Western Vor Region

 

          The rain was relentless. It pounded downward upon the mud-filled streets of the small, unnamed port town in the region of Vor, clotting the cracks in the road with running dirt and filling the roof-lined gutters with water high enough to send small waves spilling over. Despite it, beggars remained starving and cold on the street. Some who were strong enough to move sought for shelter in the empty crates stored behind the tavern houses; those who couldn’t—their bodies made good fuel for the public braziers lining the streets.

          Aethyra tried not to breathe in the smell of rot and smoke which fumigated the streets as she made her way towards the nearest tavern, the rain doing little to nothing to cleanse the scent from the stones of the alley walls and roads. Rats squeaked around tavern alleys and scrammed under entry steps; maggots ate away at starved corpses which had yet to be found and burned. She walked past it all, grimacing every so often when the smell ripened.

          Once inside a worn-down tavern overcrowded with sailors far from home and those seeking shelter from the violent rain, Aethyra pulled down her hood and attempted to wring the water from her hair. A small puddle formed at her feet.

          “How many dead?” the bartender yelled, his voice a deep rumble, that of one native to the region of Vor. His words were in Vorese, a language difficult to master in a short amount of time, as Aethyra had discovered over a year ago upon her arrival, when the waters which had brought her to the black-sand coasts had been calmer. Merciful. She shuddered to think of them now.

          “Ten so far,” a traveling merchant called back, his voice immediately lost in the crowd. His Vorese was hesitant. A foreigner. No doubt he was taking shelter in the tavern as well.

          Aethyra glanced at the bartender, who grunted and sighed. Ten so far would mean roughly ten more in the next hour, should the storm continue on. Perhaps tripled if it went all night. With the seas in uproar, the storms were only getting worse than before the great one over the waters had formed. It wouldn’t surprise her if she found herself renting a room in a nearby inn for the night. Still, it threw a boulder in her plans to sail home at dawn. She only hoped her siblings were faring well—better than her, at least.

          Thunder roiled in the skies outside, making Aethyra flinch. A sizzling crack soon followed it, no doubt lightning forking down on a wooden house—or boat. She didn’t dwell too long on what poor soul wouldn’t be returning home once the skies dulled to a quiet gray. Aethyra only wished it wasn’t her passage home that met the lightning’s end.

                    It was said once—in the tales told by her brother when she was but a babe barely strong enough to walk alone—that Vor had been nothing but quiet peaceful villages and rolling hills of soft green and lavender around the capital. The capital was said to have been crowded with color and life, lavender a permanent perfume in the air. The haven for Dreamcaverns and the center of the following Dream Wars—a drug war started wrong from the south. Now all that was left of it was mud-clotted slums and frayed fields, the lavender dead and gone from both air and sight, replaced instead by the scent of piss and a pink mist that dulled the senses.

          Aethyra had not stayed long. The memory of lying in bed while Sayto read stories to her was a dull ache in her heart. A reminder of why she had to go. But she could not return to their side—not yet.

          She pulled her hood up back over her face and wedged the tavern door open with the toe of her boot. Rain greeted her as she slipped out of the warmth behind her, sending a chill down her spine and arms, seeping down into the very marrow of her bones. The sky was a patchwork of black and gray, lightning a dance within the clouds. In the distance, smoke coiled above the docks.

          She could not go home yet. Not when there was one last person she wished to visit.

Shuddering in a breath and a final glance behind her, Aethyra disappeared into the rain-sheeted dusk.

 

~

          Aethyra held her breath as the Dreamweaver across from her let out a hiss of pink smoke, clotting the air around them with a sickly-sweet smell she hoped to never breathe again once home. Lines wrinkled the edges of the woman’s mouth, her copper-skin terribly rippled with unnatural creases. Silver bracelets clanked along too-narrow wrists, and clouded green eyes like that of an algae-covered sea met hers through the haze.

          “Care for one?” the Weaver offered, gesturing with a lift of her hand to the black-scaled pipe in her hand. Pink leaked from it like the smoke of a fire.

          Aethyra shook her head. The Weaver shrugged and inhaled from it once more.

          “Lady Nel—”

          “I am a lady no more, dearest,” the Weaver interrupted. She rested the pipe-clasped hand on the folds of her brown skirt. It reeked of piss and shit. Aethyra held back her gag as she nodded once more.

          “Forgive me then, Nelesia,” she opted for. Her hair had long since dried, and now hung limply against her breast. Though the rain still continued even outside of the port, hammering down on the thatch roof hard enough to send drops onto the carpeted floors inside.

          Once she had entered many hours before, when the barest light still poked through the patchwork skies, she had scattered cups and bowls throughout, trying to contain the leaking to a minimum. Nelesia had not moved from her chair—not even to greet her. An assassin could have walked through the front door and the Weaver would not have moved. Perhaps it was why she smelled of piss and shit, Aethyra silently mused. For the drugged, once under the pink haze, did not move from where they first fell under. Not even to relieve themselves. It was a rarity that they moved to feed themselves. Most, from what Aethyra had studied in her time on Vor, either died from starvation, exhaustion, or simply never woke up once they fell asleep.

          It was a miracle, perhaps, that Nelesia still spoke. Still ate. The woman rocked back and forth in her chair, humming lightly between each inhale of pink smoke. “Why are you here?” she asked finally. Her voice sounded faraway.

          Aethyra leaned forward and rested her forearms against her knees. “You owe a debt to me, Nelesia. Do you remember?”

          An exhale of smoke. “Faintly. It’s hard to remember most things nowadays.”

          A heartbeat of silence.

          “What’s it like?” Aethyra asked softly. For the chance to ever ask one under the haze would most likely be never again after today.

          “I am asleep. I am awake. I am neither,” Nelesia breathed. Smoke followed. “I cannot stop. I cannot remember. I cannot forget some days.”

