The moon was high in the late night sky, its pale glow reflecting off the restless water beneath it. As the minutes of the moon's watch passed the ever moving ocean continued to roll back and forth upon the stone and wood that were the foundation of Vinay Del Zexay; each wave a silent force of power, a bastion of continuity, and the embodiment of time's constant passage.
At times of wave of greater build then usual would come rolling atop the water towards the sleeping city. Those strong waves would collide with the rock and mortar and find their peace in a triumphant crash, an explosion of energy harvested from all the unknown depths of the great ocean, the death of power and life that none would ever hear nor care for. A message from the ocean, carried on the wings of power, sacrificed to the works of the world, and no soul any wiser for the effort.
The ocean had lived in this manner for eons beyond memory, even its own, for all life is brought into existence before it truly understands existence. The ocean is merely cursed to suffer the fate of a world beyond understanding it, and time so swift that nothing holds to the land, or even the land holds to itself, for time enough to learn the language of the water. Wind and weight force the water to dance and swirl in apparent submissive powerlessness, throwing water to all regions of the world, sending its very essence crashing to futility upon the ever changing land. Occasionally the ocean would defy the controls of the wind and send out a force larger then normal, a wave capable of changing the land at times, or even destroying the land. These waves were not destroyers though, they were messengers. They were a cry, a pained scream to the sky and the land for attention, for notice, for understanding. Memories rested in these constructs of water, memories of all the ocean had known since it first had strength to remember, and with the breaking of these waves the ocean could bid farewell to the painful, lonely past that it had known for too long. It was all the ocean could do in a world where it was so vocal yet mute—forget.
Another wave rolled to its death upon the walls of the Zexen capital but part of the wave never found the cold end of the stone, something small and warm impeded its progress. The ocean lapped at the unexpected form, wondering that it never noticed the object. The ocean could feel every part of itself, it knew all of what graced and existed within its cold self at all times, yet this it had not noticed. It absorbed the dimensions of the object, taking it into its mind and searching for comparisons to other such things the ocean had known throughout its existence. The water felt it recognized what had intruded upon it, felt a resemblance to something the water had known countless times before.
But something was different this time. Something reached out from the warmth and pleaded with the water—pleaded. The ocean burst into life, its mind awoke from some deeper calm it had thought never to end. Whatever the object was, it had talked, spoken to the ocean. No voice in all the many hallows of time had ever been capable of speaking with the ocean, of understanding its language and the life contained within the endless folds of blue. Joy, an emotion not a part of the water for so great a time, filled the ocean and it greeted the object with a hearty welcome.
There was no joy in the object though, its small pronged figure remained motionless and a weak voice escaped it; a voice that could barely utter a sound beyond a pained cry. The ocean was familiar with such a cry; it had suffered many a passing of life by hiding within its form and letting the anguish out in unintelligible sobs. It comforted the object though, rolling across the entity in gentle ebbs and flows, hoping to relax the object and hear the tale that hurt it so. For any tale would please the ocean, after all of time in solitude, it had the chance to hear of life from another, it would not miss this chance. Again it spoke comfort to the life and begged it tell its tale of trial and torture, that the ocean may be able to comfort it.
A voice flowed from the object slowly, a calm voice, refined and coherent, as if it had not been walling in misery only moments prior. The ocean strained to hear the voice but it was so quiet, the volume not tempered for the endless roar that the ocean lived, a life filled with shift and shock was far from akin to life above the land, the ocean pleaded the voice speak louder. The voice agreed the ocean assumed for it spoke and was heard. Names and places flowed, a record, a recounting the ocean thought at first, but no, this was not the tale of pain from the object, merely a name. Yet the thing had no name, it named itself by the countless experiences it had known throughout time, it judged itself by all it had seen and done. The ocean took it all in, committed all to memory and urged the object on, named now, yet still unknown.
The ocean waited in patient silence to the tale of the life of the object. A long tale wrapped in mystery and confusion, lose and gain, beginnings and endings. The tale wove its pattern in a smooth fashion, its tale seemingly so vivid upon its mind that it was not digging up old memories, but recounting present occurrences. The object had a memory such as the ocean had, endless and exact, a memory more of a curse then blessing. The tale was not a light one and the ocean understood the hurt the object had felt for so long now, it had felt the same pain.
