The Cold

The water swirls in a pool of ink and deep blue, reflecting the spattering of firefly stars in the sky overhead. Cyrus approaches the dark shore, the moon is new, a near-invisible dark circle in the sky, making the cove even darker than usual during the witching hour.
Cyrus is drunk. More so than usual. A long day at a stupid job full of stupid people and a deadline for rent creeping up on him, he's had more than a few beers and one or two too many shots of hard liquor. Bile fills his mouth and he hacks once before spitting an gooey glob of alcohol onto the sand. He sways as he makes his way to the edge of the sand, the deserted beach doing nothing to sober his mood. Another beer hangs limply in one hand, already half-empty.
He stands there, simply swaying, his sweat and beer-stained clothes hanging limply over his skin and protruding bones, looking as if he would blow away in the freezing breeze that had suddenly picked up.
The bar lights behind Cyrus dim, and the noise of the already near-silent sleepy town dulls to a void. Now all that can be heard is the lull of the waves, and a soft voice singing.
The words were quite incomprehensible, but rose and fell with the song of the sea, low, heart-wrenching, and beautiful. The power of those ancient words stolen from a forgotten past fill Cyrus from head to toe, the melody making him sway, the buzz from his alcohol was nothing compared to this. A strange urge rose up in his chest, in time with those godly words.
'Come to me.' the song said, 'Come, come into the waves.' After a moment more, Cyrus beginning to sway in time with the song, two more voices join in, one higher, one lower than the first. Cyrus was completely enraptured with the voices by now, the words again crying out to him, louder this time, and he was unable to resist their song.
'Come, Cyrus. Come into the waves. We will take you away. Come, come!' his fingers loosen around the neck of his beer bottle, and it falls with a low 'thunk' in the sand. Without telling them to, his legs guide him forward as the warm numbness steals his body from him, so he doesn't notice when the icy water starts to suck around his old boots. He doesn't notice when the water seeps into his trousers. Not when it starts to soak into his shirt, nor when the freezing, icy water reaches his shoulders.
'Come.' the song said, 'Come under the waves!' Cyrus swims forward, his arms and legs flailing of their own accord into the pitch-black waves. He cannot see, and in the eerie stillness, it feels as if he is in space, unable to see the difference between the sea and the sky, the stars and the sand.
'Under the waves!' the song cried, impossibly loud, 'We will set you free!'
Cyrus' body goes limp, and he sinks under the surface of the ink-colored water.