Shadows at the Riverbank

“Clivilius has its own silence—but it’s the silences between us that make me stumble.”

As I approached our makeshift riverside encampment, nestled snug against the banks of Clivilius' whispering waters, my heartbeat quickened in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the weight of the supplies in my hands.

The river murmured softly over its stones, a sound usually grounding, but now it only underscored the stillness of the camp itself. The water caught the light and threw it back in scattered diamonds, indifferent to my growing unease.

Something was off.

The tent, proud and solid when I'd left, stood unchanged, its canvas gleaming faintly beneath the bright light. Yet no movement stirred around it. No quiet chatter, no thud of work in progress, no familiar silhouette bending to task. The usual hum of activity had been replaced by a silence so complete it seemed to press against my skin.

My throat tightened as my eyes swept the space, restless, seeking any detail out of place. The fire pit, unlit. The scattered tools, motionless. The empty stretch of dust where two men should have been working.

"Where's Paul?"

My gaze flitted across the camp, searching corners, shadows, the waterline—any hint of disturbance, any trace of something gone wrong. My mind was already spinning scenarios: an accident by the river, a confrontation that had turned violent, some creature we hadn't known existed emerging from the dust.

Jamie turned towards me, brows raised in mild surprise at the intensity of my tone. Then, just as quickly, his expression softened, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Gone to bury his shit," he said, light, teasing, the words delivered with an ease that clashed against the hammering of my chest.

"Oh."

The sound slipped from me with a rush of air, relief rushing in to fill the space worry had vacated. Palpable, immediate, though tainted with a residue of embarrassment that warmed my cheeks. My mind had leapt so nimbly to catastrophe, stitching disasters out of silence, that the ordinary truth landed like a joke at my expense.

Of course. Of course Paul was fine.

I swallowed, forcing my shoulders to loosen, though the absurd image of my brother hunched amongst the rocks with grim determination flickered uninvited across my thoughts. Typical. Only I could turn a trip to the latrine into a moment of near-panic.

"What's got you in such a flurry?"

Jamie's question landed softly, but the weight beneath it was undeniable. His tone was simple enough, almost casual, yet the way his eyes lingered on me carried an edge—an unspoken invitation, no, a challenge—to justify the way I'd stumbled into panic.

"Nothing. I just had a moment and thought maybe something had happened to him."

Jamie's face shifted in response, his lips forming a pout that might have seemed playful in another setting, but here it struck oddly, almost defensively.

"He might not be my favourite person, but I certainly wouldn't hurt him."

The sharpness in his voice was small, subtle, but it cut nonetheless—an unexpected barb that left me momentarily stunned. For a heartbeat I just stared, caught off guard by the implication, by the way his words curved away from mine. The suggestion that my concern might somehow be read as an accusation unsettled me.

"I wasn't suggesting you would," I replied at last, my voice careful, measured.

The defensiveness in Jamie's tone had opened something jagged between us, and I knew better than to feed it. Still, the exchange left its mark. Beneath the words hung a reminder I couldn't shake—that even here, in this alien quiet, the fractures between us travelled with us, ready to widen at the smallest pressure.

Jamie, perhaps to break the silence or to occupy his hands, turned his attention to the suitcase I had packed for him.

His fingers moved briskly, rummaging past shirts and folded trousers, sifting through the order I had imposed until, inevitably, his search turned up the absurd.

The air was thick with the unmistakable scent of adventure, threaded with that undercurrent of tension Jamie and I always seemed to summon whenever we stood too close to the edge of disagreement. Only this time, the catalyst wasn't some grave matter of survival or strategy—it was a shiny, bright green thong, its lurid colour blazing against the subdued tones of our rugged encampment like a peacock in a cemetery.

"Really?"

Jamie's voice cut through my thoughts, incredulous, but softened by amusement. He held the thing aloft between thumb and forefinger, as though it might contaminate him, letting it dangle between us like evidence in some ridiculous trial. His eyes narrowed, half disbelieving, half daring me to explain myself.

I couldn't help the laugh that rose up, warm and mischievous, the kind that betrayed me before I could dress it in restraint.

"I thought you liked it?"

My tone came out dripping with feigned innocence, a mask I wore as easily as breath. But this wasn't accident or oversight. I knew exactly how Jamie felt about such flamboyant scraps of fabric. Which was precisely why I'd slipped it in.

The thong had been my little act of sabotage, mischief folded neatly between his shirts. The temptation to see his reaction had been irresistible—a private indulgence amidst the weightier burdens we carried. A reminder that even in exile, even in the wreckage of what we'd been, I could still make him roll his eyes like that.

His dry retort came instantly. "You mean you like it."

His voice was parched with disbelief, though not without affection, and the look he gave me—half exasperated, half fond—struck that familiar chord. It was the dance we knew by heart, a shorthand that carried us from quarrels to laughter in a single breath.

