by Bella Vedder

In a world which is unbound by lichen-covered land or seething sea, roiling waves were quelled on shores of gold sand by a holy covenant, ancient as the stones of the cragged pinnacles towering above the swell. Upon the algae slicked rock, salty froth was dashed, splattering a spray of delicate droplets into the air, sparkling in the waking dawn like a chain of glistening diamonds.

Stretched across the dwindled heavens, clouds of filmy gray cast a faint veil, to which the sun, the moon, and the stars reel above, ceaselessly spinning, aging the world as the eras elapse. Each new age heralds in the rebirth of human kind; the young are brought into the world, and the elders pass away, and with them, knowledge that was failed to be passed down to the youth, vanishes entirely. The knowledge of existence, of the promise of peace, and of a war that occurred centuries ago. It was, as it were, buried beneath the thick folds of time, banished from the minds of the descendants, who were kindled from a people of noble purpose.

Above the ashen heights and dark churning sea of gurgling spume, a citadel rose—its narrow towers stabbed the silver-streaked sky like double edged blades. A mantle of gloomy mist, brought in by the dreary weather, clung to the keep, shrouding the limestone walls in a ghostly cloak. The lofty parapets were set with the withered bodies of blindfolded women, whose stone feet were fixed firmly upon the wall, and whose pale cheeks were bedecked with briny tears. They stood, arranged along the ramparts, confronting the wrathful squalls to the East with open arms, draped with gowns that rippled and furled about their slender forms.

The name of this sea-bitten citadel was long etched into the minds of those who dwelled there, whispered between tightened, salt nipped lips; Runeloráth, the fortress of the Knights of Daystar. This brotherhood of cinder and flame was long since devised during the War of Kindling, borne from the ash of a thousand fires. By their oath, they were bound to the weathered towers of Runeloráth, to guard the keep and hold back the devouring water; cursed to raise the sun from beneath the depths of the sea with each dawn. Their fists of steel and iron were seared by the flickering blaze, sparked between their bloodied fingers—their hearts pounded with an internal fire, mere pyres for their smoldering bodies.

Of these sons of Ember in Runeloráth, a knight of scorched palms resided, whose armor was as dark as the night amidst a storm, lined with a shower of shining gold. His helm and pauldrons were set with curling flames on the sides, intricately twisted in a fan of flying sparks. He was of the Night Watch—one of the knights who guarded Runeloráth against the rising waters, when the silvery sickle emerged from her slumber.

There he stood, erect upon the lower ramparts, motionlessly turned towards the ocean, and the rumbling tempest before him. Wisps of a frigid gale nipped at his neck and arms through the thin gaps in his plates, heavy tendrils blowing quickly from the West. In his iron glove, he clasped a creaking lamp, swinging hither and thither in the wind. The encased, trembling light casted a feeble halo of orange glow around the stone, failing to push back the smothering gloom. This lantern nursed the only means of protection that the knight had against fabled beings that dwelled deep, beneath the foundations of Runeloráth.

The knight patiently lingered, composedly awaiting the signs of a quiet, gray dawn to manifest in veins of faded yellow. His brothers would raise the sun, just as they, and their fathers had, for numerous generations; harnessing the inferno with withered hands.

Through the growling of distant thunder and the howling of the breeze, the knight faintly heard a moanful wail cut between the lashing of the waves against the precipice, haunting, yet horribly beautiful. He hardly quivered, breaking from his solemn drifting and coming to attention, straining his ears to discern the aching cry.

Raising his lantern, he peered over the parapet, gazing into the violent swell of spray, the dim light glinting off of his armor. Darkness enveloped the ocean, restricting his vision in a way that caused him to squint, leaning as far as the wall would allow. The sound immediately died away, swallowed by the furor of the storm.

“Ah, I must be hearing things,” he mumbled unto himself, resting his gloved hand on the top of the stone. Studying the ill-lit murk, he attended to the occasional shriek from the East squall, searching for the mortal, or being, who had emitted such a moan. When there was no glimpse of any living being, he nearly withdrew from the parapet to restore his post, when lo!—

—upon a collection of jutting rocks several paces from the beach, he caught sight of a trembling form, swathed in a gown of pearly foam, desperately clutching the sharp sides. The waters rolled around the figure, despite the swirling surf around, gently lapping at the rim of the rocks instead of crashing into them. The form raised its shadow cloaked face in his direction, revealing a pair of glinting, wild eyes.

Immediately seized by the unblinking lights, he wobbled forward, his glove unconsciously tightening into a fist. His hand trembled beneath his armor, quivering from a forbidden passion which startled and amazed him at the same moment.

