The Art of Almost Honesty

“Convincing someone isn’t about what you say — it’s about what you let them believe they decided on their own.”

The morning sun hung at that perfect angle where it managed to be both gentle and insistent, the kind of light that made Claremont's suburban streets look almost picturesque despite the underlying ordinariness. I took those final two strides with deliberate care, finding my perch atop the low wall that served as the boundary of Gladys's verandah. The position was casual enough to seem spontaneous whilst actually offering strategic advantages—a clear view of the driveway, easy retreat if her neighbours started paying too much attention, and the kind of relaxed posture that suggested I had every right to be here.

My legs dangled freely over the edge, navy shorts catching the mid-morning warmth in a way that reminded me uncomfortably of how exposed I was. Not physically—I'd spent enough summers working the Gawler farm in less than this—but metaphorically. Sitting here, waiting to manipulate someone I cared about into actions that served my Guardian purposes rather than her best interests, felt like a particular kind of nakedness. The farm had taught me honesty, straightforward dealing, the value of a handshake and a man's word. What I was about to do violated every principle my parents had instilled in me.

Beside me, a bottle of Gladys's preferred shiraz stood as both peace offering and prop. I'd positioned it carefully on the ledge, precarious enough to look casual but stable enough not to actually tip. The sunlight filtered through the amber contents, lending the scene an air of romance that felt increasingly fraudulent the longer I sat here rehearsing my approach. It was too early for wine by any reasonable standard, but Gladys had never been entirely reasonable where shiraz was concerned, and I was counting on that particular weakness.

The sound of her silver Honda Civic navigating the steep driveway snapped me from my brooding. The car announced her arrival with mechanical fanfare—engine straining slightly on the incline, tyres rolling across concrete, the distinctive rattle of her exhaust that she kept meaning to get fixed but never quite got around to. The journey ended atop the driveway where the ground mercifully levelled out, saving her the indignity of rolling backwards like she'd done that one time I'd found absolutely hilarious and she'd found absolutely mortifying.

Anticipation and trepidation fought for dominance in my chest. I'd spent the morning rehearsing approaches, discarding most of them as too obvious or too manipulative or not manipulative enough. The trick was to guide her towards Luke without making it seem like guidance, to plant seeds that would bloom into decisions she'd believe were entirely her own. Jeremiah had taught me the technique decades ago, but using it on someone I was sleeping with felt like a new depth of moral compromise.

"You're out early," I called out, keeping my voice light, conversational. The moment Gladys emerged from the car, I couldn't quite suppress the eye roll. She was carrying a bottle too—another shiraz, because apparently we'd both had the same brilliant idea about liquid encouragement. The symmetry would have been funny if everything else weren't so desperately serious.

"Cody," Gladys greeted, her gaze lifting to find me perched on the verandah wall like some kind of hopeful stray. Her tone carried that particular blend of surprise and annoyance that I'd become familiar with over the months of our relationship—the sound of a woman who valued her independence discovering that someone had infiltrated her space without invitation. "What a pleasant surprise. You haven't been by for a few weeks; I thought you'd moved on."

The accusation stung more than it should have, partly because it wasn't entirely inaccurate. I'd been in Belkeep dealing with the aftermath of another failed sea expedition, with Freya's escalating concerns about Krid, with the endless logistics of keeping three hundred and twenty-six people alive on resources meant for half that number. The excuses were valid but they didn't change the fact that I'd neglected this relationship in favour of duties she didn't even know existed.

"Looks like I shouldn't have bothered," I retorted, the words emerging sharper than intended. I held up the bottle of shiraz, letting sunlight gleam off the dark glass—a gesture of peace wrapped in injured pride. Part of me genuinely meant it. Another part recognised I was already working her, already playing the game of approach and withdrawal that I'd learned worked on Gladys's particular psychology.

Her response was swift, hurried footsteps up the concrete stairs that belied any pretence of casual encounter. "Come inside," she urged, voice carrying an edge of urgency that seemed disproportionate for a sunny Tuesday morning. "I've told you before not to be so obvious."

