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A shriek emerged from the depths of the roiling sea. It released a tremendous wave and sent a frothing storm of mist into the black skies. The beasts of shadow and feathers circling the dark clouds above screeched out in reply, before resuming their frantic searches for their next meal.
Deep beneath the waves, on the ocean floor sat the Titan. He closed his gaping maw and looked thoughtfully upon the path of destruction before him. Trails of blood rose from white bones of creatures unfortunate enough to be in the way of the great beast’s cry. He took comfort, at least, in the knowledge their deaths were quick. The flesh would have been ripped off their bones in an instant, their brains reduced to putty before they knew they were dead.
The Titan remembered death, whether or not he could still comprehend it. He had grown up on the rotting corpse of his own parent, after all, and since then he had watched the deaths of tyrants as well as friends. It all seemed to matter so much more then, when the end of a life could mark the end of an era. When never seeing a loved one again was an unthinkable possibility.
Now, though, the creature thought little of the concept of mortality, for he would still live for centuries to come. Perhaps even millenia. Or perhaps he would never die. Maybe he would simply wait here, at the bottom of the sea, watching the stars burn out one by one until he was left in eternal darkness.
Darkness .
Titans live long, so one can only assume their memories live long as well. He remembered the day when death lost its meaning to him. It was the day when life lost its meaning as well. When the line of what was real and what was not was blurred, then broke, then finally disappeared.
The monsters in white cloaks, the Not-Witches, that tore him out from beneath the gaze of his loving sister jabbed and sliced his fragile skin, and stole away his blood until his vision went black. After those sessions, he wouldn’t wake for days, and when he did he could still barely stand.
What truly fascinated them, though, was his strange ability to create life from nothing. They showed him images of all manner of creatures —some real, some not— and tried to pull them from his dreams. When it worked, the Not-Witches would pat themselves on the back, and lead away whatever sorry beast born that day. When it did not, they brought him to the Dark Room.
The monsters sealed him away in a great stone tomb carved deep into the earth for days at a time, leaving him with nothing but darkness and suffocating silence. The quiet never remained for long. Soon, as isolation and hunger bore their way into his mind, the screeches and snarls in his head surrounded him with hot, damp breaths and sharp talons that spilled his blood onto the rock below. And there he would lay, choking on the flesh of his own creations, until cracks of blinding light finally broke into his tomb.
The first time they came to release him, he cried tears of relief, and didn’t stop until he was battered to the floor by an agitated guard. The third time, he let out a shuddering sigh, letting a few silent tears trail down his face. The twelfth time, he emerged from the earth with cold resignation, saying nothing as the guards led him away. He didn’t need to see what happened next.
It only took six months for his family to come rescue him. Not long in the face of eternity, he now realized. They tore through the guards outside his cell in a flurry of feathers and fire and ripped the door from its hinges, and carried him back to a warm bed in a loving home. It almost hurt to realize that he no longer cared for any of it.
Oh. His family.
He didn’t think of them too often anymore either. They were such a short part of his life, and he didn’t dwell much on the days before his powers fully awakened. Before the darkness scraped out his last sane thoughts and left behind nothing but fear and blood.
He thought of the woman he called his mother, though truly she was not. How she had taken him in and cared for him as her own. How some days she could be reckless and wild, some days wise and unshakeable. For all the danger he had been put in as a child, she always found a way to save him in the end. It wasn’t her fault she came too late.
He thought of his older sister, the strange girl from another world his mother had taken as an apprentice. She was also not a witch, but she was far kinder than those he dubbed the Not-Witches. She turned the whole house on its head, and soon after, the entire Isles. He could still picture her the day they nearly lost their mother: the fire in her eyes, her defiant stance, the way her purple cloak spilled down her shoulders. It was so long ago, yet he remembered that desperate hope that they shared.
He never told them, when they came to rescue him, that he no longer needed saving. His beasts had ripped the Not-Witches to bloody shreds the last time he emerged from his tomb. Those who remained served him, and him alone, including the ones his family slaughtered so mercilessly.
The Titan called out again, collapsing the slopes of sandy hills and reducing a family of seals to jelly.
He sighed, blowing a stream of scathing bubbles into the water before him. The ocean was dull, and he was growing restless. He stood up on hulking legs in a cloud of sand, and pushed through the water’s surface. A storm of feathers leaped off the craggy rocks surrounding him in a cacophony of screeches and circled his head. He held out a barnacle-crusted hand, and a couple creatures landed gently in his palm. One of them dropped a bundle of tattered cloth from its beak, as well as a couple of small, shiny objects. His eyes crinkled, the closest thing he had to a smile anymore.
Over the years, his beasts occasionally brought him trinkets they found while scavenging the Isles. Some were even still charged with magic, which was always a delight to find. It was good to know his father’s powers still ran strong, even after centuries of decay. He would hate to think that he had made her sacrifice in vain.
He summoned a stonemeyer from the ocean floor, and bid it open its mouth. His first creatures had turned out to be the perfect holding place for offerings. But first, he took a closer look at what the shadow-beast had given him.
First, a purple cloak, woven with love and protective enchantments. It was well worn, and torn in many places. Whether this occurred during its collection or simply owed to the ages the Titan was unsure, but the crusted bloodstains covering it painted a grisly picture.
Second, a broken photo frame filled with smiling faces. He recognized his mother and sister, as well as their many friends. He recognized his younger self, as well. He wasn’t as small as he had been, by this time, but he was nowhere near the colossal beast he was now. They were so hopeful then, back when they thought the monsters had finally been beaten back into the shadows. None of them realized yet that the worst monsters come from inside.
Finally, a small, glassy, blue stone, covered in viscera. It hummed with magic, and emitted a soft blue glow. Even though much of its power had been consumed, the Titan could feel the thrum of energy pricking at his hand. He pondered it for a moment. There was something about that stone, something to do with one of the figures in that photograph. If only he could remember what it—
He froze.
No.
He threw the objects into the gaping hole, and fell back below the waters, crushing a young turtle beneath his shaking palms. He remained there for a long time.
Titans live long, and so do their memories. And he remembered where these objects came from. That torn cloak, that broken frame. That stone, covered in fresh blood. He remembered the friend who carried that stone in his chest. But he should have passed long ago. He couldn’t possibly…
A shriek emerged from the depths, but there was no one left to hear it.