Glasses Raised

"You can feed people and shelter them and keep them alive—but they don't become a community until they have a reason to lift their glasses together."

Seated back on my log at the campfire, I felt the day's warmth retreat with the sun—a rapid withdrawal that left the air sharp and eager against my exposed skin. The temperature drop in Clivilius was more dramatic than Earth's gradual dusks; here, when the sun touched the horizon, the cold arrived within minutes, as though it had been waiting just beyond the light's reach.

The campfire had become the heart of our little community, its warm, dancing light pushing back against the darkness that crept closer with each passing minute. Orange flames cast shifting shadows across familiar faces, painting everyone in colours that made them look both stranger and more beautiful than they did in daylight. Around me, conversation had grown louder, more animated, as though the night's arrival had given people permission to be less guarded, to share stories and laughter that the day's practical concerns had suppressed.

Then, almost imperceptibly at first, the atmosphere began to shift.

A humming cut through the chatter—raw and raspy, yet carrying a strange, compelling beauty that demanded attention without commanding it. The sound seemed to ride the gentle breeze, weaving between us, drawing ears and eyes toward its source with the quiet insistence of something that couldn't be ignored.

The humming found words, transforming into lyrics that floated across the campfire's warm glow:

"Let us celebrate our story,

The words we've yet to write."

My gaze found the source, and something caught in my chest.

Joel sat across the flames, his usual guarded expression softened by firelight into something approaching vulnerability. His eyes were fixed on the dancing flames before him, as though the fire itself was pulling the melody from somewhere deep inside him—a muse made of light and heat and the particular magic that campfires had conjured for humans since the first spark was struck.

The song emerged from his lips with an ease that seemed almost unconscious, as though he wasn't quite aware he was singing aloud. The tune felt both ancient and newly born, carrying hope and reflection in equal measure through air that had never heard music before tonight.

Something stirred in my chest—something I couldn't quite name but recognised as important. Joel, who had been silent through nearly everything since his impossible return, who had communicated in shrugs and monosyllables, who had accepted food and care with the detached acquiescence of someone not quite sure they wanted to be alive—Joel was singing.

His voice, unexpectedly melodic, wove around the crackling of the fire and the soft susurrus of wind through dust. The melody created something new in the space between us all: a moment of connection that transcended the complicated circumstances that had brought each person to this circle. Music had that power. It always had. Even here, in an alien dimension, beneath stars whose names we didn't know, a song could make strangers feel like family.

I glanced at Jamie, sitting close to his son, and watched his face do something complicated in the firelight. Pride, perhaps. Wonder. The particular expression of a parent witnessing their child reveal a gift they hadn't known existed. His eyes glistened with more than reflected flames.

"Please, don't stop. You have a beautiful voice," Glenda urged, her words cutting through the momentary silence that had fallen over the camp like something reverent. She'd risen to her feet without warning, the sudden movement startling Joel into silence, his melody hanging unfinished in the air like a held breath.

Joel's response was a shy nod, barely visible in the firelight, before his voice found the thread again, starting from the beginning. The tune, simple yet haunting, filled the campsite anew—and this time, we were all truly listening.

I watched, something warm spreading through my chest, as Glenda disappeared into her tent. She emerged moments later cradling the violin Pierre had sent through with me earlier today. The instrument seemed almost alive in her hands, an extension of her body rather than an object she was holding. I couldn't help but smile, thinking of Pierre's wisdom in recognising that Glenda would need more than clothes and a dog in this place—she would need her music, the outlet that had sustained her through whatever life had demanded before Clivilius claimed her.

At first, the violin's voice was tentative—a few awkward, squeaky notes as Glenda found her footing, the instrument warming to her touch after what might have been days or weeks since she'd last played. But then, with a graceful fluidity that spoke of decades of practice, she found her stride.

The violin sang.

Notes soared and dipped, intertwining with Joel's voice in an impromptu duet that felt as natural as the smoke rising from the flames. Two separate melodies became one thing, greater than either alone, weaving together with the particular magic that happened when musicians found each other without planning to.

"You know this song?" Karen's voice carried curiosity and wonder, breaking through the spell only long enough to deepen it.

