Neither Acissey nor Diote found they could look away. How was this not a miracle? How could this not have been a prayer answered? Largely, it seemed, they gave their eternal thanks to Mother Sea, to whom they summarily thanked for all good things. This belief remained true, though never had she acknowledged any such thing. She'd never spoken word one. She'd never been seen, much less touched. She seemed so much a deity conjured. Oh, but that was blasphemy. It was a crime worthy of being banished to, well . . . Mother Sea.

This was at least the irony Shirell had taken from such things. How else was she to take it? She'd once worshiped Mother Sea too. She'd once bowed down and bestowed all manner of glory upon her. What of it though? No blessings had come. No a ray of sunshine or even much of a silver lining. Quite the opposite, she'd been damned. Why? Because she’d been born different. That was the large and small of it, she now knew.

Whatever she'd done with her life only accentuated the belief she was somehow tainted, for which no good deed could account. Also for which no mistake could find the distant light of redemption. She'd been damned simply for being born. How . . . How could she?! What in Mother's name could she have been thinking to have actually emerged from the womb? What a devious crime! Even so, had she crawled back within its warm embrace the Council wouldn’t have found an ounce of forgiveness.

Many mourned the loss of the Council. Shirell had not. Family or not, a tangible loss existed within some for what they'd considered the end of the future. Alternately, Shirell saw such things as the birthing of hope. Tears had fallen like so much rain, but Shirell could only smile inwardly, near to psychotically, for who could find an ounce of joy surrounded by so much death. Yet, sometimes the slate must be wiped clean for hope to birth anew.

The wraiths lay accosted by death itself and all in her name. She wasn’t so sadistic as to not pay heed to such an indescribably selfless sacrifice. Seemingly, Ciroc commanded her whole attention, but he had not. Part of her remained forever attached to those that remained of her “other” children, of which only eight now remained. These she'd huddled near, or rather they'd huddled near to her, for she'd yet to move. She was not so much paralyzed, but ever was proximity an important factor in the art of the mind. She'd needed to be as near as possible to Lagoon as her limited confines would allow. There she'd begun and there she'd end, even should the effort kill her.

Her poor, poor wraiths staggered forward to be by her side. This was in no small part owed to how spent they'd become to heal her, but it hadn't helped their short journey or her deluge of tears that to come so near they'd literally tripped over their fallen brothers and sisters. Here was a place only sorrow could reign. All she was doing, all she'd ever done, was pick up the pieces of a life shattered. From the beginning her only hope was to recover what little remained of her sanity and pray to the Mother she'd once worshipped that it would be enough to keep her going until a new dawn emerged. Such never seemed to come.

Then Mother Sea fell away as her belief in her perished. How could it not? She'd done no good thing, now or ever, for she'd never truly existed. She was conjured from the nothingness and even now stole away the miracle she'd bestowed upon her own son. Shirell could not now or ever forgive such a slight, but to whom could she lay this blame? Mother Sea did not exist.

It seemed the world failed to turn before Shirell, herself, was crowned as all things evil, and subjugated to the lot of opposing Mother Sea. As such she was blamed for all bad things. This lie, beyond all else, had ever taken the greatest toll. She'd near to wholly separated herself from the goings on of that now accursed place, but she'd not managed to find a way to extricate herself from the life of her son. For that she'd harbored no regrets. Without ever being aware of it, time and again he'd helped her hold back the rising tide of insanity that always seemed to bubble up to the surface. For him it never boiled over.

Not that she'd no gratitude for her other children, but how were they not well loved and well cared for “pets”? She'd never found a way to communicate with them in any way not rudimentary. To them she could and had on countless occasions laid bare her soul and cried every burdensome tear, but ever had they stared on blankly. Not that they hadn't known sorrow or otherwise how to feel, but they'd lacked the means to communicate it. That was something she could no longer say. Those that lay dead at her feet were proof enough of that.

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She'd bury ever last one of them with the highest honor a witch could bestow. Her wraiths were so far removed from the lies. They were tender and mindful creatures. Much like her, they'd no control over the circumstances of their birth. It had never been their fault they'd appeared so gruesome. Had it been hers? Of that she couldn't say. It existed as yet another burden. Not that she'd ever minded how they'd looked. To her they were simply her children and every last one loved equally.

