The Role I Never Rehearsed

"I spent years defending my decision not to have children with certainty that bordered on righteous—and now I'm undressing my adult son in a tent, wondering how I ever thought I knew what I wanted."

The minutes stretched into what felt like geological time—each step a testament to the limits of human endurance.

My ankle screamed with every stride, a constant reminder of the fall that I refused to let show on my face. The tapestry of reds and oranges beneath our feet seemed to mock our progress, the dust swallowing footprints as if denying we'd ever passed. But the camp was visible now—that pathetic collection of tents and salvaged supplies that represented everything we had in this world.

We're nearly there.

I urged my trembling legs forward, commanding them to carry me just a bit further. Joel's weight between Paul and me had become both burden and purpose—something to focus on besides the throbbing in my foot, the headache hammering at my temples, the overwhelming exhaustion threatening to drag me into the dust.

"Glenda!" Paul called out.

The name cut through my fatigue. I saw Luke standing near the fire, and something in my chest tightened—anger, resentment, the complicated mess of emotions I still hadn't sorted through.

Luke's here.

Glenda and Luke hurried toward us, their faces shifting from curiosity to alarm as they took in the sight of Joel between us.

"He's bleeding!"

Glenda's cry jolted me from my daze, her alarm slicing through the haze of fatigue. I looked at Joel—really looked—and my heart stuttered.

Blood.

Dark red trickling from his nostril, dripping down his upper lip.

How long has he been bleeding? How did I not notice?

Luke stood frozen, staring at Joel with the kind of stunned silence that spoke of processing something impossible. Before he could snap out of it, Kain appeared from somewhere—responsive where the rest of us were paralysed.

"I got it!" He rushed over with tissues, a small but critical intervention.

"Ta." Glenda's acknowledgment was brief as she took the tissues, pressing them against Joel's nose. "Get him seated."

Paul and I guided Joel to a large log near the campfire. The wood was rough, unyielding—a far cry from proper seating. But it was the best we could offer in a place that had forgotten what comfort meant.

"Not too close," Glenda warned as we settled Joel near the flames. "Is it just his nose?"

"I think so." The words carried guilt that gnawed at my insides.

Had the blood been flowing during our fall down the hill? During the entire journey back? And I hadn't noticed?

The question haunted me, casting shadows over the relief of having reached camp.

What a lousy father I'm already turning out to be.

Glenda knelt before Joel, her actions a blend of medical concern and visible confusion. Joel drooped between Paul and me, almost too fragile to be real—this young man who'd been dead hours ago, who shouldn't have blood at all.

"I don't understand how he can be bleeding. I'm certain there was no blood in him earlier."

I found myself shaking my head—an involuntary reaction to the surreal tableau unfolding before us.

"I didn't give him any. But he seems to have plenty of it now."

The bloodied tissues in my hand were both reassuring and unnerving. Blood meant life. But the sudden appearance—the body manufacturing what shouldn't be there—was a puzzle that defied every biological principle I'd ever understood.

Glenda nodded agreement, her examination of Joel continuing. She prodded gently along his arms, his legs, checking circulation with the practiced movements of someone who'd done this countless times before.

"There is definitely blood in his veins now. It's a medical anomaly!"

The declaration carried clinical fascination—the kind of detachment that seemed out of place while my son sat bleeding in the dust.

Then, with a fluid motion that shattered the gravity of our discussion, Glenda stood and accepted a whiskey bottle from Luke. "You better lie him down again once the bleeding stops." She took a swig from the bottle.

I stared.

Dumbfounded didn't begin to cover it.

The incongruity of her actions—that casual sip of alcohol while Joel sat there with blood still trickling from his nose—ignited something hot and indignant in my chest. My earlier reservations about Glenda, briefly subdued by her medical intervention and surgical skill, surged back with renewed force.

Duke had the right instinct about her from the start.

The thought was uncharitable, perhaps unfair. She'd saved Joel's life with that surgery. She'd helped carry him to the lagoon. But watching her drink whiskey while my son bled beside me...

Maybe dogs see things we miss.

Paul shifted his gaze to the sky, breaking the tension I was building toward. "Nightfall can't be far away now. I'll prepare some dinner for us."

"I'll help you." Kain's eagerness to assist suggested something beneath the surface—perhaps discomfort, perhaps a need to escape the charged atmosphere.

Or perhaps he was still feeling self-conscious about what had happened at the lagoon.

The thought provoked a silent chuckle.

Poor kid. First true orgasm, witnessed by his uncle. That's going to be an awkward memory.

The campfire flickered, casting elongated shadows that danced across the dust-laden ground like restless spirits.

Joel and I lingered in its warmth as the others moved about their tasks—Paul and Kain preparing food, Glenda consulting with Luke about supplies, the normality of camp routine somehow continuing despite everything that had happened today.

The meal I consumed was small. Barely enough to dent the hunger gnawing at my stomach. But the fresh air—if the dust-laden atmosphere of Clivilius could be called fresh—seemed to breathe life back into both of us. Joel ate nothing, but he sat upright now, his eyes tracking the fire's dance with something approaching awareness.

The sky had deepened from twilight's painted strokes into full, inky blackness. The weight of fatigue pressed down on my eyelids like physical hands, demanding surrender.

But I couldn't sleep yet. Not out here.

"Come on," I said quietly to Joel, rising despite my protesting ankle. "Let's get you to bed."

Our steps toward the tent were slow, measured—the careful progress of two people who'd already pushed their bodies past reasonable limits. The need for rest was undeniable, a silent plea from flesh and bone for respite.

Inside the tent, darkness enveloped us. The canvas walls blocked what little firelight might have offered guidance, leaving me squinting to make out Joel's form.

