What the Water Took

“Faith is not the absence of fear. It's the decision to wade deeper, even when every instinct screams to run.”

As I stepped out of the supply tent, the water bottle clutched tightly in my hand like a talisman against the unknown, I found myself face to face with Lois—the Golden Retriever Karen had suggested I take with me. She sat perfectly still in the ochre dust, her ears perked and her tail thudding rhythmically against the ground, as though she had been waiting there patiently for this very moment.

I paused, the swell of uncertainty rising once again in my chest like a tide I couldn’t hold back. The thought of venturing out into the Clivilian desert, accompanied only by a dog I barely knew, felt absurd. I had never been drawn to animals. There was something in their wordless gaze I often found unsettling, as if they could see too much. I had always preferred the quiet companionship of scripture, the stillness of a candlelit room where prayer carried more weight than conversation.

But now, as I met Lois’s gaze—those deep, brown eyes gleaming with a calm, unspoken wisdom—I felt something loosen inside me. A flicker of kinship, perhaps. Or maybe just the aching need not to be alone.

With a weary sigh of resignation, I extended a hand and patted her gently on the head, my fingers disappearing into her warm, silken fur. There was a comforting solidity to her presence, a groundedness I hadn’t realised I was craving until that very moment.

“Alright, girl,” I said, my voice soft, the words brushing the air like a tentative prayer. “Let's go for a walk.”

At that, Lois sprang to life, her tail wagging with renewed vigour, her body vibrating with delight as she bounced up beside me. I couldn't help but smile—just a little—as we began our slow trek toward the river’s bend. Her paws left delicate prints in the dust alongside mine, two sets of tracks heading into the quiet unknown.

A faint breeze stirred the hem of my skirt, and though my heart still thudded with apprehension, I felt a fragile warmth begin to glow at its edges—a moment of companionship, however unlikely, lighting the way forward.

The sun pressed down relentlessly, its unforgiving glare wrapping around my shoulders and settling into my bones like a weight I could no longer shake. Beads of sweat trickled down my spine, dampening the fabric of my clothes and stinging where it met my skin. Every step stirred the dust into pale clouds that clung to my skirt and hung in the still air. Yet despite the growing discomfort, I drew an odd kind of solace from Lois's unwavering presence.

Her paws beat a steady rhythm against the dry earth, a soft, repetitive sound that grounded me more than I cared to admit. Every few strides, she would glance back at me with bright, eager eyes, her tongue lolling out as though she were smiling. It was ridiculous, really—how a dog I didn’t even want could become such a quiet comfort in a world that had lost all sense of order.

Before I realised how far we had come, the landscape began to shift. The quiet murmur of the river reached my ears again, this time gentler, more inviting. I paused on a slight rise, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, and let my eyes roam across the horizon.

At first, there was nothing—just more of the same dust and rocks. But then I saw it. A flicker of blue caught in the shimmering air, like a mirage—but no, it was real. Tucked into a natural curve of the land was the lagoon Karen had spoken of. A glimmering patch of water, tranquil and strangely beautiful, like a secret kept just for me.

I felt something stir in my chest, a delicate pulse of wonder and relief. With a renewed sense of purpose, I pressed on, my steps quickening. Lois gave an excited bark and bounded ahead, splashing joyfully through a shallow stream that fed into the lagoon.

My breath caught in my throat—not from exertion, but from the weight of something I couldn’t yet name. Anticipation, perhaps. Or hope, fragile and uncertain, but hope all the same. Maybe, in this quiet, hidden place, I could finally find some stillness. Some answers. Maybe even a fragment of the peace that had eluded me since the moment we arrived in Clivilius.

As we approached the edge of the lagoon, an inexplicable sense of unease swept over me, coiling around my chest like a tightening cord. A chill raced down my spine, sharp and sudden, entirely out of place beneath the relentless heat of the Clivilian sun. It wasn’t the cool water licking at my toes that made me shiver—it was something deeper, something unseen. The lagoon lay before me like a sheet of glass, unnaturally still, perfectly mirroring the vast, cloudless sky above. But its beauty did not soothe me. On the contrary, it unnerved me. The silence was too complete, too deliberate, as though the world itself were holding its breath.

