The Lighthousekeeper's Diary

Been a lighthouse keeper for ages. Born and raised on these shores, and proud of it, too.

The sea knows me better than my own mother. Over the years, the ripples in the water imprinted on my face, carved longing lines into my skin as I aged. My visage and story are naught but a map of the great, wide blue.

But today, I thought I spotted something... new.

It was a bright evening, clear as can be. The waters were calm under the setting sun, but I knew not to trust them. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon, foretelling a storm... and underneath them, for just a moment in the far distance, I saw something rise from below.

A single shade against the shifting background, reaching up like a periscope, watching the shore. Watching us.

Then, it dove out of sight, disappearing from the view of my binoculars.

It could have been driftwood. Yes, it must've been...

This month, we've lost more ships at sea than we ever did throughout my entire life.

I blame myself, though I know I've always upheld my duty. Every night, I light our fire to signal the safety of our harbor... I stay up, watching the pyre, stoking the flames, choking the smoke to leave only a bright merigold light... but it is not enough, and I'm losing sleep.

Nightmares rip me from bed, force me to find my binoculars and nightgown, and make me stumble to the platform above amid darkness and rain. I thought, if I stared out long enough, I would see it. See what's causing this. Understand it. Beat it.

The storm clouds are drawing closer, and they're hiding something from me.

The storm finally reached us, waves frothing with hatred and lashing at our shores.

Standing on the lighthouse platform, I felt the gusts rip at my beard and coat. I must still have salt embedded in my skin from that night's winds.

The light inside my covered oil lamp flickered, locked in a fearful dance, twisting and shifting in an effort not to be snuffed out... a repetitive plea with no one to listen, an act soaked in vain, not unlike my own.

Light the fire. Stoke the flames. Wipe down the binoculars. Look out. Light the fire again. It was pointless. The storm smothered all light.

I helplessly held on to the railing, gazing out at the night. That's when I saw it.

Rolling hills, not made of water, but made of countless bodies, rising and falling with the storm's rhythm. A wave to end us. A wave to crush us. A wave to dye the ocean red. A wave of Drak.

I dropped my binoculars and picked up my boots. If this were our death sentence, I would not die a lighthousekeeper.