It was a beautiful day. Or was it night? Time was hard to tell when one lives in the water so far down.
Nevertheless, it was a beautiful day, with small groups of fish swimming in the cold waters, blinking luminescent fins and scooting off like darts.
It would have remained perfect, save for the bloated, bleeding corpse that floated down, down, down, until it settled calmly on the sandy floor.
——————————————————————————————–—
After the discovery of Baron Hydrophis’ last few remains outside of the city limits, House Hydrophis is suddenly left without a patriarch. The whole of the house grieves for the loss, but none as strongly as his wife Winona and son, Voltaire.
“Voltaire, I forbid you from going!”
The anxious voice of the baroness of House Hydrophis rang throughout the estate, scattering servants as they tried to listen in on the argument, while also looking quite busy with cleaning. The baroness was following her son closely as he tried to gather only the barest of essentials for his trip. Many of the servants said he had inherited his mother’s stubbornness, but everything else about Voltaire was from his father. Broad shoulders, a shark-like tail, golden eyes that sparkled when the light hit them, deep blue scales with a tinge of yellow on the tips of his fins, and a glare that could freeze a whale mid-dive.
Voltaire spoke to his mother while he bundled his training rapier with thick cloth.
“You can’t order me around anymore mother. Father is dead, and if you won’t try to go and find out who did it, then I will. The guardsmen are useless!” He shouted, his voice hoarse from crying. “Wouldn’t you have done the same if it was me? Or father if it was you?”
The Baroness didn’t answer him, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly.
“You are your father’s son,” She said softly. “If you really think going out there is such a good idea… “ Then, she snapped her fingers. A timid looking servant poked their head in through the doorway. “Yes?”
“Get me the tailor boy.” She said, and the servant nodded and left. Voltaire raised an eyebrow at her request, but was cut off from asking about it.
“If three days of trying to convince you to stay have done nothing, perhaps letting you release these emotions outside the manor will help.” Winona spoke slowly, gently rubbing her eyes.
Voltaire stood straighter, looking his mother in the eyes. He was only 17 years old now, and far taller than his mother stood now.
“It will.” He insisted.
The Baroness gently took the rapier Voltaire clasped tightly in his hands, undoing the cloth around the blade.
“If that is the case then, I refuse to let you wander about with the scum below with only your training blade.” She weighed the blade in her hands as she spoke drifting outside of the room, with Voltaire following close behind her. They swam together, side by side, up to his father’s private quarters. The Baroness slid the door open.
“Wait here.” She said, sliding it closed behind her. Voltaire stood stiffly as he heard drawers being opened and objects pushed aside.
Whatever could she be getting? He thought to himself. His mother did not give out gifts to him very often, less so his father. Memories of a younger him surfaced into his mind’s eye, constantly training with the blade, day in and day out, looking behind him at his father for approval. Then he remembered being swept off his feet by the instructor for not paying attention. He didn’t know whether to laugh at the memory or cringe at the phantom feeling of pain across his shins. Before he could get too far with his recollections however, a sudden change in the still currents of the waters brought him back to the present.
With much huffing and puffing, a bony Tropic boy swam into view. They carried nothing in their hands save a single satchel, which was dragged alongside them by the strap. This must be the tailor Mother called for, Voltaire thought. They certainly seemed to be, judging by the simple grey tunic they wore. It was completely plain in color and style, which seemed to blend in with their identical grey scales.
The tailor stopped just short of Voltaire, holding their spectacles onto their snout to keep them from falling off.
“Phew… plea- please forgive me for the rush…” He said breathlessly. Voltaire sighed inwardly. He didn’t know why Mother would want the tailor for. He seemed rather weak and likely more of a hindrance, just from that pitiful excuse of sail swimming.
“Consider yourself forgiven.” He replied coolly, keeping his hands behind his back. “You’re the one Mother called for, yes?”
The tailor nodded his head rapidly, straightening his posture. “I- Indeed! I’m tailor Fabian, at your service.” He gave a short bow to punctuate his sentence. “But you can call me ‘Fret!’ M-most of the other tailors call me that.”
Voltaire looked blankly at Fret. “I… see.”
Suddenly, the door to the Baron’s room slid open, and Winona stepped out, holding a far more ornate sword in her hands. Voltaire noticed immediately his father’s initials engraved on the sword.
“That can’t be–” He started.
“It is.” The Baroness replied seriously. “Your father’s sword should be a most fitting weapon to battle his killer.”
Voltaire took the sword from her wordlessly, sliding the sheath around his waist, and sliding the sword into it as well. “Thank you, mother.”
The Baroness nodded. “Please, try to keep safe. It is an unforgiving world out there.”
“I know,” Voltaire replied, feeling both giddy and anxious simultaneously.
Fret looked anxiously from the Baroness to Voltaire. “I-I’m sorry to interrupt, but why exactly did I get called here, Baroness?”
She turned to face him, looking quite stern as she spoke. “You are to accompany my son on his search. As I cannot leave the manor while things remain as turbulent as they are now, you shall go in my place instead.”
Fret looked at her with surprise, while Voltaire looked at Fret with apprehension.