My gaze swept across the water's surface, waiting for a ripple, a breeze, any sign of life. There was none. Only the heavy hush and the slow, steady beat of my heart hammering in my ears.

I stepped closer, the soft sand crumbling beneath my feet, grains clinging to my damp skin. My toes slipped into the water, and the chill of it shot upward like a warning—icy, sudden, and sharp. Still, I didn’t retreat. Something about the place compelled me forward, though every instinct screamed for caution. It was as though I were being drawn, not by my own will, but by some silent call reverberating from the depths.

Wading in, I felt the water tighten around my calves, cool and silken, sliding over my skin like a second breath. The sensation sent a tremor through me, not of cold, but of anticipation—of something vast and incomprehensible awakening just beneath the surface. A strange energy shimmered in the air, subtle at first, then intensifying with each cautious step I took away from the shore.

Deeper still I went, the water rising past my knees, lapping now at the hem of my dress. I should have turned back. I should have called Lois and walked away. But the lagoon held me fast, not physically, but spiritually—its presence enveloping me, beckoning me to surrender.

And then I felt it.

A surge of force unlike anything I had ever known—a deep, thrumming pulse that rose from beneath the water and passed straight through my body, filling every crevice with a heady mixture of strength and something darker. My skin prickled, my breath caught in my throat, and for one terrifying, exhilarating moment, it felt as though the lagoon itself was alive—its essence threading through my blood, its power infiltrating my soul.

It wasn’t just water. It was something more—something ancient and watching. Something waiting.

And I, foolish or brave or simply lost, had stepped willingly into its grasp.

Closing my eyes, I allowed the sensation to wash over me, the strange vitality of the lagoon seeping into my skin, soothing the raw edges of my soul. The relentless noise in my mind—the worries, the doubts, the ache of uncertainty—seemed to dissolve, vanishing like wisps of smoke on a shifting breeze. For the briefest of moments, I felt something I hadn’t felt since before Clivilius—a quietness of spirit. A sacred stillness. It wrapped around me like a warm cloak, whispering promises of peace. I breathed in deeply, and with that breath came a profound, almost aching connection to everything around me—the rippling water, the endless sky overhead, the pebbled earth beneath my feet.

And then it turned.

Like a door slamming shut, the tranquillity was yanked from me. The warmth vanished, replaced by a chill that coiled through my chest and gripped my heart in icy fingers. The voice—the same one that had welcomed me to Clivilius with honeyed tones and false comfort—slipped into my thoughts once more. But it had changed. The softness was gone, replaced by something cruel and cutting, each word laced with venom and malice.

You think you can find peace here, Greta? it whispered, the syllables dragging across my consciousness like nails on glass. You believe you can escape the doubts and fears that consume you, the knowledge that you will never truly belong in this place?

I gasped, my eyes flying open, the illusion of safety cracking apart. The water felt different now—thicker somehow, clinging to my legs like something alive, something expectant. I shook my head violently, trying to dislodge the voice, to claw back that fleeting sense of serenity, but it burrowed deeper.

Your faith is nothing but a lie, it hissed, each word a deliberate wound, slicing into the very centre of my being. Your God has abandoned you, left you to suffer and perish in this forsaken land. And your precious family, the ones you cling to so desperately... they will turn against you in the end, leaving you alone and broken, just like everyone else.

I clutched at my chest, as if I could physically hold myself together, keep the voice from tearing me apart. But its presence swelled, echoing through every fibre of me, leaving only a hollow dread behind.

As the voice's taunts intensified, the water around me began to shimmer and distort, warping as if the very fabric of reality were unravelling before my eyes. The once-crystalline surface twisted into a grotesque mirror, rippling with malicious intent. Where moments ago I had seen only the sky's reflection, now it transformed into a nightmarish kaleidoscope, a churn of visions dredged up from the darkest recesses of my soul.

