The Siblen & The Siren

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

“Whoever in ignorance draws near to them and hears the Sirens’ voice...the Sirens beguile him with their clear-toned song...and about them is a great heap of bones of moldering men, and round the bones the skin is shriveling.”

- Homer, The Odyssey, Book 12

Winter walked up the gangplank and swung aboard The Singsong. He was in a mood, a wine skin in his hand. Dorsa was a small southern port, not much to look at, but the wine was good. They had eleven barrels in the hold to trade.

Isidor had gone chasing a Dorsa skirt hours ago. The dark-haired, plump women were difficult to lure to a casual encounter, with their strict religion and their stricter mothers. Winter hadn’t bothered.

Winter had no doubts his younger brother Isidor—younger by moments, although it mattered to Siblin—would persuade one. The two brothers didn’t look alike. They were both well made, both good-looking, big, broad shoulders and strong arms, large rough hands.

But Isidor was openly handsome, tall, light brown wavy hair to his shoulders that showed streaks of blonde in the summer months, warm hazel eyes and a flashing smile. Winter was more intense, deep set dark brown eyes and a strong jaw, black hair to his shoulders, his face brooding, serious, little of the ready charm of his brother.

He and his brother shared their cabin as all Siblin brothers did, as they would share it with their anthata, with the woman they would claim together eventually. Winter wandered a little in the straight line between here and there. It was late, the stars clear, early summer. He heard them before he got to the door and opened it anyway, leaning against it, crossing his arms.

The Dorsan was on the bed, on her knees, naked. Her hands were tied together, stretched in front of her, looped to the hook there. There were more hooks in the cabin at various points. He and Isidor had put them in years ago. Her shoulders were down on the mattress, her ass in the air, her legs spread. Isidor had his hands on her hips, kneeling behind her. He was taking her slowly and she was begging behind the gag.

“Ti v’enh avel nu desh,” Isidor said in Dorsan, reaching under her.

Don’t you come until I say.

She shut her eyes, crying out as he stroked her c**t, still f*****g her slowly. In any port, Isidor could find them, the ones who liked rough pleasure. He could see it in their eyes, he said, the gentle ones. Winter had said he was full of tsatil, but Isidor did seem to know. Siblin desires were specific.

The little Dorsan began to hitch with pleasure and Isidor withdrew his hand, smacking her ass, her flesh jiggling. Isidor turned and met Winter’s eyes, thrusting into her, a knowing look before Winter shut the door, now wandering a little in the straight line from here to there and up the stairs to the forecastle deck of The Singsong, passing the lamp hanging on its hook by the wheel.

Winter was restless, drunk. Aroused. He would find a woman in the next port. He sat down and took off his tarred wool felt top hat, setting it on the deck next to him, leaning forward a little and taking off his traditional Siblin waistcoat jacket, dark blue with gold buttons. He removed his black boots, leaning back, lying down flat, looking at the stars.

Siblin were wanderers, traders, speaking many languages, their ships, brightly painted, roaming the world. Minsk, just north of Dorsa, was the closest they came to a permanent port, their arrangement with the Luterians a thousand years old.

Raising his head briefly to tilt the wine skin, Winter let it pour into his mouth, swallowing. He listened as the little Dorsan voiced her pleasure, a series of high cries. Winter found the familiar patterns in the stars above him. She wouldn’t truly satisfy Isidor, their requirements different than other men. They were Siblin.

#

It was still too hot, even at night. Winter stood up and pulled it all off—his white linen shirt, open at the neck, tan linen drawstring pants with wide-turned black cuffs—sitting again, collapsing on his back, blowing. He hated heat, hated summer in the southern waters. He looked at the stars again, his hand resting on his thigh, his other leg crooked.

He and Isidor were both still relatively young, only thirty-seven. But they weren’t that young. Like all the Elder Races—Siblin, Veshtan, and Luterians included—they would live about three hundred years.

He heard the cabin door open and close, voices, Isidor speaking, the Dorsan’s higher tones. They couldn’t see Winter from this angle so Winter ignored them. He heard their steps on the gangplank. Isidor was as talented in getting the women he collected to go away after they were done as he was in getting them to come here in the first place. Isidor would see her safe and then return.

Winter’s hand shifted, touching his c**k. It was getting difficult for him, difficult for Isidor, their pleasure dull, muffled until they found her. They tried to be patient. Winter closed his eyes, the woman faceless, nameless. He stroked his c**k lightly, squeezing, hardening in his hand.

Sometimes she was a tall, dark-skinned Southron with full lips in Winter’s mind, sometimes a light-skinned Caskian woman with a creamy ass for spanking. Winter worked himself, swirling his hand over the head of his c**k, large and thick, pumping his fist faster. Maybe she would be a plump little brown Dorsan with straight black hair that brushed her butt, large n*****s, and a sweet nature.

Winter’s breath released as he opened his eyes and raised his head, looking down at himself, at the head of his c**k, engorged, appearing and disappearing in his fist. He closed his eyes again, leaning his head back, imagining being in his anthata’s mouth, imagined his hand in her hair, f*****g her throat. For Siblin tusks, the pleasure before release was more intense. They learned to draw it out, to take their time.

