The Sorrows The Sea Sings

Elfy was two when the first storm reached Boestrings banks. The sea sprayed salt onto her
bedroom window, the grey lights dancing in her hands. Her cheeks frosted the thin pained glass as
she listened to each wave rise and fall, each louder than the next. Her Mother was on the lower
floor rationing the wood in their stove, the warm smell of savory baked goods wafting into her
small room. The paint was chipping away from her walls, the sea eaten wood of the beams
exposed. Elfy ran her hand over the wood, refusing to flinch when a splinter nicked her hand.

That night, as her mother had lain her head down against her pillow Elfy had raced to the
shores. The wind bit her cheeks, sand building between her toes. The waves were bigger than Elfy
had imagined, falling, rhythmically, singing a sing just for Elfy to hear. Elfy hummed along,
spinning, letting her small arms catch the wind. The salt bit at her eyes, matting her long locks of
blond hair into thick chunks like the dog that lived on west street. Elfy had giggled with this
thought.

13 years later Elfy sat perched against the same beach. The sea sang to her again. Not of joys
like it had that night, but of the sorrows her town had sacrificed to it. With every girl fed to the
ocean, the sea sang to Elfy. It cried to her, cried to make it stop. It cried it melodic toon. And now
as her feet touched the serf Elfy cried back, tears and salt spray merging to one on her face. This
day was bound to come, bound to face Elfy as the cuffs of her pants dampened. But she hadn't
imagined it to come to this. Elfy prayed to the mehrts, and old superstition only children per took
in, her hands clenched and bound tightly behind her back.
231
"Forgive me Mother." She whispered as the sea rose around her.