4338.205.2 | Cody Jennings | Hope
In exchange for ignoring another summons from the Chief of Belkeep, I offer my daughter hope.
As seen in
Standing on the jagged embrace of the rocks that bordered Lake Gunlah, I couldn't help but reflect on the stark, unyielding landscape that had defined my existence in Belkeep for nearly three decades. The lake, its surface a mirror nearing the brink of freezing, lay encased in the desolation that had come to symbolise our fight for survival in this relentless terrain. Lewyyd Drikarsus, our steadfast Chief, had seen in this harsh vista a final battleground for our people. Here, on the edge of survival, we made our stand against Clivilius' merciless embrace, a last bastion against the oblivion that threatened to consume us should we falter again.
Belkeep, a land more stone than soil, offered little in the way of nurture. The dreams of cultivation and growth were continuously dashed against the reality of its barren heart, the weather a constant adversary to our endeavours. Guardians, myself included, became the lifeline of our community, our efforts focused on erecting structures to shield our precious, hard-won provisions from the bitter clutches of the cold.
Looking across to the far side of the lake, the stone cottages there stood as silent sentinels to both our hopes and our desolation. Grey smoke, the breath of life within, curled into the sky, a stark contrast to the promise of prosperity that had once been envisioned for this place. The vision of a thriving lakeside community, one where the settlers could fish and live off the land, remained just that—a vision, elusive and unattained.
As the first snowflakes of the day began their descent, a soft, cold caress against the backdrop of the never-ending winter, I drew my large brown fur coat closer around me. The chill of Belkeep was not just physical; it seeped into my bones, a constant reminder of the life I had left behind. My mind wandered to Earth, to memories of a sun that warmed the skin and a sky of the deepest blue.
Yet, it was not just the harshness of Belkeep that anchored me to this place. Responsibility, a bond as unbreakable as the rock beneath my feet, held me fast. The twins, my charge, were bound to this land, and in turn, so was I. Their safety, their future, was intertwined with the fate of Belkeep, a burden that weighed heavily on my shoulders. In the solitude of the lake's edge, amidst the quiet fall of snow, I grappled with the reality of my duty and the longing for a world left behind, a tether to both realms that I bore with a weary heart.
The rhythmic approach of heavy winter boots against the unforgiving rocks was a welcome distraction from my introspective musings. The movement was lively, almost dancing, accompanied by the soft hum of a melody that seemed to weave through the chilled air, infusing it with a warmth all its own. My lips curved into a broad smile, my heart lifting in response to the familiar sound. In all of Belkeep, there was only one person whose presence could pierce the veil of gloom that often settled over us.
“Aren’t you cold, Krid?” I asked, amusement colouring my tone as I took in the sight of her short, skinny legs and bare arms, seemingly impervious to the cold.
“I’m never cold!” Krid proclaimed with the kind of cheerful defiance only a six-year-old could muster. Her hands flew above her head as she twirled, a physical embodiment of her words.
Laughing softly, I crouched to her level, opening my arms in anticipation of the hug I knew would come. “It’s good to see you,” I told her, and as our embrace tightened, I was reminded of the unique place Krid held in the fabric of our community. Born to the harsh realities of Clivilius, she had no frame of reference for Earth, no concept of a life beyond the struggles and rugged beauty of this world.
The loss of Guardian Sylvie had cast a shadow over us all, plunging many into a darkness from which they couldn't escape. The burden of sustaining the community, once shared, became almost unbearable in the wake of the collective despair that followed. The decision to halt the passage of new arrivals through the Portal was one borne of necessity, a grim acknowledgment of our limitations in the face of overwhelming loss. As some chose the tragic escape offered by the cliffs, the community was left to reckon with the voids left behind.
Krid's resilience in the face of such adversity was nothing short of remarkable. Orphaned at a tender age, she had become the collective charge of a community grappling with its own survival. Yet, it was her unyielding positivity, her innate cheerfulness, that marked her as a beacon of hope in our often bleak existence. In Krid, I saw the promise of a new generation, one perhaps better equipped to navigate the challenges of Clivilius, to find joy in the midst of hardship.
