Barely Breathing

"The universe has impeccable timing—it waits until you've finally found a moment of peace, then delivers the kind of scream that rewrites everything you thought you knew."

"Duke! Jamie!"

Luke's voice shattered the tranquillity like a brick through stained glass.

Duke's response was instantaneous—excited barking that pierced the warm cocoon of my half-sleep, yanking me from pleasant nothing back into the harsh light of Clivilius reality. My eyes snapped open. My body was already moving, sitting up and turning toward the disturbance before my brain had fully engaged.

Luke stood at the hilltop that framed our secluded spot, his figure outlined against the red-brown sky. His hands were waving in the frantic semaphore of someone trying to communicate urgency across distance. His body language screamed alarm, though the specific message remained unclear.

What the fuck is Luke running about like a lunatic for?

The thought carried irritation rather than concern. We'd been having a moment—Duke and I, man and dog, peacefully existing in the warmth of the Clivilius sun. The intrusion felt like a violation of something sacred, a reminder that peace in this place was always borrowed, never owned.

"Duke." Luke's voice carried down to us, the single word laden with something that might have been happiness or relief. Hard to tell at this distance.

Duke didn't hesitate. He scrambled up the hill with the boundless energy of a dog who'd just been called by name, his small body navigating the thick dust with determined enthusiasm. His loyalty—or perhaps his curiosity—propelled him toward Luke without a backward glance at me.

I was less eager.

The interruption prickled at my slowly-rebuilt sense of calm. With a sigh that carried the weight of reluctant obligation, I grabbed my shirt and threw it over my shoulder. My feet found purchase on the slope, and I followed Duke's path upward, my mind still tethered to the tranquillity of the lagoon, to the rock where we'd rested, to the simple perfection of that moment before Luke's voice had torn through it.

"Good to see you're feeling better."

Luke greeted me as I crested the hill, his attention shifting briefly to offer Duke a welcoming pat. The gesture—friendly, casual, normal—did nothing to ease the annoyance that had settled into my chest like unwelcome furniture.

I arrived at the summit panting, my breaths echoing Duke's laboured ones. The climb hadn't been particularly steep, but my body apparently had other opinions about exertion levels.

"Yeah." The word emerged between gasps, a line of frustration creasing my forehead. Come on, Jamie, it wasn't that steep. The silent self-criticism did nothing to improve my mood. "Duke and I had a nap in the sun. I seem to be feeling much better for it."

"A nap in the sun?" Luke's voice carried amusement that grated against my already frayed patience. "Duke looks like he is soaked."

I glanced down at my companion, seeing him through Luke's eyes for the first time since we'd started climbing. Duke was indeed far from the dry, sunbathing creature I remembered. His fur was plastered to his small body, still damp from whatever aquatic adventures he'd pursued while I dozed.

Cheeky bastard must have gone back in while I was sleeping.

"You're a funny boy," I told Duke, the smile that broke through my annoyance genuine despite myself.

Luke's gaze moved from Duke to my bare chest, lingering with an observation that felt more clinical than intimate. "You really should keep your shirt on though. It's warm out."

The comment nudged at something I hadn't fully registered until that moment. The warmth of the sun on my skin felt different here—present but not aggressive, like being held rather than assaulted.

"I've only had it off since it got wet by the lagoon," I explained, my voice trailing as I drew a deep breath and actually paid attention to my own body for the first time since waking. "It's odd though."

"What is?"

"I don't feel like my skin is burning at all."

The observation hung between us, an acknowledgment of anomaly that defied everything I knew about sun exposure. Back home, ten minutes shirtless would have left me pink and tender. Here, nothing. Just warmth without consequence.

"Hmm." Luke's response was thoughtful rather than dismissive. "I guess that would be a good thing."

"Perhaps the sun is different here," I offered, the theory forming as the words left my mouth. Another impossibility to add to the growing list. Another rule of reality that Clivilius had casually discarded.

"Perhaps."

The agreement was tacit acknowledgment of how little we understood about this place—its sun, its water, its promises and demands. We were children fumbling in the dark, making up explanations for phenomena that might have no explanation at all.

The tranquillity evaporated in an instant.

A scream—high, raw, terrified—sliced through the air with the sharpness of a blade. The sound bypassed my ears entirely, seeming to enter directly through my spine, freezing every muscle, every thought, every breath.

That's Paul.

The recognition came with a jolt of terror that coursed through me like ice water in my veins. The fear I saw mirrored in Luke's eyes only amplified my own, a feedback loop of dread that threatened to paralyse us both.

My body acted before my mind could catch up. I turned, pivoting toward the source of the scream, my feet already moving.

The scene that greeted me carved itself into my memory with brutal permanence.

Paul stood by the lagoon—the same lagoon where Duke had swum, where I had surrendered to Clivilius, where peace had seemed possible just minutes ago. His body was rigid with shock, his posture that of a man confronting something his brain refused to process.

