The Tides of Destruction

Chapter One

Depths

The wind blew across the rippling waters of the vast sea, the waves churning and foaming as they rolled with the motion of the cool morning air, mingling, becoming one with the oppressive cloud of fog that had settled atop the blue nothingness. To the casual eye, it appeared as though the water moved of its own accord, undisturbed by the countless denizens that dwelled within its cool embrace. But one who assumed as much would be terribly mistaken.

For if one looked closely enough, if one observed with purpose and care, fighting through the fog, one could see a shape gliding along just beneath the glassy surface of the waters, riding the tide as one might skate atop a smooth sheet of ice. Yet if one looked away for an instant, the figure would be gone as quickly as it had appeared, destined to be thought of as little more than a figment of the beholder's imagination, the product of a delusional mind that had spent far too long at sea, away from the family and friends that dwelled upon the Continent.

But the figure was no figment of the imagination, no conjuration of an agitated mind. No; she was, in fact, all too real.

Her pale skin contrasted with the inky blackness of her flowing hair, her hazel eyes glistening and gleaming upon her beautiful countenance as she charted the path through the waves before her. She wore no clothing, no elaborate garments that might constrain the fluidity of her movement, save for the pair of shells she used to cover and support the weight of her bosom. At first glance, one might dismiss her as little more than a mortal woman; a beautiful woman, but a woman nonetheless.

Until, that is, one caught sight of the crimson scales that merged with her ivory flesh at the waist, travelling down her body, glistening amidst the waters. Scales that covered not a pair of thin, womanly legs, but rather a long, powerful limb shaped much like a fish's tail; a limb that, capped with an exquisite pair of pale red fins, propelled her effortlessly through the churning, surging ocean waters that were her home.

For this incredible creature was no mere woman. Rather, she was the embodiment of the legends of Men, a member of the long sought after but rarely-sighted race that in the language of her people was called the Véldenthem. Her name was Sélene. And at the moment, she was searching.

Surfacing, her hazel eyes widened as, through the dense fog, she saw it. Not far ahead was one of the large vessels of wood the land-dwellers—the Erthwélethwain—called a "ship." Her blood turned cold as she beheld the majestic vessel—once mighty and proud, now battered and broken—swathed in flame, a warning to those foolish enough to dare to oppose those who had wrought such terrible destruction.

That is the third in the last fortnight, she thought to herself. They are growing bolder . . . more aggressive . . . more violent.

With a powerful thrust from her fin, Sélene dove beneath the waves, quickening her pace, bracing herself for the inevitable scene of death she knew accompanied such wanton violence. Her worst fears were confirmed as she swam through the gaping hole in the hull of the ship. The lower deck was completely flooded, awash in salty liquid. She felt her heart fill with sadness as her eyes were greeted by a dozen pairs of sightless, desperate eyes, the faces of the entrapped men frozen forever in horror, in desperation. They must have suffered terribly, Sélene thought as her mind conjured a reenactment of the scene before her, a scene she had witnessed far too many times in recent days: panicked men trying to escape the watery grave to which they had been consigned as they fruitlessly clawed at the door now blockaded by piles of broken debris, their cries turning to chokes of anguish as they slowly drowned on the rushing water that filled their lungs.

Propelling herself through a hole in the ceiling, Sélene moved to the next level, careful to avoid the flames threatening to burst through the top deck above. Looking about, she was greeted by a similarly morbid sight. This is hopeless, she thought to herself. There is nothing . . . no one left.

As she flipped herself over with a flick from her tail, prepared to depart, to escape this once-proud vessel that had now become a watery graveyard, she heard a sputtering, coughing sound. Whirling about, she gasped in amazement as her eyes beheld a man desperately struggling to keep his head above the rapidly-ascending waters. His face was contorted in a look of pure panic, the water nearly covering his head, his eyes, nose, and mouth the only visible sign that he was present at all.

