Archive of Our Own

Oli walks up the gangway without turning around, despite the fact that he can feel Eddie’s gaze prickle between his shoulder blades. Underneath his feet, the wooden clipper creaks. She’s grown heavy over the course of the morning; her round belly now filled with timber and spices raised from Sanctuary’s rich, black soil.

Sausage waits for him on deck, blue eyes unreadable. ‘Welcome aboard. Ready to set sail?’

All at once, the sailors ambling about seemingly aimlessly organize like an ant-colony perceiving a threat. The Girasol’s canvases unfurl like cracking thunder, her home port’s crest resplendent on their fronts: the sun herself on a splotch of teal, framed in lime and pink. Vitality and beauty, forever united.

They drift in the wind for now, ropes slack. The Girasol nudges sluggishly against the pier, making her towering masts rattle. Oli steps up to the taffrail and takes his last breath of Sanctuary air.

Eddie stands right where he left him. He hasn’t moved at all. There is so little distance between them, Oli could probably clear it with one leap and land next to him. He digs his fingers into his palms.

Two days ago, he scribbled a list onto the back of the map he purchased, in thick, black charcoal:

Katherine
Scott
Pix
Shelby

His friends on the continent who might remember him. He’s going to visit each of them – and he’s not even thinking about returning to Sanctuary before he’s crossed-off every single one.

Two months of travel, maybe three. Sufficient time for the death-grip of the barbed wire slung around his heart to soften, if he’s lucky. It’s not going to go away – he knows that now – but it might loosen enough to allow him to be what Eddie wants him to be: a good friend.

Oli turns his gaze toward the horizon. The salt-kissed breeze picks up, tugging at his hair.

He’ll need to be diligent in establishing his distance. He’ll need to banish all thoughts of the harengon from his mind. A sweet ache spreads through his chest, but he’s sure he can do it. It’s not going to break him.

The sails catch wind and the Girasol lurches forward.

‘Aaand off we go,’ Sausage cheers. Oli didn’t hear him shimmy closer due to the commotion. ‘Open waters. You going to be alright?’

Oli frowns. ‘Huh?’

‘Because we fished you out of the ocean, way back when.’ He waves a hand, multiple gold bracelets jingling. ‘If staying up here triggers some unpleasant memories, we have a cabin downstairs that you can use.’

‘It hadn’t until you brought it up,’ Oli mutters. His recollection of the whole ordeal is dim at best; he was rather malnourished and dehydrated at the time. The one thing he remembers distinctly is the crackling of lightning splitting the sky apart at the tips of a trident.

His gaze snaps to the horizon, but today, there’s not a cloud to be seen. The sun’s just dipping her toes into the waves.

Oli frowns. ‘We’re going east?’

Glimmer Grove, where Katherine’s apparently royalty, lies to the north.

Sausage’s smile vanishes. ‘Sanctuary ships are required by law to only approach or leave our territory from the east. Because that way,’ he points westward, ‘is the Eversea.’

Oli’s throat clicks. He scrunches up his face, trying to dispel the pressure. ‘It’s not on the map, is it?’

‘No.’ Sausage shakes his head. ‘But there’s a warning: Pirates. Namely, Pirate Joe. We don’t want to run into him; he’ll relieve us of our lives as well as our cargo.’

Sanctuary shimmers in the distance like a gold coin in lush grass. This is the first time Oli’s been outside of the city since he woke up in the tavern, covered in bandages. It’s the first time he’s been this far away from Eddie.

A stabbing pain pierces his chest. His fingers clamp down on the railing. Carefully, he breathes into his belly.

Sausage straightens with a shrug. ‘I met him once; he’s really up to no good. So we’re avoiding any chance of such an encounter.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Oli grits out.

The places where Eddie’s arms wrapped around him to say goodbye burn like he rubbed them raw on a bushel of hay. Oli clenches his teeth.

‘Hey,’ says Sausage. ‘Are you alright?’

An invisible noose closes around his throat. Every sway of the ship feels like it slams his brain against the insides of his skull.

‘I’m fine.’

A hand appears on his arm. ‘Maybe you should sit down,’ Sausage says. His voice shudders through Oli like someone hit a gong next to his ear. It reverberates in his bones.

Heat and acid spill over his tongue. ‘I’m fine,’ he yelps and barely manages to throw himself across the taffrail before hurling up everything he’s ever eaten into the churning waves.

It goes on forever.

The first thing that makes it through the nausea, presumably a good while later, is Sausage’s solid presence at his side. ‘Get it all out,’ he sing-songs, in a tone suggesting he’s been saying it for a while. ‘Seasickness is like that. You’ve just got to get it out of your system.’

The melting-hot iron bands constricting his chest are not seasickness. Neither is the sweaty, bone-white clench of his knuckles on the railing, nor the creaking of his ribs. But Oli doesn’t think he could force out the words to explain – even if it weren’t such a monumentally stupid idea.

His knees give out. The deck meets him head-on.

*

Oli spends the night pressing his palms to the sides of the bunk a stocky rabbit named Piper poured him into at Sausage’s behest, muttering ‘I’m fine’ to himself like a mantra.

He can do this. He’s not going to run back to Sanctuary because it hurts a little. Separation is always painful. And the string not being happy about his decision to leave Eddie behind was to be expected.

Running now would just be embarrassing. He made so many plans – publicly, no less! Even if he were to turn around and let Eddie soothe all of his agony away with a big hug, it wouldn’t be good for his heart. It’d give the bugger ideas.

Another wave of nausea bubbles up from his stomach. He swallows against the urge to hurl. It’s nothing but acid now; might as well keep it down and not ruin his voice box.

After all, he’s fine.

Eventually, the dizziness recedes enough to allow him to fall into a light doze. It lurks at the edges of his consciousness like a creeper behind a tree, but it gets more distorted by the moment; a radio loosing signal with too much distance.

A thump on the cabin door startles him out of his thoughts.

‘Oli, mi amigo! Time to wake up! We’re here!’

Oli blinks. His eyelashes crunch with salt and sweat. ‘We’re where?’

‘Glimmer Grove.’ Sausage’s voice is muffled through the wood, but unfailingly enthusiastic. ‘Are you still sick? I gotta say, if you don’t know where you are that’s kind of concerning.’

Glimmer Grove is two days’ worth of sailing away from Sanctuary. Oli squints up at the porthole, seeing lapis-blue sky behind the rounded glass.

‘I’m coming in.’

The door bursts open and Sausage struts in, arms akimbo. He peers at Oli. ‘You look like soft cheese, but green.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome. I hate to say this, but if you really want to meet princess Katherine, you have to get up now. She’s expecting us on the pier and it would be rude to keep her waiting. Very, very rude.’

Oli scrubs a hand across his face. His hair sticks to his temples in slick strands. ‘How have we already arrived?’

Sausage lights up. ‘Easy. I got on my knees for Santa Perla and asked her to bless our journey. She sent us a powerful wind that carried us here in the blink of an eye.’

‘Umm.’

Sausage lays a curled fist over his heart. ‘She knows how much I miss my little boy. Now get up; I won’t have you causing an international incident while you’re under Sanctuary’s protection.’

