As the camp slowly awakened, murmurs of life began to weave through the air, an incongruous backdrop to the tableau of grief that held me captive by the riverbank. People passed by, their footsteps hesitant, their glances filled with a mixture of curiosity and respect for the mourning that enshrouded me and Henri. We must have presented a picture of such desolation that it rendered them speechless, unwilling to breach the perimeter of our sorrow.
A new wave of anger, dark and potent, began to simmer within me as I sensed a familiar presence approaching. My body tensed instinctively, a physical manifestation of the storm of emotions that I was barely keeping at bay.
"Go away, Luke," I said, my voice a low growl, laden with warning. I didn't need to look up to know it was him; his presence, once a source of comfort, now a source of unwelcome intrusion.
Luke halted, a silent acknowledgment of the barrier I had erected with my words. The air hung heavy between us, charged with unspoken grief and regret, until Luke finally broke the silence. His voice, usually so steady, now cracked under the weight of emotions he struggled to contain.
"Jamie... I'm so..." His attempt at an apology was a spark to the powder keg of my rage.
"I said go away, Luke," I cut him off, my voice sharp, a clear edge of warning slicing through the morning air. The mere suggestion of his remorse was an insult, a mockery of the depth of my loss.
Yet, Luke dared to move closer, his actions defying my explicit command. As he crouched beside us, reaching out towards Duke, a visceral reaction surged through me.
"Fuck off, Luke!" The words exploded from me, a raw burst of anguish and accusation as I turned to confront him. My tears, a scalding testament to my pain, blurred my vision but not my anger. "This is all your fault. You don't fucking deserve to touch him. Ever!" My outburst was a detonation, sending Luke reeling backwards, a physical recoil from the force of my grief-stricken condemnation.
As Luke stumbled, the vulnerability on his face was laid bare, tears carving paths through the grime of a sleepless night. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen," he whispered, a plea for understanding in his eyes, seeking mine in a desperate bid for connection.
"It's too fucking late for sorry," I retorted, the bitterness in my voice a sharp lance, piercing any remnants of our shared past. I turned away, dismissing him with a finality as cold as the river that had refused to grant Duke salvation.
"Just fuck off, Luke. Please." The words left me deflated, my defiance crumbling into weary resignation. My voice cracked, a testament to the depth of my broken soul, as I bowed my head lower, surrendering once more to the solitary act of mourning. The silence that followed was a chasm, Luke's lingering gaze a weight I could feel even as I refused to meet it, a silent witness to the irrevocable rift that had formed between us.
Why the fuck can't these people just leave us alone? The thought roared through my mind like a storm, as the sound of hesitant, approaching footsteps grated against my already frayed nerves. I yearned to unleash my fury upon the unwelcome visitor, to command them to vanish into the ether from whence they came. Yet, the sheer weight of my exhaustion anchored me in place, rendering me incapable of even lifting my head in defiance.
The footsteps decelerated, halting ominously close, accompanied by a loud, unmistakable gasp—a sound that pierced the heavy air with its resonance. Beatrix? The name flashed through my mind, igniting a fresh blaze of anger. What the fuck are you doing, Luke? Wasn't the torment of losing Duke sufficient that you needed to drag Beatrix into this abyss as well?
"Is he—" The whisper barely left Beatrix's lips, her voice fracturing under the weight of the question she couldn't bear to finish, as she collapsed to her knees beside me.
My gaze, blurred by tears that had turned my eyes red and swollen, shifted silently towards her. Despite the tumultuous sea of emotions raging within me, my hand persisted in its gentle journey across Duke's matted fur, a solitary act of devotion in the face of despair.
Then, without warning, Beatrix enveloped me in an embrace, her arms clamping around me with a desperation that seemed to draw from a well of sorrow as deep as my own. Her body trembled, her shoulders heaving with sobs that shattered her usually impenetrable façade, allowing her tears to flow freely.
