Bound to the Sea

They came as the sun fell, two dozen men and women strong and led by the high father, to find a sacrifice.

It was summer, and the fishing was poor. A seaside village, they could not live without a harvest from the ocean. They depended on the fish for trade and food, and the seasonal storms, instead of bringing full nets, had destroyed their boats.

In truth, however, the prospect of a poor haul was but a pretense. Father Sylvester might be a holy man, even mystical, but he was also very human. His lustful gaze had turned to lust towards one of the town's residents, and she, having spurned his affections, also flaunted his holy teaching.

Perhaps if she had been a more faithful woman, he would not have been offended so. And if she had defied the gods, but taken him to bed, he would have been more than satisfied.

But both?

Father Sylvester could not abide both.

Marisa, for her part, was far from oblivious. She knew that she had angered the priest when she had denied him, but even she, worldly as she was, could not anticipate what was to come.

It was the startled cries of the horses that first alerted her that something was amiss, and fearing wolves, she wrapped her shawl around her nightgown, and ventured forth, lantern in hand.

Instead of wolves, she found a throng of people, pitchforks and torches raised, hatred on their faces. Father Sylvester had raised them to a high furor, indeed, and when he grabbed her wrist, yanking her forward, they cheered.

The lantern shattered in the dirt.

"She has brought blasphemy to our village, and the gods have sought to punish us for allowing it!" he shouted, as Marisa's bewildered face turned towards him. "It is her cursed hands that cause the sea to sour! Only her spilled blood with please the gods!"

The crowd shouted, surrounding her, pulling her away from her home. Marisa was a strong woman, her body built at the forge, but even she could not fight against a frenzied mob alone.

"Let me go!" she shouted, but hands were shoving her forward, tearing at her clothes. "What is this? Why do you damn me so?"

But they did not listen.

So she swore at them, profane words that merely enforced Father Sylvester's claims.

The mob shoved and pulled at her, tearing at her clothes until she was stripped bare. But Marisa would not be ashamed of her nakedness, and still, she fought like a beast, scratching and biting when she could, doing anything to free herself.

But it was useless.

She soon found herself bound, ropes at her wrists and neck, and forced to her knees before Father Sylvester, a mockery of the penitent worshiper.

"All this because I wouldn't fuck you?" She spat at his feet, defiant. "The gods don't care what I do. And giving me to them won't bring you anything. My blood is not so powerful!"

But Father Sylvester was not so easily flustered.

"You see how easily lies fall from the harlot's lips!" he shouted, and the crowd screamed their displeasure. "You see how she twists my words to her own purposes?"

It was then Marisa knew that nothing but her death would sate their lust for blood. But she would not crawl to the altar of sacrifice, resigned to her fate. It was only rope that bound her, after all, and if she was quick and cunning, perhaps she could escape. Her life in the small fishing village was over -- but perhaps she could make a new life elsewhere.

But as they dragged her through the village, she found she could not resist them for long. With Father Sylvester at the head of the crowd, none of the other villagers dared intervene, fearful that his most holy wrath be turned upon them, next.

She looked into their eyes as she passed, gazing steadily. Marisa wanted them to remember.

She would shame their cowardice.

She wanted their inaction to haunt their nightmares.

She had stopped shouting by then, knowing that it would do no good to fight, and only sap her of her strength. But as the mob led her up the hills, further and further towards the cliff, she began to struggle once more.

She understood the fate the good father had in mind, the ancient ways he knew. And by the gods, she would die in any way but drowning.

But the men who held the ropes were strong, and the people who surrounded her made certain that she had no chance to free herself. Her wrists were rubbed raw and bloody, but she fought.

By the time they reached the cliffs, she was begging for mercy, praying to the gods for help.

But none came.

Father Sylvester watched dispassionately as the rusted iron shackles were fastened around her wrists, but just before she was lowered, he leaned forward to whisper in her ear.

"This fate could still be avoided," he said silkily, stroking her red hair. "Merely say the word, girl, and I will come back to free you."

Rage filled Marisa, the likes of which she had never felt before, and all common sense fled.

"Go to hell," she hissed

His icy blue eyes grew even colder.

Very well," he whispered. "You will make a fine sacrifice, though it is a shame to lose such a fine body to the sea."

He backed away, raising his arms, his pale robes waving in the night wind, and began to chant a prayer.

Marisa fought and bit and scratched, but the crowd was in such a high mood they ignored both her pleas and the pain, pushing her to the edge of the cliff.

"Please, please," she begged. "Don't do this. I didn't do anything to any of you!"

But it was pointless. At the very edge of the cliff, she stood, naked, bound, and begging. Father Sylvester approached, and with a final prayer, shoved her off the edge.

She fell a short distance, not enough to damage her, but enough to wrench at her shoulders, making her cry out in pain.

Marisa's shoulders screamed in pain as she hunt there, the manacles digging into her wrists. She writhed in the air, feet kicking, scrabbling for purchase on the rocky cliff face.

Mercifully, if there was any such thing left in the world, she found a protruding ledge to rest her bare feet on. Though it was steep and rough and she could barely stand on it, it gave her some relief from the pressure on her arms.

And there she was left, one moment hanging from the long, rusted chain, the next standing to give her shoulders some relief, the next letting herself sag.

It was the worst sort of torture, and as the night passed, Marisa found herself praying, begging for relief.

"Please," she cried, "please, if there are any gods out there, please help me."

But the moon began to set, and the sun began to rise, and so did the tide, and no relief came.

Blood was dripping down her wrists now, down her arms, down her chest. The chains were cruel and tight and yet not tight enough, and rubbed at her already raw skin.

And soon, the sea was at her feet.

And the ledge she was standing on became wet and slippery, and she could no longer support herself.

Hanging from the chains, she almost thought that death would be a relief.

As the water rose up, over her ankles, past her knees, to her chest, the blood that had spilled from her wrists mixed with the water, washing her clean with the salty waves.

Marisa was never a particularly religious person. She had never been one for the gods. But she prayed now, loud and desperate and sincere.

"Please, please, please, I don't want to die. I don't want to die. Please don't let me die," she chanted. "Anyone, anything who's listening, please, I'll do anything to live."

And though she didn't know it, it was those words that brought attention to something under the waves.

Those words, and the blood. The salt. The water.

Marisa opened her eyes, not even realizing she had closed them, and saw something in the distance, in the sea.

Something that looked remarkably like a woman.