*

The moment Oli steps out onto the deck, tears shoot into his eyes. He shields his face from the glare, squinting at the colourful, dancing spots dotting his vision.

Glimmer Grove’s palace’s massive towers spear the sky; white marble columns and pointed roofs glowing in the sunlight. Mounted on their tips flutter flags in lilac and lavender. Bushes covered in blossoms billow from pots on the windowsills. The place could have come straight out of a fairytale, were it not for its second half: charred, black stone and ash-coated glass that silence clings to like a bone-chilling fog rolling in from the midnight sea.

The building dwarfs the town below, made up of equally pale houses – calcite and diorite and warm woods – with purple roofs. Its streets merge into a quaint little harbour district, where a party of twelve is waiting. Two soldiers on horseback flank a squad of palace guards. In their centre stands a figure in a blush pink dress, her gloved hands demurely folded.

‘Princess Katherine!’

Sausage bounds down the gangway like a boisterous young colt, dragging Oli behind him.

Katherine steps out of her circle of protectors. ‘Sausage of Sanctuary, welcome to Princess Pier.’

‘Oh, it’s so good to see you again, your highness!’

They shake hands. Katherine pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, drawing the onlookers’ attention to the comb holding her raven tresses, adorned with a beautifully carved, painted sunflower.

‘You as well, Sausage.’ Her gaze lands on Oli and he sucks in a breath. ‘Who’s this?’

Oli’s heart sinks.

‘This is Oli, the bard.’ Sausage throws an arm across his shoulders and nudges him forward. ‘Oli, meet her royal highness, Princess Katherine of Glimmer Grove.’

‘I’m not a bard! Um.’ Oli bites his tongue. ‘I’m the new face around town? Your highness.’

He attempts a bow. One of the guards presses his metal-gloved palm over his mouth, probably to hide a snicker.

Katherine’s expression remains perfectly blank. ‘It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

‘Uh, same.’ Oli clears his throat. ‘I feel like I’ve seen you before?’

‘That seems to happen a lot to you,’ Sausage comments.

‘Somewhere else,’ Oli continues, as if he hadn’t heard. ‘In kind of another life, maybe?’

Katherine’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, but she keeps her countenance. ‘That’s impossible, sir… Oli? I unfortunately don’t get out of Glimmer Grove often and never for entertainment.’

She turns to Sausage. ‘It’s been a while, Sausage. To commemorate our meeting today, I’d like to invite you to dine with me this evening. Naturally the invitation extends to your… friend.’

Oli fights down his disappointment. Katherine’s only the first name on his list. There are others. Someone is bound to remember him.

Sausage bows deeply. ‘That is a very generous offer, your highness. Sadly, I cannot stay. Once we’ve swapped our cargo, I’ll need to return to Sanctuary. My man and child are waiting for me.’ He pauses. ‘But Oli’s headed south, so he’s got the time. If he hasn’t changed his mind?’

His eyes meet Oli’s, the same anticipatory expression in them as he had on the deck of the Girasol when they left.

Oli doesn’t allow himself a moment to consider. ‘I haven’t.’

He faces the princess.

Her polite smile hasn’t wavered, she’s watching like a spider poised in the centre of her net. Calm, cool and collected under any circumstances, that’s Katherine Elizabeth. One of the best monster hunters he’s ever known – although in her current role, she probably doesn’t get much time for the hobby. Does she miss it, cooped up and coddled and protected in her two-toned tower?

‘Thank you for your generous offer, your highness, but I can’t stay either. I must, um. Find a friend.’

‘I understand,’ says Katherine. ‘One friend in your hand is worth two in the bushes.’

*

The three largest cities of the continent – Stratos, Chromia and Cogsmeade – lie to the south of Glimmer Grove, clustered together in an emerald green valley like eggs in a robin’s nest. To get there, Oli has to cross a mountain range spanning from the Ancient Capital all the way to Dawn. Its snow-dusted tips rise in the distance, tall and strong and girthy.

There’s a fork in the road coming up. Well, road being a bit of an over-statement; it’s barely more than a gravel path. The only person he passed in the last two days was a wandering trader, who offered Oli a slime ball in exchange for a ditty to entertain his llamas. Which… okay. He knew it was going to be a long journey, but that’s when it really sunk in.

One of the options before him leads south, the other curves westward, stretching towards the top of a smaller, closer mountain. There is no sign pointing in either direction.

‘Alright, then.’ Oli bends down and places his slime ball on top of his shoe. ‘Stay there, daddy will be right with you.’

He wipes his greasy hands on his trousers and unfolds his map. Its gilded edges glitter. Thick, dark lines sketch out the borders of the continent, the roads curling inwards and the names of the cities. All up to date, of course, thanks to the wealth of information – changing shorelines, shifting ocean currents, growing settlements – the pilgrims bring to Sanctuary every year.

He traces his fingertip south from Glimmer Grove until he gets to the crossroads he might possibly be at, east of the snowy mountains and north of the other snowy mountains.

The good news is he’s made it halfway to where he’s trying to go. The bad news is if he continues to follow the path he’s on, it’s going to take him right to Gobland.

Yeah, no.

Oli rubs his suddenly clammy hands. Thus far, he’s avoided thinking about Gobland pretty successfully. A lot more successfully than he’s avoided thinking about Ed– No. Gobland. Not going there. If I have to climb a mountain to keep it that way, so be it.

He scoops up his ball.

*

Immediately upon reaching the tall, slim birches and stout, squatting oaks, the road narrows, which is a good sign that he’s headed away from any and all kinds of civilisation. Leaves whisper under his feet, bouncy and soft. The spruce trees stretch higher and higher into the sky, stirring the greying clouds.

Now that noon has come and gone, a small part of Oli’s brain starts checking for uneven ground and bigger rocks. Nooks between trees. Crannies and hollow trunks; spaces safe to sleep in – or sus enough to stay away from.

The slope grows steeper. The layer of fallen plant matter is so deep it reaches his ankles and he has to lean forward with every step to keep his balance. His chest warms under his shirt, sweat gathering in his armpits. The unusual exertion has his heart pounding. Maybe spending so much time languishing in Sanctuary wasn’t a smart idea after all.

‘Blasted place.’ Oli kicks a stone. ‘Completely unhelpful. Idiot.’

When he inhales, the air burns in his throat. He veers off the path and slumps into the closest tree. That’s when he hears it: a faint tinkle, like icicles pinging against each other. Except he’s not high enough for water to freeze yet.

Chittering draws his attention. Over a rise not too far ahead saunters… a fox? Upright on two legs. Its forelegs swing like arms as it prances along the road, talking to itself.

Oli blinks. Rubs his eyes.

Nope, that’s definitely a fox coming his way. All of a sudden, the animal stops, one foot in mid-air. Its pointy nose twitches. Two beady eyes lock on Oli and they stare at one another in mutual bafflement.

Then the fox’s face derails. Its chops flatten, curving upwards into a grotesque, face-splitting grimace. It lifts a single paw, white on the toe-beans and halfway up its arm, and waves.

Oli whirls on his heel and books it.

*

There’s something wrong with this world. Seriously, seriously wrong.

