Grateful for Clivilius

"Sometimes the hardest rituals to perform are the ones that force you to find light when all you want to do is curse the darkness."

As I crept towards the fire, the figures of two bodies moved quietly by the glow. The flames had burned down to something more modest now, a warm orange pulse against the encroaching darkness rather than the roaring beacon it had been earlier. The shadows danced at the edges of our small circle of light, and beyond them, the vast emptiness of Clivilius waited with its customary patience.

"Glenda," I whispered into the night, my voice barely louder than the crackling of the flames.

She was back. She hadn't gone to the medical tent after all—or she had returned. After her abrupt departure earlier, her sudden exit that had left questions hanging in the air like smoke, I had half-expected her to remain sequestered for the night. But here she was, sitting on her log beside Kain, the firelight playing across her features.

She jumped at my voice, and Kain pulled on her hand, helping her to maintain balance on her log.

I couldn't help but chuckle softly at her reaction, an involuntary response that felt strangely out of place in the solemnity of our situation.

"Sorry," I whispered, the word floating away into the night as I dropped the sleeping bag into the dust in front of my designated log. The bag landed with a soft thump, raising a small cloud of that ever-present powder that seemed to coat every surface of this world.

"No, you're not," Glenda replied, but the edge in her voice was softened by a smile that seemed to flicker in the firelight.

She was right. I wasn't sorry. The moment of levity, of human connection through startlement and laughter, was too precious to regret. In a world that had given us resurrection and terror and impossible colours swirling through dimensional portals, a simple moment of shared amusement felt like something worth protecting.

I perched on the log, my backside rubbing against the rough wood as I searched for a sense of comfort. The bark was coarse beneath me, finding every sensitive spot, refusing to offer anything resembling cushioning. The simple act of settling down for the night had taken on a new meaning here; it was a nightly ritual of finding safety and solace. Each shift, each adjustment, was a small declaration of resilience, of our continued struggle against the darkness, both literal and metaphorical.

Back home, I would be sinking into the leather sofa about now, remote control in hand, the television murmuring some documentary that Claire had no interest in watching. The children would be in bed—Rose with her stuffed rabbit, Mack with whatever book had captured his attention that week. The normality of it seemed impossibly distant now, like a dream I was struggling to remember upon waking.

"You don't like the tent?" Kain's question broke the quiet of the evening, his eyes darting towards the medical tent as if seeking an answer in its silent form.

"Actually," Glenda began, her voice trailing into a pause that seemed to stretch between us, laden with anticipation. "There's something I think we should do as a group first."

The seriousness in her tone, mixed with a hint of vulnerability, piqued my interest. After her abrupt departure earlier, this sudden proposal felt unexpected, almost out of character. Glenda was practical, efficient, focused on the medical necessities of keeping us alive. She wasn't the type for group activities or emotional exercises. Or so I had assumed.

What could Glenda possibly consider so important that she needed to address it now?

The question turned over in my mind as I studied her face in the firelight. There was something there—some weight she was carrying that I hadn't noticed before. Some burden that the events of today had brought closer to the surface.

Kain's brow arched, mirroring my own curiosity. "What is it?" he inquired, his voice a mix of scepticism and interest.

"Gratitude," she simply stated.

My head tilted, a gesture of surprise and intrigue. Of all the things she might have said—security protocols, medical instructions, warnings about the darkness—gratitude was not on my list of expectations.

In a world that seemed perpetually on the brink, where survival often took precedence over everything else, gratitude was not a concept that had frequently crossed my mind. There was too much to fear, too much to worry about, too much to grieve. Where did gratitude fit into all of that? How did you find thankfulness when you had been torn from your children, infected by a dead man's touch, trapped in a dimension that operated on rules you couldn't begin to understand?

"Gratitude?" Kain's voice carried a note of disbelief, almost a scoff. He was young, but he had learned quickly that this world didn't reward optimism.

"Hear me out," Glenda quickly interjected, cutting off any potential objections with a gesture of her hand.

Kain fell into a reluctant silence, and I found myself doing the same, a part of me curious about where this was going. The fire crackled between us, sending small sparks spiralling upward into the darkness.

"It's something my father taught me. I've done it every day since..."

