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The tide surges, and all at once she breaks the surface. Laurentina is awake.
The walls of the church press around her—akin to an undersea cavern, the confines sweat with moisture. The lighting is low, the candles along the wall offering up only a token effort to illuminate the shadows that plunge down the hall and disappear into forever. Laurentina is reminded of a battle half-remembered, faces and monsters blurring in and out of a fog that her mind has produced because she is only herself some of the time.
There is a fear to that. Something that sits heavy in her heart. But sharks must keep moving forward.
Speaking of forward, there is a shape emerging from the darkness. She recognizes the steady click of heels accompanied by a third tap of a cane. It can belong only to one person.
Amaia’s eyes are gold in the way the candlelight burns.
“Good evening, Laurentina,” she says, and she is casual, like an old friend stopping by. “I’ve been translating a manuscript from Victoria that might interest you.”
There is no point in concealing her lucidity from her. Amaia always knows, and Laurentina will not give her the pleasure of seeing her hide behind a façade. She is not afraid of her. No, when it comes to Amaia, she—
“Is that so?” she asks, eyes half-closing. “Do tell.”
“Are you familiar with any writings from the land?” Amaia taps a single finger against the head of her cane. Her nail makes a nearly indistinct sound.
“Not at all. Not many pieces from above made it to under the sea.” Even if they did, such things did not tend to be highly regarded by most. She…remembers that, remembers some things of home. Others are a struggle, grasping at vapor that transforms its shape when she reaches for it.
Amaia nods. “Then allow me to elucidate. Imagine something…mundane. A work uniform, perhaps, or a shirt. When your clothing becomes damaged, what are you inclined to do?”
“Hmm, well, it depends on how attached I am to said piece of clothing.” Laurentina brushes a hand down her nun’s attire. It’s not something she likes at all, but she has nothing else to wear. “If I adore it, then I would do everything in my power to repair it…but if it’s any old piece, or maybe something I knew was on its last legs, I might either replace it or simply throw it out.”
“As you do. Let’s say you’ve chosen to repair it because it is dear to you. Something with sentiment. The hole is patched, and it is good as new. There comes a time, however, where it begins to tear in other places, but because you care for it so dearly, you continue to repair it. Every little tear is sewn with another patch. Held together with new thread.”
Amaia pauses.
“How do you feel about the habit? I had it specially made for you.”
Laurentina’s places her hand upon her chest. “Oh? Are you trying to explain a metaphor to me?” She leans in once the question has been poised, closer to Amaia’s face. A whisper: “I’m actually fond of long dresses, so for you to have me dislike even this is quite the feat.”
“That’s unfortunate. You look adorable in it for what it’s worth, Laurentina.” Amaia smiles, her head tilting a little. Laurentina does not entertain her with a response.
The bird drowned so long ago. What is left, this talking corpse, no longer answers to the name Liberi.
Amaia continues. “It’s more of a thought experiment. Called the ‘Ship of Theseus’, it asks the question: if you replace the parts of something over time until nothing of the original remains—” Her eyes lower to colorless slits, “—is it still the same thing? It carries out the same functions. It possesses the same value. But nothing of the original construction is as it was.”
“I see…it sounds as if it has brought about many arguments, but I’m sure the Church of the Deep feels they are beyond this.” In their obsessive search to change and grow, the Seaborn will discard everything but their drive. Their limbs, their selves, even their lives without question.
“On the contrary. It’s a question I’ve poised to the rest. What do you think?”
The halls feel like another world. If the other cultists are present, none make themselves known. The steady drip-drip-drip of falling water seems overly loud in a place that is sacred in the way only obsession can breed. Their shadows shake and shiver.
“When we are born,” Laurentina says at last, when she is tired of the sound, “we are but a blank canvas without paint. A featureless stone that has yet to receive the touch of a sculptor. Are any of us ever truly the same from birth to death? Identity is ever changing…but to be sure in one’s identity is crucial to one’s state of mind.”
Amaia’s lips curl.
Laurentina looks her evenly in the eyes, bringing herself back, and there is nothing but contempt in her gaze, sudden and blazing. “And I promise you this…you may try to shape me—I may not even be recognizable one day—but I will remember what you’ve done. No one is allowed to kill you, but me…”
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“A clean canvas, hewn rock…all these things must be defiled to have reason given to them. Meaning.” Amaia’s sigh is delicate. “It is my fervent desire that ‘we’ will die together. When that time comes, We will welcome it.”
“No, no… I will make sure your life is mine. That the last thing you will see is me telling you to suffer in your death. To realize you could not assimilate me in the end. Your purpose was meaningless.”
Amaia does not even blink. “The only thing that allows you to keep your sense of self is what you hate the most. Is that any way to live, Laurentina?” She opens a hand, a ring on her finger glinting in the low light. “When the Herald arrives, I hope you will come to your senses. Rest assured that I will be there to lead you onto the correct path. After all, my Sleeping Beauty…only I know how to wake you.”
Laurentina looks at that hand. “I think it’s good to remember that which I hate so that I may never become it. You only know so much about me from what I’m willing to share, after all.” She reaches for her and brings her close. Amaia steps in of her own volition, and there is a yearning.
After all, she and Amaia are—
“Amaia…”
The golden bands of her rings are cold against Laurentina’s skin. Amaia purrs. “It’s often been said that the opposite of hate is not love: It is apathy. The more you hate, the more you will obsess. Do you truly not understand? You are already turning. You will continue to think upon it until it is all you know. And that will bring you closer to Us.”
“Then we’ll make it a wager.” Laurentina runs her thumb along that hand. Once. Wanting to feel more of that cold metal. It is grounding.
The water, the walls—
Laurentina says, suddenly:
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Amaia blinks.
Laurentina smiles again.
“Have you been sleeping? You do become so disagreeable when you haven’t rested.”
“That is not for you to worry about.” She has slept enough for a lifetime, and she will sleep longer still. The waking is always fitful, brief, abrupt.
Fingers brush her cheek. Her attention is drawn despite herself. Laurentina looks, and Amaia removes her hand.
“I always worry about you.”
Laurentina’s eyes lower. “Keep it to yourself then.”
Amaia’s smile is almost lovely to behold, but the light in her pale eyes is only reflected warmth. “Were you going somewhere, Laurentina?”
“I wished to go for a walk…”
Amaia turns and gestures down the hall. Through the black, and the damp, and the endless pressure of shapes writhing in waters. She is allowed to wander because she will not escape. They will find her once she sleeps again.
When it comes to Amaia, there is no one else she–
