The Acolyte

XI

Inspiration for 'So Sayeth' was still fleeting despite your best efforts, so you turned to a more reliable way to pass the time: chores. Keeping the ship shipshape was a habit instilled in you from the moment you could hold a rag. It was shocking that you were able to resist as long as you did in the cavern, but the Hold was a fairly powerful mental habit on its own. Either way, you offered your services to your new deities after breaking your fast one morning.

The reception was... unexpected. The sirens had just finished eating and chose to linger before parting when you made the announcement. All activity stopped at the sound of your voice, replaced by a wall of silent loathing.

"Is something amiss?" John asked. It was not so much a question as it was a cold challenge.

You stiffened and shook your head. Part of you wanted to run, but you could see the wound coils in their limbs. Even the slightest move would give them permission to pounce. "N-no, John. Nothing is amiss."

Your eyes flicked to George, sandwiched between Ringo and Paul. He shared their scowl at first, but the longer you looked, the more of your terrified, desperate thoughts he read.

Unfortunately, you couldn't look for too long. "Look at me," John demanded.

"Yes, John. Sorry, John."

"John..." George whispered.

A wolf's snarl escaped John's lips.

"John, I think there's been a misunderstanding..."

He stretched his fingers, sharp claws capping every digit.

"Help is mutual among them. I think they just wanted to assist us..."

He blew harmless green fire in your face, then let his claws recede. "That true, Fishmonger?"

You nodded fervently.

"I see." He relaxed, and the tension in the chamber was not far behind. "Sorry."

Ringo looked away in shame. "Yes, sorry."

Paul stared at the ground. "I'm sorry."

You unraveled, head spinning with relief. "I...didn't mean to insult you."

"No," John agreed, "You didn't. You didn't know. We shouldn't have turned on you like that."

Paul stepped forward. "You're shaken. Come with me, I'll fix you a drink."

You followed Paul, and George followed you. All three of you shared the tea you had a few days before.

"There you are. Sorry again."

"That's alright." You swirled the tea before tasting it. "May I ask why it was so insulting?"

George beat Paul to an answer. "Most immediately, we thought you thought we were idle. That we couldn't take care of ourselves and wanted you to wait on us hand and foot."

An extreme assumption, but you weren't a siren.

"You didn't mean to, but you injured our pride back there."

Paul refreshed your glass. "And then there's the matter of privacy. Make no mistake, dear, we do think highly of you, but we aren't exactly friends, are we? You're a...well, John said it best: you're a devotee. A rather passionate one. And they can be troublesome. They're better than slayers at tracking us down, and more clingy than any Hold case we've heard about. I'm not saying you're like that, but there was always a chance you were smarter than the rest."

On the one hand, you were secretly relieved they never wanted a servant. On the other hand... "So I cannot help you at all?"

"You're already helping George with the Cult of Fab."