The Knight of the Deep
What is sacrifice? True sacrifice. An ultimate sacrifice. I’m certain you’ve humored this question before, but under what conditions? Were you safe in your bed, your mind’s tempered deliriums straying into a perilous cogitation only the worn hours of night could permit? I doubt you arrived upon a clear conclusion, for it is impossible to ponder the true meaning of ultimate sacrifice without first ensnaring yourself in a situation which demands it.
Though we did nothing wrong, we made a grave mistake. We never should have left our home.
My home? Oh, my home… It was a quaint cottage, its foundation resting on the bluffs of a Delaware coastline. Many a night we had fallen asleep to the gentle roar of the breakers’ lullaby. I reflect on them now; their foaming white tops crashing against the cliffs, splaying a showering mist over our abode. I recall the touch of the sea, the soft kisses of its salty spray. Why, in some sickening way, I suppose I long for it even still, for I know it is not to blame. Yes, I loathe the sea… yet I pity it.
The sea is innocent, commanded by wills not its own whether it be the wind who stirs its currents, the hurricanes who provoke its swells, or the monstrous things which haunt its depths. When left unbothered, the sea is serene, at peace with the world and all in it. A curious thing, this pacifist of nature to be so fraught with evil and carnage. Archimedes himself couldn’t number the despairing souls lost to the brine’s surging caskets, nor the argosies nailed to its bottom. Indifferent it may be, the sea is an aquatic tomb.
Nonetheless, I can recall a time when my impressions of the sea were not so conflicted. As I have said, I once resided in a sea cottage, nestled into the more pastoral regions of Delaware. I had been a father of one: a little flower dear to my heart’s garden and bearing keen semblance to her mother. Our love of the sea was matched by our love for another, for we had no other. That was, until the age of her years breached twenty and three, when she found herself a most handsome gentleman of affluent modus vivendi.
That is to mean, financially secure.
Though he was every father’s dream, I confess I harbored some reluctance in gifting him my garden’s most cherished treasure; years of tender love and arduous cultivation have worn away my lifetime, all in the efforts to blossom the eye of my garden. It was no small wonder he fancied so fine a flower as her and no small wonder I was disinclined to relieve my garden of the one flora not yet withered. However, I was powerless to their love as I am to the sea. I yielded him my blessing, though he required it not, for I fancy he would have broken into my garden and plucked the flower from whence she was rooted. Nonetheless, they were to be united and I was to be alone with my desolate garden.
I was too conscientious to relinquish her so easily.
Upon conclusion of their vows, I requested a boon: a final excursion betwixt father and daughter, for my feet have long forbade the motions of dance. Upon their agreement, I set out with utmost haste to rig a dinghy, for within an hour, the tide would swallow up the shores from whence we’d launch.
It was a beach of white grain, stretching along the coastline and padding the cliffs of my residence. The sand was cool beneath my feet, its sweltering heat long overcome by the evening’s ripened light. I remember a crisp onshore breeze tugging at my hair’s sun-bleached strands, coaxing a smile from my weathered lips. The weather had sustained our spirits in a bright mood so that my daughter eventually accompanied me in rigging the dinghy. I can recall the sight of her tugging on the forestay’s metallic line as I hoisted the sail. I remember even now the humorous state of her attire: a wedding dress, slim and simple, enveloped by the faded-blue denim of her overalls, its white silk spilling out from under her armpits. Contrary to the protests of her fiance, she cared not of the sea staining her gown and insisted it only attributed more character. I can recollect the memory with ease, these images clearest of all; I stood balanced within the dinghy, the restless shorebreak rocking my foothold. She remained on land for a short period, planting a kiss on her gentleman’s cheek before assuring him of a swift farewell and joining me aboard the dinghy.
How it strains my heart to remember her smile.