He had not realized that he had let go of his lantern, until the sound of the metal smashing into the rocks below caused a shiver to run down his spine. The lamp vanished from sight as it plummeted into the sea, extinguishing the fragile fire with a sharp hiss.

His cinder suffused heart thrashed inside of his breast, scorching the blistering skin on his chest. Grinding his teeth, he sucked in mouthfuls of chilled air, never once breaking eye contact with the strange being ahead of him. An overwhelming urge fell upon him, beckoning him further atop the wall, until he found himself, dangling precariously over the side, gripping the stone. The flashing lights flickered, and the figure drew itself up, enchantingly swaying with the waves. The breath in his lungs and the pounding of his heart was suddenly stilled, and he waited, bewitched by the presence of this haunting being. Lighting exploded across the sky and—

—he plunged downwards, toppling head over heels with a smothered cry. Rushing wind roared in his ears as he heavily fell, dropping several feet from the lower ramparts hanging above the waters. Pain erupted in his shoulders as he struck the rocks at the base of the pinnacle, tumbling dizzyingly into the frothing sea. He was tossed around before being quickly sucked below the surface by the weight of his armor, slipping into the abyssal, salty liquid filling his eyes, nose, and mouth.

The knight struggled desperately, kicking and clawing blindly about him, trying to resurface before the ocean consumed him, suffocating as his burning lungs shrieked, and his heart was infused with water. He miserably needed air, but there was none to be found in the wet, stifling grave.

Several, dreadful seconds ticked by as he sunk, and darkness began to prod at the corners of his bleary vision. His mind began to swim and his muscles stiffened, weakened, arms floating limply at his sides. Water streamed through his lips, burning his throat and flooded the flame in his soul.

He was on the brink of losing all consciousness, when an ethereal voice rang soundly around him, wrapping him in the mantle of momentary stillness. Tranquil calm washed over him, rolling across his body into the churning seas, lulling the wrathful waves. He was no longer sinking, but merely floating, held up by the hand of some invisible force. All that he was, was quieted, silently listening to the chant as it drew closer. A rush of bubbles engulfed him, and as the final tendrils of consciousness succumbed to the water, he felt gentle arms grasp him tightly, and tugged, pulling him swiftly through the dark.

Hard sand piled underneath the knight as chilly hands dragged his limp body onto the gray beach below Runeloráth, tenderly cradling his motionless chest. Slender fingers ripped the black helmet from his head, and tossed it aside, placing the thumb and index over his parted mouth. The water that had filled his lungs came spilling out, splashing onto the damp sand, causing him to sputter and choke.

A spasm shook his form, and he eased into the shore, the cursed fire reignited in his breast, throbbing life back into his wearied limbs. The watering eyes of the being beheld him with a look of agony and longing, tracing the lines of his cheek with the tip of a finger.

The knight’s dark curls lay tangled in a matted heap on his cheeks, framing a paled complexion, brightened by the fire that coursed through his veins. Flames flickered beneath his closed eyelids, the inscription and curse of the sons of Ember. His features were twisted in look of a quiet anguish, the ache of life returning to his body. He stirred, lids fluttering as he was aroused from his unconsciousness.

“Cecílidaín.” The being whispered, pressing her damp lips against his forehead, and laid him down upon the sand. With a final look of yearning, the being slipping back into the ocean, adorned in a frock of ivory foam.

The knight remained there long after the sun had been risen, and the lights of dawn had flushed the darken hues from the sky before his upturned eyes, laying in a daze as the tide delicately lapped at his thighs. He was enthralled by the mere shadow of the unearthly being, who had tugged at the folds of his heart and drew him up out of the mouth of the sea, whose face he had hardly seen. He knew not if he would ever see her again.

“For she, she must certainly be, no male could ever replicate such haunting beauty and grace,” he mused—and a sickened feeling began to creep from the pits of his stomach.

A gnawing longing was all the thought he cared to nurse in his mind, craving for just a glimpse of his angel of the sea, “Oh, if I only had a way to which I could find her, then perhaps I could extend my profuse gratitude for her assistance—but, oh ashes—why did she not let me drown? This devouring ache shall swiftly consume me, all the more rapid than the waters of the sea. A mercy it would have been, I think, to be engulfed.”

