#wtsa

For a moment Jayce couldn’t do anything but stare, his mind racing to make sense of what was in front of him. The stranger’s chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, his naked body trembling with effort as he lay curled on his side. Strands of long, damp hair clung to his face and trailed down his shoulders and back, half-obscuring the sharp and almost otherworldly features. A glint of something dark staining the man’s leg drew Jayce’s attention. His stomach churned when he saw the deep, jagged wounds—torn flesh. Raw and angry, as though something had hooked into his muscle and ripped it apart. The blood seeping into the sand beneath him painted a grim picture of just how long the man had been lying there. Another cry, roaring over the crash of waves, this time filled with rage and pure distress. Jayce hesitated, frozen in the moment. The man looked both terrified and fatigued, crumpled into the sand as if the ocean itself had cast him out. And yet, despite injuries and exhaustion, the man was trying to crawl back to the waters. There was something so painfully recognisable about it—the pull of the sea, impossible to ignore. He shifted in place, about to take a step closer to offer help and— oh no.

The ocean is an entity of ancient powers, never to be tamed and never to yield. It is an odd thing how something so brutal and violent can whisper the softest praise to those who know its rhythm. How gentle the lullaby is carried on a salt-tinged breeze only to coax the unexperienced heart into a false sense of security. For beneath its surface, the weight of storms hibernates. The kind of fury that carves mountains into cliffs and swallows ships whole. Like sharp teeth it gnaws at the edges of land, the jagged scars left behind as an ominous reminder to never step near when it’s thrashing about. It has no mercy, no mind for the lives it shapes or destroys.

And yet, even then, there is nothing like witnessing the sunlight dance on waves. Glittering like broken glass, stretching so far beyond the human eye it simply becomes part of the heavens. The seafoam becomes speckled clouds on an ever-blue sky, floating and twisting as if they join on the dance. It bathes in all the colours of the world, shifting and forever changing, and the very heartbeat of the earth will echo in the waves.

The ocean is alive.

Jayce Talis had spent a lifetime learning to respect it. He knew the tides like the lines on his own palms, heard its murmurs in the sails of his boat before the winds even changed, and felt weight of a promised storm tug on his bones long before dark clouds approached. For him, the ocean was both a master and a companion, it had made him fluent in the language of tides and waves. The rhythm of the ocean was echoing through him, aligning his heartbeat to follow its whims.

He rose every morning before first light, the smell of salt and damp wood filling the cabin he'd built himself along the shore. He’d stoke what little embers were left from the night before and watch as the scruffy cat slipped out from its home in the firewood pile. Whenever the cat allowed Jayce would give it a little scratch behind its ear, almost smiling at the soft few huffs of purr before the cat demanded to be let out. He wasn’t sure when he had gained the companion through the years, but regardless, it was the only creature seeking his company out here.

By the time the sun kissed the horizon, Jayce was already at the docks. The walk from his cabin to the local village was barely half an hour, but it was enough to keep the people there at a comfortable distance. He would always make time to greet his mother as they crossed paths to their respective jobs, sometimes earning him a pouch of cookies and a sandwich. He would kiss her forehead, thank her and promise he would invite her for dinner. They both knew he was lying. They knew as night came crawling so would he to her table, to find warmth in a bowl of stew before continuing his journey home alone. He felt guilty, but not guilty enough to hold his promise.

Sometimes she would follow him to the docks, filling the silence with the latest gossips of the town. More often he would find himself at the docks in silence, the village still waking as the sky broke into dawn. It became a sanctuary during these hours, the world around him still wrapped in a sleepy haze. In these quiet moments, the ocean felt like it was his alone. The soft creak of the dock shifting with the waves, the rush of water lapping over the stony shores—it was a melody he had known his whole life, one that he happily hummed along to.

Just as the first sliver of sunlight spilled across the waves Jayce stepped into his boat. Lungs filled with the salty ocean air, the tide vibrating through the planks of his vessel—this was when Jayce truly would awaken. His shoulders rolled with yesterday’s soreness, his fingers cracking under the pressure of carrying old rope and buckets for today’s catch, and his heart beating eagerly in his chest as the first satisfying cough of the motor woke the seagulls.

