A two-foot blanket of white covered the landscape. Flecks were slowly falling through the tall, bare trees from a darkened sky, where clouds were looming with the threat of something more than light snow. There was a deep chill in the air that bit at the skin around his eyes - the only thing left uncovered, so he could see.
Everywhere James looked, there was white, white snow. It was falling slowly, and in truth, it would've been a beautiful sight, but James was getting tired of the cold. A blizzard was coming. He knew he didn't have time to make it back to his hut for shelter. That was his fault, sure, but he couldn't be expected to accurately predict the shifts in the weather. He wasn't a god or some kind of water mage.
He'd thought the winter was over. He wanted spring to come. He was tired.
In a spontaneous act of defiance against the laws of nature, he decided to ignore the looming threat of freezing to death and trudge ahead until the snow cleared. Sure, he knew friends who would be mad at him for it - and rightfully so. He'd also almost frozen to death once before, and he should probably learn from his mistakes, but out in the wilderness, it was only him.
There wouldn't always be people to help him and he had to make his own decisions. And he'd made one.
He pushed through the snow, with planks of wood tied to his fur boots to keep him from sinking. Sooner than he thought, the snow started coming down hard. A wind came from behind him, pushing him down the hill with earnest. Before he knew it, he could barely see a few feet in front of him.
It was a stupid idea, really. But now he had to commit.
He forced his limbs to move. One foot in front of the other, imagining that maybe, just maybe, he would be lucky enough to be at the edge of the storm's raging.
And apparently... he was right?
Suddenly, the cloak of white all around him started to clear. The air shifted from freezing to humid. And it was hot. Blisteringly hot. He was on a beach. On an island. He froze.
Had he died?
No, no, no. This had to be another one of those involuntary world-hopping experiences. Surely, there would be other people he'd stumble upon and they would find a way back home with some other stupid problem-solving quest, and then he'd be back in the wintry forest, probably just to die there.
He had only been standing on the beach for a mere few seconds before he was sweating. He was pretty sure his body was still in shock at the sudden temperature change. That seemed the only reasonable explanation for the burning sensation on his skin. Gods. He was wearing way too many layers for this.
He slid his backpack off into the sand, and quickly untied his coat and threw it on top of the bag. He still had two more layers on top and on bottom that were weighing on him, already beginning to stick to his skin like a swollen blanket, trapping the heat.
Gone, went the second jacket. Gone, went the wool shirt. Gone, went the fur-lined pants and boots, adding to his pile of clothes. He was left with a thinner, long-sleeved shirt and regular brown pants, both of which he rolled up to his knees and elbows before he started to pack away what he could fit into his bag.
It was only a year ago Siren's seven little brothers and sisters had grown legs, only months ago they began to toddle on them as well as swim, and already the precious little ones were burying their big sister up to her neck in the sand.
Tears prickled the corners of her big, black eyes.
"You're all growing so fast," she said proudly, to the tiny webbed hands scrabbling and patting her down on all sides.
And there was her not-little brother, too, at the top of the reedy hill. Siren blinked back another tear. Rhygrrpt had grown so fast, too.
'We're the same age, Mrrghyt,' he might have replied, were he not running down the hill, calling 'Mrrghyt get out of the sand, before one of them runs away!'
'It's good burying practice,' Siren said, and vanished.
Rhygrrpt stared at the empty hole. Three of the seven toddlers started crying.
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The sun was in her eyes. Her brother's voice had stopped. She was still buried to the neck in sand, but it wasn't the same sand. It was different sand. She could feel it.
Siren looked up at the man-shaped blot, the only blot she could see nearby, and squinted at the shape, until his exhausted shambling began to feel...familiar.
"James," she proclaimed, and grinned.
Bad souls have born better sons, better souls born worse ones -St Vincent
James was pulling the drawstring at the top of his bag as tightly as he could when he heard his name. Not an alias. Not Tiberius. Not some made-up, forgotten fake name.
His head shot up and he looked over to see Siren, buried in the sand.
"Siren?" he questioned in disbelief before he blinked again. It was her. She was there.
What beach was he on?
His face lit up with the beginnings of a smile and genuine happiness. He hurried over to her, crouching beside her, starting to dig up the sand around her shoulders.
James's brows pinched up and together, but he smiled. He finally found Siren's arms under the sand and lifted underneath them, giving a few steady tugs to pull her out from her sandy cage.
"Ah. Well. They did a good job," he said, giving another, stronger yank that pulled her legs through to the surface. He set her down. "Sorry to undo all of their hard work."
Siren stood up, and shook herself thoroughly from head to toe. Any part of James that heretofore was not covered in sand, now was.
When she recovered from the cooldown of this indulgent motion, Siren saw what she had done, and all 4.7 feet of her began to meekly brush the sand off his comparatively gargantuan frame.
Bad souls have born better sons, better souls born worse ones -St Vincent
James had clamped his eyes and mouth shut when the sand started flying everywhere, reacting too late for him to turn his face.
When he stopped hearing the flapping of Siren's head and limbs and stopped feeling the pecks of sand on his skin he reached up and attempted to wipe it out of his eyes. He squinted at Siren as she brushed his arm. He turned to the side and spat out some sand before speaking.
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