Memory 03: Voyage into the Abyss

Thomas sat in his usual spot at Giardinetto, a waterfront café near the coral sanctums. The afternoon sun played across the water, and gondolas drifted past like slow-moving thoughts. He chatted with patrons about anything and everything—philosophy, fishing, the price of salt. His eyes flickered often to the canal.

Then he saw her.

Nimue arrived by gondola, just as she had the day they met. But this time, she wore no ornate regalia—only subdued robes suitable for secular activity. Her expression, however, remained firmly Nimue: hardened, or seemingly so.

Thomas sat up, eyes gleaming.

She approached and greeted him with formal reserve. He gestured for her to sit.

"There is administration to be done near the coral sanctums," she said. "I had a moment for prayer. Or your form of prayer."

"I'm glad. I'm pleased," Thomas said instantly.

As she sat, he explained the café. He pointed out patrons. One old man he’d been talking to about Eremos. He waved and nodded.

"I see," Nimue said. "Do Alendrians lately give you spiritual fulfillment?"

"Yes. Well, it’s Chaplain Alcmene’s influence. She says the Alendrians are always spiritually relevant."

"Everything starts with the Alendrians, I believe is her saying."

"Yes!" Thomas lit up. "Oh, have you eaten?" he asked, gesturing to a waiter.

"I am content. I shall eat later. I haven’t the time."

Thomas ordered anyway. Prosecco with Sarde in Saor.

"It’s very good," he said. "And if you don’t eat it, I will."

Nimue sighed lightly. "Alright, Thomas. So the Alendrians. Eremos."

"Eremos," Thomas grinned. "I’ve spent time contemplating the deeds of Halion the Bound."

"... That seems fitting for you."

"Does it? There’s a lot there for a priest."

"He slew no beast, he claimed no throne, He walked the world entirely alone. Yet every village knew his name— Not for his sword, but for his flame."

Thomas smiled widely, charmed speechless.

"Ah. A speechless Thomas," Nimue discretely reveled.

"Also," Thomas said, eyes narrowing, lips curling, "I’ve been contemplating the Deep Sisters."

Her food arrived. Nimue sipped prosecco, shielding herself with the glass.

"I want to talk to you about your letter," Thomas said. "But I won’t push you."

"My letter is as it is."

"To dwell in the weight of the deep. Light forgetting to move. A knowledge so immense. I read these words and I barely understood. I want to know what it means."

"It is not something easily understood in words."

"Then show me."

"Show you?"

"Just an idea. Is it impossible?"

"Thomas, I speak of places—" she leaned in "—places deeper than the Abyssal Shrine." She leaned back. "It is not a matter of playful exploration. And for a man of the surface... perhaps I was too leading with my letter."

"No, it was perfect. Perhaps for now just give me more images."

"Images?"

"Visit me whenever you like. Write me. Tell me images and memories of the deep. I’ll be satisfied."

"I see. That is more reasonable."

Thomas smiled. His expression was piercing and earnest.

"Sister Nimue. When I say I want to know more about you, I’m telling you this from a place deep within myself. Maybe words fail here too. Do you understand?" He leaned in. "The pull that I feel toward you?"

Nimue paused, her guard lifting. "...I... Perhaps... Yes. Thomas, I do feel it."

Piercing the Abyss

It was a perfect day in Stella Maris. The marble skyline gleamed against a canvas of ocean blue, sunlight dancing across the water like scattered coins. Beneath a quiet bridge near the canal mouth, Nimue stood gazing out at the middle sea. Her posture was confident, but her expression unreadable. Behind her, Thomas lingered, his face caught between wonder and resolve.

"Alright," Nimue said, turning to him. "From here it is not far."

Thomas nodded.

"Are you nervous, Thom? This is, after all, your idea."

He straightened, arms akimbo, brow firm. "No more than is human. I'm determined to do this. I'm ready."

Nimue’s expression softened. "Stay with me. You will be fine. I do not consider where we are going to be very deep. And certainly not the deep of which I wrote. But I suspect it will be foreign enough for your inquiries."

She turned back to the sea and removed her robes. Beneath them, her form was revealed—pale flesh and pearlescent scale adorned her shoulders and sides. Angelic fins like sails decorated her legs, and her moonlight hair framed a neck both delicate and regal. Thomas stood dumbstruck.

