Editor’s Note
I am told it has been thirty-eight days since my last communiqué. Time moves differently beneath the tides, and I confess I was delayed amid their turning. When the sea draws you down to confer, punctuality is rarely negotiable.
It’s dry down there, strangely, and sandy. There are worms and there are enemies with violent intent.
You won’t understand that. Not yet, anyway.
One day, maybe.
In my absence, several fragments were dislodged from the deeper shelves. The following appears to be a portion of a song—or a warning—whose remainder is lost. The ink was salt-stained, the vellum brittle with age and desiccated brine.
Its title was missing, as were the first and last words. The refrain, however, remained legible.
—
[Untitled Fragment — Catalogued as 7C / “The Deep One’s Ballad”]
1
… the hush of salt and bone,
The sleepers shift, their years long sown.
Their dreams are tides that drag the shore,
And whisper, “Come now below once more.”
2
The stars drown slow; the moon forgets.
The oaths of land are unpaid debts.
The breakers hiss; the gulls take flight—
The sea remembers every slight.
3
So lay your laws and letters down,
The deeps wear neither robe nor crown.
Kings turned to salt, prayers formed from foam,
All flesh returns to once it’s …
—
The scrap on which this appears seems to have been eaten through—by what, or whom, I would prefer to not speculate.
If tides permit, I will resume regular postings soon. If not… well. The sea always answers, eventually.
One way or another.
—The Archivist