The onshore breeze pulled us out some leagues to sea, where we raced across the coastline. My hand remained on the tiller, steering us through patches of sandpaper-like surfaces. The dinghy tilted on its portside hull, tearing across the ocean’s surface at an angle most land-denizens might consider concerning. Nay, for me and the eye of my garden, it was naught but an exhilarating thrill. With the rising tide in mind, we made for the coastline, our familiar bluffs rising in the distance to greet us. My daughter fancied she could espy her husband in the sun’s dying light, waving eagerly from the shoreline. I squinted, straining to discern the images she bespoke of, but my eyesight was far too crude.
It was then a foul wind swept the main sail, swinging the boom about and nearly tearing the main sheet from my grip. Despite our tacking efforts, the squall remained resilient, holding our boat fast to the horizon. I ordered my daughter to relinquish her hold of the sail lines, bringing our vessel to a gradual halt. Retrieving the oars, we strained to paddle against the howling wind, our voices struggling to rise above the sails’ flapping dissonance. As we began to make progress, a violent current tore beneath our hull, sweeping the boat out towards the skyline’s fading light.
We paddled till the sun set, straining aimlessly for the ever-fading sight of shore. Within mere minutes, the sky was overcome by a dark cluster of cumulonimbus. The sight of land had vanished behind mountainous-black waves. Even the very sun had all but abandoned us. Sheets of rain pelted our backs and lightning flashed unnervingly close. Our raving prayers were overcome by the mocking boom of thunder.
As if to defile our faith, a wave higher than the cliffs from which I knew swept under our boat and drove us under the sea. I struggled to remain calm, plowing up through the water with every ounce of strength I could muster. With a sputtering gasp of air, I breached the surface, my head darting about for any sign of my daughter. Her denim-blue overalls floated to the surface, an effort of hers to be found. Though coarse my vision was, I followed the overalls’ path from whence they rose and located my daughter beneath me; her white-dress sparkled in the emerging moonlight, its bright hue engulfed by the depth’s darkness.
Indifferent of thought or reason, I dove to her, seizing her wrist. She kicked her feet and I fought, heaving her towards the surface… but to no avail; she felt as though a millstone had been strapped to her ankle, dragging her into the deep below. Nevertheless, I held fast, refusing to relinquish my flower so easily. I was drawn down with her, my eyes burning of the salt which assailed it. I could feel her body convulsing, her efforts of survival gradually dying. Even still, I refused to loosen my grip, to lose my flower. It wasn’t long before I myself faded into a state of comatose: my lack of breath overcoming all thought and senses.
Black.
All I knew… was a horrible black.
Upon opening my eyes, nothing but the same blackness could be seen, splaying leagues about me in every direction. My eyes were then drawn to a flickering orange beneath our feet, growing in size as we sank closer. My heart nearly gave out, for we were fast-approaching what appeared to be a chasm of fire, slashed across the black bed of the sea-floor. I had no strength to resist and simply closed my eyes in acceptance.
But we burnt not.
Instead, I felt a secure footing rest beneath my feet and upon granting my sight, I discovered we had alighted atop a curious pedestal, one set upon a towering monolith which rose just above the flames’ biting reach. In the fire’s burning light, I could make out gold figures etched within the pedestal’s tiles: medieval prayers and verses of a bygone age. Curiouser still, I found I was yet able to breathe, as did my daughter. My vision rose from the pedestal, absorbing the uncanny state of my surroundings: the great walls of the chasm rose on either side of us, a set of burning-white chains extending from the chasm’s bank to suspend a cross of marble. Bubbles frothed along the edges of the chains, as though they were of intense heat.
Suspended before us over the lake of fire was a knight, his wrists and ankles nailed to a cross. His silver armor, though blanketed with algae and all manners of coral, was devoid of tarnish. An ornate visor shielded his face, its slits hosting naught but a terrible darkness. In the chasm’s glow, I could ascertain a red stream wafting up from where the burning-white nails pierced him.
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To my great alarm, the knight stirred.
