a suggestive position, Bastian was not focusing on anything at all. Anything except for the stranger's eyes. 

They were blue. A sparkling shade of blue. A blue, now that he thinks properly, resembles the freaking stone.

Hold on. 

Could it be? 

It is not possible. But it is not impossible either. 

Oh dear. Bastian sighs, looking outside the windows where the world appears to be basking in an ethereal ray of warm light. Victor stares at him, confused, but Bastian doesn't know how to convey his suspicions without sounding like a madman. What was he supposed to say? ‘Hey, Victor, I think our Clara's companion might not be human after all. He seems to be a…siren?’

He is pretty unlike the men he has met until now. Even Cameron bordered on the terms manly and handsome, never pretty and stunning like this new guy. 

Well, well. Clara and I need to have a word soon, it seems. He turns to Victor, who is looking at him with doubt. He flashes him a strained smile. Without Victor, of course. 

A THICK BLANKET of mist is covering him, banning him from the outside world. 

The world around goes still after the storm. The 87-year-old tree is uprooted from its place. Around the fallen tree, threads of water leak out from the once sturdy shelter, now collapsed and lying near the old mansion. 

He thinks he hears the sound of something- something akin to knocks, but he is too immersed in this feeling of blankness to hear anything. 

He feels himself walking ahead, no, rushing ahead, towards the collapsed building. He then threw himself on the muddy ground, hands quick on work examining and excavating under the pile of blocks for something or rather, someone. 

He doesn't know how, but his soul is telling him that it's a person. Someone precious to him. He hears a pained cry from nearby. It takes a while for Aven to realise it is coming from him. 

Please.

Please be safe.

Please-

A knock. Then two. Aven’s eyes flutter open from underneath the pool of water inside the tub.  He slowly lifts himself, forming a watery wing behind him. 

His golden hair curls on itself with water. Droplets form on his long golden lashes that tremble with every trail of watery softness. Aven glances down at his bare chest and arms where once lay a blue glistening pattern that now belongs to the girl outside. 

Clara.

He gulped and then sighed, clutching his forehead. What on earth was that? A dream? Some kind of prophecy? It felt too real to be a dream and too old to be a prophecy. A memory, then? 

He frowned. That's…not possible. Is it so? 

Another series of knocks follows, and his frown deepens with them. Why is she not calling him by his name?

He slowly rises from the tub and approaches the door, still drenched from head to toe. His skin glistens under the light and casts an otherworldly feature on him. 

Clara's un-gaugable face greets him the moment he yanks the door open. A flutter occurs in his chest at the sight of her indifferent face, which he knows is an act. He knows she is trembling with either rage or an urge to talk to him but is too stubborn to act on her impulses. He leans against the door with his arms folded against his chest. He should teach her a thing or two before he leaves. 

Leave where?

Shock runs through both their bodies. Aven's eyes widen in surprise while Clara's do in absolute horror. 

“Did you just-”

She gasps aloud. “Did I just hear your thoughts?!” 

“I think so?”

She grips her hair using her fists and then clutches it real tight. Aven fears that she might hurt herself from the act. He is ready to approach her to stop her when she suddenly whips her head and stares at him in a horror-invoking realisation. “Oh god, the kiss. It's because of that damned kiss isn't it?”

“Clara-”

“Shut up!” she screams. Aven freezes in his position. He forces himself to move and to grab the girl by her arms. He stares into her eyes and thinks. Can you hear me?

Clara didn't even flinch. She just stares back with her brows furrowed and eyes teary. “What are you staring at?!”

Aven grips her arms tighter and tries again. You can hear me, can't you? There is still no response- no flinching, no stillness, nothing. If anything, the action just makes her angrier than before.

She struggles in his hold for some time while Aven stares right through her. 

Clara uses it as a chance to escape. “What the hell do you think you're doing?!” That snaps Aven out of his daze. His body relaxes from relief. 

He pauses again. Why is he relieved? 

Aven clears his throat. “I think it was an accident. You cannot hear me. “

“I did! Loud and clear!” she protests. 

“Yeah, but that was one time. You couldn't hear me the other two times." Seeing how she doesn’t believe him, Aven explains, “Normally, it works when the person- the target is near you.  The closer you are, the better. If you manage to hold eye contact for a second or longer, the effect will be thrice.” 

Aven moves back and steps onto the carpet. He didn't want her to be mad at him for drenching her floor. 

“But you didn't hear anything. But I did.” He lies. 

Hope shines in her eyes, and Aven feels like someone has pierced a knife through his heart and is twisting it harshly. He doesn't hold eye contact for long and retreats to the bathroom to get a hold of himself and the towel hung on the holder. 

He hears the light taps of her footsteps behind him and smiles despite the whirlpool of thoughts and emotions inside his body. “Well, someone told me not to talk to her two days ago.” He turns around and walks over to her, close enough that he is looming over her. 

They stare into each other's eyes, transfixed by some magnetic force. Aven's eyes fell onto her lips, soft and red but a little chapped. He likes it, though. He likes the slightly rough edge provided by her lips, likes the way it causes him tingles at the slightest brush and the slight iron taste of her blood when he bites them a little harsher than intended. 

He likes it all. 

He will be lying to himself if he says he doesn’t crave a taste of that sweet nectar reading between her lips. Unable to help himself, he took the towel from his shoulder and wrapped it around her back to pull her close. A choked sound escapes her throat when Clara is pressed against Aven’s bare torso.

The woman blushes a shade of beet red that adorns the golden colour of her skin.  She is beautiful. He cannot help but think. 

His hand, slender and elegant, traces the shape of her jawline before settling on her cheeks. He cradles her face gently within his grasp as if she were precious- it makes Clara believe that she is precious.Aven leans down to steal a kiss, and Clara nearly complies, trapped in his spell, but the kiss doesn’t happen. She pulls away before he can trace the lovely outline of her soft, tempting lips.

She pushes him away and retreats, cheeks, ears and nape still burning in that lovely bloom of shyness. In the back of his mind, Aven registers with disappointment that the previous kiss they had shared must be their last one. He grits his teeth and lifts his hand towards his hair to scratch his scalp. A mini-pitter-patter of rain follows from his hair that lands on the red floor. 

Well damnit.