The docks had fallen silent, even the waves made no sound as they gently broke against the pebble shore. It wasn't a peaceful stillness, the air was tense and heavy with dread. A shawl of anticipation lay over it all, heavier than any northern fog could ever hope to be.
The fisherman was coming.
He was a man of legends spoken in hushed tones and deliberately unsaid words over the foaming remains of home-brewed ale. To say his actual name was as good as tossing a noose around your neck and leaping from the lighthouse, some might even call that preferable to meeting the man himself.
To know that he was heading back ashore, to know that soon his ship will sit silently at the end of pier 4, empty and waiting for the dockhands to load it up with the strangely-shaped tar-smothered crates that accumulated over the months he was away, to know he could set foot on land and curse them all.
To know this and not be able to run far enough from his eyes - it was a hell they'd only escape in death.
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