A sinking feeling flooded the tribal council upon Shion's end, but then the whole island was stricken with terror at the witch's mind shear. It was a living breathing thing. Ever was it the council’s design to mold truth from the lies they told of Shirell, but they, themselves, were supposed to rise above such things. They were supposed to stand as the tribe's hope against the wickedness they’d conjured. It seemed such an easy thing in the beginning. Create an enemy of which they already knew how to contain. In so doing they stood as the saviors of Lagoon and for it remained forever in power.

This, however, wasn’t the entire truth either. The fear of Shirell wasn’t a falsehood. Nor was the imminent threat she represented unreal. Many years prior, when she'd actually lived among them, she was kept in check via her naivety. As her knowledge grew so too did her powers, and with it the threat of her. This, as it turned out, was only contained by the guilt that infected her for the murder of a fetus. Because of it she, herself, felt a punishment was deserved and she'd agreed exile was a fitting fate.

The council had jumped at the chance to tame this power. Odds were she wouldn't have agreed to embrace death, but they hadn't wanted that of her anyway. This was regardless of the fact every other villager to commit such a heinous crime, always met their end, rare as it was. Had Shirell truly deserved any special recompense? No, of course not, but the council had ulterior motives. Namely, they still had hopes of finding a way to harness her powers for their own. They soon found this was no longer possible while she remained on Lagoon.

Beyond this crime, she refused to participate in any further experiments and had evolved enough to back her demand. Even prior the murder, she’d become unruly and only obeyed their commands after much dispute. Things were rapidly unraveling. So Gabriel's Tear was the solution and it was a good one. Banishment may well have stood as the only decision they’d ever mutually agreed upon, bar one thing. How exactly were they to experiment on her while in exile?

They'd discovered a few long range tests they could perform and found her telepathic range was limited. The general safety of Lagoon was assured as Shirell could affect nothing wider than five miles beyond the tiny borders of Gabriel's Tear. The distance between the two islands was and remained seven miles. So all they had to do, all they could do really, was invent stories to keep the villagers on or near to the island.

Why not? Two miles still allowed for plenty of fishing and the open ocean was free in any direction other than Gabriel's Tear, which lay to the southwest. In the ensuing years Lagoon thrived, aside from the war in which warrior telepaths were sent forth into battle upon each new harvest. Even so, the bloodshed had yet to touch Lagoon soil, so remained at peace.

To the council's surprise, shortly after Shirell's exile, the horrors they'd invented about her spread and contorted in ways their limited minds could never have dreamed up. It was in fact not the council who'd conjured the idea that Shirell was a witch, but still they'd embraced the concept. In so doing the council and all its elders gained the unique ability not only to keep the villagers in check through fear, but also blame all negative things upon her wickedness.

However, the council had invented the chant, "Never a name spoken!", and struck the name of the witch from record to the point where eventually, many didn’t even know it to speak it. This turned Shirell into more of a thing or a force, for she was never actually seen. The key benefit of this was the death of sympathy for the person Shirell actually was. This ruse was imperative because some people did actually remember her short stay on Lagoon, and sympathized with her plight.

Those the council failed to silence with rumor and invented taboo were dealt with in other, more direct ways. This included a few council members, but for this no special accommodation could be given and they met with mysterious accidents that were attributed to the vengeance of the witch, naturally. When it was done the council's place in society was secured and their power assured. The sky was the limit. Then everything changed.

They could only assume her powers had grown over the years. Obviously, her influence had expanded well past the borders of Lagoon. Now there would be hell to pay. No one on the council was safe and perhaps not a single villager, for they ALL feared her, but some less than others. Knowledge of what she really was expounded the fear in most, but for a few, such as Shion, the unraveling of the mystery behind the witch empowered them with the belief it might actually be possible to defeat her. Yet, at what cost . . . a war with the witch? Who would remain after the dust had settled? With her murder of that fetus so many years ago they couldn't even be certain she'd spare the children. They’d molded her into one who devoured them, but never, NEVER desired their lies to be made flesh.