The scolding carried weight—a warning that our relationship required discretion for reasons she'd never fully explained and I'd never pressed her on. Everyone had their secrets. Mine just happened to involve alternate dimensions and responsibilities that literally spanned worlds. Hers, I suspected, involved a past she was actively trying to outrun and a present she was desperately trying to keep compartmentalised.

"Perhaps you should give me a spare key then," I suggested, half-joking as I closed the distance between us. The proposal was calculated—testing boundaries, seeing how much access she'd grant, gauging whether she was as invested as I needed her to be for what came next.

"Perhaps another day," she replied, tone final as a door slamming. She entered the house still clutching her own bottle, unwilling to relinquish even that small prize to my presumption.

I hesitated at the threshold, genuinely uncertain whether I'd just been invited in or dismissed with elaborate politeness. The ambiguity was classic Gladys—keeping me off-balance, maintaining control through strategic uncertainty. Part of me admired the technique. Another part found it exhausting. Was this still an invitation, or had I overstepped?

The question lingered unanswered as I weighed my options. Retreating now would mean starting the entire approach again later, wasting time we didn't have. Jeremiah's ultimatum hung over everything—convince Gladys to become a Guardian or accept that she'd be lost to me, one way or another. The pressure made me reckless in ways I normally wasn't.

Deciding to interpret her actions as tacit permission, I stepped inside and quietly closed the door. "Gladys," I called out gently, announcing my presence whilst trying to bridge whatever gap my absence had created.

The sound of her handbag hitting the kitchen bench echoed through the house—a soft thud that somehow managed to convey irritation, resignation, and welcome in equal measure. She placed her bottle of wine beside it, and I found myself studying the domestic tableau with something approaching tenderness. This was her space, her carefully constructed life, and I was about to blow it apart for the sake of prophecies and settlements and responsibilities she'd never agreed to share.

The guilt sat like lead in my stomach.

"Gladys, I've missed you," I whispered, drawing her into an embrace that felt both necessary and profoundly manipulative. My hands settled on her waist with ease, the touch designed to convey affection whilst also providing physical control. A subtle smile teased the corners of her mouth, softening the serious set of her lips. I recognised the expression—irritation at my absence warring with appreciation for the independence my absence had granted her.

Gladys had always been fiercely self-sufficient, revelling in autonomy with the intensity of someone who'd lost it before and refused to surrender it again. But weeks without contact had stretched even her tolerance for distance. I could feel it in the way she held herself, the slight tension that suggested she'd been more affected by my absence than she wanted to admit.

"Where have..." she started.

I cut her off with a kiss, the gesture calculated to bypass rational discussion in favour of emotional connection. My tongue traced the outline of her lips in silent request for entry, for permission to communicate in ways that didn't require the careful construction of lies. She yielded—a soft parting of lips that I read as concession, as invitation, as the kind of vulnerability she rarely showed.

My hands ventured across her back, memorising familiar territory with something approaching reverence. This was real, whatever else was performance. My feelings for Gladys existed independent of my Guardian duties, even as those duties now demanded I weaponise those feelings for larger purposes. The cognitive dissonance was dizzying.

As quickly as the moment had ignited, she extinguished it, withdrawing with purpose. The sudden absence of her warmth felt like punishment for presumption I'd thought I'd earned.

"I'm sorry," I heard myself saying, the apology reflexive. "I've had to travel for work this past week. I should have contacted you." The lie slipped out smoothly, greased by months of practice. Travel for work—technically true if you counted inter-dimensional crossings as travel and Guardian duties as work. The half-truth was easier than the whole lie would have been, but it still tasted like ash.

The resolve to improve our communication, to lessen the chasms created by duty and distance, formed even as I recognised it for the hollow promise it was. Things were about to get worse, not better. If Jeremiah had his way, Gladys would soon be navigating the same impossible balance I'd been struggling with for decades—trying to maintain human relationships whilst serving inhuman purposes.

Her shrug was enigmatic, impossible to interpret with any certainty. Does that mean forgiveness? The thought flickered hopefully. I leaned in for another kiss, seeking reassurance her words had failed to provide.

