Raef wasn’t the same, though the pain had indeed returned in force. Should the tales be true no one for whom the witch possessed, no matter how briefly, ever emerged as they once were. Naturally dread set in. Mrageden assumed she'd not known what occurred, but that was a falsehood. Never was she not present, she'd just lost all control. She'd watched helplessly shackled somewhere deep within herself. That wasn’t an experience she'd ever manage to escape no matter how long she drew breath. Not that her husband was much better off.

A new horror arose from this for her unborn child. Should the chicata fail to murder them both, would the infant also be so scarred? Was the witch’s unwelcome intrusion something the poor, helpless child inside her witnessed as well? If an adult couldn’t find a way to cope how could a child? Would this solitary event end them all? Was death to be their fate even if they somehow found success in all else?

Now, after such a traumatic event they were supposed to trust in the witch?! They were supposed to reroute back to the place that damned them to help her what? Save someone? Since when did such a thing ever interest the witch? How was this not a lie? It was all a game to her! It was well within her nature to toy with lives for a time and then when she tired of it, devour their very souls. She fed upon pain like the accursed chicata sated itself in blood.

Was it not more likely they were to spread her horror among the village? So they too could feed her with every involuntary shudder? How was it the two of them wouldn't be feared in kind for merely having been touched by her? Would the rogues not kill them on the spot for such an unforgivable affront? Regardless of what was to be believed, Raef knew they’d both do no less had the roles been reversed. The witch and what was hers were not to be trifled with and now they all belonged to her.

In all reality, they now knew escape wouldn't be a freedom of any sort. Kittamur, even should they be so kind, would prove powerless to undo such a curse. It would follow them. It will follow them. No matter what path they chose the damage was done. They were forever damned.

The best they could hope for was to limit the damage by sailing away from her influence, but how far must they go? Who could say how far her corrupted mind could reach? It was natural to assume the witch was lying in her mock benevolence, so how great her fury should they continue northbound? Supposedly that wouldn't matter if they could but sail far enough and fast enough, but tear-huts weren’t designed to sail. The speed of one occurred only in dreams and storms. One was well on its way, but to navigate within the torrent was near to impossible even for her husband, a master of his craft, without the complications they now bore. What escape could they hope for? Even so, how was it possible for their fate to be any brighter by cooperating with something so evil?

Was it not better to attempt escape and for it, die outright? That, however, was not the way of the witch. The tales told horrors of long drawn out courtships where all one loved fell away piece by piece before the end beckoned nigh. With little else to live for one would beg for the end, bestowing the witch with untold delight. A quicker death would prove more feasible from the rogues of Lagoon, but death was still death. How did one choose between them?

Even as the stress broke her, the clouds drew a presumptuous close on the light of day, accentuating all that was ominous and dire. In the end fear won out with one word and even that was shadowed in whisper, in the futile hope the witch would fail to learn of it. Raef shivered with agony as she barely uttered, "Flee."

# # #

The first of the twin suns peeked from beyond the horizon giving a vibrantly new, but heart wrenching shade to the blood formed in a haphazard halo around Diote's fallen love. It seemed mere moments later she was at his side. His blood seeping into her threadbare garment failed to give her pause. In her panic she'd wished to jerk him from Mother Sea. Though she hadn't known it that's precisely what Alion had done at Shion's order not so very long ago. It didn’t matter. Diote was only 11. She couldn’t find the strength to move as quickly as she felt necessary.

She worried of it and blamed herself for Ciroc’s death while dragging him back toward land by his feet. She couldn't but see Shion floating nearby. It stood out a shock, but a muted one. He was certainly dead but it wouldn't have mattered if he weren't. Ciroc remained her priority and doubted she'd have the strength to pull free a fully grown man, much less the both of them.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Upon a solitary thought, the panic that stretched across her face deepened at seeing the high elder. Had Ciroc killed him? Could he really have done such a thing? Even if it was possible why would he? Shion held the tribal council's loftiest rank and presided over the final say in all matters. How could there have been a greater sin? How could death not be ample punishment for such a crime? Even if innocent, how was it either of them could escape both ridicule and blame? Did any of it matter?

