Bloodless to Bleeding

"Whiskey's honest about what it offers—warmth that fades, comfort that doesn't care. At least it never pretends to be more than it is."

The Clivilius sky stretched above me in shades I still couldn't name—colours that existed somewhere between sunset and bruise, bleeding into each other as the celestial body inched toward the horizon. The light had turned everything golden and strange, casting shadows that seemed to stretch longer than the objects creating them. Time moved differently here, or perhaps I was simply too exhausted to measure it properly. The day felt like it had lasted for years, and yet here I was, approaching evening without having resolved a single thing.

The whiskey bottle hung from my fingers, half-empty now—or half-full, depending on how optimistic I was feeling. I wasn't feeling particularly optimistic.

A sudden metallic clang shattered the contemplative quiet, snapping my attention leftward with the particular alertness of someone whose nerves had been shredded by the day's events. My eyes found Kain, and despite everything, I felt my mouth twitch toward something approaching amusement.

He was a study in determined absurdity—three sleeping bags draped haphazardly over his shoulders in a configuration that defied any reasonable packing strategy, each one threatening to slide off with every step he took. They bounced and swayed as he moved, engaged in their own private choreography that had nothing to do with his intentions. In one hand, he clutched a small box whose contents I couldn't identify, adding yet another variable to his precarious balancing act.

Twenty-three years old, engaged to a pregnant fiancée he'd never see again because I'd pushed him through a Portal without asking, and here he was—hauling sleeping bags across an alien landscape like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"Hey, Kain," I called out, the words slicing through the cooling air. My hand rose in a gesture that might have been a wave or might have been a salute—the whiskey bottle catching the dying light and casting amber patterns across my fingers. "Come join us for a drink."

Kain quickened his pace, breaking into a gentle jog that set the sleeping bags bouncing in earnest. They seemed determined to escape his grasp, lurching with each stride in a comedy of physics that I couldn't help but smile at. It was ridiculous. All of it was ridiculous—this world, this situation, the fact that we were building a settlement in another dimension whilst people on Earth went about their ordinary lives having no idea any of this existed.

But there was something almost grounding about watching Kain struggle with mundane logistics. The sleeping bags didn't care about Portals or murdered sons or the lies I'd told. They just wanted to fall off his shoulders.

"What you got?" Kain inquired as he approached, his breathing coming in light, measured gasps that spoke to the exertion of his journey.

"Whiskey," I announced, letting warmth creep into my voice. I extended the bottle toward him, tilting it so the last rays of sunlight illuminated its contents. The liquid shimmered with that particular quality of good whiskey—liquid gold that promised temporary oblivion from the concerns that kept multiplying faster than I could catalogue them.

Kain's eyes fixed on the bottle with an expression that mixed fatigue with anticipation. After the day he'd had—after the week he'd had, though it had only been a single day since I'd pushed him through the Portal—he'd earned a drink. More than one, probably. The whiskey represented what it always represented in situations like these: a shared ritual, a moment of connection that transcended circumstance.

His grip was firm when he took the bottle, decisive in the way of someone who'd made a decision and wasn't interested in second-guessing it. I watched as he lifted it to his lips and took a generous gulp—probably too generous, based on the way his eyes squeezed shut and his body went momentarily rigid.

The burn traced its way down his throat with the particular intensity that good whiskey delivered. I'd felt that same fire countless times over the past days, had come to rely on it as one of the few sensations that felt reliably the same whether I was on Earth or in this dimension that shouldn't exist.

"Fuck, that's some strong shit," Kain remarked when he could speak again, respect or surprise colouring his voice. He dabbed at his mouth with the back of his hand, erasing a rebellious trickle that had escaped down his chin.

"Of course," I replied, allowing a note of pride to enter my voice. "I wouldn't have whiskey any other way."

We walked together toward the camp, our conversation meandering through safe territory as our feet found rhythm. Kain's mood had lightened—whether from the whiskey, the company, or simply the relief of the day's work being done, I couldn't tell. Perhaps it was all three, combining in whatever alchemy made human beings capable of enduring circumstances that should have broken them.

Watching him from the corner of my eye, I felt the question building before I made the conscious decision to voice it.

