There are stories the tides do not tell — sorrowful things that sink too deep for coral to swell.
But Lómara remembers.
She once wept for a child — not her own, for she was just a Merbabe herself. This Hooman child was one the surface world refused to understand. Shattered, her pain broke through the waves like thunder in Yamaya’s bones — beckoning her to come to save this soul before there was only anger left.
It is said Yamaya found her there — weeping in the storm she created’s darkness. She held her till the waters stilled, and there was just ocean, no tears left.
That was her becoming
Lómara was forged from their silence—
shaped by cries that were too strange, too loud, and too little, too late. When the voiceless go unheard, it is Lómara who answers.
When a Mermaid is stripped of her power, it is Lómara who fights. She does not turn away.
She gathers every unspoken pain like seeds, and plants them safely into the deep no one dares enter.
From those shadows, sunflowers bloom.
They rise not softened, but sharpened.
With healing love she adorns herself with their stories.
Seeing her beauty is a warning.
That the discarded are not unguarded.
Soaring with flames above and below with wings wide enough to shield the defenseless,
and tail sharp enough to cut through injustice.
Lómara protects without being asked.
Because Not all mermaids sing.
Some roar.
