It was said throughout the Isles that Muirenn had been born during a thunderstorm. They were right, almost. Muirenn was too old to remember now—perhaps they had never been able to remember to begin with— but the Líadan told Muirenn's history to the common folk, and that was what they claimed. That telling helped them remember, too.

“The moment our goddexx emerged, pale and screaming, the sky split itself in half.”

A doctor had cut Muirenn’s umbilical cord and a sudden wave had overtaken the small isle of Verisque. By the time they were swaddled and put to their enbei’s breast, another island had been consumed by the tempest.

“And then, as quick as it had come, the storm vanished, quelled with their shrill cries.”

It was a proud history to bear for one as esteemed as Muirenn—at least, they had believed so for the longest time. After all, the Líadan revered them, documenting their every development for the good of the Isles. These priests knew best the nature of Muirenn’s godhood, having raised them in the temple on Cicaro Hill.

Still, the status they maintained came with its burdens. There were many unspoken rules whispered throughout the Isles, all a product of this godly order and their observance of Muirenn’s actions. Never eat fish on Aridon. Never venture to the docks after dusk. And, above all, never underestimate the Líadan.

Having broken this last rule several times, Muirenn knew the consequences for themself.

Seafoam and wet sand washed over them now with each roll of the tide. When they breathed, the air was thick with salt and burnt flesh. Wispy voices echoed between their ears, repeating the same mantra in a low groan.

All things born of the sea return from whence they came.

The words rolled in time with the ocean. Saltwater seeped through Muirenn’s sandals. The coin in their palm was their sole tether to reality, gaining weight as they clung to it.

Though a holy order in name, the Líadan were anything but. Formed from the ashes of an old political party, they had shifted focus once Muirenn had been born. The thick web of scars on Muirenn’s skin was a strong testament to their wicked ways.

A flash of gold. Muirenn regarded the face on one side of the coin, rubbed smooth by the years and their constant ministrations. A good luck charm, or so the elder who’d given it to them had said. His words overtook the vicious chant in their mind. It will grant you one wish in life, so wish wisely.

With a mouthed prayer and a wretched scream, they lobbed the coin towards the ocean before them. It skipped once, twice, three times before setting hard on the waves and sinking out of sight. With it went Muirenn’s hope. Still, without a sound, they prayed. Let me not be a goddexx anymore. Let me be free of this temple.

#

The temple on Cicaro Hill was a marvel of marble and sandstone, a maze of hallways contained within its thick walls. Muirenn could not remember a time they’d been beyond it, save the occasional holy expeditions the Líadan embarked on with them. Instead, they were relegated to reading texts the Líadan fed them or answering the prayers of the common folk. Lavish gifts of rare fish and pearls marked each anniversary of Muirenn’s cursed existence, the sole interjection to the tedium.

At eight years old, Muirenn was bored of it.

“Why must I stay inside so much, Elder?”

A man scrubbed Muirenn’s robes in a washbasin at their feet, head bowed over his work. Their question didn’t seem to register at first until his ministrations faltered.

“You are our Goddexx,” he answered before returning to his task.

Like that should mean anything. At eight, the fire in their soul burned fierce and bright, consuming everything it touched in an instant. With each rattling breath, their frustration flared.

“I want to go outside, Elder.”

Now he paused, head cocked as he thought. “If you give me a moment,” he said, “we may go to the balcony.”

“I don’t want to go to the balcony. I want to go out.”

“Your Benevolence.” Another pause. The elder sighed and set aside his washbasin. “Every need you could ever have is met within these temple walls. Why would you want to leave it?”

It’s stifling and dusty and gloomy and boring. Still, Muirenn thought these reasons would come across as trivial. They thought hard on their words, turning each reason over before settling on something plausible enough. “There’s sun out there.”

“Which is why we have the balconies.” He pointed to the pillars framing the room. Beyond them, over the railing on the walkway, houses of clay and shale dotted the horizon. “Plenty of space out there to absorb the warmth.”

“May I go on a walk, at least?”

For the first time that afternoon, Muirenn was met with the elder’s cerulean gaze. Silence swelled between them as Goddexx and servant stared each other down. A bitter wind cut through the room.

“You know you have to stay here, Your Benevolence. Out there, it is difficult to protect you. Not everyone is as . . . appreciative of your status. They could want to hurt you.”

Muirenn’s fists clenched. A second, stronger wind whistled through the pillars. A quick glance outside and they saw the thick clouds of grey, hovering over the Isles. A storm was brewing.

“I am a Goddexx of the sea.”

“So you are.”

“I am power incarnate.” They quirked a brow. “Is that not what I’m always told?”

His brows furrowed. He, too, risked a look outside. “It is.”

“Why, then, should I fear the whims of common folk?”