“I’ve brought you back something,” I whispered to Krid, as I reached into the depth of my back pocket. The anticipation in her eyes, that spark of unbridled curiosity, was a light against the backdrop of Belkeep's harshness.
“Another surprise?” Krid's voice was a mix of excitement and wonder, her gaze fixed on me with an intensity that made the moment feel all the more significant.
“I thought you might like to add this one to your collection,” I said, my voice softening as I slowly opened my hand to reveal the treasure it held—a small magnet, intricately shaped like an island. The reveal was slow, deliberate, a moment suspended in time between the giver and the receiver.
“What is it?” Krid inquired, her delicate fingers taking the magnet from my palm with a gentleness that belied her youthful enthusiasm. She examined it closely, her face a picture of concentration and awe.
“It’s a place called Tasmania,” I explained, watching her reaction closely. “It’s where our next Guardian will come from.” The weight of that statement, the promise it carried, seemed to hang in the air between us.
“It is?” Her response was one of pure wonder, her eyes growing wider with the realisation of what this small piece of metal represented.
“Yes. It is.” My chuckle was soft, a sound that barely rose above the gentle whisper of snowflakes. My gaze drifted past Krid to Freya, who approached with an unconscious rub of her arms against the chill. “Honestly, Freya. You’re as bad as Krid here,” I called out, a playful reprimand that belied the warmth I felt at the sight of them together.
Krid, ever eager to share her newfound treasure, wasted no time in dashing over the uneven terrain towards Freya. “Freya!” she exclaimed, her voice carrying across the distance. “Look what Guardian Cody gave me,” she beamed, presenting the magnet with all the pride of a seasoned collector.
Standing back, I observed the interaction between my daughter and Krid. The bond they had formed in the wake of tragedy was nothing short of remarkable. Krid, who had lost so much so early, had found in Freya a sister, a mentor, a friend. And Freya, along with Fryar, represented the continuation of a legacy, the hope of a future that their mother and I had dreamed of. The loss of their mother at their birth was a wound that time had softened but never fully healed. Watching them now, strong-willed and resilient, a swell of pride mixed with a poignant ache filled me. I hoped, more than anything, that she would be proud of the individuals they were becoming—of their strength, their compassion, and their unyielding spirit. In them, I saw the best of what we could be, a testament to the enduring power of love and the indomitable will to forge ahead, even in the face of Belkeep's relentless challenges.
“It’s beautiful,” Freya's voice, tinged with sincerity, pulled me back from the edge of my worries. Her eyes, when they met mine, held a warmth that felt like a balm to the cold uncertainty that had settled within me.
I smiled, a gesture that felt both reflexive and genuine in the moment. The habit of collecting small mementos from my travels, or in this case, a discreet souvenir from the side of the fridge, was a practice I found comfort in. Each item, like the magnet shaped like Tasmania, held stories, memories, and sometimes, promises of hope for the future. The thought that Gladys would never miss it wasn't just a justification; it was a small testament to the two worlds I navigated, the many lives intertwined with mine.
“Chief Lewyyd wants a word with you,” Freya's voice, now carrying a note of gravity, shifted the atmosphere. Her standing up was a physical echo of the importance she placed on her message. “He’s waiting for you in the Council Cottage.” The mention of the Chief and the Council Cottage instantly signalled the seriousness of the matter at hand, a reminder of the responsibilities that came with being a Guardian in Belkeep.
“And Fryar?” The concern for my son, barely contained beneath my guardian façade, surfaced with my question.
“He hasn’t returned,” Freya's gentle head shake was a visual confirmation of my fears. The absence of Fryar, coupled with the ominous signs of an approaching storm, cast a long shadow over my heart, magnifying the anxiety that buzzed like an undercurrent beneath my skin.
As the darkening sky hinted at the impending tempest, Freya voiced the unspoken concern. “Aren’t you worried about him?”
“Of course I am,” came my immediate response, the admission heavy with the burden of leadership and fatherhood intertwined.
“Then why not send a search party?” Her suggestion was pragmatic, a beacon of action in the paralysis of worry.
"Is that what Chief wants me for?" The question lingered in the cold air, my thoughts tangled with the possibility that Chief Lewyyd's summons was a prelude to a search for Fryar.
