Black Sails.

The golden fingers of the sinking sun touched the surface of the cliff, warming the weathered, sea battered rock, drowning it in rosy light. The cerulean sea gurgled and laughed as it splashed against the rocks, far, far below, the ocean wind making small white-capped curls on the surface, just for them to roll over and disappear. The short life of these small waves, so delicate and glittering, only lasted for a few seconds in the huge dark expanse of ever-turning time.

Upon the cliff, feet came to rest on the sun-baked rock. A man stood there, not young, not old, his face bathed in light. He faced out to sea, his black eyes never wavering from the horizon. The wind ruffled his dark brown hair, upon which perched a elaborate gold crown. His eyes strained towards the horizon, watching, desperate. “Please, Theseus, my son,” He murmured. “Please return safely.” He raised his eyes to the reddening sky. “Tyche, goddess of good luck and fortune, I beg you,” he cried, hoarsely, his voice full of raw, helpless need. “Please return my son to Athens unharmed.”

The sky grew bloodier and bloodier, and still the man waited silently, his posture strained and tense, his fists clenched and bone-white. The water grew darker and darker, fading into colbalt blue. Still he waited, blinking back tears as the wind grew ever-fiercer. Shadows gathered in the hollows of his face, hiding his eyes, turning them into empty black sockets. Still he waited.

Finally, as the red sun rested upon the edge of the earth, a speck appeared on the horizon.

The man stood straighter, leaning forwards eagerly.

The ship glided ever closer. It’s silhouette became more and more prominent, the proud mast, the graceful bow-

and the black sails.

Wide, beautiful black sails, proudly hoisted.

The man screamed wordlessly. The agony-filled sound hung in the air. The man rushed to the edge of the cliff. The black sails rippled slowly in the strong sea wind, horribly clear.

“Theseus,” he whispered painfully. “Theseus.”

He turned to face the sea, the breeze cold on his tear-streaked face. Down below, the waves crashed and tumbled, filling the air with their mourning.

“Theseus.” the man murmured again. He removed his crown, turning it over and over in his hands. With a clink, he dropped it on the stone, where it rolled and fell over, rattling to a stop. “My son.”

He turned once more towards the black sails. Then he walked slowly towards the edge of the cliff, staring down into the bottomless depths of the ocean.

He leaned forward.

He felt himself tipping over the edge, and for a split second he regretted it- then he felt his feet leave the cliff and down he plummeted. Air battered his face, forcing tears out of his squinted eyes. He couldn’t breathe, the oxygen just seemed to slip past his mouth and nose.

“Father!”

Faintly, barely there, he heard a horrified scream on the wind, echoing the voice of his slain son.

I’m coming, Theseus, he thought. I’m coming.

He felt weightless. He stretched his arms out, as if in death, he was flying. The king of Athens hurtled downwards. The water came forwards like a solid wall, but it seemed to take forever.

Almost gently, he plunged through the surface, pain crackling through his bones, the last bit of air knocked out of him. Deeper and deeper his broken body sunk, like a toy a child had dropped. Somehow it didn’t feel like him, like he was watching it through someone else’s eyes. His battered lungs began to ache without air. Black spots danced in front of his eyes. He opened his mouth and sucked in a lungful of water. Far above, he could see a glittering patch of light. The blackness slowly consumed his vision. A heaviness overtook his limbs, and he felt tired, more tired than he had ever been before. Aegeus, King of Athens, finally, finally, let himself float through a doorway, deep down into Hades’s Realm.