“Are they trapped?”

His question reverberates into her ears, just before her aqua-striped limbs take to their sprint towards the sea and the gods. “Are they trapped?” Are they? Are they conquered by the Yotheans? “Are they trapped?” Are they crushed by those sloppy warriors, imbued with a greedy goddess’s power? Are the egg sacs rent, leaking the blood of infants to the sea’s womb? Did the colorful coral fade to grey, crumble to sand beneath the gluttony of those crude Yothean fins and ragged teeth? “Are they trapped?” Were Akvian bodies ripped and torn to shreds, pieces floating on the currents and resting on the sand? Never to properly be returned to Maro, their ravaged spirits destined to float the endless current alone?

“Are they trapped?”

The thoughts rattle in her skull; a mind so used to black and white decisions of war and battle entirely cast adrift and drowning beneath the weight of such consequence. The consequence of her failure. Because she was here, in Helovia, and her people were not. She was safe. But she had failed.

So she did not answer his question, only pushed further and harder towards to sea; would this be where Akvo was, on the other side of the Rift? It was far enough from the Isles, here. Her unblinking eyes stare at the deep blue waters, so much darker than the sea of her world. (But is this her world, now?) At first she does not even see the series of gods, so intent was her focus on the possible life beneath the waves—or the possible return of life beneath the waves.

But then, once again, the rumbling voice of the goliath broke into her thoughts, bringing her attention to the very shrines she shunned and needed. And her unblinking eyes blink once, “These are your gods?” There is disbelief and derision in her voice, coupled with and undercurrent of despair.

These black statues were crumbling, ruinous things. The god who had brought down Vjanta had seemed strong, capable, resilient. But these shrines reflected no such thing. Her head swings, ears tilting back, pinning Volterra with an accusing gaze as her teeth once again begin to show from behind scaled lips. Her ridges rise and undulate once, a physical manifestation of her desperate anger beginning to simmer beneath her plated, drying skin. “How do I summon them?” Her tone is sharp and demanding, but desperation begins to overcome it.

Again her head whips towards the sea, eyes staring as hard as they could so that they might peer through the waves to the great Akvian city below. Her trust placed in the gods and the bloodstained skull of the stallion that led her to them; but she did not yet know that it was too heavy a burden for their crumbling hands.

“Are they trapped?”

Yes. But so am I.

---

Maro = Sea