Freya's soft chuckle, tinged with the wisdom born of understanding the intricate web of our community's dynamics, caught me off guard. “Chief doesn’t need your permission for such things. If he wanted to do it, he would.” Her words, though light, carried the weight of truth—a reminder of the Chief's autonomy in decision-making.
“But he doesn’t want to?” I sought clarification.
“No,” Freya replied, her tone sobering. “He says we’ve already lost too many. Fryar should never have tried to rescue them from the boat. Nobody has ever survived those seas.” The finality in her statement, the acceptance of a grim outcome as an inevitability, settled heavily upon us.
“You sound like you’ve convinced yourself he’s dead,” I noted, my gaze shifting between Freya and the young child, probing the depth of despair and denial that wove through their responses.
“I know he’s —” Freya began, her voice faltering.
“Not dead,” Krid interjected with a certainty that belied her years, her small voice a beacon of hope in the gathering gloom.
Her assertion drew my attention, her childlike innocence standing in defiance of the harshness that defined our lives. Crouching to meet her gaze, I sought to understand the foundation of her belief. “How do you know that?”
“Probably the same way I do,” Freya answered before Krid could respond, her admission adding layers to the mystery.
“And that would be?” My curiosity deepened, intrigued by the connection they seemed to share, a bond that hinted at knowledge beyond what was physically known.
“I don’t know how to describe it,” Freya admitted, her words trailing off into uncertainty. “I can just —”
“Feel him,” Krid completed the thought, her simple yet profound assertion echoing with a truth that seemed to transcend logic.
“Exactly!” Freya confirmed, her agreement solidifying the shared sentiment.
Observing them both, skepticism mingled with a begrudging acceptance within me. Freya's connection to Fryar, as his twin, was understandable—a bond that perhaps facilitated a deeper, intuitive understanding. But Krid? Her inclusion in this shared certainty puzzled me, defying logical explanation. Yet, the islands, with their labyrinthine caves, provided ample shelter. I clung to the belief that Fryar, resourceful and resilient, would find refuge from the storm.
“So, if it’s not about Fryar, what does Chief want to see me about? I’m very busy,” I stated, my voice laced with a hint of irritation. My role in this community was one I took seriously, often putting the needs of Belkeep above my own. Yet, my patience for Chief Lewyyd's sometimes drawn-out deliberations was wearing thin, especially with the pressing concerns weighing heavily on my mind.
“He wants to go over the next phase of the development plan with you. I believe he has —” Freya began, her explanation hinting at yet another lengthy discussion that awaited me. But I couldn't afford to get entangled in another one of Chief Lewyyd's exhaustive planning sessions—not now, not with Fryar still missing and my heart torn between duty and personal anguish.
With a hand raised to halt her words, I sighed deeply. This sigh was not just one of resignation but also a recognition of the burdens that leadership entailed. “Tell Chief I’m on my way.” My words were a concession, an acknowledgment of the responsibilities that I could not, in good conscience, ignore.
Freya's disbelieving gaze fixed on me, her eyes a mirror reflecting a challenge unspoken. It was as if she dared me to demonstrate the commitment I so often professed, a silent accusation that perhaps my actions didn’t always align with my words. “Well, if you’re on your way, you can come with me and tell him that yourself,” she countered, her challenge laid bare.
“I just need to do something first,” I found myself saying, an attempt to straddle the line between the immediate needs of our community and the pressing, personal duty that clawed at my conscience.
“So, I’ll tell Chief you’re not coming then,” Freya declared, her voice firm, her decision to leave no room for further discussion. Her steps away from me were decisive, a physical manifestation of her disappointment.
“Freya!” The call was a plea, laden with a mix of desperation and resolve. “I will come.” My assurance was a promise, not just to her but to myself. As I watched her retreating figure, the sway of her dark hair, so reminiscent of her mother, stirred a well of emotion within me. The reminder of what we had lost, and what we still stood to lose, was a poignant undercurrent to our interaction.
Looking down at Krid, who remained steadfastly by my side amidst the shifting currents of our conversation, I noticed the gleam of curiosity in her dark, thoughtful eyes—a testament to the depth and insight far beyond her years. “You’d better get yourself indoors too,” I advised, my tone gentle yet firm, subtly nudging her towards the safety and warmth that Freya's presence promised.
