maybe you were the ocean
Cradled in the sea, with the waves breaking across her back (over, and over, and over again) had been the last time he’d seen her.
It isn’t hard to conjure her memory, the way that her hair had looked, wet and limp and fallen in against the gentle arc of her neck, or the way the soft colours of her body came together like continents. It’s only fitting that he finds her here again, existing just as he’d left her, chasing the tides of an endless ocean that would wax and wane eternally — like he’d pressed ‘pause’ before he’d walked away instead of just looking across his shoulder with something he didn’t recognize clouding his eyes. He wonders now if she remembers the way that they’d left things, that he’d given her a memory to hold when her hands had been reaching and only empty before.
It isn’t why he’s come, though.
He isn’t here to unearth a crooked grin as she kicks up ocean spray in her wake, though he does so anyways (a byproduct of his own good nature perhaps).
Today is about something bigger, something that has been gnawing at his flesh (eating away at him like acid might have). Today he is searching for Khuma and their missing egg, an activity he had not had the foresight to see coming, and one that he was not enjoying in the slightest. The cave had been, by all accounts, something she’d worked so hard on preparing and the logic behind abandoning it alludes him still.
Khuma has always been just slightly beyond his grasp though, hasn’t she?
It’s only as he draws near Eszka to ask her if she’d seen a snake and egg duo high-tailing it out of the kingdom that he sees how somber her face is, like something heavy is sitting up on her shoulders invisible to him. It’s only as she tells him what she’s learned, that there’s a contagion spreading like wildfire across the country, that the events leading up these moments rearrange themselves into a pattern that is suddenly readable.
Khuma did not leave for the fun of it.
Khuma left with their unborn child to bring it somewhere safe, and likely the closest place, the one that he sees now for the first time looming like dark clouds on the horizon, newly found but as old as time; Atlantis.
So, they are standing there together with the waves lapping at their ankles when the first call from the fairies comes. A moment of hesitation settles like dust between them before Wane finds the courage to meet her eyes and Eszka seems to read him and know exactly what is to happen next. There are older parts of him that might have left without a second thought, parts that would have gathered Wax beside him and run back home to a world that didn’t fester in its own disease. There are newer parts, however, that tell him he has so much more since he’s left.
Wax is here.
Khuma, and their child who would hatch into something any day now, are here.
Eszka, and the way that something inside of her reminds him of land adrift at sea, is here.
So, that moment lives and dies, and when it is gone they go to the mountain - together.
He doesn’t know what waits for him.
While Wane understands that the task ahead is to be arduous, it isn’t until they break free from Nerine’s vast expanse and begin the journey to the mountain that the gravity of the contagion truly strikes him. It’s a journey he’s made now a few times over, at least to the meadow and back again, but it feels worlds away from what he knew of it then. The silence now is deafening.
They travel first through Taiga and the ancient redwoods, and next Hyaline, each one hauntingly devoid of most life, and what little of it that the pair do come across are better off described as walking corpses with their xylophone ribs, sunken eyes, and raw, hairless flesh that reeks of rot and malnutrition. Alive, once, though it’s difficult to picture them that way now.
Wane, despite his better judgement, finds himself wondering after Khuma and their egg. He wonders if they’ve made it to safety. He wonders if they’ve needed him while he’s been gone, if he’s letting them down in these quiet moments by not seeking them out first. He tries not to picture Khuma bleeding from her nose and her eyes, rake thin with her hip bones sharp as knives, but inevitably, the image sneaks in.
When it does he makes a joke at Eszka’s expense to see if he can pull a smile from her and feel normal again.
The rest of the journey is quiet and somber. Reality weighs heavy on their shoulders, and while each is likely lost in their own introspections there is little in the way of conversation between them. While he is grateful for the company there are parts of Wane that feel guilty for asking so much of his companion and he hopes that even if she doesn’t speak them aloud to him she has her own reasons for coming, too. Maybe she is looking for another memory, another thing to miss once it’s gone.
