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."
"But I can do more."
"We have to warm up to the idea first."
You sighed. "Alright."
George had drained his tea by then but denied a second glass. Paul took his glass for cleaning while serving you a sympathetic smile. "Aw, chin up. We might have something for you after we teleport."
"Really?"
Paul made a calming gesture. "Might, dear, might. It's in Fortune's hands."
"Yes, Paul. Of course." You slid off your stool and took your leave. "I guess it's best if I busy myself with my own needs."
"In the light!" he reminded you.
"In the light, yes." You turned before exiting. "You wouldn't happen to have sewing supplies, would you?"
"Ask Ringo."
As Fortune would have it, he had two fully stocked bentwood boxes. When pressed about their origins, Ringo revealed he bought the first but looted the second. He also asked to join you, citing he had something to sew himself. Of course, you weren't against his company, just unsure what Ringo—who was perpetually shirtless—could possibly need to sew.
You got your answer the moment you unfolded the ex-charlatan's shirt. Inside the second box, cradled in a nest of tentacles, was a simple toga with a ruffled sleeve*. A tear marred its linen beauty, and he was matching thread colors so he could close the wound. You started doing the same for the tears in your garment.
Sir Bloodvessel could afford a tailor, of course—he could hire an army of tailors if he really desired, but he saw no harm in learning to mend his own clothing or teaching you to do so. Like his sails, they were his pride, and one must take care of their pride.
Ringo finished long before you did (the sirens' habit of tearing off limbs meant there was a lot of damage done to the sleeves). He lifted it high, letting the light catch its weave, then threw it over his head. It was still a perfect fit, and the waves that formed as the garment cascaded over his chest hid the stitch. He leaned back against the stone, hands folded behind his head. "Marvelous."
You were halfway through the cuff of the second sleeve when you disturbed his rest. "Ringo?"
"Mm?"
"What's the Old Tradition?"
He answered with half-lidded eyes. "Exactly what it sounds like: long held siren habits. Your ancestors did them, your parents did them, and it's expected you do the same."
"You said they were rubbish."
His eyebrow twitched. "That's because they are. It's rubbish to do the same thing for so long."
"Like sing songs without lyrics?"
"Sound is fleeting. Words are more memorable."
You couldn't argue that. "What other traditions are there?"
"The eldest leads the band."
"Who's the eldest?"
Ringo gestured to himself. "Me."
"Do you?"
"No, nor do I want to."
"Then who is?"
"John. By technicality."
It didn't feel like a technicality to you.
"The band was his idea."
You digested that, then pulled the last stitch. The shirt was finally salvaged. You folded it up and set it aside, drawing your knees to your chest. "Do you think he likes me?"
"John?" Ringo clarified.
"Yes. Do you?"
"Is this about this morning?"
"No, I...well..." You drifted into silence.
Ringo straightened, eyes open, brow arched. "I would think he's warming up to you, at least. Why?"
You shifted uncomfortably on the ground. "Because...I know I'm disturbing the dynamic. I'm new and I have a role, but do I really have a place?"
Ringo chuckled. "Welcome to the hot seat." He sighed, then eased into a more meditative state. "John will like who he likes. Don't try to appease him, or else he'll really start to hate you. As for your place, well, you'll ease into it as we go along."
The worst kind of relief was the kind you had to wait for. Begrudgingly, you accepted Ringo's thoughts on the matter, and the two of you drifted into lighter topics to ease your mind. He was a far better conversationalist than John was. When the two of you parted ways, your spirits were high and your energy was intact. You remained that way until early evening, when the sirens gathered again to seek their supper.
*for an illustration, see: BEATLES SIREN FANART by Taliathecat225. They're an amazing artist!