Prelude: Glass Bottle

The storms had not yet ceased, but the fast-blowing winds stilled, and the rain poured perpendicularly to the horizon. It was enough for him to leave the bridge while the ship stood steady in the light rain, if only for a second, and determine which direction to set his sails.

A lifetime of wandering had left him longing for a home to call his own. He roamed the deck outside; the weather was still somber, but quiet enough for him to pause.

The north and south were unfamiliar, and to the east, deep, dark oceans and solemn, weeping skies stretched before him.

To the distant west, however, lay an island too far away. Its sand shimmered, and wisps of green and brown peeked out.

For a while, just long enough for the moon to fill up at least once, he wondered whether the isle would be different from other places—empty of creatures that could maul him.

A bit cautiously, but mostly naively, his thoughts poured out along with the rain, and he tried to keep them as simple as he could.

Until his eyes landed on the bottle. The waters scared him; he’d only ever seen tempests as he tried to build his ship strong to sail smoothly. So, this clean bottle in the middle of the ocean’s emptiness piqued his interest.

He easily caught hold of it with one of his nets, and he opened the bottle to find a small letter.

The letter from her—you’ll know who she is soon enough—described how beautiful his ship looked from the island she called Reveria. It was so small, seemingly insignificant, but it made him feel real—as if he existed outside the vortex of endless waves to find the right island.

Without much thought, he sent a letter back.

There was so much distance between the land and the ship that it seemed impossible that the bottle would always reach the ship, or land safely on the island without getting lost.

But it always reached the right destination. Always.

And they both thought it was a miracle that the waters made certain they kept communicating, and even that the bottle had found the ship safely the first time.

It was a miracle; a miracle that saved them.

They wrote to each other, steadily becoming more and more comfortable. The ship stood still.

He wrote to her about the changes he had made to his ship, even as he sailed aimlessly to pass the time, and when he added carved wood sculptures of the storms he’d seen, vague shapes and deep shadows. Each day, he shared his thoughts on the island’s beauty.

Eventually, they talked of her storms as well. She was adamant that she would remain a mystery for their small journey in this life, at first. He didn’t mind; he hadn’t thought their journey was small to begin with.

The furies in the east loomed. If he sailed back to those waters, his ship might fail to hold when the winter came. So, he stayed and turned his ship to stand still, facing west. She was surprised, especially since he had said he wouldn’t want her on the boat, and that even if she came aboard, he wouldn’t be there anymore—he’d be gone, having become one with the skies. That had been his plan when he’d set sail. He had decided he’d seen enough of the world by then, the sea to be his final home.

But for her, he stayed.

They continued writing, and she sometimes told him of how, though her home was mostly nice and whole, she still felt stuck in hurricanes she had witnessed and how she, too, had fled lands with vicious creatures that resembled his. She told him how she now tended her island after many sorrows. He told her of how the wind had started blowing again, but that he’d try to steer his ship safely to the island, despite the brewing storm. He said she must be a fairy guardian to keep it so beautiful amid such tempests.

A sculpture or two had fallen from his ship since then, destroyed by new assaults upon it, and the island had lost a few greens, too. They prepared to meet, writing back and forth until they could. Every day, storms receded and frothed up.

They wrote and became constants, holding each other as only those bonded through time and distance can.

“You know me,” they wrote to each other. “My soul knows yours.” They marveled at how they had never met before the glass bottle.

They wrote about being together, and how she’d welcome him to her home once his sea had calmed, and he would get to know the people on her island. The island would be safe and steady for him.

She wrote that despite the storms that reached her own island, she wouldn’t let go.

And he told her that despite the cyclone at sea, he’d make it safely to her and hold on just as tightly.

But their story is still going; they still have a lot to see and live through together.

And they promise to make sure the tale continues for as long as it can, for as long as they can make it. And they promise to help each other make it as well.

They’ll make it. They’ll make it. And they’ll help the waters recede and the rain stop; the sun will shine brightly, and the winds will be of relief and safety and love.
They’ll be together. They’ll be together. And the story will grow much longer and lighter.

There’s so much more to the story, so much, so much more. And if only you could put its beauty into words, maybe its reality could change the constellations and alter existence with their love.