Chapter 11 – The Grey World and the Voice of the Sea
The world around me had lost its colours.
Not suddenly.
Not violently.
It faded like breath disappearing in the cold air slowly, quietly, inevitably.
The forest, once vibrant with deep greens and teeming with life, now existed only in shades of grey. The leaves, the bark, the roots, the sky everything blended into a single, muted layer. There was depth, but the beauty was gone. I could still see, but not as I had seen before.
I saw the threads of life.
Threads of existence flowed through the grey world bright where life was strong, and dim where it had weakened. Animals moved as shimmering silhouettes. Trees pulsed slowly, ancient and patient. Even the stone held faint lines, remnants of a long-forgotten vitality.
I understood immediately.
This was the Grey World.
A realm created when darkness overwhelmed perception it didn't destroy life, but reduced it to a pure existence devoid of colour or emotion.
I took a slow breath.
"If I am here," I said softly, "I won't die will I?"
The Mother Tree answered first.
Her voice didn't echo it resonated, deep and steady.
"No, child," she said. "You will endure. You will observe. You will feel. But you will be unable to truly touch this world."
I swallowed.
"So that's the danger," I murmured. "Not death… but stasis."
The air grew heavy.
The darkness was drawn in as the Mist Mother descended. Her presence was immense heavier than the forest itself. The gray world deepened around her, becoming denser and more complete.
"Yes," she said softly. "The darkness does not kill you. It keeps you with it."
I clenched my fists.
"My vision is fading," I said. "Everything is gray. Only threads of life remain. Why?"
"Because your attraction to the darkness is too great," the Mist Mother replied without hesitation. "Greater than any creature born in this age."
The roots of the Mother Tree trembled slightly.
"No other soul could withstand this," she said. "They would crumble into nothingness."
"Then why can I?" I asked.
The Mist Mother turned her gaze fully towards me.
"Because you were anchored," she said. "By the Mother Tree. Without her, your identity would have already dissolved." I exhaled slowly.
"So, this is my limit," I said. "If I continue like this... this gray world will become permanent."
"Yes," the Mother Tree replied. "Stagnant darkness only leads to decay."
I looked at my hands.
They were gray lines, with faint streaks of life running through them.
"How do I stop this?" I asked.
The Mist Mother did not answer immediately.
Instead, the sound of waves reached me faintly—distant, rhythmic, endless.
"The answer is not in rejecting the darkness," she finally said. "It is in balancing the darkness." "With what?" I asked.
"Water."
The word settled within me like a truth.
"Water does not resist the darkness," she continued. "It flows through it. It shapes it. It carries it forward."
The Mother Tree spoke again, a warning in its voice.
"The sea is near," it said. "But it is a dangerous teacher."
"I know," I replied quietly. "It already tried to claim me once."
The presence of the Mist Mother softened slightly.
"Yet it failed," she said. "Because the sea remembers you."
Then I felt it the pull. The breath of the sea beyond the forest. The endless motion. The endless depth.
"If I gain the power of water," I asked, "will my sight return?"
"Not completely," the Mist Mother replied. "But it will stabilize. Color will return where the flow is. Darkness will no longer cripple your vision."
"And if I don't gain it?" I asked.
The gray world pulsed.
"Then this will be your reality," she said. "Only lines of life. No color. No warmth."
I was silent for a long time.
"How do I obtain it?" I finally asked.
The Mother Tree answered.
"You must walk the path of the sea."
"Absorption will not work," the Mist Mother added. "You cannot take the water by force."
"Then what must I do?" I asked.
The answer came from both of them at once.
"You must worship the Sea Mother," the Mother Tree said. "Not as a slave," the Mist Mother clarified, "but rather, as her child with devotion."
"one who acknowledges her sovereignty."
A tremor ran through me.
"Worship..." I repeated. "What does she demand?"
"Respect," said the Mother Tree.
"Patience," said the Mist Mother.
"Stillness within the movement."
Images flashed in my mind a beach, endless waves, moonlight on the water, the scent of salt in the air.
"The Sea Mother is proud," the Mother Tree warned. "She does not easily grant affinity."
"And she does not forgive arrogance," the Mist Mother added.
I nodded slowly.
"The sea is near," I said. "I can feel it."
"Yes," the Mist Mother replied. "Near enough to hear what you say."
I looked again at the gray world around me.
"I don't want to be like this," I said softly. "I don't want to become a spectator."
The roots of the Mother Tree tightened gently around my consciousness.
"Then walk forward," it said.
The darkness of the Mist Mother receded slightly, leaving behind a final truth.
"The darkness chose you," it said. "Now, you choose whether it imprisons you... or journeys with you."
I closed my eyes.
Beyond the forest, beyond the roots and the mist, the sea waited.
This time
I would approach Willingly.