Learning to Walk

"Eighteen years of fatherhood I never got to practise, and now I'm starting with the advanced curriculum—resurrection, dehydration, and navigating hills that want us dead.

"Son."

The word left my lips as barely more than a whisper, carrying with it a weight I hadn't known a single syllable could bear. I gazed at Joel—this young man who shared my eyes, my blood, my genetic legacy—and felt something crack open in my chest.

"You're alive. You're really alive."

The words felt surreal, echoing around us in the Clivilius stillness. Speaking them aloud was an attempt to make them real, to anchor the impossible in language. My son had been dead. His throat had been cut. He'd had no blood left in his body. And now he was here, breathing, his blue eyes tracking my movements.

This is actually happening. He's actually alive.

"I think so." Joel's voice emerged as a croak, raspy and strained, barely above a whisper. The sound of it—weak, damaged, but unmistakably present—was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard. Music composed of syllables. Proof against all odds.

"Don't talk. Save your voice." The caution came from somewhere paternal I hadn't known existed in me. Reflecting on Luke's timeline, it struck me that Joel hadn't spoken for more than twenty-four hours. Given everything he'd endured—the attack, the blood loss, the resurrection—his throat would be raw and tender for a while. Recovery had to be the priority. His comfort. His well-being.

My son. I'm responsible for my son now.

The weight of that realisation settled over me like something physical.

"I'm going to try and bring you back out of the water now," I announced, preparing both of us for what came next. "We'll see what happens. The first sign of you slipping away again and we'll be straight back in here."

The plan was clear in my mind—a delicate balance between hope and caution. The lagoon had brought him back. If leaving it threatened to undo that miracle, we'd return without hesitation. Whatever it took to keep him alive.

Joel responded with a slow blink, leaving me to interpret the meaning.

Did that mean he agreed? Understood? Needed more time?

The uncertainty gnawed at me. We needed a system—something simple but effective that would let Joel communicate without straining his damaged voice.

"I know this sounds very cliché, but it seems to be effective in the movies," I ventured, attempting lightness despite the gravity of our situation. "Blink once for no and twice for yes."

The words felt absurd even as I spoke them. Borrowing communication protocols from films while trying to care for my resurrected son in an alien dimension. But absurdity was all we had to work with.

"Do you understand me?"

Joel blinked twice. Quick, deliberate, unmistakable.

Relief flooded through me, loosening muscles I hadn't realised were clenched. A grin spread across my weary face—genuine, unforced.

Progress. We're making progress.

Gently, I navigated Joel's buoyant form toward the more rugged section of the lagoon's bank. The rocks here offered stability—something to work with, to build upon. I found the largest, smoothest one that might serve as a platform and climbed onto it, positioning myself to lift Joel from the water's embrace.

Gripping him under his shoulder blades, I hoisted carefully. His body was heavier than I'd expected—not from muscle or fat, but from the waterlogged weight of survival. I positioned his head on the rock with as much delicacy as I could manage, the hard surface an imperfect bed but the best I could offer.

Then I reached for my t-shirt, intending to create a makeshift pillow.

Hesitation gripped me mid-motion.

The scar on my chest—vivid, angry, still healing—would be exposed. The wound from our first night in Clivilius, from the coal that had nearly killed me. The evidence of my own brush with death in this place.

Do I really want Joel to see my injury?

The vulnerability of exposing my wound to my son weighed on me—a silent battle between concealment and the need to provide for him. But what was my discomfort compared to his need for comfort?

I pulled the shirt over my head and rolled it into a cushion. Parts of it were still damp from the lagoon, but it was softer than unforgiving stone.

"Are you comfortable?"

The question slipped out before I could gauge its appropriateness. The absurdity hit me immediately—asking if my recently-resurrected son was comfortable while lying on a rock in another dimension after having his throat cut.

The last few days haven't exactly been a spa retreat, Jamie.

Joel's eyes fluttered closed.

Panic sliced through me like a blade—sharp, immediate, visceral. The fear was irrational, I knew, but the memory of his stillness, his death, was too fresh. Too raw.

Then his eyes opened again, followed by a deliberate double blink.

The relief that washed over me was almost physical, though it did little to ease the undercurrent of anxiety that had taken permanent residence in my chest.

"Shit." A nervous chuckle escaped me, an attempt to mask how badly I'd just scared myself. "You gave me a bit of a fright there."

The corners of Joel's mouth twitched into what could only be described as a wisp of a smile. Small. Fragile. But there—a glimmer of the person returning from wherever death had taken him.