Jayce guided the boat away from the docks with steady hands, leaving the village behind to become nothing more than a blur of green and grey in the distance. The open waters ahead of him stretched endlessly. It was calm and quiet, its surface a mirror of gold and blue only broken by the gentle swell of waves. It was an overwhelming freedom that settled into his chest, shoulders lowering as their tension finally released him.

The vessel’s motor slowed down as Jayce reached his usual spot, the currents whispering promises of a good haul. He let the boat drift as he moved to the stern and uncoiled the first net before pausing. Standing there with the familiar weight of rope in his hands he stared into the waters.

“Grant me a steady hand and an honest catch, Let the waters guide me, and the nets be kind To the sea, I ask for enough and no more.”

The prayer came as natural as breathing. Old words his father once had taught him when he was young and running around the same old planks he was standing on now.

“Remember,” He had said, net in one hand and his son’s shoulder in the other, “The ocean never takes sides, son. She is not cruel, and she is not kind—she just is. Never think you have tamed her; she will never bend to your will. All you can do is ask for her to treat you fairly.”

At the time Jayce had not understood the weight of his fathers’ words. But then again, he had never seen the waters claim a life. No, that came two years later when he watched the ocean drag his father to its depths, never to release him.

At the sound of his net hitting the water, Jayce started the ritual of his day. Each step, from the casting of the nets to the patient wait that follow, was ingrained in him. There was no rush, no need to chase time out here. The ocean worked at its own pace, and Jayce had long since learned to move with it. Out here he was nothing more than the foam drifting along lazy waves.

The haul of the nets was no different, he would thank the ocean for its bounty before starting the pull. The strain was familiar, almost comforting. Rope biting into his hands, muscles of his back and shoulders burning with the effort, but it was a pain he welcomed. The glint of fish breaking the surface, their scales flashing like silver in the sunlight—it bore a satisfaction he could never find elsewhere. This was honest work, the kind that left him tired but whole.

He worked quietly, the sounds of the ocean filling the spaces where words might have been. As the sun had made its course across the sky, setting fire to the heavens in reds and oranges, he started his trek back to shore. A boat full of fish, hands covered in scales and salt clinging to his hair, the familiar bite of exhaustion crept along his shoulders. He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

Handing off the haul to the Dockmaster was smooth enough, a transaction done countless times. The owners of the docks, the Kirammans, had always seen that his pockets were filled fairly—whether out of sentimentality or respect for his work, Jayce was not sure.

“Good haul today?” The Dockmaster called, his voice carrying over the water.

Jayce nodded as he eased the boat into place. “Enough.” He replied, tying the boat off swiftly. It took little effort to carry the crates of fish over to the Dockmaster. After a quick and thorough inspection, the man gave him an approving nod.

“All good! Same time tomorrow?” The man asked.

“Always.” Jayce replied.

As the Dockmaster directed his workers to haul the heavy crates towards the market, Jayce retrieved a smaller bucket he’d set aside. The lesser catch wasn’t much but it would make a fine meal, his mother would make sure of that.

Jayce carried the spoils of the day carefully as he made his way from the docks. The warmth the sun had carried was starting to ebb away with the promise of nightfall. Shadows stretched long across the path leading to his mother’s home and with it the quiet of the village. It was a small place, nestled between the cliffs and the sea, its streets winding like vines between clustered houses. The mountains and dense forest laying behind keeping them all sheltered from the world beyond.

As Jayce walked an occasional villager would greet him in passing—a nod here, a wave there, a tired smile. Familiar faces offering simple pleasantries, their voices carrying warmth and kindness. Some just for greetings, others more direct requests.

“Jayce, if you have a moment this week, could have a look at my boat’s engine?” one might say, or, “The pulley systems’ been sticking again; you’re the only one who can make sense of it!”

Jayce always responded politely, his smile easy and his words brief. He knew their problems by heart and hand, having patched, repaired, and coaxed life back into more vessels than he cared to count. He didn’t mind helping, it was one of the many ways he carried on the Talis legacy. His father and grandfather before him had both been fixtures in this village, known not for only their work on the water but also for the care they offered to others. The Talis name was spoken with a kind of quiet respect—earned through years of steady hands, honest work and a willingness to lend those hands wherever they were needed.

The village mourned with him and his mother when his father was taken. Years of gratitude pouring back on the two left behind, wrapping them in a comfort only a family could provide. Jayce was forever grateful, repaying in one of the few ways he knew—continuing his father’s work with the same tools. His hands carried the same calluses, his shoulders the same weight, and when the villagers asked for his aid, he could never bring himself to say no.

