Stories of Terradran. Story 1: Beneath the Surface

The forest floor was a tangled web of tree roots, each one seemingly intent on tripping Elowen as she hurried away from the camp, her pace quick and uneven. It was the fourth day of their journey to Greenfield, and the second since they had entered the dense Cragwood Forest. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, which she angrily wiped away, muttering curses under her breath. Thomas, the blacksmith’s son from her village, had managed to make each day of their escape unbearable. Despite the tragedy of their village being burned to the ground, forcing them to flee, Thomas never missed an opportunity to remind Elowen of her supposed inferiority. His crude remarks earned snickers from his friends, who seemed just as unfazed by the devastation that had befallen Dawsbury.

“Damn Thomas,” Elowen spat, her voice trembling with frustration. The trees thinned out, and the distant sounds of the makeshift camp faded. Shafts of late afternoon sunlight pierced the thick canopy of ancient trees, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor. At last, the trees gave way to a wide clearing with a large pond at its center. The water was dark and still, its murkiness hiding whatever lay beneath the surface. Elowen slowed her steps, the peaceful scene before her a welcome escape from the taunts, the noise, and the haunting memories of the fire. Here, there was quiet. Here, she could breathe.

She sank onto a large stone near the water’s edge, her limbs heavy with exhaustion. She had at least an hour before anyone came looking for her—after all, it was her turn to help with dinner preparations. Closing her eyes, Elowen inhaled deeply, savoring the rare moment of stillness.

The peaceful silence was abruptly shattered by a splash to her right, startling her. Her eyes snapped open, scanning the area. Two meters away, near a thick patch of reeds, a small collection of items lay scattered: a wooden bucket, a piece of cloth, and a small knife. Elowen frowned—those definitely hadn’t been there earlier. The splash came again, this time from the bucket.

Elowen’s body tensed. She cautiously stood up and approached the abandoned items, her eyes sweeping the clearing for any sign of danger. As she reached the bucket, she peered inside, surprised to find a small fish flopping weakly, gasping in the thinning puddle of water. The bucket had a crack along the side, and most of the water had already leaked out, leaving the fish to struggle for its life.

“Not much of a catch, is it?” came a sudden voice from behind her.

Elowen jumped, her heart pounding as she spun around. Just a few steps away stood a tall figure, a faint, melancholic smile tugging at his lips.

“Who are you?” she stammered, instinctively taking a step back. Her gaze darted over the stranger’s face, trying to place him. His sharp, chiseled features seemed almost too perfect, as if sculpted from marble. She had never seen anyone so breathtakingly beautiful. Her heart thudded even harder.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, his voice calm, with an apologetic smile. “My name’s Eamon. I come here from time to time to fish.”

Elowen hesitated, watching him warily, though the tension in her shoulders slowly eased. Eamon didn’t move, waiting patiently, his gaze steady but kind.

“I’m Elowen,” she finally said, her voice steadier. “Sorry, I just didn’t expect anyone else to be here.”

“This place does that,” he mused, casting his gaze across the dark water. “It feels like it separates you from everything else.” His eyes returned to hers, and he offered another gentle smile. It was then that Elowen noticed the cloth wrapped around his right hand, stained with blood.

“You’re hurt,” she observed, nodding toward his hand.

Eamon glanced down at his injured palm, frowning. “Yeah, I was cutting a fishing net and… well, I guess I cut myself, too,” he said with a nervous chuckle, shifting on his feet.

“Let me help. That needs to be cleaned,” Elowen said, extending her hand. Eamon hesitated.

“You don’t have to. I’m fine, really,” he protested, though there was a flicker of appreciation in his eyes.

“I insist,” she replied, a small smile forming on her lips. She felt an odd sense of trust around him. There was something different about Eamon—unlike Thomas and his crude companions, who always leered and sneered, Eamon looked her directly in the eye. His presence was calming, not suffocating. Here, with him, the invasive memory of Thomas’s gaze faded.

“All right,” Eamon finally agreed, slowly offering her his injured hand. Elowen took it gently, shivering as the unexpected coldness of his skin sent a chill down her spine.

“You must’ve lost a lot of blood,” she murmured, carefully unwrapping the bloodstained cloth. The wound was clean and surprisingly neat—a deep but precise cut in the center of his palm. Most of the bleeding had already stopped, though there were a few smudges of dried blood along his fingers.

“Oh,” Elowen blinked, slightly embarrassed. “Looks like it’s already healing.”

Eamon gave a small nod. “Told you I’d be fine,” he said, though he made no move to take his hand back from hers.

“Well, let me at least bandage it properly. You don’t want it getting infected,” Elowen insisted. She glanced around and spotted the large stone where she had been sitting earlier. “Come on, let’s sit over there.”

Eamon followed her to the stone, his gaze thoughtful as she guided him. They sat, and Elowen studied his hand again. The cut looked almost too perfect, as though it had been made deliberately.