To Lagoon they'd existed as her minions and were sent forth upon the silent waves to curse all the beautiful children. Sometimes they'd even steal them away and as the tales inevitably went, devour them. Apparently the babies of Lagoon were a primary food source. She'd think it so utterly ludicrous had it not brought so much sorrow, as it was whole heartedly believed. This proved a simple thing with such a superstitious and inherently fearful lot.

Naturally, none upon Lagoon had ever laid eyes upon a wraith because they couldn’t cross the watery distance any more than could Shirell herself, but this was attested to a ghostly swiftness. All upon the Isle knew they'd existed, as propagated by the Council. Well beyond sight, her children's nightly howls sometimes rose to a din loud enough for wanderers upon the shores to hear plainly. What they heard was a deep sadness as each of her children had the gift and acutely felt her own sorrow. However, those that heard them attested an endless malevolence and a deep desire to cause all manner of harm. And why? Because much like her, they were something the villagers didn’t understand and couldn’t accept in any other manner.

The tightly bound confines of their religion failed to allow for such leaps of faith and the Council only served to bind them all the tighter, so no, she'd felt no sorrow at their passing. No matter who or what was awarded praise for her miracle, she'd looked past the sea of sorrow to find a glimmer of hope in their demise. And yes, she'd read a few minds to know well about their war, but how could that not but help? How else could the island be saved if not for slicing away the chunks that were cancerous? Yet, all the while, Shirell knew such things fell within her purview and for every last ounce of it she'd cull the blame.

She found she could hold it. She could survive her own damnation and all the uproariously high waves of insanity which had always accosted her. She could weather any tempestuous storm should she have her son, whether or not he knew her as anything other than evil incarnate.

# # #

Acissey, Diote and so many others huddled about in mouthwatering anticipation as the last stitch of Ciroc's ragged flesh was made whole. Ever had the blood remained a moat about the boy, but all wondered in earnest what would become of him once he awoke, because now healed, how could he not?

Nothing was so simple. Ciroc nearly died not from pain, but from blood loss. More than any other, Diote guessed this and soon enough her theory was confirmed. As the blood drained from his wracked body he'd grown steadily paler and gaunt; a terrifying apparition in someone so loved. She'd barely been able to watch, but how could she not? He wasn’t dead and she couldn't find it within herself to accept that he would die until he actually had, and perhaps not even then, but that wasn’t something she'd allowed passage in her damning thoughts. Had she done so, she'd not manage to cope.

Already she was on the brink. It wasn’t only that her love was falling away from this world, but she'd heaped the guilt of it so high upon herself as to barely see beyond it. Yet a brighter horizon prevailed; all her prayers to Mother Sea had been heard! Ciroc, her love, was going to live! He was going to thrive! For it all, their life together would be epic, his family, her family, the Council, the war and all other things be damned!

Yet this wasn’t to happen so suddenly. With each wave that rose the tide, Mother Sea taught them all good things take time. This she now knew as a lesson well learned and now possessed the fortitude to wait. For Ciroc she could wait a millennium. It felt she already had, but she could wait another if that's what it took.

Unbelievably a hint of color slowly returned to his features. He couldn't die now. How could that even be possible? Yet, still he hadn't awoken. At this a fear crept in; a very real one. She'd heard tales of people who'd survived grievous wounds before and some who'd lost too much blood and never returned whole as if Mother Sea had forever taken a part of them within herself as penance. These were never again able to fit into society as anything close to useful. They were as children, but grown old. As such, loved or not, devoid of a meaningful future, they’d often find tragedy through unexplainable deaths, with suicide not being the least of them. It was as if Mother Sea had given them only time enough to bid their final farewells and would then return to claim their souls. None doubted Mother Sea took them and not the witch, but still they were taken and usually long before their time.

Was this to be Ciroc's fate? The tears flowed anew. She couldn't think on this, but in no way could she not, for this too would fall squarely upon her as something she could've prevented. With it the guilt finally overcame the last hint of light on the horizon and thrust her into a blackness she'd never before believed existed.