Echoes of the Enchanted Sea

2

As Niamh and her crew sailed towards the Grove o' the Verdant Glade, they knew well it was nae ordinary place—they were headed for a land steeped in magic an' mystery. The journey itself was nae easy feat. The waters turned rough, the sea churnin' as they navigated between jagged cliffs, and a thick mist rolled in, wrappin' the ship like a ghostly veil. The air grew colder, an' the usual sounds o' the sea fell silent. Even the wind, which had always been their ally, now seemed to be whisperin' warnings.

When they reached the shore, leavin' the ship anchored, they trekked deep into the dense forest. The trees were giants—ancient and knotted, their branches heavy with moss an' dew drippin' from above. Strange wee creatures darted through the shadows, their glowing eyes followin' the crew's every move. The air grew thick wi' magic, each breath harder tae take, makin' it feel like the very forest was weighin' doon on them.

As they neared the heart o' the grove, Niamh gathered her crew close. "Listen well, ye lot," she said, her voice low but firm. "The fae, they're nae tae be trifled with. They speak in riddles, and their tricks are as slippery as eels. We're here for a prophecy, but dinnae trust their words too easily—they're like smoke, slippin' through yer fingers afore ye ken it."

Finally, they reached the center o' the grove, where , the fae prophet, stood atop a small mound. She was surrounded by a circle o' ancient stones, their runes glowin' like embers in the twilight. The ground was soft underfoot, covered in lush emerald grass, and above them, the trees intertwined, creatin' a natural cathedral, as if the forest itself was guardin' this sacred place.

Eirlys was a vision, but no' the kind that brought peace. Her skin was pale as moonlight, almost shimmerin', as if she wasn't fully o' this world. Her hair flowed doon past her waist, shiftin' in colour with every step she took—silver one moment, then gold, then as dark as the night sky. It was like the stars themselves were tangled in her hair.

But it was her eyes that unsettled the crew most. Wide, bright, an' without a proper colour—just a swirl o' greens an' blues, like the deep waters where mortal folk dinnae dare tread. They pierced right through ye, seein' somethin' inside ye that ye didn't ken yerself. Her garments clung tae her like mist, shimmerin' in the dim light, with tiny flowers an' leaves seemin' tae grow from the very fabric. It was as though the forest had claimed her as its own.

Her voice was soft but held the weight o' centuries, carryin' a power that made the ground beneath their feet hum wi' energy. When she spoke, it was as if the very air listened, an' the trees themselves leaned in tae hear her words.

Niamh, without a second thought, took off the cherished amulet that had been passed doon through her family for generations. She offered it tae Eirlys, her hand steady, though her heart beat heavy in her chest. The fae prophet accepted the offering wi' a nod, then began her prophecy, speakin' in a tongue none o' the crew could understand. The words flowed like a song, ancient an' strange, their meanin' lost on mortal ears.

"Ye shall sail on waters deep, where shadows dance and whispers creep. The sea will claim its toll in blood, and yet, ye'll walk where no mortal should. A heart of fire will light yer way, but beware the storm that comes to stay. In love ye'll find both strength and pain, and in its embrace ye'll break the chain."

Her voice grew quieter, more eerie, like she was speakin' tae something far beyond them. "The serpent waits, beneath the waves, where time is lost and men are slaves. To face it means to lose yer past, yet through its fall, ye'll rise at last. The raven watches from the sky, a piercing gaze that never dies. To prove her wrong ye'll have to see, not all is bound in destiny."

The fae's eyes flickered like a candle in the wind as her words became even more mysterious. "The hand of fate is slow to turn, but in its flame ye shall not burn. When the moon is dark and stars are few, a choice awaits, and none but you. One path leads to light and love, but first ye'll walk through trials above. A ship, a crew, a sea of black—ye must give up, to take it back."

With that, Eirlys fell silent, her gaze driftin' past the crew as though she no longer saw them. Her mind seemed lost tae the mysteries o' time and magic, her words hangin' heavy in the air. The crew exchanged uneasy glances, but none spoke. Even Niamh, who'd expected riddles, found herself unsettled by the cryptic prophecy.

It felt like Eirlys had spoken directly tae Niamh's soul, yet left her with more questions than answers, the weight o' her journey growin' heavier with every step.

The crew said nought as they left the Grove o' the Verdant Glade, the prophecy lingerin' like a thick fog over them. Niamh's mind churned, tryin' tae make sense o' the fae's words—love, the serpent, the raven's gaze—everythin' was there, but what it meant was still as murky as the waters they sailed.

As they boarded the ship once again, the air was thick wi' tension. Liam approached, his brow furrowed, though he kept silent. He didnae need tae say a word—Niamh could feel the unease among her crew. They'd faced storms, battles, and curses, but the fae's prophecy had shaken them more than any storm.

"Right then, lads," Niamh called out, breakin' the silence. "We set sail at first light. Dinnae matter what riddles the fae spin—we've got a job tae do."

The crew nodded, though the weight o' uncertainty still clung tae them as they returned tae their tasks.

———

"Grandpa, what did Niamh give the fae for the prophecy?" asked one o' the boys, his eyes wide wi' curiosity.

"Aye, what could be precious enough tae get answers from the fae?" another chimed in.

The old man smiled, his eyes glintin' as he stirred the fire. "Ah, it was a family heirloom, lass. Nae just any trinket—it was an amulet, passed down through her kin. It carried the blessings o' her ancestors. But Niamh knew well enough that sometimes ye've got tae give up somethin' dear if ye're tae find the answers ye seek."

One o' the wee girls, sittin' near the fire, scrunched her nose in disapproval. "I dinnae like that fae lady. She didn't sound verra kind."

The old man chuckled. "Aye, fae folk can be tricky business, lass. They're nae always evil, but they're no' tae be trusted lightly. That's why Niamh had tae be on her guard. Ye dinnae deal wi' the fae without payin' a steep price."