Firelight and Farewells

“Clivilius gives you beauty and silence in equal measure—but it’s the goodbyes that echo the loudest.”

Approaching the tent, the weight of the pizza boxes pulled at my arms, though it was less physical strain than the odd sense of incongruity that gnawed at me.

Here I was, delivering takeaway into a place untouched by human hands, the smell of cheese and tomato threading into the dry, mineral tang of Clivilius. The cardboard felt impossibly ordinary against the alien landscape—a collision of worlds so absurd it bordered on the surreal. Pizza. In another dimension. The universe had a strange sense of humour.

The sight of the tent, pitched steady against the ochre dust, should have comforted me—it was proof of resilience, of some measure of civilisation carving itself into the wilderness. The canvas walls caught the late afternoon light, glowing faintly amber, and the structure looked almost proud standing there against the vast emptiness.

Yet the emptiness around it carried a faint unease.

Jamie and Paul had begun to roam freely here, their independence a double-edged sword. Part of me was reassured by their adaptability, but another part worried at the risks they embraced so quickly. This world remained largely unknown—its dangers uncharted, its rhythms unfamiliar. And here they were, wandering off alone as though they'd lived here all their lives.

"Now, where's Jamie gone?"

The words slipped out, half-muttered, my surprise shading them sharper than intended. The thought of them wandering unguarded through a world so vast and unfamiliar unsettled me, though I forced myself to see it for what it was: a sign of strength, of courage.

Their acclimation was happening faster than mine had. That had to mean something.

They'll be used to their new home in a few days, I told myself, though the thought tangled hope with a knot of unease.

"He's gone to bathe in the river," Paul said, a smile breaking warmly across his face.

His tone was light, content, as if he'd found joy in the very act of saying it. He stood near the tent's entrance, relaxed and unhurried, looking more at ease than I'd seen him since this whole impossible situation began.

"I found a nice lagoon just around the bend."

"I'll have to check it out tomorrow," I said, though the promise rang hollow even as it left my lips.

Behind the words lurked the weight of tasks left undone, responsibilities stacking themselves higher in my mind. Clivilius was more than mystery, more than adventure. It was labour, creation, commitment. This world would not simply reveal itself—it would demand something of us, piece by piece, if we wanted to make a life here.

And I, more than anyone, knew the cost of underestimating demands.

"Smells delicious," Paul said, leaning close and theatrically wafting the air towards his nose as though savouring a fine vintage.

His grin widened as he took the stack of boxes eagerly from my arms, and together we moved towards the glow of the campfire. The flames crackled softly, casting shifting shadows across the dust, their warmth curling against the coolness of the air. The fire was small but healthy, fed by what looked like remnants of the textbooks I'd brought—pages curling into ash, knowledge transformed into heat.

I glanced around instinctively, scanning for a place to sit, but the emptiness mocked me.

No logs, no stools, no chairs. I hadn't thought to bring anything through. Another failing. Another entry for the ever-expanding list of things we needed if we were to carve out some semblance of living here. The sigh slipped from me unbidden.

Paul didn't seem to care.

He dropped down into the ochre dust without hesitation, plonking himself cross-legged as though the ground itself were as good a seat as any. His nonchalance carried an ease I envied—how easily he adapted, how little weight he gave to discomfort.

"I'll get you some chairs tomorrow," I promised, lowering myself gingerly beside him.

The grit pressed into the fabric of my trousers immediately, clinging in dry patches that I knew would follow me back through the Portal.

"That'd be nice," Paul replied with a shrug.

He tugged open the first pizza box with boyish eagerness. Steam rose instantly, coiling into the air in delicate ribbons, carrying with it the rich, familiar scent of tomato and melted cheese. The smell was intoxicating here, almost obscene in its contrast to the untouched vastness around us.

Paul's hand darted in, retrieving a slice of pepperoni pizza with barely contained impatience.

"I didn't realise I was so hungry," he confessed, the note of surprise in his voice tinged with a laugh, as though his body's needs had only just managed to catch his attention.

I couldn't help but smile as I watched him take his first bite.

The steam curled around his face, the cheese stretching in gooey threads, and then—inevitably—the first piece of pepperoni slid free, slapping wetly onto the front of his singlet.

"You haven't changed much then," I said with a laugh, the sound rising into the open air, echoing faintly against the stillness.

"Nope," Paul replied, his voice muffled by the mouthful of pizza he was already half-demolishing.

His grin was unmistakable, sauce smudged at the corner of his mouth, as he shoved the rest of the slice into his mouth with unabashed satisfaction. There was something wonderfully unchanged about him—the same messy eater he'd been at eight, at eighteen, at thirty-five. Some things, it seemed, remained constant across all dimensions.

The two of us sat there in the dust, the earth cool and grainy beneath me, its grit pressing through the thin fabric of my trousers. I shifted, easing myself into a slightly more forgiving patch, though comfort here was relative at best.

Still, the simplicity of it—the ground, the fire, the food—had its own kind of grounding power.

Silence wrapped itself around us, not heavy this time but gentle, almost companionable. I let it linger, allowed myself to breathe within it. Closing my eyes, I gave in to the moment, to the sounds and textures of this strange new world.

Behind me, the river murmured in low, steady tones, its gurgle weaving into the evening like a lullaby. Before us, the campfire cracked and popped, sparks rising and vanishing into the darkening sky, the heat licking softly against my skin. It was a rhythm older than language, hypnotic in its steadiness.

And then, layered against it, came Paul's chewing.

Loud, unrefined, wholly unconcerned with grace—so very Paul. In another place, another time, it might have grated on me, but here it was simply part of the fabric of the moment. It belonged as much as the fire, the river, the dust. An unpolished, human note in the vastness of Clivilius.