One by one, the images formed, sharp and vivid, as though the lagoon itself had become a window—or a trapdoor—into a realm ruled by fear and despair. The horrors it revealed felt too precise, too tailored, as if the water were reading my thoughts, reaching into the most fragile corners of my mind.

I saw myself.

Alone.

Utterly alone.

Wandering a desolate wasteland that seemed to stretch into infinity, a landscape so barren it felt like the aftermath of creation's undoing. The earth was scorched and cracked, a brittle crust of lifeless ash that crumbled beneath each faltering step. Dust clung to my legs and caught in my throat, turning every breath into a rasp. The silence was absolute, a crushing void that screamed louder than any sound ever could.

Above me loomed a sky warped into an unnatural grey, heavy and low, like a weight pressing down on the world. The sun, if it still existed, was hidden—obscured behind a thick, poisonous veil that seeped across the heavens, casting everything in a jaundiced, corpse-like light. Nothing moved. Nothing lived.

And I walked alone, my figure small and fragile against the immensity of the dead world.

As I stumbled through this hellish realm, each footfall heavy with despair, I caught sight of figures in the distance—mere silhouettes at first, ghost-like and wavering in the oppressive heat. My breath hitched. A surge of desperate hope surged in my chest, wild and trembling. Could it be? Could they be here, with me?

I squinted into the gloom, heart pounding as the figures moved closer, their outlines sharpening with each agonising moment. And then—I saw them.

My family.

My beloved husband. My precious children. Every face I had held close in memory and prayer stood before me,.

But something was wrong.

Horribly wrong.

Their features, so familiar and beloved, began to shift before my eyes—melting into grotesque parodies of themselves, twisting with malice and loathing. My stomach turned. The warmth I had known in their gazes had vanished, replaced with eyes that blazed with an unnatural fury, cold and unrelenting.

Their mouths curled—not with affection, but with contempt.

They sneered, spat, gnashed their teeth with barely-contained rage. The voices that had once whispered lullabies, cheered me on through trials, and spoken tender reassurances were now warped and sharp, ringing out in a savage chorus of condemnation.

“You failed us,” they hissed, their tones overlapping in a cacophony of betrayal. “You were too weak, too selfish to protect us. You led us to this place, to this hell, and now we suffer for your sins.”

I gasped, my hands reaching for them, trembling with longing and terror. “No—please,” I whispered, my voice raw with anguish. “I tried. I only wanted to keep you safe…”

But they recoiled as though my very touch were poison. Their faces twisted further, twisted past recognition—masks of revulsion, eyes alight with scorn. I stood frozen, watching helplessly as the ones I loved most in this world turned their backs on me.

And in that moment, I felt my heart shatter.

Not crack.

Shatter.

Into a thousand sharp-edged pieces, each one branded with the memory of a smile now lost, a trust now broken, a love turned to hate.

As I stared into the haunting lagoon water, tears streamed down my cheeks in relentless rivers, each droplet pulled from the depths of my despair. Sobs wracked my body, my shoulders heaving with the weight of grief and betrayal. My reflection—distorted and pitiful—shivered across the surface, and then, like mist caught in a sudden breeze, the image dissolved.

The scene shifted again.

The scorched wasteland melted away, replaced by a sight so intimate, so heart-wrenchingly familiar, that it knocked the breath from my lungs.

The ruins of the temple.

My temple.

The sanctuary that had once stood tall and proud, a beacon of faith in the storm of life, now lay broken and desecrated. Its grand stone walls were fractured, great gouges carved through them as though by the claws of some monstrous beast. The stained-glass windows—once radiant with holy light—had been shattered, their fragments littering the ground in cruel, jagged constellations.

I stumbled forward, legs trembling, each step crunching over splintered pews and blood-spattered glass. A shard caught at my skin, but I barely noticed. Pain felt dull here—insignificant in the shadow of what surrounded me.

I reached the altar.