In that moment, the barriers I had meticulously erected, brick by brick, crumbled under the weight of shared grief. Beatrix's embrace, unexpected yet unmistakably genuine, served as a poignant reminder that I was not alone in my mourning. The warmth of her grip, the dampness of her tears, bridged the chasm of isolation I had consigned myself to. Her sorrow, mingled with mine, wove a tapestry of shared loss, a silent acknowledgment of the depth of love we all bore for Duke.
For what felt like an eternity, I remained enveloped in Beatrix's embrace. As I noticed the jagged cuts marring her arm, evidence of her own nocturnal ordeal, a silent acknowledgment passed between us. Here we were, united not just by our grief for Duke but by our own scars, both visible and invisible.
When Beatrix finally released me, she did so with a measured reluctance, as if the physical distance would somehow sever the fragile connection we had forged in our moment of shared vulnerability. She shifted, her posture a blend of determination and sorrow, and reached out tentatively towards Duke. Her fingers brushed his fur with a gentleness that belied the ferocity of the emotions I knew churned within her.
With eyes that felt scalded by tears and the harsh light of reality, I fixed my gaze on Beatrix. "I'm going to get whatever did this," I declared, my voice a mix of raw grief and unyielding resolve. The promise was more than a vow of retribution; it was a pledge to Duke, to myself, to all of us who had loved him.
"Do you think it was a shadow panther?" Beatrix's inquiry broke through my thoughts, her voice carrying a mixture of fear and curiosity.
"A what?" Confusion furrowed my brow, the term foreign and yet laden with a sense of ominous significance.
"A shadow panther," she repeated, her hand absently rubbing the wounds on her arm, a grim souvenir from her encounter. "It's the creature that attacked me last night."
Before I could digest this new piece of the puzzle, another voice chimed in, its tone carrying an authority that demanded attention. "It wasn't a shadow panther," the voice asserted confidently.
Beatrix and I turned in unison towards the source, finding ourselves facing a new figure. "I'm Charity," the woman introduced herself.
"How do you know that it wasn't a shadow panther?" My question was laced with skepticism and a desperate need for answers.
Charity gestured towards Duke, seeking permission with a respectful, "May I?" Her cautious step forward was an intrusion into our circle of grief, yet something in her demeanour suggested she might hold the key to understanding the tragedy that had befallen us.
After a moment's hesitation, where every fibre of my being screamed against allowing anyone near Duke, I gave a reluctant nod. It was a concession driven by the hope that she might shed light on the darkness that had claimed my beloved friend.
Henri let out a low growl as Charity approached, but the loud clattering of pots near the campfire distracted his attention and his short, chubby legs took off. He stopped near the tent and looked back at us, as though he were checking for his brother or some sort of permission. And then he was gone.
I could feel my heart breaking all over again. Henri had never been the brightest of the two dogs. Or of any dog I knew, really. I couldn't help but let a half-smile crease my face, despite the heaviness in my heart. Henri, with his uncomplicated view of the world, had always been a source of unwitting comedy. He knew something was amiss with Duke, yet his instincts were overridden by the prospect of food—a testament to his singular priorities.
This bittersweet amusement brought back a memory, a lighter time when the most significant crisis was the overcooked roast that had filled our home with smoke and set off the smoke detector. Duke, ever the sensible one, had made a swift retreat to the safety of the back deck. Henri, true to form, had charged towards the source of his curiosity; a chicken in the oven, undeterred by the billowing smoke or the shrill alarm.
At least we know who would survive, Luke and I had laughed then, marvelling at Henri's unfailing ability to prioritise his stomach over his safety. The memory, so full of life and laughter, now felt like a relic from another era, its warmth overshadowed by the cold, harsh reality that lay before me.
Glancing down at Duke, motionless and forever silent, the weight of his absence pressed down on me with a gravity that threatened to crush the remnants of my spirit. The irony of those lighthearted jests about survival struck me with a cruel sharpness. Survival was no longer a laughing matter; it was a gaping, bleeding wound in my world that no amount of time or tears could ever hope to heal. The stark contrast between the vibrancy of life and the stillness of death lay heavily in my arms, a brutal reminder of the fragility of existence and the indiscriminate nature of fate. In this moment, surrounded by the remnants of our shattered normalcy, survival felt like an elusive, mocking ghost, haunting the edges of my grief-stricken consciousness.
