As I took my seat on a log opposite the campfire, the flames casting a warm, flickering light across the campsite, Luke moved to join me. The fire's glow, ever comforting in the encroaching darkness, seemed to hold a semblance of normalcy.
"You alright?" I inquired, turning my attention to Luke. His presence, a fluctuating dynamic in our group, offered a momentary distraction from the whirlwind of questions fluttering within me.
"Yeah," Luke replied, his gaze shifting to the fire as he took a long sip of whiskey. The flames reflected in his eyes, a mirror to the turmoil and uncertainty that lay beneath his calm exterior.
The quiet moment by the fire, however brief, allowed my thoughts to drift to my father. Did my father know about this? The possibility that he might have had knowledge of the phenomena we were witnessing, and by extension, that he could still be alive, ignited a spark of hope within me. Somewhere. The word hung in my mind, a beacon in the vastness of our unknown surroundings.
But then, other thoughts intruded, their memories a tumultuous sea crashing against the shores of my newfound hope. But Pierre? The Fox? The questions, relentless in their pursuit, swarmed the fragile peace I had found. Does any of that matter now?
Sitting there, beside Luke, with the night drawing in and the fire crackling before us, I was torn between the past and the present, between what I had lost and what I might yet find. The complexities of our situation, the intertwining of personal quests with the immediate demands of survival, left me navigating a labyrinth of emotions and uncertainties. Yet, in the midst of it all, the fire's warmth offered a semblance of comfort, a reminder that, for now, we were alive, and with life, there remained the promise of hope.
As night fully claimed the sky, turning it into a vast expanse of darkness, we found comfort in the simple acts of eating, sharing stories, and depleting the whiskey bottle that had become a symbol of our camaraderie. The sound of laughter, particularly Paul's loud cackle, seemed to echo into the empty distance, a defiant proclamation of life amidst the uncertainty that surrounded us.
"Shh," I cautioned with a playful seriousness, pressing my fingers to my lips in a futile attempt to stifle my own amusement. "The zombie is sleeping," I joked, referencing Joel's inexplicable state with a term that seemed as crazy as the situation itself. My efforts to remain composed failed miserably as I succumbed to a fit of giggles, the absurdity of our conversation acting as a temporary balm to the day's stress.
Kain's laughter joined mine, unbridled and genuine. "Well, I didn't know how else to describe him," he admitted, his words a reflection of our collective struggle to make sense of Joel's condition.
"Are we sure it's safe in there? We don't really know what's going on," Paul mused, his voice lowering but still carrying an edge of concern as he leaned in closer to our small gathering. His question, though posed in jest, touched on the undercurrent of fear and uncertainty that we all harboured about Joel's unpredictable condition.
"Oh," Luke sighed heavily, his patience wearing thin. "Don't be so stupid, Paul." His dismissal of Paul's concern was abrupt, a mix of frustration and denial in the face of our shared unease.
"Ah," Paul gasped, putting on a show of being wounded by Luke's words, his feigned hurt doing little to mask the underlying tension that his question had surfaced.
As Luke staggered to his feet, using my shoulder for support, his movements were unsteady but determined. "Of course, it's safe," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to anyone else as he made his way toward the silent tent that housed Joel and Jamie. His assurance, though quietly spoken, was a desperate grasp at normalcy, a need to believe that the anomaly of Joel's condition could be contained, understood, and ultimately, posed no threat.
"Is he alright?" Kain's whisper cut through the lingering laughter, his concern for Luke's well-being evident in his hushed tone.
"Oh, he's fine," Paul responded with a dismissive wave of his hand, his nonchalance a façade that barely concealed the complexity of emotions we were all navigating. And with that, the three of us settled into a contented silence, each lost in our own thoughts as the fire crackled before us, a beacon of warmth and light in the enveloping darkness.
"Well, dinner was tasty. Thank you both," I said appreciatively, feeling a momentary sense of normalcy as I tossed my paper plate into the fire. "I wonder whether now might..." My sentence trailed off as Paul's sharp "Shh" cut through the air, a command that immediately drew my attention.
The sound of voices, their pitch and tension unmistakable, echoed from the tent, a discordant note that shattered the evening's fleeting peace. My curiosity piqued, I watched as Paul, with a quiet determination, pushed himself up from the log, his gaze fixed on the tent's entrance.
As a dark figure burst from the tent, the identity of the person was unmistakable. "Luke!" Paul's voice carried a mix of concern and surprise as he called out to the retreating figure. But Luke, propelled by an unseen force, didn't pause. He broke into a run, his form quickly swallowed by the night's embrace.
Paul made a tentative move to follow, but I instinctively knew that intervening might not be wise. With a swift wave of my hand, I signalled for him to stay put. My observations over the past days had hinted at underlying tensions, a silent storm brewing beneath the surface. Perhaps it hasn't been right for a long time, I thought, the realisation heavy with implication.