"You take the mattress."

The instruction was firm. He needed proper rest—whatever healing his body was doing required comfort I couldn't provide elsewhere.

I guided him down, ensuring he was positioned properly.

"Clothes."

Joel's whisper cut through the darkness. A simple word, laden with vulnerability.

"Oh." Realisation sparked through my fatigue. "Do you want help taking them off?"

The offer was tentative. Mindful of his dignity. Uncertain how to navigate this intimate territory with someone I'd only just learned was my son.

"Yes." His voice was a croak of exhaustion.

"Okay."

As I helped Joel with his clothing, awkwardness settled over me like an unfamiliar garment.

I had never found myself in this role before. Caretaker. Tender of another person's basic needs. The handful of people I'd loved in my life—Luke, my mother, Gladys—had never required this kind of physical care from me. Even during Luke's worst moments, he'd maintained enough independence to manage his own body.

But Joel couldn't manage. Not tonight. Not after everything his body had endured.

My fingers worked at buttons I could barely see in the darkness, helping him out of the shirt that was stiff with dried lagoon water and dust. His skin beneath was cool to the touch—no longer the alarming heat of sun exposure, but something approaching normal.

Normal. As if anything about this situation could be called normal.

I helped him with his trousers, the movements careful, respectful. Treating him as I'd want to be treated if our positions were reversed. Granting dignity where circumstances conspired to strip it away.

And somewhere in that process, a surprising revelation washed over me.

Despite the awkwardness—despite never having imagined myself doing this—there was an underlying sense of... fulfilment. A connection forming in the act of care that I hadn't expected to find. Something ancient and instinctive recognising that this was my child, my blood, my responsibility.

I told Luke for years that I never wanted children.

The memory surfaced unbidden. All those arguments. All those times I'd defended my position with certainty that bordered on righteousness. Children weren't for me. Fatherhood wasn't a role I was suited for. I had my reasons—valid reasons, I'd thought—and I'd held to them with stubborn conviction.

But now, kneeling in the darkness of a tent in another dimension, helping my adult son prepare for sleep, those reasons seemed to blur and fade. The certainty I'd carried for so long crumbled against the tangible reality of this bond forming between us.

Maybe I was wrong.

Maybe I just hadn't met the right child yet.

Maybe he'd been out there all along, waiting for me to find him.

"You should be able to fit into some of my clothes," I suggested. "I have spare shirts, trousers..."

"No. No clothes."

Joel's refusal was soft but clear. He wanted nothing more than rest—no additional fussing, no extended care. Just the blanket and the mattress and the blessed oblivion of sleep.

"Okay."

Accepting his decision without protest, I pulled the blanket up to his shoulders. The fabric was rough—one of the supplies Luke had brought through the Portal—but it was warmth, and warmth was precious in a place where nights brought terror.

"Thanks."

The quiet word carried more weight than its single syllable suggested. Gratitude. Trust. Acknowledgment of the care I'd offered.

Joel's bright blue eyes—my eyes—closed slowly. A sign of surrender to exhaustion, but also of trust in my presence. He was letting himself be vulnerable because he believed I would keep him safe.

I will, I promised silently. Whatever it takes.

I watched him for a long moment, memorising the rise and fall of his breathing, the way his features relaxed as sleep began its claim. This young man I'd only just met but had loved instantly, fiercely, with an intensity that defied the brevity of our acquaintance.

Satisfied that he was settled, I moved across the tent's floor to the opposite wing. The distance was intentional—a gesture of respect for his privacy, his independence. A recognition that he was a grown man who might not want his newly-discovered father hovering over him all night.

Spreading one of the new sleeping bags beneath me, I lay down on the hard ground.

Not seeking sleep. Not yet. Just needing a moment to process.

The sounds of camp filtered through the canvas—crackling fire, muted conversations, the occasional clink of bottles or utensils. The others were out there, gathered around the flames, existing in whatever normality they'd managed to construct. Paul and Kain. Luke and Glenda. The strange, cobbled-together community that circumstances had forced into being.

I could join them. Could seek the warmth of the fire and the comfort of company.

But I needed this solitude. This quiet space where I could let the day's events settle without the requirement of performance—of appearing strong, capable, together.

My son died today.

The thought formed with brutal clarity.

My son died, and then he came back to life.

I carried him across this red wasteland. Watched blood return to veins that had been empty. Saw his eyes open, heard him speak, felt his hand grip my arm.

He called me Dad.

The word echoed in my memory, carrying more meaning than any term of endearment I'd ever received. Dad. Spoken in a croak by a young man who'd only just learned to breathe again. Dad. The acknowledgment of a bond that biology had created eighteen years ago but circumstance had hidden until now.

My eyes stung with tears I hadn't known were building.

What happens now?

The question spiralled outward, encompassing everything. Joel's recovery. Our relationship. Luke's deception. Clivilius's promises. The impossible reality we were trapped in.

We can never leave, the Portal had said. The dimension had spoken those words with absolute certainty.

But Joel was here now. My son. My responsibility. Someone I had to protect, had to care for, had to help survive in this place that seemed determined to break us.

The weight of newfound parenthood pressed down alongside the weight of exhaustion, the weight of injury, the weight of everything this dimension had already demanded. But beneath all of it—beneath the fear and the grief and the anger still simmering toward Luke—something new had taken root.

Purpose.

I have a son.

I'm a father.

And whatever happens next, I won't face it alone.

The crackling fire and distant voices faded as my body finally surrendered to its demands. Sleep crept in from the edges, claiming me inch by inch.

I won't let you down, I promised the darkness.

Not again. Not ever.