Okay, could the bipedal fox grinning at him like a loon have been a figment of his imagination? Oli scrubs his cheek against the bark of the spruce he’s perched on, drawing his cloak tighter around his shoulders. Below him, a zombie groans.

Technically, yes. It could have been a normal fox, horribly disfigured by the patterns of light and shadow falling through the canopy above. And Oli just didn’t clock it, because he finally went off the deep end. Because of dehydration. Or… insomnia.

His stomach lurches. His ribcage feels like it’s being squeezed by glowing hot iron bars. Like the str– something is cutting his flesh. He presses his eyes shut.

Sleep doesn’t come this night, either.

*

In the end, he takes the road leading past Gobland and yeets himself into the closest bush whenever he hears footsteps approaching which aren’t his own. Pricked all over and covered in sweet berry stains, he switches to full-time cross-country shortly before Gobvill.

He’s ambling along a grassy hill, headed for a knot of wandering traders guiding trains of up to ten heavily loaded llamas, when a cloud above drifts off and he spots it: a gigantic bridge in the sky, connecting to a sprawling, radiant, floating temple complex gleaming like something out of a dream.

Oli’s breath sticks in his throat.

All of the buildings, including a couple of huge, vertically spinning cogs, seem to be carved entirely from quartz and prismarine. Vines and leafy greenery drip over the ledges, hung with jewels. Water pours out of spouts looking like gargoyles should crouch on top of them; dragon-faced sentinels guarding the borders of the islands.

Stratos.

The kingdom Joel built with his own two hands. And yeah, Oli has to hand it to him: it’s more opulent than Sanctuary. Everything seems dusted in gold. Ice, too, probably; this high up. Rime on the tree branches, frost-work on the window panes. Oli’s head starts to spin from staring upwards.

Joel, my friend, my boy, you are definitely compensating.

Something bumps his side. ‘Oy,’ a trader barks. ‘Watch where you’re going!’

Oli doesn’t take his eyes off the floating city. How in the world does Joel get up there? He can’t be swimming up the waterfalls, can he? But if not–

He purses his lips. It irks him that he can’t spot the way up, mostly because it means he’ll have to ask Joel the next time he sees him. Which will be a while, because Joel’s in Sanctuary. With Hermes and Sausage and… Eddie.

Oli wrenches his mind away from the thought, screwing up his face. He’s been so good. He’s gone from thinking about Eddie every day to barely remembering him at all. Almost. Either way, he can’t risk a tailspin now.

He won’t.

*

‘I see injuring your leg has not taught you a healthy fear of doing it again.’ Eddie says. ‘How unexpected.’

His tone suggests that he doesn’t find it unexpected at all, but Oli’s only half listening. His grey matter twirls akin to a maple spinner in one of the afternoon rainstorms haunting the jungle. He’s dimly aware that at this rate, he’s going to wear a hole into the smithy’s floor, but he can’t stop.

A broad paw cups his shoulder. ‘What is it?’

Oli’s head jerks up. He stares at Eddie; his furred cheeks, the unhappy slant of his mouth, his large, open ears.

‘Oli?’

He owes him an explanation, doesn’t he? Oli kneads the hem of his shirt between his finger and thumb. It’s not enough sensation to distract him, so he rubs harder.

Eddie grabs his wrists. ‘Tell me what’s going on in that brain of yours.’

The intensity of his stormy eyes makes Oli’s mouth go dry. ‘I–’

– want to kiss you, his mind supplies. He swallows the words ere they can spill out. ‘I–’

‘– need to leave,’ Eddie finishes, deflating. ‘To find your friends. Of course.’

He straightens, smoothing his apron. The absence of his touch sends a chill down Oli’s spine.

‘Better not waste any more time, right? I’ll take you to the cartographer’s in the morning.’

In retrospect, that was probably the moment things stopped feeling okay. Oli’s chest hurts. Rubbing the spot will neither make it worse nor better, so he pushes the memory away and fumbles for his bag.

The first instrument which falls into his hands is the horn. He brings it to his lips. He’s not even trying to play properly, but his fingers naturally slot into the grooves along the striated surface, too familiar with its shape.

Eddie believes in him. Void, Eddie wants him to find his friends. He’s been nothing but helpful during the preparations for the journey and completely unworried by the prospect of Oli’s absence. Which is a good thing, he reminds his heart. Otherwise Eddie would be missing him now, and he doesn’t want that, does he?

Yes.

No. No, he does not, because missing people fucking hurts.

Oli cups his free hand over the horn’s mouth. The sound distorts, sliding into a different register. He’s been trying to coax a decent pentatonic scale out of this thing for ages.

Eddie believes in him. If he can’t stop thinking about him entirely, maybe instead of pining for a summer long gone, this is what he should be focusing on.

*

‘Ahem,’ someone says above him, clearing their throat. ‘Oli, was it?’

A flame washes across his field of vision. Oli yelps – then he recognizes the fiery locks pouring from underneath a purple hood held in place by several hairpins. They frame a familiar face.

‘Gem!’

Guards surround her. Five of them are on horseback, positioned in a semi-circle. One’s riding a stag, holding the leash of the biggest bear Oli’s ever seen. The others lead two llamas each, packed to the brim with… terracotta? All of them, including Gem, are clad in long, violet robes. Thin, bright blue shawls flutter around their necks, probably to cover their mouths and noses in a far hotter, dryer climate.

Oli’s stomach flip-flops at seeing her again. A different part of him hasn’t forgotten what she did to him the last time they spoke, so instead of jumping to greet her, he remains seated on the grass.

Gem straightens. ‘Oh, good. You remember me.’

Oli’s heart skips a beat. Wait–

She holds out her open palm. Three jewel-studded metal bands adorn her fingers: a signet ring, an engagement ring and one that connects to the sleeve of her dress draping across the back of her hand.

‘Horn, please.’

Oli blinks. ‘What?’

‘My horn,’ says Gem, pointing at the instrument. ‘I want it back. Now.’

‘B-but–,’ Oli leaps to his feet. ‘You gave this to me!’

‘I lent it to you so you could play it,’ she corrects.

‘No,’ Oli cries, cradling the horn to his chest. ‘You can’t have it; I need it!’

Gem rolls her eyes and, quick as a flash, wrenches it out of his grip.

Oli yelps and dives after her, but her closest guards immediately brandish their spears. He barely manages to freeze before accidentally impaling himself.

‘You almost gave me a heart attack. This,’ Gem bites, ‘is the Horn of Alliance between the empires of Dawn and Sanctuary. It could have caused an international incident. We were about to rush home and ready the troops.’

‘Whoa,’ Oli protests. ‘It’s not my fault you got a trigger finger… Or a trigger army. I was just sitting here blowing my horn! Making music!’

‘My horn.’

Gem wipes the mouthpiece on her sleeve and slides it into a loop on her belt. Then she climbs onto the back of the bear.

‘Gem,’ Oli whines.

The hulking creature growls and turns around. It moves like a fully loaded ship on slow waves, but there’s something feigned to its sluggishness. The claws make it pretty clear it’s ready to erupt into gut-flinging, snout-in-the-entrails violence at a second.

