Chapter 4

  In the not-quite-a-month since the sea decided not to finish the job, I’ve learned something that would’ve sounded like a bad joke before all this: I don’t dislike the two who dragged me out of it. Hell, I actually like them.

  The fairy—Erik—is a pain in the ass in a way that somehow circles back around to being charming. He talks like he’s permanently offended by the world, like there’s a rod jammed straight up his glitter-dusted ass, but it suits him. He’s sharp. Too sharp. Smarter than me more often than I care to admit, though I’d rather bite my tongue off than say that where he can hear it.

  We trade stories like currency—my scraps of the outside world in exchange for his long-winded lectures about centuries I can barely wrap my head around. He’s lived through things people back home would sell their souls to know. And he never lets me forget how generous he’s being by telling me.

  Then there’s the kid.

  Someone.

  I don't know why I feel odd calling them that. I tried thinking of a better name once and Erik shut me down real quick; his eyes were cold, like I’d just said something terrible. They talk very little, but when they do, it’s in a language I don't understand.

  The kid is lowkey kind of scary. When Someone looks at you, it’s like everything around you instinctively lowers its voice.

  They usually keep their hands busy by doing things with them. They aren't ever still and they're not ever antsy; they are always steady. I have no idea what they mean by anything, but finally, for the first time in a long time, I feel OK with not knowing.

  These two sit with me not only provide a safe space, but they sit in silence, allowing me space for my mind to heal. Sometimes just having someone there can be enough to change everything.

  I have had a very fast recovery to date, and Erik says it is a mixture of fate and magic that I am currently alive. The fact that I am alive today is by no means a guarantee that I will be alive again tomorrow, and I try not to focus on the fact that I was very close to death.

  There is something about Someone that helps take the static out of my mind. I have never been very good at being gentle with gentle people. Usually, gentle people come with a lot of baggage and issues that need to be dealt with, and that is not easy to navigate. However, with regard to gentle people who do not have strings attached or cracks to deal with, their kind of kindness is not fragile, nor does it ask for anything from you. It just simply is. It is steady. It is solid. It is real.

  Initially, I was receiving medical attention every day when I began to teach Someone the common tongue. It was slow and cautious. Helping them with teaching was the least I could do while they were trying to save my life. While they worked on me, I would teach them words. Names for different objects, and little short phrases.

  We developed a routine. I would bleed through the bandages as they worked on me. They were very concentrated as they did this, and between the two of us, we were forming half sentences and using poor grammar. It was awkward, yet much better than silence.

  I had fought with my old crew for years, bleeding on the same battlefield as them, having them help me when I was in trouble. And here I was, working next to a quiet kid and an annoying fairy, gutting fish together, and feeling more connected than I ever felt with my previous crew.

  Perhaps time isn't of great consequence when you are in the company of good people.

  As I was finishing up cutting the fish, I heard a voice. It was soft, but firm. "Help?" the person asked, pointing at the fish.

  I blinked, thrown. Help? With a fish? Then it clicked—they weren’t asking. They were offering.

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  I laughed quietly and shook my head. “Nah. I’ve got it. But hey—go get Erik. Dinner’s ready.”

  They nodded and took off, all purpose and determination. I’ve seen grown men move with less conviction.

  And me? I just stood there, smiling at a dead fish like an idiot. Maybe this place was messing with my head. Or maybe it was stitching something back together that I didn’t realize had split open.

  You might be wondering why I’m the one doing the cooking. Theres a reason for that.

  It became apparent to me rather quickly that Someone had only one cooking ability.

  They ONLY made porridge. They made porridge in the morning for breakfast, porridge at lunchtime, and porridge at night when they wanted to eat something (often).

  To be fair, they take the preparation of porridge as if it is a form of artistic expression or ritualism, where they would use different kinds of grains or varying textures each time or possibly create their own version thereof and attempt to find the “perfect” way to prepare it.

  But when you asked Someone to make a dish other than porridge; they would actually stop functioning and just look at you with a blank stare.

  Erik has never been of any assistance. In fact, he tends to cause problems for me as I try to cook!

