Joshua Stavick

Author: Joshua

  • Of Depth and Deception (Chapter 1)

    Of Depth and Deception (Chapter 1)

    The full book is available on Amazon here.

    Chapter 1
    Skehl

    Skehl fixed his eyes on those two distant glows, fleeing into the ocean’s black night. His heart fluttered. At last, this sham of a “hunt” was nearing its end. 

    Mustering all he had left, he grunted through his hours-deep exhaustion, ignored the throbbing ache of his muscles, and beat his tail with a ravenous fervor, eager to close the distance. He had somewhere else he soon needed to be, and he would not accept being late on account of clan deserters with inconvenient timing. 

    “We aren’t going to harm you,” he shouted as he neared.

    The deserters only pressed on, their tails whipping up plumes of bubbles as they went. They were slowing, though—the smaller one especially.

    A bright flash from behind, and a crackling warmth enveloped Skehl, pricking his scales and skin like urchin needles. He didn’t flinch or fear despite the ocean itself quivering around him. It was a familiar sensation: his sister’s power. 

    The deserters must have felt it too, for they halted; the gills on their necks fanning for breaths as they turned to face those they believed to be their executioners.

    Skehl approached, his gills and chest heaving, his webbed-hands held out at his sides. 

    “We don’t want to harm you,” he said. “I promise.” 

    The deserters floated hand-in-hand, both eyeing him with furrowed brows and understandable skepticism. 

    He was used to that. 

    Briefly, he explained their intention—his and his sister’s—as all four of them floated together in the bubble of light cast from their collective glows. How they wanted not to punish, but to save.

    “All we need is for you to let my sister Shock you both around the wrists,” he said, numb to how insane the proposal sounded after having offered it to countless other deserters in recent months. “Then you’ll be free to go. No questions will be raised and no one else will come looking for you. You have my word.”

    “Why?” the older deserter asked as she maneuvered the younger one behind her. They were siblings, clearly.

    “It’s complicated,” Skehl said. “Please, just trust when I say it’s the only way we can let you go.”

    “W–will it hurt?” the young boy asked, poking his head around his sister’s side.

    “Yes,” Skehl said, almost in a whisper. “Yes, it will.”

    He peered into the boy’s moonful eyes—glistening and violet and young. Too young to lead a life like this, fleeing his home. 

    And such bravery… 

    “We’ll do it together, though. All of us.” Skehl offered a wan smile as he held out his hands. One to the boy, sunrise-red. The other to the older sister, her own scales and skin a warm summer-kelp green, dressed in a tattered shawl of red seaweed. “I’m sorry it has to be this way.”

    The older sister flared her nostrils and huffed. She put on a tough front—bony shoulders wide, her expression cold and fearless. But she didn’t struggle against him. Didn’t resist. Not with Skehl’s sister there, her brilliant magenta glow the brightest of them all, pressing over them with the might and command of a beautifully deadly sun.

    There was no fighting a Trenchguard such as her. The older sister understood that.

    She took Skehl’s hand and squeezed in a manner almost threatening—if not for how much she trembled. 

    He held tight to her and the boy both amidst the ocean’s cold, ceaseless swaying.

    “Just a quick Shock on the wrist,” he said. “Then it’ll all be over.”

    “So you say,” the older sister said, a bitterness in her tone.

    Skehl didn’t respond, just nodded to his sister. “We’re ready, Thressel.”

    Her tentacles came. Only three of the many that hung from the underside of the wide, pink jellyfish-like dome atop her head. Long and sinuous, each tentacle coiled around a bare, scale-flecked wrist; the siblings winced as the tiny barbs bit into their skin. But not Skehl. Experience had a way of dulling the pain, the thick callous and scars already marring his wrist. This was far from their first cheated assignment.

    White static crackled against skin. Blindingly bright. Burning.

    Skehl’s heart ached as the siblings screamed. He held in his own—just grin and bear it. This pain was the price of their freedom. And Skehl was happy to pay it with them, for it made all this easier, made his conscience lighter. 

    It helped him and Thressel, too. The Shock. Doing so provided enough truth to their story—enough sureness to their voices and calmness to their heart rates—that should they later be questioned by a Truthseer regarding the assignment, they could just skirt the edges of their lie. This was a trick they had learned from Thressel’s Tethien partner, being that Truthseeing was a skill unique to his kind.

    The white static dimmed, then died; Thressel drew back her tentacles.

    Skehl let go of the deserters’ hands and kicked off with his tail to allow them their space. Already, a surge of cool soothing was working its way through his arm and down to his wrist—lifelight flowing through his veins to begin the slow healing process. 

    The older sister held her brother and inspected his burned wrist, whispering sweet calm in the boy’s ear. Her tenderness reminded Skehl of his oldest sister: Binah. The ease and comfort she had been so adept at providing…

    Before Thressel had killed her.

    No—that’s not fair. He glanced at his sister, noted the distant stare in her eyes. More and more, she was like that. Right there beside him. Yet a thousand leagues away. Binah had killed herself when she Shattered her mind. Thressel had just put her out of her misery… 

    When I was too weak to.

    “Are we done?” the older sister asked.

    Skehl nodded.

    The boy flitted his gaze between his sister and Skehl as he held his trembling arm to his chest. “Where will we go?” 

    “I…,” the older sister paused, glancing all around, “We’ll figure it out. But anywhere is better than the trench.”

    Skehl disagreed, though he knew better than to say so. He didn’t want to frighten the boy any more than he already was.

    “I could look into a few options for you,” he offered. “Perhaps See which directions would be best to avoid.”

    At this, Thressel shook her head as if awakening from a daze. 

    “No!” she said, sharp and berating. “They made their choice. If they want to be digested in the belly of a shark or a sword-nosed shredder, let them. But I won’t have you wasting your lifelight on their behalf. Sparing them is enough.”

    Even the older sister recoiled from his offer, her eyes fixed on the white-ink swirl of blindness in his left eye—one of Seeing’s most perilous and common consequences. Only the boy appeared intrigued, his tail swishing under him, those bright, moonful eyes of his glinting with enthusiasm.

    And for Skehl, that was enough.

    “It won’t be a waste; I apprentice with the Tide’s Eyes,” he said, shooting Thressel a subtle but clear don’t-you-dare-contradict-me glare as his lie slipped out. He said it hoping to put the older sister at ease, but also to remind Thressel of her earlier promise. That this assignment would be quick, which it absolutely had not been. “Besides, what good is freedom if you die before you get to live it?”

    Thressel, to his great relief, kept her mouth shut and let him live in his lie.

    Though hopefully it won’t be a lie after today—if I can get back to the palace in time…

    The older sister looked around once more, desperation plain in the stress-crinkles framing her eyes.

    “Fine,” she said, pointedly avoiding Skehl’s gaze.

    He didn’t take it personally. Most Skaltressians were cautious around Seers. Stigma and superstitions had long bred fear and misunderstanding about what Seeing was, how it worked. Skehl had even met a few who were convinced that blindness was infectious. It wasn’t.

    They were just ignorant.

    He flared his gills for a long breath and calmed his mind. 

    Then, after a moment of deep focus and quiet…

    He Saw.

    It was a tricky process. One he had much experience with, though little understanding. All that he knew was due to Binah’s teachings during their short time together. Even now, seven years after her passing, he held every memory of her near his heart. Grateful to have had at least one sister who believed in him.

    Eyes still closed, Skehl focused on the deserters. Their safest paths. Immediately he dismissed any potential futures that would lead them west into the deeper waters beyond the imperial border. All knew well the stories of the prowling behemoths and entrapping whirlpools that lurked there. Yet even the shallower waters to the east held their own multitude of potential miseries: hazy visions of feral shivers of sharks, spontaneous swarmings of zapping jellyfish, various Reefguard and Trenchguard patrols. Not to mention the eight other clans, most of which would sooner spear them down than harbor them as refugees and risk the ire of the Skaltressian Tidal Family. 

    Death was everywhere. Inescapable.

    But none of this is certain, Skehl reminded himself. At least not yet…

    He heard muffled words, then. Unclear, but for the concern that soddened them.

    And as he began to pull back into himself—into the present—he fought to resist that familiar, nagging curiosity that always beckoned him deeper into the infinite depths of Time’s potential futures. That’s what made Seeing so dangerous; its allure was unlike any other. Taunting. Teasing. Almost entrancing.

    When he returned fully to the present, he opened his eyes and—

    “Skehl!” Thressel cried, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she shook him. “Are you alright?”

    He tried to answer, but his mind whirled and pounded, his thoughts all clotting together like a spring algae-bloom.

    His sister’s soft blue eyes were piercing, stricken red.

    “I’m fine,” he finally managed to say before rubbing his eyes and turning to the deserters. “Swim northeast. There might” — or might not — “be a pod of Twanderian researchers out there. They’re likely to offer help.”

    “You’re certain that’s our best chance?” the older sister asked, holding her brother close. 

    Skehl told them what Binah used to say: “The future is not known for its certainty. But, yes. That’s your best chance.”

    The older sister nodded and said, “Thank you. I never expected such… strange kindness from Trenchguards.”

    “She’s the Trenchguard.” Skehl tossed a thumb at his sister. “I’m just her brother.”

    And with that, the siblings kicked off, their glows soon swallowed by the depths and darkness.

    “You’re sure you’re alright?” Thressel asked, a distance returning to her voice as it adopted a soft monotone.

    At least she cares enough to ask…

    “Yeah. Just a headache, is all.”

    Thressel held his gaze for a moment, then turned to look out across the endless ocean after the deserters. There was that longing in her eyes again. As if some part of her wanted to leave with them. Start a new life of her own. She was strong, yes. But hers was not a killer’s nature. Never was. Perhaps that was why she had taken to her new Trenchguard position with such a heavy heart. She had gone from a Protector, responsible for finding and jailing thieves and petty criminals, to a Retriever, tasked with hunting down and killing clan enemies and deserters. It was arguably a simpler position—better paying, too. But it demanded something darker from her. Made her colder. Even after they had found a way for her to avoid killing, to cheat.

    Skehl swam up beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. He wanted to say something, comfort her. Remind her that this was their home. Here—these waters, the trench—was where they belonged. Where he needed them to stay. Even if just for a few more years…

    But he held his tongue. Said none of that. 

    Words were hard sometimes.

    Instead, he gave her a squeeze and nodded back towards the trench. That somewhere else he needed to be was an entrance exam for the Tide’s Eyes—the trench’s most illustrious order of Master Seers. Should he pass, it would change both their lives for the better. He would learn to hone and control his Seeing ability, and Thressel could finally retire from the Trenchguard. Maybe even rediscover some of that innocence and peace it had stolen from her. 

    But I’ll never pass if I don’t make it there in time…

    “We should start back,” he said, kicking off.

    Thressel didn’t answer, didn’t follow.

    Skehl hated to pressure her; clearly, she was dealing with troubles of her own. But he had waited years for this opportunity. Had supported her in nearly every way a brother could regarding her wants and dreams. It was her turn this time. Just this once. 

    Because the Eyes don’t offer second chances…

    He was about to encourage her again until Thressel finally kicked off after him, saying, “Sure. There’s always more…”

    Skehl winced at the lifelessness of her voice, the drooping of her shoulders.

    When she caught up with him, he smiled, nudged her in the side, and said, “Yeah. We’ve still got some bodies to find.” 

    He hoped his jovial tone and playful words might brighten her mood or lift her spirit. 

    They didn’t. 

    So, they swam on. Together. 

    And in silence.

    Read Chapter 2 here!

  • Of Depth and Deception (Chapter 2)

    Of Depth and Deception (Chapter 2)

    The full book is available on Amazon here.

    Chapter 2
    Skehl

    A few hours later, Skehl trailed after his sister as they descended into the Belly, the trench’s deepest, narrowest depth. The water was gelid and stale. Heavy—as all the ocean’s entirety weighed on him. Crushing. His every muscle felt near to bursting. Yet he only bit his lip, clenched his hands, and endured. This pain had become just another part of his life. Gruesome in its familiarity after he and Thressel had first decided to spare the living…

    By stealing the dead. 

    In and out, he assured himself, kicking through the thick, white-grey haze of glow and gloom that lingered here. Two bodies, that was all they needed. The sooner they found them, the sooner they could turn surfaceward. Towards the Skaltressian Palace where his exam was set to take place—if he hadn’t already missed it. Time was impossible to discern when down so deep.

