- mara ; meaning bitter or sorrow in hebrew, but meaning sea in gaelic.
delmara is his whole name, shortened because people believe that saying it will curse them.
delmara, the shadows whispered, leaping in graceless arcs against the dripping black walls of the cavern. delmara, they chanted, growing louder, repetitive, his name echoing in the vast cavern, his heart slamming against his breastbone, faster faster faster like a fish trying to escape a net. DELMARA.
and then he woke.
his hands were curled with white knuckles over the rim of the grand bathtub he was submerged in, the once-steaming water now turned lukewarm with time. a myriad of expensive metal rings clinked against the ceramic basin as he stood, breathing heavy, a soft towel embracing his now-cold frame as the air enveloped him.
delmara's crown glinted gold from his vanity, a wrought-iron furnishing that his reflection stared back from, blue eyes set under pale hair the color of candy floss that was sold in the spring carnivals every year.
he dressed slowly, avoiding his own face in the mirror before placing the crown atop his wispy hair that was still damp from his bath. the metal's weight sank into his curls; heavy is the head that bears the crown, mother may's voice echoed in his head, her long, knobbly fingers touching his cheek. though i fear you may not wear it long.
with a shudder, he exited the humid room, his bare feet padding silently through stone corridors that seemed to stretch on endlessly before him. delmara's father could be heard, even from three floors above the meeting chamber; a deep, booming voice that commanded respect, urged those around him to listen, to obey.
delmara did not obey, nor did he listen, nor did he respect his father.
and this infuriated such a powerful man.
delmara fretted, delmara worried, delmara thought, for he was an anxious prince, perhaps even too nervous to be king, or so his father said.
delmara was sneaking out of the castle. not that he was really sneaking; the guards did not try to stop him, and he suspected his father knew of his frequent outings, but guilt still prickled at the base of his throat, still choked him in times of distress, still suffocated him when he was panicking.
but not today, his feet collided with the grass on the palace grounds, the castle, pink spires gleaming white in the sun, rose up behind him, an imposing bulding that reminded him of his father.
today was a day.
head low, delmara ducked between houses, his hair unmistakeable among the other dark, pallid tones of the townsfolk (the brightest colors of those without royal blood being red or gold), but he knew the subjects would not interrupt him, would not slow his pace. he was familiar enough among them, even in the squalors and back alleys, that they cleared a path towards his destination.
(the only person to stop him was a tiny girl, barely reaching his kneecaps, that teetered over and presented him with a tiny white daisy that he slipped into his breast pocket with a smile.)
the place he was in search of was not hard to find, despite its constant relocation; a caravan, decked in herbs that wafted exotic scents through the streets, that looked as if it were pieced together by a myriad of materials and a haphazard approach.
"mother may," delmara smiled softly, his mouth curving to reveal delicate white teeth that shone in the midday light. "i pray you have found my answer?"
the figure in the doorway of the caravan turned to him, revealing silver hair tied in an uncaring knot at the back of her head. her nose was pointed and prominent, her lips were chapped, her eyes grey and bland, fingers knobbly with age.
but her voice was lovely. a singer's voice, a poet's voice, a storyteller's voice; whatever it may be called, it was nonetheless melodic and pleasing to the ear, a singsong tone that lilted at the ends and brought pleasant thoughts to mind.
"ah, dear delmara," she purred, brushing his cotton-candy hair away from his face. "i have many an answer; it depends on what you seek to hear."
she always spoke like this; in riddles, in tongue, in rhymes, she was an odd soul, but delmara was particularly fond of her, for she had been his mother's friend and told him many tales of the woman he'd never met.
"i seek to hear the truth," he replied, casting his voice low as he walked closer, his feet still bare and cold upon the cobbled streets. "my father. what does he have planned?"
for days, his father had forbidden him from attending meetings, which was unusual, considering that he would take the crown when his father died (or retired, which he would never do) and the king frequently had him sit in upon the discussions. learning diplomacy was not one of delmara's strong suits, and he felt out of place with his lanky legs and knobby knees and thin arms when his father made him dress accordingly.
"ah," mother may murmured, her eyes downcast. "i fear that it is worse than you have imagined," she busied herself with rearranging the herbs around her caravan, refusing to make eye contact with the young prince before her. "though i worry i have found a way to stop it, and it is not one i wish to share with you."
delmara was incredibly fond of this kingdom; the citizens, the bakers who made bread every morning and shared with him when he passed, the young children like the girl from earlier who gave him flowers or shiny rocks or asked to touch his hair.
he would do anything to protect them from his father.
