rogue_2

Highmore feels no cold, even though she lay on the deck and awoke to the soft and cool touch of the night. Perhaps she never fell asleep, only let her consciousness drift for a moment. It has been too long since she desired sleep from physical fatigue. The blood and flesh of Seaborn have made her strong and resilient, and virtually eliminated the need for sleep, but the mind does not acclimate to the long waking hours so quickly.

What if the starlight in the reverie did not come from beneath the surface of consciousness, but from the tangible sky above?

She dreamt of the starlight countless times, but she does not recall the last time she looked up at the starry sky. When was the last time? All she can recall is that the gloom in Iberia's skies never seemed to scatter.

Highmore remembers a story her parents told her in her childhood. Iberian once hoped to rely on the stars to navigate the seas, but were frustrated by the mystery of the starry heavens. Starlight seemed to have no discernible pattern, and some occultists even suspected them to be reflections or premonitions of events on the ground. It was only when some of the Ægir came on land with their technology, working with Iberia to build lighthouse after lighthouse along the coastline to guide the navigation of ships, that Iberia forsook gazing upon the stars, and conquered the seas.

Am I no different from the home that I detested? Blinded by the inscrutable stars, lost in the arms of the ocean, and...

A thought comes to Highmore's mind. She stands up slowly.

Lighthouses light the way home for lost ships. Perhaps it is why they attracted Sea Terrors, and were the first to be destroyed when the tide came.

She would not let this happen to her next home.

Laurentina gazes absent-mindedly at the flickering lights under the ocean in the distance.

The tide of monsters has ebbed. Another Ægir city has survived, for now. Pain and death are a fact of life these days, with devastation as far as the eye can see. This is an old city, with a glorious history, and one still sees a vestige of eminence and pride in the buildings under the dome, even from a distance.

The Abyssal Hunters were no longer allowed to come near the cities after the betrayal, while the more 'primitive' hunters are placed under close surveillance. They pushed the tide forward, but they have no home.

Not anymore.

Laurentina did not complain about this. She could feel the impatience and anxiety in her blood every bit as much as her captain could. They have come face to face with a predestined death—or worse, a death that has already begun, and all they can do is endure the long decay.

She continues to gaze at the Ægir city. It has reactivated, moving towards a line of defense that has retreated to who-knows-where, towards a destiny that awaits who-knows-when. The lights disappear into the seabed. Deep in the ocean, the sunlight is but a distant memory thousands of meters above. It must exist, but nobody can perceive it. Darkness embraces her once more.

Laurentina notices that the currents have changed. Her captain is leaving. Gladiia has not spoken for years. She detests her own voice. After years of working together, however, they no longer need words to understand each other's intentions. This is how things must be, until the decay is finally complete.

'Trust' is too shallow, too callous a word to describe their relationship. It is simply the bond of blood that the Abyssal Hunters share.

They have seen the end of this relationship many times. They know what awaits.

It is not yet time, but neither is it far away. It could be in two months, or it could be tomorrow.

Laurentina reminds herself to get a new saw blade the next time maintenance comes around.

The filth returns. She decides not to think about the future any more, at least until the dance has ended.

One dance after another, yet her partners are always silent.

Laurentina tires of it. This is not a true dance. Broken limbs dissolve in the water, but the singing is deafening.

It is their song. She acknowledges its beauty, but it cannot catch up to her steps.

Her final partner turns to dust. Its photophore grows dim, and she is once again in familiar darkness. There are no waves deep in the ocean, replaced by the omnipresent weight of the sea. Is this peace? Laurentina is perplexed. Fragments of thought tell her that peace should be shared with others. Peace comes with another song.

One that is warmer, gentler.

What was the tune? She closes her eyes and tries to remember, but their chanting is cacophonous and inexorable. They snuff out the slightest ripple, allowing only themselves to linger in eternity.

A blurred silhouette flashes across her mind. Peace...

Is it peace? Or is it fear?

Laurentina takes a few steps forward. She stands on her toes, then pirouettes. Her arms should be lighter, lither. Then she bends down, and turns again.

Should her hands be holding something? Had she danced these steps with someone else in the past?

Where is that 'someone else' now?

As a partner they were clumsy, but far better than... these.

Memories, entangled like threads. Laurentina knows how to untangle them and find the one she seeks, but decides against it.

What is the point? She does not know where it will take her, and she does not want to know.

What has come to pass is more abhorrent than what is to come.

It is time for the next song. Their chorus is overwhelming.

Laurentina does not want to be overtaken by the song. She straightens out her skirt, and welcomes the next group of dance partners.

It is a beautiful stone, white and regular, half-buried in the soft sand like an exquisite dessert delicately placed under the waves.

This is a good place, she thinks. No one will interrupt her here.

She has walked for a long time, by herself, through broken ruins, through slimy fragments, through song, through death.

Finally, she came before the stone. It was a coincidence. She never set a goal for her journey, but that was for the better. The best moments are often unpredictable.

She approaches the rock and touches it. The knowledge she had once held was buried in the dark depths along with her name, but the emotions remain. She has given up on describing them, but they are undoubtedly present in her trembling hands.

She has not trembled like this for many, many years.

She caresses the stone, trying to capture some warmth, but feels nothing. She no longer feels changes in temperature. She runs her finger over it and feels a slight resistance. It is a good rock, which feels almost as though it could cross beyond eternity.

She had touched a rock like this, one afternoon beyond distant time. Back then, she believed that there was something that could resist time, resist death, resist the impending end.

But perhaps not allowing fate to have its way was itself a form of resistance, in its own way.

...Connected.

The words she had heard so many times had long faded beyond recognition from her memories, but she at least knows that no one is connected with her anymore.