"Forgive me yet?" The words emerged playful on the surface, but something genuine lurked beneath—the real question I was asking, the acknowledgment I was seeking.

The shift in Kain's demeanour was immediate and total. Whatever lightness the whiskey had brought evaporated in the space between one heartbeat and the next. His hand shot out, snatching the bottle back with a sharpness that made me flinch. His eyes narrowed, his expression hardening into something that reminded me uncomfortably of Jamie when Jamie was truly angry.

"I'm doing this for Uncle Jamie, not for you," he stated, his voice carrying a cutting edge that sliced through the mellow atmosphere we'd been building. The words landed with the particular impact of truths that couldn't be argued with. He was here because of Jamie. He was contributing because Jamie needed him. I was simply the person who'd stolen his life and delivered him to this place—the obstacle he had to work around rather than the leader he was choosing to follow.

He took another long pull from the bottle—seeking solace, perhaps, or simply stalling while he gathered thoughts he wasn't ready to share. Then, abruptly, he thrust the bottle back at me, the motion brusque and final. Without another word, Kain turned and walked away, his shoulders tight with everything he wasn't saying.

"At least let me take one of those bags for you," I offered, watching him struggle to maintain equilibrium. The sleeping bags had resumed their campaign of escape, shifting and swaying with each step as though they'd formed a conspiracy against his dignity.

Kain's response was wordless—a testament to either stubbornness or his desire to carry his own burdens without my assistance. With a fluid motion that seemed more resignation than relief, he unhooked one of the bags from around his neck and let it fall to the ground. The fabric hit the dust with a muted thud, raising a small cloud that caught the fading light.

"Oh well," I muttered, the words escaping before I could stop them. It was the thought that counted, I told myself, though even I didn't find the reassurance particularly convincing.

I approached the discarded bag, bending to retrieve it with movements that my exhausted body protested at every stage. The fabric was already coated with Clivilius dust—that fine, gritty layer that seemed to claim everything within moments of it touching the ground. I brushed at it with care that felt almost absurd given the circumstances, but the action was grounding. Tangible. Something I could do that had a clear beginning, middle, and end.

With the bag somewhat cleaned, I straightened up, feeling the weight of it in my hand alongside the heavier weight that sat somewhere behind my sternum. The whiskey bottle found my lips again, the familiar burn offering its usual brief respite from everything that refused to be simple.

As I made my way toward the campfire, I heard Kain's voice ahead of me: "Luke's here." The words were directed at Glenda, his tone carefully neutral—the earlier intensity gone, replaced by something flat that was perhaps worse.

He didn't pause at the fire's welcoming glow. Didn't spare me another glance. Just continued toward the tents, his silhouette shrinking into the gathering dusk.

Glenda's gaze lifted from the flickering flames, her expression shifting to something warmer as she recognised me. "Luke!" she called out, her voice cutting through the evening's cooling air.

I responded with a wave that I hoped looked cheerful. Maybe Glenda will be in a better mood, I thought, clinging to the hope like it was something solid.

"Haven't seen much of you at all since this morning," she observed, a statement that carried the weight of question within it.

"I know..." I started, the words trailing off as multiple explanations tangled on my tongue. I'd been shopping for supplies. I'd been transferring goods through the Portal. I'd been calling Karen to begin laying groundwork for yet another recruitment. I'd been drinking whiskey in my kitchen while contemplating the camping brochure someone had left in my house.

Before I could choose which fragments of truth to offer, Glenda pressed forward. "But I've noticed new supplies at the Drop Zone, so I figured you hadn't forgotten us."

The statement carried reproach and relief in equal measure—acknowledgment that I'd been absent, tempered by recognition that my absence had been productive.

"Of course not," I affirmed, putting conviction into words that felt inadequate. The responsibility of ensuring the group's survival was a constant companion now, a pressure that never quite lifted even when I was physically absent.

"Ooh. That's some good whiskey you got there," Glenda remarked, her attention shifting to the bottle in my hands with the particular appreciation of someone who knew quality when she smelled it.

A chuckle escaped me, soft and genuine. "Help yourself," I offered, extending the bottle toward her. The invitation felt right—a shared moment of normality in circumstances that defied all normal definitions.