"Cody, stop," she asserted, palms firm against my chest. The rejection landed hard, my expression shifting before I could control it into something forlorn and wounded. This moment—right now, when she was already annoyed and distant—was precisely when I'd chosen to manipulate her into dangerous involvement with Luke Smith's catastrophe. The timing was terrible, which meant it would either work brilliantly or blow up completely.

"What's wrong?" I asked, genuine concern threading through calculated inquiry.

She shook her head, dismissive or perhaps evasive. "Nothing. I just have a lot on my mind at the moment, that's all."

I couldn't let the moment pass, couldn't let her withdraw into the fortress of self-sufficiency she'd constructed so carefully. My fingers traced her spine with practiced gentleness. "You can talk to me, Gladys."

Her heavy sigh carried unspoken troubles I suspected she had no intention of actually sharing. "I'm sure it's nothing."

"With a sigh like that, it doesn't sound like nothing," I countered softly, encouraging revelation whilst simultaneously preparing to redirect whatever she shared towards my purposes. She slipped from my grasp, moving towards the cupboard with determination that looked like self-protection.

"It's a bit early for that, isn't it?" I remarked, watching her reach for wine glasses with the kind of desperation that suggested she needed alcohol more than she needed answers. My attempt to halt her progress was gentle but firm—she needed to be clearheaded for what came next, needed to make decisions that would seem like choices rather than coercion.

Gladys paused, hand massaging her left temple in a gesture I recognised as the prelude to either a headache or difficult conversation. "I suppose it is just a little early," she conceded, back still turned, shoulders creating a wall of silence.

I nestled my bottle of shiraz onto the middle shelf of her pantry, finding space among an eclectic collection of other varietals. The sheer number of bottles spoke to habits I'd noticed but never questioned—how often she reached for wine to smooth the rough edges off difficult days, how she used alcohol to create distance from whatever demons she was running from. It wasn't my place to judge. I'd been using the Portal for similar purposes for years.

"But hang on," she paused, turning with curiosity sharpening her features. "Didn't you bring wine too?"

I peeked out from the pantry, momentarily uncertain. "I thought we could share it later," I said smoothly, the words masking turbulent thoughts. Now wasn't the time for the deeper conversation about Clivilius, about leaving her world behind, about the transformation that awaited if Jeremiah got his way. That conversation required groundwork I hadn't laid yet.

"Hmm," she mused, gaze drifting past me as though the pantry might contain answers to questions she hadn't articulated. She started to speak, stopped abruptly, leaving an unfinished sentence hanging like unfulfilled promise.

The silence that followed carried weight—anticipation and worry etching deeper lines into Gladys's forehead. Her solemn expression prompted disappointment I didn't have to fake. I craved her trust whilst maintaining secrets that made genuine trust impossible. The contradiction was exhausting.

Retreating deeper into the pantry, I scanned shelves for distraction, for anything to bridge the widening gap. Then, unexpectedly, she shared: "I just had a rather strange conversation with Jamie's partner."

The words hit like electrical current. My eyes widened involuntarily as pieces clicked into place with almost audible precision. Since yesterday's reunion with Jeremiah, I'd been mentally cataloguing every name Gladys had ever mentioned, every relationship she'd referenced in passing, trying to map the connections between her world and mine. Jamie—Luke Smith's partner. Which meant Luke Smith, the prophesied Guardian whose arrival was supposed to change everything, was directly connected to Gladys through social networks I'd been too self-absorbed to properly investigate.

The realisation was simultaneously thrilling and terrifying. Was it possible that he, someone from her circle, was entwined with the very dilemmas Jeremiah and I were grappling with? The thought that Luke might replace me, or worse, take Gladys away from Earth into Clivilius where she'd be exposed to dangers I'd barely survived, sent cold fear racing through my veins. My mind reeled, grappling with implications that spiralled in dozens of directions simultaneously.