As Charity squatted beside me, her proximity felt invasive. Yet, as she reached for Duke, a part of me understood the necessity of her actions. Reluctantly, I allowed her to move his body, exposing the underside where the fatal wound lay hidden beneath his fur. Her hands were gentle, yet purposeful, as she brushed aside the fur to reveal the truth I wasn't sure I was ready to face.
"See the edges around the wound?" Her voice was clinical, detached in a way that grated on my already frayed nerves. She didn't wait for my acknowledgment before continuing, "It's too clean to have been caused by any claw or tooth."
"Then what was it?" Beatrix's voice broke through the heavy air.
Charity's response was matter-of-fact, yet the implications of her words sent a chill down my spine. "Looking at the discolouration of the skin, my best guess is that it was an Okaledian dagger that killed the creature."
"Creature?" I couldn't hide the disgust in my voice, my heart recoiling at her callous phrasing. "His name is Duke." The need to defend Duke's memory, to assert his identity and importance, surged through me with a force that bordered on desperation. He was not just any creature; he was my companion, my friend, my family.
"You do know he is a dog, don't you?" Beatrix's interjection carried a hint of incredulity, a challenge to Charity's apparent ignorance. Her tone suggested disbelief that someone could be so disconnected, so unaware of what Duke represented to us.
Charity's response was a revelation in itself, her eyes narrowing as she continued her examination. "I've seen similar creatures... dogs, like yours, but nothing quite like it. Creatures like this aren't so common in Chewbathia." The name 'Chewbathia' was foreign, alien, hinting at a reality far removed from our own.
My head throbbed, each pulse amplifying the confusion and disbelief swirling within me. The revelation about Duke's death had unearthed a myriad of questions, leaving me grappling for answers in a situation that felt increasingly surreal.
"I feel like my brain suddenly has another dozen questions after that," Beatrix admitted, her voice laced with exhaustion as she rose to her feet, encapsulating the bewildering complexity of our predicament.
"So do I," I concurred, feeling the weight of our shared uncertainty. Duke’s blood left a grim reminder on my forehead as I rubbed it absentmindedly. The most pressing question forced its way out, directed towards the newfound reality we faced. I looked between Beatrix and Charity, the tension palpable in the air. "But, if Duke was killed by a dagger," I paused, the gravity of the implications sinking in, "then who the fuck was wielding it?"
Beatrix gasped. ”Do you think somebody in the camp killed Duke?" Her question, though whispered, echoed the enormity of our fears.
"Nobody that you know," Charity's cryptic answer added layers to the mystery, prompting a simultaneous demand for clarity from Beatrix and me.
"There's someone here that we don't know?" The realisation that we might not be alone, that an unknown threat could be lurking amongst us, sent a shiver down my spine.
"A Portal pirate," Paul’s interjection announcing the arrival of his presence with an air of confidence.
"What the actual fuck?" The incredulity of the situation was overwhelming, my reaction a mirror of the disbelief that flickered in Beatrix's eyes.
Charity took it upon herself to elaborate on Paul's startling revelation, her explanation painting a vivid picture of our unseen adversary. "He's likely lost and been separated from his partner. Some danger must have befallen one of them before they could execute the location registration. They're always in pairs. Never work alone. Cunning and violent bastards when they're together. But alone, they can be brute savages. Their instinct for hunting and survival runs deep.”
Each word from Charity's mouth added weight to the dread settling in my stomach. The idea of a Portal pirate, cunning and savage, as the architect of Duke's demise was a horror I hadn't anticipated. The reality that we were now entangled in a conflict far beyond our understanding, against foes whose very nature was predicated on violence and survival, was a concept too difficult to grasp.
Paul's words, tinged with a mix of excitement and gravity, cut through the dense air of grief surrounding us. "Charity managed to kill one of the beasts last night. It's at the camp if you want to see it." The enthusiasm in his voice seemed almost out of place, a formidable opposition to the sombre mood that had enveloped me.