And so, a few days pass like this, with Wane and Eszka walking in heavy silence and avoiding who they can to keep themselves safe.
When the mountain is finally in view the relief in Wane’s expression is nearly palpable. The continued trek up its rocky, snow-glazed incline isn’t simple but he can see the gathering crowd half-way up the steep slope and it instills in him the motivation to complete the climb. They are not the first to arrive, nor are they the last. A healthy mix of individuals, young and old, are stopped on the incline by a semi-circle of others who Wane doesn’t know but assumes to be the ones calling the shots.
He isn’t wrong.
As he draws near the looks of blatant disapproval on their faces are telling enough, and he watches as at last the crowd settles and one of the horses, as blue-white as ice, slides forward from the half-circle and recites to the awaiting crowd their desperate mission. When he is finished he stomps a single hoof, and proof of his power Wane watches as wings, horns, and other visible traits are plucked from those in the group that had been lucky enough to wield them. He takes a moment then, a crooked grin curling the ends of his mouth upwards, and winks at Eszka as though to remind her that they have lost nothing.
Surely that puts them at an advantage, doesn’t it?
When he looks back at the semi-circle of horses he does his best to learn them, to remember the lines of their faces and the colours of their skin, and eyes, but he turns as they are dismissed and he finds as soon as he does so his recollection of them is lost.
“Please come with, I know the lake! I promise!”
A filly, starving and wretched, calls out from the crowd. She is terribly alone, and her bones jut from her skin here and there in all of the obvious places. He doesn’t know what compels him to her side. They know the way already, at least to Nerine, as they’ve just travelled it. Nevertheless, she beckons and he follows as though it is the only option before them.
He doesn’t know why Eszka decides to humor him in his choice to let a filly lead the way home, only that she does.
And so the duo become a group as they join the little filly and whoever else has decided to follow in her wake. Together they make the treacherous descent down, slipping here and there on the ice covered rocks and watching bits of snow and ice give way and tumble down the mountainside. There is a moment when Wane is following behind Eszka, lost inside his head at the swing of her hips, and he stumbles, teetering dangerously close to the edge of a steep drop. He catches himself, barely, at the last second and vows to pay more attention from here on out.
A lie, because while he will never openly admit it, every time through the remainder of their journey he is distracted walking behind her.
It is, of course, of no surprise that the rogue filly choose to ‘lead’ them through the path they’d initially taken on their way to the mountain. She proclaims it, and loudly, as the best, and when she does Wane is left only to laugh quietly to himself without disagreeing. Here and there she stops to babble, and while her language is not always perfectly sensical, not once does she direct them falsely. Wane himself has never been a fan of children. They had always seemed too unpredictable, too reckless, but he can admit to himself now that he has grown use to the idea of having one around after months of Khuma forcing his ear against the side of their egg to listen to the rhythm of its heartbeat.
Perhaps that’s why he feels himself softening towards the filly.
Perhaps it’s why he’s left with her at all — what she reminds him of, what he stands to gain and lose should this mission go the way he hopes it will.
As the journey progresses, however, he becomes painfully aware of her illness. It isn’t critical yet, not like the walking corpses he and Eszka had seen on the way in, but every so often he watches the coughing rack her feeble body, sees her sprinkling trails of violent red against the snow. It unearths pieces of him that he’s ashamed to admit exist, even to himself — pieces of him that wish then that he hadn’t made the choice to follow her into Nerine, and then the Isle — parts that recognize, a little too easily, that both he and Eszka would be safer without the threat of her disease.
And yet, just like on the mountainside, he cannot leave her.
Perhaps Khuma had unearthed some ancient instinct in him since the arrival of their egg after all.