It is time. She understands that she can delay no more.

She slowly raises an arm. That which was once called a weapon is now a dried husk, but it is enough for the work ahead.

The stone peels away, piece by piece.

A little more, a little more.

She closes her eyes. It is done.

She has liberated the void from form, and entrusted her fate to it.

The waters rise and ebb, washing away all traces of both the stone and the silhouette from the beach.

Kal'tsit is a little shorter than her.

She walks a little slower, and her words are a little colder.

Gladiia walks by her side, listening her to repeat those ancient tales. Morals, lessons, warnings. They have not known each other for long, but Kal'tsit has shown enough to demonstrate her power.

'Power'? Gladiia stops in her tracks. She has seen power in many forms, most directly as the lance hanging on her back. She recalls the sights of Ægir, the fleets that once covered the ocean, how the gaze of its warriors penetrated the depths that not even sunlight could, how the pulse of knowledge throbbed within the vast Academy of Sciences...

Finally, inevitably, ironically, and lamentably, she recalls her mother.

'Power.'

Gladiia puts a stop to the associations, but could not shake the silhouette from her mind until Kal'tsit chooses silence. She says nothing, politely waiting for Gladiia to gather herself. Gladiia looks at the mysterious doctor before her, and gives a self-deprecating laugh.

'Continue, Doctor. I did not mean to interrupt.'

'There seems to be something on your mind. Forgive my bluntness, but I could not continue the conversation with a Consul who is not paying attention.' Kal'tsit pauses for a moment, then continues. 'Regarding the origin of the Seaborn.'

Gladiia chuckles to herself. She remembers when she was still a girl, how her mother passed on her 'tasks' in just a few sentences. Did her mother observe her expressions too?

She starts walking again, in order to assuage Kal'tsit's suspicions.

She'd had to reassess her feelings towards her mother, after living on land for some time. It was more than a bond of blood; the tones were more complex, like the coral-colored vortex that the wind creates on the dome.

Subconsciously, Gladiia felt that she had long since escaped that vortex. It has been a long time. She has not thought about those sentimental scenes until today. Longing? Admiration? Respect? Fear? Resentment? Hatred? None of that mattered. Rather, had she ever truly escaped? Or had she simply learned that she cannot move when swimming against the tide—and that when allowing the tide to carry her along, it is only the scenery before her that moves?

Ægir.

Personality, attitude, even her 'human nature.' From head to toe, everything about her was molded by Ægir, or more accurately, by her family. An absurd thought flashes across her mind. As a Consul, as an Abyssal Hunter, as someone who has always fought for the greater good, she seems to have difficulty identifying the origins of this 'greater good.'

'Do you need some rest, Madam Consul?'

'Please, call me Gladiia.'

Kal'tsit nods in silence. Their gazes meet.

'You are seeking like-minded people to find a way to save your country.'

'Yes.'

'So you need new companions.'

'Yes.'

'Then we can reach a consensus. But perhaps you should be seeking more than just that.'

Gladiia suppresses her surprise. She has always been good at hiding her thoughts, even when facing 'herself' with the cruelest, most harsh attitude.

Kal'tsit's gaze remains cold, but Gladiia does not feel it is due to indifference.

'Very well, Doctor. You've told your story. Now it is my turn to speak on the present state of Ægir... and the plans of its Chief Designer of Warfare.'

'Kal'tsit.'

'Very well, Kal'tsit.' Gladiia gazes out over the ocean. 'Let's start with a mother.'

Knights.

At Rhodes Island, Gladiia had seen Kazimierzians claiming to be knights. There was nothing complicated about their history, simply the result of the clash between Kuranta military tradition and farcical consumerism.

But no interpretation of the word suited the knight before her.

The Iberian soldier beside her cannot conceal his impatience. Once again, he asks the Consul for permission to attack, but she remains silent.

'These two Seaborn are unusual,' answers the Inquisitor on behalf of the taciturn Consul. 'But not to be underestimated. We should continue to observe their movements for now...'

See, the surviving soldiers have heard of him, one way or another. 'The Last Knight.'

Gladiia remembers when she first encountered him at the Eye of Iberia. The ocean is vast and its forces innumerable. What were the odds of encountering the same Seaborn multiple times? Or had the key from that tiny village in Kazimierz tied everyone's fates together, this encounter simply another terrible coincidence?

Clouds darken the sky, and the sea breeze brings with it a dank, rotten stench. The knight and his loyal follower rise and ebb on the waves along with the ocean's breathing.

Gladiia has been thinking about it. If the knight and his mount are humanity who have fallen, like those dregs of the church, then their actions were too haphazard, too meaningless. But if they have fallen even further than the dregs of the church, to become even closer to We Many, how did they manage to ignore the will of We Many, and even the requests of their kin?

Gladiia frowns, feeling a sense of nausea.

Why would she feel empathy for this inhuman creature? Why is she subconsciously treating them as her equal?

When did she start doing that?

A crack of thunder drags Gladiia back to reality. A young sailor looks up anxiously at the sky.

'The weather's getting worse. Visibility is decreasing.' She looks at the Iberian soldier who spoke. 'But there's something unusual about it...'

Another crack of thunder, and the sea begins to foam, a black ocean that causes discomfort at a genetic level to any viviparous creature of the land. Sweat seeps from the brows of the soldiers, and quiet surrounds Gladiia. The weak sunlight shining through the clouds flickers. The ocean is filled with an eerie silence.

Until the knight looks up.

Gladiia has thought about why his last vestige of reason made him rage again the waves of the ocean. Was it an allegory for We Many? Or for Ishar'mla?