Silence settled over us, but my mind was anything but quiet.

A whirlwind of thoughts and emotions churned through me—a tumultuous sea of questions and things I desperately wanted Joel to know. There was so much to say, so much he'd missed. Eighteen years of life I hadn't been present for. Eighteen years of his existence I'd been ignorant of.

Where do I even start?

Kate. Luke. The myriad of life events that had unfolded in my absence from his life. The reasons I hadn't known. The explanations I owed him.

"I still can't believe you are here with me," I confessed, the words heavy with emotion. The sentiment was completely true—despite the joy of having him back, a part of me wished fervently that the circumstances of our reunion were different. That we were meeting in a café in Hobart, not on a rock in Clivilius. That he hadn't been murdered and resurrected to get here.

I began to spill stories of my early adult years—words pouring from me unbidden, a flood of narrative that I hadn't planned to release. But abruptly, I halted.

Joel lay there, so still, so quiet. A silent witness to my outpouring.

A twinge of pain crossed my face as I considered the fairness of what I was doing. Here I was, unloading all my pent-up thoughts and emotions onto someone who couldn't ask for respite, couldn't tell me to stop, couldn't do anything but lie there and receive.

That's not fair to him. He's been through enough.

The silence enveloped us once more—a thick blanket that seemed to stretch infinitely. My gaze drifted out across the lagoon, its waters still and clear. In that vast, tranquil expanse, I found a mirror for my own turbulent thoughts.

Taking a deep breath, I braced myself for the revelation that had weighed heaviest on my heart.

"I didn't know about you until a couple of months ago, you know."

The admission hung in the air between us—a truth that had reshaped the very foundation of my existence. I turned to face Joel, watching for his reaction.

A small tear escaped the corner of his eye, tracing a path down his cheek. The sight of it, glimmering against his beautiful blue eye—my eye—struck something deep within me. It was a silent, poignant reflection of the emotions the revelation stirred. Pain. Wonder. Perhaps relief at the unburdening.

I bit my lip, a physical barrier against the flood of explanations threatening to spill forth. Now wasn't the time. Joel's fragile state couldn't bear the weight of our complicated history.

"We'll talk about it later."

A promise of a future conversation. One we both needed but weren't yet ready for.

As minutes stretched into uneasy calm, I sensed a shift in Joel's presence beside me. The turmoil the revelation had stirred was beginning to settle, giving way to tentative peace.

Where do I start unravelling this tangled story?

The decision crystallised within me.

I'll start with Kate.

The choice felt right—a starting point that offered a bridge between past and present. Kate's role in our lives would serve as the foundation for the conversations that lay ahead. A commitment to building a relationship with Joel grounded in truth, no matter how complex or painful that truth might be.

The gentle breeze that swept across the desolate landscape carried small clouds of fine dust—a stark reminder of our isolation. The sun bore down on us, relentless and unforgiving, its heat unmitigated by any shade or shelter.

My skin felt dry. Almost parched.

Concern for Joel sharpened.

I touched the back of my hand to his face. The heat radiating from him was unmistakable—alarming, even. He felt hot and dry, symptoms of overexposure that couldn't be ignored.

"We need to get you out of the sun." The words carried urgency. "Too much exposure can't be good for you. I'll get some water to dampen your skin. It'll help your healing."

The plan was simple—perhaps too simple. But it was action, and action felt better than helplessness.

I perched on the edge of the large rock that had become Joel's makeshift bed and leaned over to scoop water from the lagoon. My cupped hands seemed woefully inadequate for the task, but they were all I had.

By the time I brought them back to Joel, most of the water had slipped through the gaps between my fingers. Only a few precious drops remained to offer. I watched them fall onto his forehead—each one a small mercy in the oppressive heat.

With what moisture remained on my hands, I gently rubbed across Joel's face, trying to provide some relief. The action felt deeply personal—a small act of care in the face of adversity.

This isn't working.

After my second futile attempt to carry water in cupped hands, the reality of our situation became painfully clear. My efforts, however well-intentioned, were proving useless against the relentless sun.

I scanned our surroundings, desperation creeping into my thoughts.

There has to be something I can use to scoop the water.

But all that met my gaze were unforgiving rocks and pervasive dust. Silent witnesses to our plight.

Then an idea came—born of necessity rather than preference.

I shouldn't, should I?

The internal debate was brief. Our situation left little room for the luxury of choice.

Fuck it.