This terror expanded outward like a plague. It was meant to be contained through silence, but fear had a way warping one's intentions. Even so, how exactly were they to explain Shion's death? They couldn't pin it on the witch, as the council played savior and thus, well beyond her reach. So, they’d place the blame on young Ciroc, the witch's prodigy. It would be simple enough seeing how with a wound such as Shion inflicted the boy would certainly bleed out. Death would prevent him from being able to defend himself.

That wouldn't be the end of it, though. What of belief? Who’d believe a ten year old could essentially lobotomize their chief elder? Naturally they'd dispose of Shion's body, saying it washed out to sea. In this way they could disguise how he'd died and invent something plausible, but what?

What indeed? Then a plan formed in the minds of most, but one held out, choosing a different path entirely.

# # #

With tears rolling down, Acissey remained helpless and utterly hopeless. This . . . this was sorrow upon sorrow and unthinkably so soon after Jerret's rite. Even as bloated and horrific a sight as that was, still, there was no blood. Mother Sea had taken it within her, every drop. So now also was her burden, yet she'd only just begun, giving way from the crystalline horizon to lap the shore with a scarlet stain. Upon the first sight a panic burrowed, but now . . . now realization set in and she'd added to the all-encompassing redness something uncomely, but equally uncontrollable, as her stomach emptied upon the sand.

With no rhyme or reason, the beach soon teemed with villagers, as if so many ants waiting in vain for a purpose that never came. Even after Diote sought help none dared move Ciroc. Few were willing even to lay a finger upon him in help, sorrow or even condemnation. Nary a one witnessed a wound so grievous as his in countless years and at such times ever had death claimed their tortured souls. Little remained under the guise of hope, though Diote's efforts were applauded, insomuch as she’d well performed her duty to a gifted. In words far cruder, most expected nothing less and some still laid accusations upon her for not having acted in a quicker manner or blamed her outright for the crime.

To this no ease gave way to their sneers for the fact that High Elder Shion's body was evident for all to see. Not that Diote knew why or how he'd been brought so low, but this too was held against her, and seemingly would forever be. Yet, she hadn't really cared. The events of the recent night had propelled her well past such concerns. Ciroc was all that mattered. Beyond their blatant lack of action they could all be damned for watching so smugly as he lay dying.

Even in a fledgling and admittedly limited mind such as hers the truth rang free. Regardless of age or standing, the living ought always to command priority over those dead and gone. Yet that wasn’t the case. Her intermittent glances told the undeniable story. Most who'd arrived in the vein of “help” doted over Shion's corpse as if it were holier even than Mother Sea. It was a fact, once past all shock, these sheep, gifted and pampered so, would feel utterly lost in the void of his guiding mind. The moment she'd given them seemed an ocean apart from her love and the guilt of it rose upon every bloody wave. Still a silent prayer echoed forth from her impotent mind to Mother Sea, who heard all things regardless. She wished them gone; every one swept away and not to return as Jerret had.

Acissey, however, had cared, as every tear formed to a flood, but duty or not, most lessers huddled forth within groups or simply trailed off in every direction that defined away. Still, though not too far, lest they end all possibility for future gossip. These were clearly well beyond a place of comfort or simply and ever grateful both an elder and a gifted youth suffered in their stead at least this once. All manner of hardship fell near to entirely within their lot, minus the death, which was a rare case indeed, so sheltered from the battlefront as they'd been since memory past.

Still, this time marked the most shocking incarnation of “NOW” as Ciroc was indeed dying. Diote must act on his behalf, but how? She shuddered with the word for the impossible burden it represented. How exactly was this to happen? Herbal remedies and other simple amenities were available, but naught a thing for wounds as severe as his. In cases such as rare as this, the rule of thumb seemed to have forever been nothing less than death, with the focus falling squarely upon the aftermath of mourning. Be this as it may, under decidedly less dire circumstances cauterization was a viable option to cease the loss of blood, but the sheer agony of it was excruciatingly painful and required someone who, regardless of injury, possessed a great deal more strength than remained within Ciroc's frail body. In such a state, and at an age so very young, he'd not manage to survive it.

For Diote, despite her effort and success at resuscitating him, no level of disgrace existed that she'd considered anything near deep enough. The shame of it was both self-evident and self-inflicted, but regardless hardly a sympathetic tear was shed among her kin or otherwise. Not that she'd accepted the few sorrowful glances cast her way or even noticed them as such, but most onlookers heartily approved of her suffering. These had weighed it a sentence fitting failure and smugly put. Upon the thought, whether from gifted, lesser or even cursed, Diote could not but agree this view was fact.

