Things Like That Don't Happen In This Neighborhood.

It was a fishing village as far back as she could remember. With waves crashing against the grey of the shore, their foam soaking people through. And little by little, every time the foam landed on them, they got a little of the Sea; until they became one, their minds liquid as Hers, an array of emotions only She could ever fathom.

And oh, how they adored Her.

She was the Mother that birthed them all, the divine blue of their quiet lives.

It was a quiet village indeed, and as the grey and blue washed over them, nobody took more than they needed, giving thanks to Her for their food.

When the light couldn’t reach them, She delivered.

And in the middle of the summer, when the sun reached its highest point, they offered thanks to Mother for having survived another year, for seeing another solstice.

They feared Her as much as they adored Her; Her rage was dangerous, but it was the only home they ever knew.

It was a rough life, and they all knew it, but at the same time she couldn’t think of anyone that left. People stayed and the village grew with them, community gardens to the south, wheat fields to the east.

It was beautiful.

And year after year they prayed to the Sea, gave offerings of honey and salt, Listened to Her wishes. And year after year She delivered.

Until She didn’t.

The fish grew scarce for the first time in four lifetimes, the hungry mouths growing one by one. And people came to her to give them her blessings, prayers over the boats that left to the Sea, crying children that had never been hungry in their lives.

She called for a village meeting, going door to door, and people trembled, listened, for she was the Vatar, Master of the Tides, head of the Council of the Tides. They had been blessed by the Mother Herself to control Her waters, the push and pull of Her heartbeat, and she was the strongest of them all.

It was a quiet village, so when she called of someone angering Mother, she was met with shaking disbelief; things like that didn’t happen, had never happened; not in her time, nor in the time of her mother before her.

“One of you offended Her,” she insisted,” and I want the rest of you to keep your eyes open.”

She could feel Her rage in the white that hit the shore, in the fishing boats filled with water, in the violent shifts of Her currents. Never before had Her waters held anything but life in them.

It was when the body of a boy washed ashore that she knew. Somebody had killed him; a blood offering to the Sea, against their solemn oaths. It was blasphemy.

She had her suspicions, of course she did. They were talks of zealots trying to harness Her power through blood, in defiance to the Council and its laws. But she and the Council went door to door nonetheless, Feeling, Listening for the offender.

He was a boy of sixteen, blind with the yearning of power; he’d slain his twin for it.

This had never happened before, nothing like that ever had. The Council met for three days and two nights, mediating on the wishes of the Sea, trying to piece together Her rage piece by piece.

She had been tarnished, and She wanted the boy to pay.

She had been the Vatar for nearly four decades, yet the humanity of Her still terrified her. She was in mourning, an angry force ready to destroy with the pushes and pulls of Her temper.

When she visited the boy, he cried, begged for her pardon as the Vatar, swore that power blinded him, didn’t let him understand what he did.

She listened, and consoled, for she knew very well the demands of power -she was the Vatar after all, the human vessel of the Sea- and not few times in her youth had she yearned for more.

Yet, she met him as an equal. Spoke to him of the Commands of the Mother, finite in their regard. They boy listened and wept; but understood. There was red on his hands, and it was the only way She could be pleased, the only way justice could be restored.

That night she prayed to the Sea, her words careful, a child to a hurt parent, soothing as the honey rolling off her hands. She asked of Her to cleanse his soul, to choose forgiveness over revenge. She spoke to Her the way she saw Her on warm summer afternoons, the light dancing on Her, shrinking Her down to human measurements.

She was met with silence.

They put him in the boat in the morning. The shore was empty but for her and the Council, not even the boy’s parents had the heart to face him after what he’d done.

It was a peaceful sunrise, one of the most beautiful the little fishing village had ever seen, the blue of the sky speaking of new. The Sea was calm, the sun glimmering on the tiniest ripples that broke Her surface.

The boy understood, watching stoically for the most part, his hands dripping in honey.

A handful of salt tossed into the Sea, prayers spoken over honey, hands intertwined together. The Council formed the ceremonial circle, reaching out to her. She joined hands with the Elders and let the power of the Sea wash over them. It was a dark, pulsing grey, Her pain, Her disgust of being tarnished for power, Her hatred beating steadily as a heartbeat.

The Council took it all in. They chanted, raising the currents that would take him away from the shore, the pushes and pulls of Her heartbeat. He was to return only if She found him worthy of redemption.

She didn’t.

It was a fishing village and became so once more, Mother offered, and nobody took more than they needed.

And the Vatar watched, and her power grew.