I couldn't muster any desire to see the creature, my mind too entrenched in sorrow and the complexities of our current situation. "She wounded another and it appears, somehow, that a third shadow panther managed to follow Beatrix through the Portal to Earth." Paul's revelation spun my head around, igniting a fleeting spark of hope. The thought of leaving Clivilius, this place of loss and dangers untold, surged through me with a renewed intensity.
But Charity's words quenched that spark as quickly as it had flared. "It doesn't change anything for you," she said, her hand on my shoulder grounding me back to the harsh reality. "You'll never leave Clivilius alive." The finality in her statement felt like a physical blow.
"But I think Duke can," Paul suggested. "You could have Luke take him to be buried on Earth?" The mere thought of it—Duke being taken away, buried in a place I could not follow, and by Luke, no less—ignited a fierce anger within me. "Fuck no!" The words burst from me, raw and vehement. "It's not fair on Henri. Duke belongs here now. We'll find a suitable place to bury him here, today." My declaration was as much about preserving Duke's memory as it was about maintaining a semblance of control in a situation that felt increasingly beyond my grasp.
Paul, silenced by my outburst, nodded in acknowledgment, though I could sense the unease that lingered in the air.
Charity's blunt interjection shattered any illusions I might have harboured about laying Duke to rest in peace. "That's not possible to bury him," she stated. "You have no walls, no protection, burying him will only attract creatures much worse than shadow panthers and Portal pirates." Her words painted a grim picture, one where even in death, Duke could not find sanctuary.
"What do we do then?” Paul's tentative question hung in the air. Charity's answer, though practical, felt like a violation, an affront to Duke's memory and the life he had lived. "You'll need to cremate his body,” she said, her voice carrying an unwelcome finality.
"Like fuck we will!" My response was visceral, a raw surge of defiance that propelled me to my feet, Duke cradled protectively in my arms. "Don't worry, Duke," I whispered, leaning in close to him. In that moment, my promise was not just words; it was a vow, a pledge that I would guard his memory, his legacy, with everything I had. "I won't let them destroy any trace that you ever existed."
Paul's voice broke through my resolve, his approach cautious yet determined. "Jamie," he said, his proximity a challenge to my stance, "we don't have a lot of options here." His gesture, inviting me to take in our surroundings, was meant to ground me in the reality of our predicament. But I couldn't, wouldn't, accept it. The acceptance of our vulnerability, of the unknown dangers that lay in wait, was a concession I was not ready to make. The very thought of it—of not knowing what a shadow panther even looked like—underscored the alienness of this world we were stranded in.
"No," my refusal was as much to Paul as it was to the situation, to the very idea of cremating Duke. "We're not burning Duke." My statement was final, a line drawn in the sand.
Glenda's voice, laced with panic, shattered the fragile calm. “Has anyone seen Joel this morning?” The crack in her sentence was like a mirror to my soul, fractured and splintering under the weight of continuous blows.
Beatrix's response, stating her presence with me, and Paul's assumption that Joel might still be resting, did nothing to quell the rising tide of anxiety. When Glenda confirmed the worst with a simple "No," it felt as though the ground beneath me had given way.
The physical toll of holding Duke, combined with this fresh wave of worry for Joel, overwhelmed me. My knees gave out, sending me crashing to the ground, a desperate attempt to maintain my grip on Duke the only thing preserving some semblance of control.
The collective cry of "Jamie!" as the others rushed to my aid was a distant echo, my focus narrowing to the pain that seemed to consume me from the inside out.
Squatting beside me, Glenda's quick directive for Paul to gather everyone at the campfire, barely registered as my world crumbled further.
Beatrix's introduction to Glenda, and the ensuing exchange, played out as if from another time and place. Glenda's determination to find something to wrap Duke in, her instruction for Beatrix to help me get cleaned up, felt like the motions of life continuing around me while I was stuck, frozen in grief and shock.
As Glenda and Charity departed, Beatrix's close proximity and her gentle encouragement, "Come on, let's get you clean," offered a sliver of warmth in the cold desolation that enveloped me. Her departure to fetch fresh clothes, leaving me with the instruction for Paul or Glenda to guide her, barely registered.
