"Let me alone: who art thou that sufferest not my body to rest?

Why dost thou, whoever thou art, disturb me from my sadness?

I see incredible evils, still fresh, still fresh: and my immeasurable woes follow one upon the other.

No longer will a day without a tear, without a groan, have part with me."

A mile above the Nivas Sea, Beca stood on a ledge of stones, looking over the edge. The monsoon made itself so inviting that the huge waves danced in collision, together with the rising of the tide. Her moss-colored trench coat was soon to be taken off by the boisterous laughter of the wind, revealing a worn-out gray fabric made of cotton, desperately clinging to her fair skin. Unperturbed by the blood-stained thunderheads, looming out of the dark sky, she raised both her arms as if she had wings to fly. She hummed herself a frightful melody, opening such thin lips that were so chapped, it had hurt to breathe. The dryness restrained the words from coming out. Hence there was only fog—mere whispers of her incomprehensible lamentations. Her head turned, giving one last glance at the old house her stepmother, Sheila, had bought, fifteen years ago.

Their residence was built on the outskirts of Gilesport, Maine; a reckless structure of bricks and cobalt in the midst of a willow forest, where the only plausible scenery is a statue collection in the rose garden—haunting images of men, women, children, and animals were carved flawlessly, guarding the marble benches near the front porch, standing like toy soldiers. Though an uncomfortable change, having to live in Atlanta for so long, the three-thousand-population town left a remarkable impression on tourists, pilgrims, and strangers for withstanding several storms and other calamities throughout the years. Not only that, Gilesport was also known as the center of agriculture for fishing—docks were surrounded by almost any kind of sea vessel ranging from yachts to rowboats. The business had thrived so much that the mayor denied imports of meat and sardines which meant that getting your regular t-bone steak or smoked bacon over waffles would be twice as expensive because almost everyone was against the slaughter of cows, pigs, and chickens. It was rooted to the town's history, when the early English and Dutch settlers were invaded by a Voodoo tribe, claiming that the land was theirs. The battle for property went on and on until someone put a curse on the city, causing a terrible plague, destroying their source of food and supplies, leaving the sea as their only option for survival.

Georgia was more or less a blank slate. Despite the time spent, things were very uneventful. Beca couldn't remember much from her childhood, but she recalled a life in the city— the blinding ray of sunlight from her dusty window pane in the burning afternoon, the smell of peaches and maple syrup in the kitchen during her fits of depression, the noise coming from the Cherubean Café, where the baristas and waiters had spent more time dancing to 90's hiphop tracks than actually serving a decent cup of coffee, and her ex-boyfriend, Jesse, who had mysteriously died in a fire after graduation. She had lost the will to live—one her many ways to express devastation upon receiving the news, but it wasn't because of the boy alone—she felt that it was her fault, just like how she was to blame with what happened to the others—her friends, her teachers, her biological mother, even her father, whom she'd never met. She then, let misplaced guilt consume her life—taking it as an opportunity to shut everyone out. She refused to talk to anyone; her nose stuck in a book and her hands sore from sketches of architecture. She became a ghost, trapped in a cylindrical pool of emptiness—stuck in a routine, never progressing, never growing.

Fortunately, the only exception to this rule was Sheila.

The middle-aged woman was mysterious and kindly, with olive skin, hair like ringlets of warm chocolate, and eyes so hollow, no one could stand staring at them. She smelled of rust and honey and she would made small hissing sounds everytime she received Beca in her arms—her cushiony bosoms heaved against the girl's head, as if Beca's mere touch was painful. Nevertheless, Sheila had expressed such a great sense of domesticity—she kept the house clean and she cooked the best meals. She was never short of comfort—even more so, when Beca would get nightmares, screaming in the break of dawn. Running blindly upstairs in her silk robe, she would offer to give the young girl a half-spilled glass of milk that tasted like bitter almonds every single night as a remedy; how her heart swelled with pride, witnessing its gradual success. Be that as it may, she settled for oblivion when it comes to her daughter's true well-being; she paid no attention to the scars on Beca's wrists, she ignored the bruises, as well as the emptied bottle of Aspirin.