The sacred heart of the building. The place where I had knelt in prayer, whispered hopes for my family, and sought divine guidance in my weakest moments.

But the altar was unrecognisable.

Holy artefacts lay discarded and broken, the once-pristine cloth torn and soaked in a dark crimson that clung to the threads like dried sin. The air reeked of decay and abandonment, the silence thick with sacrilege.

And then—I saw him.

The figure of my God.

Not shining and triumphant, not radiant or open-armed.

He stood with his back to me.

Silent.

Still.

Walking away.

I gasped, a raw, primal sound torn from the hollow of my throat. “Please!” I cried, stumbling forward, arms outstretched. “Please—don’t leave me!”

My voice echoed, wild and desperate, bouncing off the shattered stone like a dying hymn. I called again, again and again, each plea more frayed than the last.

But he didn’t turn.

Didn’t slow.

Didn’t even pause.

He kept walking, his figure growing smaller, more distant with every step. Until he was little more than a shadow… a speck… a vanishing point in the desolate landscape of my soul.

And then—he was gone.

Snuffed out like the flame of a candle.

Leaving only silence.

And me.

Alone, abandoned, and cradled in the cold ashes of my shattered faith.

I felt something inside me break.

Not in a sudden, dramatic snap, but in a slow, agonising fracture—like the steady splitting of ice beneath a weary traveller’s feet. A foundational piece of my being, the bedrock upon which I had built my strength, my purpose, my very identity, crumbled beneath the weight of what I had just seen.

God had turned His back on me.

Not metaphorically. Not in a moment of silence or unanswered prayer. But literally—visibly, irrevocably—He had walked away in my time of deepest need. The one constant I had clung to throughout the chaos of my life… had forsaken me.

The grief was cataclysmic.

My knees buckled, and I collapsed into the lagoon's cold embrace, its waters folding around me like a shroud. I barely felt the chill anymore. My body was wracked with sobs that tore through me like lightning, each one raw and violent, dredged up from the deepest recesses of a soul being broken apart. It was not simply crying—it was a kind of death.

And then, as though feeding on the very moment of my collapse, the voice returned.

Mocking.

Cruel.

Triumphant.

Its laughter echoed through my mind like a chorus of demons rejoicing, each note sharper than the last, a discordant symphony of cruelty.

You see? it hissed, its words slithering through my thoughts like venom, infecting everything they touched. You are alone. Abandoned by your God. Rejected by your loved ones. There is no hope for you. No salvation. No escape from the suffering that awaits you in this forsaken place.

I wanted to fight.

To cry out. To rage. To throw the truth back in its face and defy the despair with the fire of my faith.

But there was no fire left.

No spark.

Only ash.

I could not speak. I could not move. I could not summon even a whisper of resistance.

The tide of despair surged around me, a rising flood of blackness, thick and suffocating. It filled my lungs with sorrow, crushed my chest with hopelessness, and whispered that surrender was the only relief left to me.

And I… I could not argue.

Just as I felt myself slipping away—my last shreds of hope dissolving into the darkness, my soul teetering on the edge of oblivion—the voice returned, its tone transformed.

Gone was the guttural cruelty, the jagged mockery. In its place came a silken, honeyed murmur, a whisper that curled around my mind like a snake coiling around prey.

It doesn't have to end this way, Greta, it purred, the words sliding over me with a beguiling warmth, a false tenderness that belied the venom lurking beneath. I can offer you salvation, a way to transcend the pain and doubt that plague you.

The promise, though vile in its origin, was achingly tempting. I could feel the possibility unfurling before me—an escape, a release from this agony, a door through which I might finally walk free from suffering. The seductive rhythm of the voice lulled me, pulling me toward it like the tide drags a corpse back into the sea.

For a moment, I wavered.

It would be so easy.

But then—from somewhere deep inside, from a place untouched by fear and untouched even by despair—came a spark.

It was faint, fragile, no more than a flicker in the abyss. Yet it was mine.

A stubborn flicker of defiance. Of love. Of faith.

