Standing outside the front door of Luke’s house, the crisp night air brushed against my skin, a small smile involuntarily playing on my lips. The new phone in my hand cast a soft glow, bathing my features in a pale light, creating a stark contrast with the darkness that enveloped everything else. I couldn't help but read, for the umpteenth time, the text message from Gladys about the farewell for Joel at eleven tonight. It felt surreal, this blend of digital connectivity and our tangled, real-world lives coming together for a moment that felt both ending and beginning.
With a sense of purpose, I had promptly replied, typing with a certain deliberation. "I'll be there," I typed out, confirming my presence at Luke’s and promising to bring the whiskey—a bottle now cradled in my other hand, its glass cold and solid within the paper bag, a tangible promise of the night ahead. The whiskey, an old favourite, felt like a suitable companion for the evening, its presence a bridge between the past we were all parting with and the unknowns of the future.
The memory of Chloe’s unexpected escape lingered in my mind, an unresolved chord in the symphony of Gladys’ and my intertwined lives. Returning to Gladys's house after the fiasco, I had left behind a cryptic clue—a piece of me, in a way. The note, carefully placed on the label of a new bottle of shiraz in her pantry, was meant to guide her to the phone number of my first-ever phone. It was a breadcrumb trail back to a time when things were simpler, or at least seemed that way.
I sent a message to Jeremiah soon after, the words on the screen feeling like the closing of a circle. We agreed to meet at the usual place and time in two days. Jeremiah was right, I found myself reflecting, the realisation hitting me with a mix of relief and resignation. Guardian work was indeed so much easier with a phone. The digital age, with all its complexities, offered tools that made my clandestine activities more manageable, if not entirely straightforward.
Checking the time one last time, I slid the phone into my pocket, the action marking the transition from preparation to action. The night ahead loomed, filled with the promise of closure and the uncertainty of goodbyes.
Arriving early was a deliberate choice, fuelled by a sense of urgency that gnawed at my insides. The missing Portal Pirate—a puzzle piece lost in a vast, intricate game—weighed heavily on my mind. My steps were measured, each one taken with a purpose as I navigated the familiar path to Luke's front door. The possibility that the Portal Pirates might have recorded Luke’s settlement location and added it to their database was a looming threat, one that could unravel everything Luke was working towards. The very thought tightened a noose of anxiety around my neck, my heart pounding against my ribcage as if trying to escape the impending doom.
I gave a solid knock on the front door, the sound echoing ominously in the quiet of the evening. My breath hitched, trapped in the limbo of anticipation and fear as the silence stretched, becoming a tangible entity that seemed to feed on my growing panic. A myriad of scenarios raced through my mind, each more dire than the last. Has something happened to Luke? The question pounded in my head, a drumbeat of dread.
Compelled by a mix of impatience and concern, my knuckles rapped against the door again, the action sharper, more insistent. The world seemed to hold its breath with me, waiting, until finally, light pierced the gloom. It spilled from behind the blinds, a beacon in the night, washing over the small porch in a warm glow that felt like a promise. The lightbulb overhead flickered to life, stuttering into a steady beam that cast long shadows and, for a moment, my heart found its rhythm again. I exhaled loudly, a gust of relief that felt like dispelling a ghost.
"Cody!" The surprise in Luke's voice was a balm, his silhouette framed in the doorway as he swung it open wide. The relief I felt was quickly tempered by the confusion etched on his face. "What are you doing here?" he asked, his expression a mix of surprise and mild annoyance, as if my presence was an unexpected variable in an already complex equation.
“Gladys invited me to come along,” I managed, mustering a short smile that felt more like a grimace. The tension between us was palpable, a current of unspoken questions and half-answers.
“Oh,” was all Luke replied, his features relaxing into resignation. “Come on in.”
I stepped into the entryway, the unfamiliar space of Luke's home enveloping me. It was then that the large flat screen television in the living room halted me in my tracks, a beacon of modern luxury that seemed almost out of place. It appears Luke isn’t short on funds. The thought flickered through my mind, unbidden but not unwelcome. That’ll be useful. In the grand chessboard of Guardian endeavours, resources were as vital as strategy, and it seemed Luke had more aces up his sleeve than I had given him credit for.