Even now, as exhaustion pulled at him and the thought of his mother’s warm kitchen awaiting him, he couldn’t help but mentally sort the requests he’d received along the way. later, he’d make time. He always did.

That was for tomorrow. For now, though, he let the thought of warm food pull him in the direction of his mother. He tightened the grip on the bucket as he approached, light spilling from the windows to welcome him.

The door opened before Jayce could knock, the familiar creak of hinges followed by the scent of rosemary and wood smoke. His mother was standing in the doorway, hands on her hips, eyes narrowing slightly as he took in his appearance.

“Late again,” she said, her tone held more amusement than bite, “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten where you mamá lives.”

Jayce gave her a sheepish smile and lifted the bucket to show it off. “Caught up with work, sorry.” He replied.

“Hm-hmm.” She reached out, taking the bucket from him before stepping aside. “Thank you, mijo. Now, go sit down and we’ll have a meal before you keel over.”

Jayce didn’t argue. He stepped inside, the warmth of the house wrapping around him like a blanket. The small home was inviting as always, every corner touched with his mother’s care. Bundles of herbs hung in neat rows from the beams above, their faint earthy aroma mingling with the rich smell of whatever she had been cooking. The walls lined with shelves, jars of dried plants and tinctures neatly labelled all in her tidy handwriting.

Before he could even sink into one of the chairs his mother had placed a bowl of hearty stew in front of him. Steam rose in soft curls, carrying the aroma of herbs and rich broth. Chunks of tender fish floated among the slices of carrot, potato, and onion. It was the kind of meal that warmed from the inside out, simple but full of care.

“Go on, eat up.” Ximena said, setting down a mug of tea and a thick slice of bread next to the bowl. “You look like you’ve been dragged through the tide.”

Jayce chuckled softly, picking up the spoon and starting to eat. Every bite carried warmth that seeped into his bones, washing away the weariness of the day. His mother joining him, her voice light and easy as she shared the village’s latest happenings. How the neighbours couldn’t decide between goats or chickens, how she had an extra stubborn patch in her garden that refused to grow, how Jarle’s bones said it would be stormy tomorrow.

Jayce knew Jarle was wrong. Tomorrow would be fine.

*+*+*+*+*

By the time they had finished their meal, he felt lighter. The weight of the ocean no longer pulling on his mind but rather a gentle buzz in the back of his head. He lingered at the table, cradling the mug of tea between his hands. His mother cleaning off the table swiftly, giving him a look when he tried to offer his help. “You could stay the night,” she said, her tone casual but eyes soft with concern. She settled across from him again, hands folding in front of her. “It is getting late, and the walk back isn’t getting any shorter.” Jayce smiled faintly, shaking his head. “I need to feed the cat.” He replied. Her brow lifted, lips curving into a wry smile, her affection pulling on her teasing tone. “The one you’ve yet to name after two years?” Jayce let out a quiet chuckle, taking another sip of tea to avoid answering directly. It was a poor excuse, but it was one that seemed to work. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her—he did, fiercely. The warmth of her kitchen, the sound of her voice, and the way she always seemed to know what he needed before he did—it was a comfort the cherished. But staying meant lingering, and lingering meant facing the silence that came when her stories ran dry and the quiet of the night that crept it. It was in those moments, he felt like a boy again, sitting at the same table with a hollow space where his father used to be. The walls seemed closer then, the air heavier, filled with unspoken memories he wasn’t ready to face. He didn’t realise he had let his thoughts wander until his mother placed a smaller pot with leftovers and a cloth filled with bread in front of him. She gave him a soft smile and reached out to pet his cheek. “For tomorrow.” She explained and Jayce felt the warmth in his own smile as he nodded. “Thank you, mamá.” He took the pot under one hand and tucked the bread away in the pocket of his coat. He lingered for a moment, filling his lungs with a final inhale of comfort before heading to the door. “You be safe now, Jayce.” “Always.” He leaned down and placed a kiss to her forehead, the gesture warm and familiar before taking his leave. The night air greeted him as he stepped outside, cool and crisp against his skin. The lanterns along the houses of the village creating small pools of golden light on the cobblestone. He adjusted his coat and leftovers before making his way towards home.

*+*+*+*+*