I clenched my jaw. My limbs trembled with effort, but I forced my head to shake in refusal. It was a small movement—imperceptible, perhaps—but it carried all the strength I had left.

“No,” I gasped. The word escaped my lips like a dying breath, hoarse and hollow, barely audible above the roar of my anguish. “I won't betray my faith, my family. I won't surrender to your lies and deceit.”

Silence followed—thick, pregnant, seething.

Then the voice snapped back, no longer coaxing but twisted with fury, its malice no longer veiled.

Its laughter turned bitter and sharp, splintering through the depths with a sound that made the very water tremble.

So be it, it snarled, its wrath tangible, curling around me like smoke from a fire I couldn’t see. If you will not accept my offer, then you will suffer the consequences. You will drown in your own fears and doubts, your faith and your loved ones powerless to save you.

At those words, the water surged. It churned violently around me, dragging at my limbs with renewed ferocity, as if the very lagoon had become a living thing determined to consume me. I felt myself sinking once more, the weight of the voice's curse pressing down on me like chains.

But that flame within me—small, flickering, barely alive—held firm.

It would not go out.

Not yet.

As the voice’s final words faded into the depths, a bone-deep cold gripped me, seeping into my very soul. I felt the last remnants of strength drain from my limbs, my lungs burning as the icy water claimed them, my vision narrowing to a tunnel of murky grey. A strange stillness settled over me, the pull of surrender whispering its siren song in my ear. So this was the end.

And then—through the smothering silence—came a sound.

Faint at first, then sharper. A bark. High-pitched, frantic. Urgent.

Lois.

Her voice pierced the darkness like a bell in the fog, cutting through the oppressive weight of the water with a force more powerful than any vision or voice. It was not just a call—it was a lifeline. A desperate plea to come back, to fight, to live.

Something ignited within me.

A final, furious surge of resolve, kindled by love, faith, and the stubborn defiance that had refused to yield even in the lagoon’s darkest depths.

With a cry that was more instinct than intention, I kicked upward, my limbs screaming in protest as I forced myself through the water’s strangling embrace. The surface broke around me in a violent gasp of air and spray, my chest convulsing as I drew in breath after breath, each one a painful miracle.

I clawed my way to the shore, collapsing on the sand in a gasping, sodden heap, every muscle trembling with exhaustion. Lois was beside me in an instant, her wet nose pressing against my cheek, her warm breath and distressed whimpers grounding me in the reality that I was still alive. Her fur brushed against my skin, her presence a balm to my shattered spirit.

I wrapped my arms around her, burying my face in her coat as my body convulsed with sobs—tears not just of relief, but of terror, of revelation, of grief. What I had seen in the lagoon was more than a hallucination. It had been a truth unmasked, a revelation too dreadful to ignore.

This land—Clivilius—was not a sanctuary.

It was a trap.

A place dressed in light but steeped in shadow, its beauty concealing something old and cruel and patient.

The voice in the water had tried to claim me, not only with fear but with temptation. And what frightened me most was how close I had come to accepting it. How seductive the promise of peace had become when wrapped in despair.

A new terror took root in my heart, deeper than any vision the lagoon had conjured. It was the image of Charles—my baby—walking unsuspectingly into this place, into this nightmare. His laughter silenced, his bright spirit dimmed by the same horrors that had tried to consume me.

I couldn’t let that happen.

Whatever else this place was, whatever its purpose or cost—I had to protect him. Even if it meant never holding him again, even if it meant watching the Portal close and knowing he was safe on the other side, far from me.

Tears slid silently down my cheeks, mingling with the lagoon’s residue as I held Lois close.

I would not fail him. Not now.

Not ever.

Pushing myself to my feet, I felt the oppressive weight of my waterlogged clothing dragging at me, each sodden fold clinging to my skin like a burial shroud. My limbs trembled under the strain, heavy and unresponsive, as though the very air around me had thickened with the memory of what I had seen. As I staggered forward, the fine dust of Clivilius rose in ghostly plumes, coating my arms and legs in a filmy grit, turning the drying lagoon water into a chalky paste that clung like despair itself.