"tell me," he begged, knowing that mother may was aware of his fact. "please."
the woman breathed a rickety sigh, wheezing through cracked lips. "i do not want to," she told him, finally meeting his gaze. "but come inside."
- - -
the inside of the caravan was heavy with scents - delmara could pick out lavender, garlic, sage, chervil, and then others that he did not recognize, some from neighboring kingdoms, perhaps. had it been a normal day, he would have asked mother may of their origins and settled in a cozy armchair with the stuffing spilling out to listen to her tale, but this - this was not a normal day.
"your father plans to execute hundreds," the woman spoke in a grave tone, her fingers plucking petals off of a glowing purple flower, the petals shimmering and then disappearing into nothingness when they were removed. "many are starving, and your father worries that the kingdom will go into debt. the neighboring kingdom is at our doorstep, threats tossed to knights across the borders, a looming threat that cannot be stopped if the king does not have enough food for his soldiers."
delmara considered this. his father would have the townsfolk killed to feed his army? though... after a moment of thought, he wasn't sure why it surprised him. despite teaching delmara about diplomacy, his father wasn't invested in such a topic, choosing, instead, to sacrifice lives and go to war.
delmara had grown up in a warzone, grew up where mothers shuffled their children inside, hiding them from the prince, wary that he was just as cruel and uncaring as his father.
it took many years for the citizens to trust him.
delmara swore, when he was a mere ten years of age, that he would do anything to protect these people from his tyrannical father.
"what must i do?" he asked, his voice hardened with resolve. mother may sighed at this. she knew this boy, and knew that she could do nothing to stop him from his decision.
"the castle; you know of the stories?" she asked, the purple flower having dissolved into nothing in her palm. she began the tale without waiting for his answer anyways, as delmara knew she would:
"many an age ago, a young man came across a beautiful stone; it was a vibrant shade, one that reminded him of pale roses and lady's delicate dresses, and it called to him, whispering his name: samael, it spoke kindly. come.
samael approached, his legs weary from days of walking, the soles of his boots nearly worn away, his hand calloused from clutching a walking stick.
samael, the rock begged. touch.
reaching out a palm, a sense of warmth washed over samael; he felt safe, secure, cared for, in that moment, as he never had before. he had been a poor boy in a poor family in a poor kingdom with a horrid king that ruled with an iron fist, living in a lavish castle wrought of gold while his citizens starved.
this stone promised more.
his palm met the stone; it was warm to the touch, pulsating beneath his hand, breathing, living, calling to him.
he fell to the ground, crumpling to his knees as a vision washed over him.
he was in the same place, in the same grove as the stone, when his eyes opened, the hazy edges of his vision warning that this was a dream. the stone had disappeared, however, replaced by a pond of pink water that wafted a beautiful, undescribale scent over him.
pretty insects with large wings fluttered about, dipping low, touching the surface of the water and flying away, flirting touches that only rippled the sparkling surface of the pond.
this pond was warm and kind and welcoming. it felt like home, a feeling that was altogether unfamilar to samael.
before his eyes, though, the pond began to change.
black tendrils of slick liquid crept through the grass, slimy in appearance, dipping into the water and sinking to the bottom of the pond.
"no," samael whispered, as more and more of the black thing invaded his precious pond. "no!"
the pond was filling with black. it was oily and slippery, and any of the insects that touched it were dragged under, withering away beneath the surface.
the feeling of home had gone; it was replaced by fear, by corruption, by terror.
he woke with a gasp.
bad, the stone warned, the surface shiny in the sun. good will prosper, samael rose to his knees before the stone. you must protect it. and, with that, the stone melted.
it had disappeared, to be replaced by a glistening pink pond.
it had not been a dream, he realized, but a prophecy.
- - -
"samael decided to build a kingdom with that pond at its heart," mother may spoke. "in the center of the kingdom, in the tree-grove, lies that pond."
delmara knew where it was. the kingdom was arranged in a massive circle, with the tree grove and the blessed pond at the center, rich districts forming rings closer to the middle and progressively getting poorer as they neared the edge. the palace was just north of the grove.
"if you so choose," mother may looked to be hoping that delmara would not, in fact, choose. "you can protect the citizens from your fathers corruption by bearing it yourself."
delmara did not even have to answer. he rose to his feet, pressed a quick kiss of gratitude atop mother may's hair, and nodded.
"i would do anything for them."