In the midst of our concern for Luke, the night briefly came alive with an otherworldly display. The faint glow of vivid Portal colours danced across the landscape, a fleeting spectacle that illuminated the darkness before disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. The beauty of the phenomenon was stark against the backdrop of our isolation.
Observing the direction and distance of the light, it dawned on me how isolated our camp truly was. If there had been anyone within reach, such a display would surely have drawn attention. Yet, the dancing lights sparked an idea, a potential solution to the challenges we faced. I really need Paul's turrets, I realised, the concept of the defensive structures suddenly taking on new significance.
"Yep. Looks like it's definitely you and me tonight, Paul," Kain's voice broke through the quiet of the evening, his statement a simple acknowledgment of our reduced numbers.
"I guess so," Paul agreed, a hint of resignation mixed with a newfound comfort in our current living conditions evident in his tone. "I might get used to this dust yet," he joked, settling back onto his log with a casualness that belied the day's earlier tensions, his foot softly patting the ground in a rhythm that seemed to echo the crackling of the fire.
"Oh no," I interjected, the thought of anyone choosing the ground over a more comfortable alternative prompting a quick response. "There's a sleeping bag for you in the other tent." My words were an offer, a gesture of consideration amidst our makeshift living conditions.
"Really?" Paul's surprise was genuine, the prospect of a sleeping bag, a small luxury in our current environment, seemingly a welcome proposition. "That should make a nice change. But the tent's all yours," he said, directing his comment at Kain with a casualness that suggested a deeper comfort with the outdoors than the confines of a tent. "I'll sleep out here again tonight. I don't want to let the fire completely burn out."
Kain's surprise at Paul's choice was evident. "Don't like the dark?" he teased, probing into the reasoning behind Paul's preference with a lightness that sought to pierce the evening's calm.
"Hmph," Paul responded, a noncommittal grunt that carried more weight than words, his glance shifting towards me as if seeking an ally in the unspoken understanding that had developed among us. "Something like that." His vague reply was an admission of sorts, a hint at complexities and fears not fully voiced.
Remembering my own relief at not having experienced the unsettling events of Paul and Jamie's first night in camp, I chose to step back from the conversation, allowing Paul the space to navigate the topic as he saw fit.
"Is there something out there?" Kain's question, voiced with a cautious curiosity, delved deeper into the night's shadows, probing for threats real or imagined. "Other people maybe?"
"Not that we know of," Paul's response was quick, a dismissal of the possibility that carried with it an undercurrent of the unknown. His words, while intended to reassure, also underscored the vastness of our isolation and the myriad of mysteries that lay beyond the firelight's reach.
Sitting on the log, the uneven surface beneath me mirrored the turmoil of my thoughts. My intuition screamed that Paul's assertion of our solitude couldn't be entirely accurate. We can't be the only ones here. Yet, the absence of any sign of others tangled my thoughts into knots. My father's accounts of the Portal, which until now had seemed like mere fantasy, appeared to align disturbingly with our current reality. The notion that I might actually be in an alternate world, or reality, was both fascinating and terrifying in equal measure. It just didn't seem possible, yet here I was, living proof that it was.
"Do you know something that you're not telling us?" Paul's question, sharp and direct, yanked me back to the present, his gaze piercing through the veil of my private contemplations.
I hesitated, the weight of his inquiry pressing down on me. "I'm just as confused as the two of you are," I managed to say, my response a mix of truth and evasion. The reality was that I had more questions than answers, my father's tales now seeming less like the ramblings of an imaginative mind and more like a map to our current predicament.
"I don't think we're safe here," Kain interjected, his bluntness slicing through the night air.
Paul exhaled softly, a sound filled with resignation. "Right now, we don't really have any other option. I'm sure Luke would have warned us if it wasn't safe." His attempt at reassurance felt hollow, based more on hope than certainty.
"Luke doesn't know everything," Kain retorted, his voice loud and laced with skepticism. His dismissal of Luke's knowledge was a jolt.
My eyebrow raised involuntarily, a silent acknowledgment of the complexities within our group. It seems Paul and I aren't the only ones withholding information. The realisation that each of us might be guarding our own doubts and discoveries added another layer of interest to our dynamics.
"We'll just have to watch out for each other. We're all we've got right now," Paul stated, his words a pointed reminder of our shared reliance. His glance towards me carried an unspoken plea for unity, a recognition of the fragile thread that bound us together in this unfamiliar world.
Feeling the weight of the conversation and the unsaid accusations, I shifted uncomfortably once more. The implication that I might be concealing vital information was unsettling, igniting a defensive spark within me. "I think it's time for bed," I announced, more to escape the intensity of the moment than from any real desire for sleep. With a decisive slap on my thighs, I rose from the log, leaving the warmth of the fire and the complexity of our conversation behind. The night air felt cooler as I stepped away, a welcome respite from the heat of scrutiny and the burden of unanswered questions.