The elder propped himself against the stairs, rising with a groan. The soft popping of several joints filled the quiet. “The powers of the divine are not infallible,” he said. His tone was gentle, the way one might address an injured creature. It made Muirenn’s gut boil.

They stomped a foot. The sky flashed with lightning, painting the two of them in a swathe of shadows for a split second before vanishing. The next instant, thunder rumbled, so deep and loud it rattled Muirenn’s bones.

“Fine,” they replied. Outside, the world had turned grey and misty.

#

Muirenn’s temper was uncontrollable. With every fit they threw, the punishment shifted. Sermons proved too boring. There was too much collateral to risk physical violence. The Líadan lacked the means to contain their charge. Months elapsed, full of secret meetings and harsh storms. At last, it seemed they’d come to a conclusion.

Muirenn’s first sacrifice came when they were ten. They still remembered the scream cut short as the man gurgled blood and clawed at his throat. Death had not been swift for him, and for weeks after, his screams had followed them without interruption.

Still, Muirenn’s behavior adjusted. To the Líadan, the price was worth the reward. After the first sacrifice came a rapid string of others, more deaths for Muirenn’s flaws. With each slash of their blades, the Líadan filled the Isles with new superstition. Further still, the sacrifices instilled in them a pertinent lesson: every step out of line was another grave in their name. Grizzled sailors, starving hermits, beings of all backgrounds and sizes and shades. Each of them became another corpse of Cicaro Hill.

By thirteen, Muirenn had begun to hate counting the deaths their birth had caused, but they could not stop. Blood was blood was blood. All things born of the sea returned to whence they came. Muirenn, the Líadan, the islanders . . . they all would die and become salt-encrusted fish food at the bottom of the sea. In that sense, their lives and deaths were more meaningless than the sand beneath Muirenn’s feet.

And yet, their conscience nagged at them. True, each death could be justified, but it concerned them nonetheless. How far would the Líadan go to keep them in line?

Muirenn was fifteen still, but the child before them looked even younger. A simple gown of white engulfed their entire body. A pathetic whimper filled the quiet. For several minutes, goddex and sacrifice matched terrified stares from across the room.

This is wrong. Muirenn’s armrests groaned with the force of their grip. A child? They’re too young.

One of the Líadan brandished her athame, greying hair pulled back tight against her skull. She cocked her head to the side, scrutinizing the offering. “Will you not beg for your life?”

The sacrifice didn’t answer. Whether they wouldn’t or were simply unable to, it was difficult to tell. Instead, they planted their forehead to the marble floor. Sand shifted as they breathed. Every member of this vile temple watched the child and waited for them to die.

“No final words?” Goaded another of the Líadan. “No offerings to the great goddexx of the sea?”

No reply. The first elder grabbed them by their hair and wrenched their head back.

Muirenn frowned, observing the frantic twitches in the child’s mouth. They’re praying, but their goddex sits before them. Who do they think they’re praying to?

The dagger moved quick as a snake and ripped a line of crimson across their throat. Muirenn discarded the thoughts that had consumed them. The sacrifice fell to their knees, gagging on blood.

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It was a long time before their body stopped jerking.

#

Muirenn kept a mental graveyard, a record of every life ended in their name. Every tomb possessed a name, there wasn’t a single blank stone. They chiseled themselves into Muirenn’s thoughts, dated and organized by how Muirenn’s existence had doomed them.

Before long, these burial grounds had overgrown. The weight of these skeletons in their mind threatened to consume them. The tempests of their youth returned to the Isles, borne out of guilt and rage. Before, the corpses had contained them. The Líadan knew better now.

Dawn stretched tentative fingers throughout Cicaro Hill. As Muirenn found themself dragged through the halls, they stared out to the sea with such intense longing, it pained them.

They found themself prostrate in the courtyard, sand so fine it formed clouds around their slumped form. A fine drizzle soaked their clothes and hair. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Before they could begin to ask the meaning of this behavior, a thick leather collar looped around their neck. Electricity crackled in the air. Sleep deadened their limbs, but they thrashed hard against the elders restraining them. The leather burned where it made contact with their skin.

The moment the collar was secured, Muirenn’s thoughts slowed to a stop. In the distance, storm clouds slinked away like shamed dogs.

A fog consumed their brain. They wanted to protest, to shriek or scream or beg for whatever crime they’d committed, but conjuring words grew too tiresome. Their mouth flapped opened and closed, but only a thin wail emerged.

“A fine magic this is,” said an elder, out of sight. Muirenn fought to put a face to the voice, but the fog in their brain was too thick. An overwhelming lethargy consumed them. Perhaps if they closed their eyes, they would wake up elsewhere.

“It’ll contain them,” said another. “For now.”

#

When they awoke next, the collar remained. Elders paced in and out of their room, whispering in hushed tones. Clarity came to Muirenn in drips.