    We wouldn’t even be here if she had just requested the night off like I’d asked her to weeks ago…

    He flitted his gaze from body to body—so many bloated and rotted. The last remnants of their lifelight wisped from their empty eye sockets and gaping mouths, melding with that pervasive, sickly haze. Tethers of kelp-twine were all that held their swaying remains. One end tied around their waists, the other around any of the myriad sunken boulders, bedded deep in the sludge and grime. Relics from that long ago time when his clan had first invaded the trench and carved out a home for themselves within its sheer, looming walls.

    Skehl always swam through these waters with a pang of guilt in his chest, for here was meant to be a place of solace and somber reflection. Of family.

    One of his tattered blue tentacles brushed across a corpse’s splayed, frozen fingers, and shivers like squirming eels raced down his spine. Instinctively, he furled his tentacles at the tips and drew them closer to himself.

    At least we aren’t adding more tethers. Not like we used to.

    Thressel offered little help. Just swam steadily onward, her mass of usually mighty tentacles rustling after her, limp and lifeless. She moved as if lost in a daze—or in the depth of herself. Her self-imposed distance, like an armor, was most impenetrable precisely when Skehl needed her most.

    This would go faster if you would help—

    There!

    He beat his tail and swam over a few bodies towards one nearly identical to the older sister’s—and thankfully not yet decaying. It had a slightly darker green hue, but her length and build, as well as the circumference of the wide jellyfish-like dome atop her head, were close enough.

    “Thressel!” he called, waving to get her attention. “How about this one?”

    The body would suffice. He only wanted Thressel to offer some semblance of presence, acknowledgement.

    She gave neither, just continued to float in place a short distance away. She held her hands clasped at her waist, where the magenta scales of her tail blended into the bare Lais-moon pink flesh of her lower torso. A vest of kelp buttoned over her chest for modesty. 

    Skehl willed her to respond. To return to some semblance of the sister he once knew her to be. Before they had lost Binah. Before she had accepted her most recent promotion—and lost so much of herself. Before…

    Will you ever let me in again?

    “Thressel…” he said, kicking his tail and doing his best to close the distance between them. “Can you be here, please. With me. I really need us to hurry.”

    She turned to him, eyes wide with dull surprise, as if she had forgotten he was there.

    “She’ll do.” Her voice was tired, brittle. Like the cracking of a crab’s shell.

    Skehl sighed, his top lip twitching. “Great. Thanks.”

    He turned from her and withdrew a clamshell-knife from his satchel, set himself to hacking through the twine.

    “Here.” He held the corpse out to her. “Char away.”

    Even with his back turned after kicking off to resume his search, the brightness of Thressel’s Shock blinded him for a few long moments as the sharp crackling of her power poked and jabbed at him from all sides, like a throat of needles swallowing him whole. She had needed to use more this time—more body to burn.

    Sacrilegious as their actions here were, they worked. Rare was a raised eyebrow or a pointed inquiry when a body was returned to the palace burned beyond recognition. 

    Of the myriad atrocities Trenchguards were renowned for, their idea of “fun” was the scum on top.

    Skehl continued in silence, doing his gods-blessed best to ignore that warm, black scent of death scraping at his nose, that flesh-burned taste seeking to infiltrate his lips. It might have been torture, had it not become so ordinary an occurrence.

    Instead, he focused on time and its steady passing. Like grains of sand falling—one by one by one.

    I’m… not going to make it back in time, am I?

    He spotted a faint purple glow, then. Off in the distance.

    Someone was coming.

    On his own, Skehl could have hidden easily enough—the blue glow of his few and tattered tentacles was subtle, like the light of the Cal-moon, if watered down and muffled behind a splash of grey clouds.

    Thressel, however, could not. Tentacle-laden as she was, she was as visible as a sun against the Belly’s grey backdrop. 

    All they could do was wait.

    Skehl only hoped this interruption would not cost him future.

    An older sister approached through the haze, slender and rustling with a modest amount of mauve tentacles. Her arm draped the shoulders of a boy barely beyond his youngling years. Skehl noted his length and those vibrant red tentacles, swaying amidst the boy’s titled posture. As if he were struggling to maintain his balance.

    It was the boy’s eyes, though, that most piqued his interest.

    Inky white… he realized, leaning in as the two Skaltressians neared. The boy’s Shattered. Like Binah. 

    Skehl hated himself for the relief he felt. For the plan he was already forming.

    Technically, the boy was still alive in the sense that he was still breathing. Yet it was widely accepted amongst Master Seers and scholars that there was no coming back from a Shattered mind. Not really.

    “What are you two doing out here?” the mauve sister said, her voice shrill and expectant. “And what is… OH!”

    Her eyes went wide, settling on the burnt body.

    “What have you done?”

    Skehl turned to Thressel, unsure what to do or say. But with her eyes downcast and her lips tight as a clam, it was clear he was on his own to get them out of this mess.

    “She was, uh…” he began, crafting his lie as he went, “a Trenchguard. Killed our older sister. Burned and brutalized her for unpaid medical debts after I…” He gestured to his blind left eye.

    The mauve sister recoiled when she realized and held tighter to her brother as though Skehl’s own “recklessness” could have somehow harmed the boy more than he had already harmed himself.

    Facing down her upturned nose and that fierce glint in her eyes of blatant mistrust, Skehl could only think of how this—right here—was precisely why he needed the Tide’s Eyes and the Master Seers. Not only could they teach him better restraint and control, thereby sparing him Seeing’s worst consequences and prolonging his life by years, but they also offered so much of what Skehl has longed for all his life: community, kinship, understanding. Sure, he had contented himself with a life devoid of all that. But only out of necessity. Only because a chance at an alternative had always been beyond his reach. 

    Until now.

    “It’s been years since we lost her,” Skehl continued, fighting with himself to affect a modest, reserved tone. “And the pain never ebbs. So, when we learned that the Trenchguard responsible for her death had passed, well… sometimes vengeance calls with a fervor.”

    The mauve sister traced her eyes across Skehl’s form, that etching of disgust never leaving her face. Then her gaze passed to Thressel and her multitude of pristine tentacles. Rare was such a symbol of status and power. Reserved exclusively for the Tidal Family, Skaltressian Reeflords and Reefesses—and decorated Trenchguards.

    Skehl fought off the tremors that threatened to overwhelm him. Never before have they come so close to being found out.

    Not even the Eyes have made mention of our treason…

    The mauve sister turned back to Skehl and said, “Your sister’s untimely fate was the price of your own negligence. You never should have done what you did. This” —she gestured to her brother— “is where your selfish indulgence will get you. Tethered down here right beside her.”

    She nodded towards the charred corpse, “It’s disgraceful—what you did to that Trenchguard. She was… only doing her job.” Something flickered across the mauve sister’s face, and she sighed. “Though, I suppose I can understand the sentiment. My older brother, he… The same.”

    They all drifted together in silence.

    “Was it worth it?” she asked. “Whatever it was you Saw?”

    The desperation in her voice hit Skehl. Right in the chest. The deep sorrow so apparent in the wavering of her tone. As if she was seeking solace.

    He glanced again at her brother, floating tilted. Lifeless. Yet still breathing.

    That question isn’t really for me, is it?

    And he found it in himself to be kind.

    “In a way, it was,” he said. “I’ll… never forget it. It was the only time I ever felt truly one with the gods.”

    The mauve sister held his gaze for what felt like a brief eternity; a thousand conflicting feelings played across her face.

    Thressel grabbed Skehl’s hand and squeezed.

    “Well, I suppose that’s that…” the mauve sister said, stifling a sniffle. “Off with you both. And remember, the Belly is a place for mourning, not vengeance. Whoever they were in life, the dead are owed their rest. Understand?”

    “Of course.” Skehl’s stomach was a tangle of knots. “We won’t do it again.”

    He almost didn’t notice then… how easily lying now came to him.

    He and Thressel kicked off and left the mauve sister to her grieving.

    After swimming a short distance away, Skehl leaned towards Thressel and whispered, “Not too far. I have a feeling she’ll be quick.”

    Thressel just looked at him in that lifeless manner all her own.

    “His size,” Skehl said.” His coloring. A strong charring and we’ve got our last body.”

    “But…” Her eyes narrowed. “Skehl, he’s still alive.”

    He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Except that he’s not… there anymore. You know that. Binah always said that once Shattered, a swift death was preferable to one drawn out. He might be in pain for all we know.”

    “And it would get you back to the palace faster.” Thressel’s tentacles furled, and something fierce flashed in her eyes. “No. We’ll find another. However long it takes.”

    Skehl clasped his hands together and sighed, gills fanning. “Thressel—”

    “No, Skehl.” Her resolve was absolute.

    Now you come alive. Just to hold me back.

    Thressel started off in the opposite direction from the boy.

    Skehl glanced back and saw that the mauve sister had tied her brother’s tether and was already departing back into the gloom and darkness.

    You never lift a tentacle to help me… 

    He beat his tail and shot straight for the boy. 

    Let’s see if you’ll lift one to stop me.

    Another kick, and he was by the boy’s side, slowing only when he heard that undeniable, paralyzing sound: breathing.

    But this isn’t living, Skehl reassured himself. Like Binah wasn’t living when Thressel— 

    He drowned the rest of that thought—too painful—and focused again on the boy. On that whisper of warmth radiating from his not-dead cheeks. 

    Yet… in the boy’s eyes… 

    Skehl saw Binah. Her madness. The pain of losing her. 

    He saw himself. The future he was fleeing from.

    Saw who he needed to become to avoid such a fate as this. Someone with skill and control. Someone with power. 

    Someone like Thre— 

    He stopped himself before finishing the thought. 

    Why can’t you understand?

    He withdrew the clamshell-knife from his satchel and raised it to the boy’s throat. Pressed it ever so tenderly, his hand trembling.

    Getting into the Tide’s Eyes isn’t just for me.

    He felt that steady pulse of his life, beat-beat-beating against his palm, clasped firmly around the pommel.

    It’s for us. So that we might know what it is to laugh together again.

    Skehl took a breath. Then another.

    Please, Thressel. Let me help you.

    He readied himself. Then he readied himself some more. 

    But he couldn’t move. Not a muscle. 

    “I can do this.” He had meant for it to be a shout, but even he had barely heard his words. “I can…”

    His eyes began to sting.

    “I…”

    Movement in the water.

    “Skehl!” Thressel swooshed up beside him. “Don’t. We can find another body.”

    He shook his head. “If there’s a chance I can make it back in time…”

    And in the fury his sister wore, Skehl saw how puny and pathetic he really was.

    “Is the Tide’s Eyes really worth this?” she asked. “Why can’t you just… not See, Skehl? After all it’s taken from us?”

    He recalled Binah’s face from that last day, when he had found her—what remained of her. Her lifeless eyes. Her mouth agape, as if frozen in a perpetual scream. How weak she must have been after so long strong. How she must have lost control while doing that singular, glorious thing that is most indescribable. Most irresistible. 

    When the itch comes.

    I can’t let that be my future. I can’t…

    “Yes,” he said, only slightly hating himself as the word passed his lips, knowing full well what it meant. “It’s worth it.” 

    It has to be.

    Thressel stared into his eyes, and he almost recoiled. Almost.

    “Fine, then,” she said. “Kick off.”

    “But I can—”

    “Kick off!”

    That tone of hers… arguing would have been futile. 

    He slunk away. Watched as Thressel coiled her tentacles around the dying boy’s body and squeezed—almost as if she was more clinging to the boy than rearing to kill him. 

    Do you really think me so incapable?

    He turned away as his sister let loose another burst of light, another thunderous crackling—all that power he didn’t possess. 

    Aren’t I?

    And the deed was done.

    The deed was done.

    They started back through the Belly in utter silence, kicking their way towards the tail-end of the trench, where it opened to the uncharted waters of the western oceans.

    Best to avoid swimming surfaceward through the trench itself; the bodies would only bring unwanted questions, whirl up unnecessary intrigue and panic.

    Skehl swam fast and focused, forcing dozens of scenarios to flash through his mind. Some where he arrived at his exam on time, the tests and trials he would be asked to complete. And others where he arrived late, and all was lost. Each one was a distraction. Bad distractions, for the boy—now dead—managed to surface in every one. 

    Familiar voices pulled Skehl from his waking nightmares, and he realized they had arrived at the trench’s tapering end.

