The expanse was a map of repeating blue.  The deluge had swamped the world.  There was no one left who remembered how things were before.  There was no one left who cared.  What was was, and had been since before memory.  The inhabitants had more important things to concern themselves with.  Survival was a task never neglected.

            The fears were endless, yet what the rogues feared most was the witch, and then the war.  Here a bitter rivalry lay of which all had forgotten the cause.  This war raged from horizon to horizon for it was one of many.  Woe be to this blue planet; woe be to this blue marble called Shard.

#  #  #

            Mrageden looked out across the expanse of Mother Sea, to whom all rogues held sway.  It seemed he possessed the eyes of an eagle; always wary of danger, a never-ending threat.  Yet he didn't need such unparalleled vision to notice the seas golden trim, whisking over the surface in perfect rhythm with its host, Mother's flood.  The sparkle gave off a deceitfully blithe, temperate ambience.  The calm water was not equally warm and was soon to tighten its clammy grip as the last of the twin suns bid their final farewells.

            He too said goodbye to the day and headed down below into the all-encompassing waves.  The tear-hut defied the laws of physics with its warmth.  The unusual mix of tribal build long since ceased to surprise him.  In truth, it never had.  Was it not wise to adopt all manner of an enemy’s craft when it bests their own?  He'd spent the better part of his life growing up in tear-huts.  The wooden frame was sleek and, of course, shaped as a tear with its base spread wide and a narrow neck leading to a portal on top, bobbing atop the ever-present waves.  The tear-hut was weighted to just the right degree to be mostly underwater and nearly invisible to preying eyes.  The housing was covered inside and out with native hides atop a layer of waxed tar.  Whether or not the structure was waterproof on its own wasn’t a question asked . . . it simply was.  Yet his certainty was encouraged, as this one was of his own design.  Mrageden had to admit, why take the chance on any other?

            There was no railing or mast of any sort to make them visible to the more modern vessels, or anybody else for that matter.  With no defenses to speak of this was a matter of stealth.  The thin, blue crust of wood banded around the vessel's midsection was also a personal addition--as with everything else its purpose was to keep the tear-hut afloat by maintaining a balance and it had, at least in calmer seas such as this.  The tear-hut was expansive, revealing a single room with enough space to support a rather cramped family of five.  Yet it proved quite comfortable for the only two present.

            "Mrageden, it hurts."  After the hatch had closed, Mrageden looked down from the supporting rungs.  His wife, Raef, suffered the implant.  The council had given it to her, as was their purview.  They existed as the ruling body of all Lagoon, the island that was once their home.  They were men, every one, and pardoned as such to linger as shepherds to a wayward flock.  In this time of war they remained as few men could . . . safely at home.  This injustice was compounded by the very fact that justice was theirs to dole out indiscriminately.  None existed to judge the judges.  So they'd had the authority to inflict upon her the implant.  Still, that didn't make it right.

            "Bear it down, my sweet."

            "I try.  But . . . it hurts so."

            "I'll find the serum." Mrageden spoke as the tear-hut shuddered equal to his sudden movement.

            "No . . . I must learn this pain, and our serum is short-lived."

            After finding the treasured item he turned to his ailing wife, "I'll not be long.  The water will increase it."

            "Mrageden . . ." Raef spoke in a moment of clarity.  "You know it's no good.  This would be the fifth time.  With each time the effect grows shorter.  I must learn this pain.  Somehow.  Someway.  How else can I bear your child?"

            The infant’s cry existed only in Mrageden's head, though it seemed as real.  With a twitch of his brow and some reluctance he spoke what his heart felt.  "Raef, my sweet, forget the pain.  Forget the child.  You are too important . . . I can't risk both to gain another."

            "The child screams, my love.  The implant tells me so.  I hear another part of me going in another direction.  The child is me, and I . . . I am the child."

            "You are too important."

            "No, my love.  The child is."

            Mrageden knew it was the truth.  He could not speak and the fear crept over him like a nightmare.  His gray, sagging garment seemed to tell the tale his face so valiantly tried to hide.

            "Do not worry, my love.  I will learn this pain."

