𝐀𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐞 | Night at the Museum [Ahkmenrah] ✓

Prologue: The Woman Who Died

Prologue: The Woman Who Died

• 𓎬 ☼ 𓋹⋅☾𓂀 ☽⋅𓋹 ☼ 𓎬 •

Rowena I

1776 - Atlantic Ocean

She was discovered in the ocean.

Swept along the Atlantic currents, the waves crashed over the Virgin Mary's deck, as the ship soared higher than the waters. The waves tumbled, sending a salty spray across each crew member on the top deck. The sound of wood slapping water, and the winds howling through the darkest of nights despite the flashes of thunder and lightning over the murky grey clouds. Echoes of cries joined the ensemble of noises. Wailing of men, women and children that were below the crew's feet – under a single plank of wood to protect themselves from the outer forces.

The storm grew worse. And unbeknownst to them: a little baby squirmed in their mother's arms. She was unsure whether her child was discomforted by the noises or the cold itself.

A large crackle boomed from above their heads. The people who were crammed together screamed and fidgeted, hearing the metal clang of chains and the feeling of skin rubbing against each other mixed with the grime and dirt over the floor.

Many were huddled together in groups. Mothers with their children. Husbands with their wives. Even those that were alone banded together – praying to whoever listened to them up towards the sky or even on board the ship. People prayed for safety, a safe passage through mother nature's territories. Others prayed for mercy; a quicker death would stop them from feeling the pain of drowning.

However, the ship began to tilt vastly. Bodies were tossed straight to the side in a pile, causing more water to fill the lower deck. The baby still slept.

Suddenly, the ship overturned.

Water began to fill to the brim. At first, they felt it on their toes, and they curled them as the feeling of cold wet water began to rise. The walls began to crack and break, spurting out jets of water, sinking the ship and the people on it under the surface. There were bubbles of pleas and shrieks, and the splashing of wailing arms continued until there was nothing but a span of the blue ocean.

Like a sequence, each person cascaded downwards, dragging each one to the bottom of the sea.

The mother was last in the chain, trying her best to find something. Anything. Anything to keep her child alive.

And her gods gave her one last salvation: a floating crate. She wrestled with the water, dragging herself across with her legs and arms until she could place her child into the wooden box. Her child had not moved, only stared at her with those large brown eyes.