Solid ground gave way to crumbling rock, to harsh, brittle sediment to merciless sea, tearing apart the Earth in mindless frenzy.

Alone for the first time in hours, the prince allowed himself a moment of unfiltered disgust. He despised the shoreline that was strewn before him, the messy curl of its advancements against the kind, sustaining land. Through the gilded lens of the prince, delicate sea-foam dripped and oozed, a sick mucus, poisonous and dank. The waves were dark and cruel, battering proud cliffs in a shrieking war-cry of crashing surf. With the harsh moonlight-reflection, every splash was alarming, the jerking of sinister bodies hovering in the depths. He was reminded, upon each visit, of something unknowable, a plane of existence not bound by the same laws of nature that were within his own.

To him, the ocean was something alien. It was a maw that consumed ships, sailors, and reason alike, returning the favor with its own hellish spawn. The prince prayed for the day he'd never have to visit this place of terrible boundaries, this convergence of sea and earth and sky.

His derision, disgust, apprehension- they were all shrouded in a layer of duplicity and shame. For his kingdom, his seaside territory, the ocean was a gift, a lifeline. It was his peoples' greatest source of subsistence, their fastest mode of travel.

The sea was a cornerstone of their lives, both constant and forever churning in its odd, contrasting nature. Highlights of life were held in its revered presence: weddings, funerals, birthdays, festivals, parades.

No subject was exempt from the chains of tradition- not even the most royal. And so the Prince squared his shoulders and steeled himself for his coronation. To him, it was a gaudy affair, scheduled for the upcoming sunrise. There would be a passing of the flame- or rather, a dousing. The transfer of the crown would not be considered legitimate unless performed in the ocean itself.

The prince closed his eyes for a moment, indulging an image that rose unbidden. He saw himself by the old, crumbling temple, designed to be half-sunken. He could hear the din of his people, their preening and shrieking a solid force.

In this sudden, guilty fantasy, the prince saw himself being crowned, waist-deep in the brine. In this imaginary, theoretical space, he was able to stride confidently through the waves, the crown placed upon his head with gusto. The cheering was laced with pride and hope, and beside him- beside him! - beamed the future queen, her wood-smoke skin sprinkled with salt, glistening like diamonds.

But then he opened his eyes, and the tar-black water made him shudder.