The sun had barely crested the distant cliffs when I rose that morning, the air cool and bright with the scent of salt and green things. My sleep had been light, filled with half-dreams of water and shadow, of voices that whispered beneath the waves. I moved down to the shore as the village still slept, my feet sure on the worn paths of the lagoon.
The water was cool against my skin, each step a quiet blessing. I waded out until it reached my chest and paused, closing my eyes. In my old life, such stillness had been a matter of discipline—the quiet breath before the blade was drawn. Here, it was a conversation with the world itself.
I inhaled slowly, letting the sound of the sea fill me. Each wave, each sigh of water against the shore, was a word in a language older than any I had known. I let myself sink, the water closing over me in a gentle embrace, and crossed my legs to rest in the silt of the lagoon floor.
The world above was a wavering blur of light and shadow, but beneath the surface, all was calm. My breath slowed, the beat of my heart steady and sure. This was where I had learned to let go of the rigid forms of my old training—to let the water shape me as much as I shaped it.
Then, in the hush of the deep, I heard it.
A low, resonant hum, like the heartbeat of the ocean itself. It slipped through the water and through my bones, a sound that was neither voice nor music but something older, deeper. My eyes opened, the world shimmering in the shifting light. The sound called to me—not with words, but with a promise of something beyond the horizon of my understanding.
I rose slowly, each motion careful. My feet lifted from the silt, the water carrying me in a slow, drifting ascent. As I broke the surface, the air was sharp and bright, but the sound lingered in my thoughts, as if the ocean itself had spoken my name.
I moved without thinking, drawn to the place where the lagoon gave way to the deeper waters. Each breath tasted of salt and purpose, the pull of the water around me growing stronger with every stroke. I passed the edge of the reef, the familiar shapes of coral and swaying fronds giving way to the dark, rolling expanse of the open sea.
The sound deepened, a low song that grew in the hollow of my chest. I felt the water gather around me, its currents swirling in a spiral that grew sharper, faster. My arms moved, my breath steady, but the pull was no longer gentle—it was a living force, a river that would not be denied.
The water closed around me like a clenched fist. My breath caught as the current seized me, dragging me forward in a rush of foam and shadow. My hands reached for the forms I knew, for the calm breath and centered mind that had always steadied me—but the sea was a force beyond any kata, any blade's discipline.
The reef fell away beneath me, and the world turned to rushing darkness.
When at last I broke the surface, the sun was high above, a blazing eye in a sky empty of clouds or land. My breath came in ragged gasps, each inhalation tasting of salt and fear. I turned in a slow circle, but the horizon was empty in every direction—no cliffs, no trees, no faint glow of the village fires.
I let the fear come, felt it rise like the tide in my chest. But I let it go just as quickly, drawing in the water's power with each breath. My hands lifted, and the sea responded—a trembling wave that lifted me higher, a small island of motion in the endless blue.
It was not easy. The water bent to my will only grudgingly, each motion a test of patience and precision. My arms burned with the effort, my legs trembling with the strain. But I would not yield. I shaped the water again and again, each motion a quiet vow: I will not be broken.
At last, a glimmer of white caught my eye—a piece of driftwood, bleached and worn smooth by the sea. I reached for it, my hands slipping on its wet surface. My fingers found purchase, and I pulled myself onto it, my breath heaving in my chest.
I lay on my back, the sky above bright and distant. Each wave rocked me gently, the water's sigh a cradle and a challenge all at once. My limbs ached with exhaustion, and the last of my strength slipped away like the outgoing tide.
I closed my eyes and let the water take me, drifting on the lull of the waves. The world narrowed to the slow, patient rhythm of the sea, and in that hush, I surrendered to the darkness that waited beyond the edge of thought.