“Do you have any clean cloth?” she asked.

Eamon’s eyes flickered to the pile of dirty rags near the bucket. “No, afraid not.”

Elowen nodded and quickly untied the shawl from around her waist. “No problem, I’ll use this.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Eamon said, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

But Elowen had already torn the fabric, wrapping it gently around his hand. She glanced up, meeting his gaze. His dark eyes were deep and unsettling, but somehow, she couldn’t look away.

“All done,” she said quietly, finally releasing his hand.

“Thank you,” Eamon replied, flexing his fingers, testing the bandage. His gaze never wavered from hers, deep and unwavering, pulling her in with an intensity that made Elowen’s pulse quicken. He was beautiful—almost unnaturally so. His dark, gleaming hair framed his sharp, flawless features, skin so smooth it seemed otherworldly. His eyes, a shade darker than the sea at twilight, seemed to drink in every detail of her. For a moment, she couldn’t look away. A strange dizziness crept over her, a light-headed sensation that made her heart race. Was it excitement? Desire?

No, it was something else. Something that prickled at the edges of her consciousness, like the fleeting awareness of danger before the storm hits. Her chest tightened, but not from awe.

She stood abruptly, needing space, needing air, but the dizziness surged stronger, her vision blurring. The world around her tilted, and she stumbled, barely managing to catch herself on the cold stone.

“Are you all right?” Eamon’s voice was soft, a velvety purr dripping with concern, yet something about it seemed… wrong. He was close again, too close. His hand came down on her shoulder, the chill of his touch slicing through her thin clothes. She shivered under his fingers, her skin prickling as though his hand wasn’t meant to feel so cold.

“I… I need to go,” Elowen stammered, struggling to break away from his unyielding gaze. But her legs felt weak, the dizziness clouding her mind, making her thoughts sluggish. It was like trying to swim against a tide. Her eyes locked onto his, and the harder she tried to turn away, the more trapped she felt in the deep, inky pools of his stare.

“You don’t look well,” Eamon said softly, his voice growing tender but firm, his grip tightening on her shoulder. “Sit down. You need to rest.”

Elowen sank back onto the stone, as though her body no longer belonged to her. The strength seeped out of her limbs, leaving her unable to resist. “I don’t feel…” Her voice trailed off, the words slipping from her like water through her fingers. The edges of her vision darkened, the forest, the pond, even the sky, seemed to blur into shadows.

“Just rest a little,” Eamon’s voice wove through the fog in her mind. It was so soothing, too soothing, like a lullaby meant to draw her into a deep, endless sleep. Thoughts buzzed in her head, flitting and disappearing like moths to a flame. The fear that had gripped her moments ago felt distant now, like a fading memory. Yet somewhere inside, a small part of her screamed to wake up, to run, but she couldn’t grasp it.

“You’re so beautiful, Elowen,” Eamon whispered, his breath a ghostly caress against her ear. Her eyelids fluttered weakly, her head lolling to the side as she forced them open. His face was inches from hers, his sharp, regal features so flawless they could have been sculpted from stone. For a heartbeat, she was entranced again by the impossible beauty of him. His hair, once so luminous, now hung damp and lifeless around his face. Had it always been like that?

“Has anyone told you that before?” His voice was lower now, more intimate, his breath cool against her neck. The cold that radiated from him seeped into her skin, unsettling her. Her heart beat faster—not from desire, but from something far darker.

She tried to move, but her body felt foreign, unresponsive. A soft gasp of panic caught in her throat. She willed herself to scream, but no sound came. Her muscles, her limbs, refused to obey.

Eamon’s fingers traced along her jawline, the touch feather-light, almost gentle, but there was something possessive about the way his hand lingered. His thumb brushed the pulse at her throat, pausing there as though savoring the steady beat of her heart. “I can hear your heartbeat, Elowen,” he murmured, his voice taking on an eerie, predatory edge. His eyes, which had seemed so dark and warm before, were now like twin abysses, swallowing all light.

Her pulse quickened beneath his fingers, and she felt the shift—a slow, creeping change in him. His flawless skin, once marble-like, now seemed too smooth, too pale, with an almost translucent quality. The sharp planes of his face grew gaunt, and his once luminous eyes became black voids, staring hungrily at her. His lips curled into a thin, twisted smile, revealing the faintest hint of sharp, glistening teeth.

“You can’t imagine how long I’ve been hungry,” he murmured, his fingers tightening slightly around her throat, just enough to make her breath catch. “And how unsatisfied I’ve been… for years.” His voice was rougher now, a growl hiding beneath the words.

Her mind raced, the fog lifting just enough for a horrifying realization to settle in—he wasn’t human. Not completely. There was something ancient, something wild beneath the perfect exterior that was now unraveling before her eyes. The scent of the sea clung to him, a briny, earthy smell that mixed with something metallic. Blood. A predator’s scent.