There was finally a surge, that frustrating moment, so much under it he couldn’t reach, his hips thrusting, his c**k convulsing, spilling onto his belly. He pulsed a final time, grunting. He felt a sense of dim, faraway pleasure, more relief than anything. Winter stilled, his breathing a little fast, leaving his hand there. Raising the wine, he took a drink, swallowing, and reached for his handkerchief, pulling it out of his coat pocket, cleaning himself.

Isidor appeared at the top of the stairs, leaning against the rail, crossing his arms as Winter had. He smirked. Isidor was in his top hat, linen drawstring pants and shirt open at the top, no collar. He had shed his waistcoat in the heat. Isidor was a little taller, although Winter was bigger. Siblin tended to be large in all sorts of ways, and neither one of them was an exception.

#

All Siblin were born male, all twins. There were no girls born to their people. Those twins, brothers, would find a woman when they were grown. It didn’t matter who she was when they met her. Once he and Isidor took that woman together, once she was their anthata, once their seed mingled in her, she would be Siblin like them. Their pleasure would be awakened and she would be theirs for their lives.

Eventually, that woman would bear them one set of twins, two boys. Their sons.

And so it went.

They could find their anthata at any time, in any port. But it hadn’t happened yet. Until he and Isidor found her, they were tusks, the Siblin slang word for a pair of brothers with no anthata. And until they found her, they took women singly in the ports for what muffled pleasure they could get, separate from each other.

“I told you, you won’t find a woman in a wine skin,” Isidor said.

“I’m not charming like you, brother,” Winter answered.

“And now you’re on the forecastle deck pleasuring yourself.”

“It’s not that much different,” Winter muttered.

Isidor shrugged easily, walking to take the wine Winter offered and upending it, letting it pour in his mouth.

“Remember that woman in Skale?” Isidor said, swallowing, grinning at him.

“Which one?”

“You know,” Isidor said impatiently.

Winter sent him a look, remembering, his mouth quirking lightly, sitting up.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so drunk, Isidor.”

“Leline,” Isidor said, his fingers coming up, snapping. “Her name was Leline. A great big round ass for smacking. I was convinced she was our anthata. Remember I dragged you out of that dice game?”

“I threw twenty hecs, of course I remember,” Winter said wryly.

“And then you couldn’t—,” Isidor said.

“And you were so drunk you couldn’t either,” Winter finished for him.

“Remember how disappointed she was?” Isidor said, laughing now, Winter’s mouth quirking. “Remember the names she called us?”

Isidor’s laughter trailed away. He offered Winter the wine skin.

“She was pretty enough,” Winter muttered, taking it. “You know how it is.”

It was a natural constraint, but they still found it funny. It kept Siblin brothers from performing the ritual with the wrong woman. If the other brother tried to join, he simply wouldn’t be able. You’d be looking at a woman, ready to bed her, and all of the sudden you just didn’t want to anymore.

“We’ll find her,” Isidor said. “You always get morose when you’re drunk. Come to bed.”

Winter got up, gathering his clothes, swiping for his boots. They went down the stairs and into their cabin, putting things away, Winter tossing the handkerchief in the laundry to wash. The bed was big, taking up a good portion of the room, a Siblin bed designed for three.

Isidor took off his clothes and blew out the lamp as Winter lay down on his back, lacing his hands behind his head. Isidor joined him after a moment, sleeping with him as they had all their lives.

“How was she?” Winter said in the dark.

“Plump and tight,” Isidor answered, already sounding sleepy.

#

Winter came out of the cabin in the morning, pulling his shirt on, opening and going down the hatch, clattering down the stairs to the galley. He came up with cavash steaming in his hand, too much sun in the world, his eyes feeling grainy and his head full of batting, the cavash burning his tongue a little but it tasted good.

Generations in Minsk had given Siblin a liking for the Luterian brew. Isidor was already whistling, winding rope, his light brown hair wavy and whipping a little in the gusts, his alert hazel eyes full of energetic good cheer. Winter came and sat on the stairs, his own long straight black hair blowing across his eyes.

“I want to stab you when you are so happy in the mornings,” Winter said.

“Yes, I should never smile,” Isidor said, smiling at him.

Winter eyed him. He pulled out his stone, his knife, beginning to sharpen it.

“I smile,” Winter said, not smiling. “I want to go to the islands again.”

Winter pushed the edge of the blade against the stone. Isidor shrugged lightly, coiling the end of the rope.

“We’ve been all over those islands.”

“Not Nanine,” Winter said, his hands stilling.

Isidor’s smile faded. He suddenly looked as serious as his brother, Isidor’s face falling into lines that made him look different, older. Isidor heaved the rope onto the pegs, lacing it down the line, turning his head to peer at Winter.

“Because it’s in the mouth of the Brecca Straight,” Isidor said. “We’ve always said it’s not worth the risk.”

Winter returned to sharpening.

“The coordinates say Maren is on one of those islands,” Winter said. “It’s the last place to look.”

“We don’t even know if Maren is alive, Winter,” Isidor said, straightening. “We’ve been looking for him for twenty years.”

“He wanted us to find him,” Winter said stubbornly. “He sent the message.”

“Nine years ago. Why doesn’t he just come to us?” Isidor retorted, gesturing.

Winter shrugged. It was an old conversation between them, although he had never proposed braving the Brecca Straight before. Isidor came and passed him, sitting two steps up. Winter turned his head, looking at his brother.