the sky stormed above as the prophet withered below.
she sequestered herself away on the main island, in the cave once used by the druids for their rituals. all around her the spirits shrieked, a constant cacophony of warning and prophecy. each time she closed her eyes, almalexia saw the figures of her children.
four shadows tangling in bloody dance. calling to the sea, the spirits, their god.
on this morning she limped out to the shoreline, mismatched eyes fixing toward the mainland.
she thought she saw a glimmer of gold in the distance.
behind her, a shadow rose.
haggard wraith. forgotten un-thing. crumpled skin, frame of bone and knotted hair. brinescent ate it, seagrowth clung to it, concealed it from nose and eye.
when it stepped, it lumbered.
as it came nearer, it shed kelp and shadow and became smaller.
and it came to a stop four lengths behind the apparition - black as oil and swollen with putrid procreation.
quiet. unspoken.
in its mind it held a conversation, in which the figment answered it.
in the absence of druids to tend the land, many unsavory things grew wild; a damp rot, sea-salted and wind-tangled. the prophet closed her eyes, awash in the scent of a silent wraith. she did not turn.
you are late.
the druids were gone.
or perhaps early.
eyes now on the swell of her own dark flanks.
the prophet turned, drawn now to full height, and regarded this creature of night in corrosive silence.
the apparition said;
"dost thou not see? they were once mighty, too! worshipped and revered. their demises doth mirror our own. we art but ants, scuttling on grains of triviality, oblivious to cosmic graveyards that doth surround us!"
the apparition said;
"you are late."
if stiff ears could turn, they would have. the chin lifted a breadth.
the apparition said;
"or perhaps early."
old chambers of thought unsealed. a myriad concepts rifled through. mind's tongue contorting to inconceivable shapes.
the option of that being a speaking, thinking being came last; the knowledge of words of power preceded it.
lips cracked, when they parted the tongue unstuck from the ribbed roof it had dried to, so that the hoarse,
man's voice scraped its way from throat to mouth, pouncing off the tonguetip into chilling, morning air.
there... doth be nowhere... wherefore it must be.
i speak not of must.
i speak of what is, and what has been, and what may be.
she eyed the creature. perhaps.
speak then, spirit. deliver your message.
and begone from this holy place. the druids had no place for transients in this delicate time, this vulnerable time. let the creature return to the otherworld once its purpose was fulfilled.
asphyxiated tongue traced the colored gums, dry and salt-encrusted.
they shaped a word, but did not speak it.
spirit...?
nay...there is none.
of the message. yet, verily... what is afore thee.
crevices of folded flesh deepened and rearranged; a grin.
swelling... pestilence. lo, when it bursts... cometh locusts. a swarm... to strip thee of thy flesh.
broad paws crept down to the waters, until the rough sand greedily sucked on them.
yellowed grin persisting on a dark face.
then, a spirit shall come... to etch warning... upon thy bones.
the waves swelled.
my bones were long ago etched with divinity,
sharp words. but perhaps the spirit would stay for a time.
the listener had always been fond of hearing tell of her own doom.
look upon my islands, spirit. tell me what you see. is it rot?
worse.
naught.
the waves pulled. the lips lowered.
reign... o'er stone, and salt. it shall come... and read thy hagiography... from upon, thy remains.
the waves swelled.