Then the object spoke uncertainly about a greater pain that existed within itself and yet hurt far beyond simply itself. The voice seemed truly to tremble at the mention of the pain. The ocean could only understand small aspects of the object now, it spoke rapidly, nigh unintelligibly about its pain, its suffering. The ocean could grasp but small portions of the tale, the object truly seemed lost in its own confusion, a flurry of emotions now controlling the once calm object. This tale drove on for some time, the ocean soon lost track and begged the object cease and better orient itself. Soon, it worked and the object rested in silence. Slowly though, it wove a tale of a time not so distant, and not so long, a time so recent the ocean could not comprehend such small acknowledgments of time.
The tale was a sad one, but one understood so well by the old water; a tale of time too short and chances too infrequent. The ocean had lived countless eras and in all those times it had never truly had the time to understand all that was around it. Nothing lasted long enough for the ocean to grasp. All that existed now would pass before the ocean could but taste its truths. The ocean ached to know another had suffered the same. The tale did not lighten though, the pain of the experience pulled upon the essence of the object. The ocean cringed and asked the object if there was aid that could be given, yet no reply came, only a muted cry. Then the truth slowly dawned on the ocean, something it had not considered when the object had first named itself. The fact scared the ocean and wrenched its heart. It denied the thought even before it was fully formed; it forced away the thought and begged the object speak.
The ocean questioned the object on the source of its pain. The object complied, in the fashion it had before. It named the source of its trouble exactly as it had named itself, by identifying all aspects of the objects knowledge that associated with the source. The ocean's fears were confirmed now that it had seen something recount so vividly something that the ocean would have forced from thought so long ago.
The ocean convulsed, the ocean screamed, the ocean cried as it never had before. The object rested dejected and mute in the water, but the water cared no more. It thrashed itself mad as waves spilled upon the land. The ocean would not remember this, it threw all its memories into the waves, begging and pleading that the wind make ease the trip of the waves to land, that the memories of this object would fade, that it would never have to remember this conversation, nor any aspect of this era. It pained now, more then it had known it could.
Its mind slowly drained of the experience, slowly all its memories fell to dust. But one thing persisted, one small tidbit of knowledge that would not leave the oceans mind. It screamed and wailed that the name be gone, the damnable name that had cursed the object so wretchedly. On thought of the object the ocean noticed it no longer rested in the water, the ocean was pleased with this. Yet it screamed still, the name still there. The ocean would forget all that it had ever known but it feared this name was now as permanent to him as it was to the sorrowful object that had so recently departed. The ocean cried throwing memory upon memory against the land, draining all it had ever known away, eons fled its mind, thoughts and sufferings departed swifter then ever. The name persisted. The ocean now knew the pain of the object and cursed itself. It cried, for its own pain and for the pain of the object. The sorrow of it all, to be cursed with the knowledge of everything, the suffering of eternal existence, eternal life, to see the world and all its wonders die in the passage of time and yet remain all the same. The ocean had known that curse yet never the pain that had racked the object, never had it known so deadly a curse as what that damned entity had always known.
The curse of never forgetting.
Borus surveyed the city with both confusion and apprehension. The sky was still so clear and yet the waves kept coming. They had been forced to evacuate the shore side market as well as the docks; the waves were destroying everything. Taking another round through the drenched area to check for any stragglers Borus saw something that made his heart leap.
"My lady!" He ran towards the docks and saw her more completely. Previously masked by the stone walls and wooden docks Chris was sitting upon a rock in the ocean, her right hand held within the water. She was now soaked thoroughly by the endless waves but still she did not move. Borus called to her again, yelling as loud as he could to be heard over the thunderous waves. "Lady Chris! Lady Chris please get away from the water!"
Slowly Chris lifted herself from her crouching position and removed her right hand from the water. She cradled the hand with her other, the true rune upon it still glowing fiercely. Tears rolled down her water soaked face as the waves continued to pound against her and the city. She thought she heard Borus yelling behind her, but it didn't matter much. For the moment she was lost in a pained memory, a name echoing though her and the rune, something neither would ever forget.
Yun.