With a resigned shrug, I slipped off one of my shoes and dipped it into the water. Unconventional didn't begin to describe it. But desperation had stripped away the veneer of convention.

"I know it's not exactly the nicest way. But it's all we've got."

I hoped for Joel's understanding, if not his forgiveness, for the unorthodox method. Then I tipped a shoeful of water over his chest, the liquid spreading across his skin in a makeshift baptism.

I hurried back to the lagoon for another load, urgency lending speed to my actions. Joel's soft grunts reached my ears—sounds that sent my heart racing with a mixture of hope and anxiety.

I must hurry. Joel is drying out.

The realisation that each moment mattered, that each action could tip the scales, propelled me forward.

When I turned around, ready to douse Joel's parched body with another shoe of water, my breath caught in my throat.

Joel hadn't been grunting from discomfort.

He'd managed to sit himself up.

The resilience he displayed in that simple act—pushing himself upright after everything he'd endured—filled me with awe. My son was fighting. Surviving. Living.

"Home." The word emerged from Joel's damaged throat—soft, raspy, laden with longing and vulnerability.

My heart twisted.

Home.

A surge of anger rose within me—a tempest of frustration directed at everything that had brought us here. At Luke, for reasons I couldn't fully articulate. At Clivilius. At the universe itself for putting my son through this.

But I quelled the storm. For Joel's sake. There would be time later to unleash the turmoil churning inside me.

How do I tell him that home—as he knows it—isn't within reach? That this desolate, alien place is our reality now?

"Okay." My voice was steady despite the chaos beneath. I couldn't offer a return to Earth, but I could provide the next best thing: safety and care at our camp.

I assessed Joel's physical condition. He wasn't much taller than me, his frame slight. I could carry him.

"Let's get you back to camp. I'll carry you."

It was a declaration of dedication. Of my role as his protector in this uncertain world.

"Okay," Joel replied softly. His acquiescence was trust made audible.

I crouched down, the coarse earth pressing hard against my knees. Scooping my arms beneath Joel, I felt his weight as a soft grunt escaped my lips.

It wasn't just his physical mass I was lifting. It was the weight of responsibility. Of fear. Of love that had arrived fully-formed, demanding acknowledgment despite having had no time to grow.

Joel, seeming to understand the strain, wrapped an arm around my neck and pulled himself closer. His body sought the warmth of my chest. His trust was a heavy mantle—but one I bore willingly.

The ground beneath us was thick with dust. A fine grittiness that clung to my feet and legs, hampering every breath. Each step became a battle against invisible forces trying to drag us back, to bury us in desolate embrace.

The first hill loomed ahead—a minor obstacle that felt monumental.

Setting Joel down at the top felt like relinquishing part of myself. A temporary severing of our shared resolve.

Smoke from the campfire curled upward in the distance, a lazy spiral against the sky. Taunting us with its promise of safety. The barren landscape stretched endlessly, making the camp seem like a mirage.

"See that smoke?" I asked Joel, pointing toward our haven. "That's where we're going. That's home."

The word home felt strange on my tongue. Too fragile for this harsh wilderness. Too hopeful for our circumstances.

I looked down at Joel—his face a mirror of my determination, tinged with something that might have been the innocence of youth still clinging on despite everything. Then back at the sky, where the sun's journey was painting the horizon in shades of orange and pink.

A frown carved deep lines across my forehead.

Dusk.

The memory of our first night snapped at my heels—the cold, the sounds, the terror. That darkness was a monster, waiting for the sun to flee before emerging.

I could not let that darkness engulf us again.

"We need to keep moving," I whispered, lifting Joel back into my arms. His weight felt lighter now, buoyed by the determination surging through my veins.

I have to get Joel back to camp before nightfall.

The vow was silent but absolute.

I crouched low, muscles tensing as I prepared to lift Joel once more.

But his voice cut through the silence—croaky and weak, yet laced with surprising determination.

"Stand."

My eyes widened. "You want to stand?"

"Yeah."

Caution washed over me. "Actually, I'm not sure you're ready yet."

I cast my gaze toward the distant camp. Several more hills lay between us and safety, each a daunting barrier. Doubt gnawed at me—the fear of not being able to carry Joel the whole way if his attempt at walking failed.

But something in Joel's eyes made me reconsider. A flicker of something unbroken.

"Okay."

I placed my arm behind him, offering support I feared he'd need too soon.

Joel wobbled to his feet. His body swayed like a sapling in wind—unsteady, fragile. He stepped forward—an awkward, clunky motion that was nevertheless a step.

