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 rationing the wood in their stove on the lower floor, 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 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 song 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 blond hair into thick chunks like the dog that lived on West Street. Elfy had giggled with this
thought.

Thirteen 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 its melodic tone. 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. But she hadn't imagined it to come to this. Elfy prayed to the mehrts, an old superstition only children partook in, her hands clenched and bound tightly behind her back.

"Forgive me, Mother." She whispered as the sea rose around her.