The ocean was no longer at peace. The shoreside village had never disrespected the sea, being diligent in their festivals and offerings to appease their main source of food and income. They did so lovingly, for the ocean had given them bounty after bounty. They made sure to never take more than what was graciously given, offering thanks and praise for the generosity of the sea.
They protected their shores as well, not letting foreigners that traveled to their little hamlet, away from the hustle and bustle of Valentennia and Dornoch, sully the froth and foam. They were penalized if they took shells or seaweed from the sand, forced to give up what was not given to them.
“But it was on the ground!” Some would argue.
“But it is not for you.” Villagers would rebuke kindly, letting their knives and spearheads be the reminders one needed to see.
Many liked to come for the Festival of Feathers, a time when the large Northern Gannets would leave their nests and head out to sea. It was allowed for anyone, villager or foreigner, to hold up their hands. If a feather fell into their open palms, they could keep it. It was good luck, a charm of safe passage for the sea. Sailors from Dornoch were often fond of these feathers, paying high prices for them.
The village by the sea, that swore in their folklore they had come from the sea, made sure to never upset it. They treated everything in the ocean with the reverence fit for a king, they treated the ocean as a god or spirit that must be nurtured like a good marriage. They thought their dependence on the sea was natural, they thought the waves could deliver messages, could warn them of ill omens.
So when they came from the sea, the villagers didn’t know what to do. At first they pitied the floating bodies, assumed a ship had been wrecked from a storm. The waves had been unruly as of late, for months they had been unsettling the village. When they pulled one bloated body from the waters, as was custom for they were tasked with keeping the water clean of any foul play whether it was natural or not, they were shocked by the deformities. A human without legs but a tail, black and hollow, filled only with crustaceans and jellies in their salt-water bloated frames.
“Mermaids,” a traveler said. “Maybe a siren. Nothing to worry about, sometimes the fae end up invoking a fate worse than death.” So the villagers didn’t worry.
Then they came, when a painter was there. The painter died not long after, but the paintings existed and were spread around. There was something in the sea, and It was coming. The villagers didn’t know what to do. They sent off four young girls and four young boys with gifts of silver seashell combs and other seaside treasures, but still the thing came closer. What would happen when it reached the shore?
The better question to ask: why was it coming to the shore?
“I don’t feel well.” Larka complained once again. “My head hurts.” The headache had came days ago, persisting no matter what she did. That was only part of the problem. In the letter they received, a name had been written that made Larka’s stomach drop into a pit of anxiety, culling her appetite for the week that she traveled alongside Gannis. In her time as a foster, she had only ever been beside a mentor. She had spent a long time with Gannis and knew their time together would be coming to an end. Even when beside the late Simon, though her time with him was short, she hadn’t considered that she might have to work with other Venari. She never thought she’d be thrust at sister Aysel’s side once again, though not as her foster but someone else’s.
It made her nervous, not because she was scared of Aysel, but because she did not think she thought herself ready to face Aysel. She wondered if her year with Gannis had taught her anything, if she had truly learned anything. She felt very much the same as she had when she left Sister Aysel’s side to go to Brother Simon’s, just as when she was placed at Gannis’ side.
The only thing that changed was her hunger. She flushed, wondering if Aysel would somehow know of the night outside of Gallica, their failed mission in the Village of Rust. The guilt of losing Mirren still made Larka stir at night, but the touch of Gannis, the prick of satisfaction at her neck also caused her to stir. It was for an entirely different reason, but one that made her feel guilty nonetheless.
Sometimes, Larka had dreams of Gannis. Bad, sneaky thoughts that she knew she shouldn’t have. Would Aysel know of this? Would Aysel know that Larka had ventured to the edge of the abyss that Aysel had warned her to never go towards, to never even look down at?
She wondered if Aysel also had a foster, if this one was better than Larka: not a runt, not tiny, not small, not forever ravenous and insatiable. For the first time in her life, Larka spoke aloud words that had never occurred to her.
“Maybe I should stay behind,” Larka mumbled, burying her face into Kitty’s fur.
Gannis