    “Come on,” came that deep, predatorial voice that could only belong to a Tethien. To Bren. “I should be getting relieved soon, and we’ve both got the next few days off. How about we go for a little risqué hunt? Just us. Out in the western oceans.” He pumped his brow and flexed his biceps, clearly showing off for Thressel’s enjoyment. “I hear there’s a pod of spear-nosed slashers migrating through. And you’re in definite need of a little fun. What do you say, starfish?”

    Skehl rolled his eyes, both at Bren’s unimaginative nickname for Thressel and at his asinine proposal. He’s been nudging Thressel to go hunting with him out there for weeks. 

    Tethiens and their ridiculous need for bravado…

    “Hey, hey,” came Cahla, Bren’s Skaltressian Trenchguard partner. “Before everyone gets all mushy—pay up.”

    She held out her hand to collect their bribes, the cost for her discretion. Cahla had never really been one to take her job seriously, but when she found opportunities to squeeze something out for her own benefit, she squeezed hard.

    Skehl and Bren each handed her three moonstone-chips apiece.

    “Everyone,” she reiterated, sneering at Thressel.

    “I… forgot my chips at home,” Thressel said. “Assignment came unexpectedly…”

    Cahla flared her nostrils, her sunrise-yellow tentacles glowing brighter.

    “That’s the second time you forgot this month. I’m not running a Carekeeper’s charity hovel here.”

    “You’re not doing anything here,” Thressel snapped.

    “What did you just say?”

    “Oh, by Cal’s decree, can you two just drown all that?” Skehl shouted. “Here.” He pulled another three chips from his satchel and shoved them into Cahla’s hand. “Some of us have places to be.”

    Cahla flitted her eyes between him and Thressel, then grunted as she kicked off and swam a short distance away.

    “Well,” Bren said, smirking at Thressel as he wagged his long, angular tail under him like a bulbous-nosed shrieker eager for a treat. “What do you say?”

    Thressel hesitated.

    But Skehl was out of patience. 

    “Whatever you chose to do,” he said, kicking surfaceward, before glancing back down at her, “be smart about it. And don’t go anywhere until the afternoon classes start, okay? I need to be at my best for this, so I need you nearby. Please?” 

    Thressel nodded, the two charred bodies still swaying on the tethers she held. She’d need to deliver them to her commander to confirm the assignment was successful, which meant that she’d be near the palace—near Skehl—for a short while, at least.

    “Thanks,” Skehl said, meaning it. 

    And, as he kicked off surfaceward, he thought he heard the faintest whisper of Thressel’s voice saying something that sounded an awful lot like: “Good luck.”

    Read Chapter 3 here!

  • Of Depth and Deception (Chapter 3)

    Of Depth and Deception (Chapter 3)

    The full book is available on Amazon here.

    Chapter 3
    Rader

    After two long weeks riding various westerly currents through uninspiring stretches of open ocean, Rader arrived at last before the Aghata Trench — not to the usual glamor and pomp that greeted him, but to the quiet puzzlement of two mere Skaltressian Trenchguards, utterly dumbstruck by his arrival.

    What a clever Tide, pretending not to have known of my coming.

    He loomed over the Trenchguards, the steady swish of his obsidian-black tail keeping him balanced and poised amidst the ocean’s gentle morning sway. Disbelief kept them frozen before him, their mouths agape.

    “Hm,” was all he said, affecting an uninterested tone.

    They remembered their places, then, practically throwing themselves into deep bows.

    Rader looked past them with practiced disdain, his gold-flecked blue eyes flaring with a fierce glow, like small white suns. He knew his role. He played it masterfully.

    The younger of the two Trenchguards— a boy with long, pleated tentacles that glowed a rich blue—stole a curious glance across Rader’s body, then back down to the trench’s vanishing blackness. He was quick, yes. Both daring and demure in equal measure. But Rader was quicker, spotting precisely what he had most longed for throughout his long journey: a comely face, blushing.

    The Emperion grinned, flitting his eyes once more over the boy, drinking in all his most alluring features: toned arms, broad shoulders, and that long, slender tail.

    A clever Tide, indeed. For how I do so adore blue…

    “Good morning,” he said.

    “Favored,” the Trenchguards said as one. Then, the older of the two, laden with hundreds of tentacles in all varying shades of red, continued, stammering, “I–it is a tremendous honor that we may be at your service, Favored. Please, whatever you need, your will is our purpose.”

    She had raised her head to speak. Rader met her eyes and she averted her gaze once more. Silent and waiting.

    He let them wait, turning his attention instead to the trench itself.

    Like a black vein without end, it stretched in both directions, so wide he could barely glimpse the opposite side. Yet it was the red that most held his attention. Those long, spindly tendrils rooted to the trench’s walls and spilling past its craggy lips like the exposed, bloody innards of a festering beast. He knew it was only a rare algae that fed on the sounds that would otherwise grow deafening at greater depths. Still, he couldn’t shake his discomfiting awe.

    I’ve never known life to look so much like a dying thing.

    He returned his attention to the cowering Skaltressians, his gaze settling once more on the blue boy.

    “You,” Rader said, and the young Trenchguard lifted his head. “Escort me to the palace.”

    Wide eyes and a twitch of the mouth. “M–me?”

    Rader flared the white glow of his eyes. Less menacing, more agitated. 

    And all for show.

    Yet the blue boy must have seen only menace. He shot a terrified glance at his partner.

    She elbowed him in the ribs. “Never keep a Favored waiting.”

    “Isn’t that nice,” Rader said, a calculated edge of annoyance to his tone. “At least one of you was taught proper protocol.”

    To be Emperion was to be unquestionable command. And Rader couldn’t change what he was. Or what was expected of him.

    “I, uh — ”

    “The palace,” Rader repeated. “Now.”

    “Of course.” The blue boy spun, his tentacles splaying like a whirlpool as he did. He started north, along the trench’s eastern cliff, a flurry of bubbles left in his wake.

    Amused, Rader watched him for a moment — admiring the view.

    Then he kicked his tail and left, sparing not even a parting glance for the red Trenchguard.

    He caught up to the blue boy with effortless ease, pressed in close, and followed.

    The journey was quick. They swam along the trench until it split into two diverging branches. It was there, carved into the underside of the sharp-pointed plateau, where Rader spotted the Skaltressian Palace. From their distance, it appeared like a spiraled-bruise, nestled amidst the viscera-red algae growing along the wall, and encased within walls of pure diamond. Rays from the rising red and gold suns speared through the water, casting rainbow glints from the diamond’s polished edges.

    Impenetrable diamond at the front; solid rock at the back. An excellent defensive position.

    Despite swimming so near the suns-warmed surface, a subtle chill had begun to envelop Rader, as if the trench itself was siphoning off his warmth. He dug through his travel satchel and pulled out the cloak he had purchased in Parel—the Emperion capitol—before departing on this technically “unauthorized” clan visit. Not that anyone would dare question an Emperion.

    The cloak emitted a soft glow and a pleasing warmth as he slid into it. Which made sense.

    It was woven from Skaltressian tentacles, all plucked and shredded—made thread thin. Lifelight flowed through every strand. Warmth and time, taken from thralls, and repurposed as comfort and luxury for whoever could pay the price. Whoever was willing to.

    He considered this for a moment, the reality he had never really considered. Had never needed to.   

    Movement drew his attention, then, as they neared the palace; he was happy to let it.

    The trench rippled with life, here. Skaltressian Reeflords and Reefesses rustled about, all decorated in their cascading profusions of colorful tentacles, their bodies aglitter with Clawfer-forged jewels: necklaces and earrings of pearls, armlets of gold or silver.

    Their attendants trailed in tow, at a distance. Most were pallid and lifeless in the eyes, as phantoms are. In place of the pearls, the gold and silver of their masters, they wore strings of shells around their necks, kelp-twine bracelets around their wrists.

    A starker difference than most of the other clans Rader’s assignments have taken him to. 

    He was not here, though, to comment or pass judgment, but to satisfy his own curiosity. Back in Parel, he had found a scroll slipped into his sleeping-anemone—a bold breach of his private chambers. Or a foolish one. He might have been furious, had he not been so impressed.

    Rader chuckled to himself, recalling scroll’s message:

    Forgive me, Favored, my disturbing you,
    but a most disastrous current descends upon our home.
    I beseech you to come to the Aghata Trench,
    for we are in dire need of that which only you can offer.
    More, I dare not say — Eyes are watching…
    We are unworthy, yes, as we are in need.
    Please, Favored.
    Come.

    ‘Come,’ written on its own line — practically a command… Amusement tugged at the corner of his lips. Typical, gutsy Tides.

    Indeed, he had his suspicions of who had sent the scroll, but experience had taught him well that surprises were the way of life. Best to stay his assumptions, keep his eyes and ears sharp. Besides, it wasn’t so much the who that had piqued his intrigue, but the why.

    He set his eyes on the Skaltressian Palace, looming as he approached. Murmurs and gasps surrounded him, his mere presence a spectacle. Rarer than rare were Emperions beyond the immense, white marble walls of their capitol. Rarer still was the Emperion who travelled without a vast retinue stringing along after them. Like fish shit.

    Rader arrived before an archway carved from the diamond encasing the palace. A yellow Trenchguard raised her hand, signaling him to halt.

    “Welcome, Favored,” she said, “to the Skaltressian Palace. We… were not expecting you.” She bowed, and the other dozen or so Trenchguards followed suit.

    “I can see that.”

    A subtle disturbance in the water behind him. Rader glanced over his shoulder and spotted the blue boy, his hands and tail trembling. When the boy realized Rader was watching him, he hastily crossed his arms over his shell-armored chest and forced his tail steady and straight.

    Poor kid is wound up tighter than a Buroden Scenter’s braid.

    Rader offered what he hoped was a placating smile, though it seemed to have little effect.

    “How impressive,” came a weathered voice—one Rader recognized even before turning back to face the speaker. “To approach my family’s home without drawing the attention of our Eyes.”

    “Indeed, Tideress Fahvia,” he said. “I am.”

    A creation long past her expiration, cloaked in a flowing shawl of emerald tentacles, hers was the presence of a dying tempest. Proud and dignified—despite the crack and pop of her every stiff movement. Yet those inky-white eyes still held that same blazing wit and warmth Rader recalled from all their few interactions over the years.

    She bowed, or tried to. He didn’t mind, and offered a respectful nod of his own. A being such as her —lifelight dimming — was due a tender amendment in expected propriety.

    Something, though, was not quite right.

    “Someone’s missing,” he said, glancing past her.

    The Tideress nodded.

    “My apologies, Favored. My brother—”

    “Is not who I was referring to.”

    The Tideress looked long into Rader’s eyes.

    “Cora will join us when it is time.”

    What are you playing at, Tideress? That Twanderian has practically become your eyes.

    “I see,” he said. “It’s just… I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you without your shadow. Not in recent years, at least.”

    “Assistant,” the Tideress politely corrected.

    Rader shrugged.

    “Come,” she said, turning towards the palace. Then, as if catching herself, “If it pleases you, Favored. I would have the honor of showing you to your chambers.”

    Rader arched his brow. “I never said I was intending to stay.”

    The Tideress had already kicked off towards the palace. “You did not.” 

    He laughed. 

    Well, with the who out of the way, I supposed only her why remains. You’re growing lax, Tideress, in your dimming years…

    Rader started after her, then stopped right as he entered the palace waters.

    “You will join me,” he said over his shoulder to the blue boy. His tone ensured no argument from the Trenchguards, nor refusal from the boy. “This should be quite the education for you.”

    He winked.

    The bulge in the boy’s throat bobbed, yet he followed.

    Rader knew the boy’s kind: a low-ranking Shocker—young, yes, though likely already trained to kill. And undoubtedly rarely ever permitted such access to the palace without a summons. He would learn much, indeed.

    Especially once the theatrics are through…

    Thank you so much for reading the first three chapters!

    If you like what you’ve experienced so far, check out the full book on Amazon here.

  • The Lies We Tell (An Elspar Story)

    The Lies We Tell (An Elspar Story)

    Sodden with rain and swinging a basket stuffed with wet-shrooms, you return to me. Long ears twitching in a whispering wind.

    “Such a mad storm,” I tease, my feathers rustling as I rise from beside the fire. The rumbling clouds smother the light clacking of your claws against the wood floor as you pad about the hollow.

    “Not mad.” You place the basket down and shake out the feathers along your arms and legs. “Lonely.”

    “Lonely?”

    “The rain just wants someone to play with.”

    “I… suppose it does.” I chuckle. “Come. I’ll preen your feathers before bed.”

    You roll your eyes and snatch a handful from the basket.

