The Breath of the Abyss

Written by StillnessandSilence

The great golden eyes of the deep still watch. Fewer remember the old ways—though some still know. Now, most only hover beneath the surface in tests of bravery. But the Sunken remembers.

In the long memory of the world, there were always those who whispered prayers to the Sunken. He is not gone — merely forgotten by those too young to remember the weight of reverence. The Sunken is old. Primordial. The dweller beneath the depths. The shadow beneath the keel. To him, sailors once offered their breath in silence, pleading for safe passage beneath his unblinking gaze. In the time before, the ritual was quiet. Sacred. The eldest among them — those whose eyes had seen tempests and whose lungs still remembered the hush of the deep — would wade into the waves at dusk. They carried vials of oil and dried herbs bound in sea-wracked cloth. Alone, they would dive. There, in the stillness beneath the surface, they would give their breath freely. Not as a contest, not to prove anything — but as an offering. A gift to the god who waits in silence. A promise of respect. A moment suspended between heartbeats. Now?

Now the young gather at the shore in packs. They laugh. Boast. Bet coin and pride on who can hold longest beneath the waves. No oil. No herbs. No prayer. Just lungs and noise. The ritual remains — but its soul has changed. The old men still linger at the docks. They do not cheer. They do not scold. Their eyes are clouded not by age but memory. They nod, barely, when the sea pulls a little harder on those who mock it. And sometimes — just sometimes — the game grows quiet. The waves hush mid-laughter. The wind stills. A pressure in the lungs.
A shimmer in the depths.
A gaze, ancient and patient.
Most surface laughing.
But some come up changed.

Lost Memories

There are places in the depths where old prayers have sunk and settled, resting in silence — and always, they were answered. The Sunken heard them, and in his own way, he blessed those who remembered the words. Along certain forgotten shores, prayers still wash up like driftwood. The faithful — priests and priestesses of the Sunken — gather them with care, offering them to great cairns of stone and salt at the tide-worn temples along his coastline. Those who still remember come seeking new prayers, whispering offerings into the wind before the dive. But now, in these quieter years, fewer walk those paths. Fewer kneel at the surf. And fewer still remember what the silence once meant. The young still gather at the shore, loud and bright against the dusk, chasing breathless dares beneath the waves. No oil. No herbs. No prayer. Only lungs and laughter. The shape of the ritual survives, but its spirit has faded, a hollow echo where reverence once swelled.

© Sorianna Choate. All rights reserved. All written content, including character, setting, and lore, is the original creation of Sorianna Choate. Artwork and imagery are original works by the author. No part of this piece may be copied, reproduced, or used without explicit permission.