- - -
the grove was silent, as the sun was beginning to set and soon the guards would be inflicting the curfew upon the townsfolk, a rule put into place by delmara's father.
the pond emitted a faint red glow, which helped to guide delmara through the trees, but he would probably have been fine without it, for the pond whispered to him as he approached.
delmara, it called, splashing at the gently sloping banks. come.
his toes met the water's edge.
his chest felt constricted, fear plucking his heartstrings, but he felt his father's grasp slipping away, felt strong enough to bear the burden of the kingdom, felt strong enough to protect them.
the water, to his ankles now.
what would it feel like, he wondered.
his knees.
would it hurt?
his hips.
the water was pleasant, warm, aromatic.
his belly button.
he felt oddly light, and an owl called a warning above his head from the trees.
his neck.
was this what it felt like to be loved, he wondered?
he was submerged.
- - -
delmara! the voices in his head shrieked, cried, caterwauled. delmara, you have come!
the voices were loud, overwhelming, drowning him.
save us, they cried. protect us!
"i will," he croaked, though he did not know if he spoke aloud. water filled his lungs.
an immense pain ripped through him, his nerves alight with heat, his toes tingling and his fingers numb and chest tight and -
his legs were unfeeling. he could not move them, could not kick to keep himself near the surface.
he sank.
- - -
"delmara," the townsfolk whispered the next morning. "where had he gone?"
they had not seen him at dawn, when he usually made his rounds. they had not even seen him by noon, when he stopped for lunch in the bakeries. they had not seen him by sundown, when he visited mother may.
but they heard whispers.
the king had fallen ill, was bedridden.
but where was the prince?
- - -
blinding white light. it shifted and changed, the silhouettes of strange figures murky through his unseeing eyes. he could feel warmth eveloping him, but his breaths emitted fog, steamy clouds that swirled around him in tendrils.
delmara, the water whispered, promising. protect them.
- - -
"mara," the townsfolk called him now. he was cursed, a cryptid creature residing in the murky pond he turned black. "don't say the whole name," they warned their children. "he will bring bad favor upon you."
"do not get too close," they warned. "he will drag you under."
"do not touch the water," they warned. "you will turn into a beast like him."
- - -
delmara was in a state of change. he felt his father's heart, felt the corruption curling around him in sticky tendrils that loosened only when he thought of the townsfolk, only remembered them fondly, recalled the little girl with the flower.
he changed.
his feet had simmered away, boiling water melting his skin until it formed something that resembled a fish's tail. he was marine in nature, his cottony hair flowing like clouds around him.
it was silent, in the water.
the only thing he could hear was his own heartbeat, which reassured him that he was still alive, still here, still present.
when his father was in a sour mood, the water changed.
it boiled, it writhed, it frothed into a black, murky mess that coated delmara's skin, that suffocated him until he embraced it, taking on the blackness.
he protected the people by sacrificing himself.
his father was too ill to rule, and that left the knights with but one choice; to find the prince, to defer to him, to trust his judgement, no matter how fearful they had become of this monster that had replaced their once-handsome prince.
"mara," they called him, and presented him with gifts. perhaps he would not smite him if they rewarded him with precious goods. "please, mara - what do you wish for your kingdom?"
in the rare moments where clarity broke through, he spoke. he did not want their gifts, he did not want riches, he did not want them to worship; he wanted them to love him, to trust him, to treat them like their own.
children brought him water lilies when the water was clear and were kept away when the water was murky. bakers left bread upon the stumps surrounding the pond in the early morning, and found them gone in the eve.
"mara," the townsfolk whispered. "our king."
- - -
delmara's mind was splotchy.
he knew his father was still alive, could feel it in his chest, could feel the constricting pain that told him he was fighting for control.
but he would win.
for the knights, for the children, for the bakers who brought him loaves of freshly made bread.
he would overpower his father, and perhaps... perhaps this curse would be lifted.
- - -
the state of the water was dependent upon delmara. when he was struggling to overcome his father's rule, the water became oily in nature, suffocating him and dragging him to the depths.
but determination was fierce in his pale eyes, even in the darkness of the pond.
the voices whispered to him.
delmara, they said.
our king.
how i've helped wrote:as one of three in a family who loves to go outside and adventure, we've had our fair share of seeing pollution and littering in person. kayaking and hiking are two things we're really big on, and kayaking is probably the worst in terms of garbage; it's always miserable to see beer cans and trash floating in the rivers or stuck in the mud. my mom and i have since bought litter grabber things [ like this ! ] and have been making an effort to pick up cans when we see them. it's turned into a game of "who can pick up the most" on our kayaking trips. it's fun and helpful and really makes me question why people are so lazy as to litter in the first place.