Turning my gaze back to the water, reflecting nothing of the turmoil within, I was acutely aware of the isolation that grief had woven around me. Despite the physical closeness of those around me, the chasm between my pain and their attempts to bridge it felt insurmountable. In that moment, the reality of our situation in Clivilius—the death of Duke and Joel missing—felt like a weight too heavy to bear.
Emerging from the haze of grief, cleansed of Duke's blood and clad in the comfort of warm, clean clothes, I found myself kneeling beside him once more. The large bedsheet Beatrix had thoughtfully included with my clothes lay folded beside me, a final shroud for my fallen companion. With meticulous care, I spread the sheet on the ground, vigilant against the ever-present dust that sought to mar its pristine surface.
Lifting Duke, a task that felt both monumental and sacred, I placed him gently on the sheet. Each movement was a testament to the weight of the moment, the gravity of the act of laying someone to rest, even here, on alien soil. My hands, steady with purpose yet trembling with emotion, worked to wrap Duke, ensuring each fold of the sheet was both a caress and a guard against the world.
Tears, hot and relentless, threatened to breach the walls I had erected to contain them. The sting in my eyes was a reflection of the pain that clawed at my insides, a pain that seemed to grow with each fold of the fabric around Duke. I fought against their release, summoning every ounce of strength to keep them at bay. This moment demanded my composure, my respect for Duke, and my acknowledgment of his significance in my life.
Fold by slow fold, I swathed Duke in the sheet, each layer a tangible expression of my love, my loss, and my unwillingness to let go. With each tuck of the fabric, I whispered silent farewells, apologies, and promises of remembrance. This act, though solitary, felt laden with the weight of ceremony, a quiet defiance against the cruelty of fate that had claimed Duke's life.
As I completed the task, the finality of the act settled over me like a shroud. Duke, now enfolded within the sheet, seemed at peace. In that moment, wrapped tightly in my care, Duke was afforded a dignity in death that the harshness of Clivilius had denied him in life. Fighting back tears became a battle I was no longer sure I wanted to win, a battle that, perhaps, deserved to be lost in honour of the companion who had been so much more than just a pet. He was family, a part of my soul forever intertwined with his memory.
As I made my way to the campfire, the lively conversation among the settlers dwindled to a hushed silence, their attention shifting towards me and the precious burden I carried. Wrapped snugly in my arms, Duke's presence was a sombre reminder of the loss we had all felt, yet my heart waged a relentless battle against the acceptance of his departure. The idea of leaving him behind was unbearable. My resolve to keep him close was a testament to the depth of our bond, unyielding even in the face of death.
"Jamie," Paul's voice, tinged with hesitance, cut through the quiet. "I know things are a bit painful right now, but we need to know when you last saw Joel." His question, a jarring reminder of another growing tragedy, momentarily anchored me back to a reality I had been drifting away from. The sharp pang of guilt for momentarily forgetting about Joel stung bitterly. "It was just before the attack last night," I found myself responding, the words heavy with regret. The realisation of my preoccupation with Duke, to the neglect of Joel, was a self-rebuke that tasted of negligence. "He was in his bed in the tent when I took off after Duke."
Paul's next question was delivered with a delicacy that belied the weight of its implications. "And when you returned?" he probed, his inquiry a gentle nudge towards a truth I was reluctant to face. The guilt of not having been there for Joel, of not having ensured his safety, was a burden that rendered me speechless. My response was a silent, defeated shrug, the lifeless form of Duke in my arms a testament to the overwhelming loss that had consumed my attention.
Glenda's words, though spoken with a nervous tension that wrapped tight around her frame, resonated with a finality that brooked no argument. "Then it's settled," she declared, her crossed arms a barrier against the unsettling truth. "Joel is missing." Her statement, stark and devoid of ambiguity, laid bare the grim reality we were now forced to confront. Joel was missing—a fact that intertwined with the grief of losing Duke, compounding the agony of one loss with the frantic worry of another.