Glenda's voice faltered, a rare crack in her composed exterior. The words simply stopped, as if they had run into a wall she couldn't—or wouldn't—scale. She swallowed hard, the movement visible even in the dim light, as if pushing down memories too painful to fully surface.

"It's become a nightly tradition for me," she concluded, her voice steadying once more. But I had seen the crack. Had glimpsed something beneath the competent, unflappable doctor who had saved Joel's life and treated my grey-touched arm without flinching.

"Oh," was all I could manage, softly spoken, as a new layer of Glenda's character was revealed to us.

A woman of mystery, indeed.

This revelation offered a glimpse into her inner world, a personal ritual rooted in resilience and memory. Her father. Something had happened with her father—something significant enough that she had built this practice around it. The unfinished sentence hung in the air between us, heavy with implication. "Every day since..." Since what? Since he died? Since something worse? Another piece of her puzzle, another secret only partially shared.

Glenda knelt in the dust near the soft glowing embers of our fire, her silhouette outlined by the faint light. The movement was graceful, practised—she had done this thousands of times before, I realised. This was genuinely a ritual for her, not some impromptu team-building exercise.

"Come join me," she encouraged, her tone gentle yet persuasive.

Kain shot a glance my way, uncertainty written across his face. The idea seemed foreign, yet disarmingly simple. Kneel in the dust. Say something you're grateful for. How hard could that be?

It couldn't do us any harm, I reasoned, shrugging my shoulders in silent acquiescence before kneeling beside Glenda.

The act felt strangely grounding. The dust pressed into my knees, gritty and uncomfortable, but I stayed. The earth—if you could call it earth—was warm from the day's sun, still releasing its stored heat into the cooling night. I could feel small pebbles and harder clumps beneath my kneecaps, but there was something almost meditative about the discomfort. It anchored me to the moment, to the reality of where I was.

Kain, however, remained motionless for a moment longer, his scepticism a tangible barrier. His young face was tight with resistance, the firelight casting shadows that made him look older than his years. He had every reason to resist. He had been kidnapped from his life, torn from his pregnant fiancée, thrust into a world that made no sense. What did he have to be grateful for?

"It's okay," Glenda reassured him, turning to look up at him with a smile that seemed to bridge the gap between doubt and acceptance. "We're not praying or anything."

The clarification seemed to help. Finally, Kain relented, his knees finding the dust opposite Glenda. As we formed a small, unlikely circle around the dying embers, the night around us seemed to hold its breath. Three people who had been strangers days ago, kneeling in the dust of an alien world, preparing to share gratitude. The absurdity of it wasn't lost on me. The beauty of it wasn't either.

When Kain and I had finally settled into an uneasy quiet, each of us wrestling with our own discomfort amidst the dust at our feet, Glenda broke the silence.

"I'll go first," she announced, her voice cutting through the tension like a gentle breeze.

I found myself drawn to the warm glow of the fire, its light flickering across her features, painting her with a softness that seemed almost out of place in our harsh surroundings. In this light, with her guard slightly lowered, she looked younger. More vulnerable. More human than the efficient doctor who had stitched Joel's throat closed with steady hands.

"I'm grateful for life," she stated, her words simple yet profound, floating into the night air with a calmness that belied the turmoil of the day.

Life. Such a basic thing, so easily taken for granted on Earth. You woke up each morning assuming you would continue to exist, assuming your heart would keep beating and your lungs would keep breathing. Here, in a world where men came back from the dead and lagoons regenerated blood, life felt both more fragile and more miraculous than ever before. Joel had lost his life. Joel had gotten it back. The very concept of life had been redefined in the space of a few hours.

A whole minute passed, filled with a silence so thick it felt almost tangible. I shifted uncomfortably, the bulk of my weight pressing into my right knee. The dust had compacted into something harder beneath me, and I could feel a stone digging into my kneecap with increasing insistence.

Is that it? Is it over?

The questions raced through my mind, an internal monologue of doubt and confusion. I had expected something more—instructions, guidance, some framework for this ritual she had described. But then, a gentle nudge from Glenda's elbow against my ribs pulled me back to the moment. It was a silent prompt, her way of saying it was my turn to find something, anything, to be grateful for.

