Nerun and the Guardian of the Mist

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Night had enveloped the sea in an even thicker silence. Nerun and Lira sat by the fire they had lit among the glowing plants. But even the flames seemed alien here—they crackled, but sent no sparks into the sky, as if the air were too heavy for sparks to fly. "We should venture to the lights tomorrow," said Nerun. His gaze rested on the shell he had pulled from the sand. It was cold in his hand, so cold that he felt as if it were sucking thoughts from his fingers. Lira shook her head. "You really believe that we can negotiate with this sea? That there is an answer that will help us?" "There is always an answer," replied Nerun. "The question is only what price it demands." Before Lira could respond, the fog thickened over the sea. It rose higher, forming walls that swallowed the shore. Nerun jumped to his feet, staff firmly in hand. Lira also placed her fingers on the hilt of her knife. Then, amidst the gray, a figure emerged. A woman made of mist and light, striding barefoot across the water as if it were solid ground. Her body flickered, sometimes transparent, sometimes as tangible as stone. In her hands, she held a bowl from which fine veils of smoke rose. Her eyes, however, were the most eerie thing—they were like small moons whose light didn't offer warmth, but stole memories. "The Guardian," Nerun breathed. He had heard stories, but never believed he would meet her. "You must not go any further," she said, and her voice sounded as if it came from everywhere, even from the heartbeat of the sea. "This water does not belong to the living. Whoever wishes to pass through must give me what they cannot get back." Lira stepped forward, her jaw set. "We're not looking for a fight. Just a way." The Guardian inclined her head. "A way is always a trade. If you wish to cross the sea without memory, you must sacrifice a piece of your past to me. A name, a face, a song. I am the Keeper of Oblivion." Nerun felt his heart pounding. The conch on his belt began to hum softly, barely audibly, as if echoing the Guardian's voice. "And if we give nothing?" he asked. "Then you stay here," she said simply. "And soon you yourself will turn to mist." A tremor ran through Lira. She wanted to object, but Nerun placed his hand on her shoulder. He looked into her eyes and knew she couldn't pay that price. Her memories of her family, of her village—they were the only thing she carried. "Take from me," Nerun said, taking a step forward. The Guardian raised the bowl. "What will you give me?" He hesitated. Images passed before him: a face that had once been his brother; a place where he had played. He didn't choose—the sea chose for him. All at once, a memory ripped from him, like a wind tearing a leaf. He gasped, clutching his chest, but it was too late: he knew he would never hear the sound of a certain voice again. "It is done," said the Guardian, and for a moment her gaze was almost sad.