Memory 01: Thomas Langton and Sister Nimue meet for the first time. Thomas begins his spiritual journey.

The harbor district of Stella Maris was alive with motion—ropes creaked, gulls cried, and the tide lapped against the stone piers like a whispered chant. Gondolas bobbed between merchant ships, and the scent of brine and citrus hung in the air. Amid the bustle, Thomas Langton moved with practiced ease, his sleeves rolled, his voice warm as he directed his cousins through the morning’s cargo.

Then she appeared.

Sister Nimue stepped from a gondola, her ocean blue robes glistening with golden embroidery, her pearl white hair adorned with delicate fins, shimmered in the sun. She moved with the grace of someone who had never rushed, her gaze steady, her presence quiet but immense. The dockhands paused. Even the gulls seemed to hush.

Thomas blinked, then smiled, "The woman of my dreams walks upon the docks." He exhaled his words like a prayer.

His cousin muttered, "She’s not just a woman, Thom. That’s a Chamber priestess. One of Anselm’s own."

Thomas wiped his hands on his trousers. "Then I’ll ask her to bless us."

Before his cousin could protest, Thomas jogged forward, weaving through crates and coiled ropes until he reached her. Nimue turned, her expression unreadable.

"Sister," he said, bowing with a flourish that was more charm than ceremony. "The tide’s against us today. My family’s got three ships to unload and not enough hands. But with your blessing, I swear we’ll move mountains."

Nimue studied him. Her eyes held the weight of the deep, the kind of gaze that had seen truths too vast for surface minds. And yet, something in Thomas’s smile—unguarded, earnest, foolishly brave—made her pause.

"You believe a blessing will change the tide?" she asked.

"I believe you might," he said.

A silence passed between them, filled with salt and possibility. Then Nimue raised her hand, fingers glistening with seawater.

"Then may the goddess grant you strength," she said softly, touching his brow.

Thomas beamed. "We’ll get it done, Sister. You’ll see."

As she walked away, her robes trailing like waves, Thomas returned to the docks with a new lightness in his step. His cousin stared, slack-jawed.

"You’re mad," he said.

"Maybe," Thomas replied. "But I think she smiled."

And somewhere beneath the domes of Stella Maris, the tide shifted.

Thomas considers becoming a priest

Thomas arrived early, his eyes lingered on the spot he saw Nimue yesterday. But the harbor was ordinary today—no priestess, no shimmer, just crates and gulls and the usual salt-stained rhythm.

He sighed, adjusting the rope on his shoulder.

"She’s not coming back, Thom," a dockworker called out. "You want better odds, try praying in temples instead of working the docks."

Thomas chuckled, but the jest lingered. "Maybe I should."

His cousin barked a laugh. "They’d turn you away at the door. You should look for other women. Ones who don’t wear sea robes and speak in riddles."

Thomas shook his head. "I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—what if I really ought to be a priest?"

The dockworker nearby snorted. "You? A priest? You’d give up in three days. Prayer’s not just words, Thom. It’s silence. It’s sacrifice. You’d miss the noise."

Thomas didn’t argue. He just nodded, thoughtful.

The idea didn’t leave him. It settled somewhere behind his ribs, quiet and persistent, like the tide beneath the docks.

Temple Steps

The temple steps of Stella Maris shimmered with salt and candlelight. Evening bells had not yet tolled, and the air was thick with the scent of myrrh and sea fennel. Thomas stood at the base of the steps, the waters of the canal murmuring behind him. His hands were rough from rope and tide, and his heart uncertain but steady.

A priestess descended, her robes the color of the sea, her gaze calm and curious.

"Can I help you, son?" she asked.

Thomas cleared his throat. "I want to be a priest."

She blinked, then smiled—slightly pleased, slightly taken aback. "Have you thought deeply about it?"

Thomas looked up at the temple’s spires. "I can’t think of anything else."

She studied him. "Tell me about your prayer life."

"I pray every morning before work," he said. "And I thank the goddess in the evening. That’s how I was taught."

The priestess nodded slowly. "As a priest, prayer is what you do when you aren’t laboring. There is no ceasing. No doffing your robes at the end of the day for merriment."

Thomas considered this. He said, "I’d like to be given a chance."

