Title: A Quiet Tempest
Beta: The lovely diachrony
Warning: This is set at the end of Half-Blood Prince. Not that I'm giving away much.
A/N: I used the First Folio version of the quote, because I have a theatre degree that focused on classical theatre. I am a pretentious asshole!!!
I pluck the strings of weed, tones ringing through the water like harpsichord notes. This composition is my own; I pray to the goddess it is worthy of The Old Man.
His bones lie above in the shell-white tomb created by his people, but he was not theirs alone. We knew him well; his long white beard and rich robes flowed in our watery breeze many times. He brokered the peace between we merpeople and the World Above, a feat my father thought impossble. The times are unsteady now; our treaty may not outlast him.
We mourn his passing in our own way, in our own time. My requiem sounds throughout the lake as we build this monument to a man whose influence we already miss.
Bones are the foundation of our work, carved of finest coral from the shallows. We build upwards through flesh of kelp to skin of woven withies, covering this crosshatched framework with robes of shed fish scale, glowing faintly in the filtered sunlight. Unflawed pearls fill hollow eyesockets, and the weed I pluck will be his beard when my song is done.
I open my mouth to inhale sweet water, and sing:
“Full fadom five thy Father lies,
Of his bones are Corrall made:
Thofe are pearles that were his eies,
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth fuffer a Sea-change
Into fomething rich, & ftrange:”
Currents sigh around us as each note fades, carried off to the dark depths where our goddess lives. Their musical task done, the soft green strands are taken from me and the artists weave them in place. As we gaze upon the finished work, its blind pearls seem to return our regard. As one we bring cupped hands to hearts in an attitude of prayer.
A wave of despair brings me to my knees. Such an unrecoverable loss, at this a perilous time. Such a terrible waste.
The currents still.
Pearled eyes are suddenly, unmistakably aware. Eyelids of kelp blink slowly over them.
His whisper is the sound of surf.
“That remains to be seen, my child.” I feel the touch of his fingers across my forehead, a benediction. A promise.
From the depths, a light flickers into being at the heart of a deep pit. Long octopus arms of dark ribbon lace around our Greenwitch as Tethys takes her newborn child home.
I bow my head, and the currents return.
Comments are, as always, welcome. Even if they make me cringe.