Blink. A flash of grey in their mind’s eye. Blink. A clap of thunder. Blink. The way their skin had hissed as the collar made contact.

Slowly, they ran a hand over their throat, wincing at the patches of bubbled skin. An elder watched them with an arched brow before raising the mortar and pestle they worked over in wordless explanation.

“What happened?” Muirenn wanted to ask, but no sound emerged. Their heart leapt.

“What happened?” Still no words. If they pushed, a faint grunt rumbled in their throat, but doing so felt like they’d swallowed live coals.

Muirenn kicked their blankets from them and jumped to their feet. At once, they leaned against the bed for support. The room spun out of control. Their blood roared in their ears.

“What happened?” Air whistled between their teeth. Their temples throbbed as they tried to recall the night before, or any semblance of reasoning. What had they done to cause this?

They dashed past the elder and into the hall. Other members of the Líadan watched them through half-opened eyes.

That was different. Every elder they saw looked them in the eye. Were they no longer afraid of them?

Their feet slapped against the marble. Their bare feet stung as they raced for the beach, but they had but one goal in mind.

The ocean was as calm as ever. No, Muirenn realized as they slowed to a stop. It’s the calmest it’s ever been. The tides lapped against the shore with an uncanny gentleness. Bits of sand crunched between their toes. Trembling, they reached an arm out, willing the ocean to heed them.

The next instant, they were on all fours, head clutched in their hands. Their temples throbbed like they’d been skewered. Tears rolled down their cheeks, a mix of frustration and anguish.

The sun was over the horizon by the time they had recovered. The tide was higher now, almost to their ankles. The sensation made their stomach turn. With a grunt, they wiped their tears away and pointed for the ocean again. Pain lanced through them in an instant. Hands of ice kept their brain in a vice-grip.

What have they done to me?

#

For Muirenn’s eighteenth birthday, they got a corpse and a coin. They had been dragged from the safety of their bed to view the sacrifice, to watch as the stranger’s soul was spilled across granite and sand and pooled at their feet.

Muirenn sat vigil over the corpse as it cooled. The gash across its throat glistened in the moonlight. Flickering torches cast its body in always-moving shadows. Another child, based on the size and proportions in its face. A small, button-like nose sat square between two unseeing eyes. Death had stiffened its limbs. Its hands remained cast in fearful prayer over its chest, and would stay that way for some while.

The corpse was burned and the ashes scattered. Muirenn stayed for this, too. The constant sludge in their thoughts prevented them from doing much else.

When it was all over, one of the elders pulled Muirenn aside. Wrinkles made a map of his face. They recognized him—a regular in Muirenn’s closest audience. He had often gone with them on their expeditions, and could be pressed to grant them a sweet or two every so often.

He clung to their hand like his life depended on it. A solid metal disk sat between their joined palms. “This is a coin as old as the gods,” he said in a low voice. “It will grant you one wish in life, whenever you want it to. Wish wisely, for it is the only wish you’ll gain not bathed in blood.”

“What do you mean?”

He shook his head and patted their shoulder. “You’ll know when the time is right.”

Muirenn hadn’t been sure what he’d meant then, and the constant headaches prevented them from dwelling on it. But now, watching as the coin sank into the ocean, they thought they understood at last. Perhaps it wasn’t the coin that mattered, but what they put the coin towards. Much like the leather around their neck, this coin thrummed with ancient, incomprehensible power.

He was wrong. This wish, too, was a gift bathed in blood. A shame he isn’t here to see it.

The sea gurgled and swirled where the coin had landed. Though they continued their soundless prayers, all was still.

#

The induction of a new temple member came thrice to Cicaro Hill.

Zhe didn’t have a name. None of the elders did. The Líadan took the member’s name from them the moment they entered the temple. All Muirenn remembered of this newcomer that night was zheir blue eyes and the feeling of . . . what was it?

Fear. Muirenn couldn’t remember the last time they’d been afraid.

With zheir arrival came a change in the rules. No longer could anyone wander out by oneself. It sent a bad message, zhe said. The Líadan, and Muirenn, were a unified force. And to show that unity, they had to be a force of numbers.

Gone, too, were the sacrifices that had filled Muirenn’s thoughts. Thirty years too late, they thought bitterly when the proclamation was announced. For some time, the Líadan had deliberated. The constant culling had put the common folk on edge. More than once, the Líadan had to keep them from rioting.

Each transgression was instead marked on Miurenn’s body, a suggestion pioneered by the temple’s newest elder. Whip lashes, burn marks, thin and fading scars . . . Muirenn never knew what to expect when the elders dragged them to the quiet room. Still, powerless, they had no way to stop it.

#

The elder’s face had sunken, leaving his post-mortem complexion sallow and waxy. As the pyre was lit, his skin dripped from his bones in hissing rivulets. The Líadan had not wanted to grant him even this.