And at his feet, sprawled on the sandbank like a discarded puppet, was a human form.

"Luke." The word fell from my lips, ice-sharp, cutting through the warmth that had bathed us moments before. My gaze locked onto the scene below, accusation already forming in my chest. "What the hell have you done?"

"Oh fuck." Luke's response was barely a whisper, a confession of utter bewilderment that offered no answers. "I have no idea."

I didn't wait for explanations.

My feet found the treacherous slope, and I was sliding, stumbling, half-running down toward the nightmare unfolding at the water's edge. The ground offered no resistance—loose dirt and dust giving way beneath my weight, gravity pulling me toward something I already knew I didn't want to see.

"Jamie! Wait!" Luke's voice reached out from behind me, a futile attempt to slow my reckless advance.

But the plea didn't register. Couldn't register. My focus had narrowed to the still form on the sandbank, to the figure that was becoming clearer with each desperate step.

"Shit, Luke! Who the fuck is that?"

The question erupted from me between gasping breaths, each one a struggle against the shock that was thundering through my system. My chest heaved. My legs burned. The wound that Glenda had so carefully tended throbbed with renewed insistence.

Across the lagoon, Paul's movements were frantic. He scrambled away from the body, his actions a chaotic dance of someone who'd seen too much and couldn't process any of it.

And then I was close enough to see.

Close enough for recognition to slam into me like a fist to the solar plexus.

"Holy fuck!" The scream tore from my throat, raw and primal. "What the fuck is Joel doing here?"

Joel.

My son.

The son whose existence I'd only recently learned about. The boy I'd never raised, never known, never had the chance to be a father to.

Now lying motionless on a sandbank in another dimension, his body impossibly still.

Luke's struggle for words was visible—his mouth opening and closing, his face a canvas of incomprehension that matched my own spiralling horror.

I rushed forward, every fibre of my being taut with urgency.

Kneeling beside Joel's body, the world contracted to this single, terrible point. Emotion crashed over me in waves I couldn't control—grief, denial, rage, desperate hope—each one battering against the thin walls of my sanity.

Tears formed, stinging my eyes with salt and heat. The physical manifestation of everything I couldn't process, couldn't accept, couldn't survive.

He's not dead. He can't be dead. I just found him. I can't lose him before I've even had him.

I positioned myself behind Joel's head, my hands reaching for his shoulders. The intention was clear in my mind: drag him from the water's edge, get him to safety, do something, anything, to help my son.

But then hands closed around me—firm, insistent, pulling me backward with unexpected force.

The suddenness caught me off guard. My grip slipped. My balance vanished. The ground rose to meet me with a jarring impact that drove the air from my lungs. Dust billowed around my fallen form, a gritty cloud marking my failure.

Fury ignited.

I scrambled to my knees, confusion and anger twisting together into something volatile and dangerous. My hand clenched into a fist, flying toward Luke's face with all the bewildered rage I possessed.

He dodged.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" The words tore from my throat, a raw expression of betrayal and hurt. My voice was a weapon now, sharpened by fear, spitting out the question like a challenge.

"Take a look at his throat."

Luke's response cut through my fury—a directive that carried the weight of truths I hadn't yet seen.

I turned back to Joel.

The world seemed to narrow, contracting to the horrific sight before me. Each blink was a futile attempt to clear the tears that scorched my eyes, each one a testament to the disbelief and despair that gripped my heart like a vice.

Crouching over my son's still form, I finally saw what Luke had been trying to show me.

Joel's throat.

The wound gaped obscenely—a deep gash that ran from one side to the other, the flesh parted in a way that made my stomach lurch. The edges of the cut were ragged, violent, speaking of an attack that had been savage in its intent. The blood that should have been flowing—that should have been everywhere—was strangely absent, as if something had already drained him of everything he had.

The arteries. Surely the arteries have been severed.

This isn't real.

It can't be real.

My mind rebelled against what my eyes were showing me. This was my son. My boy. The child I'd never known but had already begun to love with the fierce, protective intensity of discovered fatherhood. And someone had done this to him. Someone had taken a blade to his throat and tried to end his life.

This just can't be.

Desperation clawed at the edges of my consciousness—a frantic wish for escape from this nightmare that refused to release its hold. But there was no escape. There was only Joel, and the impossible wound.

"What the fuck!" The outcry was a raw explosion of grief and confusion, my hands moving on instinct as I attempted once again to pull Joel away from the lagoon's edge.

"Jamie, stop!" Luke's voice was distant, trying to pierce the fog of my fury.

“Uncle Jamie!" Another voice—young, familiar—cut across the water.

But I couldn't stop. Couldn't think beyond the need to get my son away from this place, away from whatever had hurt him, away from the mocking serenity of waters that had witnessed his suffering.

"What the fuck have you done, Luke?" The accusation tore from me again, a desperate attempt to find a target for the maelstrom of emotions battering my psyche.