    “Ah! One. Unless you want to wake up with a stomachache.” I raise a brow.

    There’s a flicker of challenge in your eyes, but you relent with a groan, then quickly pop a plump one into your mouth.

    I shake my head, tsking. “Come on.”

    We settle ourselves beside the fire, deep within our home at the base of this wide white tree. You flare your heat, like I taught you, and the wetness wisps from your body, mingling with the stream of smoke and slipping along the ceiling out into the gusty night.

    Juice smears your lightly feathered cheeks, still bulging as I set myself to your preening. Even after all these years, some small part of me recoils from the eerily smooth, oil-slick texture of your plumage — so different from the gripping prickliness of my own. I always try, of course, not to let it show. It’s not your fault, being what you are. But even now, I note the tension in my hands as I work, the feel of such… wrongness.

    I pluck a few stray leaves and twigs from your feathers. Toss them into the fire. We don’t need its warmth; I just find the light comforting.

    “How about a bedtime story?” I ask.

    You hesitate, and there it is again — that twitch in your ears, amidst the whispering wind.

    You’re listening to it. You’re doing that a lot more lately…

    My mouth tightens.

    “Tem–uh…” You catch yourself, red flushing the gold of your cheeks. “I was, uh, wondering… Maybe you could finally tell me the story of where I came from? You… said you would.”

    I exhale slowly. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

    I toss another handful of leaves into the fire and the crackling echoes, keeping the silence at bay.

    “Alright.” We both take a breath. “I suppose you’re old enough now to hear that story — how we came to be a family.”

    I suspect, though, that you’ve already heard a very different version…

    You look up at me, such eagerness in your eyes.

    I force a smile to hide the unease, wrap my red-feathered arms around you in a long, snuggling hug, then I tell you the story — my version. The one I need you to believe.

    “You fell from the sky the day I found you. Just an adorable little ball of gold and orange fluff. It was a windless day, so I knew you would be perfect. The whole island rattled with giddy anticipation of your arrival. Both suns blazed high in the sky like proud brothers, eager to witness your burst.” I press a clawed finger to the tip of your nose. “I remember climbing all the way up the great fire-mountain, never stopping once, not even to catch my breath. I was too excited. To meet you.”

    I lean in and whisper, “And you know what?”

    “What?”

    “The island tried to trick me.”

    “Wh–how?”

    “It led me to think it had gone back to sleep. There had been so much rumbling and smoke billowing from the mountain’s mouth. But then… it all quieted back down. And I feared I would be alone a while longer.”

    Your eyes are fire-bright and on me — no twitching of the ears.

    “The quiet stretched on and on until… the mountain erupted! Ash and rock and lava spurted higher than the clouds — ”

    “The clouds!?”

    I nod, exulting in your excitement.

    “Uh-um! And all that ash and rock fell across the island like a…” My throat clenches; it’s harder to breathe. “Like a… warm, loving mist.”

    I force another smile, bury the truth away.

    It was a nightmare, really, but I’ll not tell you that. I’ll not tell you of the weeks I spent choking and aching; of the burning in my chest with every insufferable breath, nor the fetid, burnt stench of charred carcasses that clung to the ashy air. That suffocated all the island’s life. Unlike any other burst I’ve witnessed. And never supposed to happen here…

    No. None of that, my sweet ember. You don’t need to carry that.

    “Nanna?” You look up at me.

    From a daze, I return to you. The fire flickers, enlivened, as if listening to some enrapturing breath. And from my periphery, I spot — again — that twitching of your ears. It had swooped in to fill the silence I had left…

    Ever there. Ever whispering.

    And a part of you.

    A part I won’t always be able to keep you from…

    “I’m alright.” I pat the feathers behind your ear, so desperately wishing I could tear it away from you. I can’t. “Just got lost in the story, is all.”

    We nuzzle closer together and stare into the fire. Once, twice, three times I catch you flitting your gaze towards the dark patter outside. Towards the sky. Your curiosity is growing. And I know, as I’ve always known — it is telling you a different truth. Its version. That, though we are both wingless, you are a Binding Feuo. It latched onto you — Bound with you — at your bursting, and with its guidance, your feathers will one day learn to catch the wind and carry you to those distant islands so high in the sky. To where the pretentious other Bound Feuo reside — and where you truly belong… 

    Not here. Not grounded. Not with me.

    “W-was I the only one?”

    “What do you mean, my ember?”

    “On that day, when the island shook, was I the only one?”

    “Of course you were. We are the only ones — you know that.” My tone is sweet; the lie is bitter.

    More ear twitching. Undoubtedly contradicting.

    I grind my teeth. What I wouldn’t give to silence it. 

    Just for a few years more…

    Of course there were others — fifty-four others! That windless day had made me a fool, dumbly hopeful that I might find more like me after so long down here. On my own. And I did find them. I scoured the island, over and over, searching for all of you. Every one I found was choking to death on the smoke, their arms and legs broken, their feathers bent and crushed, their tiny bodies splattered across the mountain or dangling dead amongst the scorched branches, drowning in the soot-choked rivers and lakes… It was a madness I couldn’t fathom. Burstings are supposed to end in life–not death. Not even for my rare kind.

    Only six of you had a fighting chance. Five like me — Unbindable. And you. The sole survivor, in the end. Because of it. Because it Bound with you. Saved you. And I am grateful for that… just as I am filled with such spite, because it will still steal you away from me someday. And that loss will cut deeper than all the others.

    Love hurts worse.

    You mutter something into the fire, and on the walls the flickering shadows of your ears seem to taunt me. That twitching…

    “Is everything alright, Kai?”

    “Uh…” Your eyes grow wide, as if I had just caught you stealing another wet-shroom before bed. “It says… you’re lying.”

    I take a deep breath. “I know it’s hard, my ember. I know… But you cannot believe what it tells you.” I lift your chin until your eyes are on mine. “It isn’t family, it lies.”

    A frightened wetness glimmers in your eyes, and you pull away from me. “I… want to sleep now.”

    “Alright.” I look down at you with a pained smile.

    You raise your arms in a long stretch and yawn, then pad across the hollow and settle yourself away from me, right by the opening. And the rain. And the sky.

    “I hope I dream of flying again…”

    “Flying sounds pretty dangerous.”

    “Not in a dream.” Your tone is clipped, your gaze distant — fixed outward. “You can’t get hurt in a dream.”

    The rain patters. The wind whispers — low and persistent.

    “Temn says that one day he’ll help me fly.”

    My feathers bristle at its name, and the fire flares beside me.

    “We cannot fly, Kai. I’ve told you that.”

    You tilt your head, but I can’t tell if it’s a nod or a shake.

    “My ember, I just don’t want you to get hurt. Promise me you won’t try. That would be very reckless.”

    Still nothing.

    “Kai?”

    “I promise, Nanna…” The brokenness in your voice pains me, too.

    “That’s very wise, Kai.” My voice cracks, and my chest grows heavy. “We’re safe here, on the ground. And as long as we stay together, we’ll never be alone.” I swallow. “It lies, Kai. Remember that. It lies.

    You say nothing more, but your breath comes wet and unsteady, almost trembling. “We’re family, my ember.” I want to go to you, to hold you close. I don’t. Yet in the silence, I whisper:

    “Family never lies.”

  • When One Loves the Fae

    When One Loves the Fae

    Theodore loved faeries, and so I loved him. Not because he loved faeries—obviously, they weren’t real—but because of what loving something meant to him: adventure, devotion, borderline obsession. To the rest of the world, he was a typical college dropout: academically unmotivated, easily distracted. A never-man. Your classic Peter Pan. But he was just Theodore to me.

    And I knew—with dusk on the horizon and the mountains closing in—that by the end of this wilderness excursion to “find the fae,” he would be mine. He would.

    The rain fell over him in pellets, every drop yearning for the chance to shatter itself against his skin. Yet he merely pressed on, determined and seemingly oblivious to nature’s pining.

    I, on the other hand, waded through the underbrush after him, grumbling and shivering like a disgruntled chihuahua. All I wanted was a modest four-star accommodation and a firm lap to rest my head on. I was out of my element, but it felt amazing to have been invited into his.

    “Hey, Theodore,” I shouted into the wind. “How much farther is it?”

    “Shouldn’t be much longer. According to the map, we’re getting close,” he said, rubbing at the spot beneath his pack—his shoulder blade, where his “phantom wings” resided.

    Years ago, he swore that once he found the entrance to the fae realm, he’d get his real wings back. Though, in all the time I’ve known him, sneaking glances at the seaside or in the gym, I’ve noticed nothing more than a few thin scars and an almost crown-shaped birthmark on his left shoulder.

    Sure, he was unconventional—but in a way that made the world feel larger, like it was stuffed with secrets just waiting to be revealed with the tiniest loosening of your grasp on reality.   

    Trudging through the forest, and drenched as I was, I had to admit that there was something ethereal about being out here. I’ve never been one for the outdoors—techno music at the beach with a glass of champagne in hand was as “outdoorsy” as my life usually got. But Theodore had this way with me. He made me want to be a part of whatever next wild adventure he embarked on, even if that adventure meant mud leaking into my shoes and leaves sticking to my hair.

    “Riley, I found it! We’re here.”

    It didn’t seem like we were.

    “Uh, I know I’m not Bear Grylls, but a dark cave to who-knows-where wasn’t exactly what I pictured when you invited me ‘camping.’” I stood eyeing the mountain’s maw, pummeled by the rain. “Shouldn’t there be a campground, or at least a tent somewhere?”

    “Fae don’t live near campgrounds; they find them too noisy and tend to stay away.” The matter-of-fact way those words tumbled from his mouth left me taut-jawed and blinking.

    “Okay… So then, how are we supposed to survive out here—or even stay warm?” More than one solution crossed my mind, even as I watched a fully grown man pad around a cave floor on all fours, searching in every nook and cranny he could find for… something.

    Was he really doing this?

    “I didn’t exactly say camping…”

    “No. But you did tell me to pack an overnight bag—and my mom’s wind chime. What else was I supposed to think?”

    “You brought the wind chime!”

    He beamed at me, his face brighter than all the flashlights in the world. Nerves tangled around my feet—I teetered on my heels and stumbled. There was a kind of glow around him, and for a moment, I almost believed in a realm beyond our own. I wanted to throw my whole being at his smile.

    “You asked me to bring them,” I said with a shrug, trying not to blush. “So, I did.”

    I pulled out the wind chime from my pack and dangled it from my fingers. The evening breeze played a gentle tune in the swaying of its thin metal tubes.

    Theodore jerked to his feet and took off running—dripping water and practically falling—towards me.

    “It’s as beautiful as I remember.” He fished a ratty leather book from his jacket pocket and leafed through its pages. Across and back, he slid his finger along the text until finally he cast a glance at the crooked lips of the cave.

    “There,” he said. “Hang it there in the middle of the cave’s mouth, then glance up and tell me if you can spot the moon through the clouds.”

    I obliged, hooking the wind chime on a rock protruding overhead. When I glanced up, through a web of branches and the thinning clouds, I spotted it. The moon. It was full, casting the mountains in a milky blue hue. I paused to take in its majesty.

    “Well?” His voice was more giddy-child than mountain-man.

    “It’s there. Full and blue…”

    Drops still spilled from the sky, gentler now, seeing as they no longer had a target desirable enough to shatter themselves against. The night was resplendent, a watercolor masterpiece. I even caught a few stars peeking through, curious as I was to see what Theodore would do next. He was my kind of mystery, always keeping me on the margins of certainty—and on my toes.

    “Just as the journal said…” Theodore spoke in a whisper, more to himself than to me. “That means…” He peered into the cave’s depth, glanced back at me, and then tore off into the unknown, shouting over his shoulder, “Come on!”

    With a sigh and an endearing shake of the head, I laid my pack down next to his—nestled in a pool of moss and guarded by a smattering of small blue mushrooms—then took off into the darkness after him, instantly regretting that I had trusted he would pack the flashlight. More than once I thought I might have glimpsed his sinewy silhouette skipping rather than sprinting through the darkness. I didn’t bother suppressing a laugh.

    As I ventured further, the light dwindled, and a chill enveloped me. An eerie murmur brushed my ear—caged whispers, nervous to be set free.

    Tell him how you feel.

    Tell him…

    Don’t you want him to see you?

    See you…

    I did.

    For years I’ve been a friend to Theodore. And not…

    A friend doesn’t sneak quick glances in fleeting moments, unsure if not being found out would be worse than the alternative.