"Not until now," Glenda responded, her focus unbroken, her bow dancing across strings without missing a beat. The reply spoke volumes about her talent—the ability to hear a melody once and meet it in the air, to harmonise with something she'd never encountered as though they'd been intertwined from the beginning.

This is amazing. The thought reverberated through my mind as I absorbed the concert unfolding before me. I need to bring them more instruments through the Portal. The idea sparked excitement where exhaustion had been settling. Paul played piano—I knew that much. I wonder if any of the others are musical...

My thoughts wandered through the untapped potential surrounding me. What other hidden gifts waited to be revealed if given the chance? What talents had been buried under the demands of survival and the shock of displacement?

Moving around the circle, I ensured each hand was clasped around something warm or cool—mugs of tea, bottles of beer, whatever comfort I could provide. The drinks were small gestures, but they mattered. Each person's choice reflected something about them: Paul's water, Karen's tea, Chris's beer. The diversity of preferences mirroring the diversity of the people I'd assembled here, whether by design or accident.

Joel's voice carried the next verse, and I let the words wash over me:

"Let us celebrate our story,

The words we've yet to write.

How we all wound up with glory,

In the world we fought to right."

The lyrics resonated somewhere deep, stirring something I'd been afraid to examine too closely. Our collective journey—the individual paths that had led each person here, to this moment around this fire. The repetition lent the words a mantra-like quality, something that could be carried forward, repeated in dark moments, held onto when hope felt distant.

The words we've yet to write. We were all unwritten, in a sense. Whatever had brought us here, whatever I'd done to make this happen, the story wasn't finished. The future stretched ahead, blank and terrifying and full of possibility.

The world we fought to right. Was that what we were doing? Fighting to right something? The phrase suggested purpose beyond mere survival—a mission that justified the sacrifices, the disruptions, the lives torn from their foundations and transplanted to alien soil.

As the song repeated, each iteration seemed to forge stronger connections between us. I watched Karen lean against Chris, watched Paul's shoulders relax from their usual tension, watched Kain's expression soften into something approaching peace. Even Jamie—who'd been wound tight as a spring since arriving—seemed to uncoil, his attention fixed on Joel with an intensity that was less vigilance and more simply... presence. A father watching his son. A miracle acknowledged through the simple act of listening.

In that moment, surrounded by the flicker of flames and the melody of hope and resilience, something shifted inside me. A surge of determination, a renewed commitment to Clivilius—not as a project or an obligation, but as something I genuinely believed in. These people, gathered around this fire, singing a song that had never existed until tonight—they were worth fighting for. Whatever challenges waited beyond this moment, whatever storms were gathering that I couldn't yet see, they were worth it.

The music, simple yet powerful, reminded me that despite the uncertainties and complexities I faced, I wasn't alone in this. We were building something together, our individual stories weaving into a larger tapestry that none of us could see clearly yet but all of us were part of.

As Joel's voice dwindled into comfortable silence, the last echoes of his melody hanging in the air like mist that refused to dissipate, Glenda repeated the final stanza. Her violin's voice was a poignant echo of what Joel had created—a tender homage that acknowledged the gift he'd given us all. Then, with a final, resonant note that seemed to hold the entire evening's weight and beauty in its sustain, she too ceased playing. Her bow rested gently on the strings as she nodded toward Joel, one artist recognising another.

The moment felt suspended—a held breath shared among us all as the final notes danced around the dying embers.

Then I stood, my glass held aloft, catching firelight and casting warm shadows.

"To Joel!" My voice carried across the clearing, imbued with pride and gratitude for this young man whose words and melody had drawn us together in ways I couldn't have orchestrated.

"To Joel!" The response was immediate, enthusiastic—a chorus of voices, each unique yet united in sentiment. The cheer carried far beyond our little gathering, spilling out into the Clivilius night as though inviting the alien landscape itself to share in our celebration.

I watched Joel duck his head, embarrassed but pleased, and caught Jamie's eye across the flames. Something passed between us—not forgiveness, not reconciliation, but perhaps the beginning of understanding. His son had given us this moment. Whatever else had happened, whatever remained unresolved between us, tonight we could simply be grateful.

I didn't know what tomorrow would bring. I didn't know what challenges waited beyond this circle of firelight. But in this moment—glasses raised, voices united, a new song hanging in the air like a blessing—I believed we could face whatever came.

We were Clivilians now.

And we had a song.