Riven Isles

Epilogue | The Next Adventure

Where the day went is a mystery to me. It feels like it was only a few hours ago that we were saying goodbye to our comrades, and yet, by Simon's fobwatch it is now approaching midnight. They left in the early afternoon. I spent some time sitting on the beach with Dorian while he showed me his rough sketches of a plan for the cabin we would build. I spent the rest of my time half-asleep in the company of Simon and Elian who, eventually, put themselves to sleep with their inability to string sentences together after their night out.

Now, all awake and refreshed after our late day naps, we carefully balance on a stone ridge high over a beach. The moon has shrunk to nearly a half of its full glory and hangs lazily in a bed of silver clouds. Dorian scampers at my heels, slinking easily over the rocks on all fours with a spine as flexible as rope. He has stopped me from falling a few times now, embarrassingly, keeping a sharp eye.

I must focus on the severed end of my crutch to assure its safe lodging on rocks that won't wobble and crannies that it fits to keep from throwing out my balance and toppling down to the beach.

Simon leads, his nose stuck in the painting. Elian sticks to his side with the map, holding it open for the professor to glance at every now and again.

"Again, Teach," Dorian rasps, scampering over a boulder. "You can forget the map and the painting. I can show you where you want to go."

"Yes, thank you," Simon sneers, eyes unmoving from his painting. "But, no thank you. It is straightforward enough and I can find it myself."

"I can tell you what the treasure is, too," the fox adds, sniggering.

"Better yet, you can behave like a regular fox and simply not speak." Simon stops and looks back. "I apologize, that was rude. But, I would like to investigate myself—without a guide to tell me what I will or won't find or where to find it. So, I will lead, and you will make sure Walter does not further injure himself. Thank you."

Dorian rolls his eyes and spits.

I frown. "Well, hey. It's not my fault I was shot."

"It is your fault that you ran on the injury to the point that you passed out and twisted your ankle," Simon returns pointedly. "That is very much on you."

"Prick, eh," mutters Dorian. He picks up a rock and throws it, skipping it across the bumpy ridge. He snickers and rolls forward onto his paws again, slinking onwards.

I grumble to myself, "Why did I even come along?"

"Oh, don't be sour," Simon moans, his head rolling—likely with the eyes I cannot see. At least he's combed the back of his head now so it isn't as sore a sight as it had been. "We are almost there. Just at the end of this ridge, we'll step into the grass, and be right where the painting says we should be."

"What?" Elian asks loudly.

Simon speaks clearly into his good ear, "Almost there."

I pick up my crutch and lodge it in the next little crevice, test its hold, and swing. Broken stones skitter down the steep face of the ridge and disappear into clouds of disturbed sand. The tide is coming in, leaving only a sliver of the beach; a thin strip of white separates the dark grey of the rocks from the deep blue of the lagoon. Wisps flit over the water, never going further than a few yards from the shore. They touch the white crests of the waves as they curl inwards and stretch out across the beach. The blue lights pull back with the water and ride in over and over again, glowing brighter at different moments for each.

The air is fresh and crisp and in constant motion, salted with sea breeze and spiced with a trace of bitter pine. A mist kisses my skin where my new clothing does not cover. When so many of the people left earlier today, local foxes gathered their forgotten belongings in carts and dumped them in a building to be scrapped, picked from, or reused. While Simon took a pair of scissors and all the books he could carry, and Elian found a comfortable new blouse, I replaced close to my whole attire. After all, the clothing the doctor had once given me were ruined; my bandanna and one stocking lost who knows where and my breeches and blouse deeply imbued with filth. I found a new bandana, a green one, to tie around my neck, my small mineral firm in its knot, and I now wear longer sleeves and breeches in which I have much room to grow. I took an old Praedoran naval coat and it does well to keep the cold moisture off my skin. In it, I blend into the night sky.