“Are you pure, Elowen?” His voice turned soft again, mockingly tender, as though he were coaxing a child. His grip loosened, but only so he could lower his hand, trailing it along her collarbone, down her arm. “I can smell it.” His face hovered over her neck, closer now, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of her skin. A sharp tongue flicked out, tracing the delicate line of her wrist where her pulse thrummed beneath the surface. It was long, unnaturally blue, and cold as ice.

Elowen’s body trembled in fear, but it was as though she had been frozen in place. Her mind screamed for her to fight, to run, but her limbs remained still, useless. Tears streamed down her cheeks as his tongue grazed her skin, his lips curling into a sinister smile. He was savoring her—like prey.

A sob escaped her lips, a small, desperate sound that only seemed to please him more. His black eyes gleamed with dark, unholy hunger. “Oh no, no, don’t cry, my sweet Elowen,” Eamon whispered, mockingly gentle as his cold fingers brushed away her tears with chilling deliberation. “You are the rarest, most exquisite thing I’ve encountered in fifty years. You should feel honored.”

His words slithered through her mind, poisonous and cruel, as his grip on her wrist tightened. The world around her seemed to freeze in place, the air still and heavy. His lips hovered above her skin, so close that she could feel the cold emanating from them.

In that moment, Elowen realized that she was not in the presence of a man, but a monster. A creature from the sea, a selkie, whose hunger for human flesh had gone unsated for too long.

And now, he had found her.

Suddenly, the sharp sound of snapping branches echoed through the trees, shattering the moment. Eamon’s head snapped toward the noise, his eyes narrowing in sudden alertness. His grip on Elowen’s wrist tightened painfully, the tender facade slipping away as his fingers dug into her skin like iron claws. Before she could react, his strength surged, and with one brutal motion, he yanked her backward.

Her body flew through the air before plunging into the cold, murky depths of the pond. The frigid water closed over her head, stealing the breath from her lungs and wrapping her in a suffocating chill. Her back slammed against Eamon’s chest, and his icy arm snaked around her waist, locking her in place. His other hand clamped over her mouth, silencing any scream that might have escaped.

The water was like ice, seeping into her clothes, stinging her skin. Her heart hammered in her chest as panic set in. She thrashed, desperate to break free, but Eamon’s grip was inhumanly strong, his body coiling around hers with the ease of a predator pulling prey into its lair. Her mind screamed for air, but Eamon held her under with merciless control. His fingers felt wrong—almost too long, too thin, like they were designed to hold on until she had nothing left to give.

Beneath the water, her vision blurred, but she could see enough—something was changing. The once flawless skin of his arms grew slick and pale, taking on a strange texture, like scales. Elowen gasped silently, bubbles of air escaping her as she saw the shadowy outline of his legs, which were no longer legs at all. Below his waist, the faint shimmer of something sleek and fishlike caught the fading light—the tail of a selkie.

 Her mind raced as her body instinctively struggled, her movements frantic but weakening as the cold sapped her strength. The water felt endless, and Eamon’s hold never faltered.

Muffled through the thick layer of water, she heard voices—familiar voices. Thomas. Her tormentor.

“You sure she went this way?” came Thomas’s voice, sounding annoyed. Another branch snapped above, followed by the sound of footsteps moving closer. Elowen’s heart fluttered with a brief, desperate glimmer of hope.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” someone replied, his irritation clear. The surface shimmered above her, and through the murky depths, she saw them—Thomas and his companions, standing at the water’s edge. She could make out the boots her father had made for Thomas, only feet away from where she was submerged, trapped beneath the pond with Eamon’s deadly grip holding her down.

Her lungs screamed for air, her body writhing in panic. The realization that she was mere feet from salvation sent a jolt of adrenaline through her. Her body fought back, desperate to survive. Her fingers clawed at Eamon’s arms, and with every last ounce of strength she had, Elowen bit down on his hand—hard.

The taste of his cold, briny flesh filled her mouth as her teeth sank into him. His grip loosened, just for a moment. It was enough.

Elowen released a muffled, gurgling scream into the water. The sound barely broke the surface, distorted and faint, but it was something. Her body convulsed, thrashing wildly in a last-ditch effort to free herself, to be heard, to live.

“Did you hear that?” Thomas’s voice rang out above her, clear and startled. He paused, peering down into the pond, frowning.

Elowen’s vision blurred, her strength fading, but she could still see him. He was right there—so close. Her heart pounded in her ears as she willed him to hear her, to see her, to do something.

But then she saw it—Thomas shrugged. “Must’ve been nothing,” he muttered dismissively, turning his back to the water. “Come on, we should get back. She’s probably already hiding in camp.”

For a heartbeat, the boys hesitated, standing at the water’s edge, scanning the dark pond and the surrounding trees. Elowen’s chest burned as she held onto her last breath, praying for them to turn around, to notice something—anything. But then, as if nothing was out of the ordinary, Thomas and the others began to walk away, their figures disappearing into the shadows of the forest.