One by one, the guards follow the bear. The last one, riding the stag, keeps his spear trained on Oli’s chest.

It’s only when Gem and her entourage have brought some distance between themselves and Oli that the guy lowers his weapon and sprints after them.

*

‘Oh, woe is me!’

The wind rushes across his arms like white water rapids, stirring the fine hairs there.

‘Woe is me! I’m but a lowly traveller, robbed of my most prized possession!’

The sun’s hanging so low barely a strip of its orange light seeps over the edge of the horizon. Yellow and purple paper lanterns float above Compensation City, casting the temple complex in an ethereal, golden glow. The throng of traders has thinned to almost nothing and the few who remain seem more than eager to make it to a bed.

‘Woe is meee!’

Okay, so maybe it’s not going to help standing on a rock by the roadside wailing like a tomcat, but it’s sure making him feel very dramatic. As the age-old saying goes: if he still has the energy to be dramatic, things can’t be that bad.

Besides, Lower Stratos is like, right there.

‘Excuse me. Are you alright?’

Oli whirls on his heels. ‘No! Weren’t you listening? I was robbed.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear it,’ says the man in front of him, tugging the mismatched lapels of his colourful suit. ‘I only just got into range. Did they take your money, or–?’ He cocks his head. ‘You seem to be in possession of all of your clothes. And limbs.’

‘I wish she’d taken my clothes instead,’ Oli huffs. ‘She took my horn!’

‘… Your horn.’

‘Yes, my horn. My most musical instrument.’ – And only coping mechanism! – ‘I just got the C major right with it!’

The stranger hums. ‘I was wondering what that sound was doing in these parts. You almost had me running to prepare for war.’

Oli scoffs. ‘You guys and your wars. The lot of you really need to start letting things go.’

‘Like you’re doing right now with your horn?’

Oli gasps. Puffing up his chest, he hops off his rock. ‘Well, bloody look at me for a second, then, would you? I’m a bard. What bard runs around the continent without his good instrument? How in the world am I supposed to go on?’

An impish quirk of lips. ‘On foot?’

Oli briefly considers fainting. He moves away, covering his eyes. ‘Oh, what’s a boy to do?’

‘Um.’

‘I have nothing to pass my time now. Nothing to make my road go quicker.’

The stranger sighs. ‘Okay. Turn around.’

That stops Oli dead in his tracks. At once, all of his energy drains out of him like juice out of a split coconut.

What has he accomplished, so far? He’s established Katherine doesn’t know him either and then Gem came and took her horn away. His horn. Meanwhile, three more names languish on the back of his map and Eddie believes in him.

‘I can’t turn around,’ he whispers.

‘Um, yes, you can?’

Oli’s stomach curdles like milk gone sour. If he can’t even keep it together long enough to cross off four names in total–

The stranger groans, steps past Oli and whistles. Behind him, the night shifts.

Oli flinches. ‘Wah!’

‘Here,’ says the man, thrusting a lead at him. ‘To make your road go quicker.’

The squirming shadow resolves itself into big round eyes, a strong body covered in a slick, black coat, a mane, a tail and hoofed legs.

‘I’m almost home anyway; it’s fine. I can walk the rest of the distance.’

Oli blinks. ‘You can’t just give me your horse.’

The stranger purses his lips. ‘But my llamas don’t like him.’

‘Who does that?’ Oli shrieks. ‘Nobody does that!’

‘He’d have to go either way, so you might as well get some use out of him.’

When Oli doesn’t move, the guy grabs his hand and wraps the lead around his wrist. That moment, the light of Stratos catches his face. Oli startles.

The stranger’s eyes are dual-coloured, heterochromatic; one blue, the other buttercup yellow. Something tugs at the back of his mind.

He jerks away. ‘I can’t– I’m not taking it. Nope. No! It’s not right!’

‘How about I give him to you on loan? You can take him to his next owner for me.’

Oli pauses. ‘And who’s that?’

‘Oh, some guy named Jimmy.’ The stranger grimaces, like there’s history there and he’s quite done with it. ‘He lives in Tumble Town; in the badlands. Blond hair, pretty short, pretty in general. He tends to announce himself, so you’ll know him when you see him.’

‘How… How do you know you can trust me?’

The man shrugs. ‘I don’t. I just really want to get rid of this horse. Feel free to keep him if you decide you want him after all. See ya.’

He waves.

Oli stares at the lead and then at the stranger’s retreating form. ‘Wait. You didn’t even tell me your name! I’m Oli!’

The man throws him a toothy grin over his shoulder. ‘Nice to meet you, Oli. I’m Scott of Chromia.’

He lifts his fedora, which is covered in red and teal-coloured patches of fabric. A bright blue braid tumbles out. Previously bundled underneath the hat, it uncoils like a snake, reaching all the way to the small of his back.

Oops, Oli thinks.

*

Okay, yeah, he’ll admit it: riding on horseback has so much more swagger than walking. The miles melt away under the stallion’s strong hooves while nothing can touch him, neither zombies nor skeletons, and his steed’s speed makes even the creepers look like mere interns at the hallowed art of jump-scaring innocent passers-by. Oli has to do nothing but relax into the saddle and enjoy the lush green valley as it turns brown. Acacia trees dot the crunchy shrubland, their bark so gnarly a witch could probably read a fortune out of it.

‘I was acquainted with one who could do that, once,’ he tells the horse. ‘She didn’t appreciate it when I dropped the for– and went straight for the –tune, but it’s such a good pun.’

The story must have made the rounds, too. He hasn’t met a single witch since who didn’t lob a potion at him on sight.

The horse snorts like he finds that funny. Oli pats his neck, because it’s important to reward desired behaviour.

Ahead of them, a one-winged angel peeks her head over the hills.

Oli blinks. Rubs his eyes.

Oh, it’s a statue. Still, even grey-skinned and motionless, he immediately knows who she’s supposed to portray. Damn, how far back does her history with these people go?

Miffed, Oli dismounts. The grass he lands on makes a noise like a bunch of sticks in a fire.

All around him, ruins rise. Rubble litters the ground. Upon closer inspection, the area seems bigger than he initially thought; behind the statue’s pedestal, a sprawling mess of crumpled walls and overgrown streets becomes visible. As far as capitals go, it looks pretty ancient.

This is where ‘Uncle Pix’ lives. The one who never forgets things. Which, Oli suspects, can be a blessing and a curse. Personally, he would very much like to not remember Sausage calling Joel ‘thunder daddy.’ Like, ever.

He can’t even recall the last time he and Pix crossed paths, it’s been so long. And they weren’t close; their interactions have always been more of a ‘friend of a friend at somebody’s house party’ kind of deal. But now, two names down his list with no hits yet, his eidetic memory is rapidly becoming Oli’s only hope.

He rubs his damp palms on his pants and clears his throat. ‘Hey, Pix, you here? You might not remember me, but it’s me, Oli!’

The air stirs. There’s a belching sound. Oli scrunches up his nose and stalks around the statue.

A herd of dodos grazes in a field, cobalt-blue plumage whispering as they bow their beaks to the dirt. There are about twelve of them, each one bigger than Oli is tall.

The horse nudges his shoulder.