  I wasn't even sure he eats “real” food (i.e., cooked vegetables, meat, etc.). It’s likely that he would have been perfectly happy living on honey and sugar and hovering around like a nuisance. He thinks cooking is beneath someone who has complex candy-loving fantasies, like a superior mystical being.

  So that left us with a porridge devotee and a fairy who survived on candy. Naturally, the job fell to me.

  I remember the first time I asked Someone what they did with all of the fish they caught. The answer was simply "eat" without further explanation. When I pressed them—how—they answered, dead serious, “Raw.”

  This explained the faint fishy odor that had settled into the walls of the cabin and that had become an integral part of the cabin's charm and character.

  So when I cooked for them, just simply cooking using fire and seasoning found around the island, you would have thought I had performed a miracle. The way Someone looked at me when I finished preparing dinner, you would have thought I had rewritten the laws of nature and created a whole new way to prepare food. Which I guess, to them I did.

  From that moment on, I was the designated cook.

  When we were finished with dinner, the air was thick with the smell of fish that was produced by cooking the fish, rather than the pure unadulterated smell of raw fish.

  We were sitting next to one another, laughing and telling stories together as if it was just another day. It felt very normal, as if we were all going to be together for a long time and not just a few short weeks.

  We were laughing and joking and Someone surprisingly echoed back my words exactly. Erik, however, continued to pretend to be above it all while he kept stealing food off my plate when he thought I wasn't looking.

  It was nice, but It wouldn’t last.

  And somewhere between the third laugh and the second helping, the thought slipped in while my guard was down.

  I’m not going to stay here.

  One day I’ll be strong enough to leave.

  And when that happens, they’ll probably smile, wave, wish me luck—and that’ll be it. End of story.

  The realization dropped into my chest like a stone. My appetite vanished. The food dulled. Someone noticed immediately. Of course they did. They always noticed. Their eyes tracked my face, quiet and searching, like they could feel the shift before I said a word.

  And damn it—maybe they could.

  The darkness of the night embraced us the moment we stepped into it. The stars appeared to be all over the sky. There were an incredible number of stars. We settled into the warm sand from the heat of the day and the waves rolled softly and steadily toward us, as if to preserve the peace of everything around us. The salty air was crisp and fresh; it should have been a perfect evening. However, the heaviness inside me was weighing down.

  My mind continued to wander to thoughts of everything coming to an end. I was aware that in a heart beat these beautiful nights could vanish forever; such nights never give anyone a warning before they disappear. I was mentally holding on to this thought and then, I felt something brush against my arm. I turned to look to see who had touched me. Somebody looked at me with concern on their face.

  Their thick eyebrows were furrowed and their lips were pressed tightly together, as if they were trying to say something without actually saying it.

  "Okay?" they quietly asked. A small, singular word from this person created an opportunity to let go.

  I smiled unintentionally and brushed my fingers through their hair; it simply felt right, as if I had done that multiple times before. It felt natural.

  "I'm fine." My voice was calm even though that may have been a half-truth.

  They huffed, clearly unconvinced, and climbed into my lap like they’d done it a thousand times before. Then they flopped onto their back with a sigh, still watching my face like they were waiting for something.

  I chuckled quietly. Their antics reminded me at times of a dog, too loyal for their own good.

  There was a comfortable silence.

  My mind began to wonder again. I realized that over time, something changed; my feelings toward both of them moved into the right place without me even being aware that they were moving at all.

  I actually cared about these two—not because I had been obligated to do so or because they were in need, but due to some gut instinct that they were important to me. I had formed a bond with them—and it was like I was now responsible for them in some way, a responsibility that I never even realised I had wanted until I started to feel a weight around my chest.

  Leaning back and gazing up at the stars, I felt as if time had somehow twisted itself or was simply stretched out over an enormous distance. The vast expanse of the sky twinkled as if it were alive. The sound of surf gently crashing against the rocks was soothing. The soft glow of fireflies flitting around us provided an almost surreal atmosphere of tranquility.

  Someone remained resting on my lap, their body heat still visible to me after having been away from them. I shifted in place, rubbed the back of my neck, and was finally able to release the thought I had been holding onto.

  "...if I get better..." I spoke barely loud enough for only Erik to hear.

  Erik turned to me, his gaze locked onto me.

  "...will I have to leave?"