"I've brought the whiskey," I announced, a hint of formality in my voice as I lifted the brown paper bag for him to see. The sound of the paper crinkling seemed to echo in the quiet of Luke's kitchen, a small but significant herald to the evening's undertones of anticipation and nervousness. Holding the bag, I felt the weight of the bottle inside—a weight that seemed to embody so much more than just the liquor it contained. It was the weight of the evening ahead, of Joel's farewell, the unsettling mystery of the missing Portal Pirate, and the looming threat over Luke's mission. Each aspect felt magnified, as if the whiskey in my hand was a symbol of the complexities we were navigating.
"Whiskey?" Luke's response was one of genuine confusion, his eyebrows knitting together in a question mark. "What for?"
"For the farewell," I replied, simplicity in my tone. Yet, the concept seemed to hang in the air between us, unfamiliar territory for Luke.
He stared at me, the blankness of his expression revealing a gap in our shared understanding. "I’ve always toasted a shot of whiskey at memorials," I explained, a tinge of surprise in my voice that Luke wasn't acquainted with this tradition—a tradition that felt as natural to me as breathing.
"Why?" Luke's question was straightforward, but it struck me as odd in the moment.
Walking into the kitchen, I placed the whiskey bottle on the island bench, the sound of glass meeting stone a sharp contrast to the softness of our conversation. "You know," I began, reaching for the cupboard above the rangehood, my movements automatic in the ritual of preparation, "I don’t have the foggiest idea." It was a moment of honesty, a confession that, despite the tradition, the origin of it was as unclear to me as the bottom of an empty glass.
"They’re in the far cupboard. On the top shelf," Luke's voice guided me, a subtle indication of his acceptance to engage in the custom, despite his unfamiliarity with it.
"Thanks," I acknowledged, the cupboard swinging open under my touch. I retrieved the first two shot glasses, setting them down with a careful precision before reaching up again for another two, the movements fluid, a dance I had performed many times before.
"Where are Gladys and Beatrix?" Luke's inquiry came as I was unscrewing the cap of the whiskey bottle. “I’m surprised they didn’t come with you.”
"I prefer to travel alone," I found myself saying, a half-truth that danced on the edge of evasion. I avoided Luke's gaze, focusing instead on the task at hand, the twist of the cap, the pour of the whiskey. "I’m sure they’re not far away," I added, a placation for any concern, as I filled each shot glass to the brim.
“So, you’re a Guardian, then?” Luke's question cut through the air with an unvarnished directness that momentarily caught me off guard.
"Here," I found myself saying, an attempt to bridge the gap his question had created. I slid a shot glass across the polished stone surface of the island bench towards him, its journey a silent offering of camaraderie in the midst of our complex web of allegiances and secrets. Then, almost reflexively, I picked up a glass for myself, feeling the cool weight of it grounding me in the moment.
“You’re not waiting for the others?” Luke's sideways glance was probing, hinting at a protocol or perhaps a courtesy I was bypassing. His question lingered in the air, adding another layer to the already thick atmosphere of anticipation and unspoken tension.
“It’s been a tough week,” I admitted, the words barely scratching the surface of the tumultuous sea churning inside me. Holding the shot glass, a fragile vessel of liquid courage, I felt the weight of the world pressing down. The truth was my heart was pounding in my chest and my mind had turned to a blended mess. I had come along to farewell a young man I never knew, and who had been slaughtered by a Portal Pirate who was now who knows where. I had almost kidnapped Gladys and instead had now inadvertently stolen Chloe, breaking the laws of Belkeep and placing my daughter in a precarious position of silence. And now, here I stood, about to cheers with the most important and powerful Guardian to have existed since the time of the Founders, and I was certain Luke didn’t have any idea just how important he was.
“Indeed,” Luke's response was soft, a word spoken with a depth of understanding that hinted at his own acquaintance with hardship and the weariness that comes with the duty of Guardianship.
“Oh, Luke, you have no idea. This is only the start,” I said, a half-whispered confession that felt like a prelude to the myriad challenges he would face. The enormity of what lay ahead was a shadow that loomed large, a spectre of trials and tribulations yet to come.
“Well,” Luke began, a note of resolve in his voice as he raised his glass, an acknowledgment of the unspoken pact between us. “Here’s to tough weeks.”
