Rignes Island does not see many visitors. Located just outside the polar circle, it has little to offer but freezing lowlands, steep cliffs and the cry of a thousand horses forever caught in the waves surrounding it.

Its story is seldom told, its shores barely walked upon. Rignes Island is not found on any map, and not even the most well-travelled man can tell you where exactly it is. Some say it lies just off the coast of Greenland, whilst others say they've caught glimpses of it in the Bering Sea. It comes and goes with the morning mist, elusive and unattainable.

Bolin had spent the last half his life searching for Rignes. In possession of the only map to ever to make it off of the island, he had devoted much of his wealth and his sanity to cruising the icy waters and following every possible lead he could find, no matter how insignificant.

For he knew the island itself did not have anything to offer but barren land. The breaking waves surrounding it, however, were nothing short of magical.

Myths tell of Neptune's horses, of kelpies and water horses living in the lochs, but none compare to the Ileara of Rignes. Their beauty is beyond comprehension, and those that have seen the creatures that dance in the breaking waves say not even the most perfect rose will look beautiful after the experience.

Bolin never thought he'd see them himself. Even though he had dedicated many of his years to the search, the thought of actually finding them, of seeing them charge and run in the foam, had become something quite like a dream. Stealing breath and gaining everlasting life had always felt like something that was possible, but out of reach.

"Bolin," a raspy voice said. "Bolin, what are you doing?"

Even though Bolin had lost the map in the shipwreck, he had looked at it for hours on end and knew exactly where on the island they were. He had been staring at cliffs for the past half hour, unable to believe he had made it.

"Those are the Torik cliffs." Bolin pointed. "We're on the wrong side of the island."

"For Christ's sake," Richard said, giving him a shove. "Is that what you're worried about? How about you worry about getting off the island? Even if those water horses of yours are real, everlasting life won't do you no good if you're stuck in this place for eternity."

"We can worry about getting off the island after," he said, probing his mind for memory of the shipwreck, testing his reality and his mind to see if this wasn't a dream. Everything felt real, down to the biting cold on his cheeks and the fire in his fingers. He had stopped feeling them a few hours ago, and the pinkie finger on his left hand had started to turn slightly blue.

"You're bloody mad," Richard said. He had smoked for the majority of his life, and his voice sounded as harsh as the rocks the waves crashed into. Bolin had liked Richard, at first, but detested his voice.

It had taken hours for the fishing ship to sink below the waves. The radio was working, but they got no answer to their desperate cries for help. They were in the middle of the Bering Sea, a commercial fishing hot spot, yet there wasn't a single ship in sight.

He and five other men had shared a lifeboat, but only four of them had made it to the island. As soon as the first man went overboard, the second had tried to pull him back up, only to be taken himself by the next wave. Bolin did not know their names, nor did he care. What point was there in naming the dead?

Compassion for another human being was something foreign to him. It was lost along with the memory of his wife and three daughters. Their names were always on the tip of his tongue, lost in the depths of his mind.

"Bolin!" Richard called. Bolin turned to look at the scraggly man and the others huddling close. With nothing but rock on this tiny island, they were unable to make a fire to warm their freezing bodies. Two of the men had taken off their clothes and were holding--quite awkwardly--onto each other in a desperate attempt to share body heat.

Pathetic, he thought, when eternal life is finally within our reach.

He did not go to the group of men who had made fun of his lunatic search the day before. Richard called his name, but Bolin kept walking in the direction of the Dianum Beach, the place the map had indicated the Ileara were most likely to be. Not once had he doubted their existence. Insanity had taken its hold of him over the years, and it would not release its grip until he was dead.

He was exhausted, but had never felt so alive. Finally, after fourteen years of searching, what he desired most could be his. He looked out at the sea to which he was walking. It was as if the world beyond the horizon no longer existed. All that was real was the howling of the wind and the crashing of the waves beneath a darkened sky. Everything else no longer mattered.

The men did not come after him. They would die believing he drowned in the same black water that took their crewmates, blissfully unaware of the beauty and danger that hid in the whites of the waves.

Bolin's descent down the cliff was treacherous. The rock was steep and crumbled under his weight. By the time he reached the bottom, the palms of his hands were torn open and he had broken two fingers, torn his pants and a sprained ankle.

The beach was one of rock and black sand. It stretched out all the way to where the island curved out of view. He took a tentative step forward, closer to the water, feeling the salt on his lips and the wind on his bald head. The cold did not matter to him, not when he could catch glimpses of the Ileara running into the waves.

Under the dark sky and just above the breaking waves, they were so white they looked transparent. Despite the many tales that said otherwise, there was no thundering sound as they raced and disappeared with each swell. The howling of the wind was replaced by eerie silence, broken only by the cries and crashing of the waves.

"Come to me," he whispered as if all the energy in his body was escaping with each word he uttered. After all those years of desperate searching, of being made out as a fool and lunatic, he had found them. This was real, he was sure of it. He could never dream of a sight as beautiful as the white stallions of foam and salt came and went with the waves.

As soon as Bolin's feet touched the water, the wind stilled and the waves disappeared. He held his breath as an Ileara came from the now still water. It was built very much like a horse, yet it was entirely alien to him. Instead of a main and tail. it had white foam. Instead of dark hooves, there was just water. It was one with the sea, and it was walking towards him.

He did not know how he was supposed to take its breath. He'd always thought he'd know how when he came to it, but now a great and terrible panic growing in his core. This beast, twice the size of a regular stallion, was coming for him, its black eyes looking straight into his.

He was about to take a step back when a soft whisper in his ears told him not to. He looked at the Ileara and felt the whisper again, its softness like a cocoon which protected him from his fear.

Do not fear.

"I am not afraid," Bolin said.

Ride with me.

He took a step forward.

Ride with me, and you shall live for eternity.

The Ileara liquefied and disappeared into the water, only to rise again beneath his legs and hoisting him up. He screamed, but no sound came from his mouth. He held the neck of the beast as it began to run along the shoreline, its speed exhilarating. It was how he imagined it would feel to fly. Unlike riding a horse, this was as smooth as sailing over a cloud. He could feel his body grow stronger and warmth seeping into his bones. Never before had he felt this alive.

Richard and the other men kept looking at the place where they had last seen Bolin. The lack of wind and the eerie silence fed their fear and superstitious minds. They did not speak.

Bolin and the Ileara went deeper and deeper into the water until Bolin could no longer fill his lungs with the air he so desperately needed. The Ileara had become one with the waves, and it took Bolin with him. He had not felt them go underwater, and his first breath felt like swallowing acid. His second came out of instinct. He was being burned from the inside out by the need for oxygen. His body convulsed. The water he swallowed, filled with the Ileara, was starting to take his body.

Everything turned white.

When Richard peered down the cliffs where Bolin had descended, he saw nothing but the waves crashing against the rock. The Ileara did not show themselves to him and he returned to the other men to tell them the news. The wind and the cold had returned, and it would stay with the men until they died.

Bolin, the aged and bald man, had disappeared. He had not found the eternal life he desired. The eternal sea had found him, and he would run along its breaking waves until time came to an end.

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