    A friend doesn’t lie about not getting into college just to spend another year lost in some boy’s adventures.

    A friend doesn’t toss and turn at night, wrestling with a thousand what-ifs, wishing they could chase away their own cowardice long enough to say how they really feel.

    I wasn’t his friend because friends don’t want more.

    Sure, Theodore was unconventional, but isn’t nuance what makes life worthwhile?  

    It dawned on me then… I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t see anything.

    “Riley!” Theodore’s voice echoed through the darkness, thrummed in my chest.

    “Theodore?” I began moving in the direction of his voice, my hands outstretched in front of me, feeling for anything. For him. “Theodore, where are you?”

    “Come a little further in. You should see a faint blue light soon. I’m right beside it. Think you can find me?” I heard his grin as he said that last part.

    My response was a secret whispered only to myself: “There’s nothing that could keep me from you.”

    Stumbling through the dark, the eerie voices came again:

    Tell him…

    Your feelings…

    Tell him…

    What was it about caves that played tricks on the mind?

    I could, couldn’t I? Tell him…

    The light was bright as I rounded the corner I hadn’t known was there. Theodore was practically bouncing beside a circle of large blue mushrooms, his eyes alight with intrigue and intensity, like a pirate who’s finally found his golden treasure.

    “This is it,” Theodore said. The mushrooms protruded from small cracks in the cave wall, just about at his chest level—or my eye level. He read from his raggedy journal, bravado ringing in his voice: “When as one the full moon and mushrooms glow, and the night sings its breezy hello, come home to us—your light in the dark; your soul, to us, prepare to depart.”

    “Theodore…” I said, trying to mask the panic bubbling in my stomach. “What’s going on? What are you reading?”

    “I told you I’d find it—the entrance to the realm of the fae. My home.” His wide eyes were as haunting as they were beautiful. “This is it. I finally cracked the journal’s code. And it finally led me here. I spent so long searching for this place. But then I thought of you.”

    You thought of me?

    “Riley, you’re my best friend. I don’t know if you ever really believed me or not, but it didn’t matter because you were always there, right beside me. You could have named me a lunatic and left me to my fantasies. But you didn’t. And I couldn’t leave this realm without letting you know that you have a choice, too. You could come with me, Riley. I’m asking you… Come with me.”

    I didn’t understand the words pouring from his mouth, but the seriousness of his tone unnerved me. If this was magic, it wasn’t like anything I had ever imagined. There was no gust of wind, the glowing mushrooms didn’t burst into stars; nothing changed. Wasn’t magic supposed to change things?

    He said I had a choice… Was that change enough?

    “Theodore.” My voice wavered in my throat. “If I have a choice, then let it be this…”

    His eyes were like blue fireflies, yet I was the one who yearned to be caught.

    “I—I care about you. A lot. Whether you’re a…” I gestured all around. “A faerie, or a pixie, or just Theodore… You make me want to be things I never dreamed I could. You have me out here like some accidental wilderness explorer in a freaking cave in the middle of the woods, probably getting high off the spores of these mushrooms, and yet there isn’t another place in this world I’d rather be.”

    “How about another world?”

    His smirk broke me, and I swooned.

    “So,” he said, sounding at once the cockiest I’ve ever heard him and the happiest. “What are you gonna choose?”

    There was never any choice.  “I want to be with you.”

  • When Gods Feel (An Elspar Story)

    When Gods Feel (An Elspar Story)

    It was a vicious summer-storm night when he swam from home. Not alone.

    He carried the voices with him, prowling through his mind like an invasive species — wild and sharp of bite. Soon to overwhelm him… 

    Had overwhelmed him…

    Their voices — resonant and cruel, contradicting and pestering. Unyielding.

    So unyielding…

    He gave himself to the waves. To their justified karmic thrashing as they pummeled against his tail and chest, ripping scales from his flesh. White-foam punches. Over and over. Beating him down. No reprieve — not even to breathe. Not that he deserved to.

    Not for what he had done.

    Sink it down, he thought. Gods aren’t supposed to… feel.

    Lightning split the sky; thunder howled with the wind.

    And everything hurt. He was grateful for that.

    Another wave crashed down on him, like a verdict.

    His vision blurred, and pain bloomed in sweet numbing.

    The voices — finally — quieting…

    Until…

    A hand gripped his wrist and pulled him under. Deep, deep under.

    Through slitted eyes, he glimpsed a familiar figure.

    Ullian…? Damn. Thought I had escaped you…

    He let himself be pulled, and sank.

    Summer’s warmth was fainter here, in the darker, calmer deep — where the storm’s punches couldn’t reach. Typically, he didn’t mind. He often preferred the cold. Made him feel alert and alive. Powerful.

    But those were all things he wanted no part in tonight.

    Please, he thought, just one night away…

    “What’s the matter with you, Revion!?” Ullian held him by the shoulders, his black-gold-blue marbled face twisted with fury — and something resembling concern.

    No “my Rising”… hm? You must really be upset. Revion smirked.

    As Revion’s Right-Hand — sworn to protect and serve — Ullian’s tendency skewed towards reverent formality. Something he rarely deviated from except for when his emotions flared, which was becoming more and more common lately. Almost like he cared…

    Revion glanced surfaceward, choosing to ignore Ullian’s stern, nostril-flared gaze. He wanted to return to the surface, to his prior — and much preferred — predicament, being pummeled, punished, and bruised. The physical hurt less.

    “Revion,” Ullian said, forcing calm, “what are you doing? It’s not like you to compel Reefguards and take off like this.” Then realization struck, and his fierce eyes narrowed. “Something happened…”

    Revion grimaced, not wanting to remember.

    No. Not at all. Just learned that I’d unwittingly shamed a general into sending two hundred new recruits to their deaths. You know, like some brain-slit cretin.

    And worst of all — he felt. He just didn’t know what. Rage? Remorse? Pride? Even his siblings were roused to feel. Divided mostly. Their defining trait. Pim, his older brother and the reigning Emperion Emperor, had slunk from the haze of Pleasure Rooms to deliver a scalding reprimand so pointed and wrathful it burned itself into memory. Aleida, though… She says that’s just what Reefguards are for — to live and die in service to the empire. ‘Obedient and inconsequential.’

    His hands twitched, and the voices warred like thunder.

    Once more he flitted his eyes surfaceward. I just want to hurt so as to feel nothing. Nothing at all.

    Because there was more.

    Just before the storm broke, a report had come in from his rudimentary spy network. The boy who Revion had decided would be his future was apparently “emotionally entangled” with an Inkleon. A poorly-crafted, eight-armed poet — of all things! What does my love think he is, to sink so low? Autumn-rotted scum? Revion didn’t know whether to feel heartbroken, embarrassed — gods-forbid jealous! — or some sick warping of the three. It was all too much to hear. Too much to feel.

    And the voices. Won’t. Shut. Up!

    He said none of that, of course — honesty was unbecoming of the Imperial Heir. To anyone. Ever. His siblings’ one consensus.

    Ullian maintained a vice-like grip on Revion’s shoulder as though he were some quiver-fish intent on slithering away, which wasn’t far from the truth. Revion wanted to get away. That’s why he left. To get away from the mind-whirling misalignment of values in his imperial family. Away from his failures and heartache. And away from himself — something he had no doubt another foam-fisted ocean punch could assist him with.

    His problems were his to suffer. Alone. He knew that.

    But I’m never alone. He peered into Ullian’s annoyingly attentive eyes. Not even when I slither and sneak like a cowardly eel.

    “Don’t you ever want to slip away?” Revion asked. “Stretch your tail. Or test your strength against a storm?”

    “That wasn’t strength I saw. It was surrender.”

    That last word stung.

    Revion curled his lips in a sinister smile, but his heart thumped with a sick desire — for the very thing he could never have.

    “I’m a god,” he snarled. “Surrender has no place in my vocabulary.”

    Ullian nodded, seeming appeased. Though, his grip didn’t lighten.

    Not until Revion yanked himself free and rolled his shoulders back, head high, his tail stretched long. His whole body ached — he let none of it show.

    A god? He thought. Or a performer?

    “Shall we head back, my Rising?” Ullian asked with a bow, slipping back into formality.

    Revion remained where he was, floating amidst the ocean’s steady sway.

    I’m not ready. He chuckled to himself. All the power in the world, and there’s still so much I cannot do…

    Cal’s blue moonlight spilled across the surface, high above. And cunning struck.

    Revion could do nothing about the two hundred Reefguards — all of whom were probably already devoured and dead. Nor could he sever himself from the strangling snare that was his family.

    But… he thought, a smile tugging his lips, I can remind my love of his worth.

    “My Rising?” Ullian was respectfully insistent.

    “We’ll start back, yes. But once we get to the palace, I’ll need you to send a Messenger for me.”

    Ullian cocked his head. “Of course, my Rising. May I ask — where to?”

    “The Inkleon Library. My future believes he can settle for amethysts before I’m able to offer him my sapphires…” Revion kicked his tail and started home. “So, to remind him who he is — and what he means to me — I’ll need to shatter that amethyst.”

    The voices raged on in his mind, between demanding propriety and insisting on retribution. Yet his own purpose was anchoring enough to focus. There were some choices still left to him. Feeble graspings for control that his siblings would undoubtedly deem too petty and “inconsequential” to yank away or begrudge him for. One life was nothing, after all, when compared to two hundred.

    And it’ll be fun — breaking all eight arms…

  • No More Running

    No More Running

    Mom said we weren’t running away—that was a lie. 

    She drove, the car devouring the winding grey river pavement stretching out before us. The surrounding mountains swelled wider and higher as we went, sheltering peaks blanketed by a vast quilt, tattered and aflame with all the colors of early autumn. Narrow patches of green still speckled the crispening landscape, summer leaves unwilling to relent to their fate—resilient, like we were trying to be. 

    I sat in the passenger seat, my fingers laced and rubbing together as if they had minds of their own. The car felt empty with only the two of us. Someone was missing. Someone who should have been there.

    Dad. 

    He was back at home and—though I thought I knew why—I knew I didn’t understand. My tongue grew heavy, straining under the weight of the questions gathering at its tip, each one daring me to let them all spill out, to fill the emptiness that I so desperately wanted not to be there. I bit them back. I locked them away as best as I could. Yet somehow one question slipped through.

    “Why… didn’t you let dad come with us?” 

    Tension flashed across Mom’s face and Rage appeared atop her shoulders—a pulsating behemoth, red and thickening still as it fed upon her wrath, unabashed and with gluttonous abandon. Vile and fat, it weighed on her. From the quiver of her bottom lip and the puffy sternness in her eyes, I could see her resisting Rage’s call to slip into a bludgeoning, verbal offensive. 

    Suffice to say, I had hit a tender spot. I hadn’t meant to.

    “He didn’t want to come,” Mom snapped. A small bit of Rage bubbled over, causing her to swerve the car, startling me from watching the black shadows racing through the trees. “Apparently, he felt like he had more important things to spend his time on, people who were more important to him than his own family… The rat-faced bastard.” 

    Tears glistened in Mom’s eyes as the car sped on. I held back my own, just nodding. Keeping silent. I learned a while back that talking when Mom was like this doesn’t do either of us any good. Rage would simply coax her into twisting my words, contort them into something that would better fit within the narrative Rage wove around her. Its whispers were a slow rumbling wind right before the storm. And Mom, by all accounts, seemed sometimes to enjoy the pummeling rains. 

    My eyes leapt from tree to tree, chasing the shadows chasing me. In the glass of the passenger window, I caught a glimpse of Mom’s reflection. Her face reminded me of a deer caught in its own headlights; Rage really did enjoy crashing into her. I could see it in the whitening of her knuckles, in the flaring of her nostrils. Rage was tempting her now, steering toward her. It made her relive the wars, remember how the bombs would fall between her and dad. Remember how they would fling them at each. All through the hollow of the house, the explosions of screams and shouts would ricochet—through the hollow of me. Mom had nearly given into the crash. 

    I found solace sometimes when I remembered that I wasn’t my mom, nor my dad. There were no bombs in me. But there were fears. And dams. Dams I had built to hold back the tears from falling. Sometimes they worked a little too well. 

    As the car finally began to slow, I noticed the worn wooden sign that marked our destination. This was new. We’ve never camped here before. 