Muirenn begged for his funeral rites, met at first with derision. He’d tried to run away, after all. Still, the Líadan were devoted to their goddexx. After days spent pleading, the elders finally agreed.

They stared now at the fresh lashes on their forearms, healing under whatever tingly poultice the elders had put on them. Harm and heal, a vicious cycle. After a moment, they were bored of the sight. They wiped their palms on their robes, satisfied with the streaks of grey left behind. If they gave their clothes a careful eye, they could see the bloodstains that hadn’t been washed out yet, too. Something about the uncleanliness made the corners of their mouth twitch. For a while longer, the elder’s influence would remain in their clothes. It was the closest they’d get to mourning.

The poultice on the back of their hand tingled. Sweat—or perhaps blood—dripped down their spine. A wet patch formed in their robes. As they reached back to check, they brushed against something solid. Something . . . foreign.

Muirenn felt around the edges, confused. Whatever the object was, it was small and flat and mostly round. Then, as they traced over one of the sides, it came to them.

The coin. Muirenn’s gentle thumbstrokes became desperate rubs.

This coin is as old as the gods.

Muirenn shook the words away. They weren’t sure they even believed in gods anymore, but maybe . . .

With an erratic heart, they reached under their robes and tugged at the hidden pocket. Hiding the coin had become a necessity. Though they swore reverence in Muirenn’s name, Muirenn knew the Líadan were more afraid of what they could not control.

They rolled the coin on their palm and clenched it tight.

#

The sea remained unchanged, waves rolling in and out and soaking Muirenn’s toes.

Then, as hopelessness crept into their thoughts, a ripple. Hands of ice gripped their skull, touched deep into Muirenn’s mind. The weight around their neck fell away. Clouds of pewter crept in from the horizon.

For the first time they could remember, Muirenn wanted to laugh. I’m doing it, they thought around a wince. The ocean. Can I . . .?’

The icy hands gripped their skull tighter until it was close to bursting. Always with the hands. Always—

Muirenn clutched fistfuls of their own hair and swallowed down a scream. Ringing filled their ears. The waves surged up to their calves. A voice slipped into their thoughts, deep and rumbling and primordial.

Prove your worth if you wish to have control.

As the ghastly words faded to nothing, the ocean reared back. A massive tidal wave crashed against the docks, bowling Muirenn over. When it receded, it took them with it.

At first, they couldn’t comprehend what had happened. In their sudden panic, the breath escaped them in a rush of bubbles.

Bubbles . . . Water. I’m . . .’

Each breath became its own sort of misery. As hard as Muirenn fought, the sea fought harder, until Muirenn couldn’t breathe anymore. Saltwater choked the fight out of them.

As the sea turned black, Muirenn had one final thought. It seems my wish has been granted.

They couldn’t move, but they weren’t scared. For the first time in decades, they were at peace. The saltwater stung their eyelids. Would it be so bad to let them close for good?

As Muirenn surrendered, the ocean decided to spit them out.

Muirenn crashed against the docks hard enough to vomit. Wave after wave of blood and bile and saltwater spewed from them unfettered, painting the dock with flecks of red and green. The world spun on its axis and refused to settle.

They were half-dead. Half-dead, but still alive. Despair wrenched their guts with a knife.

I don’t understand. I should have died. I don’t understand.

Muirenn tried to crawl and found only splinters under their nails. They weren’t strong enough to throw themself back.

I . . . should’ve . . . died.

Salt framed their eyes and stabbed their fragile retinas. They had failed. The Líadan would find them, a half-drowned rat playing at being a goddexx. Perhaps the elders would invent a new torture for this transgression.

The coin did nothing.

A gentle licking came from the soles of their feet, ticklish but easy to ignore after decades of living by the sea. Muirenn tried to sit up, rage and despair their sole motivator in this new tidal wave of anguish.

Then the tickling stopped. A strange firmness washed over them and lifted Muirenn upright. They found themselves standing on the docks.

No, not standing, they realized as they stared between their feet. Floating.

No. I couldn’t have . . .’

Somewhere in the back of their head slept memories of an older time. All they’d had to do was point and tempests would heed their wishes.

Muirenn swirled their finger over the pool at their feet. At once, a small vortex bubbled to life. And, they noted with a choked laugh, the headache plaguing them for years was gone.

Flashes of an old life fueled their actions. They made the waves dance at their heels, testing it. Only when they were satisfied did they throw their hands up, a victorious crescendo, and watch the sea crash around them.

Their attempts ended with them face-down on the docks. Every inch of their body ached. Still, they picked themself back up with a clenched jaw and a victorious shout, replanted themself in the center of the whirlpool, and rode the tempest up Cicaro Hill.