“When will she be here?” Krid's question, delivered with an earnest gaze lifted towards me, momentarily caught me off guard. Her inquiry, seemingly innocent, carried an undercurrent of expectation that piqued my interest.
“Who?” I found myself asking, the confusion evident in my voice.
“The new Guardian,” she clarified, her voice steady and sure. The awareness in her statement, the assumption of not just a new Guardian's arrival but the specificity of her gender, surprised me. It was a revelation, a piece of knowledge that I hadn't anticipated her to possess or ponder.
Taken aback by her insight, I pressed further, curiosity now fully piqued. “How do you know she’s a woman?” My question was more than mere curiosity; it was a probe into the depth of Krid's understanding, a quest to comprehend the source of her conviction.
Krid's response came as a simple shrug, a gesture that belied the complexity of the knowledge she seemed to hold. The simplicity of her action, devoid of explanation, only deepened the mystery that surrounded her, a reminder of the unique perspective she brought to our intertwined lives.
I couldn't help but smile softly at her, a mixture of admiration and wonder stirring within me. Krid's untainted curiosity, her innate sense of knowing, was an elusive riddle that I couldn’t answer. “Well, off you go then,” I encouraged, gently steering her towards home. Her presence, her questions, had ignited a spark of curiosity within me, a reminder of the many layers and secrets that our small community harboured. Yet, I recognised that now was not the time, nor the place, to delve into an inquisition.
As I cinched the coat tighter, the fabric's rough texture offered scant consolation against the biting chill that seemed to seep into my very bones. My legs, aching from the cold and my own inertia, served as a reminder of the time spent in vigil at the cavern's mouth. The wind, a relentless force, tore across the entrance with a ferocity that seemed to mock our attempts at shelter, its howl a constant companion in this desolate landscape. Snowflakes, caught in the tempest's embrace, swirled and settled momentarily on the hard rock surface before succumbing to the inevitable melt, a fleeting resistance to the freeze soon to claim the land. Inside, the cavern's attempt at warmth was a battle half-lost to the omnipresent cold. The kerosene lamps, scattered and flickering, cast long shadows that danced eerily against the walls, their light struggling to pierce the pervasive chill. The two large translucent screens along the cavern's highest side, stood as silent gateways of my domain. One screen, in particular, held a significance that weighed heavily on my heart—a reminder of the Guardians' dormant state, a visual testament to the once-vibrant force now stilled. This screen, a portal, stood an unmoving testament to the memories and legacies of those who had stood watch over Belkeep, now served as a poignant marker of what I had lost and what I still fought to preserve. Reflecting on the early days of my guardianship, the rationale behind choosing such a desolate, frozen, and isolated place for our settlement often plagued my thoughts. The barren, unforgiving landscape of Belkeep seemed an improbable choice for a community. Yet, any questions regarding the decisions of Clivilius were met with a firm doctrine—Clivilius made no mistakes. This belief, instilled within me, served as a cold comfort amidst the challenges we faced. I sighed deeply, a melancholic gaze fixed on the two vacant Portal screens that stood as silent witnesses to a once vibrant connection. One of these screens, now dormant, had once buzzed with the life force of two Guardian companions, their energy a beacon in the bleakness of our surroundings. Their absence left a void, a palpable silence where once there was the comforting hum of camaraderie and shared duty. They, like me, were natives of South Australia, a detail that lent an additional layer of connection and loss to their absence. This shared origin had fostered a sense of familiarity, a bond that had transcended the mere coincidence of birthplace to become a cornerstone of our shared identity as Guardians. I sighed deeply, looking forlornly at the vacant Portal screen. It had been dormant for many years now. The memory of Jeremiah's words echoed in the hollows of the cavern and the hollows of my heart. “I’ve been watching them closely for a long time. Just as I have you,” he had said, his voice imbued with a knowledge that seemed to stretch beyond the confines of our present circumstances. “You will be good for each other.” His assertion, spoken with the certainty of one who had peered into the depths of fate, had been a guiding light. Soon after, he had equipped them, as he had equipped me, with a device, a Portal Key—a tangible link to the duty we were bound to and a symbol of the trust placed in us. The arrival of Freya momentarily pulled me from the depths of my reverie. Her presence, marked by the shedding of her winter cloak’s hood, and the cold air, playing across her flushed cheeks, served as a stark reminder of the harshness of our environment, a reality we all bore with a resilience born of necessity. "Can you get these things for Chief?" Her voice, breaking through the solemn quietude of the cavern, brought my focus back to the immediate challenges we faced. The list she handed