Chapter Text
Rhythmic crashing of ocean waves, low hum of the ocean’s cool breeze. They all call out Mike’s name. Quietly descending the stairs, he walks around the castle to the wild, untamed sea. What started as a weekly routine soon delved into a daily one. Every night Mike finds himself sitting atop the green cliff, deep waters many feet below him. A fantasy novel in one hand, caged lantern in the other.
Town folks for centuries have voiced their complaints, how the ocean they were rewarded with doesn’t come with the luxury of peachy soft sands or calm rushes of water. But Mike never minded it. He finds the huge, stable rocks, some sharp, others more blunt, make up for the absence of the typical beach pictures. Mornings and afternoons, where the waters are calmer, Mike perches himself atop them, diving through another novel. Nothing much to do in this town of his anyways.
Nights are when things get messy, and rather dark. Blue waters appearing black, thunders paired with lightnings striking the salty sea loud and sudden. Tall sea rocks at least half engulfed by angry crashing waters. If one wasn’t more well-versed, it wouldn’t be too odd to say this part of town appears almost foreign, unrecognizable even. So vastly different to the clear morning sky, hot sun. Water so warm and inviting to the touch, how icy it gets at after sunset.
Townspeople aren’t allowed near the oceans at night, though that decision was made mostly by sensible citizens. More like an unspoken rule than a law. But Mike was never one for rules. Granted his home is situated right behind the sea. No matter the scoldings he would receive, punishments of being locked up in his room, he can never resist the sea. He sneaks out almost every night, unbeknownst to the royals. Although he has a rising suspicion one of the guards knows more than he lets on. But Mike doesn’t care, for as long as he isn’t being ratted out.
The ocean, at night, is when he feels free, imagination running wild and best. He pictures all the scenarios in his book to every minute detail and absorbs all the scenes paired by the soothing background sound of waves crashing against sharp rocks. The salty air, its cool breeze, the ever familiar smell of the ocean air. Mike finds all of it calming, peaceful even.
This time it’s The Fisherman and His Soul, one of his favorites by Oscar Wilde. Just as he’s turning the page, his eyes catches onto something far off the shore. He can’t make out anything from this distance and lack of light except that the movement seems, rather unnatural. He strains his eyes, squinting hard and sees a brilliant white coloured something atop a rock.
The movements of it go up and down and Mike finally registers. His eyes widen. Wings. It must be a seagull. A truly odd sight at this ungodly hour of the night. His gaze is still glued to it when makes out another silhouette at the feet of the bird. He knows there’s no use for his lantern, for even the words in his book still seem dark from it’s emission.
He scoots closer the edge, legs now dangling off the cliff. The silhouette appears to extend further down, the rest of it blocked by the rock. It has some sort of light complexion to it. A glaring disparity compared to the black waters but not quite the bright white of the bird. Maybe a fish? Albeit dead, would explain the presence of the seagull.
A sudden movement, the silhouette moves to the right, left and right again. Not a fish then. Definitely not dead either. A different type of bird maybe? He’s still raking through the possibilities when the shape disappears. And maybe Mike is crazy. He’s probably just seeing things. The absence of lighting and casting shadows playing tricks on him. But he could’ve sworn he saw the shape leaping, into the waters.
The seagull roars through the dark sky. For the next hour Mike’s book stays opened to the same page and he stays sitting there staring into the dark horizon.