Deep Sea Embers

This is translated and hosted on bcatranslation.

Silence had enveloped the world. The thunderous sounds of a cataclysmic clash between two realms had ceased, leaving darkness in their wake. In this void, the tree from a dead world silently grew, its presence marking the aftermath of this vast destruction.

From the debris, new forms began to emerge, evolving from the destruction that had once reigned supreme.

She had lost all memories of the elves and her own identity, forgetting the very beginning and end of existence. Post-Great Annihilation, Atlantis was driven by an unstoppable urge to grow and expand.

In this desolate expanse, the Vanished gathered. Eerie green flames spread through the abyss, forming a barrier that halted Atlantis’s unchecked spread.

The tree of the dead world soon becaware of this intrusion.

Duncan observed strange lights and shadows emanating from a dense fog that seemed to obscure indistinct shapes. This fog, spreading from the vast canopy of the tree, resembled tangled tentacles and meandering roots, reminiscent of the mist that once enveloped the four great Arks.

Before Duncan could ponder further, a sudden change occurred. The “river” surrounding Atlantis, made up of countless shimmering points of light, began to disintegrate, merging with the mist above the World Tree, which then solidified and expanded with tremendous force.

The edges of the mist sharpened into projectiles, striking the ghostly flames around the Vanished.

In the darkness, a distant, otherworldly roar echoed. Each collision between Atlantis and the ghost flames sent pulsations through the flames. Despite this, more eerie green flames emerged from the abyss, staining the chaotic white mist with their sinister hue. Even as Atlantis endured heavy impacts, its onslaught continued unabated.

Duncan watched in both awe and shock.

This was the first tany entity had dared to confront the ethereal fldirectly.

As Atlantis pressed on, Duncan noticed a vague shape forming within the mist above the World Tree.

A soft glow emanated from it, shapeless, like a forming soul.

In that instant, Duncan recognized it as Atlantis.

He addressed the emerging light, “Your efforts are futile. You can’t breach this barrier. Soon, you’ll be consumed by it.”

The faint glow remained silent, enduring the relentless attacks. Each impact made the mist’s edges increasingly fragile, turning previously muffled sounds into distinct “bang, bang” noises that echoed repeatedly.

With concern, Duncan watched the ongoing battle. After an eternity, he raised his hand, and flames, almost ethereal, rose and flowed gracefully towards the heart of Atlantis, hidden in the abyss.

“Release the elves and all else you’ve consumed. Let Wind Harbor return to reality,” he declared solemnly, “Act now, while redemption is still possible.”

Suddenly, the nebulous glow showed recognition. It flickered uncertainly, and from the engulfing darkness, a voice, both sharp and childlike, declared, “They are not just elves!”

Around the World Tree’s remnants, clusters of lights churned unsettlingly. The glow intensified, transforming into streams directed towards the fog over Atlantis.

As the mist prepared for another surge of aggression, the glowing lights above trembled violently. Following this, several lights that had merged with the fog began to “withdraw,” escaping Atlantis’s gravitational pull. They cascaded from above the World Tree, resembling a celestial waterfall, like stars swirling around a majestic tree in a cosmic dance.

Shortly thereafter, one of these descending lights grew larger and took on a more distinct form.

Before Duncan stood an elf, not particularly tall, with pristine white hair and wearing a deep blue robe suggestive of an academic. His face showed signs of constant weariness, but his eyes retained a tranquil depth. He stood among the mesmerizing lights, facing the towering World Tree rising from the dark void.

He was Ted Lir, the Truth Keeper from Wind Harbor.

Surprised by the sudden appearance, Duncan remarked, “I was under the impression you had disappeared.”

With a casual shrug, Ted Lir replied, “It was just a figment of a nightmare — hardly as taxing as grading the flood of assignments and essays students submit at the end of vacation.”

As a result of the sudden release of many elves, the sentient heart of Atlantis momentarily lost focus. However, her voice soon echoed in the obsidian expanse, pleading, “Return… It’s dangerous beyond this! Cback… let’s wait for Saslokha’s return.”

Emerging from the edge of the spiritual inferno, a massive humanoid black goat appeared. It raised its head, casting a serene gaze upon the pale, twisted form of the World Tree, and calmly declared, “I’ve been here all along, little sapling.”

Atlantis seemed briefly disoriented. Her sentient essence, manifesting within the mist, struggled to recognize if the black goat emerging from the flames was the creator she remembered. Her resolve faltered momentarily, and the mist from the tree’s pinnacle began to recede. But almost immediately, the void was filled with her anguished cries and a cacophony of sharp noises, exclaiming, “False! Not him! Not you! None are true! You all…”

She abruptly stopped, her voice fading to a whisper as if speaking more to herself than to anyone else, “You all… they’re different… Have they… perished? They aren’t elves… I…”

“It’s true; we are not the elves of your memories, Atlantis.”

An unexpected voice cut through Atlantis’s clouded thoughts. Gentle yet filled with age-old wisdom, it echoed through the vast expanse, soothing amidst the chaos.

From the Vanished, a spectral figure of an elderly man began to appear, slowly advancing.

Recognizing Duncan, the figure, Lune, gave a slight nod before turning his full attention to the gigantic tree enshrouded in the abyss.

This was more than a tree; it was a revered amulet in elvish lore—their origin, their protector, their mythology, their heritage, the cradle of their countless legends, and the foundation of their once-glorious civilization.

Yet, it now stood, though lifeless, still driven by a relentless desire to expand in its post-mortem state.