          “Why don’t you stop eating?”

          “Because I can hear the water. It sings beautifully to me, even in the fog. And also—” The woman gestured to the mutt sleeping at her feet. A beautiful black-and-brown beast with ears permanently pointed up towards the sky and a tail thicker than a wolf’s. It wagged at the sight of Aethyra when she first arrived. Now it was tucked under the beast’s hind legs as it rested peacefully below its master. “—I cannot leave Ty alone. If I go, he goes too.”

          Her brows lifted at this. As far as she had learned, animals were unaffected by the haze. Sure, they sneezed and preferred cleaner air, but they did not become addicted and still the way humans did. They did not stop. Why, Aethyra had yet to learn.

          “You’re still eating…because of the beast?” she asked. She would make note of this later.

          A shallow cough. “Ty is more than a mere beast,” the Weaver muttered, those clouded eyes flicking briefly downward. “He is my companion. I have had him since he was a pup. I practically raised him, just as I did you and those two meddlesome boys.”

          “My apologies,” she said, “I meant no offense, Nelesia.”

          “I know, dearest,” the Weaver whispered. “You never have.”

          Those sea-green eyes met Aethyra’s once more. For the briefest of moments, they seemed clear. Young and vibrant as they once had been many years ago when she had known Nelesia not as she was now, but as a mother-figure of sorts. Before they were separated by fate, stolen by haze, and reunited once more past the point of no return.

          Those memories were a painful stab in Aethyra’s heart, more so than the thought of her family waiting on the other side of the world. She leaned forward in her chair and rested a leather-adorned hand on the Weaver’s empty one.

          The Weaver looked through her. “Why are you here?” she asked again. As if nothing had passed after the first time she asked. Her companion—Ty—let out a pitiful whine below.

          “To call forth a debt long since owed,” Aethyra murmured. She squeezed Nelesia’s hand. Thin skin and frail bones greeted her. “Pay it to me, Nelesia. You say that the water sings to you, so go to it. Let it cleanse you from this hell. You owe that much to the girl you raised when you didn’t have to—you owe it to yourself. See this life through.”

          The Weaver rocked. Back and forth, back and forth. For a long time, she did not say anything. Did not breathe in the pipe now resting in her lap. She did not stray her gaze from where it seemed to look through Aethyra. As if she could see right into the steady heart beating in Aethyra’s chest and past. Far, far past. Then—

          “Take him.” A strangled plea. Suddenly that limp hand turned and clutched at Aethyra’s with a weak sort of strength. Those clouded eyes moved to Ty. “Take him.”

          This…was not what she had expected. But it was something she could do.

          “Alright,” she said softly. She gripped Nelesia’s hand with a startling gentleness that surprised even herself. “Alright.”

          That hand went limp again.

          Aethyra stood and searched for Ty’s leash. She found it hanging by the front door; Ty unmoving as she attached it to him. Instead he watched his master through clear brown eyes. Sadness radiated from the poor mutt as he nudged Nelesia’s hand once, as if silently saying goodbye, and turned to Aethyra readily. She wondered if he knew what would happen next—if he knew he would be leaving and never returning.

          She took him to the door and nudged it open. Turning, she spared one last glance towards the woman who raised her. Towards the woman who was more of a mother than she would ever know.

          “Go to the water,” Aethyra murmured. “You owe yourself that much.”

          She pulled her hood up over her face and slipped out into the rain. Ty was a living presence at her side as she broke into a run in the direction of the port.

          When she paused to look over her shoulder once more, the Weaver’s house was the barest shadow of a speck in the distance.

          She looked sidelong at her new companion. Soulful brown eyes stared up at her. “Let’s go home.”

 

          ...to be continued.

 

About the Author: Emma Gullen

          I started writing when I was about 10 years old. Before then, I was and still remain an avid reader. I think I got into writing mainly through reading--by wanting to write my own characters, world, ideas, etc., and bring readers the same feeling I got out of reading others' works. With this chapter--chapter 4 out of a longer novel--is the first introduction of the third main perspective and character in this work, Aethyra. I tend to write my third-person narrative pieces with more than one character perspective. Aethyra is the third and last one in this novel, with this chapter being the first introduction to her. With this piece specifically, I wanted to introduce Aethyra but also tie in/reinforce the theme of sirens and how they play a role in the story, such as through Nelesia and the storm over the sea wrecking sailors and killing people by its consequences on the land. I very much planted seeds throughout this and thought about how I would later grow those seeds in different chapters. Also, I more so just wanted to establish Aethyra's character and root in a future plot twist with Nelesia and her, which is why I wrote this piece to sow those seeds for much later on. In addition, Nelesia plays a role later on in terms of providing character development for Aethyra and her siblings that I wanted to go ahead and place in this chapter.

          The story very much begins with these three perspectives, two of which interact, and Aethyra's being the "odd man out" so-to-say, that then eventually converge all together by the end. Each unravels their own issues and priorities to then eventually converge into one, which is my main goal. Also, since the prompt of January is sirens, this is your atypical siren kind of novel. Something that reoccurs is the portrayal of sirens and their power throughout. For example, the Great Storm is caused by sirens; the pink haze Nelesia is victim to is also originated from the storm and sirens. There is a lot of subtle influence of them--like with the water--that I embed throughout the novel. As it progresses, they become more prominent and reveal many world-building details and character development truths. With that said, there is a lot of imagery, metaphors, similes, personification, etc., within this chapter specifically. Imagery within the worldbuilding, metaphors and similes scattered as part of worldbuilding and character development, etc., and just bits of personification scattered throughout. They all very much intermingle and work together.

 

To learn more about The Water Sings to the Unawake check out Emma Gullen on social media @timelordemma