"There is sound," Nimue said, "but I suspect it will be different for you. One feels more than hears. You may think the water is silent, the same way I feel the air is silent."

She stepped into the sea with a modest, elegant splash, then surfaced, swimming in place.

"Follow, Thom. Your robes will do you no service."

"Yes," he murmured, still spellbound.

He undressed, and Nimue watched with quiet appreciation. When he entered the water, his larger frame made a more vigorous splash.

"Now what?" he asked, excitement and uncertainty in his voice.

"We descend."

"Will you bless me to breathe?"

"It is done in the water. Follow closely."

She dove. Thomas took a breath and followed. Beneath the surface, he watched her legs move like fins, graceful and effortless. She swam up to him, her voice muffled.

"Open," she said, gesturing to his mouth.

He shook his head, instinct resisting.

"You will breathe, but you must open your mouth."

After a moment, he relented. Water rushed in, panic surged—then Nimue pressed her lips to his. Something passed between them: not air, but a tone, a resonance. As she pulled away, he found himself breathing. The sensation was strange. The kiss, a pleasure.

"There. It should last a while."

"I can't hear you very well."

She took his hand. "Do I sound clearer now?"

"Yes," he said, surprised.

She nodded and gestured downward. He held fast and followed. As she swam, shadows revealed bioluminescence—her scales and fins glowing in their element.

Hand in hand, they descended. Sunbeams pierced the water like hollowed shafts of light, fading into nothingness. They paused to admire the contrast.

Deeper now, the water grew heavier. Nimue stopped.

"This is it."

She pointed to a cliffside. Thomas saw a jagged silhouette, but as they approached, it became clear: it was not shadow, but darkness itself. A crystal of void—no light penetrated it.

"This is the shallowest place I've ever found one," Nimue said. "Below, in the abyss, they are uncountable. And awfully large."

"What is it?"

"It is death. As we call it."

"Death?"

"In truth, no one knows. Some say it is Triton—one who refused to move, resting in the breast of his own knowledge until he turned to stone. Others say it is a dead man from the surface. When men die, they fall and accumulate in the abyss. The biggest are kings. Others say it is no one in particular, but death itself. The abyss is death’s sanctuary."

She swam around him, her touch lingering, her movements alive in a way she never was ashore.

"And you lived among these?"

"Yes."

"That weighs heavy."

"Yes. Though, some... many, find comfort in the knowledge of death."

"You did not."

"I wondered at the death. I swam up to see if death continued all the way to the surface. And this one was the last I found before I touched the air."

"Death is above the surface too. But it’s hidden."

Thomas stared at the crystal. His eyes dimmed. He felt the weight of its knowledge. His words lost. His thoughts scattered. He did not move.

Nimue's gentle hand touched his cheek, and she drew his face to hers, "Live for the day, Thom."

Nimue kissed him once more. Not for air, but for life.

They began to ascend. Halfway to the surface, they paused again where the sun’s beams pierced the water. They lingered at the edge of the rock, observing the symphony of light. Their expressions were reverent, as if attending a divine service.

Their hands reached for each other, in tune with something greater. Beneath the icon carved by nature, their limbs entangled like coral; hair strands and fins swaying like kelp. The day’s light grew longer, the beams angled and striking. Their communion complete, they returned to the surface.

Return to Shore

Late afternoon light spilled across the docks of Stella Maris, gilding the ropes and hulls in gold. Thomas stepped off the ship, robes damp with salt and wind, his sea-bound service complete. Five months as chaplain aboard the merchant vessel Vigilant Grace—a rite of passage for full ordination in the priesthood of Stella Maris.

He spotted familiar faces: family, former coworkers, dockhands preparing to turn in for the day. One of them squinted.

"I don’t believe my eyes."

His cousin grinned. "You actually did it."

Another dockworker leaned on a crate. "Are you really a priest now? Blessings and all?"

Thomas raised his hand, fingers forming the sign of tide and star. "By the Goddess, may your burdens be light and your nets full."

The dockhands chuckled, pleased.

"How was life at sea?" one asked.

Thomas looked out at the water. "She taught me much."

"What now, then?" another asked.

Thomas paused, considering. "I’d like to have a pint."

The dockworkers lit up.

"Now I understand why he put on the robes," one said. "To chat and bless, and drink, by the Goddess."

Thomas smiled. They walked off together toward the tavern, the sun dipping low behind the marble skyline, casting long shadows across the sea.