    Mom pulled off the grey river road and started through the campground. Patches of weeds, slumbering and brittle, lined the cracked edges of the dirt like ripped and worn strips of fabric strewn everywhere. Dark thickets shaped the campsites, their shadows skeletal and eerie. Fear pricked my skin to gooseflesh, and I wished for Mom to turn back, for us to settle someplace else for the night, someplace that might have been warmer, friendlier. I swallowed my complaints. With Rage still perched and seething atop her shoulders, I knew she’d only object. Mom—Rage—was not the type to flee red flags…or to heed warnings. 

    She pulled into a campsite squished beside the river. We remained for a moment, sitting together in the car. The quiet was nice. When I at last opened the door and stepped out, the babbling of the water and the tunes of nature played in my ears, soft and sweet. Interspersed were strange whispers, familiar yet unintelligible. I let them be. I wanted anything but for nervousness to harbor within me.

    My hands rubbed against my thighs, an attempt at soothing. It helped.

    As we got started pitching the tent, I noticed that Rage had begun to lull itself to sleep. Mom’s movements were softer, more gingerly. I could nearly hear the tender threading of space and nature as they started to sew her most recent battle wounds shut. Mom looked at me, her eyes almost smiling.  

    “You mean the world to me, butter-bee,” Mom said as she pushed the last support rod through the tent’s hoops. “You know that, right? Whatever hardships we might face, whatever changes might come our way, everything I do… I do because I love you. I need you to know that.”

    “I do, mom.” I didn’t let on that her words frightened me. “I do.” 

    When the afternoon had grown old, Mom went to the river. She pulled off her shoes and her socks and she waded a ways in. As the water caressed her calves and the wind tousled her hair, she looked freer than ever I’ve seen her, as if some weighty burden—some impossible decision— had been lifted from her shoulders. I wanted to run out and join her, to wrap my arms around her and squeeze her tight, tell her everything was going to be alright. But my feet remained planted. Sometimes time was better spent free and alone. So, I let her be… Free.

    The strange whispers in the wind called to me again. I didn’t acknowledge them.

    As the sun slid further down across the vibrant watercolor sky, my hands rubbed again against my thighs and I finally dared to call out to her, “It might be nice to go for a stroll along the river. The sunset looks lovely.” 

    “I’d like that,” Mom said over her shoulder. “Wait for me.” 

    I waited, my eyes on the sky.

    When Mom returned to the shore, she slipped back into her socks and her shoes, and we started along the river’s edge. River spray soaked the chill evening air as it brushed across my skin, tickling my cheeks red and teasing my nose with all the woodsy spices of autumn. The fallen leaves and twigs crunched and snapped beneath our steps, a soft accompaniment to the songbirds’ evening lullabies echoing through the trees. 

    We stepped lighter, both Mom and me. Rage was still there, of course, slumbering and draped across Mom’s shoulders, but for the first time in a long time—despite the call of autumn’s decay—a proper smile bloomed across Mom’s face. I smiled then, too, a half-smile. Something still loomed between us, words unspoken, thoughts unshared. I could feel it. It made me nervous.

    We continued through the quiet until a frog’s croak broke the peace. I glanced down and thought it odd how the frog hopped past Mom and me. Its legs sprang with such a fierce determination, it seemed almost like a sign to turn back, to cling to the moment for as long as it might last.

    It wasn’t long.

    Mom stopped and turned to me. Sorrow sat low on her brow, and I could sense Rage beginning to stir. She opened her mouth to speak, and it was as though my heart knew. It stepped up to the starting line of a race of which some more knowing part of me had wished I wouldn’t have had to partake.

    She spoke.

    “I think it’s time, butter-bee, that you and I had a talk…”

    A truth laced through her words as they hung between us, dangling from a thread thin as hope. The shadows shifted in the darkening woods surrounding me. They drew closer, sharper. A breath caught in my throat as my heart’s suspicion became my own. Mom meant to lead us down a path I had almost managed to convince myself we’d never have to tread. 

    I wasn’t ready. Would I ever be? 

    “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for some time now, actually.” Mom’s voice wavered. “This isn’t easy to say, but I spoke with your father before we left. We both agreed it’s long past time we…”

    Mom’s words faded to utter gibberish. I couldn’t understand her. I didn’t want to.

    Sometimes moms and dads fight. Sometimes children rock themselves to sleep at night to the lullabies of exploding shouts and the clashing of words like swords clamoring through a fight. It’s all a part of life. A part of our lives.

    I lost myself in Mom’s unclear droning, in the murmurs of the forest as the trees stretched and grew around us. The sun passed below the mountaintops and my blood turned to ice. I couldn’t move—but my hands twitched. They rattled at my sides as though some nightmare locked away within me was desperate to rip its way free. My hands ran themselves along my forearms, rubbing, caressing—

    They were moving but I wasn’t moving them.

    I couldn’t… I couldn’t feel my hands…

    Shadows gathered behind Mom and her nothing words. They crawled over each other, moving across the decaying carpet of the earth. Towards me. They were silhouettes coalescing, mouths gaping, obsidian teeth gleaming as their eyes, shimmering like starlight, tore into me. I wanted to turn, to flee. But Mom had dug her hands into my shoulders. She was shaking me, screaming at me. 

    I could hear nothing. Nothing but those strange whispers like a slow rumbling wind before a storm. I was not my mom, nor my dad. But I was their child. I had finally found my bombs.

    And so I set them free.

    As the shadows devoured me, I screamed. Their dark tendrils slithered across my body. Settling on my hands, they borrowed their way in, staining my skin with all the colors of secrets kept in the dark.

    When at last I looked up at Mom, I saw understanding in her eyes—she did have Rage after all. I had my own behemoth now, tar black and oozing from my rattling hands. I wondered if this was something I could scrub off with soap and warm water, if this was something I could run away from. But the truth shined in Mom’s eyes, watery and bright: there was no running away. Not from this. 

    Not from Dread. 

    The next few days were tense. I had no words to say, so silence settled in like leaves falling into place. On my hands, Dread weighed heavily, always drizzling in streams like the night sky spangled with silver stars. When at last we had packed away the campsite and stowed our belongings in the trunk, Mom paused and knelt, her eyes even with mine. She said nothing. Perhaps in some small way, she blamed herself for what happened to me. But I didn’t blame her or dad, nor myself. 

    When Mom wrapped me in a hug, her whole body shook, and her tears streamed dampness through my hair. She had told the truth, when she said we weren’t running away. I understood that then. These monsters—these behemoth feelings—they were a part of us. There was no more running. 

    We started home, towards whatever changes were there waiting for us.

    Mom drove.

  • Your Call

    Your Call

    The eve-yawning sky is orange and mauve, and I’m early — some things never change.

    Your call surprised me. Your proposal to meet again after these three long years apart. A rendezvous at my old high school, a place so memory-stained from our time together that while anxious and pacing, awaiting your arrival, I trip over more ghosts of our youth than I can count.

    You taught me how to kiss, there, in that copse of trees by the fence. Even now I can taste the smoky menthol on your lips. The cheap beer on your breath. My fool of a rebel man...

    And there, behind the sports shed, with my fingers tracing hopes for our future across your chest, you told me your dream was to become a welder, to give your parents at least one son they could be proud of. It was hypnotic, to see you so hopeful. To see you look so determined to make something of yourself. To be someone. My someone.

    Did your brother ever get released from prison? I wish I could have met him…

    White-fluff clouds drift by on a pine-scented breeze, and I settle myself upon the old knoll where we used to sit and watch the football games together. You’d strut up to me all cocky and grinning, with a water bottle slipped under your jacket half-filled with your dad’s cheapest vodka. I could never recall a game’s score, but I will never forget the way I fit so seamlessly in your arms or the tantalizing itch of your scruff as you’d nuzzle your face into the curve of my neck. I always pestered you about trying beard butter to add a little softness. You never did. I’m not ashamed to admit I still savor the memory of every itch.

    You’re ten minutes late, carrying a picnic basket and a blanket slumped over your shoulder. I’m not sure whether I’m more surprised that you had kept your word, or by the bright glow on your face as your eyes meet mine. You look healthy — like you meant it on the phone when you assured me you were finally taking care of yourself.

    My heart flutters as you near; I’m glad to let it.

    “You came…”

    “You called.”

    We roll your blanket out along the slope of the hill and sit ourselves down. There’s quiet, spare the peals of laughter from the middle school kids playing high school.

    “You… you look good. Beautiful. You always did.” Your voice trails off and your cheeks redden. I doubt you meant to speak so freely. Then, nodding towards the kids racing across the field you say, “We used to do that too, didn’t we?”

    “What? Pretend we were older?”

    You chuckle, shake your head. “Pretend we were different.”

    “I suppose we did.”

    I lean towards you, wanting your eyes to find mine. You smell of cheap spice and nerves, and when our eyes finally meet, we both smile. Just smile.

    “You look good, too,” I say. “Healthier. Stronger.” I mime you flexing, then nudge you playfully in the shoulder.

    You pinch your belly.

    “I think the only thing stronger about me after getting sober is my appetite. It’s been a ferocious little fucker these last few months. Meant to quit smoking too, but I needed something to rival my sweet tooth. Oh! Speaking of sweet tooth…” You pull a homemade carrot cake loaf and a bottle from the picnic basket.

    I wince, seeing the bottle. Memories.

    “It’s just sparkling cider.” There’s a subtle nip to your tone. And hurt.

    “Sorry. I didn’t mean to —”

    “No. No, it’s alright.” You cut us each a slice of cake and pour glasses. “I can’t blame you for being cautious. Not after… everything I put you through. Sometimes I don’t know if I can even trust myself.”

    We start on the cake. You eat your whole slice in three bites, then smirk when you catch me watching you.

    “You always did enjoy when I had more meat on me.”

    I shrug, mouth full. “What? Makes for better snuggling.”

    Your raspy chuckle and your come-and-get-me wink as you cut yourself another slice nearly sends me swooning. It’s all I can muster to resist the urge to lean into you.

    It’s so easy, talking with you again. Like no time has passed. Like nothing has changed…

    Even though enough has.

    “How’ve you been all this time?” You ask.

    “I’ve been well. I actually start university this fall. Got into —”

    “Wait,” you interject. “Let me guess.”

    You scrunch your brow, fixing your eyes on me as though you can still somehow read my thoughts. And from that smirk tugging at the corner of your still too-kissable lips, I know you know.

    “You’re finally starting on your Bachelor’s in… Social Work.” You chew your lip. “At that university out east, uh… What’s it called?”

    “Central Washington University,” we say at the same time.

    You snap your fingers in triumph.

    “I knew it! Congratulations, man. Truly. I always knew you were going to do great things. I’m happy for you.”

    I blush.

    “Thanks. That… that means a lot.”

    I don’t need you to be proud of me — I didn’t come here for that — but it’s something indescribable to know that you are.

    Even though I’m the one who ended things between us.

    You still care…

    The kids from earlier collect their things and start off the field as stars blink into place across the night sky. Sweet birdsong echoes through the school buildings behind us, and a warm wind rolls in, rustling your hair. You look younger.

    “And what about you?” I ask. “What have you been up to?”

    Such a thoughtless question. I realize that as your nostrils flare and your bright eyes darken. Addiction — that’s what you’ve been “up to.” I wish I could suck my words back in.

    But you answer. Brave and calm.

    “I, uh, started working with my dad last month. At his mechanic shop. He’s been showing me the ropes. Real patient. I’m hoping to save up and get into trade school.” You glance at the stars, knees tucked to your chest. “I like the work well enough. Keeps my hands busy. My mind, too.”

    “Sounds like things are looking up for you.” I hope I sound sincere. I am.

    “Yeah. They are.”

    You finish your second slice of cake and wash it down with a hearty gulp of sparkling cider. As you pull your cup away, I spot a smudge of frosting caught in your beard, and, without thinking, I wipe it away. You take my hand and hold it to your cheek, nuzzle your beard against my palm. It’s so soft.

    “You…”

    “Finally got around to finding a half-decent beard butter…? Yeah.”

    You remembered…

    “I thought about you every day,” you say in a rush.

    My stomach clenches. I… can’t say the same.

    “I don’t expect you to have thought about me. It’s okay if you didn’t. But if you have… I don’t know. Maybe… do you think there’s a chance you could forgive me? That you could be willing to give us another try? I know I wasn’t always good to you — and you’ll never know how sorry I am for that. But if you think you might ever be open to us again… I swear I’m a better man now. I’d do right by you.”

    I forget how to breathe.

    “You… sweet, fool of a rebel man.”

    You beam at me.

    And I know my answer. I had known it from the moment you called.

