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“Awww, mate,” Phil coos down at the frazzled bird. “Poor guy’s wing must be broken.” “Looks like it,” Technoblade grunts, holding the bird gingerly, absently trailing his fingers through the puffed-up feathers atop its head in an attempt to soothe it. “It must’ve tried to land on the ropes and gotten caught in ‘em.” Phil smiles sympathetically. “Let’s get him all bandaged up then, huh?” Phil is surprisingly gentle, Technoblade discovers. Though his hands are rough and worn from years out at sea, they are anything but clumsy as he carefully winds pristine white bandages around the bird’s injured wing, setting the splint with a few old scraps of wood for good measure. He talks Technoblade through the whole process, his voice low and soothing so as not to disturb their patient, who has somehow managed to fall into a slumber—though, from exhaustion or pain, he can’t tell. “You’ll want to remove the bandages every now and then and help him stretch his wing out,” Phil instructs. “I will?” “I already have a bird. And Brian gets quite jealous,” Phil quips with a grin. “Besides, aren’t you the one who said ‘animals just like you?’ How could we just waste that talent?” His tone is teasing, but Technoblade can’t find it in himself to rise to the bait, nor can he suppress the little flicker of fondness he feels when he looks down at the slumbering bird on his lap. “Guess yer’ right,” he grumbles, and can’t help but smile himself. “You gonna give him a name, mate?” Phil suddenly inquires, leaning forward with an eager smile. Technoblade blinks. “Uhhh,” he starts, and grapples for something, anything at all. “…Floof?” Phil’s laughter fills the room as Technoblade’s cheeks burn. “Wait, I—” “Nope. No changing it.” “Phil, hang on—!” “Nah, mate, this is too good to pass up,” Phil wheezes. “Pirate Captain Technoblade and his fearsome pet parrot, Floof.” “It’s better than Brian.” “Is it? Is it, mate?” “…” “Floof it is.” Floof and Brian turn out to be thick as thieves. They’re just as bad as Tommy and Tubbo, a plague of mischief upon the crew when Floof starts to fly again. And if Technoblade catches Niki giving him and Phil a knowing look one night as they watch their birds playfully squabble over a scrap of dried meat, he pays her no heed. Even if he can see the similarities, too. The peace, like all good things, doesn’t last. They’re still a good many leagues from port when it happens. It starts with an eerie noise, halfway between a song and a wail. It rises from a shoal not thirty meters from the boat, stretching on and on before falling silent. It sounds beautiful. It sounds like death. “Sirens,” Phil whispers from beside him, his eyes wide and his lips half-parted. “Sirens?” Technoblade echoes, as a chill shoots down his spine. “I thought they were a myth—an old wives' tale.” “Gods, no,” Phil replies, and his face has gone ghostly pale. “They’re real, mate. Very real, and very deadly. We shouldn’t be here—our course shouldn’t have taken us this close!” And then he’s moving, surging across the deck like thunder, shouting frantic orders to those that will listen. “Sirens! Cover your ears!” He cries, and there’s no disguising the panic in his tone. The crew is quick to comply at the sudden seriousness of their first mate. “With your hands, with your shirts, with your coats! Tie yourselves to the ship, if you must!” He’s a blur of motion, his feet more like wings as he surges below deck, presumably to warn any unsuspecting crew members. The ship is in disarray as the crew moves to protect themselves, and Technoblade urges the members they can spare below deck, where they’ll be further from the dangerous song. There’s no time to waste. The song only grows louder with every second that goes by, even as he and Niki move to steer the ship away from the haunting cries. The sound, muffled as it is through Technoblade’s hands, leaves his brain in a state of static, and he finds himself moving in a daze, almost as if sleepwalking. Thankfully, he has enough control to ground himself to the wheel alongside Niki, and together they guide the Argo away from the shoal while their crew cling desperately to the railings and rigging to resist the deadly urge. He can see fins, almost shark-like save for their unusually bright colors, cutting through the water around the rocks. The song seems to grow almost angry as their ship turns away from it, rising to a piercing shriek that makes Technoblade’s head ache and his teeth grit. And then, finally, it’s over. “Everyone alright?” Technoblade asks, once the wailing has faded to a distant cry on the wind. There are a series of murmured affirmations, some of the crew looking rather dazed but no worse for wear. “Good. Good work, Phil. That was quick thinkin’. That could’ve been bad. Really bad.” Silence answers him. “…Phil?” Nothing. The crew seems to wake up at that. Technoblade’s