I nodded, a gesture of solidarity, and our glasses clinked—a sound that, for a fleeting moment, seemed to encapsulate the complexity of our journey, the bonds formed in the crucible of shared struggles. My eyes closed as I tipped the glass, the whiskey burning a trail down my throat. In that instant, the sharpness of the alcohol mirrored the sharpness of our reality—a world fraught with danger, alliances, and the perpetual fight for something greater than ourselves. The warmth of the whiskey spread through me, a fleeting comfort against the cold uncertainties of existence.
“Shit, that’s one strong liquor.” Luke's exclamation reverberated through the kitchen, a testament to the whiskey's potency. His reaction sparked a flicker of amusement in me, the corners of my mouth turning upwards in a grin that I couldn't suppress. The liquid fire that had just scorched our throats was indeed strong, but its intensity was a fitting metaphor for the life we led—harsh, sometimes overwhelming, but undeniably worth the struggle.
“But totally worth it,” I affirmed, my grin broadening. I placed my glass on the bench, the sound of it touching down a crisp note in the quiet of Luke's home. The act of refilling my glass was deliberate, a physical punctuation to my statement of endorsement for the whiskey's fierce burn.
“Totally,” Luke echoed my sentiment, a smile in his voice as he slid his glass across the bench towards me.
“Hey, you didn’t answer my question,” he pointed out, his tone lighthearted yet probing as I poured another round of whiskey into his glass. The liquid amber caught the light as it flowed, a golden stream that seemed to hold the promise of oblivion or perhaps clarity in its depths.
“Oh, didn’t I?” My response was tinged with feigned innocence, my grin turning cheeky. I was fully aware of the sidestep I had taken from Luke’s earlier inquiry about my Guardian status. It wasn't that I doubted my role or hesitated to claim it; it was more that the acknowledgment seemed redundant, superfluous even. My actions, my very presence here, should have served as confirmation enough. After all, the ability to open Portals wasn't a parlour trick but a mark of our shared calling.
“To Guardians!” Luke declared, a new fervour in his voice as he raised his glass once more.
“I’ll drink to that,” I concurred, my voice steady despite the whiskey's warmth spreading through my veins. Raising my glass, I touched it to Luke's with an almost clumsy clink. I wasn't accustomed to drinking much alcohol, and the first shot was already making its presence known, a buzz of warmth that seemed to lighten the weight on my mind, if only momentarily.
As the second shot passed my lips, a wave of anticipation mixed with apprehension washed over me. The effect of the alcohol was immediate, a gentle haze that threatened to cloud my senses. I was all too aware of its potential impact, a loosening of inhibitions and sharpening of emotions that could prove to be either a balm or a catalyst in the hours to come.
The front door's groan as it swung open was a jarring intrusion into the intimate bubble Luke and I had created around ourselves. The synchronised cheer, "Hey, Luke!" from two distinct voices, sliced through the air. Luke's reaction was immediate and unguarded; his glass clattered against the bench as if trying to escape the sudden shift in energy.
A hearty chuckle bubbled up from within me, an instinctive response to the scene unfolding. Yet, as I turned to face Gladys and Beatrix, my amusement was tinged with a hint of disappointment. Their arrival, though expected, felt untimely, cutting short the moment of connection I had been forging with Luke.
"You two couldn't even wait for us?" Gladys's scolding was a mix of mock indignation and genuine reproach, her words carrying the warmth of long-standing friendships. Beatrix's playful accusation, "How rude," added a layer of lightheartedness to the reprimand, yet beneath their banter lay my unspoken concern—the delicate topic of Portal Pirates and the looming threat they posed, now pushed further into the realm of the unaddressable.
"I was just cheering Luke up," I found myself saying, a defence mounted more out of a desire to preserve the night's remaining camaraderie than to explain our actions. My words were a veil over the underlying tension, the weight of conversations postponed and strategies unshared, knowing that convincing Gladys to join me now would be a Herculean task if she got wind of the existence of Portal Pirates.
"I'm sure," Gladys retorted, her skepticism a sharp note that cut through the conviviality.
Quickly, I refilled our glasses, attempting to steer the conversation away from dangerous waters. "So how..." Beatrix started, only to be cut off by Luke.