She paused, then gestured toward the temple’s inner cloister. "There’s an evening prayer group. Come tonight. If you find it suitable, then perhaps we can tread deeper water."

Thomas bowed his head. "Thank you, chaplain."

The priestess turned, her steps light as tidefoam. Thomas remained a moment longer, watching the temple doors, as if they might open wider just for him.

Letter of Recommendation

To Sister Nimue of the Chamber,

I write to you regarding a new student in my evening prayer group. His name is Thomas Langton, a dockworker by trade, and he approached me last week with a request to join our temple’s spiritual instruction. I confess, my initial impression was one of caution. He is young, and his request seemed born of whim rather than discernment. It is difficult to tell if he understands the weight of the vocation.

During our first few gatherings, Thomas spoke to other members more than is customary. He filled quiet moments between vigil prayers with chatter—earnest, well-meaning, but disruptive. I reminded him that silence is not merely etiquette; it is the vessel of prayer. Noise clouds the soul and deafens the ears of the goddess. He apologized sincerely and has since made efforts to observe the form.

However, it is not his behavior that compels me to write, but something I witnessed during our last session. When we pray with sands and water, as is tradition, the waters which he prays over glimmer and separate, as if parting to the sounds of his speech. This may not seem unusual in the Chamber, where divine resonance is more common, but in my class of novices it is not usual.

I believe Thomas may require deeper training. His presence stirs something in the rites, and I lack the expertise to guide him further. I appeal to your wisdom, Sister Nimue. If you find time to observe him, I would be grateful.

In salt and silence,

Alura of the Temple of the Third Tide in Stella Maris

Response from Sister Nimue

To Chaplain Alura,

Thank you for your letter and for your attentiveness to the spiritual formation of your students. I appreciate your concern regarding Thomas Langton and the phenomena observed during your rites.

At present, my responsibilities within the Chamber do not allow for direct involvement in novice instruction. However, should Thomas wish to continue his inquiry, I recommend he attend the Lunar vigil held beneath the east bridge below the Chamber. This vigil is conducted by the Chamber clergy. He is welcome to attend, pray in the back, and remain silent. Should further resonance occur, the clergy present will be equipped to note and respond accordingly.

In tide and trust,

Sister Nimue of the Chamber of Stella Maris

The Vigil Grotto

Thomas arrived early, the sky still pale with the last light of day. The grotto beneath the east bridge was quiet, its salt-stone walls damp with tide mist. Lanterns hung from the archways, casting soft halos over the water.

Only one figure moved within: a Chamber Sister, laying out fabrics, pearls, and salt at the altar. She referred often to a small book in her hand, murmuring to herself as she adjusted each item with precision.

"Hello," Thomas said, stepping forward without hesitation. "What are you doing?"

The Sister looked up, startled. Her eyes were kind but distant, as if pulled from a deep thought. "I’m setting the altar," she said. "According to order."

She studied him. "Who are you?"

"Thomas Langton," he said. "I was sent by Chaplain Alura from the Temple of the Third Tide."

Lucia nodded slowly. "Hello, Thomas. I am Sister Lucia."

Thomas moved closer, examining the arrangement. "That’s the salt veil for the invocation of stillness. And those pearls—those are for the hymn of descent, right?"

Lucia blinked. "Yes. That’s correct."

He pointed to a folded cloth. "That one’s meant to be placed beneath the basin, not beside it."

Lucia’s brow furrowed. She glanced at her book, flipping pages quickly. "You’re right," she said, flustered. "I must have misread the sequence."

Thomas smiled gently. "It’s a lot to remember."

Lucia nodded, distracted, her mental checklist thrown into disarray.

Thomas’s gaze drifted to a tapestry hanging near the altar. It shimmered faintly in the lantern light.

"Chaplain Alura never mentioned anything like this," he said. "What does it mean?"

Lucia followed his gaze. "Yes, that is a new icon proclaimed by His Holiness, Anselm XI. It depicts the rays of the North Star piercing the abyss of the sea."

Thomas stared at the image, his expression unreadable. "It’s beautiful," he breathed the words like a prayer.

Lucia watched him for a moment, then returned to her book. The vigil would begin soon, and the tide was rising.