I could not describe his voice, for he possessed none. Instead, I could feel the desires of his will imprinted upon my soul, the impression of his thoughts violating my own. By this peculiar means of communication, I was able to gather it was he who sustained our breath. By his power, we remained uncrushed by the depth’s terrible burden. I could feel his will directing my mind to the pedestal we stood on, for locked within its tiles was a sword. It was a longsword, unpretentious in design and harboring but one ornament within its crossguard: a cube of black coal. I had not noticed the sword till then, for its shape was flesh with the pedestal’s craftsmanship. The knight claimed he could salvage our souls, if we but returned him his sword: the key to his freedom and our salvation. He tells of how it was sealed just beyond his reach to torment his millenniums of imprisonment. Ages have gone by, empires have come and gone, but the sea… the sea remained the same.
It was torturous.
I could feel the weight of depression in his soul and his small fleck of aspiration that I could help him. Eager to embrace what chance of hope we had, I knelt beside the sword, my hands drawn to the black coal impressed within its hilt.
As I made contact, a flash of prismatic light smote my sight, throwing my back against the pedestal with the force of its visions; I beheld a black sun, its writhing light set against a red sky. Showers of stars cut across the Heavens, their ethereal light illuminating a fallen world of eons past. Towering edifices crumbled to ruin, screaming civilizations lost far beneath the earth’s crust. Waves of celestial fire razed across the countryside, obliterating woods and bursting mountains asunder. Great monsters rose from the sea. So terrible were they to behold, I wished to be free of their sight; they were scaled sea-serpents, yet their heads were grotesquely humanoid. Their jaws of square teeth stretched open behind their eyes as they squirmed and wriggled onto land, devouring all remaining life before them.
The knight remained at the heart of this chaos, elevated above the sinking cities. The blood of those crushed beneath him rose to his shoulders and swaddled his chest in a magnificent cape of carnage. With defiance, he raised his loathsome sword to the Morningstar, an angel of blasphemous light. From this sword did the waves of celestial fire erupt, from this sword, dreadful sea monsters did plague the world, and from this sword, cities were swallowed into the earth. His very shadow smoldered the sun. The blood of his genocide wrought the sky in red. I could merely shake in unceasable spasms, my mind overcome by the revelations of mass slaughter and inescapable horror.
But it lasted not.
I could see now, beings of dazzling light, descending from the world of spirits to end the knight’s wrathful vengeance upon existence. Lo! The fallen stars were nailed to his wrists and ankles, pinning him to a cross of marble and gold veins. More such beings did I glimpse, a burning coal held in their hands which they impressed upon his lips and sword, sealing the knight in truth.
Into the ocean he was cast, his terrible malevolence banished with he—he who walks betwixt worlds of flesh and soul, he whose disturbed dreams stir tempests and summon tsunamis upon the waking world, he who brought us to this forsaken place: the fell son of the Morningstar, the Daemon of Deception, Nature’s Blasphemy, Lord of the Nephilim, Hell’s Fearmonger.
The Knight of the Deep.
The vision retreated as hastily as it had come. My daughter remained kneeling by my side, lines of concern creasing her forehead. Before I could console her, she reeled backwards, clutching her throat with a dangerous grip.
The sword.
The one image the knight now flooded my head with. The rage of his threat pressed against my mind, its hate constricting my thought to understand the true gravity of his intentions. He had released his ward from my daughter, the water now suppressing her breath. He promised to release her, to release us… if only I yielded the sword unto him. Lies are not a trait one can conceal in an exchange of spiritual impressions, for all thought and emotion are laid bare. I knew him to be true to his word, but… so evident was the malice in his soul, I was ashamed I couldn’t discern it sooner.
The sword.
To my horror, my daughter sporadically shook, her countenance a deathly white. Her hands reached for mine and I took them. She opened her mouth to speak, but naught one word escaped, only a stream of bubbles. I held her head to my chest, her suffocating body trembling in my embrace. I could feel life forsaking her limbs, a deplorable cold running through her veins.
The sword.
I was haunted by images of ruin and mangled corpses—all executed by the knight’s terrible will. The preservation of existence and generations to come resided in the course of my actions. If I was to save my daughter, I was to doom billions to torment. Only then, did I understand the true meaning of ultimate sacrifice and what it demanded of me.