The expedition continues as the group follows the river upstream and into Hyaline, the flat river banks eventually giving way to red maple and cherry trees whose bare branches reach out into the grey sky like long, gnarled fingers. They cross where the river becomes less violent, braked by the dam of a beaver while made deeper for it. The plunge is shockingly cold, but the wonder in Briella’s eyes when she spies the brown animals with their quilted tails is enough to warm him (albeit only temporarily). Once on the other side, drenched and left even colder, the journey continues only with a break for food as Briella deems fit.
Luckily for Wane, and the rumble in his gut, she is a fair dictator.
Just as the sun is falling down behind the mountain peaks the rag-tag group of misfits finally reaches the glassy, frost-glazed waters of Hyaline’s crystal lake. It’s only logical that they will go no further tonight, not with the daylight alluding them, and despite the fragile filly’s nonsensical chattering throughout the journey thus far she seems to, in all actuality, use a great deal of logic. “Rest!” She proclaims, ever-the-dictator, and with the gentle curl of a smile on his lips he watches her toddle over to the trunk of a towering tree to break the wind while sleep takes her. It’s Wane’s every intention to lay beside her when he can and let the warmth of his body heat her up for what little that it’s worth, but there is time for that yet.
Eszka, without saying a word, without even blinking in his direction, is calling to him now — and he wants to be near her, if even for just a moment before they fall asleep.
So he finds her, and just as the last fragments of light are leaving the wavering reflections of the lake’s crystal surface. What they talk about isn’t earth shattering, just a few light hearted jokes here and there about Briella’s abundant spunk, sprinkled with the inevitable drivel that always comes with small talk. Even still, he can’t help but notice the way her eyes look like the lilac that the sky becomes awash with just as the night creeps in to dilute the colour of the sunset. He doesn’t tell her, but he wants to — opens his mouth even to begin to say something he is bound to regret.
But there’s a rustle in the brush to their left that stops him.
First there is a crack, then a snap. He can hear the break of branches as the bramble only meters from them sways in a gentle locomotion.
But there is nothing gentle about what is coming.
In the next moment it strikes. Only visible a second or two, a pair of hungry, yellowed eyes shine like a beacon in the ever growing darkness, followed then, by the flash of salivating, razor-sharp fangs. It lunges out, arms wide like a desperate lover, towards Wane with an open mouth and outstretched paws that yearn for the feel of flesh beneath their feline claws. His muscles are tightly bound coils, and he springs forward, they both do, fleeing in opposite directions as a pair of starving feline predators decide to announce their dinner time.
Wane can’t say how many of them have leapt forwards, but he knows that there are at least two. Eszka is nowhere to be seen, surely with one of the cats on her heels. For a moment he almost goes back, in fact, arcs his body in a gentle curve around the trunk of red maple, but remembers little Briella still sleeping soundly at the base of her trunk. To go back would be to lead them to her, and he can’t risk having her devoured. She’s too small, too naive. She’s made it too far to be robbed of her victory now. Besides, to see the life drain from her eyes would likely ruin him in a way he wouldn’t come back from.
So, he runs, and never too quickly — just slow enough to let the big cat think that he is still within its grasp. The horrible truth is that maybe he still is within its grasp, because it seems like each of them has been running now for hours and he is growing steadily weaker, and more and more out of breath. Eventually, the chase disintegrates into stalking as both beasts tire, and the two walk in a line with no more than a hundred feet between their bodies at all times. They go on like that until they reach Taiga.
The ancient redwoods spiralling up into a dark, grey sky are a surprisingly welcome sight. The cat has shrunk back into the distance, a fact that Wane is ever grateful for as the thick mist of Taiga creeps in between the trees and masks the path that he walks. He doesn’t know if its left preferring Hyaline country to the redwoods, or if its caught wind of an easier target instead but he hopes Briella is still sleeping soundly at the foot of her tree as it slinks off into the night.