If recent events were to be believed the witch would surely seek them out long before any punishment could be laid down by the council. That was assuming Ciroc lived, which was the only outcome she was as yet willing to accept.

So Diote pulled again and again, resting only moments between each effort. It seemed eons had passed in the interim, but as near to shore as they were less than five minutes. He'd been face down, but somewhere within that time she'd used the buoyancy of the water to turn him onto his back. It was only as Ciroc was pulled free from the greedy waters that she'd first caught sight of his grisly wound. Blood trailed from his right hand like a fountain. Her love was pale with death and she feared it was already within him. Not that she'd accepted such a thing.

Adrenalin flowed and steadied her nerves so long as some form of action was taken. Avidly, it was. She knew well what to do. Being born a child of Mother Sea, who of her age did not? Upon the Isle of Lagoon and she correctly assumed most everywhere else, drowning was the primary cause of death. So too were methods devised to counter such an imminent demise, but only should action be taken within time. For Ciroc time remained, despite the fact he did not move.

Though all were interned to Mother Sea, from the one of flesh and blood who bore her, she’d learned a form of mouth to mouth and was now put into practice. Despite being only eleven, Diote was skilled at the craft and this hadn’t been her first attempt or success. Be that as it may, nothing was happening. She did not stop. By now Ciroc's blood had soaked the sand with the ebb and flow of the tide. The weight of her knees had formed divots within it that were now seeped full and shown in the sunlight of bright crimson. She hadn't even noticed.

Time seemed not to pass, or at least slow in everything beyond the two children. When Ciroc finally came about even his guttural coughing seemed submerged. It may as well have been, for the blessings of Mother Sea were what poured forth from his pale lips. In the beginning it was something of a geyser. Then Ciroc instinctively turned his head to the side and retched up a waterfall.

He knew little to nothing in those first few moments and his body told him it was best to turn onto his stomach to empty into the sands the water that remained seeped within him. The tentative effort that was made towards this end suddenly reminded him that something terrible had happened to his hand. The pain had returned in force and his newly opened eyes widened. The agony muted the glorious dream of Diote hovering above him; her smile so angelic.

This was surely the afterlife, but if so how was it he could've brought this pain with him? If all was unfettered in paradise and Diote was present, had not the witch claimed her as well. He hadn’t liked to think of her as dead, but he knew the curse made such a thing inevitable. He reveled that at least they were as one once again. But this pain! It marred all things and blurred the sight of his love. He hardly even heard her though she was obviously speaking to him.

All things slowed. The pain radiating up his right arm stung wickedly with the slightest of movements. His mouth opened sluggishly as if so much a yawn, and then regardless of Diote's nearness, a scream echoed forth. There was only this one, but for a time it took on a life all its own. Then the blackness came over him, claiming him yet again.

# # #

Shirell stood as silent witness to these events, yet she did not stand. She could not stand. She could barely even remain conscious though the sensation of drowning had passed once more. So great was the suffering of her son. For it she could do nothing to ease either pain, though tending to the one would cure the other.

Not that an ounce of blood escaped her body, but still she grew pale as if something within the life sustaining substance had shriveled within her. Her lungs burned with the seawater that wasn’t present and her right arm was utterly useless, though no wound could be seen.

She'd been brought low by the event that should’ve merely stunned her. Never did she feel the full affront of Ciroc's woes, but her mental exhaustion had weakened the barrier that protected her. She wondered if she were dying. Would she pass even if her son did not? Throughout the event this marked the first time she'd felt any fear of her own, and not a watered down version emanating from her son. It didn’t last. As Ciroc fell unconscious once more, she did too for the first time, no longer able to remain tethered to the horrors befell them both.

Her final sight was of dark shapes descending upon her.