Pushing my way inside the medical tent, a space that had silently been designated as mine. The interior was dark, save for the faint glow seeping through the fabric walls. Kneeling, I felt the dust beneath the tent floor press against my knees, a reminder of the unforgiving environment that surrounded us.
Closing my eyes, I took a deep, steadying breath. "I'm grateful," I said aloud, my voice a whisper in the vast silence. The words were a simple acknowledgment of the day's end, a moment to centre myself amidst the uncertainty. But as I knelt there, enveloped in the quiet, a realisation dawned on me. No, this isn't right. The thought was clear, insistent. Paul and Kain need this just as much as I do.
Compelled by this dawning, I quietly exited the tent, my resolve firm. Approaching them again, I inadvertently startled Kain. His surprise sent him tumbling backward off his log and onto the ground. "Glenda!" he exclaimed, his voice sharp with surprise. "What the hell!"
"Sorry," I mouthed, the words barely a whisper as I extended my hand to help him up, an apologetic gesture for the unintended scare.
"Glenda," came a whisper from behind me. Startled, I turned to find Paul, who had moved silently to stand just behind me. The suddenness of his presence caused me to jump, but Kain's firm grip on my hand kept me steady.
Paul chuckled softly at the situation, his apology whispered into the night air as he dropped his sleeping bag onto the dust in front of his log. "Sorry," he said, the humour evident in his tone.
"No, you're not," I replied, my initial surprise giving way to a softer smile. Despite the unexpectedness of the moment, I found a sliver of amusement in our interactions, a brief respite from the weight of our circumstances.
"You don't like the tent?" Kain asked, his question drawing my attention back to the larger issue at hand, his gaze briefly flicking towards the medical tent.
"Actually," I began, my voice steady, signalling a shift in the conversation. "There's something I think we should do as a group first." The words were an invitation, a call to gather not just for practical reasons, but perhaps to solidify the sense of unity and purpose that had begun to form among us. In this moment, standing with Paul and Kain, the idea of solitary refuge in the medical tent felt less appealing than the prospect of facing the night together, as a unified front against the uncertainties that lay ahead.
Kain's brow raised with curiosity. "What is it?" he asked.
"Gratitude," I affirmed, the simplicity of the word belying the depth of its significance.
"Gratitude?" Kain repeated, his tone laced with a scoff, as if the concept was too abstract or inconsequential to consider.
"Hear me out," I insisted, raising my hand to forestall any further objections. The conviction in my voice and the gesture commanded attention, prompting a momentary silence from both of them.
Kain, though still visibly uncertain, held his tongue, allowing me to explain.
I took a deep breath, gathering my thoughts. "It's something my father taught me. I've done it every day since..." My voice trailed off, choked by the sudden surge of emotions at the mention of my father. I swallowed hard, battling the lump in my throat before continuing, "It's become a nightly tradition for me." The words, once spoken, felt like a bridge between my past and our present, a ritual that had offered solace and strength in times both good and bad.
I knelt in the dust near the glowing embers of the fire, the warmth on my face a contrast to the cool night air. "Come join me," I encouraged, inviting them to share in this tradition, to perhaps find in it the same comfort and grounding it often provided me.
After a brief moment, filled with the crackling of the fire, Paul moved to kneel beside me.
Kain, still standing, looked on with a mix of doubt and curiosity. His skepticism was palpable, a barrier to fully embracing the vulnerability of the moment.
"It's okay," I reassured, turning to meet his gaze. "We're not praying or anything." My words were meant to ease his apprehension, to clarify that this act of gratitude was not bound by any specific belief or doctrine but was instead a universal acknowledgment of our humanity, our struggles, and the moments of beauty that persisted despite them.
Taking a deep breath, as if steeling himself against his own reservations, Kain finally knelt in the soft dust on my other side. His action, reluctant yet deliberate, marked a significant moment of unity, a shared willingness to explore this simple yet profound act of gratitude together.
When Kain and Paul had finally settled into the dust beside me, the air around us felt charged with a hesitant anticipation. "I'll go first," I declared, breaking the initial silence that had enveloped us. "I'm grateful for life," I stated calmly, my voice steady despite the tumult of emotions and experiences that had led us to this moment.
As a whole minute of calm silence stretched between us, I sensed their hesitation, their uncertainty about this unfamiliar practice. My elbow found Paul's ribs with a gentle, yet firm nudge, a silent encouragement for him to share.
Yet, the silence persisted, a tangible presence in the night. I found myself staring into the diminishing flames of our campfire, questioning their willingness to engage. Are they not going to participate? Then why stay? The thought nagged at me as I nudged Paul a second time, urging him without words to break the silence.