His journey is not made much easier, however, by the predators departure. The night was still everywhere, and the redwoods could be a maze if you didn’t know them well. The path to the mountain Eszka and Wane had covered in the well-lit daytime and had seen no problems. Now is different, disoriented and exhausted from the chase out of Hyaline, Wane isn’t certain what direction he’s travelling. Blindly, he presses on, until a noise in the distance stops him in his tracks.
It’s the distinct crunch of pine needles underfoot, and its headed towards him.
He can feel his heart slam against the walls of his chest, and his stomach as it sinks. He won’t outrun the cat a second time, not when he’s run through the night, not when he is exhausted and unsure of where he’s going — not like this. The fog grows thicker somehow, like it feeds and thrives off his fear. He imagines ten cats or more all closing in behind it, switching their tails to and fro as their shoulder blades roll in perfect symmetry with every step closer that they stalk.
But he’s wrong.
When the fog parts at last it isn’t a cat at all, only Eszka. He laughs aloud at himself as she joins his side and their journey continues. Together they share jokes to ease the tension. They pray out loud for Briella’s safety.
They keep walking, until by some miracle, they make it out of the dark and the redwoods as the sun begins to rise over the beautiful expanse of Nerine. Home.
To be home, however temporarily, is a welcome relief. The pair spend the day in the surf on the coastline, laughing and eating their fill, doing their best to recuperate what little strength is possible before the conclusion of the journey to icicle isle come daybreak. There are a few hours that Wane slips away to seek out Wax in the caves, but doesn’t find her. He wants to tell her about the contagion. He wants to assure her that they will be okay, and that he thinks he knows where Khuma is, but ends up swallowing his secrets and returning to the shore instead.
And when at last, nightfall comes, Wane makes the unwelcomed suggestion that they spend the night in the caves to break the wind. The truth is that he doesn’t want to return to his cave alone, still full of clutter while completely empty all at the same time. For a moment he lets himself wonder if she feels badly about sleeping in the same space as Khuma, but he doesn’t press her. Instead, when she curls up at the mouth of the cave he simply lays beside her.
Skin-to-skin with Eszka he sleeps well for the first time in days.
When first light comes and her eyes finally flutter open he asks her to stay, to not join him on this second leg now that he knows she’s safe again. He begs her: “Please, stay here.”
She refuses.
So, with some awkwardness between them they set out for the shoreline again, trudging dutifully through the snow and sand alike to reach the point they deem to yield the closest gap between the isle and Nerine. It’s a few hours walk, and as they make it Wane thinks on occasion that he can see the faint outline of a trail sliding helter-skelter through the snow; a snake, he thinks. He confirms it, further down, where a piece of shed is waving like a banner tangled in the bark of an evergreen tree. She was here. She was close.
He points the markings out to Eszka, and for a while they forget about their mission and follow the trail.
It leads exactly where they had meant to go, anyways.
Finally, the shoreline is before him, and beyond it the isle. He swings his head so that he can look Eszka in the eyes, a rakish grin parting his lips then.
“Care to join me?” He asks her.
An echo from the past — something for her to remember.
Then, without waiting to hear her response he plunges in, ice giving way beneath his feet.
And it feels like fire; like knives that tear him open again and again and again. The cold, it has him, and instantly — seeping down through his flesh until it finds the marrow in his bones. He has been one with the ocean for all of his existence, but it has never been like this, like the cold is so sharp he can’t breathe.
He swims anyways, sputtering and breathing in water more often than he’d like as the cold makes him clumsy.
He doesn’t wait to see if Eszka is still behind him. The truth is that he would hardly blame her for choosing instead to linger in the crashing surf. As far as he knows there is nothing out there on the island that speaks to her. He had seen a trace of Khuma though, a shred of light in circumstances that felt impossibly dark. He has no choice but to keep going.
But when he reaches the shoreline, drags his frozen, aching body up and out of the surf, shaking the water from his body as he does so, he swings his great head to look across his shoulders and he hopes to see her standing there, too.
And not only because they’ll need each other to warm up.