Oli rolls his eyes. ‘Go ahead.’

He loosens the leather straps holding the bridle and dumps the saddle into the grass. He watches as the stallion storms off to join the birds, to make sure they don’t attack him – which they don’t – then takes a deep breath.

‘Pix! Are you here!?’

No reply. There’s not even a breeze to ruffle the acacias.

Oli steeples his fingers in front of his chest. Sausage said the Ancient Capital was abandoned, that’s why Pix set up shop in the first place. So there should be no one around except for the man himself. Should he risk…?

He closes his eyes and focuses inward. Carefully, he reaches out and gently taps the surface of the still pond stretching through his mind. Ripples spread out. The wind picks up, hissing along a nearby crack in two walls. Far away, thunder rolls. Drops of water hit his skin; rain from a clear sky.

The haunting ends as soon as it’s started.

Again, there is no reply. The only disturbances Oli feels are the ones he made himself. Technically that doesn’t mean anything, others can choose not to interact, but as far as signs go, it’s pretty un-missable. Oli’s stomach squirms. He cups both hands around his mouth.

‘Pix!’ He yells. ‘I know you’re here because Sausage told me. Stop hiding!’

His shouting falls on deaf ears. If they hit any ears at all. It seems the Ancient Capital doesn’t even house a single disgruntled spirit to get unjustly annoyed at his intrusion, either. It’s just radio silence.

Not that Oli could fight a spirit right now. He’d need a horn for that.

The wind howls over the plains and the dodos huddle close, shooting him judgmental looks. He wipes his sweaty brow and glares up at the statue. ‘This is your fault somehow; I know it,’ he snarls, stomping his foot.

But being petulant about it doesn’t change the fact: Pix is not here.

*

Oli has had it with this world.

First, he gets taken by goblins. He makes it out, but learns his soulmate doesn’t want him. Then Sausage and Joel turn up playing house like the lovey-dovey couple they very much aren’t, his bloomin’ best friends, and neither of them remembers who he is. Neither does Katherine. Scott gifts him a horse, because he’s the nicest person ever, and Oli doesn’t realize… Okay, that one’s on him. He didn’t expect the eyes.

Now Pix, his only hope, is MIA.

What a fucking joke.

At this point, things were just objectively better in Sanctuary. There, he at least had Eddie.

Oli grips his bag in his fist, kneading the map through the fabric.

Katherine
Scott
Pix
Shelby

One more name. One. And then he can return to Sanctuary dead certain he is most assuredly fully and completely alone among the people he loves.

… Screw it. Screw it all backwards and twice over. He’s had enough distance. He’s going back right now.

Something warm bumps his shoulder. He cranes his neck and nearly head-butts the horse in the nostrils. The stallion noses his ears.

Okay, Oli amends. He’s going back the second he delivered the horse to its new owner.

*

There’s even a little squiggle of his face.

Fuck this.

*

Unfortunately, trying to get to Sanctuary on foot – or on hooves – is always a terrible idea. The south-eastern peninsula, which forms the largest protrusion of the continent, is located behind both the Evermoore Swamp and the Eversea and neither of those are places a casual traveller would be advised to visit. Quite the opposite.

Thus, the majority of traffic reaching Sanctuary comes directly from Dawn, via ship. Alas, Oli’s already gone far enough to smell the mesa, turning around now would mean re-tracing his steps through the Ancient Capital, Stratos and Chromia all the way back to Gobland.

Again, no. Now less than ever.

After studying his map for a while, he decides to circumvent the mountains before heading north-east towards the coast.

He promptly gets stuck on the wrong side of a river.

By the time he finds a spot for the horse to make it safely across, crooked mangrove trees loom large. Ruby wood bursts from cracks in their bark like blood. Vines dangle low, forming nooses. Above brackish pools with sludge-crusted edges, dragonflies hover, sticking close to dew-tipped reeds. Occasionally there’s the splash of a frog jumping into the water. Fog curls through the undergrowth, unbothered by the burn of the midday sun.

It’s not the type of place he’d associate with Shelby, if he’s honest. She’s more the cute and civilised kind of girl – although she’s a Great Witch here, so maybe she’s just really leaning into the aesthetic.

A flock of ravens, black-winged but seemingly headless, rises above the treetops on a rush of icy wind. The rustling of the leaves sounds like the vegetation is whispering to him. Oli shivers. Luckily, he doesn’t have to go in there.

He could try to find Shelby. He’s closer to her right now than he’s going to be for the next long while. But if history – or rather, the people he’s already met – taught him anything, she won’t know who he is, either. Oli doesn’t want to look her in the eyes as she tries to puzzle it out. He steers his horse away from the treeline when an ear-splitting scream rings out.

A woman’s scream.

The horse stops dead in his tracks. It takes Oli a second to realize it’s his own doing; he pulled on the reins. His stomach lurches.

That could have been any woman.

Purple light flashes through the green. Oli jabs his heels into the stallion’s flank.

The horse leaps forward, then throws his head up and dances in place; skirting the edge of a black-ish pool of water.

‘I should have ditched you when I had the chance,’ Oli grouses and slides out of the saddle. ‘You better still be here when I come back.’

The dirt squelches beneath his shoes. Cool air strokes his temples, heavy with… something. It’s more of a feeling than a physical thing. Goosebumps rise on the nape of his neck. About twenty paces in, he shoots a glance over his shoulder and realizes he can’t see his horse any more. The fog has already crept in.

Turn around, his mind screams. Oli checks the ground for patches that might disappear under his soles and pushes on.

A soot-stained scorch mark blooms on his path. The crispy once-grass is still smoking. Did the light emanate from here?

The thicket rustles behind him.

‘Watch out!’

It’s pure instinct to throw himself to the ground. Something enormous whooshes past and slams into a boulder, cracking it in half.

Oli grabs what he can reach – a sapling, already as gnarly as the bigger ones and decked out in emerald green leaves – and pulls himself to his feet.

He’s barely upright when the next thing barrels into him, but it’s not heavy enough to sweep him off his feet. Hands fly across his arms; fingers curl around his wrist in a vise-grip.

‘Thank you for playing bait, kind stranger,’ Shelby yells. ‘But also: Run!’

Oli catches a glimpse of slick skin, four large eyes protruding out of a massive head and a wide maw brimming with purple slime. Yep. Definitely running.

He stumbles after Shelby, fighting to keep his balance as she drags him along. There’s a creaking sound, followed by a crash, and Oli hopes to all that’s holy that it wasn’t an entire void-damn tree going down.

Shelby gropes at the strings on the bag hanging from her belt, then lobs something over her shoulder. Gold dust coats her fingers. She shakes it off, pulls a wand from her boot and points it behind her.

‘Kaboom!’

The gold dust explodes, powdering the creature right in the face. Purple slime splashes the bushes, sizzling.

Shelby abruptly changes direction and yanks Oli into a tangle of mangrove roots. With her back to the bark, she peers around the trunk. ‘Shoot, I really hoped that would kill it.’

The creature lifts its head and roars. Absolutely not dead.

‘Well, you’ve given it a snazzy new burn scar,’ Oli says. ‘Do you have any other tricks up your sleeve?’