I took a deep breath, letting the cool night air fill my lungs as I searched for an answer amidst the scatter of my thoughts. The air tasted different here—cleaner somehow, less polluted, but also less familiar. It was air that had never passed through a car's exhaust, never been filtered through an air conditioning unit, never carried the scent of Claire's perfume or Mack's unwashed sports clothes.

What am I grateful for?

The question seemed almost laughable in the context of our current predicament.

Jamie's moodiness, Luke's absence, the severance from my children, the looming threat of death in this alien darkness...

The list of grievances was long and ready to hand. I could have recited complaints until the sun rose. But gratitude? What was there to be grateful for when you had lost everything that mattered?

Yet, despite the despair, I knew there had to be a glimmer of positivity, a single thread to cling to in the overwhelming tapestry of our survival. Glenda was waiting. Kain was waiting. The fire crackled its own patient waiting.

Glenda's elbow nudged me again, more insistent this time.

"I'm grateful for the river," I finally said, the words escaping my lips before I could fully gauge their weight.

A pang of self-consciousness washed over me as I realised how my words might be interpreted. The river. Why had I said that? Of all the things I could have chosen—the fire, the tent, the company of others—I had chosen the river.

They wouldn't think I meant more than just its healing properties, would they?

The river, after all, had been a source of refreshment, a beacon in the vastness of our desolation. But to voice such a specific gratitude felt oddly revealing, as if I were exposing a part of myself I hadn't intended to share. The river had healed my arm. Had kept the grey at bay. Had given us water to drink and a place to wash. Simple things that meant everything. The river had saved my life—or at least saved me from whatever fate the grey had promised. That was worth gratitude, wasn't it?

And then, the awkward silence descended upon us once more, a thick blanket that seemed to wrap around us, binding us in a moment of shared vulnerability. It was Kain's turn now. Glenda was looking at him. I was looking at the fire, trying to give him space while still being present.

As the silence stretched into an almost tangible entity, a part of me couldn't help but fight the smile that began to tug at the corner of my mouth. That was three times now that Glenda had nudged Kain, her persistence a testament to her determination in this strange ritual of gratitude. Each nudge was a little more insistent than the last, her elbow finding his ribs with increasing precision. It was a small, almost humorous rebellion against the bleakness that surrounded us—this woman, forcing two reluctant men to find something positive in a world that had given them every reason to despair.

Then, breaking the silence like a sudden crack of thunder, Kain blurted out, "I'm grateful for Uncle Jamie."

The words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other as if he needed to get them out before he could think better of it.

My hand shot to my mouth in an instinctive attempt to stifle a scoff, but it escaped nonetheless—a brief, involuntary sound that I instantly regretted. The noise was ugly. Dismissive. The kind of sound that said really? without needing to form the word.

The juxtaposition was too stark—Kain expressing gratitude for Jamie, the man whose hostile behaviour had made everyone's lives more difficult. Jamie, who had criticised and complained and dismissed every attempt at organisation or planning. Jamie, who had snapped at Luke and glared at me and made the atmosphere around the camp feel perpetually tense. Jamie, whose only redeeming quality seemed to be his desperate love for his resurrected son.

But even as the scoff escaped me, I knew I was wrong. Knew it with a certainty that made the sound even worse in retrospect. Jamie was Kain's uncle. Jamie was family. In a world where Kain had been torn from everyone he loved, where his pregnant fiancée was waiting on Earth without knowing where he had gone, Jamie was the one connection to home that remained. Of course Kain was grateful for him. Of course that gratitude was real and valid and meaningful.

And I had just laughed at it.

The look of annoyance that flashed across Kain's face was like a physical blow, and I found myself calling out in apology.

"Kain. I'm sorry."

The words were inadequate. I knew they were inadequate even as I spoke them. But they were all I had.

He huffed, his body tense with hurt as he stormed off into the darkness beyond the campfire. His footsteps crunched in the dust, each one an accusation, growing fainter as the night swallowed him. The guilt was immediate and overwhelming, a weight that settled onto my chest and refused to lift.

As I unfolded myself from the ground, my knees protesting with audible groans of discomfort, I made to follow him, driven by a sense of responsibility and concern. I would apologise properly. Would explain. Would find some way to undo the damage I had done.

But Glenda's hand on my arm stopped me, her grip firm but not unkind. Her silent plea of "Don't" hung between us. Her gaze held mine, a depth of understanding in her eyes that suggested she had seen this kind of hurt before, had learned when pursuit helped and when it only made things worse.

