Sea Spell — The Pirate King (Patreon)

You wouldn't call them waves, for they're much too gentle and make too little noise.

They're more akin to a tide, you think. The kind of which you imagine rules the deep, cold bottoms of the ocean. The surface doesn't rise to meet you, but it moves all the same, somehow staying in place while the ripples slide back and forth. Back and forth.

They do not crash against the plier, but they swallow it gently before letting go. The sea isn't greedy tonight, you think, looking past the dock to the vast horizon. Night covers the distant line, but you can see the moon shining on a hundred, a thousand, maybe millions of little tides. Going back and forth. Up and down.

But they're not waves, and it's not the sea that fills your eardrums. Something else does. Something older, something that tastes like the ash of memories.

You inhale deeply, filling your lungs until they can take no more. Your legs hang over the calm sea, the moon conquers the sky above, and behind you, Tarragona is a sleeping beast. Sitting here, watching the slow rise of a waveless tide, listening to voices in the trickling of the water, sweating still, for not even night is enough to cool the scorching air, you feel as if you sit alone in the world.

And you can't decide if you like it or not.

You can't decide if you want the quiet or loathe it. You can't tell if you like the peace or long for a storm instead. You can't see any clouds, but stranger things have happened before. Maybe the sea itself can form cyclones. Maybe it isn't the heavens who rule but the earth instead. Wouldn't that be something?

Your lips quirk without a hint of joy, and then you cock your head because your eardrums catch yet another sound. It's rhythmic and lazy, and, most of all, it's coming closer. You let out the breath you've been carrying and let your shoulders loosen.

The footsteps approach without a hurry. You can tell by the sound that whoever it is, they're strolling, putting one foot in front of the other as if they're the frontman of a show. They stop just behind you and, for a moment, quiet rules once more.

The tide rises, it falls.

"I know that face," the stranger speaks, and he's immediately a stranger no more, for you know that voice. It has a slight tilt, something that tells you he's not from this land or maybe, that he's been to so many that his speech absorbed uncountable other accents.

It also tells you he smirks, even without you having to look.

But you look all the same. Turning your chin to the side, you meet the shine of two eyes hidden in the depths of a deep hood. His smirk is wide, the hands looped on his belt adorned with hulking rings, and his boots are so polished that they drink in the moonlight.

You try to pierce through the hood, but the only parts of his face you can clearly see are his chin and the beard that grows around it. "Considering we saw each other but less than a day ago," you say, keeping your voice as neutral as you can. You did not expect him. You did not expect the sudden twist in your stomach. "I'd worry for you if you didn't recognize my face."

The man who called himself a pirate chuckles. It's a deep sound, one that comes from his chest. "I didn't mean it like that. Don't sell yourself short, yours is not a face easily forgotten."

You lift an eyebrow. "Too bad I can't say the same for you," you retort, gesturing at his hood. "Are you hideous under there? Or just shy?"

The man laughs once more. "This is the second time you've questioned my good looks," he says, and to your surprise, he grabs the hood and throws it back. You blink, taken aback, as a face made of harsh angles and long, dark hair is revealed to you. His eyes are shaped in a way you've never seen before, the irises so dark, you swear they're black.

The pirate spreads his arms wide, his smirk tilting his sharp lips to one side, moonlight reflecting on the thick, ostentatious bracelets clinging to his wrists and forearms. "See? I'll have you slander me no more, my taciturn friend. Let there be no doubts as to my handsomeness."

He prostrates before you like a peacock in an expedition, but as wide as his smile is, his eyes bore into yours with an intensity that has you holding your breath. You almost regret speaking. As you stand under his gaze, you miss the hood already.

With a snap of the head, you look away from the man and fix your eyes on the sea once more. "What did you mean then?" you ask, drinking in the air. You wished it was cooler, you'd kill for even the slightest breeze. "When you said you know my face?"

The pirate doesn't answer. You risk a glance at him and see him watching the sea too. His smirk is gone, his face closed in a look that seems... contemplative. "Not your face, that face," he answers at last. "The expression you were making. I know that very well."

He glances down, catching you looking, and you bite your tongue when he winks. Peacock. "Oh?" That is all you choose to say.

The pirate nods. "It's the sea. It has that effect."