me was a small, yet significant, testament to our continued efforts to thrive in an environment that offered little concession to human habitation. I couldn't help but scoff at the request, a reaction not directed at Freya but at the broader situation. The list in my hand was a bitter reminder of our technological backwardness, a jarring juxtaposition to the advancements I knew Earth continued to make—a reality unknown to those like Freya, who had never seen anything beyond the rugged confines of Belkeep. Tucking the list beneath my coat, I felt its weight as a symbol of our enduring struggle, a tangible representation of the gulf between the world I came from and the world I was trying to sustain. Jeremiah is right, I found myself reflecting, the thought of the two remaining Portal Keys weighing heavily on my mind. The decision to let Gladys choose the recipient of the final device lingered as a strategic move, a part of a larger plan that required careful manipulation. Anyone but Beatrix, I resolved, understanding the necessity of keeping the two sisters apart for the plan to succeed. It was a calculated effort to coerce Luke into finding us, a manoeuvre that carried both risk and potential reward. "Our settlement is struggling to survive. We are at the worst that I have ever seen," Freya’s admission, laden with a grave sincerity, mirrored my own perceptions. Her words were a sobering affirmation of the dire circumstances we faced, a reality that demanded action, resilience, and hope. "Luke Smith will find us. I promise," I assured her, my voice heavy with a conviction I needed her to believe in. The certainty in my declaration was not just for her, but a mantra for myself, a beacon of hope in the challenging times we navigated. Freya's reaction, however, was a mixture of frustration and resignation, her belief in my assurances waning. "Go listen to Chief. He has a good plan," she pushed, her tone carrying the weight of weariness interlaced with a sense of urgency. It was clear she held little faith in the promises of guardians yet unseen, her patience thinning against the backdrop of her reality. I couldn't help but frown at my daughter, the complexity of our relationship deepening in the moment. Freya, who had once hung on my every word, captivated by the stories of my past and the world beyond our harsh existence, had shifted. She had grown resistant to the prophecies, to my promises of a time when a new Guardian would unite the Clivilius world. The resilience and wonder that had once defined her were now marred by the scars of loss and the relentless fight for survival. She had grown, not just in age, but in perspective, becoming a figure of pragmatism born from the ashes of disillusionment. "It's time," I found myself saying, an announcement that felt both monumental and heavy with the burden of what it entailed. My hands rested on her shoulders, a gesture meant to ground both of us in the moment. Her shoulders tensed under my touch, rising in a shrug that spoke volumes of her internal struggle. "Time for what?" Freya's voice was tinged with a sadness that cut through me, a reminder of the innocence lost to the trials we faced. "It's time to complete the team," I stated, the words ringing with a sense of finality and resolve. Freya's gasp cut through the cavern's chill like a knife. "Is it safe?" Her question, laden with fear and the desire for reassurance, echoed the internal conflict that raged within me. "No," I found myself admitting, the truth heavy on my tongue. "It's never safe." The reality of our existence, fraught with danger at every turn, was a bitter pill to swallow, yet it was our reality nonetheless. "Then why?" Her frustration, a mirror to my own internal turmoil, demanded an answer. "Haven't we seen enough death already?" The weight of her questions compelled me to shed the layers that shielded me from the cold, a symbolic disrobing that felt almost ritualistic in its intent. My winter coat, a barrier against Clivilius's unforgiving chill, was discarded over the rocks, revealing the stark contrast of my attire—jeans and a polo shirt, ill-suited for the climate yet emblematic of a connection to a world beyond. This act of shedding my coat was a transition, a preparation for the journey back to Earth. Turning to face the silent Portal, I paused, the weight of my Guardianship pressing down on me. Glancing back at Freya, her eyes searching mine for an explanation, a justification for the risks, the pain, and the uncertainty that shadowed my every step, I realised that there was none to offer, no way to halt the inevitable cycle of life and death. Yet, I carried within me a burning ember—hope. "Hope," was all I could muster, the word barely a whisper, yet it carried the entirety of my conviction. Approaching Freya, I placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, an act imbued with the promise of a future, of possibilities yet to unfold. With my mind set on the destination, Gladys Cramer kitchen, I silently invoked Clivilius's power. The dormant Portal sprang to life, its screen a canvas of swirling colours, a gateway to a world beyond the harshness of Belkeep. Casting a final look at Freya, I stepped through the Portal, the vibrant hues enveloping me, as the gateway closed behind me, leaving behind the cold, the uncertainty, and the promise of hope that fuelled my perseverance.