    “Listen,” I say. “We’re both doing well right now. We’re… doing things. For ourselves. And I don’t think now is the time to…”

    You deflate. And it’s that day from three years ago all over again.

    I shouldn’t have come…

    But you surprise me, then, saying, “Thank you. For coming. For letting me see you again.” I look into your eyes, so big and brown and beautiful. And I truly am sorry. “I can’t imagine that any of this has been easy for you. And I understand that you probably still hate me and —”

    “I never hated you. Never.”

    There’s caution in your eyes. You don’t believe me.

    “We just weren’t right for each other. I know that now. You needed help. And I didn’t know how to help you. I was sixteen; my biggest hurdle at the time was acing my Spanish test. You… you used to cry in your sleep. Do you remember that?”

    Tension lines your jaw. “Did I?”

    I nod.

    “It was our second Halloween together… You picked me up after school, drove us back to your parents’ place. I didn’t realize you had been drinking until I saw you fumbling with the key in the front door. We snuggled on your bed, watched some movie, then a six-pack later,” I tap my temple, “You were gone — passed out with your arms still wrapped around me. I wiggled around to look at you, hoping you’d look…peaceful.”

    I sigh.

    “But you weren’t. There was a tear running down your cheek and I… I hated that I didn’t know how to be better for you.”

    You won’t look at me. But for some reason I can’t stop.

    “I wanted so badly to make you happy — you were never happy… And then your mom stormed in, spotted the empty beer cans, and she screamed and screamed until you bolted up and started screaming right back. I remember the pain in your eyes, and it felt like it was somehow my fault. Like I wasn’t loving you enough. I–I was never enough. And I kept making excuses for you, thinking that if I just gave you a little more time, things would work themselves out. But they never did. Nothing really helped…” I fidget with my hands in my lap. “All I ever wanted was to help.”

    You throw your arms around me, hold me. Your warmth is the most stinging, aching comfort. I don’t want it to end.

    “You were just a kid. There’s nothing you could have done other than exactly what you did. You got out. I needed you to get out. And I…” You are shame made manifest, staring straight at me. “I’m sorry. For everything. I’m so, so sorry.”

    “We were both kids.”

    “Nineteen — legally not a kid.”

    I scoff at that and nuzzle my face into your chest.

    “I really did love you. I just didn’t know how to love you enough to make you love yourself.”

    “You couldn’t have… I’m the only one who can love me enough to never go back to what I was.”

    Why do you look so afraid saying that?

    It’s quiet again. Just breath and wind.

    “Can you lay with me?” you ask. “Just for a while?”

    “Of course.” You move the picnic basket and pat the empty space it left for me to fill. We lay back together, my head at home on your chest. “I missed this.”

    “Me, too.”

    Time trickles by.

    “Thank you,” I whisper.

    You smile at me.

    “What for?”

    “You called.”

    “I meant to sooner.”

    “I know.”

    We spend a lifetime on the blanket, cuddled under the stars. Just you. Just me. Content as ever we could be.

    Then life calls, and it’s time.

    “Can I see you again?”

    I take a breath, touch your cheek — and give you one last kiss. “Maybe someday. Is that okay?

    You pull me in tight, smiling that sad, beautiful smile. “Whenever you’re ready. I’ll answer. Always.”

  • The Weight of Expectations (An Elspar Story)

    The Weight of Expectations (An Elspar Story)

    White orbs, oblong—and not an option. Yet their soft shimmer calls to me. Captivates.

    I lean closer, my nose nearly brushing their seafoam-fragile shells. And for a breath, I am weightless—adrift in the cool hush of the cavern deep beneath my family’s palace. Weightless, like a decision made. A calm surety—something I’m not sure I’ve ever really known…

    Then—

    “Tristyn!” my sister calls. And doubt rushes back in. “Come away from there, please.” 

    I linger a moment longer, swaying with the water’s gentle tide. Then I kick my tail lightly, and swim away—the weight pressing in once more.

    The cavern is tight, its walls craggy and pocked with dozens of small holes. Each one vanishes into the extensive tunnel network the ancient Hinni Snails call home. A handful of them slither about, nibbling at the algae clumps nestled in the cavern’s crevices—their cleaning a salty, slimy feast. Bright red-gold sunlight filters into the cavern, washing dim their already soft, colorful bioluminescence. 

    It’s the eggs, though, I find more striking. Four large clusters hug the walls, each with the pulsing glow of a thousand tiny lives. All eager and waiting to hatch. 

    Yet today, only one life will twine with mine. 

    I hope we can become friends. Whoever you are…

    Once at my sister’s side, she takes my webbed-hands and squeezes. 

    “There is no wrong choice. Okay?” She offers me a warm smile. I feel only chills. 

    But there is. Just nobody will say it. 

    I resist the urge to glance back at the cluster of white snail eggs. It’s hard, like trying to ignore some extension of myself. 

    Such a fool for hoping…

    We turn as one to face Syllis—a wizened black Hinni Snail, dappled with small purple spots and large enough to fit comfortably in my palm. Perched on a narrow ridge halfway up the cavern wall, her long antennae-eyes sway, assessing us. It is her duty to oversee the pairings, to ensure her kin are paired with responsible Dhargonian matches. 

    All I know is how to be “responsible.” There was never another option… 

    When she realizes she has our attention, Syllis begins flashing her purple spots to communicate: Welcome Tideress Orawyn. Rising Tristyn.

    We both nod politely. 

    Will Tidal Elwryn be joining us? Excited flashes. 

    I bite my lip to keep silent, tension lining my jaw. 

    “I’m afraid not,” Orawyn says, obviously wanting to make light of our brother’s absence. “Resolving disputes in the outer territory.”

    It’s not every day a Rising chooses his Hinni-match. The slow rhythm of disappointment. 

    “He would be here if he could,” Orawyn adds, her tone placating. 

    Would he? 

    Syllis’ eyes narrow and glance at each other before focusing on me.

    I trust you understand the significance of this day? 

    “I do.” My voice cracks. Heat flushes my cheeks and I tuck my chin to my shoulder. 

    Syllis flashes joyously. This is a special time in any Dhargonian’s life, young Rising. There is no shame in growing older—time comes for us all in the end. 

    I manage a nod, still looking away. 

    We are four. Syllis’ gesture to each cluster in turn with her antennae-eyes.

    I know their kind well. 

    There are the blue-spiked protectors, I think, eyeing the pulsing blue cluster—fearless, focused, routinely temperamental, like Elwryn’s companion. The green-spiraled nurturers. I glance at the soft green glow behind Orawyn’s ear, where her companion tends to perch. Caringly assertive, patient, always meaning to be supportive, but… Then there are the purple-spotted tradition-keepers—like Airyn’s companion, before she passed and Elwryn ascended the throne. Clever, methodical, almost bitterly stern.

    My gaze settles again on the white cluster.

    And then there’s you guys—the white-splotched academics, like…

    I sigh.

    No one.

    Leaders act. That was Elwryn’s lesson—his scolding, still fresh, thunders through my mind. We do not laze about, cowering behind scrolls, or lose days to wasteful ponderings, as you seem so aggravatingly prone to do. We are to be focused and committed. Decisive. There are wrong choices in life, brother. But it is a leader’s commandment—one that will one day irrevocably become yours—to make as few of them as gods-willingly possible. Understand?

    I had understood then, just as I understand now.

    And while most Dhargonians view choosing a Hinni Snail companion as a symbolic rite of passage, in my family, the long-standing—and suffocating—belief is that this choice reveals the callings of our hearts and defines the kind of leader we are meant to become.

    And consequences ripple through every choice… 

    Take your time, Syllis flashes. But do be attentive. As we are deep in spring, many eggs have already begun to hatch. And while we believe the choice should reside with your kind, we connect with him whose face is first we see. So, consider. And hurry.

    I nod with a smile, then take a deep breath. Once more, my gaze drifts between the four pulsing clusters—all the countless snails waiting, my decision weighing… 

    And, mind blank, I hesitate. Considering. 

    Hinni Snails live for decades—longer even than we Dhargonians. And they can reincarnate. Fragments of their past lives cling to them like stubborn barnacles, granting them insight, memories, and invaluable perspective.  

    That’s the true weight of this choice. 

    I’m not just choosing a companion—but a mentor, an advisor, a guide. Specialized by lifetimes of honing the skills they know best.

    We give them the world beyond their cavern. In return, they give us what time would otherwise forget.

    There is no wrong choice. 

    But there always is…

    I glance again at the blue-spiked cluster, my heart heavy with Elwryn’s absence. 

    Maybe if I chose one of them, he and I might finally have something in common. Or at least, maybe I wouldn’t miss him so much… 

    The sincerity—more than the thought itself—catches me by surprise. 

    If he were here, he would just pick one for me. Wouldn’t that be so much easier? 

    Orawyn rests a hand on my shoulder, rousing me from my thoughts. 

    “This one”—she directs me to a black egg with purple spots like fluffy clouds—“reminds me of Airyn’s companion. The pattern is just like hers, don’t you think?” 

    I nod, but say nothing. There’s no spark, looking at the egg. No fascination or intrigue. No connection. Just that heavy weight pressing against my chest. 

    That one’s not for me… 

    The thought feels ungrateful, but feelings are what they are. Sometimes they carry their own truth.

    My mind returns again to the white-splotched cluster. 

    To the Hinni Snail academics.To my own bright experiences sifting through scrolls in the family library, the lectures I’ve attended, the curiosities that have stirred through my mind for as long as I can remember. 

    They are what steer me. 

    Seeking answers…

    But what room is there for dreams and curiosity in the life of a leader? I wonder. We’re supposed to be focused. To know everything—or at least conduct ourselves as if we do…

    A faint clicking from behind startles me. 

    Without thinking, I spin around, my long seaweed-like appendages—one of either shoulder blade and another two low on the base of my back—rustle through the water as I do. 

    And my eyes meet another’s. 

    Glorm. 

    The name appears in my mind like the popping of a tiny bubble. 

    Orawyn gasps. “Tristyn, turn away from it. Now!”

    Syllis is silent, one antenna-eye on the Tideress, the other on me. Observing. 

    “He’s so small…” I say, leaning in. “A hollow pearl would suit him like a palace.” 

    “Tristyn, please.” Orawyn swims up behind me, rests her hand on my shoulder. “The longer he sees you, the harder it will be for him…” 

    I swallow, chest tight, my heart growing numb.

    But then I really look at him. This adorable, tiny snail.

    And that weightless feeling returns—slow at first, then all at once.

    The numbness fades.

    A spark flickers within.

    Calming.

    Exhilarating.

    Decided.

    I turn back to Syllis. “What would happen to him—if I chose another?”

    The old snail’s eyes glance at each other, then back to me.

    He will live, she flashes. And he will hurt. We’ve never managed to figure out why, but the connection is stronger in us than in you. 

    She hesitates. 

    You would not be the first to deny one of us… choosing one of you. 

    I look to Orawyn. Her face is scrunched. Even her own companion—green antennae-eyes peeking over her ear—is flashing frantically.

    “What would you have me do?” 

    She flits her eyes between Syllis and me, then says, almost begrudgingly, “Abide by your values.” Tenderness in her eyes, a tightness in her lips. “If this is your choice, then commit.” 

    I turn back. 

    “Glorm…”

    The tiny white-splotched snail flickers wildly.

    Glorm am I. 

    I exhale. Laugh. 

    “Yes you are,” I say, bending down and offering Glorm my finger. “Yes you are.”  

    You… accept his choosing? Syllis flashes, curious and slow.


    “I do.” 

    Then, before Orawyn can object, I add:

    “A leader protects those who choose to follow him—Elwryn’s words.”

    Wonderful! Syllis flashes, a flurry of bright excitement—she’d jump, if she could.

    I smile up at Orawyn, anxious, yes, yet giddy as Glorm slithers up my arm, leaving a trail of warm tingles as he goes. 

    She says nothing at first.

    Her face is stern. Her hand still lingers on my shoulder. 

    I brace. Expecting a lecture. Or an argument. Or… something. 

    But all she says is:

    “Wise words to quote. And a wonderful choice, indeed.” 

    Her tone is polite, yet…

    If you really mean that, then why is your grip so tight?

    Gently, I shrug Orawyn’s hand off and focus on Glorm—so new, so full of potential.

    And mine.

    My choice.

    My truth.

  • Rising Arrogance (An Elspar Story)

    Rising Arrogance (An Elspar Story)

    This was Oming’s moment—like every moment was. To win.