Sélene was at his side in an instant. Taking his face in her hands, she carefully lifted his head above the water, her shimmering hazel eyes boring into his own. "Listen to me," she commanded, her words pouring forth in the Common Tongue, the language of the Erthwélethwain she had secretly taught herself years earlier, her tone calm, soothing.

The man's eyes widened in astonishment as he beheld the beautiful creature of myth that had now manifested herself before him. He opened his mouth to question what he was seeing, but his words were cut off by a sudden surge of the rising waters, the liquid flowing into his mouth and nose, causing him to begin choking once more.

Sensing the man had precious little time left, Sélene took a deep breath, filling her lungs—her lungs that, like those belonging to all of her race, were capable of extracting oxygen from both air and water—completely. Pressing her lips to the man's mouth, she exhaled, pouring forth life-giving breath, allowing the man to breathe once more.

Not wasting a second, Sélene took hold of the man's hand, pulling him close. "If you wish to live, take a deep breath," she ordered. "And whatever you do, do not let go."

Too amazed to oppose her instructions, the man did as she ordered, sucking the last precious vestiges of air from the nearly-flooded ship. Sélene immediately engaged her powerful fluke, pulling the man beneath the waters, her hand like a vice upon the man's wrist as she quickly surged through the dilapidated remains of the vessel. Pulling herself and the man through the hole in the hull, she glanced over her shoulder, concerned for the man's well-being. Her heart sank into the pit of her stomach as she saw his head rolled back, his eyes closed, his lips beginning to turn blue.

With a loud cry, Sélene doubled her pace, her pale red fins a blur of motion as she propelled herself toward the surface. Just when she thought she had failed, that she was too late, she felt her head break through the raging waves, her skin greeted by the warmth of sunshine upon her face. Brushing her damp hair from her eyes, she quickly turned her attention the man in her arms. Coughing, choking, he gasped as water erupted from his lungs, pouring down his lips as his lungs savored the sweet reward of pure, unadulterated air. His breathing stabilizing, the man lapsed into unconsciousness, his body and spirit exhausted by his trying ordeal.

As she held him in her arms, Sélene noticed the bag upon the man's back. Carefully maintaining her grip on him with one arm, she reached in with the other, searching for some clue as to the man's origin. She retrieved a soaked piece of parchment from the bag, bringing it before her eyes, reading the language of the Erthwélethwain, knowing full well that if her kin—if her father—were to discover she could do so, the consequences would be . . .

Her eyes widened as she realized what she was reading. This must be his identification document. Her gaze fell upon the line listing his nation of origin, a single word listed upon it: "Arendelle."

She frowned as she reflected upon this information. They are growing bolder, she thought. The Erthwélethwain . . . Are none of them safe? How long before these monsters terrorize all of the realms into submission?

A chill ran down her spine as a horrible notion entered her mind. And what then? Will they stop there? Or will they come for us as well? Even though we are unknown to them, the legends . . . Someone will believe them. It is only a matter of time . . .

Squinting through the slowly-dissipating fog, she smiled slightly as she saw the large swath of land not far away. Turning her attention to the slumbering man in her arms, she cupped his chin in her hand. "Da nah lehah forthwélemay," she whispered. "You are lucky I found you. Do not worry. I will take you home now."

Flipping about, she kicked her fin, dragging the man in her arms toward the land known as Arendelle, careful to keep his head from falling beneath the constantly-churning waters. Pushing herself to the limits of her strength, she carried on despite the strain on her muscles, knowing that the man's life depended entirely upon her. She knew the others of her race would have no qualms about letting a Man, one of the Erthwélethwain, die; in fact, most would relish the opportunity to see one perish. But she . . . She had come to realize she could not turn away from a life in need of rescuing, that despite breaking every law of her people when it came to interaction with the land-dwellers, she could not remain idle. For years, she had been secretly rescuing victims of the sea' s wrath. She had yet to lose a man to death, and she was certainly not about to begin now.