As I cinched the coat tighter, the fabric's rough texture offered scant consolation against the biting chill that seemed to seep into my very bones. My legs, aching from the cold and my own inertia, served as a reminder of the time spent in vigil at the cavern's mouth. The wind, a relentless force, tore across the entrance with a ferocity that seemed to mock our attempts at shelter, its howl a constant companion in this desolate landscape. Snowflakes, caught in the tempest's embrace, swirled and settled momentarily on the hard rock surface before succumbing to the inevitable melt, a fleeting resistance to the freeze soon to claim the land. Inside, the cavern's attempt at warmth was a battle half-lost to the omnipresent cold. The kerosene lamps, scattered and flickering, cast long shadows that danced eerily against the walls, their light struggling to pierce the pervasive chill. The two large translucent screens along the cavern's highest side, stood as silent gateways of my domain. One screen, in particular, held a significance that weighed heavily on my heart—a reminder of the Guardians' dormant state, a visual testament to the once-vibrant force now stilled. This screen, a portal, stood an unmoving testament to the memories and legacies of those who had stood watch over Belkeep, now served as a poignant marker of what I had lost and what I still fought to preserve. Reflecting on the early days of my guardianship, the rationale behind choosing such a desolate, frozen, and isolated place for our settlement often plagued my thoughts. The barren, unforgiving landscape of Belkeep seemed an improbable choice for a community. Yet, any questions regarding the decisions of Clivilius were met with a firm doctrine—Clivilius made no mistakes. This belief, instilled within me, served as a cold comfort amidst the challenges we faced. I sighed deeply, a melancholic gaze fixed on the two vacant Portal screens that stood as silent witnesses to a once vibrant connection. One of these screens, now dormant, had once buzzed with the life force of two Guardian companions, their energy a beacon in the bleakness of our surroundings. Their absence left a void, a palpable silence where once there was the comforting hum of camaraderie and shared duty. They, like me, were natives of South Australia, a detail that lent an additional layer of connection and loss to their absence. This shared origin had fostered a sense of familiarity, a bond that had transcended the mere coincidence of birthplace to become a cornerstone of our shared identity as Guardians. I sighed deeply, looking forlornly at the vacant Portal screen. It had been dormant for many years now. The memory of Jeremiah's words echoed in the hollows of the cavern and the hollows of my heart. “I’ve been watching them closely for a long time. Just as I have you,” he had said, his voice imbued with a knowledge that seemed to stretch beyond the confines of our present circumstances. “You will be good for each other.” His assertion, spoken with the certainty of one who had peered into the depths of fate, had been a guiding light. Soon after, he had equipped them, as he had equipped me, with a device, a Portal Key—a tangible link to the duty we were bound to and a symbol of the trust placed in us. The arrival of Freya momentarily pulled me from the depths of my reverie. Her presence, marked by the shedding of her winter cloak’s hood, and the cold air, playing across her flushed cheeks, served as a stark reminder of the harshness of our environment, a reality we all bore with a resilience born of necessity. "Can you get these things for Chief?" Her voice, breaking through the solemn quietude of the cavern, brought my focus back to the immediate challenges we faced. The list she handed me was a small, yet significant, testament to our continued efforts to thrive in an environment that offered little concession to human habitation. I couldn't help but scoff at the request, a reaction not directed at Freya but at the broader situation. The list in my hand was a bitter reminder of our technological backwardness, a jarring juxtaposition to the advancements I knew Earth continued to make—a reality unknown to those like Freya, who had never seen anything beyond the rugged confines of Belkeep. Tucking the list beneath my coat, I felt its weight as a symbol of our enduring struggle, a tangible representation of the gulf between the world I came from and the world I was trying to sustain. Jeremiah is right, I found myself reflecting, the thought of the two remaining Portal Keys weighing heavily on my mind. The decision