heart begins to beat with a new ferocity as he searches the crowd for the face of his friend, and comes up short one first mate. He can hear them echoing Phil’s name, the urgency rising until murmurs grow to shouts and frantic feet pound across the deck in search of the man. The searches come up empty. “Did anyone see him? Did he cover his ears?” And then he sees Niki, her ears covered snugly by a familiar green bandana. She looks horrified, one hand clasped over her mouth as her face grows pale. Beside her, Tubbo and Ranboo stand side by side, arm in arm, looking as if they’ve seen a ghost. All three shake their heads. “Shit.” Technoblade practically throws himself to the port side of the ship, where the rocks are now mere dots on the horizon. And then he hears it, or, rather— The sirens have gone silent. “Turn this ship around!” he barks. “All hands on deck!” There’s a clamor as the crew rises to his command, fueled by the same urgency that burns like fire in his veins. Every second is too long, every moment another moment that Phil could be hurt—could be drowning—could be dying. No matter how the wind favors them, it still takes too long to get them close—but not close enough to see anything at all. They’re still a few dozen meters out, and Technoblade can feel nothing but the all-encompassing panic as he strains to catch any glimpse of motion amidst the rocks and waters. “Get us closer, damnit!” “We can’t!” Niki cries, and she looks stricken. “The waters are too shallow! We’ll sink her on the rocks if we aren’t careful!” “Then I’ll go.” Technoblade moves swiftly to the side of the ship, where the lone dinghy sits ready for use. A few crew members are quick to help him, and he clambers in as they begin to lower it toward the water. Tommy and Niki move as if to join him, but he waves them off with a grimace. “Can’t risk it,” he says firmly. “I’ll go by myself. If I don’t make it back, you’re in charge, Niki.” Niki nods solemnly. Tommy looks indignant, but thankfully doesn’t protest, seeming to recognize the urgency of the situation. Technoblade’s stomach drops along with the dinghy, and then the ropes are tossed and he’s paddling harder than he’s ever paddled in his life. It seems to stretch on for hours, though it’s likely only minutes. His whole body is alight with adrenaline, his blood roaring in his ears and his heart fluttering frantically in his chest. He’s not sure he’d hear the sirens now, even if they were still singing. The only thought on his mind is of Phil—foolish, idiotic, self-sacrificial Phil, who probably spent more time worrying about the crew than himself. “Don’t be dead,” he hisses from between gritted teeth as he rows. “If you’re dead, I’ll kill you.” As he rows closer, his breath rasping out in ragged pants, his arms burning as he singlehandedly rows faster than half-dozen men would, he catches hints of a murmured conversation flitting across the ocean’s surface from behind the rocks. “So there I was—a dozen men—just one shot left—so then I—and then—” Phil. He’s still alive, thank the gods. But he won’t be for long when Technoblade gets his hands on the bastard. He’s still a few feet away from the rocks when he stands, leaping from the boat and barely leaping the distance. His hands burn from where they catch on rough stone, but he barely bats an eye, clawing his way upward until he’s able to catch a glimpse of the scene in the tidepools below. Phil is alive. And he’s smiling. The pirate sits, sprawled casually, in the lap of a siren with long, dark, flowing hair and tanned skin. She’d be considered beautiful, were Technoblade to have eyes for such a thing, but beautiful like the sea is beautiful—powerful and dangerous and untamed. She cradles him like a babe as he gestures wildly, mid-way through some eccentric story. Phil is grinning goofily, his gaze fixed on her every movement, his voice soft and breathy despite the excitement of his tale. “Tell me, my lady, would you like to hear the tale of the day I fought the dread Captain Squidkid?” She nods and giggles along as if entranced, her gaze equally fixed on his as her tail—black as the night sky and gilded with gold like a thousand shimmering stars—lazily flicks water up from the tides below them. And then she lifts a hand toward his face. Technoblade opens his mouth to shout a warning, but his words die on his lips when her hand moves to tip his chin up. Phil’s words die too, his story petering off into a soft gasp as he looks up at her. There’s a brief moment of silence, and then the siren dissolves into light laughter, shaking her head. “Is that all it takes to shut you up?” Her voice is light. Teasing, almost. And Phil hums, sitting up a little and taking one of her hands in his own. “Can I tell you a secret?” “Go on.” “I always thought the sea was my one true love,” Phil says, with a sappy grin on his face. “But her beauty pales next to you, my lady