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.