The sword.
I gazed into my daughter’s eyes, their dilating pupils begging for another way.
Ultimate sacrifice wasn’t the loss of oneself, but the loss of something precious to oneself. How simple it is to lose oneself than to watch something precious be lost. Was it not a logical choice? A terrible fungus threatens to infest the garden, unless one flower it’s rooted to is plucked up. Does the gardener not uproot the flower for the garden’s sake? I could only shake my head, my tears lost to the ocean.
The sword.
Understanding, my daughter nodded. I could feel the escalating beats of her heart, rising in intensity as her breath waned. Her eyes were stricken with a horrible mix of fear and acceptance. I screamed, my voice uttering no sounds in those forlorn depths. The knight’s thoughts pressed into mine, urging me to grant him his sword, to save my daughter, and free her of the watery grave which awaited her. I could only hold her closer, the ocean rushing into her mouth and flooding her lungs. She clutched my arm, her nails digging into my biceps and—nothing.
She remained still, her white dress wafting in the ocean.
The Knight’s sickening humor pressed into my soul, amused by my own failure as a father. It told me of how it had waited eons for the inevitable arrival of one such father as I. The knight was a being of cosmic origin. So insignificant was I, that my defiance meant nothing to the grand scheme of its escape, for it could wait eons more for another of similar circumstance. As for me, I was naught but an insult of creation. It despised my existence for simply existing. With these final blows of despair, the knight bid me farewell, cursing my hated existence with life.
A deep surge struck my chest and propelled me up through the oily depths. The sight of my daughter’s corpse and the daemon knight dwindled beyond sight and my vision was soon overcome by darkness once more.
I had woken on the shores of my beach, never so disturbed to be alive. The Delaware bluffs stood towering to my back as I rose to my knees, screaming at the ocean for what it had taken. I had wished for nothing then but to drown: to join my daughter in the next life as I knew she was. I dashed into the breakers, the water rising to my knees before I halted, my cowardly sense of self-preservation overriding my resolve. Staring into the murky ocean depths, I was overcome by a great fear of what yet lurked in there, biding its time for another of my sort to ensnare. My knees buckled and I fainted, possessed of a primal terror I suffer to this day.
I was found the following morning, though I can recall it not. My son-in-law had led a search party after we had vanished, but to no end. Upon returning, he happened upon my sorry self. He claims I was found in a crazed state of mind, prattling on about nonsense in a language he knew not. Even when I had come to and explained my ordeal, it was all simply dismissed as a set of deliriums triggered by the recent trauma I had undergone.
I thought my daughter’s gentleman would have shunned me forever for that which I found myself responsible for, but… on the contrary, he has since fostered me, finding sympathy in my broken mind. Broken I may have been, I insisted upon the heroism of my daughter in the face of a terrible demise and that much he believed.
Still, what hope have I in sharing this story? Who’s to believe something so spectacular and appalling as this? I leave that to you, my reader. Don’t suffer this story to echo void in your hearts, don’t allow my daughter’s sacrifice to leave you unchanged a person. My daughter resides in a garden of kings and I shall yet join her. Before I do, I shall be sure some remnant of her bravery remains, its merits calcified in prose for generations to come. Believe me not if you will, but remember her. Remember the meaning of sacrifice… and my writing’s purpose shall rest complete.
I reside now in the manor of my son-in-law. He has taken fine care of me these final days. Though safe in the mainland’s heart I be, I can’t help but quake at the thought of what evil still lurks in those briny depths. How he resides there, all manner of storms and hurricanes, the power of his dreams alone.
He will find another, more complying than myself, and will be free once more.
The Knight of the Deep.
I am left to wonder what other evils must reside in this world, sealed away for another generation’s troubles… but it is not my concern. I feel death lurking at my breath, taxing my life even as I write these words.
I am old.
And I shall yet be reunited with my flower once more.