Charity's assertion of control was a beacon in the chaos that enveloped us, her declaration cutting through the fog of uncertainty with a sharp clarity. "I am certain Joel has been taken by the Portal pirate. I will hunt him down and bring Joel back." Her words were a lifeline, a promise of action in a moment plagued by fear and loss.
Compelled by a surge of determination, or perhaps desperation, I found my voice before I could weigh the implications of my decision. "I'm coming with you," I blurted out, the urgency of the situation rendering any hesitation irrelevant.
Charity's nod was an acknowledgment, a silent command to ready myself for what lay ahead. "Prepare your things. We leave immediately." Her directive left no room for doubt, propelling me towards a decision that felt both inevitable and impossible.
As I looked down at Duke, cradled in the bedsheet, a new wave of terror crashed over me. The realisation of the choice I faced—leaving Duke behind to save Joel—was a torment all its own. My heart raced as I grappled with the decision, every instinct in me rebelling against the notion of abandoning one for the other.
Charity's approach, her hand guiding my chin to meet her gaze, was a physical manifestation of the crossroads at which I stood. "If you want any chance of finding Joel alive, we must leave immediately." Her words, though spoken with resolve, felt like a vice around my heart.
The conflict within me was palpable, a storm of emotions that threatened to tear me apart. "I need to say farewell to Duke first," I managed to say, clinging to a sliver of hope that there might be a way to honour Duke's memory without forsaking Joel.
"Life is full of decisions and consequences, Jamie," Charity said, her gaze unwavering. "You need to make a choice: Joel or Duke." Her words, stark and unyielding, laid bare the brutal truth of our existence in Clivilius—a world where the luxury of mourning was a casualty of survival.
In that moment, the weight of the decision pressed down on me with an unbearable intensity. The choice between staying to mourn Duke, my loyal companion, and setting out to rescue Joel, my son, was a torment unlike any I had ever known. Charity's unrelenting stare was a silent challenge, a demand to confront the reality of our situation and make a choice that would define the path ahead.
Frozen by the gravity of the decision before me, every pair of eyes at the campfire seemed to bore into my very soul, awaiting my verdict. It was a moment that stretched into eternity, the weight of their gazes almost tangible in the air. Finally, with a heavy heart, I gave Beatrix a nod, a silent signal that I had made my choice, though it felt more like a surrender than a decision.
Beatrix's approach was measured, her respect for the moment palpable. As she gently took Duke from my arms, a single tear traced its way down her cheek. "Duke knows you love him, Jamie. He won't ever forget that."
My lips quivered as tears breached the dams of my resolve, marking my cheeks with their warmth. Lowering my head, I bestowed upon Duke a final kiss, my voice barely a whisper as I bid him farewell. "I'm so sorry, Duke."
Gathering the shards of my resolve, I forced myself to face the path laid out before me. "I'll grab my things," I declared to Charity, meeting her gaze with a semblance of determination. My stride toward the tent was heavy, each step echoing the internal struggle I waged. A backward glance revealed the group, now drawn together in a tight cluster of shared sorrow and solidarity. Even Lois and Henri, sensing the shift in the air, had sought the comfort of the collective.
Pausing, I addressed the group, my voice carrying a blend of request and command. "Take good care of Henri for me." It was a plea for them to protect what remained of my heart in my absence.
Paul's response, "We'll keep him safe, Jamie. You have my word," was a beacon of hope in the dimming light of my spirit. His assurance, coupled with the action of embracing Henri, provided a momentary balm to my aching soul.
Inside the tent, my actions were mechanical, driven by necessity rather than thought. I packed swiftly, each item a reminder of the life I was momentarily leaving behind. The emotional tumult that threatened to overwhelm me was forcibly suppressed, pushed down to a place where it could not impede the task at hand. Emotions, I reminded myself with a harsh internal admonition, were a luxury I could ill afford. In Clivilius, they were a vulnerability that could prove fatal, not just to me, but to those I was striving to protect. With my belongings secured, I steeled myself for the journey ahead, the resolve to find Joel fortifying my step as I prepared to venture back into the unknown.