Despite being of elven descent, Lune had never had the chance to witness a dense forest or learn to navigate one. He had never seen rivers meandering through lush landscapes, tapering into gentle streams within woods. The vibrant hues of wildflowers in sunlit clearings, the nocturnal melodies orchestrated by the gentle sway of trees, and the creatures that dwelled within these woods were all foreign to him.

Legend told of ancient elves whose lifespans neared eternity, constantly rejuvenated under the benevolent shade of the World Tree. Agile and resilient, they skillfully moved through the towering trees, leaping from one vast canopy to another…

However, such tales were merely echoes of a past era to Lune, a figure shaped by what cafter.

As he approached the edge of the deck, his posture was slightly stooped from age, and his more robust physique was the result of countless hours behind a desk coupled with restless sleep. When he looked up at the World Tree, deep lines etched across his forehead becpronounced, telling of the relentless passage of time.

“We must seem quite alien compared to the beings etched in your memory,” he said softly, addressing the World Tree.

There was no verbal response from Atlantis, but a discernible tremor passed through the dim glow nestled within the fog. A sound like leaves brushing against each other whispered from deep within the pale, twisted remnants of the World Tree.

After a prolonged silence, a youthful voice, tinged with curiosity, asked, “Why does your face bear those markings?”

“Those are called wrinkles,” Lune explained patiently. “As we mortals age, our skin loses its tightness and starts to sag. On damp, gloomy days, my back and waist ache—a reminder of my advancing years and the countless days I’ve spent at sea. My stomach isn’t as strong as it used to be, and my teeth show the marks of dental work. In a few years, age will take its toll. I’ll either be cremated or buried to nourish the soil. We no longer find solace under the World Tree, nor are we reborn from giant seed pods like in the old stories.”

Pausing, he looked upwards, his gaze lost in the shimmering light above.

“Do we seem very different from the memories you hold?” he asked again.

From within the decaying core of the World Tree, a soft rustle of leaves echoed again.

“…Does it mean that none can ever return…?”

“Yes, none can return. And even if they could, they wouldn’t match the memories you hold,” Lune said solemnly. “But, there is something I want to share with you.”

He reached into his pocket, searching for something specific. He pulled out a well-worn book with frayed edges, suggesting frequent use. The cover was embossed with elegant scripts, different from the languages spoken in modern city-states.

He carefully turned the brittle pages to a specific passage and began to read, “…As dawn’s first light bathed the ancient monolith in golden hues, the wanderer gathered his belongings, planning to cross the Flowering Hill and reach the lands of Roland-Nam before nightfall…”

“This is from the ‘Epic of Horo-Dazo’…”

“Exactly,” Lune confirmed. “Centuries ago, adventurers found stone tablets on a secluded, shadowy isle with inscriptions of this epic and other ancient texts. It took us a millennium to decipher their deep meanings, and several more to try to find the Flowering Hill and the mentioned terrains. Sadly, these places evaded us. The shadowed isles, too, were eventually lost, swallowed by the encroaching mists at the world’s edge.”

With reverence, Lune set the precious book aside and returned his gaze to the ethereal glow.

“We’ve managed to preserve fragments of our storied past. While sparts remain hidden, compared to human and forest kin histories, our elvish history is remarkably intact. We recount legends of the PrCreator, who awoke in the primal darkness, planting the seeds of the first tree in the birthplace of all life. Just four centuries ago, we rediscovered the ‘Ring-tailed Lyre’, its melodies as vivid as the ancient texts described. Seventy-six years ago, we restored the final verses of the ‘Hymns of Heidran’, filled with captivating stories once sung in divine courts…”

“Yet, vast expanses of our history remain shrouded in darkness, perhaps forever. The tales of those who perished in the Great Annihilation, or those lost during the birth of the Deep Sea Era, are like the shadowed isles now lost in the mists. Atlantis, my apologies. We are not the elves you remember with nostalgia. What we have are merely fragmented memories, salvaged from the relentless flow of time, always trying to mark our existence in a world transformed by cataclysm. I’m not sure if this offers any comfort, but… this is the legacy that endures.”

In the encompassing void, a soft radiance pulsated calmly. The pale, ghostly mist that had once shielded it began to retreat deliberately. Almost imperceptibly, the gnarled and lifeless limbs at the edges of Atlantis started to fade. Tender, mystical green flames began to touch the majestic tree, evoking memories of a lush forest long gone.

Duncan’s gaze lifted to meet the imposing silhouette of a massive black goat standing before him.

There was a pause, a silent exchange between the man and the creature, before Duncan gave the goat a discreet, respectful nod.

With a grace unexpected for its size, the black humanoid goat started to walk forward, its hooves treading upon invisible paths, drawing it closer to the base of the grand tree.

“You’ve blossomed beyond what I imagined,” the goat whispered, a mix of wonder and pride in its voice, as it craned its neck to address the gentle luminance hidden in the darkness.

The dimming light trembled softly in response, murmuring, “I… failed to complete the mission you gave me.”

“You’ve surpassed all expectations,” the goat replied warmly, lowering its head so that its horn brushed against the dry, scarred bark of the tree. From the tip of the horn, a tendril of the sethereal green flsparked to life. “It’s tfor a diligent child to find solace and rest, dear sapling.”

The once resilient glow within the milky mists began to fade. The ambient sounds, which had previously evoked the image of leaves dancing to the whims of the wind, fell into a haunting silence. Brilliant motes of light gathered, forming a shimmering stream that lovingly embraced the base of Atlantis.

“Wahhhhhh~” From deep within the core of the World Tree, a lamenting cry filled with anguish and longing resonated.

The spectral green flames, now infused with unprecedented vigor, surged upwards, briefly enveloping the entire tree in their embrace. In this fleeting moment, they dispersed the oppressive shadows that had prevailed since life ceased.