Dark Water

The moon was full, clouds trailing over the silver orb like ivy about a tree, and a soft rain was in the air, made salty by the sea breeze over the docks.

The docks had been abandoned long ago, but as the moonlight seeped through the cloudy curtain, the sheen illuminated the shape of a ship mast and the dark figure standing at its prow.

Nathaniel Hemlock gazed emotionlessly over what seemed to be an endless sea, endless like his voyage clasping the rail with gloved fingers.

He despised having to come ashore for no purpose, but it was the least he could do for his crew; unlike himself, they enjoyed the feeling of humanity about them even though they encountered no one. He owed them that, at least.

He did, however, wander the lonely shores sometimes, brooding over things and wallowing in his own bitterness.

Once he had owned these seas, his very name caused the bravest to pale, for he had shown no mercy when challenged.

A skilled navigator of all waters and a competent tactician. He had the skills and bloodlust to carve his career in stone and etch his name in the hearts of all who had opposed him. Fortune had favoured him, and the awe of his crew was unwavering. Or it had been.

Now, he was a mere myth, just another tale of the depths—someone mocked as a fantasy and not discussed as a nightmare.

With a disdainful sniff, he turned away, striding purposefully back towards his cabin, intending to wait the hours out in there, the blade at his side shining a silver light to guide his way.

It wasn't often they landed, and only in the hours of darkness. Occasionally, some returned far earlier; they knew what would happen when the sun began to light the skies.

Even the lure of the dry land was not enough to risk the outcome.

The peace was welcome, though; it gave him a chance to pore over the books and papers without any noise to disturb him.

----

"It was only Captain Nathaniel Hemlock against a whole crew of pirates; there were thousands of them! But Captain Hemlock took his sword, and with a single movement of his sword, he defeated 50 of them!" A father was telling his young children while eating in the local fish restaurant.

Decked with netting and replica marine life, it seemed a fair fit to the stories that made the town a source of interest.

The Silver Spear attracted many visitors with its locality to the seafront, a short walk down a cobbled path to where the action had once taken place, now a haven for fishermen and the supplier of the renowned fish and crab. Whilst not an expensive restaurant, it had made a name for the fresh produce, even if most orders were for it to be fried beyond recognition.

Nearby, Lloyd watched them, rolling his eyes at those stories that were almost certainly fake. He had no doubt anymore that the man of the legends didn't even exist. He used to believe them himself until adulthood loomed over him, and his mind shifted to the real world.

Yet the little kids were so entertained by the story, and indeed, when they returned home, they would play pirates and maybe even fight for the role of Captain Hemlock.

Lloyd was one of the few who disliked those legends since the town used that character to their advantage, making a museum about him and giving tours across the town telling the Captain's story, which brought a lot of tourists. Lloyd knew the whole dialogue that the guides told since he himself had worked as one until he got fed up with the job and started working as a waiter in the restaurant.

It wasn't much better. At least in museums, he hadn't returned home smelling of fried food and salty snacks. He was only thankful he wasn't in charge of gutting the fresh produce. The chef was adamant that it was his job. The scales were everywhere, and the blood and stench glued on every pore.

Lloyd leaned on the counter, his blonde hair clinging to his skin from the heat from the fryers, and looked over to the clock, ticking tunefully on the wall. It had been a busy day, most of the customers being tourists, which sometimes could be bothersome. Whilst it was common for people from overseas to come, the language barriers could make his work harder, often relying on hand signals and pointing. But the pay was okay, although it wasn't what he would earn if he put his mind to work.

Young and athletic, he had done well in sports and coaching, but an argument with his parents had seen the end of his college pursuits. They hadn't approved of the path he wanted, either in sports or performing arts. His father, a staunch conservative, refused to have his son wasting his time on a playing field or, even worse, in what he deemed an effeminate career.

He had reluctantly accepted his son was not the marrying type. But that didn't mean he wanted him out loud and proud.

After an unpleasant talk, his college fund had been severed, and he stormed from the family home, only returning to pick up his things.

"I'll see you later," he called back through the hatch, the kitchen almost hidden by steam. "I've got the rest of the week off, but I'll probably bump into you."

"Lucky you!" Lucia glided from the kitchen, wiping the nearest table with a flourish of a grubby towel. The tight dress hugged a svelte figure and caught the eye of a group of cyclists. She flashed a smile their way, seeing a chance for decent tips. "I'm on extra hours, making up for last month."

"You'll make the tips back in no time," Lloyd grinned and grabbed his coat. "Wish I had your magic!"

"Get a pair of tits, then you might have a chance!" One of the cyclists crowed, the whole table dissolving into a roar of laughter as Lloyd flushed, the redness only fading when the door had closed tightly behind him.

---

Lloyd took a walk back by the beach; it was always so calm; he truly enjoyed walking by the sea at night; it was so lonely and tranquil. But not today. 

There was a strange aura in the air, one he couldn't describe. Only that it felt close and as if unseen hands, cold and clammy, ran over his skin. The quiet felt eerie, as if all nature hid from a danger he couldn't discern. 

Then he saw it. His eyes widened as he stopped in his tracks; seeing an old ship by the docks, he arched a brow, wondering if this was some sort of new attraction. He hadn't heard of anything being installed, and they'd done it quickly. He was sure there wasn't anything there a couple of days ago.

He walked towards it curiously; he would be lying if he said it didn't impress him; the mayor had really made an effort to create something so great. The details were unique; it honestly looked like an old ship, with cracked boards and ingrained brine and wear from the harsh whips of wild seas. The soundtrack of creaks and groans coming from it truly made him feel that he was near a real pirate ship. He boarded it carefully, impressed to see that it wasn't as abandoned as he thought; he figured that the men in there were actors preparing for a big spectacle. 

He waved his hand nervously. "Sorry if I'm interrupting," he said as he stepped back, ready to leave.

He froze as they turned, paling at the realism of the make-up. Their cheeks were concave, and their eyes were so sunken they seemed to be only black holes where the flesh could have been. Skin stretched over bone, pale and wan, highlighting dried and grey lips.

Hearing the footsteps from his quarters, Nathaniel paused in his brooding and returned quietly to the deck, curious as to why any crew would have returned before they needed to. Most of the time, the fools left it until the last minute, risking their 'lives', such as they were, and driving the captain mad as well.

Not that he could blame them, though.

Many years ago, he would have seen it as a transgression worth death, but now, well, he couldn't kill them even if he wanted to.

Even if Lloyd had not spoken, the sight of a low mist curling about the ship's base signalled a newcomer, a mist that would occur only if a mortal soul was foolish enough to trespass.

Cloaking the exits and placing them back on the deck if they chanced to find it. If they were lucky. After the sun rose, it seemed to crave blood, like a dark flower desiring to be irrigated. 

Nathaniel's curiosity was piqued more at the voice, and he moved quietly from the doorway; despite the heaviness of his footwear, he had learnt to walk so softly it was as if he did not touch the ground at all. 

The dark eyes were used to the gloom, and he soon spotted the outline of the new figure, the intrusion kindling the irritation he had always carried within him.

He felt for the silver blade he kept in his belt.

As swiftly as lightning, he caught hold of the boy's collar, whirled him around and pinned him to the nearest wall, the knife pressed at his throat.

"Well then," He said in a deathly whisper, "seems my calculations were off, and this dock ain't as deserted as I thought..."