"I wonder how long you'll drag this," you say. Your lips curve without you meaning to at his low chuckle. You see him watching you from the corner of your eye, and never before has the moon been more interesting.

"Loneliness," the pirate reveals at last. "You looked lonely."

You snap your head at him, but there isn't a trace of mockery on his face. Or his voice, even. For one who always seems to carry an edge in his words, as sharp as the axes that hang from his hips, the pirate spoke in a quiet voice. Gentle. There's no pity there, but something else. Understanding.

"Does company help?" you find yourself asking.

The pirate smiles. You think this one may be real. "Not at all." He sighs as he lowers himself beside you. He sweeps his coat back in what you can't help but find a flashy gesture and bends one knee while the other foot hangs over the plier like yours. The pirate drums his fingers on his thigh, lifting his chin upwards, and black eyes fix on the moon.

You don't care if he notices you staring. You study his profile, long, straight nose with flat nostrils, a pointed chin, and a carefully groomed beard. His hair is tied in a loose ponytail behind his back, but bits fall around his face, and it looks like a waterfall. His vest is made of green and gold and leaves his chest uncovered.

He looks like the sea, you realize. Or, rather, he looks like one who makes it his home.

"Did you try the peach?"

You blink, snapping out of your thoughts to see him looking back at you. He's smiling again, halfway between a grin and the genuine smile he gave you before. You wonder what he's doing here. You wonder what it is he seeks. You wonder too, why it's so hard to face those two black eyes.

"I did," you admit.

The pirate seems to inflate. "Ah, couldn't resist?"

You shrug. "I was hungry."

"Did you like it?"

Why do you care?

"I did."

His smile grows, as does his chest. You almost roll your eyes, for, before you, a grown man acts like a bird puffing its feathers. But, to your surprise and mild disappointment, the pirate only bows his head at you. Lips torn, eyes shining, ringed fingers drumming on the very apex of his knee. And then, he breaks eye contact to watch the sea.

Silence falls, the tide rising, the sea forever shifting. You lose track of time as the night moves forward. You couldn't tell how long you sat there, with a pirate three feet away, while the moon grew larger and Tarragona grew quieter. You couldn't tell, for seconds stretched and minutes flew by, and you're not surprised when his voice rings again, pulling you from a hazed dream.

"I don't have another one for you, so don't get your hopes up."

Despite yourself, you smile. "What a pity. Here I was, waiting for it."

He shifts, leaning closer to you. You turn your head to the side and swallow an embarrassing gasp when he brings his face right next to yours. "I'll have another next time," he promises, a grin tearing his lips to one side.

His eyes, however, are boring into yours. And you can't see a hint of jesting there, they're simply... hard. Piercing not like a spear but a mace. "Next time?" you say and try to chuckle, but the sound is odd and ill-fitting. He can see right through you.

"Yes."

"What makes you believe there will be a next time?" you ask, hands tightening in your lap. The air feels heavier and warmer than before, and you want to look away but find that you can't. All you see are his eyes, so dark, like a well.

And they don't change a single bit when his grin grows. "Call it a hunch, a change of the winds, a shifting of the tides," he whispers.

And then the pirate jumps to his feet, boots slamming the damp wood on the plier with a resounding bang. You jerk in place. "Any self-deserving seamen can see these things."

Your heart hammers in your chest. You tell yourself it's because of the scare. "Well, I call it bullcrap."

He throws his head back and lets out a deep belly laugh. It's quick and sharp, but he shakes his head with genuine amusement, and it's so foolish, but you feel victorious. "That too," the pirate acknowledges, bringing a hand to his chest. He bends his chin in another nod, eyes stuck on yours. "But anyway, my land-bound companion, I have other winds to chase." He smiles. "I must go."

"What pity," you say dryly, ignoring how the words aren't completely false. It's faint, like a ghost, but disappointment bitters the back of your tongue. What is wrong with me?

The pirate spins on his heels, coat-tails sweeping too, and starts to walk away, hips loose and feet dragging, acting as if he owns the whole world around him. "See you around, peach," he speaks to the night, waving his fingers in a goodbye.

And as you watch him go, you realize two things. One, he's right: you don't doubt that you'll meet again. And two, he's completely wrong: company certainly helps.

For as you look back to watch the sea for a final time, you feel alone no more.