Echoes of the Enchanted Sea

3

As Niamh's voyage stretched on, a dark shadow often danced at the edge of her sight—a raven, always perched high on the ship's mast or atop a jagged rock as they sailed past. Its glossy black feathers gleamed in the waning sunlight, its eyes fixed on her like a cold, silent judge. The creature never cawed nor stirred; it was simply *there*, a reminder that the Morrigan's curse clung to her like a second skin.

No matter how hard Niamh tried to ignore it, the raven was a constant presence. Even as she gave orders, steering her crew through dangerous waters, she felt its dark gaze pressing on her shoulders, as if whispering that her fate was sealed, and the goddess wasn't through with her yet.

The sea lay eerily calm as Niamh leaned against the ship's rail, lost in her thoughts. The fae's prophecy from the Grove still weighed heavily on her mind, and though she saw no sign of Morrigan's bird, the sense of its presence lingered. The crew went about their tasks, but an uneasy quiet had settled over them since they left the grove behind—each man carrying his own share of the fear that had been cast over them like a net.

Eilis MacGregor, the ship's cook, approached Niamh with a frown of concern etched across her freckled face. Her fiery red hair was tied back loosely, the sea air tugging at the loose strands. Eilis was a bold one, quick with her tongue and sharp with her wooden spoon when the men got too rowdy.

"Cap'n," Eilis started, her voice lilting like a melody from the old country, "ye've not been yerself since we left the grove. Aye, I know ye don't trust the fae, an' rightly so, but ye cannae let their riddles twist yer mind. We've faced worse things than a few cryptic words, eh?"

Niamh sighed, her eyes fixed on the still horizon. "Aye, Eilis, we've faced the worst this world could throw at us, but there's somethin' different about this. That prophecy—it's stickin' with me. There's somethin' in it I cannae shake, like it's a map we can't read, but we'll be followin' it all the same."

Eilis looked at her, eyes softening. "If anyone can outwit the gods, it's ye, Niamh. Brigid's watchin' over ye—don't forget that."

Before Niamh could respond, Finnian O'Rourke sauntered up, a grin on his face as usual. The lad was quick on his feet, with a knack for the riggin' that made him invaluable on the ship, but his prankster ways kept everyone on their toes. His wiry build and sharp wit had saved the crew more than once, though he was always first in line for a bit of mischief.

"Ach, Cap'n," Finnian said with a sly wink, "ye're not still broodin' over that Morrigan shite, are ye? Let the gods have their fun. Me? I say laugh in their faces an' keep sailin'. Fate's not fixed, an' I'll be damned if I let some bird tell me otherwise."

Niamh gave him a sidelong glance, smirking at his carefree attitude. "Ye make it sound easy, Finn."

He shrugged, flashing a grin. "It is, if ye don't let yerself get tangled in it. We'll find that serpent, we'll deal with Aodh, an' no curse or god'll stand in our way."

Niamh couldn't help but smile at the lad's confidence. "Yer always so sure of yerself."

"I've nae reason not to be," he chuckled, his grin never faltering.

Just as they were speaking, a stir went through the crew. Someone had spotted somethin' in the distance—an island, small and quiet, with seals sprawled lazily along the shore. Hungry eyes gleamed among the men as they prepared for a hunt, already imagining the feast ahead.

"Seals! Meat for the table!" one of the crew hollered, gripping his spear eagerly.

Niamh's brow furrowed. There was somethin' about this island that unsettled her, somethin' in the air that whispered of things not meant to be disturbed. As the crew readied their weapons, her eyes caught on one seal in particular—a larger beast, its sleek, silver-grey fur shimmering under the sun. There was an intelligence in its dark eyes, deeper than any ordinary animal should have.

"Hold!" Niamh's voice rang out sharply, freezing the men in their tracks.

"What's wrong, Cap'n?" one of the men asked, his spear still in hand.

"Leave that one," Niamh said firmly, pointing at the silver-grey seal. "Don't touch it."

"But Cap'n, it's just a seal," Finnian protested, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"No," Niamh said, her voice low and serious. "That's no ordinary seal. There's more to that creature than meets the eye. We leave it be."

Grumbling under their breath, the men lowered their spears, reluctant but obedient. They shuffled back to the ship, casting uneasy glances at the seal that watched them still from the shore.

That night, long after the crew had settled in for some well-deserved rest, Niamh awoke to a strange sound—a soft splashing near the side of the ship. Slipping from her cabin, she moved to the railing and looked down at the dark water below. There, in the moonlit ripples, she saw it: a figure slipping silently into the sea. Where the silver seal had been, there now stood a human form—pale skin glistening in the night, dark hair flowing around it like seaweed, eyes that shimmered like the stars themselves.

Her breath caught in her throat. A selkie.

Niamh watched, her heart pounding, as the selkie disappeared into the depths. She had spared it earlier, not knowing what it truly was. And now, with the moon's glow fading on the horizon, she realized that her path had just taken a much deeper turn than she'd expected.

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As the old man paused, the flames from the fire casting flickering shadows across his lined face, one of the younger children, a wee lass with bright red hair and wide eyes, spoke up, her voice filled with wonder. "Grandpa, what's a selkie?"

Her older brother, not to be outdone, piped in quickly. "Aye, are they like mermaids, then?"

The old man chuckled softly, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. His eyes drifted to the sea, remembering days long past, when he himself had known the pull of the tides. "Nah, lad," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "Selkies aren't like mermaids. They're creatures of the sea, aye, but not with fish tails. They're seals when they swim in the water, but when they shed their skins, they walk on land like any human. Beautiful they are, an' mysterious. But ye'll never truly know ye've met one unless they want ye to."

The young lass's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Did Niamh ken it was a selkie when she saw it?"

The old man's gaze softened as he looked at her, memories stirring deep in his heart. She reminded him of someone—someone long gone but never forgotten. "Niamh didn't know at first," he said quietly, his words heavy with the weight of the past. "But when she saw the selkie for what it truly was, she knew her journey had just gotten a lot more complicated."

His smile was faint, but his mind drifted to the cold waters, to the freedom of slipping between worlds. Aye, he thought, if only they knew.