I smiled, and it wasn't the kind I wore to deflect or conceal.

This one ran deeper, drawn from a well of affection and gratitude that surprised me with its strength. I loved my brother. I always had, though life and time had sometimes dulled the edges of that truth. Here, though, it shone stark and undeniable.

Despite our differences, despite the twists and divergences of our paths, this bond—this unspoken pact of brotherhood—remained. It was resilient, unbreakable, something I could anchor myself to.

And in that moment of warmth and dust and firelight, I knew it with the kind of certainty that steadied me: Paul would always have my back.

"Oh my God! Food!"

Jamie's voice cut through the quiet like a bell, brimming with a kind of childlike delight that made me turn before the words had even finished.

He strode up from behind us, his expression alight with hunger that seemed to reach beyond the body, something raw and eager sparking in his eyes. The sight of the pizzas halted him mid-step, his gaze locking on them as though nothing else in the world existed.

His hair was still damp from the river, curling slightly at the ends, and water droplets caught the firelight on his bare shoulders. He looked younger like this, stripped of the tension that usually hardened his features.

"And wine," I added, lifting the half-drunk bottle of chardonnay with a flourish meant to soften the edges of the moment.

My tone was deliberately light, a touch of playfulness I hoped would tether us to something normal. The golden liquid sloshed gently, catching the last spill of sunlight, casting fractured glimmers across Jamie's face as he drew closer.

"Well, you two look like you've given it a fair go already," Jamie quipped.

He dropped down beside us with a satisfying thud, the motion kicking up a small puff of ochre dust that drifted lazily in the fading light. His grin stretched wide, rich amusement colouring every syllable.

"Well, Luke has," Paul chimed in, his laughter bubbling up easily, carried on the rhythm of the crackling fire.

The sound slipped into the air, folding neatly into the simple symphony of evening—the river murmuring at our backs, the fire popping in soft bursts, the world exhaling as the day released its grip.

I tilted my head back, letting my eyes climb upwards into the deepening sky.

The vast dome above was shifting, the clarity of blue giving way to the bruised shades of dusk. Behind the mountains, the sun bled itself out in streaks of orange and violet, the horizon glowing with nature's careless artistry. For a moment, I allowed myself to be caught by its beauty, the sheer expanse of it.

And yet, the knot was there.

Coiled low in my stomach, it tightened with each degree the light slipped away. The approaching dark carried more than absence of sun—it pressed forward with a weight of its own, thick and unrelenting, the kind of darkness that swallows detail, that hems you in, that leaves you questioning what lies just beyond sight.

I know just how dark it's going to get.

The thought circled in my mind, quiet but unyielding, a shadow over the laughter that continued around me. Jamie and Paul, blissfully unaware, were about to be taught what night in Clivilius truly meant. And though I wanted to preserve their innocence a little longer, I couldn't shake the unease of knowing they were in for a shock.

"Well," I began, pressing my palms into the ground and pushing myself upright, every movement weighted by the reluctant duty tugging at me.

I brushed at the dust clinging stubbornly to my trousers, strokes almost fussy—more an excuse to delay, to busy my hands, than any genuine concern for neatness.

In a half-playful, half-defiant flourish, I angled my backside towards Jamie, shaking free a final cloud of ochre grit. The gesture was light, teasing, but it carried its own pointed edge, a fragment of humour offered in the face of parting.

"I better get back. Don't want Gladys to finish all the wine in the house," I said, my grin stretching wider than I felt.

The words came as a joke, but beneath them ran an ache I could not laugh away. Humour was my armour, thin as parchment, shielding me just enough to keep the sadness from showing in full.

"So, that's it then?"

Jamie's reply landed softer than I'd braced for. His voice held the shape of disappointment, a hint of melancholy threading through it. His eyes—those deep, searching wells—dropped to the ground, unable to disguise the weight behind them.

Something in my chest contracted at the sight of him like that. Vulnerable. Lonely. Trapped.

I couldn't leave it there.

My feet carried me forward slowly, each step heavy with the words I couldn't seem to form. Closing the distance between us, I leaned in, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that said what speech could not.

It was gentle, deliberate, laced with reassurance.

A small offering of mended bridges, of care that endured even through our clashes and fractures. In that touch lay promises unspoken, fragile but true. His lips were warm, tasting faintly of wine and pizza sauce, and for a moment the world contracted to just the two of us—no Clivilius, no Portal, no impossible circumstances. Just Jamie and Luke, as we'd been before everything changed.

"Yeah," I breathed at last, the word steady though the turmoil inside me was anything but.

My hand lingered on the back of his neck, reluctant to let go, to sever that tether of warmth between us. His skin was still damp from the river, cool beneath my palm.

"But I promise I'll be back first thing in the morning."

"Fine."

Jamie's voice carried resignation, a dull acceptance that tried—and failed—to hide the thread of disappointment underneath. His shrug was small, but it betrayed him all the same.

"I wish we could go with you."

The words clung to me as I turned away.

A pang of guilt rippled sharp through my chest, catching me off guard. They'll be fine, I told myself, the thought repeated like a mantra, but it did little to quiet the tremor tugging at my lower lip.

Once, distance between us had made leaving easier—emotional space cushioning the act of departure. But that distance had gone. Now every step away from them felt edged with betrayal.

"Good night, Luke," Paul said.

His voice was steady, strong, carrying a simple normality that soothed even as it reminded me of everything at stake.

"Night, Paul," I replied, my own voice firm though the turmoil beneath threatened to spill.

I lifted a hand in a final wave, the gesture feeling at once casual and unbearably weighted.

Then I walked.