Lost Beneath the Tide

{Darius' P.O.V} *Sigh* Father has done it again, I thought to myself as I pick up his empty bottles of rum littered upon the ground, then grabbing the broom to sweep up the remaining broken glass. I fetch my coat and a bucket to collect fresh water from the nearby well, as he will most definitly need a wash and something to help sober up when he wakes. "Mornin' Master Nightingale. Heard yer Father's been causing trouble again?" Auld Jack Shouts from the nearby cottage gate. *Sigh* Here we go again. "Not that I'm aware of Mr Fairweather, just here fetching some water before heading to market". Nosey old bastard. We live here in Oakfield, a small hamlet, which is more of a lane if you ask me. Made up of a few cottages, Fairweather Farm dealing in livestock, Bennie's Farm dealing with crops, Gloria's Trade Inn and a hut used for community gatherings. Down by Benny's Farm is a river that leads to a shimmering lake used sometimes for fishing. Around the lake is Kane's Forest which stretches out for miles. I shot my first buck there when I turned 12, Father kept the antlers as a trophy and Mother cooked a feast. As I returned my Father sat upright on a straw bed, head in his hands. Waking up from his hungover state, gathering his senses. Our small cottage is a tad worse for wear these days, with holes in the roof and dirt for a floor. Anytime a storm or high wind hits, it takes another piece of the cottage with it. Attached to the side is a small stable we keep our mule in and where I sleep. Amongst myself and the mule is the cart with all the goods we need to sell at market. If we don't sell anything soon we might lose everything. *Sigh* I place a bowl and a rag next to the bed and pour some of the water, leaving the bucket on a rickety stool nearby. I fetch a tin cup, filling it with water and set it next to the bed. "I hope this mornin' brings good fortune son or we'll be out on the streets for sure". He says looking up at me with sadness in his tired bloodshot eyes. My Father is William Nightingale, though some call him Bill or Billy. A small merchant trader selling odds and ends from pottery to fabrics. My late mother Katherine Nightingale was a professional baker, had her own store in a high end part of town and served loyalty to the high born pompous families, sorting orders for their fancy parties. She was always busy in her bakery until the end.