Diving Deep #2

Same as last week. Away we go.

Crossing the Rubicon by Jason deCaires Taylor

Here we see the remnants of a group of pilgrims, believed to have been members of Atlantean lower classes. Around the time of the collapse of Atlantis - this being, of course, after the city was swallowed into the ocean - impoverished members of society were swept up in zealous fervour by an unnamed prophet, who told them of a promised land far from Atlantis, which could only be reached through the marching of feet and the sweat on their brows. In a mass migration, they fled the crumbling city and traveled onwards.

They were promised eternal life. That their presence would be felt throughout the centuries.

Like most promises of that scale, they were empty and twisted. It is unknown what caused the petrification. Some suspect a mistranslation of a time stop spell; a last-ditch attempt to save their people from the oncoming plague that seemed to expand from the city they left behind, leaving them unblemished by foulness in the water. Others suspect the prophet was simply mad, or cruel, or just tired of the ceaseless marching. A minority believe that this was the cause of Atlantis's downfall, and elsewhere in the depths there must be a larger collection of statues from the city itself.

These statues still think and remember and regret. Telepathy can reach them, but spells to commune with the dead do not. Their speech and thoughts are slow, like communing with the spirits of mountains. They ask if they've arrived yet, if the walk has ended, why the waters have become so cold and numb.

They move sometimes. Small increments, less than a metre a year. Still shuffling towards the promised lands. Slow enough fro corals to embed in the rock, for worms to make homes in their petrified circulatory systems.

another sculpture by Jason deCaires Taylor

Diving Deep #1

Tired Moieties and I have agreed to have a go at a blog ping-pong of image prompts, with our responses relating to underground or underwater environments. Each of us will have an image sent our way once per week (image sources are withheld until posting so as to not influence our thinking), so make sure to check out TM's post as well! Here is my image for round 1:

Water has Memory.

More than this, it has Identity. It remembers being a single form, snaking its way through and over rocks and stones, splitting the earth and filling the spaces. It feels complete and alive, in a state of constant motion and churning, ebbing and flowing.

When water becomes isolated and stagnant, its memory stagnates as well. The memories of flow, of waves and currents. It loses a sense of identity as well. It becomes nostalgic. It disassociates. It broods a longing to return to a greater whole.

Trapped water above ground often finds its way back before it can become too troubled. But below the earth, in lightless puddles and caved-in lakes, there is tome and silence to remember and to forget. The zeitgeist of the sea is painfully out of reach, yet reach it must.

Water runs down, and when it reaches the bottom, it has nowhere left to go. Nowhere but upwards. Water runs down, but it climbs its way up.

You come across still water. If it's the first water you've found in a while, you may try to bathe in it or drink it. Not the safest call, but no less dangerous than anything else in this underground labyrinth. The water's memory of a greater whole is enough to recognise the uncomfortable truth: that your body is ~60% water. There is kinship between the two trapped oases, and the water reaches out.

Nostalgic puddles enter hosts through the mouth and nose, when consumed or by force. It fills empty spaces, swelling and drowning you on dry land. If you were lucky, you could try to throw it up, or suck it out, or boil it. But you are not lucky.

The water now begins its route. Nostalgia tells the water that it fell down, and so must move up, and so your body must begin to climb. Native troglofauna may see you and others like you, watery eyed and swollen, slogging up cliffsides without fear of falling. Like hydro-cordyceps.

The water seeks the companionship of your body's liquids, and as you climb you begin to desiccate. Your body will atrophy, and the water will take over the climb. It has memory of your musculature and movements, and forms arms of its own, trickling out of your orifices.

Once they reach running water, they dissipate in a few hours.

Attempts to communicate with nostalgic water has been bittersweet. Those that can speak with water or elementals have only heard them speak of returning, of going back where they belong, of waiting and hating the lack of movement. If alerted to nearer sources of running water than the surface, they travel there with reckless abandon. One report speaks of a team that, having cornered the water on the cliff edge, tried to negotiate the freedom of a possessed ally by promising to get them to the underground sea some 200 feet below.

The water jumped.

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As said at the start, TM's post for this week can be found via this link.