After wallowing in his sorrow for a spell, he gloomily suspected that the rest of the brotherhood would be missing him if he did not go back soon, especially as he failed to return to his post when the Watch Officer would come for the morning debrief. The superior, whose grave countenance and keen eye for anything amiss, kept the Night Watch attentive, would have arrived to the lower ramparts, immediately sensing that something had gone awry. When he came to discover that the knight’s post had been abandoned, swiftly, he would call forth the guard, and begin a thorough search until he was found.

Or confirmed dead.

As if in a trance, he massaged his stiff muscles and retrieved his flame-ornamented helmet, which had drifted a little way away, and after donning it, he trekked up the steep, sandy slopes. Damp and clammy, he came to the grimy, cobbled road that led the citadel gates, oak doors bound in rusted iron. At his appearance, an alarmed cry rang from the guards on the top of the wall. The knight raised his arm into the air, sparks of orange flame seething in his gloved hand, attesting to the mark of the sons of Ember within him.

The gate was raised just enough for him to pass through, and a few of his brothers crowded around him, inquiring with a flood of questions on how he ended up on the road, and why was he not at post. They quickly dispersed when the Watch Officer, bearing a plumed crest of gold upon his head, approached, demanding an explanation.

“Brother Cecílidaín,” he croaked sternly, standing a whole foot taller than the knight, “your post was left abandoned with no trace of your whereabouts, explain now, why you have come crawling back in such a miserable state?”

The knight wearily told his story, or rather, an altered version, excluding the particulars of the being he had seen; it was late, he had been drowsy, and before he realized, he had taken a tumble into the ocean and was tossed about, eventually thrown onto the beach, half drowned.

For this, he was scolded for carelessness, but was let off without punishment and a warning to be more cautious in the future. The Watch Officer dismissed him, silently ordering those around to go back to their posts, leaving the knight to stand woefully in his sorrow. Numbly, he visited the chapel, mumbling his morning prayers to the Father of Ember in a weak voice. He then returned to his barracks and began a melancholy meal in silence, listlessly nibbling coarse bread with a small bowl of thick pottage.

He finished his breakfast, ignoring the probes and teases from his brothers, who had nicknamed him, “Wall-diver,” in good humor. Removing his armor, he wrapped himself in a humble quilt upon a straw mat on the barracks floor, his mind a confused war ground, unable to find rest in his afflicted soul.

The day passed slowly, he enveloped in thoughts of the alluring being, and of her voice ringing hauntingly in his ear. He could still faintly hear the sound of his name rolling off of her tongue, as if uttered in a dream, beautiful with each syllable. He was determined to see her again.

Dusk soon came, and darkness crept back into the world as the Brothers of the Daystar lowered the sun back into the watery depths, shrouding the citadel shadow. The hours dragged by, and he waited impatiently, until his shift was called for the Night Watch upon the lower ramparts. Swiftly slipping into his armor, he retrieved another lantern from the storeroom, lighting it painfully with his fire. He took his post, with the faint hope that the being would return, tightening his chest.

The ceaseless rumble of the storms to the East growled in his ears as he strained them, listening anxiously for the voice of her sorrowful cry. It was, as it were, similar to the night before; gloomy, grim, and thickly foggy. His breath rattled in his helm, muffled in the gale, sounding empty as he stood, alone upon the wall.

The miserable knight nearly gave up in dismay, crushed by the disappointment and the stabbing pang in his heart. He wondered in earnest how he could go on, forever plagued with the memory of his angel of the sea, bewitched by the shadow of her graceful figure. Gripping at his chest, he lowered himself to his knees, dropping the lantern beside him.

“Why am I afflicted so? Should I not simply be relieved that I did not suffer such a death, instead torn apart by my own yearning for the mere shadow of such a being? Why is there such a sickness inside, ugly and pounding, at the thought of never seeing her again?”

Through his wretched lamenting, the knight faintly heard a low wail, rising up from the billowing waves, filled with the notes of deep grief. He scrambled to his feet, coming to the edge of the parapet and leaning carefully over the side. Squinting his eyes, he vaguely made out her elegant form, silhouetted through the mist and spray. She swayed slowly, turned in his direction.

Silently, he listened to her cry, the unfamiliar utterance soothing his misery with every rise and fall, similar to that of the tide. When dawn arrived, she vanished, diving back below the surface, and gliding out to the East. Clinging to the fading memory of her voice, the knight slept peacefully through the entire day, his dreams waterlogged with frothy brine, waking only to take his post and wait for her to come back.