to let Gladys choose the recipient of the final device lingered as a strategic move, a part of a larger plan that required careful manipulation. Anyone but Beatrix, I resolved, understanding the necessity of keeping the two sisters apart for the plan to succeed. It was a calculated effort to coerce Luke into finding us, a manoeuvre that carried both risk and potential reward. "Our settlement is struggling to survive. We are at the worst that I have ever seen," Freya’s admission, laden with a grave sincerity, mirrored my own perceptions. Her words were a sobering affirmation of the dire circumstances we faced, a reality that demanded action, resilience, and hope. "Luke Smith will find us. I promise," I assured her, my voice heavy with a conviction I needed her to believe in. The certainty in my declaration was not just for her, but a mantra for myself, a beacon of hope in the challenging times we navigated. Freya's reaction, however, was a mixture of frustration and resignation, her belief in my assurances waning. "Go listen to Chief. He has a good plan," she pushed, her tone carrying the weight of weariness interlaced with a sense of urgency. It was clear she held little faith in the promises of guardians yet unseen, her patience thinning against the backdrop of her reality. I couldn't help but frown at my daughter, the complexity of our relationship deepening in the moment. Freya, who had once hung on my every word, captivated by the stories of my past and the world beyond our harsh existence, had shifted. She had grown resistant to the prophecies, to my promises of a time when a new Guardian would unite the Clivilius world. The resilience and wonder that had once defined her were now marred by the scars of loss and the relentless fight for survival. She had grown, not just in age, but in perspective, becoming a figure of pragmatism born from the ashes of disillusionment. "It's time," I found myself saying, an announcement that felt both monumental and heavy with the burden of what it entailed. My hands rested on her shoulders, a gesture meant to ground both of us in the moment. Her shoulders tensed under my touch, rising in a shrug that spoke volumes of her internal struggle. "Time for what?" Freya's voice was tinged with a sadness that cut through me, a reminder of the innocence lost to the trials we faced. "It's time to complete the team," I stated, the words ringing with a sense of finality and resolve. Freya's gasp cut through the cavern's chill like a knife. "Is it safe?" Her question, laden with fear and the desire for reassurance, echoed the internal conflict that raged within me. "No," I found myself admitting, the truth heavy on my tongue. "It's never safe." The reality of our existence, fraught with danger at every turn, was a bitter pill to swallow, yet it was our reality nonetheless. "Then why?" Her frustration, a mirror to my own internal turmoil, demanded an answer. "Haven't we seen enough death already?" The weight of her questions compelled me to shed the layers that shielded me from the cold, a symbolic disrobing that felt almost ritualistic in its intent. My winter coat, a barrier against Clivilius's unforgiving chill, was discarded over the rocks, revealing the stark contrast of my attire—jeans and a polo shirt, ill-suited for the climate yet emblematic of a connection to a world beyond. This act of shedding my coat was a transition, a preparation for the journey back to Earth. Turning to face the silent Portal, I paused, the weight of my Guardianship pressing down on me. Glancing back at Freya, her eyes searching mine for an explanation, a justification for the risks, the pain, and the uncertainty that shadowed my every step, I realised that there was none to offer, no way to halt the inevitable cycle of life and death. Yet, I carried within me a burning ember—hope. "Hope," was all I could muster, the word barely a whisper, yet it carried the entirety of my conviction. Approaching Freya, I placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, an act imbued with the promise of a future, of possibilities yet to unfold. With my mind set on the destination, Gladys Cramer kitchen, I silently invoked Clivilius's power. The dormant Portal sprang to life, its screen a canvas of swirling colours, a gateway to a world beyond the harshness of Belkeep. Casting a final look at Freya, I stepped through the Portal, the vibrant hues enveloping me, as the gateway closed behind me, leaving behind the cold, the uncertainty, and the promise of hope that fuelled my perseverance.
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