“With him?
“With HIM?!”
Winona gently nudged both of them out of the doorway and down the hallway as she spoke.
“Yes, both of you will look out for each other out there. I trust Fabian here very much to protect you, or at least fix you up, should you become injured.” Winona said to Voltaire as she kept one hand each on both boy’s shoulders. “Can I entrust you with this task, Fabian?”
The Baroness looked at Fret with an unreadably emotionless face.
Fret gulped, but didn’t protest. He didn’t feel like the right person at all for this sudden task. But he had to follow whatever the Baroness demanded of him. Even if he had no idea how to hold a sword.
“Y-yes madam.”
Then she turned her attention to her son, and her gaze softened.
“Please… Be safe. If this is the only way to help close your pain then… at least come back home alive.”
Voltaire looked his mother straight into her eyes, and nodded his head once.
“I will.”
——————————————————————————————–—
The two boys left immediately from the manor house together, Fret struggling to keep up with the far more athletic Voltaire.
They swam from the manor’s land far out near the border of the city, and the great sandy expanse of the ocean before them, to the inner portion of the city. The scenery changed from soft, rolling sand dunes to quaint farming villages, where seagrass and kelp were harvested, and eventually to towering spires of shining marble, stretching far into the upper waters like the shells of trumpet snails. Voltaire was slightly amazed, yet also daunted by the size of the city. How could they possibly begin to search for his father’s killer in this mess if even a dozen guardsmen couldn’t?
Fret was enamored with the sparkly spires, gazing upwards with stars in his eyes.
“Wow… It’s all so beautiful,” he said dreamily.
“It’s called ‘Immaculate’ for a reason.” Voltaire responded with an edge to his tone. “Come now. If we want to make any progress, we’ll have to start immediately. Let’s head to the guard station.”
“Right!”
The two boys swam ahead, asking various other Tropics for directions to the nearest station. The throng of multicolored bodies was difficult to wade through, the two heading one way, and the crowds going the opposite. Fret had to be dragged out by his tail more than once from the crowd by an exasperated Voltaire.
When they finally reached the squat stone building that was the guard station, Voltaire was in a terrible mood. He darted up to the first on duty officer he saw, speaking as calmly as he could.
“Excuse me, sir, but could you help me and my friend here? I’m looking for some information on the murder of Baron Hydrophis.” The officer looked at Voltaire inquisitively.
“Sure, but uh, don’t mind me asking, but why exactly do you need to know?”
“He was my father.” Voltaire replied.
The guardsman nodded his head. “Ah, understood. Very well, follow me to the office. M’sure we’ve got some sort of record ‘bout it here…”
Voltaire grabbed Fret by the back of his collar and dragged him along as he swam with the guard into the back office. It was a crowded, dirty room, nothing more than a closet with scrolls of names and descriptions stacked one on top of the other. They were organized by order of date in stone cubbies, with older dates scraped off and replaced regularly. The guardsman stood silently by the door, watching them rummage through the papers like crabs burrowing into sand.
“Take as long as you need, boys.” He said with a yawn. “If there’s anything I can do to help, lemme know. I’ll… be right here…” And he trailed off slowly and fell asleep, leaning on his spear.
“Hmf. No wonder they haven’t found the one responsible yet,” Voltaire muttered angrily under his breath.
“Well, not much happens like that around Immaculate, or so I’ve heard.” Fret replied, scanning through a scroll he plucked from a cubby marked about three days ago. “And it doesn’t seem like much has happened since then either. Not a lot of details about it here.”
“What? You’ve got something?” Voltaire sped over to Fret’s side, looking intently over his shoulder at the scroll. It was rather plain in text, with only the name of the victim, where and when it had happened, and nothing, no leads on who may have done it. Not even a single witness besides the patrolman on duty, it seemed.
“Well, not quite. We’ve got a place to start looking for any clues the guards might have missed, though!” Fret said cheerfully.
“Good work, Fret. Let’s go then.”
The two boys left the station in a blur of gray and blue, pushing and shoving their way through the crowds in the shining city center, passing through the mid-level residential areas, where the buildings turned squat and stony, large arched holes carved into the walls to let in visitors freely, and covered with a curtain of soft seagrass.
Their destination was close to the outskirts of the city, although on the industrial side of town. The water here was dark and cloudy with dyes that were used in textiles. Few buildings were here and the ones that were there stretched far apart from each other. The buildings were large domes where sea snails were raised to produce the most vibrant dyes and colors. The light from outside was starting to wane as well, making the already desolate place seem far larger than it was.
“M-Maybe we should wait until daylight?” Fret suggested timidly to Voltaire, keeping close to this side. “Oh, we should have brought a guard with us…”
Voltaire shushed him, holding a finger to his lips. “Quiet. We don’t need them. We’ll be fine, I’m the finest swordsman this side of the Bend.” He drew his blade and held it with both hands tightly around its hilt.
This confident tone did nothing to ease Fret’s worries, which only worsened as they swam steadily closer to a marked off area where Hydrophis’ body had been found.
The marked off area was roughly the size of a small bedroom, closed off with a perimeter line of driftwood. The scent of blood was still pungent enough to be smelt by both boys.