Several months passed by, and he began to fall further in love with the being, going about each day in the same repetition. The knight would seclude himself from his brothers, tiding himself with books and sleep until he was called to the Night Watch, where he would listen quietly to the voice of the being, casting glances at the rocks in hopes to catch a glimpse of her shadowy frame—then, restarted to begin again the very next day. Those closest to him became concerned with his wellbeing, inquiring about his absence during sparring practice, chapel service, and suppertime; to which he would dismiss with short answers or a silent shake of his head. They eventually left him alone, considering it a lost cause, whispering amongst themselves about head injuries obtained from his fall.

For a while, the knowledge of the being’s presence was enough to console him, but soon her visits became fewer, and the ache returned, and a sense of utter helplessness grew inside of him. One particular morning, he was especially downcast, reflecting on the loneliness he persistently felt, “When she is away, I am alone, and when she is near, I am yet, still alone. Is this what it feels like to love a mere shadow? Empty—so utterly, and wretchedly empty? How long until she vanishes entirely? Oh, I wish to touch her, to feel her skin beneath my withered hands; to see the lips to which such a moanful voice falls from; to hear my name whispered so fondly. But I cannot—for she disappears before the strength of the sun fills me, and I do not know where she resides.”

A foolish notion laid hold of him, and after he considered and meditated on the idea, the more it made sense, and appeared all the more agreeing to the urge to find his angel. Taking care not to draw attention to himself, he gathered his things; his books, what little coin he had to spare, and a lantern, stuffed inside a brown satchel, and tucked away in a crevice of the outside wall.

He gave a desperate prayer to the Father of Ember, before, under the cover of the night, taking his satchel from its hiding place, and slipping out of the supply door. Adorned in his black armor and a thin cloak, he hurried down the cobbled road to the docks only a mile from the citadel. There was an inn there, where he paid the dumbfounded innkeeper for a small room, claiming to be on a secret errand for the Knights of the Daystar, and would be taking off at the first lights of dawn.

The knight hardly slept that night, kept wide awake with determination for his success. He left before the sun rose above the horizon, imploring for a ship to take out East. The docksmen eyed him in silent awe, mingled with looks of suspicion.

“Does he not know we are not to cross into the East?” They muttered to each other, “tis’ back luck to do so—better not mess with the ways of the sea folk.”

“Fabled folk,” he corrected, “is there truly none who will grant me passage? Is there no longer respect for the ways of the Brotherhood in these lands? Come, I say! Shall no one lend me a ship?”

It took a bit of convincing, but an elderly captain with a white, speckled beard and sloped hat, offered his vessel: a medium sized ship with large sails, trimmed with the curling fire emblem of the Brotherhood upon its furls.

“I had been considering putting her up for sale, leastways,” he said, “—I am old, you see, and can no longer sail as well as I used to. As long as the weather holds until you reach the Squalls, you should be fine. I am afraid I cannot offer any of the crew, though, for they are too frightened to accompany you. May the Father guide you safely to your goal, flame-blessed.”

With many thanks, the knight set out, fueled by the vigor of finding his angel, managing the wheel, anchor, and line trimming with adamant speed. The steady ship rolled swiftly across the waves, rapidly approaching the dark storms that seethed the near distance.

He never faltered, even as the pale sky faded from gray to a deep black, and the rumbling became a loud roar that crashed about him. With difficulty, he steered the vessel straight into the heart of the storm, fighting against the ship’s urge to turn away.

Lightning struck the sky like a brilliant whip, calling forth the immediate flood of rain that fell from the heavens. Heavy winds pulled at the large sails, tugging the reluctant ship deeper into the tempest. He scurried and tripped upon the deck, correcting the direction, and attempting to hold the wheel as steady as he could.

Choked prayers were cried out, smothered by the furor, desperately calling for deliverance to find the one who he had so long yearned for. Surely, she was beyond the thunder and waves, he just had to reach the other side.

Large waves tossed the ship up and down, as if it were a plaything of a vexed child, throwing it about in a temper. The planks groaned in protest, threatening to splinter as swells of water bashed into the sides. The bow plunged and rose, sending an icy spray splashing onto the deck, further drenching the knight.

He gritted his teeth as he fought the rudder, which snapped back and forth, through the surging sea, thoroughly doused to the bone. Shivering, he allowed himself a single glance out into the horizon, hoping to see clear skies ahead, and was instead met with inky darkness. He lowered his stare to the waves, scanning the broiling froth, and jerked forwards when a heavy creak sounded from below.

The ship let out a deep groan, followed by a series of cracks breaking along the lower hull as it splintered, trembling in agonizing fear. Water gushed into the opened wounds, quickly filling the bilge with salty spume. The vessel screamed as a monstrous wave flung the broken frame upwards, crashing it down, ripping into two.