"I'm grateful for the river," Paul finally said, his words coming out hastily but breaking the silence like a stone thrown into still water.
As the serenity of the silence enveloped us once again, I closed my eyes, allowing the simplicity and sincerity of Paul's gratitude to resonate. Yes, I thought, the river is a good thing to be grateful for. Its presence had been a constant, a source of life and, now, a symbol of gratitude.
Feeling the silence stretch on, my resolve hardened, and I nudged Kain for a third time, determined to include him in this moment of shared vulnerability. If he is going to stay with us, I told myself firmly, he is going to participate.
"I'm grateful for Uncle Jamie," Kain finally blurted out, his voice tinged with a mix of reluctance and sincerity.
Paul's reaction was immediate, his hand flying to his mouth in a futile attempt to stifle a light snort of amusement. The sound, though brief, shattered the solemnity of the moment.
Kain, frustrated by the reaction, stood abruptly, his movements quick and filled with a palpable tension. "Kain, I'm sorry," Paul called out, his apology trailing after Kain as he stormed past the far end of the campfire, disappearing into the darkness.
As Paul's knees emitted a soft protest, he prepared to chase after Kain into the darkness. Instinctively, I reached out, gently tugging on his arm to halt his intended pursuit. "Don't," I mouthed silently, my voice lost in the quiet of the night.
Paul turned to me, his expression etched with questions, the faint glow of the campfire flickering across his face. I could see the mix of concern and confusion as he tried to decipher my plea.
"He'll be back. There's nowhere else to go," I reassured him, my voice soft but firm. Despite the vastness that surrounded us, our campsite had become a nucleus of our existence in this strange place, a beacon in the unyielding darkness.
Paul's gaze lingered on mine, his eyes narrowing as he weighed my words, the silent communication between us charged with the tension of the moment.
"Besides, we're not done," I continued, an assertion that seemed to hang in the air between us.
"We're not?" His response, laced with surprise, reflected the unexpected turn our evening had taken. The simple act of sharing gratitude had evolved into something more profound, a ritual of connection and reflection in the face of our uncertainties.
As I turned my attention back to the dwindling fire, the flames casting a warm, comforting light, I sensed Paul's hesitation give way to resolve. He knelt beside me once more, his movements slow and deliberate.
In that moment, as I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat, a tear escaped, tracing a solitary path down my cheek. The vulnerability of the act, the raw emotion it elicited, was both freeing and frightening. "I'm grateful for Clivilius," I whispered, the name evoking a cascade of memories and emotions, a testament to the profound impact of my experiences.
Without waiting for Paul to respond, to offer another piece of gratitude into the night, I rose swiftly to my feet. The need to escape, to find solace within the confines of the medical tent, was overwhelming. My departure from the fireside was quick, a retreat into the sanctuary of solitude where I could ponder the complexities of our situation and the ritual that had unexpectedly opened a floodgate of emotions.
Wiping away several more tears, I couldn't help but chide myself for the vulnerability I had displayed. Emotions, usually kept tightly under wraps, had cascaded forth in a rare moment of openness. Retrieving the sleeping bag Kain had thoughtfully left for me, I freed it from its compact casing, the sound of the fabric unfurling a soft echo in the silent tent. I rolled it out along the tent floor, the action mechanical, allowing my hands to be busy while my mind continued to race.
The darkness enveloping the tent seemed to thicken with each passing moment, a cloak of invisibility that offered a strange sense of security. I rationalised that, cloaked in this pervasive darkness, my privacy was assured until the break of dawn. The notion provided a small comfort, a temporary reprieve from the scrutiny I felt under the watchful eyes of the night sky.
Choosing to lie atop the sleeping bag rather than within it, the warmth of the evening rendering the additional layer unnecessary, I stared up into the void above me. The darkness seemed infinite, a vast expanse that mirrored the depth of my thoughts. I allowed myself a deep breath, a deliberate attempt to calm the storm within, my mind wandering freely over the day's events, each memory a piece to an ever-complicating puzzle.
Joel's condition was a mystery that refused to be sidelined. Was he dead? Alive? The questions circled tirelessly in my mind. The waters of this new world, their properties unknown and seemingly magical, teased at the edges of my understanding. Could they truly possess the power to heal, to reverse death itself, or halt the ageing process? The notion was fantastical, bordering on the edge of incredulity, yet the tingling sense of purpose it ignited within me was undeniable.
Again, my thoughts returned to my father. Did my father know about this? The possibility that he had knowledge of these waters, these powers, and that it could mean he was still out there, alive, filled me with a renewed sense of determination. The stakes had shifted, the game had changed, and with it, my resolve.
"I will find you, father," I whispered into the darkness, my voice a soft but fierce declaration.