But I would not let it take me.

Not now.

Not when Charles’s future teetered so precariously on the edge of a decision I still had time to alter. I gritted my teeth and drew a ragged breath, summoning a strength I did not know I still possessed. With a cry that was half-sob, half-war-cry, I began to run—stumbling at first, then faster, legs gaining rhythm as adrenaline surged through my veins like fire.

The landscape blurred around me, every rock and rise a blur of grey and rust. My feet pounded the dry earth in a furious cadence, each step thudding with the urgency of a mother’s resolve. I no longer cared about the pain lancing through my joints, the sting of grit in my eyes, or the raw scrape of wet fabric against my thighs. All that mattered was the Portal. And reaching it before Charles did.

Ahead of me, Lois darted like a streak of gold across the dusted plain, her ears flying back and tongue lolling in determined exertion. Her presence grounded me—her sheer vitality, her ceaseless momentum. She was the beacon pulling me onward through the haze of anguish and exhaustion, reminding me that I was not yet broken.

Together, we tore across the barren expanse of Clivilius, two unlikely sentinels racing against a terrible fate. My lungs burned, and my breath came in jagged bursts, each inhale a struggle, each exhale a vow.

I will get to him. I will stop this. I will not let this place take my son.

Not while I still have breath in my body.

As I neared the camp, breath burning in my throat and legs trembling beneath me, a sound sliced through the haze of desperation like a beacon in the storm. A voice—clear, familiar, and achingly dear—rose above the murmur of camp life.

Noah.

My husband. My steadfast rock. His voice carried across the open air, and for the briefest, most fragile moment, I felt a surge of something almost like hope. Perhaps—just perhaps—we were not too late. Perhaps there was still time to change the course of what had been set in motion. That together, we could shield Charles from the terrors that now lived inside my bones.

But then I rounded the last hillock, my feet slipping in the loose dust, and the breath caught in my lungs as the world tipped sideways around me.

There he stood.

Charles.

My youngest. My light. My little boy—no longer a child, and yet so achingly vulnerable in my eyes—beaming up at his father, eyes alight with wonder and excitement. The wind tugged playfully at his shirt, lifting strands of his hair like some cruel echo of innocence. He was already here. Already in Clivilius.

My scream tore through the still air, raw and primal, a cry that felt as though it had clawed its way up from the centre of the earth. I staggered forward, only to crumple to the ground, the dust rising around me in a choking cloud. My knees hit the baked earth with a force that sent lightning up my spine, but I barely felt it. Pain of the body was nothing compared to the agony blooming inside my chest.

Too late. Too late. Dear God, we were too late.

The sound of footfalls rushing towards me broke through the ringing in my ears, and then Noah was there, Charles right beside him, both faces etched with alarm and confusion. I could see their mouths moving, felt their hands on my shoulders, but their words came through a veil, muffled and distant, as though I were submerged in water once again.

And then, like a serpent coiled in the recesses of my soul, the lagoon's voice slithered forth. Smooth. Cruel. Triumphant.

You see? it whispered, curling around the edges of my mind. You cannot protect them. You cannot save them. They will suffer—just as you have suffered. And in the end, they will turn from you. Just as your God did.

I wanted to shout it down, to fight back with the last remnants of my faith, but I could not draw breath. My sobs came in heaving waves, each one more violent than the last, breaking over me until I thought I might drown in my own grief.

Noah’s arms wrapped around me, strong and steady. Charles clung to me on the other side, frightened and silent. I clutched them both as if they might be pulled from my grasp at any moment, as if the earth itself might open up and swallow them whole.

I buried my face in the crook of Noah’s neck, the familiar scent of him a fragile tether to reality. And still the tears came, soaking into their clothes, spilling from a place inside me that had cracked wide open.

For the innocence we had all lost.

For the lies we’d believed.

For the dark truth that in Clivilius, even love might not be enough.