Shelby wrings her hands. ‘Uh, I. Um. Let me think, let me think–’

She continues muttering to herself. In the background, the creature hoists one webbed foot off the ground with a squeaking sound so moist it makes Oli’s spine squirm.

‘What even is that?’

Shelby starts. ‘Oh! Bullfrog. Usually they’re friendly, unless they get too big. And they’re male… and in a bad mood.’

There’s a burp behind them.

‘Not to rush your creative process,’ says Oli, ‘But I think it’s in a killing mood.’

‘Argh.’ Shelby groans. She sticks her hand into the pouch on her belt again. ‘We need to distract it somehow. I need to get close enough to actually do something.’

She tugs a strand of hair out of her sweaty, red face. ‘Oh, void,’ she mumbles. ‘What if I can’t do it? What if they were right? What if I should have finished school, what if–’

Oli grabs her shoulders, cutting her off. ‘Distraction’s something I can do.’

Her gaze meets his for the first time, round and hazel and achingly familiar. There’s no recognition in it, only suspicion. She shakes off his grip.

‘You don’t look like a fighter.’

‘I’m not,’ says Oli, disappointment churning his belly. He squashes it; they have more pressing matters to attend to. ‘But I’m a bard. I have my ways.’

The bullfrog croaks and leaps.

‘No,’ Shelby cries, yanking at his arm, but it’s the mangrove collapsing under the creature’s weight that catapults them out of harm’s way. Both of them face-plant into the mud.

Oli rolls over and gets on all fours, knees squelching in the swamp water. He scrambles away from Shelby, searching his pockets with slippery fingers. Thin, cold metal brushes his thumb.

‘Hey,’ he calls. ‘Idiot!’

The bullfrog turns and volleys purple slime at him.

Oli cringes. ‘Ew. How’s this for a distraction? The power of song!’

He shoves the flute between his lips and blows as hard as he can. Its shrill note cuts the air like a dagger, knotting the surrounding vines and ringing in his ears.

The bullfrog screeches. It slaps its webbed feet over its head, opens its mouth to roar back at Oli and then Shelby’s there, out of nowhere, a blaze of blue from the shrubbery. She shouts another spell. Magic blasts from the tip of her wand, hitting the frog between the eyes. It jerks, as if shocked with a million volts of electricity, and keels over. Hissing and fizzing, its body dissolves, until nothing remains but a greasy, smoking, purple splotch.

Shelby stomps her boot right into it.

Oli shudders. ‘Eugh!’

Her attention zeros in on him. A scar shimmers below her eyebrow, rusty brown like a chemical burn. ‘Thank you. That was– wow! Uh, I mean–’ Pink dusts her cheeks. She clears her throat. ‘Obviously I’d have been able to defeat this monster by myself, because I am totally a legal witch and all, but you saved me a lot of time, so that’s really handy.’

It would have been even quicker had he had Gem’s horn. His horn. He just can’t get the same density of sound using the flute.

‘Glad to be of service. Go team.’

Shelby’s expression wavers. ‘You wouldn’t mind not telling anybody about what happened here, would you?’

There’s something odd to her tone. She ducks her head like she’s trying to make herself as small as possible.

Oli frowns. ‘Sure.’

Shelby relaxes. ‘Great! I mean, thanks. Again. Um, I’m Shubble, by the way. Call me if you need anything, I’m here to help the people.’

She extends her hand towards him, dripping slime and speckled with gold dust. Her fingernails are mud-black. Oli shakes it. Later, he draws a line through her name on the back of his map.

*

His forced detour around that stupid river cost him the last of his supplies, which means he’ll need to take another, hopefully smaller detour to re-stock. Cogsmeade lies half a day’s ride to the north. If he hurries, he can spend the night there and make his way to Dawn at… well, dawn. There’s bound to be a ship leaving for Sanctuary.

In as little as two days, he could be strolling into the smithy again, a tune on his lips. He’ll recount his journey for Eddie over a shared plate of tempura. They’ll split a jug of foaming mead between them afterwards and perhaps their hands will brush when they both reach to pour, in a completely casual, friendship-y way.

Oh! Maybe Oli could bring him a gift, too. He’ll have to keep an eye out.

Alas. No more delays.

*

The soil cracks below the horse’s hoofs, tearing apart at the pressure of nails on half-decayed fingers. Bones clatter. Old sinew squeaks, followed by the whistling of an arrow. The hissing of the spiders in the trees is less worrying; they usually need a while to get aggressive, soaked full and lazy with sunlight.

Oli steers the stallion onto the stone bridge leading to Cogsmeade’s city gates, right under the clock tower.

The main doorway, wide enough to fit a dragon, has already been barricaded for the night. A phalanx of soldiers takes up position outside, several dozen line the edges of the bridge. People pour from the side entrances; a family of six comes out, all of them carrying bows, even the toddler. His mother picks him up and climbs the rope ladder connected to the massive blimp rotating lazily above.

‘If you wanna be safe, get in,’ the older son yells at Oli, motioning behind him.

He nods and guides his horse past the gap, ducking his head so they can both squeeze through.

The first thing he hears once inside is the sound of rushing water. Wood creaks. A mill?

‘Out of the way,’ a guard hisses, grabbing the stallion by the reins and pulling him aside. ‘Civil battalion fifteen, ready to move out?’

‘And prepared,’ a chorus of voices affirms.

‘I’m gonna kill a zombie today, daddy,’ a four-year-old shouts, waving a slingshot.

Laughing, they march.

Cogsmeade used to be a mining settlement set right into the mountain, according to Sausage. Somehow, Oli still didn’t expect the cavern to be this vast. A sliver of moonlight shines through around the clock tower’s roof, but not enough to illuminate the other end of the cave. Glow berry vines cling to the surface of the stone above, forming glittering stars. Patches of lichen glimmer like faraway galaxies. A shiver runs down Oli’s spine.

Back in Gobland, he couldn’t see the sky. The houses were tiny, like those sneaky goblins themselves. The stench of roasted pork permeated everything, merging with the ever-present odour of rot rising from the Deep Dark sculk.

This place is different. Dryer, for one, despite the artesian spring feeding the river that powers the mill. The buildings are tall and slim, snuggled up against one another like cards in a deck, and the air smells of night. Unlike the goblins, who seem to hide their riches, the citizens of Cogsmeade put theirs on display: calcite walls, imported woods for fences and benches and stoops, the copper-studded airship outside the gate, from which arrows now rain upon the zombie hordes.

Oli prays they take emeralds here. They tend to be the most widely accepted currency. He didn’t even bring any diamonds, because they seemed to valuable to fill his money pouch with.

The doors and windows of the nearest houses are shut. No lights filter through the blinds, especially not on ground level, and the streets are emptying by the moment. Is every single citizen taking up arms tonight? Oli’s stomach sinks. He’d hoped there would at least be tavern staff still around, cleaning up the day’s carnage. All he needs is a table to crawl under. He can use his bag for a pillow.

Cold prickles against his spine like water dripping from an ice cube. He turns, furrowing his brows.

A group of guards marches past. The cuffs on their elbows are a vivid crimson, with five silver stripes each.