"Ah, Luke?" I ventured, keeping my tone casual whilst my heart hammered against my ribs. I made a show of continued interest in the pantry's contents, giving her space whilst every sense focused on what came next.

"Yes," she confirmed. "You're starting to remember them all, then."

Her voice held a hint of surprised approval. Finally, a silver lining, I thought, emerging from the pantry with a grin that was only partly performance. "And what did Luke say?"

"He said that Jamie was sick," she relayed.

My initial reaction was deliberately mild, playing the role of supportive boyfriend rather than Guardian with ulterior motives. "Well, that hardly seems strange. I'm sure Jamie has been sick before."

But Gladys's expression shifted, concern clouding her features in ways that suggested this was more than ordinary illness. She rushed to retrieve a folded piece of paper from her handbag, movements urgent enough to spike my alertness. "But then he gave me this really weird list," she explained, voice laced with unease as she passed it to me.

I unfolded the paper with carefully controlled casualness, mind already racing ahead to what I might find. The contents exceeded my expectations—a list that practically screamed Portal preparation to anyone familiar with the realities of Clivilius survival. My eyes scanned the items with growing recognition: concrete, sheds... Immediate storage and protection, I categorised automatically.

My thoughts drifted unbidden to Belkeep, to the harsh winds that had ravaged our settlement time and again. The devastation was bitter memory—structures we'd built with painstaking labour reduced to debris within hours, every shred of progress erased by nature's fury. I recalled the biting cold, the relentless wind, the ferocious snowstorms that had driven us to seek shelter in the caves among the cliffs. Each word on Luke's list echoed my own experiences with resonance that was both comforting and deeply alarming.

This was no birthday surprise. This was a man scrambling to protect people who'd been pulled into Clivilius without adequate preparation, without the infrastructure or supplies necessary for survival. Luke was making the same mistakes I'd made three decades earlier, except he was making them at scale, pulling multiple people through before establishing basic safety protocols.

The sheer recklessness was staggering. It was also exactly what Jeremiah had warned about—Luke operating on instinct rather than wisdom, driven by whatever personal crisis had triggered his Guardian activation rather than by careful planning. The Prophecy had promised a saviour who would unite the worlds. What we seemed to be getting was a panicked amateur making catastrophic decisions that would ripple outward to affect everyone.

"Looks like he has plans to build something," I remarked, striving for calm despite the turmoil churning inside. The understatement was deliberate—I needed Gladys curious but not alarmed, interested but not suspicious.

"Luke said it was a surprise for his birthday," Gladys explained, the lie so transparent I wondered how she could believe it.

"But he didn't say what he was building?" I probed, hoping for details that might reveal just how deep Luke had gotten himself.

"No," Gladys replied, pace quickening as though eager to move past the topic. But what she shared next stopped me cold. "And he also gave me his brother's credit card."

I looked up sharply, shock impossible to fully disguise. "And where was his brother?"

The implications were staggering. If Luke was distributing his brother's financial resources without the brother present, it meant that he was almost certainly already in Clivilius—pulled through either voluntarily or by force, trapped in a world he'd have no framework for understanding. And if Luke’s brother was gone, if Luke was scrambling to build infrastructure with borrowed money, then the situation was even more dire than Jeremiah had suggested.

"No idea. I didn't see him. But I didn't think to ask until after I'd already left," she explained, words trailing into charged silence.

A dark realisation crystallised with terrible clarity. If Jamie and Luke’s brother were now entangled in Clivilius, then Luke's nightmare was indeed just beginning—unfolding on multiple fronts with the kind of cascading disaster that came from inadequate preparation. My own experiences echoed this harsh truth with painful precision. Initiating someone into Portal mysteries without adequate preparation invited chaos, a relentless scramble for survival amidst unyielding realities. The deceit required to mask true circumstances, to prolong secrecy of whereabouts, created webs of lies that grew increasingly complex and fragile with each passing day.

I'd lived that nightmare for years before Grace had died, before I'd had children who were native to Clivilius rather than transplants requiring constant cover stories. Even now, managing the double life was exhausting beyond measure. Luke was attempting it with apparently zero preparation and multiple people depending on him. The sheer hubris was breathtaking.

