Legend LVIII – The Mistress of the Falling Waters

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In the heart of a gorge, where the sky is but a narrow blue fissure and the echo of the water sounds like voices from bygone worlds, she stands—the green-blue one, the silent one, the one whom the river itself has made queen. No one knows her true name. Yet people call her Nerathis, Mistress of the Falling Waters. On a rock in the emerald-green pool, where the waterfall plunges like an endless veil, stands her stony body. Her form appears not hewn, but cast from moonlight and the deep sea: smooth, cool, crisscrossed with pale, organic lines, as if the water itself continued to flow within her. Her hair falls in soft waves down her back, as if a wind still stirs within it, unseen by human eyes. On her brow rests a crown of aquatic plants and the breath of seashells, finer than a dream. Her eyes, closed yet awake, hear the earth breathing. In her left hand she holds nothing. She gives—or waits for what is brought. In her right hand rests a trident, ancient as currents and the changing of the moon. Yet it is not raised. Not threatening. Simply there. Like a promise no one can break. The ancients said Nerathis was once not a statue. She was flesh and heart, child of the sea, sister of the rain, lover of the first river. It is said she could summon the water as others summon a song, and floods would come, gentle or angry, as she wished. But one day came when the sea fell silent for no reason. The rivers grew sluggish, the water tasted of sorrow. A great drought settled over the land like a silent prayer no one could answer. Then Nerathis stepped into the ravine, barefoot, with nothing but her breath. She touched the stone beneath her, whispered words the water understood, and promised to maintain the balance forever—between flood and drought, life and oblivion. Thus she herself became the spring. Her heart no longer beat like flesh, but like a waterfall, endless, tireless. And where she stood, the drought broke, and the land drank. But her sacrifice bound her. She could no longer wander, no longer speak, no longer love. Only watch. And so she turned to stone, but the river was never silent again. Since then, people seek her when life grows hard. Some come with requests, some with gratitude. And when the heart is pure as mountain spring, they hear a murmur in the air—like words the soul, not the ear, understands. It is said that Nerathis answers those who do not take, but give. A mother once brought a child, sick and withered like a dry leaf. She laid no treasure before the goddess, only a song she softly sang. The wind carried it away, but the goddess heard. In the morning the child was healthy, and no one knew how. But there are others who come with greed. Who believe that power, wealth, or eternity lie within Nerathis.