I felt the heat rise in me, not just in my face but lower, more insistent, as though the joke had slipped its leash and reached into the hunger I'd been carrying.

The memory flickered unbidden: one night, months ago, Jamie stepping from the shower, a towel slung low, his skin still wet. I'd wanted him then with a sharpness that ached, but he had drifted past me with a peck on the cheek and the kind of weary smile that spoke of other priorities. Later, alone in the quiet of the study, I had settled for the ghost of him instead—my own secret, private indulgence, a release that both soothed and inflamed the longing it was meant to quiet.

"You can wear them under your swimmers," I suggested now, biting down on a grin, trying to maintain a façade of seriousness as Jamie rolled his eyes with such exaggerated force I half-expected him to start seeing the inside of his own head.

The absurdity of the moment pressed close, laughter disguising something far more urgent. Beneath the playfulness, a current thrummed—desire, building and restless, sharpened by the long drought of touch and the relentless demands that had pulled us apart.

Teasing him was safe, a way to let the longing bleed into humour rather than admission. But my body had already betrayed me, humming with the ache I carried like contraband, hidden but insistent, waiting for its moment of release.

"Well, in any case, you can use these to start a fire," I said, forcing the conversation back to steadier ground.

I lifted the textbooks I'd gathered, their worn spines stacked awkwardly in my hands like some reluctant offering. In truth, they were relics from another life, now reduced to fuel. The thong joke, though amusing, had been only a fleeting reprieve; practicalities always clawed their way back to the surface.

"Thanks," Jamie acknowledged, though the sound of it was flat, laced with resignation. His eyes flicked to the pile, then back to me, and I caught the faint downturn of his lips. "But those books won't last long."

"I know. But I'm not sure we have anything else just yet."

The words sat sour in my mouth, weighted with the sting of inadequacy. It felt like admitting defeat to something as basic as kindling. The barren wilderness wasn't forgiving; every gap in our provisions was another reminder of how precarious our survival here really was.

"You could take the car down to the petrol station on Main Road. They usually have small bags of firewood for sale."

Jamie's tone was matter-of-fact, practical as always. But his solution struck me like a blow, the suggestion so logical it became terrifying.

I gawped at him, my chest tightening with that familiar, unreasonable jolt of panic.

"But you know how much I hate driving."

The words slipped out too quickly, weighted with the helplessness I tried so often to bury. Driving. The very thought of it made my palms slick and my stomach clench. All those years of avoiding it, of finding excuses, of letting Jamie or Paul or anyone else take the wheel while I sat safely in the passenger seat, watching the world blur past without having to control it.

Jamie didn't flinch, didn't soften.

"Well, perhaps it might be a good time to start liking it," he retorted.

His voice carried a smugness so thick I could feel it even without meeting his eyes. It wasn't just a suggestion—it was a challenge, deliberate and sharp, pressing against the borders of my carefully guarded comfort.

Inside, I bristled.

The truth of Jamie's words pressed against me like grit under skin, impossible to ignore. Logic told me he was right—that my resistance was childish, out of place in the raw, unyielding face of what we were trying to build. But logic didn't soothe the twisting in my stomach, the old dread that came at the thought of gripping a steering wheel, surrendering myself to the frenzy of traffic, the blur of speed.

It was less fear of the machine itself and more fear of losing control. Of trusting the world around me not to spin me into ruin. Of being responsible for something so large, so fast, so capable of destruction if I made even the smallest mistake.

I stood suspended in that uneasy space, tugged between impulse and reason, knowing he had me cornered. He'd nudged me onto a path I couldn't easily retreat from, and he knew it.

"I'll bring you a mattress too," I blurted, seizing on the first distraction that came to mind.

The words tumbled out quickly, eager, a rope thrown to pull us both away from the subject of my driving.

"Then you won't have to sleep on the dirt."

It was a peace offering, hastily constructed yet genuine, a way to smooth over the jagged edge of our momentary friction. My voice carried a note of care I hoped would eclipse the defensiveness that had crept in moments earlier.

Jamie's eyes softened slightly, the promise of comfort easing the tension that lingered in the air between us.

For all our clashes and sparring, for all the hidden fractures, we were bound by something deeper—necessity, yes, but also a stubborn loyalty to each other that neither of us quite knew how to name. We were partners in this strange frontier, building a life in a place that was as unknown as it was breathtaking.

And if my avoidance of certain fears demanded quick pivots and small distractions, then so be it.

Survival was as much about knowing when to retreat as it was about knowing when to push forward. Jamie had won this round—I would have to drive, eventually, inevitably—but the mattress bought me time. Time to steel myself. Time to find the courage I kept insisting I possessed but rarely seemed to locate when I needed it most.