Finally, just when she felt her fluke could kick no more, she realized she had arrived on the outskirts of the land the Erthwélethwain called the Continent,at the great fjord on the coast of the mighty land known by Men as Arendelle. Sélene approached the banks of the fjord cautiously; she had learned long ago to remain hidden from the Erthwélethwain at all times. Swimming behind a large rock formation protruding from the waters, she held the man's head above the waves while her eyes darted about, searching for an unobtrusive location where she could safely leave him.

At long last, just when she thought she could wait no longer, she spotted it: a small estuary, unfettered by ships, sailors, or the trappings of commerce. Marshalling her strength, she propelled herself as quickly across the waves as she could, the man's head nestled between her shoulder and her breast. With five furious kicks from her tailfin, she arrived at the water's edge, the soft sand warm against her abdomen as she carefully extracted herself from the sea.

Carefully, delicately, Sélene laid the man upon the beach, making certain he was far enough inland that the rolling tide would not wash over him, would not finish what those who had destroyed his vessel had begun. She pulled herself across the sand with her arms, leaning down to the man's face, her ear just above his lips as she listened to make certain he was still breathing.

The man's eyes fluttered open, a dazed look upon his countenance as he struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. The glassy-eyed gaze quickly turned to one of shock as he realized what lay before him. Weakly, he tried to pull himself to a sitting position, letting out a grimace of pain as every muscle in his body protested his rash course of action.

"Lie down," Sélene instructed, gingerly pressing the man back to the sand. The man's face—calloused and wrinkled with the accumulated experiences of at least fifty years of life, yet still retaining the vigor of one half his age—became lined as an expression of amazement came upon it. "This . . . This has to be a dream . . ." he whispered, his voice hoarse, filled with pain.

"Yes," Sélene whispered, running a hand across his brow. "This is all just a dream. When you wake, you will be back in your homeland. Safe . . . Secure."

The man shook his head as unconsciousness threatened to overtake him once more. "How . . . Who . . . are you . . .? How did you . . ."

Sélene ran her hand over the man's face, her fingertips closing the man's eyelids, leading him once more into peaceful slumber. "Rest now," she murmured. "Rest."

Satisfied that the man was safe, the Véldenthem woman pulled herself back into the water from whence she had come. Glancing to her left, she spotted a trio of men walking toward the estuary, no doubt taking a break from their day's labors. Submerging her body under the waves, she swam out to sea, making certain she was far enough away that she would not be noticed. She brought her head above the surface one final time as she looked toward the estuary, relieved to see the trio lifting the man, carrying him to the village.

Her task complete, Sélene dove far, far beneath the waves, her mighty fin propelling her sinuous form through the water as she began the long journey home. As she swam, her mind raced with activity as hundreds of questions danced through her mind. Questions that, to her great concern, remained unanswered, elusive.

I must speak with Father as soon as possible, she thought to herself. Even he cannot be so stubborn as to refuse an alliance with the Erthwélethwain of Arendelle. Not after this latest atrocity.

And thus the crimson-tailed Véldenthem maiden made her way through the vast ocean, her being filled with trepidation as she sensed an unfamiliarly-chill current flowing through the waters she knew so well. Something is coming. Something dangerous. Something dark, disturbing. I must convince Father. If not, the tides of destruction may very well destroy all we hold so dear . . .


AN: Well, I wondered how long it would be before I heard the whisper of inspiration in my ear once more. We are now entering Book Two of the Voices Saga, in which a new cycle of stories will be told. I am extremely excited to begin this project, and I hope those of you who have followed my work so far, as well as some new readers, will come along for the journey. I am very pleased to introduce our new character here: Sélene. She and the others in our cast will be facing a great deal of challenges in this cycle, so I hope it can live up to your expectations. By the way, her name is pronounced SEHL-uh-nay (emphasis on the first syllable), not se-LEEN. Thanks to Loridhhp, as always, for the fantastic cover image. And now, as you have come to expect . . . more to come!