Oli returns his attention to the building before him, trying to figure out its function – the copper windowsills look rather decadent compared to the stone ones the houses to his right and left sport – when something slaps him across the chin.

He yelps, jerking his arms up to shield himself. It takes him a couple of seconds to realize he’s still alone.

The guards have moved on. There is no one here.

Huh?

He does a three-sixty and finds himself face to face with a woman holding her sword to his throat. Oli shrieks.

She crowds him against the wall. Her blade shimmers like oil-slick on a pond in the summer. Netherite. Dangerous on its own, but this one’s enchanted, too. Sparks dance on its sharpened edge.

Eddie would probably know the etchings on the handle; the filigree on the guard.

‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ The woman’s blue eyes radiate menace from behind her copper goggles. ‘What do you want?’

‘I, uh. I’m Oli?’ He stammers.

Her gloved hand flexes on the sword. ‘Identify yourself,’ she spits. Her tone brooks no argument. But there’s more to it, too: a deeper layer, a pitch that vibrates through his essence and calls up an echo. The hairs on Oli’s arms stand on end.

He scans his surroundings. The entire city’s attention seems to focus on defending their bridge and having fun doing it.

He lowers his voice. ‘ℸ⍑ᒷ 𝙹∷╎𝙹リ ᓭ𝙹⚍リ↸.’

It’s the oldest of his memories, yet his mouth shapes the words for what feels like the very first time. Oli squares his shoulders. ‘How about you?’

She bares her teeth. ‘Have they sent you to take me back? Because I’m not going.’

Her blade scratches his skin. Warmth trickles across Oli’s Adam’s apple before soaking into his cloak. He presses his spine to the wall. ‘I don’t even know you!’

Her eyes narrow. A beat later, she moves her sword – to point at his heart. ‘Leave.’

‘O-okay,’ Oli gulps. ‘Sure. I can do that.’

When she doesn’t give him an inch, he takes a step sideways. The tip of her weapon stays hovering in mid-air.

He climbs onto his horse. His gaze meets her cornflower blue ones. ‘Your name,’ he says. ‘You know the rules.’

She growls.

Oli keeps his expression placid, waiting.

‘⎓ᔑꖎᓭᒷ ᓭ||ᒲᒲᒷℸ∷||.’

‘Pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

She lurches forward and smacks the pommel of her sword against the horse’s flank. The stallion rears up. Oli’s fingers dig into his mane on instinct, which turns out to be a good idea as they take off towards the gates at neck-breaking speed.

He shouts a warning at the guards, then an apology as he barrels past.

They burst out onto the bridge. Oli lets the horse run, only tugging on the reins to dodge a minor swinging a pickaxe, a hissing creeper and the slashing claws of a lost husk.

Eventually, the aura hanging over Cogsmeade – her aura – lessens.

Oli unclenches his pale-white knuckles. The stallion snuffles, slowing down.

‘Sorry, king,’ Oli mutters, tightening his calves around the horse’s belly. Now that they’re out in the open, they can’t actually stop and rest. There are monsters nearby.

Blimey, though. Finally someone who remembers something and it’s an angry woman he’s never met before.

But her name does ring a bell. If he understood correctly, she shouldn’t be here.

*

By the time the morning peeks above the horizon, the horse has taken over. Oli sprawls across his neck, eyelids glued shut. Two arrows stick in his thighs, one each, sending pulses of pain up his leg. His head feels stuffed with cotton; more so than it’s ever been. If there’s one thing he’d really like right now, it’s a cup of tea from that pavilion Eddie took him to.

Or Eddie. He’ll take Eddie.

Oli’s eyes snap open. Warmth suffuses his cheeks. Because no, ‘taking Eddie’ – even just into his arms, let alone otherwise – is very much not on the table. And it never will be.

His stomach grumbles, pinching with hunger. The stallion’s ears flick in agreement.

The path to Dawn serpentines through the mountains, but he could cut across the meadow to save on time. It would put them precariously close to the edge of the cliff overlooking the ocean to his left, though. Oli chews his lip.

More noise from his belly. A full-on growl.

He steers the stallion off the road.

The abyss yawns into his face. Dark waves churn below, their crests spume-tipped. They throw themselves upon the rocks, crashing and screaming.

In the distance, a tower rises above the jagged peaks. Its golden roof gleams as if it’s competing against the sun herself, and if Sausage’s style becomes apparent in every single house he built in Sanctuary, so does Gem’s here. No matter how cross Oli is with her at the moment, she’s a phenomenal architect.

Absent-mindedly, he strokes the horse’s neck. ‘I should probably take off your bridle before I go, huh? So you can run wild and free, like the stormy creature you are, deep inside.’

The stallion huffs. Startled, Oli realizes he’s yet to give him a name. Hmm. It’ll need to be a good one. A proud one, to befit a steed such as his.

The horse’s hooves slip sideways. Oli yelps, digging his fingers into his mane, but there’s nothing he can do. The ledge comes apart underneath them, spitting rocks into the ocean. Solid stone turns to cobbles.

For a terrifying moment, there’s only the air rushing past.

Then they hit the water.

*

Icy cold swallows Oli up. He kicks his feet, caught in a wash of bubbles. His mouth opens to gasp for air and salt sears his tongue, brine burning in his nose.

‘Skeletor! You will suffer for the sins you’ve committed.’

Oli struggles upwards and breaks the surface, but the undertow catches him by the ankles, sweeping his legs.

‘Sink to Davy Jones’ locker.’

Something gets pushed into his shoulder. The horse! Oli’s hand fly to grasp it, hanging on as tight as he can.

The stallion lurches forward, paddling against the current. Unceremoniously, the waves grab a hold of both of them and spit them onto the shore. Since Oli’s arm is still tangled in a stirrup, he ends up with his feet under him, dangling off the horse’s side. The stallion’s eyes roll, wide enough to show white. He snorts into Oli’s fringe.

‘Yeah, I can’t believe that just happened, either,’ Oli mutters. Davy Jones’… locker?

He disentangles his limbs. The leather straps have worn deep grooves into his flesh, which are already starting to darken.

Above, the cliffs loom large. There will be a lot of climbing in their immediate future.

The stallion grunts as if he’d heard and turns his ass toward Oli. Its black coat shimmers; liquid ink.

‘Sorry, buddy,’ says Oli, re-balancing on shaking knees. ‘But I’m getting to Dawn today whether you like it or not. You can stay if you want.’

He might have to. That incline looks very steep.

He rolls his shoulders, then winces. His shirt and pants cling to his skin. Water pours from a hole in his boot. But hey – they’re not dead.

Go team…?

The beach they got swept onto is shaped like a crescent moon, its sand white as the insides of a clam. Which means it’s probably not actual sand but rather a ton of coral splinters, ground to dust by the force of the tide. It’s… oddly pretty.

He’s not the first traveller to land here, either. There’s a fireplace in the distance, with logs around it to sit on, and above a long-cold fire hangs– Oli’s heart skips a beat, then shoots right into his throat.

The dragon egg!

This is– This is home! It’s the hut he built after being yeeted from the sky!… Or at least it’s the location he constructed it in, because the dirt mound itself is gone. It must’ve gotten swept out to sea.

