Crimes of the Vault

Chapter Eight

Perhaps she overreacted.

Perhaps she could have handled it with a little more eloquence. Perhaps she didn't need to run away entirely.

But sitting in the warm sand with the water lapping up around her bare toes, shoes discarded somewhere next to her, the legs of her trousers rolled up to avoid getting wet, Tempest didn't really want to think about all the things she could have done better.

The sun was still high in the sky, the progressively longer days permitting her with a little more light, a little more warmth, though in the swamp there was never a real lack of warmth.

She picked at the dirt under her nails, caked around her hands and up her arms from days a travel, and reminded flesher that she still needed a bath, she still needed to get out of those dirty clothes and into something clean, more comfortable. Something that didn't remind her of the Borealis. She wished she could burn the clothes from the past week, to just be rid of them all.

"I should just step into the ocean." Watching as the water lapped up around her ankles, Tempest contemplated the idea. "There's no way to get a closer connection to the water than being in it."

But even if she was completely submerged and drifting to the bottom of the ocean, Tempest wouldn't know what to do. Her Nana had taught her many things for the sake of her survival. How to cook, how to hunt, how to clean and dress wounds. Nana had taught her a great deal about Warlock magic, where it came from, and what she could draw power from if she ever felt weak, or unsure. She knew how to manipulate the elements around her, work with them and use them to her advantage, but Nana had never mention prophecies.

No, so far as Tempest knew, Warlocks weren't prophetic. Her Nana always told her that prophecies were untrustworthy in the first place. They were easily manipulated, taken under interpretation, used to benefit someone else's purpose. Prophecies were nothing but a tool for Kings and the like to run their agenda.

The thought made Tempest a little sick, her stomach turning dangerously and she had to refocus herself on the push and pull of the waves and the feeling of the cool water around her body.

But her Nana had never outright said that Warlocks couldn't produce prophecies. Tempest had never thought to ask. She hadn't considered that her Nana would keep things from her. To Tempest, her Nana knew and told her everything.

Tempest knew that her education was lacking. She knew that there were a lot of things about Warlocks and Warlock culture that she was missing. Her uncertainty about mates was a result of that. But Tempest had thought that she knew a great deal about Warlock magic, having taken control of most of the aspects available to her.

Tempest reached out with a small pout on her lips, her hand hover above the surface of the water, just a few inches away, and held it there, feeling the strong push and power from the Ocean, waving up into her body through her extended hand.

And despite her sadness, and the overwhelming loneliness that seemed to never end, Tempest let the water reach up to her hand, the coolness of it kissing her skin gently. It reached up and wrapped around her limb, gently tugging her a little closer to the body of water in front of her, where it began lapping up around her calves, wetting the rolls of her trousers.

Tempest stood up from where she had sat, stepping a little further into the water, just up to her knees, the water still reaching up around her hand.

The pout fell from her lips, replaced with a confused frown as she stared down at the frothy blue surface, her eyes struggling to see the outlines of her feet in amidst the curling waves.