Giving one last glance at their old house, Beca bid her farewells before facing the ocean and closing her eyes. One could say it was an act of liberation—others would daresay suicide. To her, it was a sense of clarity—to see where life would end, to accept that all things end. Not only that—resolved that death is not black and white, she had developed a strange thrill of discovery in the pit of her stomach—a twisted obsession that will change her life forever. The idea of death became so attractive to her that she wanted to become death itself. Her many failed attempts only encouraged her to dig deeper and try. She often contemplated if death was the absence of life or just a mere transition or portal to another world. She yearned to find out if breathing her last breath would mean getting a glimpse of Jesse's face.

The fall was almost endless due to its depth and all the while, her heart throbbed audibly, fighting against the sound of the long gusts of wind. There was a short moment of panic when she anticipated the pain of her limbs crashing against the rocks—she had seen this so many times in her dreams—but she, admittedly, felt a sense of relief when her body was swallowed by the cold waters instead. She never screamed—only making vivid observations and counting metaphors. She was wrapped in a blanket of ice, where the lack of air was her well-deserved torment. Despite the darkness, what she saw down under was no less than ghastly—blurry images of ugly creatures, baring their teeth—some were hiding behind the reef, with scales and fins so shiny, they almost looked like sirens.

"You are unworthy of this death," she heard them murmur as her body sank gracefully. Slowly, it grew louder and became a devilish chant. The sound was clinging to her ears, a little too long, just for her to believe it; she hated herself for being so fickle and so she resisted the urge to come up for air, until she was no more.

Much to her dismay, a strong manly figure hurried to dive, grabbing her by the ankles; his great stature allowed him to pull her out of the water easily. Reaching the pebbled shore, he hoisted her onto his back upside down and started climbing his way up the cliff, avoiding the slippery vegetated slopes with such precision and speed. His weary legs tensed with every move and his calloused hands held the rocks for dear life. It didn't take long for them to reach safety. The man laid her on the ground, calling out to his companions. His eyes glowed a fiery shade of yellow and orange in the darkness.

"I found her," he panted—his knuckles turned white from gripping both his knees.

"Are we too late?" a woman came rushing through, quickly wiping away the damp strands of brown hair from Beca's pale face. The tone of her voice was betrayed by her apathetic expression, but her fingertips shivered.

"Hardly," he replied, checking on her pulse. "She's just unconscious."

The palm of his hand was pressed against her chest, pumping again and again until he decided it was best to tilt her head slightly, pinch her nose, open her mouth, and breathe into her. He had to do it the thrice before Beca gasped for air and start coughing out the water she had ingested from drowning.

"C-c-cold," Beca shivered, barely possessing the strength to open her eyes. She saw shadows moving subtly around her, feeling a firm grasp on the back of her neck.

She fainted, exhaustion lulling most of her senses.

"My breath won't keep her warm for long—it's still five hours before sunrise," He added, lifting her carefully. He waited for orders, if not, a suggestion.

"Take her to your sister in the chariot," the woman said. "We have to reach the barracks as soon as—"

She stopped in mid-sentence, hearing a sudden rustle of leaves in the nearby Willow tree.

"What is it?" he asked, standing still.

"I smell blood," she replied, pulling out her double-edged sword. "We must go. Now."

The pungent odor became more and more disturbing as they followed their tracks back to the golden chariot. They couldn't find an exact word to describe the sensation, but it was close to inhaling metal and the scent of rotting animals. It was a difficult task to run in the absence of light; they could feel the ground move, as if they were trapped in a maze game. Their shoe prints were long gone and the grass that had parted for their footsteps withered. Minutes passed and it didn't matter where they were going as long as they kept running. It led them to a certain entity, holding up a blue lantern above its head, standing in between a statue of a satyr and a female child.

"My daughter! My daughter!" Sheila cried out. She took a step closer towards the strangers and she was rewarded with the tip of the blade, dangerously pressed against her throat.

The owner of the weapon warned her. "Take one step further and you will not see the light of day." She held a fiery gaze, only indicating that she was ready to strike a blow, at any given moment.