            How could she?  He heard the fairytales of implant births, but knew of none in this life.  The thought sunk him down to the grave, where he was sure he’d soon find her.

            "It's always painful, this birth.  I know not from experience, but I've seen it.  I've heard the cries.  I know I live this pain too soon.  This implant is a curse."

            He knew.  He too heard the cries from the past ringing through his thoughts.  Those cries all stopped too soon.  The pain came on too fierce and sudden, whisking their last breath away; that of mother and child.  Wicked as it was, this was by design; a form of punishment.

            "Do not fear, my love.  I've a secret.  It torments me that I've withheld it, but there is no better time to tell than now.  I, my love, am an implant birth.  My mother bore me to the eternal sea.  You know her.  You've seen her . . . and still she breathes."

            Mrageden fell back onto the concave floor, upon which balance was a gift unto itself.  But this . . . how could such a thing be?  He could not believe his own ears.  The joy that should have flooded his soul was tempered with doubt.  How could this be?  He'd never known of anything like this, beyond a tale to bring both terror and delight to children.  Yet, equally, he'd never known Raef to tell a lie.

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            "It's the truth, my love.  It was hidden and sworn to me to hide.  Her protection depended on it.  The rogues would surely have sought both her and I had they known.  When they had they would finish us."  A pause stood time still.  "To have the implant is not a cause of concern, to survive it is."

            This much he knew, but he'd never known anyone to survive it.  The rogues ruled Lagoon.  Permeated with secrets, the council knew more than the villagers on all things; they still do.  The implants were an accursed thing, preventing the birth of all who stood against them, justified or not.  The end result was the death of both mother and child.

            "You know it's the truth.  We are here because you so loved me, but it goes deeper still."

            Deeper?  How much deeper could banishment go?  Or to flee death, which proved equal punishment.  This indeed was Mrageden's crime, for he too was raised a warrior.  All boys were, of which every last one knew the day would eventually come when war called them forth.  It called Mrageden not so very long ago and he was bred to heed the call, but he hadn't.  Raef was under orders of exile and he'd not see her gone in such a way.  So he chose another path; one in which his farewell would be in tandem with hers.

            "Lagoon has brought us to exile that I dare oppose the council's ban against implant pregnancy.  My very existence does so.  Survival is a chance they must not have, because I fear, they know what may be possible.  Their hold must appear absolute lest other attempts are spawned by my example.  To this death would surely claim the army they have created of us.  I am of the cursed.  Our lot is deemed useless.  All men are bred for battle, yet we who cannot cultivate our own, we are put on the front lines of battle as fodder, while those free of implant birth the tribe.  This much you know.

            Those who know of me have kept their watchful eye on me.  Mother Sea ought damn them, every one!  It is I to whom they should embrace!  And you also.  You, as with I, have been marked for death.  And why!  Because you dared to love me.  You dared to embrace the implant.  Do not worry, my love, you will have your child."

            "I . . . I want more than the child.  I . . . I want you."

            "And me you shall have.  I will learn this pain!  Perhaps I am the only one who could!" 

#  #  #

            The bells rang true of Lagoon's pride, the conquering tribe.  It revealed a joyous clang to a bitter one; joyous for the honor of the conqueror and his clan, and bitter for the burial of the same.  An olden voice resounded through the empty trees, amplified within each villager by the power of the mind.  Yet telepathy couldn't save this brave soul, not in life and certainly not now.  Many a twin sun had set since the wayward soul had begun his endless journey.  It was only perchance the husk that had housed him returned home one last time, bearing a mark, a hand carved charm that struck a chord of memory.  So a eulogy of ancient origin, a rite of final honor, was arranged and given a voice.  It was an honor to be that voice and Shion knew well that it was so.  Though he was requested, who else would it be?  It was he who presided over the whole of the council, a man in yellow to represent the twin suns, and thusly represent the Fathers of all.

            "From the sea, born are we, and to her embrace we shall return.  Water is our eternal mother, the twin sun our father.  To these, our kin, our blood, we, all of us, shall one day merge; the greater of the two to the lesser.  Of that which one begins, naught but the other shall finish.