If only she'd possessed legs of swifter resolve, if only she'd a mind unshackled. Yet naught could've happened. As of then to now, she'd gone well beyond the best any lesser could strive for. Then she thought with pause, and not for the first time, what if lesser hadn't been her fate, but no . . . how could she consider thoughts so pointless? Still she did. All this ended with the utmost sin. If only she'd paid heed his first call. For this her sorrow knew no bounds. Had she not so angrily snubbed the option, all of this, every last iota, could've been avoided.

Had she indeed, events would've splintered into realms none could presume true with any degree of accuracy. Namely, all could've ended exponentially worse, a darker fate she knew not, but still. Had not the council already marked Ciroc a threat? Had not Shion, in secret confines, already intended the boy's bloody end regardless of compliance to law? Despite all else, had not tragedy been well on its way? It seemed a force unstoppable, yet still regret surged forth as relentless as a wave, and overtook her. For what then did her tears fall? Odds were a trade would've occurred; her soul for that of High Elder Shion, as such a grievous offense ought naught be witnessed to taint his “holy” name beyond the purview of the council he overshadowed with a heavy hand.

Yet this solitary sorrow wasn’t to be hers alone, nor the torture streaming from it. All reason dictated the full force of Acissey's spite should fall squarely upon Diote's tender shoulders, an unbearable burden atop all else. Was it not Diote who'd led her son astray? Was it not Diote who’d fouled his mouth with the unspeakable name? No. As it was, the reverse was truth, but this seemed a forbidden and unconvincing knowledge. Beyond this, Diote's acute suffering, in the right light of wisdom, shone a delicate innocence and an undeniable aura of something called love. If one truly had eyes to see, it could naught but be plainer . . . Diote loved Ciroc, and deeply so. For it Ciroc's mother, who'd ever chastised the girl, fell in line aside her, upon her knees in the blood soaked sands.

More remained however. A reason held secret deep within the bottomless pit of Acissey's tormented soul. Elder Shion as she'd known him in yesteryear, High Elder now, held for her nary a hint of trust. So enlightened was she to glimpse past the façade, to discover a vile, loathsome thing dwelled within him and had over the span of Ciroc's short years, to utterly corrupt the sanctity of the council she'd once held in reverence.

The source of this fear spawned with the witch . . . who'd all but, and she could barely think on it now, MADE her son. For the likes of her not a drop of pity remained, but once, so very long ago, Acissey's sorrow overflowed for the innocent woman, now so forever twisted within the iron grasp of power. Yet, the once poor, and rather frail thing all would one day call witch, was fashioned so by the callousness of power starved men, particularly one freshly anointed elder named Shion.

This was a forbidden knowledge, though, and to speak of it would end her days upon Lagoon. No taint could remain upon the man who'd so deftly arose in eminence. Many upon the island knew an evil lurked amidst their paradise, yet the loosened tongues of a few taught, in no uncertain terms, a deafening silence was well in order. Even so, none knew much; just a hint, an uneasy feeling. Proof was naught to be had by any who'd not gone forth to greet Mother Sea. Perhaps, Acissey surmised over the ensuing years, a piece remained within the possession of many; a riddle bursting with cracks to a scene that would never, could never again be whole.

Now it stood as a mystery forever lost to a blinded people hopelessly stuck within the mire the wickedness the council had conjured. The witch, she'd too been turned, and an evil oozed from her pores. Of this Acissey held nary a doubt. For the likes of her no pity or mercy remained, but what of all who were left? Could Mother Sea truly forgive such a terrible and prolonged affront? This was a malevolence poured forth from the council, she well knew, but how could it not be that hiding evil was in truth protecting evil? Was not every last villager, status notwithstanding, who'd repressed such knowledge deeply to blame? Would not Mother Sea, in her own eternal time, judge every last one?

Then a fear fell for which existed no recourse. So in shame equal, if indeed not surpassed for Diote's purity, Accissey wept tears unquenchable. Each and every one ran crimson in the sands; forever tainted, forever damned.