Glenda accepted with a nod, her fingers wrapping around the bottle. I watched as she took a generous swig, the whiskey's potency evident in the slight shiver that rippled through her frame. "Ahh. Just what I needed. Whoo," she exclaimed, satisfaction and surprise mingling in her voice.

"Where's Paul?" I asked, my eyes scanning the camp for my brother's familiar form. His absence registered as something unexpected—a gap in the picture where I'd assumed he'd be. He hadn't been at the Drop Zone when I'd made my earlier delivery. Hadn't been visible anywhere I'd looked since returning through the Portal.

The campfire crackled louder as Glenda tossed another small log onto the flames, the wood catching with a burst of orange that briefly illuminated her face. "Oh, he went to check on Jamie and Joel."

The words triggered an immediate response in my body—urgency propelling me forward before conscious thought could intervene. Jamie. Joel. The impossible situation I'd been avoiding since I'd fled through the Portal.

"No!" Glenda's voice sliced through my motion, stopping me mid-stride as I'd taken several steps toward what I assumed was Joel's tent. "They're at the lagoon," she added, her voice settling into something steadier.

"The lagoon?" Confusion tangled with alarm. "Why the lagoon?"

Glenda's expression shifted to something I couldn't quite read—a complexity of emotion that her face seemed to be working through in real time. "Joel died... again," she said finally, the words carrying a weight that seemed disproportionate to their simplicity.

I bit my lip, processing. Joel had died. Again. The boy whose resurrection had defied every law of biology and death had apparently decided to stop defying them.

"Well, that's hardly a surprise," I responded, hearing the bitter acceptance in my own voice. "Perhaps he really was always dead." The suggestion was macabre, but it felt closer to truth than anything else I could articulate. Perhaps the breathing, the movement, the impossible signs of life had been merely echoes—the body going through motions that had no actual vitality behind them.

"Perhaps," Glenda echoed, her shrug carrying a weight of uncertainty. We didn't know. We couldn't know. The rules of existence we'd lived by no longer seemed to apply.

Seeking to shift the mood, I extended the whiskey bottle toward her. "More?"

"No thanks," she declined, her voice carrying weariness that suggested she was retreating into her own thoughts rather than continuing our exchange.

"Bag," Kain's voice cut across the distance, firm and practical. His hands gestured in a clear signal, indicating he wanted me to throw the sleeping bag his way. I complied, the bag sailing through the cooling air in a gentle arc. Kain caught it with ease, then turned and disappeared into the medical tent without another word.

"Glenda!" Paul's voice reached us from somewhere in the gathering darkness, carrying a quality that made my spine stiffen—urgency mixed with something that might have been wonder.

"Joel?" Glenda's response was barely audible, directed more to herself than to anyone else. Hope and disbelief coloured the single syllable.

I turned, following her gaze, and felt my heart stutter at the sight that emerged from the dusk.

Joel. Walking. Supported between Paul and Jamie, but moving—his legs performing the basic functions of locomotion that should have been impossible for someone who'd died. Twice, apparently. His movement was clumsy, uncoordinated, the kind of shambling progression that belonged to someone relearning how to use limbs that had forgotten their purpose. But it was movement nonetheless.

My astonishment found its mirror in Glenda's widened eyes, and we both hurried forward, drawn by concern and curiosity and the impossible evidence of life where death should have claimed permanent victory.

"He's bleeding!" Glenda's exclamation pierced the air, her focus sharpening on something I hadn't yet noticed—blood, bright and vivid, visible against Joel's pale features.

"Luke, get me some tissue from the medical tent," she directed, her eyes never leaving Joel as she assessed the situation with the particular intensity of someone whose medical training had kicked into full gear.

"Yeah," I responded, the word emerging distant, as though the reality of what I was seeing hadn't fully penetrated whatever fog still wrapped my consciousness.

"I got it!" Kain's voice rang out before I could force my body into motion. He was already emerging from the medical tent, tissues in hand, his earlier distance temporarily superseded by practical necessity.

Kain reached Glenda in moments, extending the tissues with the efficiency of someone grateful to have a concrete task. "Ta," Glenda murmured, her attention already on Joel, pressing the tissues against his nose where blood was now visibly trickling.

