tell me mother, what I should regret
what I became, or what I did not?
what I became, or what I did not?
Ino longer know what I am looking for, when I stare at the sea.
It used to be that I glanced out over the waves in search of enemies; for the telltale crest of a mane or the flick of a tail beneath the surface, as quick and flitting as the flash of a silver-scaled fish. I used to obsess over the movement of what teemed beneath the surface, waiting for the impossible monstrosities that would emerge.
In the war I fought, I never feared my enemy. In truth, I did not hate them outside of the hate that war entitles a soldier to. I hated them for killing my friends; I hated them for hurting them; I hated them for scarring generations; I hated them for not leaving us in peace. As a child, my mother told me stories of before, of our heritage. Stories of great ships with white sails, and how we roamed from island to island, from land to land, looting and pillaging and being brave. We were conquerors.
I am a conqueror. If not in action, then in blood. A descendent of men who did nothing but destroy.
When my father was away, fighting, she would sometimes tell me other stories: she would whisper of the magic that imprisoned to the island so that we could not leave to wage small wars elsewhere. She whispered of how we were paying a penance for our past sins, and that one day we would be free of it. But only after we lost who we were.
The water dances in the spring sun; and the breeze, brisk and frigid, brings with it the ocean’s chill. I no longer look for enemies beneath the surface; but sometimes I fantasize about a glimpse of red against the blue, of a teaming mane, of a white face pushing above a white crest of wave. I don’t know what I would do if I saw it.
I don’t know if I would feel hate, or loss.
The wondering in and of itself is meaningless. I do not see her. I see nothing but teeming, frothing blue.
Hello. I am Elliana.
I am broken abruptly from my reprieve. If the wind were not so loud upon the cliffside, I might have heard her approach. Instead, I turn to look over my shoulder. Her head barely reaches above the long, yellowed grass. She is as gold as it, if not brighter in the sunshine. Are you looking for someone?
It strikes me as uncanny that she asks the very question that I do not want to answer.
I should lie. Perhaps it is her uncanniness that makes it difficult to do so. Perhaps it is her likeness to her mother which, in its own way, is unsettling. “Yes.” I say, quite simply, on the exact precipice where Elena had once found me in the storm. “But he isn’t here. He will never be here again.”
Because he had never existed in the way I thought he had. And this hard fact, lodged in my breast, fills me with a hatred for the world so sharp I can hardly breathe.
☼
It used to be that I glanced out over the waves in search of enemies; for the telltale crest of a mane or the flick of a tail beneath the surface, as quick and flitting as the flash of a silver-scaled fish. I used to obsess over the movement of what teemed beneath the surface, waiting for the impossible monstrosities that would emerge.
In the war I fought, I never feared my enemy. In truth, I did not hate them outside of the hate that war entitles a soldier to. I hated them for killing my friends; I hated them for hurting them; I hated them for scarring generations; I hated them for not leaving us in peace. As a child, my mother told me stories of before, of our heritage. Stories of great ships with white sails, and how we roamed from island to island, from land to land, looting and pillaging and being brave. We were conquerors.
I am a conqueror. If not in action, then in blood. A descendent of men who did nothing but destroy.
When my father was away, fighting, she would sometimes tell me other stories: she would whisper of the magic that imprisoned to the island so that we could not leave to wage small wars elsewhere. She whispered of how we were paying a penance for our past sins, and that one day we would be free of it. But only after we lost who we were.
The water dances in the spring sun; and the breeze, brisk and frigid, brings with it the ocean’s chill. I no longer look for enemies beneath the surface; but sometimes I fantasize about a glimpse of red against the blue, of a teaming mane, of a white face pushing above a white crest of wave. I don’t know what I would do if I saw it.
I don’t know if I would feel hate, or loss.
The wondering in and of itself is meaningless. I do not see her. I see nothing but teeming, frothing blue.
Hello. I am Elliana.
I am broken abruptly from my reprieve. If the wind were not so loud upon the cliffside, I might have heard her approach. Instead, I turn to look over my shoulder. Her head barely reaches above the long, yellowed grass. She is as gold as it, if not brighter in the sunshine. Are you looking for someone?
It strikes me as uncanny that she asks the very question that I do not want to answer.
I should lie. Perhaps it is her uncanniness that makes it difficult to do so. Perhaps it is her likeness to her mother which, in its own way, is unsettling. “Yes.” I say, quite simply, on the exact precipice where Elena had once found me in the storm. “But he isn’t here. He will never be here again.”
Because he had never existed in the way I thought he had. And this hard fact, lodged in my breast, fills me with a hatred for the world so sharp I can hardly breathe.
@Elliana"speaks" space for notes