My heart hung suspended between hope and terror.

He's walking. My son is actually walking.

A glimmer of triumph ignited in my chest. A testament to the fact that despite everything, Joel was very much alive.

With each supported step, his strength seemed to grow—as if drawing from the earth itself. It was slow, painstaking, each movement a victory over circumstances that sought to keep us down. The shift was palpable—not just physical strength but spirit too.

We made progress together. Father and son. Learning to walk in a new world.

The descent began carefully.

The small hill was deceptively steep, the ground a treacherous carpet of soft dust. Every step required attention, caution, the awareness that stability was borrowed rather than guaranteed.

Then the earth conspired against us.

Joel's foot found no purchase. It gave way, initiating a chain reaction neither of us could stop. My reflexes kicked in—hand shooting out to grasp his arm as his body began to slip, dust clouding the spot where stability had failed.

But his weight pulled at me with desperate force.

My face contorted in terror as I felt the ground betray me too. We were no longer masters of our descent but captives of the hill's indifference.

Like tumbleweeds caught in the desert's gusts, we tumbled uncontrollably. The world became a blur of dust and sky, an indistinct canvas of chaos. Clouds rose like spectres in our wake—witnesses to our surrender to gravity's embrace.

The sudden stop at the bottom left me gasping.

Breath knocked out of me. Sharp pang in my chest. Throbbing ache in my ankle—competing pains demanding attention I couldn't give.

"Joel!" My voice tore through the silence. "Are you okay?"

The urgency was a mirror to my racing heart. Each beat a question mark hanging in the air.

I dragged myself through the dust—a landscape now painted with evidence of our fall—and reached Joel's side.

"Sorry." His whispered apology was fragile in the vastness.

"It's not your fault." I tried for warmth, for reassurance. "This place isn't exactly friendly."

The words tumbled out—a truth I couldn't mask. But as quickly as they came, I bit my tongue. I'd ventured too close to the edge of despair, a line I'd promised myself not to cross.

Positivity is a choice. A debt I owe my son.

I cast my gaze over Joel, assessing for harm. He appeared remarkably intact—no small feat given our tumble. But discerning subtle changes in his condition through dust and adrenaline was a challenge I wasn't confident I could meet.

"Can you stand?"

"I think so." His raspy voice carried determination.

As I helped Joel to his feet, my own body protested. My foot—an unwitting casualty of our descent—throbbed mercilessly. Each pulse of pain shot up my calf like lightning.

I clenched my jaw, swallowing the agony. Determined to keep my discomfort hidden.

There's something far greater at stake than my suffering.

The urge to scream was overwhelming—a primal sound hovering at the edge of consciousness. But it remained unvoiced. Joel's well-being eclipsed every personal affliction.

Leaning on each other, we resumed our trek. Painstakingly slow. Each step laborious. The solidarity between us was palpable—a mutual dependency born of necessity.

A heavy sigh escaped me. The journey ahead loomed large, a daunting expanse stretching before us.

"Jamie!"

Paul's voice cut through the dimming light, carrying concern that bridged the distance between us. "Is that Joel?"

Surprising relief washed over me at the sound of Luke's brother.

With my free arm, I gestured frantically—a beacon in the waning daylight. "Come and help us."

Paul moved with purpose, steps careful yet swift as he navigated the dusty terrain. Sliding under Joel's free arm, he took on my son's weight with steadiness that belied the uncertainty of everything.

"Thought I'd better get him back to camp before dark," I said, the words more plea than statement.

"Good idea."

Even with Paul's added strength, the journey proved arduous. Every step was a battle—not just against terrain, but against accumulated weariness. A relentless headache hammered at my temples, cruel symphony to everything we'd endured.

"Hurt your foot?" Paul's inquiry broke through my grimace.

"Yeah." The simplicity masked complexity. "The hill where you found us was a bit tough."

Paul's attention shifted to Joel. "Has he spoken yet?"

"Not really." My eyes flickered to my son. Despite the silence, his continued fight was testament to progress.

Then Paul turned to Joel, offering comfort in the midst of desolation.

"You've got your father's eyes. Let's get you home."

A quiet scoff escaped me—a sound muffled by dust and despair.

Despite Paul's intentions, the concept of home felt alien now. A distant memory that no longer held truth in our current existence. No matter how much I wished to believe otherwise, the stark reality remained.

This place could never be home.

It was a harsh truth—a reminder of everything lost and everything I still wanted to fight to regain.