The knight shouted as he was thrown against the deck, and clung tightly to the rail. Planks wrenched from either side, breaking the once humble ship right down the middle. After letting out a final, shuddering crack, the ship sagged, bow and stern lifting separately before being swallowed, sucked beneath swell; taking the miserable knight with it.

He was pounded and thrown about, once again at the mercy of the unforgiving depths, swiftly sinking in a flurry of bubbles. The air was forced out of his lungs, and water flooded his throat, causing him to cough and choke as more liquid entered. Everything burned, and knots were quickly tightening his aching chest. His limbs weakened, stiffening to float helplessly at his sides. His vision darkened, and he quickly succumbed to the sway, lifeless as he plunged further into the abyss, until—

—he coughed, eyelids fluttering open. He blinked rapidly as his vision cleared, his senses disoriented as he attempted to figure out where he was. A gasp strangled in his throat, and a cascade of small bubbles flew from his mouth. Immediately he noticed that his chest was stilled, and there was no air to which filled his lungs, but he was alive—or rather, awake. Water surrounded him, and he floated just above a sandy floor, carpeted with rippling seagrass. He glanced up, and saw that all was shrouded in a deep blue, with faint rays of light filtered from above.

A swish caught his attention, and he beheld a familiar set of shining eyes. These eyes belonged to a being swathed in sparkling foam, wrapped around a slender body of pale and dark green skin. From her torso, long fins and tentacles drifted behind her, the flesh colored similarly to the waving seaweed growing on the floor. Algae clung to the long, jet-black locks, floating gracefully above her head. A shy smile tugged at the corners of her sharp lips as she hesitantly snaked about him.

“Oh, my angel—!” He croaked, his voice sounding oddly muffled in his ear. Relief flooded every fiber of his bones, causing a tremble to seize him, “Long have I been yearning for you, and—oh ashes, my chest aches so!—but my journey, oh, was it ever successful. Please, I have so many questions.”

She flicked a tentacle, holding a finger to his lips, “Yes, yes, I know you have, and I mourn how you were captivated by my voice, so! It was my own doing, the sons of Land have never been able to resist my peoples song, and with my dreadful mistake, you have succumbed to the sea.”

“Though I am alive now, am I not?”

“You are not living as you once were; fire and air no longer fills your spirit and lungs, and your heart no longer beats beneath your breast. Your heart now lies beneath the brine, engulfed by salt and sea, forever held by a watery vault. It was all I could do to save you, I fear—I could not bear to see you disgraced by my error! You are now, as it were, a soul of the Living Dead.”

The knight fell silent, feeling entirely cold throughout his body. The fire of the Father of Ember no longer coursed through his veins, scorching his skin and smoldering every inch of him. Finally, the curse was extinguished, from inside, and he no longer felt the throbbing of a living flame, for it was snuffed out for all eternity.

“Oh, my angel,” he said again, “for the first time in my life, the curse which has seen me suffer all my years, has been smothered, and now, I believe, I can now remain happy. I may not be living, but perhaps, I never really was anyways. You, my angel, have delivered me from spending the rest of my age in utter agony. Now, tell me, what is your name?”

She trailed a finger along his pauldron, “Isírse.”

“Allow me, then, lovely Isírse, to remain by your side for as long as you live.”

She took his gloved hands in her own, fondness dancing in the pools of her eyes, “Then we shall stay together, my love of Land, until I, too, succumb to the sea.”

For many years they remained together, residing in the darkest depths of the Eastern oceans, in foundations carved from ancient rock foundations, secluded from the folk of the water, and the mortals on land. Their love grew, as affection does in the arms of one you care so much about, and they found comfort in just being beside one another. Years passed, and the soul of the angel of the sea eventually departed, leaving the knight, once again alone. His armor soon became waterlogged and empty, covered in sea moss and barnacles.

No one knows what became of the Cecílidaín, but it is said that, on particularly stormy nights, when the winds are shrieking and the ocean is churning, if you stare ever carefully into the East, out onto the sea, you can faintly see the ghost of the vessel he sailed, rolling slowly upon the horizon: the Phantom of the Brine.

Bella Vedder (she/her) is a homeschooled junior in high school who writes epic fantasy fiction. Her debut novel, “Of Fallen Crows and Wolves,” is forthcoming with Trilogy Christian Publishing. She is a Junior Editor for Polyphony Lit Magazine and finds inspiration in medieval history, fantasy literature, and the landscapes she dreams of exploring.