Daeron doesn't know why he keeps coming back.
There is nothing particularly special about this section of the seashore, nothing unique in the sand or the rocks. But still, he keeps returning to it, every day in the early morning, like clockwork.
And then, the singing starts.
It isn't any language that Daeron recognizes, but the tune is the same haunting melody, over and over - a break, a repeated line here or there, or a change in key will separate one part from the rest, but it's the same refrain.
Daeron can't see anyone here. But he hears as if the singer were only a few feet away, and he stands there rooted to the spot.
Again.
It's a little after seven in the morning. Daeron doesn't need to be at work for another hour, but he still shouldn't be here.
The singing starts again, the same tune as before. The words are different, Daeron thinks absently. He's forgotten why he shouldn't stay.
It's beautiful, as it always is, but it feels closer to him now than it has in the past. When the music finally ends Daeron feels more disappointed than he probably should.
I'll come back again tomorrow.
He can't get that song out of his head.
Whenever Daeron puts the bow of his violin to the strings it's all that pours out; whenever he tries to sing, that song is the only thing that his lips can form.
The lyrics change with each recitation, always in the same language - he doesn't know its name, or the translations, but the words are cool and liquid, a silver river of sound.
It winds through his mind, stops thought in its tracks, lets him concentrate on nothing else.
Daeron loves it, and hates it, and pushes it away, and clings to it. He can do nothing else.
The morning light turns everything it touches to silver and softness.
It's a Saturday, at not quite six. Daeron doesn't have to leave until he wants to.
The singing starts - it's gotten progressively earlier. The melody is the same one that's been playing through his head all week, closer still. Daeron stands on the edge of the cliff, gazing outward towards the horizon rather than down at the sea.
It's cold, and the wind is strong. Daeron is wearing light pants and a shirt with the sleeves rolled back, yet he doesn't notice the chill.
The singing is the only thing he registers.
Sunday morning he finally sees the singer, sitting on the rock at the base of the cliff.
He's beautiful, with slanted silver eyes that seem to glow, golden skin, and dark curls that tumble down his back. He does not speak, and when he notices Daeron on the cliff behind him he smiles and keeps singing.
But his voice sounds stronger now, the tune sadder, than before. Daeron cannot leave, and does not even consider trying.
On Monday, he doesn't go to work. Doesn't call in sick, just doesn't go.
Instead he stays at the shoreline all day, and listens.
He can play the song by heart now - on the flute, the piano, the violin, the harp. His roommate Saeros complains, but Daeron still finds himself sitting at the piano in the middle of the night, fingers moving of their own accord.
But still every bone in his body aches for the real thing - the voice itself, not an instrument's imitation.
It's dangerous. It's a bad idea. He shouldn't.
He does.
They find Daeron's body the next day, dashed on the rocks.
