Surely some revelation is at hand; surely the Second Coming is at hand
Oh, Sereia, Fifth Princess of Minn—did you think the ocean would ever let me die so easily?
The mother sea cannot hold your ignorance against you. How are you to know the man bleeding at your teeth has wrought tragedy on an island so far away, to a lineage of horses already forgotten? How are you to know that I Bound one of the sea’s favored sons, or condemned one of her daughters? Even I do not think of these facts; they are only moments in a long history.
But the sea never forgets.
The only things that matter become tactile; the cold, numbing press of the water and the way that, suddenly, I cannot feel any of my limbs. My vision is darkness and stars; through which she swims, nearly angelic in her grace. The waves, which seemed to lull above, frantically toss us beneath them; I feel the pressure of the rocks but not the sting.
(Somewhere, my old soldier’s instincts are crying out—how dare I succumb so easily, with so little struggle! How dare I be dragged into the sea, where no men return!)
More importantly, there is a serene calm blanketing me. I watch through the water the way my own blood billows; it looks more like ink at this depth, spilling readily from my throat and shoulder. I admire it with a kind of apathetic curiosity.
I think, for a moment, that she has abandoned me. I have never experienced such silence as I sink; I have never heard the absolute absence of sound.
The memory that fills my mind is gold and bright as sunlight. It is the only memory that matters, the one that I take out and revisit some nights when I feel most forsaken by my deeds.
We are climbing the cliffs for the first time after my fall. It is a ritual we established as boys; one we engaged in yearly, to summit the highest point of Oresziah. We start on the only beach on our island with white sand before the sun is up; and we climb the cliffside on a game-trail that is far too narrow for either of us. He is so patient with my assent; I am self-conscious of my slowness, the extreme soreness of my leg, the way I nearly fall and my entire body trembles with the memory of what that had been like.
“Just take it slow,” he assures me.
The sun is the only object in the sky. There are no clouds; but the wind is brisk and powerful. The entire climb he speaks from behind me, as if we are colts, and we had never summited the cliff-face before. “Next, step on that small ledge; push off your left leg and rise with your right, but you have to stretch it a little.”
By the time we reach the top, the sun is nearly setting. I am covered in sweat and my nerves are shot; but he is as calm and measured as he had been when we began. It had been eye-opening for me; to be so vulnerable, my weaknesses so exposed, and to have him treat me with the same quiet compassion he always had.
It is the closet I ever came to telling him I loved him.
But, I hadn’t needed to—not when our eyes met atop the cliff and the ocean roared below. No, I hadn’t needed to; because it was written in his eyes, and in mine, and when I leaned my head into his shoulder it was simply inevitable.
Inevitable, just as this is inevitable.
Just as the sea refuses to relinquish me to death’s serene gates; I will have no funeral pyre; I will have no freedom. Even as my skin tingles with the memory of sunlight and warmth and the uselessness of goodbyes, even as my life ebbs and flows with the tide and my eyes at last slip close, Sereia thinks to act upon me in mercy.
When she returns to thrash me once last time, a pact is signed.
It is my blood and hers. It is signed when my open mouth kisses her bleeding cheek.
Oh, Sereia.
Did you ever wonder if I even deserved your mercy?
The sea takes me in her arms, wickedly, and drags my limp body away. The sea takes me into her arms, laughing in her rhythms, and nestles me at the bottom among the coral and the rocks. It is there, unconscious and alone, that some revelation is had. The second coming of me, if you will.
The curse I was always destined to bear.
Death—death, would have been a kind mercy.
The mother sea cannot hold your ignorance against you. How are you to know the man bleeding at your teeth has wrought tragedy on an island so far away, to a lineage of horses already forgotten? How are you to know that I Bound one of the sea’s favored sons, or condemned one of her daughters? Even I do not think of these facts; they are only moments in a long history.
But the sea never forgets.
The only things that matter become tactile; the cold, numbing press of the water and the way that, suddenly, I cannot feel any of my limbs. My vision is darkness and stars; through which she swims, nearly angelic in her grace. The waves, which seemed to lull above, frantically toss us beneath them; I feel the pressure of the rocks but not the sting.
(Somewhere, my old soldier’s instincts are crying out—how dare I succumb so easily, with so little struggle! How dare I be dragged into the sea, where no men return!)
More importantly, there is a serene calm blanketing me. I watch through the water the way my own blood billows; it looks more like ink at this depth, spilling readily from my throat and shoulder. I admire it with a kind of apathetic curiosity.
I think, for a moment, that she has abandoned me. I have never experienced such silence as I sink; I have never heard the absolute absence of sound.
The memory that fills my mind is gold and bright as sunlight. It is the only memory that matters, the one that I take out and revisit some nights when I feel most forsaken by my deeds.
We are climbing the cliffs for the first time after my fall. It is a ritual we established as boys; one we engaged in yearly, to summit the highest point of Oresziah. We start on the only beach on our island with white sand before the sun is up; and we climb the cliffside on a game-trail that is far too narrow for either of us. He is so patient with my assent; I am self-conscious of my slowness, the extreme soreness of my leg, the way I nearly fall and my entire body trembles with the memory of what that had been like.
“Just take it slow,” he assures me.
The sun is the only object in the sky. There are no clouds; but the wind is brisk and powerful. The entire climb he speaks from behind me, as if we are colts, and we had never summited the cliff-face before. “Next, step on that small ledge; push off your left leg and rise with your right, but you have to stretch it a little.”
By the time we reach the top, the sun is nearly setting. I am covered in sweat and my nerves are shot; but he is as calm and measured as he had been when we began. It had been eye-opening for me; to be so vulnerable, my weaknesses so exposed, and to have him treat me with the same quiet compassion he always had.
It is the closet I ever came to telling him I loved him.
But, I hadn’t needed to—not when our eyes met atop the cliff and the ocean roared below. No, I hadn’t needed to; because it was written in his eyes, and in mine, and when I leaned my head into his shoulder it was simply inevitable.
Inevitable, just as this is inevitable.
Just as the sea refuses to relinquish me to death’s serene gates; I will have no funeral pyre; I will have no freedom. Even as my skin tingles with the memory of sunlight and warmth and the uselessness of goodbyes, even as my life ebbs and flows with the tide and my eyes at last slip close, Sereia thinks to act upon me in mercy.
When she returns to thrash me once last time, a pact is signed.
It is my blood and hers. It is signed when my open mouth kisses her bleeding cheek.
Oh, Sereia.
Did you ever wonder if I even deserved your mercy?
The sea takes me in her arms, wickedly, and drags my limp body away. The sea takes me into her arms, laughing in her rhythms, and nestles me at the bottom among the coral and the rocks. It is there, unconscious and alone, that some revelation is had. The second coming of me, if you will.
The curse I was always destined to bear.
Death—death, would have been a kind mercy.