"Give her back to me," Sheila hissed at the piercing sensation. Any human would have been terrified, but she was angry. With another swing, she dodged the sword and threw the lantern away. Friction with the ground had caused an explosion, producing dark blue smoke, and turning into a chiónifasma. It trapped them in a ring of freezing saltwater that rose up to six feet, resembling a spider's web made of large snowflakes. Any living being that would touch the frozen mesh would be wrapped in a cocoon of sea snow and suffocate within a single minute.

"Tsk-tsk. I was almost believing that you are human, but you just had to blow your cover with this wretched iced lace—is that what you call it nowadays? What a pitiful weapon of choice. Now, I just wonder why a monster—particularly a sea monster, would abduct a god's spawn and keep her hidden from the rest of us."

"The girl must die! It is the will of sacrifice—it is the will of my Lord," Sheila's chest heaved as she slowly changed form—her sharp nails turned into dark claws, raking against her arms to tear her mortal flesh to pieces and reveal a snake-like skin. Her curly hair was replaced with dancing serpents. Each was a different length and a different color, spitting out venom and burning the rest of her mask like acid until no part of her was concealed anymore. Feet were replaced by a tail that rattles, as she grew ten feet taller, crying out and making a threatening display of her fangs and purple tongue. She lunged at her opponents, raising her hands to control the web, aiming it to contract, until she was hit by a blazing thorn tree branch in the eye.

"A tree branch," the man smirked, shifting Beca to a better position that would allow him to carry her with ease. It looked like they've been facing many dangers like this for so long that neither of them felt nervous. "And you said that I was always overworking it."

"You know full well how I get with Gorgons. Besides, a little help would have been nice."

"I am incapable of summoning a fiery twig when this thing weighs like a giant moose!"

"How could she be heavy? She looks like a Cadmian dwarf."

"Might I suggest you carry her then?"

The earth shook as Sheila lost her balance and bellowed in agony—how she crawled desperately, chanting an old-aged spell that made Beca fall into a state delirium, shaking and moaning.

"What's happening?"

It had caused panic until blood was drawn, leaving the Gorgon torn into pieces. The small serpents removed themselves from her severed head and gathered, turning into another monster, made of stone; it mourned for its master, sputtering more white venom that quickly evaporated.

"She has been poisoned…kill that horrid thing while I do this," the man had put two and two together, quickly grabbing a red serum from his satchel and injected it into Beca's neck using a wooden syringe; it slowed down her heart beat and reduced her need for oxygen.

"I cannot kill it if it is not alive," the woman stated as-a-matter-of-factly. "But perhaps I could crush it."

"Do what you must, Schatz! We are in a hurry!"

The Pantheonites did not waste a second trying to get Beca to the infirmary. It was one of those moments when the only thing standing in between her life and her death was a silver thread, waiting to be cut by the Fates. And as good as the serum was, it couldn't prevent further demise. It could only delay it. She was delicately tied to the bed out of precaution before the Claiming, unconsciously muttering words in ancient Greek. One of her saviors, the taller woman, stood by her side and raised two black chalices up to her chest, one filled with water and the other, with silver oil.

"Wait…she's not pure," the red-haired girl observed.

"Indeed, she's not. Now, see your brother in his chambers and make sure that all his wounds are cleansed. I will do this alone."

The woman was left with a dreadful silence that made her sick to her stomach. She hated the Claiming but she was the only one capable of dealing with the mishaps, even though her job was relatively easy. She would start with the same prayer to the gods that have been used eons ago, asking for the Moon to shed its light:

"Selene, O I come to thee. What is pure and bright may lead the way through the dark so evil perishes. Claim the captive so they may be freed. For life or death, I shall do my duty."

It was almost a work of nature than a ritual, with the way everything would fall into place. The chalice with silver oil would usually light itself up and burn because it served as a sign that the gods had claimed an ally. So when a chalice filled with water floated above Beca's head, the woman was quick to grab a dagger. It didn't make sense that she would risk her life to save Beca, only to have the privilege to kill her, but children of water were enemies. They were frowned upon. They were traitors. She had to act quickly, just like how she had to put a stop to five other people.

"For peace," she whispered in despair, about to strike through the girl's heart. It was only when blood was running down her hands that she saw the other chalice bursting with fire, circling the water, as if to tell her they were meant to exist together.