I sighed, a sound so faint it barely disturbed the air. The Luke we'd awaited—the one shrouded in prophecies and expectations—seemed to be veering dangerously off course before he'd even properly begun. I'd harboured hopes that he would navigate his situation with foresight and wisdom. Instead, I was seeing evidence of panic, poor judgment, and decisions made in crisis rather than from planning.

The question was whether any of this was salvageable, and whether Gladys could somehow serve as stabilising influence or whether she'd just become another casualty of Luke's chaotic approach to Guardian duties.

"That is quite odd," I agreed carefully, attention fully focused on Gladys whilst my mind worked through permutations and possibilities. "I think you should help him."

The suggestion landed exactly as I'd intended—with surprise and immediate resistance. Gladys's mouth dropped open. "What? Help him? Why?" Her confusion was palpable, reflexive rejection of involvement in drama that wasn't hers.

"So many questions," I chuckled gently, echoing Jeremiah's words from yesterday with deliberate irony. The manipulation felt smoother now, the techniques I'd learned over decades finding their groove. "I'm sure Luke had a good reason for it all."

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken calculations. Our gazes locked in silent standoff—my look a challenge, daring her to find reason strong enough to counter the pull of curiosity I knew tugged at her just as it did at me. Gladys was fundamentally generous, fundamentally unable to ignore someone in need once that need had been brought to her attention. I was weaponising her better nature for Guardian purposes, and the self-loathing was sharp enough to cut.

"You've already got the week off work anyway, don't you?" I probed further, a gentle nudge towards the direction I needed her to go.

"Yeah, but..." she started, voice betraying internal conflict.

I shrugged with deliberate nonchalance. "May as well," I concluded lightly. "It's not like you're spending your own money." The final nudge wrapped in logic and practicality, making the decision seem almost inevitable rather than manipulated.

As I reached out, she yielded, stepping into the circle of my arms. The embrace was comfort amidst whirlwinds of uncertainty, genuine affection mixed with calculated strategy in proportions I could no longer cleanly separate. I planted a light kiss atop her head, the gesture carrying both genuine caring and profound guilt. In that moment, it wasn't just about persuading Gladys to help Luke—it was about maintaining the connection that held us together even as I prepared to potentially destroy it.

"You can stay here and wait for me to get back," Gladys's voice, muffled against my chest, carried warmth that contrasted sharply with the coldness of what I was doing. "The cats would like it."

The words drew a wide smile despite everything—a moment of domestic simplicity in the midst of swirling complexities. Gladys, with her layers and shadows and demons she never quite named, often seemed like a puzzle I was only beginning to piece together. Her struggles were largely unspoken, but the resilience beneath her generous spirit was evident in everything she did. Holding her tighter, I was reminded of the delicate balance between her independence and the interconnectedness of our fates.

The desire for her to join me in Clivilius clashed violently with knowledge of the risks such a move entailed. Bringing her through the Portal meant exposing her to dangers that had killed seasoned Guardians, meant burdening her with secrets that had broken stronger people than her, meant potentially destroying whatever fragile happiness she'd managed to construct from the ruins of her past.

But it also meant not facing everything alone. It meant having someone to share the burden with, someone who understood both worlds rather than requiring constant lies. It meant the possibility that Belkeep might actually have the Guardian support it desperately needed, that my children might have someone besides their grieving father to look to for guidance.

The calculation was as cold as Belkeep’s winds, and I hated myself for making it.

As Gladys disentangled herself from our embrace, her actions were decisive. She ignored the bottle of shiraz sitting unattended on the kitchen bench—a symbol of normality we both knew was far from our grasp—and reclaimed Luke's list. The urgency with which she snatched it from me, coupled with the hurried retrieval of her handbag, spoke volumes about her resolve.

"I'll be as quick as I can," she promised, voice mixing determination and haste. The finality of the door closing behind her marked the transition from shared warmth to solitude, leaving me to navigate the silence of her absence and the weight of what I'd just accomplished.