She was never born, she was formed by the hands of the ocean, painted by the waves, and given breath by the whisper of the tide. She had no name, no mother to hold her, no father to call her home. Only the endless blue, the soft song of the deep, and the silence of shadow.
But one day, they found her. Rough hands, sunburnt skin, eyes hungry for fortune. They pulled her from the sea like treasure — a creature of myth, flesh and sorrow tangled in their nets. Because of her gift. Her tears — clear as crystal and heavy as salt — carried the power of the sea itself. Whoever tasted them could command the water, bend storms to their will, and whisper to the waves as if they were alive. Yet power has a price.
Each man who drank from her sorrow felt her pain surge through his veins. He saw her memories — the endless horizon, the shimmer of dawn under water, the loneliness of eternity. And with every tear she shed, she grew paler, quieter, emptier — forgetting the ocean’s song, forgetting her true self.
So the pirates learned to keep her content. They spoke softly, brought her pearls, let her sit beneath the open sky where she could smell the salt of home. Not out of kindness — but out of fear. For her anguish was theirs, and they could not bear the weight of her despair.
Still, the sea remembered. Each tear lost from her eyes drained the color from the coral below. The tides weakened. The waves ceased their rhythm, as though the ocean itself were holding its breath in grief. And far beneath the deck, where no man could hear, her heart began to fade.
For she was eternal — but not invincible.
Alba - die Morgendämmerung