"Let's get him sitting," she commanded, authority blending with care as she guided Paul and Jamie in positioning Joel on a large log near the campfire. "Not too close," she added, her eyes scanning his face for further injuries. "Is it just his nose?"

"I think so," Jamie replied, uncertainty threading through his words.

"I didn't even notice it was bleeding," Paul admitted, the statement emerging with the particular quality of belated realisation.

My eyes rolled before I could stop them. Don't tell them that, I chastised silently. You don't need to make your obtuseness so obvious that it makes them even more suspicious. Every word, every action, carried weight in situations like these. Paul's admission, however honest, was an unnecessary complication in an atmosphere already thick with tension and unanswered questions.

Glenda knelt before Joel, clinical focus settling over her features as she examined him. Joel sagged between Paul and Jamie, his presence both impossible and undeniable. "I don't understand how he can be bleeding. I'm certain there was no blood in him earlier," she muttered, the words directed more to herself than to us—scientific curiosity wrestling with observable impossibility.

Jamie shook his head, bewilderment written across features I knew better than my own. "I didn't give him any of my blood. But he seems to have plenty of his own now." Relief and confusion tangled in his voice, the statement a surrender to circumstances that refused to make sense.

"Yes," Glenda confirmed, her fingers probing Joel's limbs with careful attention. "There is definitely blood in his veins now. It's a medical anomaly!"

The label hung in the air—a clinical term attempting to contain something that defied clinical understanding. Joel was bleeding. Joel had blood where there had been none. Joel was, against every law we understood, somehow alive.

Glenda rose to her feet, her actions shifting from examiner to someone seeking solace in familiar rituals. She took the whiskey bottle from my hand with a grip that suggested she needed something to anchor herself.

"You better lie him down again once the bleeding stops," she instructed, her gaze sweeping over Joel with concern that mixed the professional with the personal.

Then, punctuating her command, she took a hearty swig from the bottle—the liquid courage perhaps necessary to steel herself against the day's accumulation of impossibilities.

I chuckled, the sound escaping despite everything. There was something almost comforting about watching Glenda—a trained doctor, a woman who'd spent decades in humanitarian medicine—reacting to the inexplicable by reaching for whiskey. Her duality, her blend of bewilderment and acceptance, was a moment of humanity that cut through the strangeness surrounding us.

"Nightfall can't be too far away now," Paul observed, his voice pulling me back from wherever my thoughts had drifted. His eyes were cast upward, seeking answers or perhaps simply distraction in the deepening hues of the Clivilius sky. "I'll prepare us some food."

"I'll help you," Kain offered, the camaraderie in his voice marking a shift from his earlier isolation. Together, they moved toward the supply tent, their silhouettes merging with the encroaching darkness.

As Glenda settled into position across the crackling campfire, I shifted closer, my steps carrying weight that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion. My gaze drifted involuntarily to Jamie, watching the way he attended to Joel—adjusting the young man's position, checking his comfort, maintaining a vigil of care that spoke to depths of compassion I hadn't fully witnessed before.

It was beautiful, in its way. The tenderness. The attention. The particular quality of affection that flowed from father to son despite the brevity of their acquaintance and the impossible circumstances of their reunion.

And it carved something open in my chest that I hadn't been prepared for.

So, why has he never shown me this much affection?

The question surfaced from somewhere I'd been trying not to look, a whispered accusation that I couldn't dismiss no matter how unfair I knew it was. We'd been together for years, Jamie and I. I'd stood by him through struggles and silences, had built a home with him, had crossed dimensional boundaries to keep him safe. And yet watching him now—watching the effortless flow of care he directed toward Joel—I couldn't escape the feeling that I'd never been on the receiving end of anything quite like this.

My expression must have betrayed something, because Glenda's voice broke through my spiralling thoughts with gentle concern. "You alright?"

"Yeah," I responded, too quickly perhaps, my gaze averting to the fire's mesmerising dance. The flames leapt and curled, casting warmth that couldn't quite reach the coolness settling in my chest.

I lifted the whiskey to my lips, letting the burn trace its familiar path down my throat—a fleeting substitute for the warmth I craved on levels that alcohol could never touch.