"He'll be back. There's nowhere else to go," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire.

Yet, despite her assurance, doubt gnawed at me. The darkness that lay beyond our small circle of light was a vast, unknown expanse, one that I knew all too well could be as unforgiving as it was unyielding. What if Kain encountered something out there, driven from the safety of our fire by my cruelty?

"Besides, we're not done," Glenda added, her words pulling me back to the present moment.

My eyebrow arched in surprise at her declaration. The ritual had felt complete to me—painfully, awkwardly complete.

"We're not?" I echoed, my voice laced with a mix of curiosity and resignation.

Glenda turned her attention back to the fire, her profile illuminated by the flickering flames, casting long shadows across her face. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the weight of unspoken thoughts and emotions. I watched her, trying to read what was happening behind her eyes, but she had retreated somewhere I couldn't follow.

After several minutes, feeling the pull of the ritual's unfinished business, I gave in and dropped to my knees once more, resigning myself to the moment. The dust welcomed me back with its familiar discomfort. I found the same stone that had been digging into my knee before, shifted slightly to avoid it.

Glenda swallowed deeply, a visible effort to compose herself. I caught a glimpse of a tear tracing its path down her cheek, a silver line in the firelight. She wiped at it quickly, almost angrily, as if frustrated by her own emotion.

"I'm grateful for Clivilius," she said, her voice a whisper against the backdrop of the night.

The words landed like stones in my chest.

Grateful for Clivilius. This alien world that had trapped us, that had separated me from my children, that had turned my arm grey and filled our nights with terror. This impossible dimension where men died and came back to life, where rivers healed wounds that should have killed, where the sky was blue but not quite the right blue. How could anyone be grateful for this?

I stared at her, searching for some sign that she was joking, that this was some kind of test or provocation. But her face was serious, her tears were real, and her whispered words carried the weight of something deeply felt.

And yet, as I watched her slip away toward the medical tent, tears streaming down her face, I understood that her gratitude wasn't simple. It wasn't gratitude for the suffering or the fear. It was something else—something connected to that unfinished sentence about her father, something connected to whatever had brought her here and why she seemed so strangely at home in this impossible place. She had been here before. The thought arrived unbidden, startling in its certainty. Somehow, in some way I didn't understand, Glenda had been to Clivilius before. Or something like it. Something that made her grateful for its existence despite all the horror it contained.

The mystery of her deepened in that moment, even as she disappeared into the medical tent with a haste that spoke volumes of her inner turmoil. Another secret. Another piece of a puzzle I might never solve.

I found myself shuffling back to my log, the dust kicking up behind me in a silent testament to the heavy thoughts weighing me down. There, I settled once more, my gaze fixed on the fire before me. Its crackles and pops were a dying chorus, singing the final notes of what felt like our dwindling hope for survival. In the orange glow of the embers, I found myself lost in a reflection, waiting for what would come next, yet unsure of what I was truly expecting.

The night pressed in around our small circle of light, patient and vast and full of things I didn't want to imagine.

When Kain re-entered the camp at a brisk pace, his return pulled me from my reverie. He didn't look at me—deliberately, pointedly didn't look at me—as he immediately lay down, finding solace by the last warmth of the coals, seeking comfort in the fire's fading embrace.

Glenda had been right. Despite the darkness that lay beyond our circle of light, despite whatever he might have encountered out there in the emptiness, Kain had found his way back to us. His chest heaved with silent breaths, a wordless expression of whatever fears or shadows he had encountered in the night. The sight stirred a deep empathy within me. The unknown terrors of the darkness were a shared dread among us, yet each experience was painfully personal. What had he seen out there? What had he heard? Or had the darkness simply been darkness—vast and empty and full of nothing but his own thoughts, which might have been worst of all?

My face softened as I observed him. Kain was still so young—barely on the cusp of adulthood, yet soon to face the responsibilities of fatherhood. The thought sent a sharp pang through me, an aching reminder of my own children, whose faces I feared I might never see again.