    He tore through the kelp-forest like a comet through the night, pulsating and alive with lifelight. The tall summer-green stalks lined the raceway on either side of him, all dancing to the ocean’s sway, many subtly obscuring the twists and turns meant to trick and confuse him. Hooh. Huuh. But winning was like breathing. He was crafted for it. Perhaps that’s why he found this first race so comfortingly easy. 

    His every muscle sang with thrill and strength as he slithered and wove through the final few turns, then straight on towards the finish-line. Yesss! So much better than combat training! He was alone, the other racers all trailing far behind him. But this wasn’t about them. He dug deep, gave all he had. Strain screamed across every inch of his body, tight and burning, evoking the most glorious elation. 

    Almost… An exhale. 

    He won, a blur shooting past the finish-line to thousands of rapturous cheers and a mass rain of praise. He needed a moment to reign in his speed and slow himself before he could nonchalantly swoosh back towards the crowd and revel in his victory. But, as he slowed, so did the cheering. 

    Huh? 

    Murmurs trickled up from the spectators, with everyone looking at one another—but not at him. 

    Oming swam back, glancing around at the crowd, nonplussed. He spotted his eldest sister, Feii, easily enough. She floated high above the spectators, poised and regal in a tail-length cloak woven of black and green seaweed, her hands and ears and neck all weighted with jewels, and her ink-black hair restrained in a single long braid. She looked down at Oming, expressionless.  

    That bad, is it? 

    The race judge flitted his eyes between the two of them, his thick neck disappearing into his scale-flecked shoulders like a turtle cowering under the weight of some great uncertainty. His prolonged silence indicated that he expected his Tideress to make the call herself. But Feii gave no gesture and made no pronouncement. Only observed. 

    What’s the big deal? It’s just a race. 

    There was another shift in the crowd. All the murmurs had become notable grunts and groans—especially from the foul-faced Racing Guild masters, all exchanging furious glances with one another. 

    Oming crossed his arms over his chest, tension lining his jaw, shoulders bristling. 

    He met Feii’s gaze once more and, masterful concealer of feelings that she was, Oming just barely noticed the slight flaring of her nostrils. And he knew. 

    By Cal’s light! What is it this time? 

    A different sort of ruckus broke out in the crowd, and Oming jerked around to face it. Floating far in the back were a few of his rowdier older brothers, all accompanied by their friends, paramours, and Bonded partners. The whole colorful cloud of them cheered and beat their fists against their chests in clamorous celebration. Reluctantly, the other spectators joined in, and that’s what decided it. Oming had won. He had won the race he was never supposed to enter. For no one would dare dispute the emphatic decision of any Tide.

    Another racer shot past the finish-line. Oming knew who it was before they even reigned in their speed, though he couldn’t recall the racer’s name. The racer panted, his gills fluttering, his face long with exhaustion. Another racer finished soon after, then another. Each one in a similar weary state as they exchanged brief and breathy congratulations. When they spotted Oming and swam to present themselves—their expressions cold, their bows rigid—not one offered a kind word to him, their crown-Rising.

    Oming had sense enough to suspect that the racers were entitled to their displeasure, and so offered them each a congratulatory nod, thus releasing them to enjoy the celebrations. But, one by one, the racers swam off. Towards their lodging quarters. Shoulders slumped and looking more like deflated puckler-fish than the proud, high-placing racers they were.

    What’s got everyone’s tail so twisted? 

    Oming glanced once more at Feii. 

    She gave a discreet gesture, and two of her personal Reefguards swam swiftly towards Oming. 

    “Shall we return to the palace, my Rising.” asked the long, slender Reefguard, clad in armor cut from the earth-toned shell of a burrower-crab. 

    “Whatever.” Oming scoffed. “It was just a race.” 

    They swam surfaceward along the tall sandstone bluff that loomed over the immense kelp-forest below. Oming glanced over his shoulder to admire the raceway—from the finish-line under him to the starting-line far, far beyond the curve of the ocean-floor. For the average Serefian—a Dhargonian (with their seaweed-like appendages), a Skaltressian (with their dainty tentacles), or any of the others, really—traversing the distance of the raceway would have taken days of steady swimming, no breaks. But for Oming and the other Buroden racers, all with their gods-gifted speed, they had covered that same distance in just a few hours—Oming fastest of all, of course. Not that anyone seemed to care. 

    More racers crossed the finish-line as Oming neared the wide opening carved into the bluff. A few dozen more racers would filter in over the next few hours. Oming had hoped to stay and watch and offer them each his congratulations—usually such a gesture from a crown-Rising meant a lot to the commonkin—but, if the crowd and the earlier racers were any indicator, he supposed it was best to remove himself. 

    Why would I want to linger around such sore losers anyway? 

    They passed through the opening and entered the expansive carved-out cavern that was the Buroden Capital. His palace stood at the cavern’s heart, plainly visible even from the city’s entrance. Its grand sandstone walls, all richly colored with murals depicting the various heroic tales of his lineage, towered above the meager orange and brown crystal homes and establishments of his commonkin. White moonstones—property of his family, of course—glowed brilliantly in the glass-covered indentations that lined the cavern’s walls and domed ceiling. It was a quick, quiet swim to his home as many of the city’s residents were still gathered for the race. 

    Feii’s Reefguards escorted him to the grand hall and there they waited, floating just above the green marble floor. 

    Oming wasn’t usually one for nerves. He’d had most of them beaten out of him during the first brutal years of his speed and combat training. But there was some strange slithering sensation along his spine that almost made him long for another bludgeoning from his trainers. He couldn’t recall the last time he lost a match, but the old eels were sometimes still slippery enough to land an enlivening blow now and again. There was a pleasure in physical pain. Oming understood it, he could learn from it. And he much preferred physical pain to the razor reprimanding Feii seemed so Lais-lovingly intent on lashing him with every time he so much as slid a scale out of place.

    So, when she arrived at the palace, not alone, but accompanied by the most prominent Racing Guild masters, Oming almost managed to convince himself he’d slipped the grip from the tirade he had been expecting. 

    Composed and steady, Feii was a waveless spring morning engulfed in the blustery crosswind of the Guild Masters’ as they bickered about “lost winnings” and “racers’ ruined retirements.” Their pouty lip-flapping persisted until Feii assumed her place at the end of the great hall—then immediate silence. There was no disrespecting a Tide’s authority while in the position of presiding. The white moonstone light gleaming in their glass sconces shone on Feii, glittering across the scales of her tail and highlighting their myriad shades of brown and green. Like a polished emerald, her bright calmness filled the room—even soothed the tension in the Guild Masters’ shoulders. Though, contempt still brimmed their dark, beady eyes every time one of them met Oming’s gaze. He still didn’t understand their discontentment, but some voice deep in the recesses of his mind chided that their sneers were likely warranted.  

    Feii was still and quiet, contemplative perhaps. And when she waved Oming to her side, he went with a pit of dread in his stomach. She wouldn’t reprimand him in front of the Guild Masters, but he knew his sister for the schemer she was and despised being used in her politicking. Combat was his language. Not petty words and placations. 

    “My dear, sweet brother,” Feii said, taking hold of Oming’s hands, “Such joy I feel for your dutiful and selfless display of unyielding love and commitment to our commonkin.” She turned to face the Guild Masters, many of whom still wore displeasure despite intently leaning in. “When our devoted crown-Rising came to me to express his immense respect and adoration for our most renowned Racers and asked for the honor to bear unique witness to their unparalleled determination and skill, well, it was a proud and humbling moment, indeed.” 

    Oming had to suppress a laugh at how she beamed with such pompous radiance. Though, he couldn’t say it wasn’t convincing. Least not for the fools who knew no better. 

    Do you even know what you’re saying?

    “As the imperial heir’s Showcasing—” the word from his sister’s lips sent another slither down his spine, “—imminently approaches, my brother grows ever more committed to forging himself into a representative and a symbol worthy of the gods-crafted strength and indisputable brilliance so bestowed upon us all of the most enviable and beautiful Buroden commonkin. As ever and always, our humble family is most assiduously devoted to the wealth, the safety, and the interests of all over whom we so graciously have the privilege to represent and preside.”

    Feii remained smiling her prettiest smile, and Oming was certain he had not understood but half of what his sister had said.

    The Guild Masters all looked around at one another until the largest of them turned to Feii, bowed, then said, “Indeed, my Tideress, we are moved by our crown-Rising’s… adoration for the racers whom we represent; it is, however, his manner of witnessing the race that yet leaves some… curiosities lingering in the mind.” 

    Feii pursed her lips in a manner of contemplation. Fake as ever Oming’s seen. 

    “Curiosities?” Her tone might have sounded patronizing had she not spoken so softly. “What is so curious about a spectator exalting in the thrill of observing a race?” 

    The largest Guild Master held Feii’s gaze for a moment, appearing to consider her words. “Indeed, my Tideress.” He bowed, smiling. “Nothing curious at all.”  

    The others followed suit, though Oming spotted one or two nonplus expressions in the bunch. 

    Feii squeezed Oming’s hands and glanced quickly at the Guild Masters—all of whom were now staring at him—a clear indication that she expected him to offer a few words of his own. 

    What do you want me to say? I don’t know this arena…

    He opened his mouth, closed it again. 

    Feii’s top lip started to twitch as his silence dragged on. 

    Uh… 

    “Prior to the race,” his sister squeaked out, only a drop of disappointment in her tone, “My champion brother expressed his wish that the winnings from our family’s bets be donated to support the racers and their families in their retirement. And as it was he who selected Binnen to be the royal racer, who did so masterfully win the race, my brother would like to personally double his winnings as a token of his admiration and well wishes for Binnen’s remaining racing career.” 

    Would I? 

    Still, the Guild Masters stared at him. It was most unnerving, as if the oceans themselves would never dance again until he spittled some banal response past his lips. 

    “Yes,” he said, practically hacking the word out like an urchin’s quill. “I… that… is my wish.” 

    “So generous,” Feii said. 

    Appearing mostly satisfied, the Guild Master offered their parting curtsies, then left. 

    “Swim with me, hm?” 

    All Oming could do was sigh. “Sure.” 

    They swished towards the main corridor that branched off from the left side of the great hall, towards the royal family’s private chambers. Scenters floated along the wall interspersed every few meters. Each emitted from their body a soft white glow imbued with a sweet sunweed aroma. Oming scrunched his nose at the sheer weighty offense of the scent. 

    “Are you really this stupid?” Feii asked. 

    Oming bit his lip. He knew better than to speak when she got like this. 

    She would scold him a while to let off some bubbles, then slither off to her private chambers to slurp down three or four ink-bubbles before berating the staff with half-slurred grievances about some decorative family heirloom being left askew. Despite all of Feii’s elegance and grace when before the eyes of the court, Oming knew his sister. Knew her well. And as much as her pressures and pummeling expectations of him were often a strangling at his throat, he felt some kind of way about her. A bit bitter. And sad. 

    “There can be no more of this, Oming. None.” She stopped in the center of the corridor, not even bothering to look at him. “You couldn’t think of anything to say? Not a single kind nor composed thought. Nothing. The others can be fools—gods-know they already are, cheering like younglings of poor crafting. But not you. You are on the precipice of attaining the highest responsibility of all the nine clans, and yet you have not an inkling of what it is to rule. The imperial heir would have to be an imbecile to choose you—and he is not. So neither can you be.” 

    “It was just a race,” Oming said, his hands clenched at his waist. “And that ‘highest responsibility’ you’re so fixated on is just to squander myself as a glorified piece of arm jewelry and–” he gestured to his whole self, “I think I can handle that.” 

    Feii turned to him and something sinister flashed across her face. For the first time ever, Oming almost thought she was going to hit him. 

    “Feii, it was just a race. All I wanted was one race.”

    And I’ve never been able to talk like you can…  

    “Do you understand the disregard? The selfishness? The callousness of what you did to those racers? Those racers who spend their short, bleak, miserable little lives bleeding their lifelight to speed my messages, your messages, all messages across the empire?” There was a fury in her eyes Oming had never known she could muster. “There’s no competing with us, Oming. There’s no competing with you. You don’t bleed your life away like they do. You can’t not understand this by now.” 

    I do. I do… I just wanted to feel what it was like. To speed like that… 

    Feii looked like she wanted to say more, but said only, “The imperial heir’s portrait arrived for you today. I had them take it to your room. Go… disappoint me someplace else. And perhaps… Just once… Think.” 

    She swam off down the corridor, leaving Oming to his “thinking.” 

    And to that eerie slithering sensation down his spine…