In an attempt to navigate the conversation away from the precipice of inquiry, I refilled our glasses, the action a physical diversion to match my verbal sidestepping. But even as I poured, Luke's interjection, "I don't really want to talk about it. I’m really tired,” brought a halt to any further probing. His weariness was not just a mask for the evening's earlier tensions but a genuine reflection of the fatigue that our lives as Guardians, as keepers of secrets and balancers of worlds, often entailed.
"Or drunk," Gladys quipped, dropping her handbag onto the kitchen bench.
"Not yet," Luke replied, rubbing his brow.
As they settled into the kitchen, the space filled with the palpable presence of our collective experiences, I found myself teetering on the edge of inebriation. My thoughts, once sharp and focused, now swam in a sea of whiskey-induced haze. The earlier clarity with which I had navigated our conversation, the careful dance around truths too dangerous to voice, began to blur.
My gaze drifted to Gladys's handbag, an innocuous object that seemed to sag under the weight of its contents. Its bulging form, casually dropped onto the bench, piqued my curiosity. What secrets did it hold? The mystery of its contents, much like our evening, promised revelations and realisations yet to unfold, unravelling sooner than anticipated in the unpredictable ebb and flow of our shared destinies.
"We've brought the candles," Beatrix's announcement cut through the air, her voice a mixture of solemnity and readiness as she began to unload an eclectic assortment of candles from Gladys’s seemingly bottomless bag. The array of colours and sizes she placed on the bench was a silent testament to the sombreness of the occasion, each candle a beacon for the remembrance we were about to undertake.
Luke, moving with a purpose that seemed to anchor him amidst the whirlwind of emotions, rifled through the kitchen drawers in search of a gas lighter. Beatrix snatched the lighter from him the moment it was found, her movements swift as she began to light the candles. The room was soon bathed in the soft, flickering glow of candlelight, transforming the space into a sanctum of remembrance and reflection.
"Are you sure you have enough candles?" I couldn't help but tease, a chuckle escaping me despite the solemnity of the moment.
Beatrix shot me a glare, her expression a mix of mock annoyance and focused intent. "Turn the lights off," she instructed, and with that simple command, the house plunged into darkness. The immediate transformation was striking—candlelight painted dancing shadows around the kitchen and living room, casting each of us in a soft, ethereal light. The four of us encircled the large island bench, a circle of light in the enveloping darkness, and I found myself distributing shot glasses, the dim glow accentuating the sense of shared camaraderie and purpose that bound us together.
"Do you have a picture of him?" Beatrix inquired, her voice soft, imbued with a mix of curiosity and compassion. It was a question that sought to bridge the gap between the known and the unknown, to bring a semblance of reality to the person we were gathered to farewell.
“No,” Luke replied, his voice carrying a note of regret. “We only learnt about him a few months ago.” His admission, simple yet heavy with unspoken narratives, underscored the complexity of our connections and the often fleeting nature of our interactions.
"Does... does Jamie know he’s dead yet?" Gladys's question was delicate, her concern evident in the gentle timbre of her voice.
"No," Luke said again, the shake of his head visible even in the candlelit dimness. "And he won’t ever find out. Cody took care of it," he added, his gaze finding mine across the flickering lights. The look he gave me was one of gratitude mixed with trust, a silent acknowledgment of the burden I had shouldered.
The whiskey bottle nearly slipped from my fingers at his words. "Yeah," I managed to respond, my voice barely above a whisper. I stared down into my shot glass, the amber liquid reflecting the flickering candlelight. I avoided eye contact with Luke, with all of them, as I finished the tale I had woven—a tale that now lay between us, a fabricated bridge over a chasm of unspeakable truths. "I took care of it," I repeated, the words a heavy cloak around my shoulders.
"It’s so sad," Beatrix's voice cut through the dimly lit silence, each word heavy with genuine sorrow. Her empathy for the boy we never knew painted the room with a shade of melancholy that was both touching and profound. "He looked so young."
"He was," Luke's acknowledgment was soft, yet it carried the weight of undeniable truth. "He was only nineteen." His words felt like a cold gust of wind, reminding us of the fragility of life, especially in our line of work where youth offered no shield against the darkness we fought against.
"Tragic," Gladys murmured, her gesture of wiping her eye with her finger a silent testament to the raw emotions simmering just beneath the surface.