            A lad, Jerret was, only a lad, yet a brave one.  He was old enough, as the rite so said, so upon our Mother's fury a challenge was raised.  As all know, ease holds no honor, nor could manhood be earned by anything less than wrath.  So for pride's sake and our own, Jerret chose his path upon our Mother's blackened tide.  So it was, so it is, to our misfortune and to her glory that she claimed him for herself.  Yet he lasts, a soul upon the calm.  So many years swept away, but from the moment of his loss his memory remained, and will sail past our own end.  More than memory, a sister remained, Acissey, young, but now grown with offspring to call her own, four fold.  We bless our Mother, matriarch of the eternal sea, thankful, as she saw fit this day to return Jerret, our would-be warrior, to our humble shores."

            The often turbulent skies gave sway to the calm as a blessing from above as Jerret was returned to where he was claimed, but this time tied well upon a raft so Father Suns could join Mother Sea and child in pride.  A volley of tears replaced the rains as Acissey's youngest son looked on with a disillusioned wonderment.  Ciroc's eyes were wide and curious.

            At twelve he didn't fully understand the nature of the gathering.  He suspected from other wandering glances that he wasn't alone.  He'd never been to one of these, what was it his mother said, ritual something or other.  Not long before the event she’d taken him aside, saying he’d soon experience something new.  That hadn't happened so very often, not anymore.  Adulthood was earned young in this war torn world.  Not that he'd achieved that lofty goal, but soon.  “New” was exciting at first, but his mother's sullen look and barely controlled tears had tempered his skittish reaction.  She’d told him it was new for her too, and that those claimed at sea rarely ever returned.  She said it was a . . . a special occasion.

            Ciroc couldn't see.  He wanted to ask his mother to hoist him up, but she'd told him on countless occasions he'd grown too big for such things.  It wouldn't have mattered; when he looked up he saw her tears were no longer restrained.  Then in utter amazement he saw that what men remained also cried.  Most men had been tested and sent forth into battle.  Even his father, Esrin, was gone and had been for some time now.  Ciroc, himself was still too young, but would surely join him soon enough.

            He was, however, man enough to know this wasn't the time for such things.  He would have cried too, simply because of the sorrowful atmosphere, had he not seen his friend Diote sheltered among the sea of women.  His normally attentive mother was unusually occupied at the moment, as was Diote's.  All minds here were distraught, but not theirs.  He saw this as a perfect opportunity to sneak away.  As soon as he stealthily made his way to Diote he grabbed her hand in his and took off into the darkening, yet welcoming forest.

            It wasn't long before the trees enveloped them both like a blanket.  It was dusk before the confusing ceremony began, but now firelight was the only means to see.  Every now and then the stars peeked through the dense foliage.  They were illuminated as brightly as ever, but did not return the gesture.  An occasional giggle of a childhood waning escaped their youthful mouths and without a word they ran until they reached a secret place where the trees broke into a beautiful meadow.  The area was known and made use of in other rites, but special only to Diote and himself.  Why?  They didn't know.  It was where they came and played, alone.  That had to be it . . . alone.

            Sometimes he didn't like being called rogue and being expected to grow up to be a great warrior, like his father.  He just wanted to be called Ciroc and live with the trees, and Diote, of course.  Though his parents loved him, sometimes it seemed too much, or for the wrong reasons, or whatever.  Sometimes it just wasn't enough.  Diote felt the same, but then she would.  Upon Lagoon all had a part to play and moments like this were fading away into the nothingness.  Obligation and duty were forgotten when they were alone.  It was why they were friends, strange as that was in itself.  To this day his mother still worried for him.  "Why?" she once said.  "Why linger with Diote every spare second?  She's a girl.  Boys of your years ought not do such."  Then with a hypocritical pause.  "A softness follows."

            Ciroc and Diote cared little that their friendship was such a problem, but now wasn't the time to think.  Far from it . . . now was the time to play.  And play they did, until the noises came.  Ciroc heard it first well within the confines of his mind and then their special place was flooded with familiar voices screaming their names; Acissey leading the parade.