He scrambles. Sand clings to his fingers, chafing the soft spaces in between. His cloak is so soaked it may as well be made of lead. He undoes the clasp and drops it where he stands.

The purple dots on the egg’s scaly, black shell are dark; a church mosaic with no light behind it. There’s still something otherworldly about it, though, and as Oli draws nearer, he finds he can’t tear his gaze away. It’s different from when he saw the sword on the vendor’s table on Sanctuary’s Midnight Bazaar. This is the Void calling for him; like recognizing like.

Oli traces the patterns on the outside, feeling for vibrations. For a terrifying moment there’s nothing. Then something nudges his fingertips.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve had enough time to cook all the way through,’ he mutters, brows furrowing. He brought two logs to sit on when he set up the fireplace. Without thinking, he shoves the spare one into the pit underneath the egg, fishes a flint and steel out of his pocket and rubs it on his shirt, before snapping the two pieces against one another.

Sparks fly and fizzle out.

Oli looks around. A line of dried kelp clings to the cliffs; detritus of the last flood. He runs over. The bushels he gathers crunch to dust in his grasp.

The kelp burns quickly, spewing flames in an ethereal blue-green. The smell of roasted seafood tickles his nose. He cups the shell and waits until it starts to warm.

A hum reaches his mind, faint and far-away. The claws holding his guts in a death-grip loosen. Omelet saved.

Oli brushes off his hands and flops onto the remaining log. It’s only then that it occurs to him to check on the horse.

The stallion’s sleeping, pressed tight against the cliff-side, one of his hind legs lifted to rest its weight on the tip of his hoof. A full moon hangs between flickering clouds, pale grey, leaching the colour of his surroundings.

Oli blinks. He didn’t notice the day turning to night.

Somewhere above them lies Dawn. Scaling the wall will be dangerous in the dark, but Oli’s pretty sure he can do it. Derring-do and dare-devilling are his specialities, after all. The horse won’t be able to come, but that’s okay. Thus remains… the egg.

That one he’ll have to take with him. But the thought of dousing the fire and letting it cool enough for transport twists something deep in his guts.

*

‘Davy Jones’ locker is an anatopism,’ Oli yells, springing straight up from the log. He flails, trips over nothing and lands flat on his arse. ‘Ow!’

Above him, the peach-orange sky spins. It’s… morning? Did he fall asleep?

Oli rubs his bleary eyes. Three of his joints pop and a jolt of pain shoots from the crick in his neck to his toes. He really should have gotten out of his wet clothes – then again, he didn’t exactly plan to doze off.

The fire has burned down to embers, glowing in a fading bronze on top of a mound of ash. Oli scoots off the second log and nudges it forward using his foot. He waits until it bursts into flames before climbing to his feet.

Dizziness hits him. He grits his teeth, sucking air in through his nose. He’s not getting sick now. He has to get to Dawn today, locate the harbour master – or a well-informed captain – and board the next ship sailing for Sanctuary.

The string throbs in his chest. Tendrils of nausea creep from his stomach into his throat. Oh. His guts have probably begun digesting themselves.

‘Alright. Time to go.’

He scans the egg’s surface. The purple scales shimmer brighter now; clearly the night of warmth has done it a load of good. It’s too big to shove in his bag, so he’ll have to carry it in his hands.

‘One more trip,’ he tells it. ‘And you’re going to be the most satisfying omelet anyone’s ever eaten.’

Then, finally, things can go back to the way they were before. He’ll sit on the stoop of the smithy and play songs for the children. He’ll share his lunch with Eddie – carrots dipped in copious amounts of hummus – and watch him swing his hammer in the workshop afterwards, cataloguing the patches of sweat darkening his fur. Looking, always looking, but never touching.

The string twinges. Bile surges sour on his tongue. He swallows it down and cradles the shell. ‘Let’s do this.’

Blazing heat sears his palm. Oli cries out and flinches. ‘Ah!’

The egg tumbles from his hands right into the fire. There’s a cracking sound and for a split-second, Oli’s not sure whether it was the egg, the fire, or his own chest.

Fuck.

All of a sudden, everything becomes too much. His windpipe twists like a coil of rope, cutting off his air. He slumps into the sand and wraps his arms around his knees, gritting his teeth to smother a sob.

His body has been aching every day since he left Sanctuary. Yet even before, carrying the string wasn’t exactly painless. It made his skin itch and his gums smart and his joints stiff and yeah, Oli got better at pretending he doesn’t want to cling to Eddie until his muscles give out; got better at feigning nonchalance whenever their eyes met, but that’s all it’s ever been: pretending.

Pretending it wasn’t breaking his soul in two, not being able to show him how much he meant to him.

Oli clenches his jaw. Stupid string. Stupid, blasted, bloody thing.

He scrubs his face with his sleeve, fists curled. There’s no use in crying over spilt milk. There has never been and there never will be.

His mouth fills with the taste of iron, which doesn’t make things any better. Neither does the mantra. Because the truth is this: if everything goes back to how it was before, it’s not going to be enough.

He dreams of Eddie’s hands. His voice, his laughter. Twisted, feverish amalgamations of the harengon’s scent ravage his mind. The string in his chest pulls and pulls and pulls and his ribs feel brittle from enduring the strain.

Not being around Eddie has made it worse – a lot worse – but staying at the smithy again, sharing his life like Oli wants to, will rip him to pieces.

Perhaps, his brain points out, Eddie would believe him if he confessed now. They spent so much time apart, it surely can’t be transference any more?

Oli squashes the hope that thought sparks, vicious like salt in his nose. ‘Repeat after me: Eddie doesn’t reciprocate your feelings. Accept it already, stupid idiot. He likes you, but not like that. He will never like you like that. No use in crying–’

Something wet trails down his cheek.

Ah, shit.

With trembling fingers, he wipes his face, but it doesn’t help. Everything hurts. The gaping, yearning chasm in his chest isn’t going to close.

Here you are, then, he thinks, sardonic even in his own mind. Caught between constant sorrow and eternal grief. Surrounded by heartbreak on all sides.

Oh, what’s a boy to do?

Maybe he shouldn’t return to Sanctuary. Maybe he should just… leave. There is nothing for him in this world worth staying for.

A movement at the edge of his swimming vision catches his attention. A shadow glides along the cliff. A hulking, upright shadow, walking on two legs down a narrow path carved into the stone, which Oli hadn’t seen before because it’s impossible to see from the ground. The figure’s hiking stick is longer than they are tall.

Upon spotting Oli, they freeze. Their free hand reaches up to push the hood off their face. Two long, rounded, fluffy ears unfold, covered in light grey fur.

A rushing sound fills Oli’s head. He stares, rooted to the sand, until the figure moves again.

His footsteps set off smaller pebbles, sending them clattering into the deep. Once he’s close enough, he abandons the path and jumps. The impact of his landing rocks through Oli like an earthquake. It rattles his bones. Shakes him loose.

Oli runs.

For a moment, it’s just him. It’s a hallucination, his brain whispers. He finally went mad.

But then Eddie is running, too. He catches Oli in his open arms.