My footing failed. I tumbled to the ground, the impact a cruel addition to the catalogue of physical reminders that I was still alive while my son might be dying. Tears blurred my vision—each one a tribute to the incomprehensible loss laid bare beside me.

"Help me take him back to camp." The plea emerged as a ragged whisper, hoarse with hopelessness. The impossibility of acceptance, of understanding, clawed at me even as I sought assistance.

"Wait." Glenda's voice cut through the chaos with professional authority. "Let me check him first."

Her intervention brought a momentary pause to the nightmare. She moved past me, squatting beside Joel with the calm focus of someone who'd seen trauma before and learned to set emotion aside in service of survival.

I watched, my heart caught somewhere between my throat and the ground, as she conducted her examination. Her hands moved with care, her eyes assessing what the rest of us could only see in fragments.

When she let out a surprised gasp, my heart stopped entirely.

Her hand slid beneath Joel's shirt, coming to rest on his abdomen. The gesture held meaning I couldn't decipher—discovery or confirmation of something she hadn't expected.

"He's breathing," she announced, the words slicing through the thick air like a blade of hope.

"Joel." I whispered his name, barely audible, as I placed my palm against his forehead. The skin was cool beneath my touch—too cool, wrong in ways I couldn't articulate but felt in my bones.

"But barely," Glenda continued, grounding us in harsh reality. "I think he may actually be alive. But I don't understand how that is possible." Her professional analysis laid bare the miracle and mystery of his survival. "His colour suggests he has lost so much blood that his circulatory system has collapsed."

Her eyes met mine—a silent acknowledgment of the impossibility we were witnessing.

"You're right. I agree we should bring him back to camp."

The tension that had contorted my face eased fractionally at her words. Not relief—nothing could bring relief in this moment—but perhaps the slightest loosening of the vice that had clamped around my chest.

"What? Seriously?" Luke's incredulity echoed the surreal nature of our predicament.

"Help us," I pleaded, desperation lending strength to my voice as I slid my hands beneath Joel's still form.

Luke hesitated for only a moment before joining us. He positioned himself across from Glenda, his arms sliding beneath Joel's limp body.

"Ready. Lift." Glenda's voice was firm, guiding us with the assurance of her expertise.

As we lifted Joel together, pain lanced across my chest—a sharp reminder of my own recent surgery, my own ongoing healing. I suppressed the grimace, pushing aside the discomfort. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the weight in my arms, the son I was carrying, the life we might still save.

Kain appeared as we navigated the lagoon's edge—my nephew, stepping in to assist with the kind of immediate action that crisis demands.

His presence should have brought relief. Instead, it only added another layer to the surreal horror of the moment. There he was, thrust into the middle of this nightmare, his youth a stark contrast to the gravity of what we faced.

I ignored Luke's glances. The anger that had threatened to consume me earlier still simmered beneath the surface, banked but not extinguished. The reality of carrying Joel—my son, whose existence had only recently come to light—was overwhelming enough without processing whatever role Luke had played in bringing us to this moment.

What the fuck is going on inside Luke's head?

The thought was venomous, a whisper of fury that refused to be silenced.

If Clivilius doesn't kill Luke, I'll bloody do it myself.

"You coming, Paul?" Glenda's voice called across the lagoon to where Paul sat in a daze, still processing whatever he'd witnessed.

"I'll meet you there soon." His reply was distant, carried on the wind like something insubstantial.

With a deep breath that did nothing to calm the whirlwind inside me, I steeled myself for what lay ahead. We had to keep moving. The imperative was absolute—get Joel to camp, get him help, keep him alive through sheer force of will if nothing else was available.

I led our small, burdened procession forward.

The journey back to camp stretched endlessly before us—through thick dust and over undulating hills, across a landscape that seemed designed to mock our desperation. The red-brown expanse of Clivilius surrounded us, indifferent to our suffering, uncaring of the life we carried between us.

Joel's weight in my arms was both burden and anchor. Each step was a promise. Each breath of exertion was a prayer. The wound on my chest throbbed in counterpoint to my footsteps, my own healing body protesting the strain I was demanding of it.

But I didn't slow. Couldn't slow.

Somewhere in my arms, my son was dying. A son I'd never raised, never known, never had the chance to love properly. And now I might lose him before any of that could change.

The void within me—that empty space where fatherhood should have lived for nineteen years—ached with a ferocity that threatened to buckle my knees. But I kept walking. Kept carrying. Kept believing that if we could just get him back to camp, if Glenda could just work whatever medical miracles she possessed, if Clivilius could just grant us one more impossible thing...

Maybe Joel would survive.

Maybe I'd get the chance to be his father after all.

Maybe this nightmare would end with something other than loss.

The camp appeared in the distance, a collection of tents that represented everything we'd built in this alien place. It wasn't much. But it was ours. And it was where we would fight for my son's life.

One step at a time, through dust and desperation, I carried Joel home.