SKYFISH AND THE SEA GODDESSES

The Skyfish Accord

Told in three voices: Thalassa, Nymira and Corra

Thalassa, eldest, Keeper of Currents

We first saw her tangled in kelp, gasping. Not drowning-no she was not ours. She had fallen from the sky, a creature of feather and bone, not fin and scale. Her wings shimmered like the surface at dawn, and her eyes held the panic of something misplaced.

"Like a fish out of water," Nymira whispered, circling her with curiosity. But I saw no fish. I saw a sky-being, torn from her element, flung into ours.

She did not speak our tongue, but she sang in pulses-notes that bent the tide. We listened. We leaned. She was not meant to fall. She had leapt. Fled. Rebelled.

I warned my sisters: the sky does not lose its own without consequence. But Nymira was already weaving a shelter of sea-glass, and coral and Corra had begin teaching her the language of whales.

Nymira, middle, Weaver of Tides

She was beautiful in her wrongness. Her wings dragged behind her like broken sails and her breath came in shatters, but she glowed. Not with light, but with defiance.

I loved her instantly.

She told me-through gesture, through song-that she had refused the sky's decree. That she had been named a guardian of wind, but she longed for silence. For the weight of water.

Thalassa said she was dangerous. That the sky would come for her. But I had seen the way she watched the jellyfish drift, the way she mimicked the dance of seaweed. She was learning to belong.

So, I gave her a name: Skyfish. Not to mock, but to honor. She was not a fish. She was not of water. But she was ours now.

Corra, youngest, Speaker to Creatures

She did not understand the whales at first. She tried to sing like them, but her voiced cracked. Still they listened. They always listen to sorrow.

Skyfish told me stories of the sky-endless light, of rules etched in wind, of names given without asking. She had been called, warden of the eastern gate. She had been told to watch, to warn, to never rest.

She had refused.

I asked her what she wanted now. She pointed to the trench. To the quiet. To the place where even we do not go.

Thalassa forbade it. Nymira wept. But I understood. Skyfish did not want to be seen. She wanted to sink.

So, I led her there. I sang her down. And when the sky came-angry, roaring, full of lightning-we three stood together.

"She's not yours," Thalassa said.

"She's not ours," I added.

"She is," Nymira whispered, "like a fish out of water. But she has chosen the sea."

And the sky confused by our unity, retreated.

Skyfish lives in the trench now. She does not speak often, but when she does, the whales answer. We visit her sometimes, bringing stories of storms and shipwrecks. She listens. She smiles.

She is not of water. But she is no longer out of place.

She is skyfish. And she is ours.

The Skyfish Accords-continued

Thalassa, eldest, Keeper of currents

The trench changed her. Not into something new, but into something still. She no longer shimmered with rebellion, nor sang with longing. She listened. She endured.

I visit her less often than my sisters. Not out of cruelty, but out of respect. The trench is not mine. I am the swell, the surge, the tide that pulls and returns. She chose the place that does not return.

Still, I watch. I send currents to brush her wings, to remind her she is not forgotten. And when the sky sends its watchers: those pale, circling gulls-I rise with storm and silence, and they retreat.

She is not of water. But she is under my protection.

NYMIRA, middle, Weaver of Tides

I bring her stories. Not of the sky, not of the sea, but of the in-between. Of shipwrecks that never sank. Of sailors who dream of flying. Of jellyfish that pulse with memory.

She listens with her eyes closed. Sometimes she hums. Sometimes she weeps.

I weave her a cloak of eelgrass and pearl. She does not wear it, but she keeps it close. I think she likes the weight of it. The reminder that she is held.

Thalassa says she is fading. Corra says she is deepening. I say she is becoming a myth. Not a guardian. Not a rebel. Just a story that lives in the dark.

And I will keep weaving her into the tides.

CORRA, youngest, Speaker to Creatures

The whales call her "the quiet one." The lanternfish blink in patterns she taught them. Even the trench itself seems to pulse with her rhythm.

She does not speak often, but when she does, it is in questions:

"Do wings remember wind?"

"Do tides forgive?"

"Does silence have a name?'

I do not answer. I echo. I let her question ripple outward, into the creatures, into the coral, into the bones of old leviathans.

She is not ours not truly. But she is part of the sea now. Not by birth. Not by transformation. By choice.

And that is the deepest magic of all.

We are three.

She is one.

But in the trench, in the silence in the myth, we are four.

Not sisters.

Not guardians.

Not rebels.

Just stories.

Just sea.

Just the quiet truth of choosing where not to belong.

The Skyfish Accord-Continued

THALASSA, eldest, Keeper of Currents

The trench has grown quiet. Not empty-never empty-but reverent. Even the deep-dwelling kraken hums softer when passing. Skyfish has become a stillness that others orbit.

I do not disturb her. I send her the drift of old ship wood, the echo of storms she once defied. She does not answer, but I feel her pulse in the undertow. She is not gone. She is not fading. She is listening.

The sky has not returned. Perhaps, it has forgotten. More likely it waits. But I am the tide. I do not wait. I move. I guard.

And if the sky dares descend again, it will find the sea no longer passive.

NYMIRA, middle, Weaver of Tides

I have begun weaving her into our myths.

Not as a warning. Not as a hero. As a question.

Children of coral sing her name in riddles. "What flies but sinks?" "What guards but flees?" "What chooses silence over song?" They do not know her. But they feel her.

I braid her story into kelp beds, into the moon-pulled tides. I leave offerings, broken compasses, sky-colored shells-at the edge of the trench. She never takes them. But they vanish.

She's not a goddess. She is not a ghost. She is a choice, made and remade in the dark.

And I will keep weaving her into the questions we ask when the sea is still.

CORRA, youngest, Speaker to Creatures

The trench speaks now.

Not in words. In rhythm. In absences. In the way the anglerfish blink in patterns that match her old songs. In the way the whales paise mid-chorus, as if waiting for a voice that no longer sings.

I speak to her sometimes. Not aloud. In gestures. In presence. I drift near, and she drifts closer. We do not touch. We do not speak. But we remember.

She asked me once, "Does silence have a name?" I think now it does. It is hers.

Skyfish.

Not a fish. Not of water. But of us.

And when the sea forgets, I will remind it. With stories. With silence. With the echoes of wings that choose to fall.

Final Chorus

We are three.

She is one.

But in the trench, in the myth, in the rhythm, we are four.

Not sisters.

Not stewards.

Not rebels.

Just sea.

Just choice.

Just the quiet truth of belonging without becoming.