Luke seized his shot glass and raised it in the air, a silent clarion call to honour the departed. It was an impromptu memorial, yes, but no less poignant for its spontaneity. The gesture, a beacon of shared grief and respect, drew us together in a circle of flickering candlelight.
The sisters and I followed suit, the clink of our glasses a soft chime in the hush that enveloped the room. "What do we say?" Gladys's question, reflecting our collective uncertainty, hung in the air. It was a valid concern—how to commemorate someone whose life had brushed ours so lightly, yet left an indelible mark?
"You say whatever is in your heart to say," I found myself responding, the words coming from a place of instinctual wisdom. Surprised by my own counsel, I realised it was the truth. In moments like these, it was the sincerity of our sentiments that mattered most, not the eloquence of our words.
"I’ll go first," Beatrix declared, her voice a mix of determination and vulnerability as she lifted her glass. "Joel," she began, her voice firm yet wavering with emotion, "We never had the chance to know you. But we love Jamie, and you are his blood." Her words, simple and heartfelt, struck a chord within me, igniting a surge of unexpected emotions. The compassion and love she expressed for Joel, a boy none of us had met but were connected to through the most unfortunate of circumstances, was a poignant reminder of the intricate web of actions and consequences that defined our existence.
The thought of the body, now potentially anywhere in the hands of a Portal Pirate, flashed through my mind, a dark cloud threatening to overshadow the moment. I fought to suppress the question, to focus on the here and now, on the act of remembrance we were engaged in.
"And so, we love you, too," Beatrix concluded, her voice echoing the sentiments of us all. I hastily wiped my eye, the gesture a futile attempt to stem the tide of emotions that Beatrix's words had unleashed.
"To Jamie’s son," she proclaimed, her voice steady as she downed her shot in a single, fluid motion.
“To Jamie’s son,” we echoed, our voices merging into a single vow of remembrance.
Gladys took her turn, her hand steady as she reached for the glass I filled. "Joel. May your soul one day know your father, and know the good man that he is," she articulated, each word a testament to her depth of feeling. The brief pause to wipe her eye, a gesture so fleeting yet so laden with sorrow, echoed in the cavernous silence of our gathering.
"To Joel," Gladys said, raising her glass.
As I echoed, "To Joel," the whiskey's warmth clashed tumultuously with the surge of emotions within me, a maelstrom of grief and unresolved tension. My vision blurred, not just from the alcohol but from the swell of feelings that threatened to breach the walls I had meticulously erected.
My turn arrived like a spectre in the night, unexpected yet inevitable. Holding my empty glass before me, I found myself ensnared by its emptiness, a metaphor, perhaps, for the void left by Joel's untimely departure. "Joel. You met unfortunate circumstances, but..." The words lodged in my throat, each syllable a struggle as I grappled with the enormity of my actions, or rather, my missteps. My pause was laden with an unspoken apology to Luke, a silent plea for understanding amidst the chaos I feared I had wrought.
"But," I found the strength to continue, the word echoing in the charged air as I sought guidance from the ethereal whispers of Clivilius that threaded through my clouded thoughts. "Death is but a mere process, and when we learn to master that process, we will master death itself," I concluded, the words not fully my own but conveyed with a conviction that belied my inner turmoil. My gaze locked with Luke's, a silent transmission of a message that I barely understood yet felt compelled to deliver.
“To Joel,” I announced, raising my empty glass in a salute to the unseen, to the mysteries that lay beyond our mortal grasp.
"To Joel," they echoed, their voices a harmonious blend of respect and remembrance. The mantra, Death is but a mere process, and when we learn to master that process, we will master death itself, reverberated within me, a cryptic puzzle left by Clivilius. Its true meaning eluded me, yet I sensed its importance, not just to me but to Luke, to all of us entwined in this complex tapestry of life and death.
And then, like a bolt from the blue, realisation struck. Killerton Enterprises! The name surged through my mind with the force of a tidal wave, breaking over me with revelations and implications that I had yet to fully unravel. The connection, previously obscured by the fog of grief and whiskey, now gleamed with a clarity that was both exhilarating and terrifying. The pieces of a larger puzzle began to align, a narrative unfolding that promised answers and, perhaps, a path forward through the labyrinth of secrets and shadows.
