Thalassic Gifts

He held the blood stone in his hand, the thalassic heart that had survived the dark waters that surrounded the island.  The bone-white foam crashed up the soft flesh of the beach and caressed his broad feet as he contemplated the red rock in his hand, almost as if it were trying to seduce him to return to its deadly embrace.  About him, other detritus lay, the skeleton of the sea-sleen wrecked on rocks now invisible beneath the cloak of seawater.  Some parts were recognisable and more than familiar. Other parts were mere unrecognisable fragments.  But among them lay a bench with the small metal lug-ring and the numerals etched into it, were a man might be chained for years of his life;  the shattered shaft of one of the great oars that had broken against the rocks; a slaver’s whip; a man’s sword.

 

Thassa took and she gave. She had taken his boat, and given him riches.  She given him freedom, but taken all company from him.  He had always considered the ocean a ‘she’ though he had heard others address the vastness as a male often as well.  There was no denying it’s sheer power, a masculine trait - but the seduction, the desire, the hunger and the mercurial nature always made him think of it as a woman.  She was a vengeful, easily slighted, ink-hearted, bitch. 

 

The man looked out, trying to spot any movement in the dozen or so bodies that floated in the seething waters, but he could not tell if any were moving under their own will, of the tug of the she-demon ocean, or the beasts that haunted her depths.  He frowned.  It seemed he might be the only one. Both a blessing, and a curse.  He would have enjoyed the company of the bear of a man with whom he had shared an oar, though not that of the brute that had beaten him once he had been chained to the bench, blacking his torso and head viciously, obviously a man of Port Lydia or who once claimed to be from that place.

 

Blue eyes fell back to the blood-stone in his hand - worth a fine sum, and yet, somehow, worthless. For all it’s apparent promise, he had recieved nothing except pain in the owning of it.  He had suffered horribly to retain it, and even, instead of grasping for an oar as the boat was sinking, had found his fingers curling around this instead.  Looking about him, the island bore little vegetation and no source of fresh water.  This stone was worthless, and he’d have gladly given them away if it meant he had a chance at life.  But that opportunity had come and gone.  

 

And his own choices had condemned him here. 

 

The stone itself was worth no coins.  He dipped it into the water and watched the rockpool turn pink as the dye eroded in the saline puddle.  Beneath, dark lines of ancient lineage glared at him hatefully.  Accusing forms shifted in the water, the colour of blood.  How lucky he had been to see it rolling towards him as the ship had pitched after hitting the rock.  How fortunate he had been to retrieve his prize, before the vessel had splintered into the sea.  The men of Port Lydia would not be grateful to the raiders for capturing him.  They would not be showering them with honours.  Instead, those who had thought to regain their honour at the price of his life by returning him and his stolen prize now floated around him, devoured by the sleen and crabs and fish who made the thalassic depths their domain. 

 

The Home Stone of Port Lydia weighted in his hand as heavy as a mountain. With this rock, his city should have been able to command their enemy to raid others.  With this rock, he should have found himself heaped with honors, gold, riches… Instead, he stood naked on the beach of some sand-riddled island, a collar about his throat and a kef burned into his thigh.

 

The sea could keep it.  Thassa gave.  And Thassa took away. 

 

He tossed the Home Stone into the depths with a roar that roused the mightiest of sleen in the depths.  

 

“Let them fight over it.  The prize is worthless.”