“Yes, this is definitely the place. Start looking over by the right. I’ll take the left.” Voltiare said to Fret. “Tell me if something catches your eye.”
“Like that man over there?” Fret responded.
Voltaire whipped around to see a dark figure standing in the middle of the barren sand. Their body was naked save for a dirty mess of sewn together scraps that ran down their legs like a toga.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” the stranger said. His voice was distinctly raspy, each word said slowly as if he had to feel how it would first before speaking. “I happen to know who you’re looking for, if you’re interested.”
“Yes, we are, sir.” Voltaire said cautiously, keeping Fret behind him and his blade.
Upon closer inspection , the Old Man was also blind, his eyes a bleak silver color.
“Well, good thing I found you boys before he did, hehehe!” He laughed, his sagging jowls swinging with his mirth.
Voltaire raised an eyebrow at him. “What do you mean by that?”
“Oh, surely you know! Why else have you come so far away from home, eh? He’s the whole reason you left so foolishly from home.”
Voltaire was now entirely distrustful of this strange men, who knew an uncomfortable amount of things about him.
“How did you know that?” He demanded. Fret tapped his shoulder twice.
“Uhh, Voltaire?”
He shook off Fret’s hand. “Not now.” He turned his attention back to the Old Man. “I said, how did you know? Or are you deaf as well as blind?”
The Old Man cackled and started scooting away into the shadows. “Hehehe! He’s here for you boys! My job here’s done!” And he calmly walked away from the boys, his back facing them.
Voltaire opened his mouth to shout at him, but Fret shook his shoulders anxiously.
“Voltaire! There’s… someone there.” Fret said quietly, pointing at yet another dark figure. This one stood at a haggard angle, as if they were trying to stand straight, but their spine simply wouldn’t let them. Their face, while hidden in the dark, sagged from their skull in such a way that one was made instantly unnerved.
“…That must be him.” Voltaire murmured. Fret nodded his head in agreement.
The figure stepped closer. Stepped, not swam. Their flat feet dragged across the sand, stirring up clouds of dust. They raised one hand very slowly, up, up, up to point a finger at Voltaire. The finger, like the disfigured face, sagged on the bone, like ill-fitting clothes on a mannequin.
They tried to say something, but all that came out was a mess of garbled, wet gurgles that might as well have been raspberries. And then, without warning, they suddenly leapt forward, a mess of tangled, loose flesh over a skeleton. The leap lacked grace or finesse, an animalistic lunge that served only to throw their entire weight behind them. It caught Volatire by surprise, who just managed to dart quickly out of the way, watching them sail past in a slow arc.
They locked eyes for just a moment. Voltaire and the thing not-quite-right. His eyes saw theirs, and his spine froze up. Their eyes were the color of a dead white gloss.
Voltaire quickly drew his blade up in front of him, while Fret stayed on the sidelines, his gaze glued onto the scene before him. “G-Get him! Don’t let him get up!” He shouted.
The loose-skinned figure got back to their feet, the upper-half of their body unbalanced as it tried to right itself. It wobbled left, and the torso fell so far back that its spine should have been broken, but it continue dto move in a horrid, jerky way. They leaned forwards to bring their torso up, and Voltaire got a good look at the figure in front of him. They were wearing his father’s skin.
He felt immediately sickened, but held down the rising bile in his throat to thrust his rapier straight into their chest. It… didn’t do anything. The figure instead pulled themselves into the blade’s point, trying to claw at Voltriae’s face wildly. He let go of the hilt, but the figure made a vice grip on his wrist, and tugged him forwards roughly by the arm, threatening to tear it off by the socket.
“Fret, help!” He shouted as he pushed his assailant away from him, the cold feeling of his father’s skin on his hands sending another wave of bile back up his throat.
Ferret did not answer. His voice was eerily missing from the commotion. Voltaire was angry at him, even when his life was in mortal danger.
He left me! I can’t believe it, he lef–
A dull thwack to the side of the assailant’s head sent him tumbling away from Voltaire. Fret quickly dropped the chunk of wood and grabbed Voltaire’s hands to lift him up.
“Quickly!” he shouted. “Kill him! Now!”
Voltaire nodded his head, and took the chunk of wood from Fret, leaping at the still-dazed assailant, and striking him again and again with the block. The water clouded with red, and as the beaten killer lay there, struggling to even grasp their face in pain, he yanked his sword from their chest, and swiftly cleaved their head off. It was not a clean cut by any means, but the neck was gashed so deeply that their chance of survival was exceedingly low.
Voltaire stepped away from the fresh corpse, wearing his father’s skin, and sat on the floor, panting heavily. Fret stood by him, keeping a hand on his shoulder.
“I think… It’s time we left for home now.”
Antonio Larson, current Sophomore at Verrado High School, has been an avid storyteller since the 3rd grade, with a short story about an alien invasion and three siblings out to save their grandfather. Drawing inspiration from fantasy, sci-fi, and horror genres, he enjoys writing about villains and the lore of a story’s world. He is determined to finish his first full novel.
Printed courtesy Antonio Larson
