The sound of earthborn hooves is a hollow one—as hollow as her chest that had, moments before, been filled with hope. A hope of salvation; not for herself, but for a maritime race of warriors, traders, craftsmen, academics… But now, beneath the blank and half-missing faces of the gods’ shrines, there is no hope. Nothing left but blue blood the bled out the lives of many.

Her scaled ears splayed, the bright blue glow of her coat slowly softening and fading as her unblinking eyes stared at blue-blood-smeared rocks she kneeled on. ”Aquila…” The behemoth’s voice, already soft for the battle-hardened man, was a faint whisper beneath the roaring sea of loss that frothed in her mind.

It is the soft, warm press of his skull against her cool, scaled skin (skin that was drying and growing ashen from her extended time out of the water) that draws her attention outwards. Her flesh twitches beneath the touch—she is not one for caresses or pats. Her family did not do such things, her warriors did not do such things. So the sensation of his soft muzzle and hot, furred skin is an alien one to the seaborne woman.

”Víz királynő, I'm sorry.” Her tail snaps once, head and neck twitching beneath the weight of his soft, gentle apology. There is a part of her—a small and petty part—that wishes to blame him for this. To blame him for the gods’ silence. Is he not the one who brought her here, under the pretense of the gods’ presence? Is he not the one who told her of such possibilities? So should it not be his fault that they failed her?

Her ears tilt back as desperation slowly gave way to anger. As a warrioress, she does not know to cope with helpless anguish. She cannot contend with her despair. So her mind resorts to fury to defend the shredding grasp on reality she had. Slowly at first, but then with an abrupt lurch, she lunges to her cloven, bleeding hooves.

“Víz királynő?” The words are spat out of her mouth at first—enraged loss making her entire body bristle. Even her aqua striped skin pulsed once, warningly, with bright light.

But it is a false bravado; an anticlimactic finale to her self-preservation. Aquila’s intelligence and training tells her it is not Volterra’s fault that the gods do not heed her. It is her own. She is the one to blame for failing her people. So her ridges fall flat, her face-fins droop. “Dankon, Volterra. I will return to la maro,” her voice, hoarse and breaking, grates against her throat.

And so she does. Body slumped with defeat, she returns the embrace of the sea.

---

Dankon = thank you
la maro = the sea