Mack would be wondering where I was. Would be asking Claire questions she couldn't answer. Would be lying awake at night, his analytical mind turning over possibilities and explanations, none of which would come close to the truth. Rose would be asking for Daddy. Would be reaching up for hugs that couldn't come, would be crying tears that I couldn't wipe away. And I was here, sitting on a log, having just hurt a young man who was as lost and frightened as I was.

The pain was a raw, jagged edge in my heart, a constant reminder of what was at stake, of what had already been lost.

Compelled by a sudden urge to offer some small measure of comfort, I rose from my seat. The sleeping bag at my feet, momentarily forgotten, now seemed like a small but significant offering. It was nothing—just fabric and insulation, just a barrier against the chill of the night. But it was something I could give. Something I could do to begin making amends.

I picked it up and gently placed it beside Kain's resting form, a silent gesture of solidarity. He didn't acknowledge it. Didn't look at me. But he didn't push it away either, and that felt like enough. In this world that demanded so much from us, it was these small acts of kindness that kept the ember of humanity alive within us.

Then, quietly, with a care not to disturb the fragile peace that had settled over the camp, I crept towards the tent to retrieve the second sleeping bag.

Returning from the tent with the other sleeping bag clutched in my arms, I couldn't help but smile warmly at the sight that greeted me. Kain's belongings—a pair of jeans and a t-shirt—were strewn haphazardly across his log. He looked to be wrapped snugly within the confines of the sleeping bag I had given him, his eyes fixed on the vast, empty expanse of the night sky above us. He had accepted the gift without comment. That was enough. That would have to be enough.

I undressed down to my underwear, taking care to fold my clothes neatly—a small gesture of order amidst the disorder. Placing them atop my log, I allowed myself a deep breath of relief, the cool night air caressing my skin. The air was cold now, properly cold, the day's heat having fled into the darkness. Goosebumps rose along my arms as I slipped my legs into my own sleeping bag, welcoming the thought of rest, a precious commodity in these times.

However, the ground beneath me was unforgiving, a small lump of dust making its presence known against my back. I rolled onto my side, attempting to smooth it out with fumbling hands, but my efforts only succeeded in creating another lump. After several frustrated pounds, I resigned myself to the discomfort, rolling back onto my back and staring up at the darkness.

Probably as good as it's going to get, I thought, a sigh escaping me.

The silence of the night was heavy, filled with the unsaid and the unresolved.

"I'm sorry, Kain," I found myself saying, breaking the quiet. My mind, restless and refusing to settle, needed to voice the apology again, to acknowledge the moment of discord from earlier. I had been cruel, even if unintentionally. He didn't deserve that. He deserved to express gratitude for his uncle without being mocked by a man who should have known better.

Kain's response was a soft sigh, filled with a weariness that I felt mirrored in my own bones. The sigh of someone who was too tired to hold onto anger, too exhausted to maintain the walls that hurt required.

"I'm grateful for the light," he said simply, his words carrying a depth of meaning that went beyond the physical.

In this world of shadows and uncertainty, the light was more than just a beacon in the darkness; it was a symbol of hope, of the fragile yet persistent will to survive. He was completing the ritual. Finding his gratitude despite everything. Forgiving me without saying the words. Offering me a bridge back to connection that I didn't deserve but desperately needed.

A deep line of worry etched itself across my forehead, his words resonating with me in a way I hadn't expected. The light. Of course. The fire had been dying when I arrived, burning down to embers. If it went out completely, we would be left in darkness—the kind of darkness that had brought the voices, the kind of darkness that hid whatever terrors stalked this world.

Pulling myself from the sleeping bag, I moved quickly, driven by a newfound determination. After a quick dash to gather what was needed, I returned to place several more logs on the fire. The flames, rejuvenated by the fresh fuel, danced with renewed vigour, casting a warm glow that pushed back the encroaching darkness. Sparks spiralled upward into the night, tiny stars returning to the sky from whence they came.

The light will remain tonight, I promised myself silently. I will make sure of that.

It was the least I could do. For Kain. For all of us. A small act of care in a world that seemed determined to break us. I couldn't undo my cruelty. Couldn't take back the scoff that had sent him fleeing into the darkness. But I could tend the fire. I could keep the light burning. I could make sure that when he woke in the night, there would be warmth and brightness to greet him.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new mysteries, new terrors. But tonight, the fire would burn. Tonight, the light would hold.

And perhaps that was something to be grateful for after all.