Threshold

“Sometimes healing doesn’t feel like mercy. It feels like fire—and you hold your breath and pray it burns the right way.”

Standing atop the dune, the lagoon unfolded before me in a spectacle of serene beauty, its stillness cloaked in a majesty that felt almost sacred. From this height, it looked like a glassy jewel cradled in the hand of the earth—its crystalline surface an improbable mirror, reflecting the dawn-tinted sky above. The tranquillity of it struck a dissonant chord with the urgency that had preceded our arrival, as if nature itself had conspired to draw a curtain over the night’s horrors.

The vivid blues of the water cut starkly against the sweeping palette of rusted ochres, burnt umbers, and sienna-rich sands. A hush lay over the place—an unnatural silence that made the absence of wildlife all the more conspicuous. Not a bird stirred, not a single ripple disturbed the perfect plane of water. Its pristine allure was almost accusatory, untouched and unknowable. Then again, this place is anything but usual, I reminded myself. Clivilius had already taught us that our old rules did not apply here.

Karen and Chris moved with careful coordination, gently lowering Kain onto the narrow strip of earth that fringed the water’s edge. Their motions were silent but not wordless—the hush that wrapped around us demanded reverence, as though any noise might fracture the fragile promise held within this secluded basin.

The shoreline here felt more like a threshold than a place—a border between two realities. I knelt beside Kain, my hands trembling slightly as I reached out, not for him, but for the water. The instant my fingertips breached the surface, a tingle surged through me—a whisper of warmth, a ripple of something both ancient and electric. It shot up my arm like a quiet thrill, stirring every nerve, reigniting every memory.

Joel’s shoulder. Paul’s arm. The shimmer of impossible healing. It was happening again.

The sensation didn’t just comfort—it affirmed. The lagoon had not lost its potency. Whatever force resided in these waters was still present, still potent, still watching.

Driven by that knowledge, I didn’t waste time with a slow or hesitant approach. The stitched, swollen wound glaring back at me from Kain’s thigh left no room for timidity. The crude bandage was unravelling at the edges, crimson still seeping in a slow, relentless stain.

With a nod to Chris, I positioned Kain’s leg. The moment I began lowering it into the water, time seemed to thicken around us. Even the wind stilled. It felt as though the air itself had inhaled—and was waiting, like we were, for what might happen next.

The limb slipped below the surface with barely a splash, disappearing into the lagoon’s cool, iridescent embrace. My breath caught in my throat.

This was more than a treatment. It was a supplication.

Then suddenly, Kain gasped—a sound torn from deep within. The sharp, pained groan that followed shattered the lagoon’s eerie tranquillity. It was visceral, raw, the kind of sound that echoed not just in the air, but in the gut.

Chris flinched. Karen swore under her breath. And before I could intervene, they both surged forward, instinctively hauling Kain’s upper body away from the water’s edge, his limbs lurching awkwardly with the motion.

But I didn’t let go.

My grip on Kain’s leg tightened, resolute. “He’s fine,” I said, sharply, a thread of steel woven through my voice. I didn’t have the luxury of soothing tones or hesitant explanations. The memory of Paul writhing in pain when I’d treated his wound at the river played vividly in my mind—a painful initiation into healing. This felt the same. It had to be the same.

My fingers trembled slightly against the slick skin of Kain’s calf, but I anchored myself in that memory. Trust it. Trust the water.

Karen and Chris hesitated, caught in the limbo between wanting to shield Kain from harm and trusting that harm was not what was unfolding.

Kain’s voice broke through, strained but surprisingly clear. “I want to be alone for a while.”

His face betrayed the effort it took to sound composed—jaw clenched, eyes glistening with a sheen that might have been from pain or pride or both. He blinked rapidly, his expression pinched with the kind of suffering one learns to mask but never fully hides. His plea wasn’t just for solitude; it was for agency in a world that had stripped him of so much.

Karen recoiled as though stung. “Don’t be such an idiot,” she snapped, the tension of the night finding an outlet. “You can’t be alone in your state.”

It was a knee-jerk response, borne not from cruelty, but fear. We all felt it—the fragility of his condition, the unpredictability of this place. Her words were harsh, but they rang true.

Kain turned to me then. His eyes locked onto mine with a quiet desperation, a need to be heard, understood. He wasn’t asking for much—just a moment to himself, to process, to endure.

But I couldn’t grant it.

“Karen’s right,” I said gently, but firmly, my voice carrying the full weight of my medical judgment, of the human cost I wasn’t willing to risk. “It’s not safe for you to be alone out here.”

The disappointment in his face flickered like a dying ember. I felt it keenly, the ache of denying someone their dignity—but safety, not sentiment, had to take precedence.

As Kain began to voice another plea, his expression already etched with fatigue and stubborn resolve, Chris stepped forward with a quiet authority. "I'll stay here with him," he offered, his tone steady and unwavering. "I can clean his wound."

It wasn’t just an offer—it was a gesture of solidarity, of shared responsibility, a bridge between Kain’s fragile pride and our very real fears. The silence that followed was not hesitation, but agreement made wordless. Kain’s nod came almost too quickly, as if he feared the offer might be withdrawn if he lingered too long on it. "I'll be safe with Chris," he added, his voice pitched low, coloured with a subtle blend of gratitude and resignation.

There was something quietly humbling about Kain’s insistence, even now, on carving out a sliver of autonomy. It made me hesitate—not because I doubted Chris’s ability, but because I knew what it cost someone to admit they wanted to face their pain in their own way. His resolve, sharp-edged and quietly trembling, pulled at a part of me that understood all too well.

I gave in, though not without condition. My voice slipped into the calm cadence of instruction, grounding myself in the ritual of care. "As long as you make sure his leg stays submerged for a reasonable amount of time," I said to Chris, eyes locked on his, underlining the non-negotiable nature of that directive.

Kain flinched beneath my hand—a sharp, involuntary twitch that rippled through his injured limb. The jolt startled me, and I tightened my hold in response, anchoring him physically as much as emotionally. I leaned closer. “Regardless of how much he groans and tells you to stop, okay?” My tone left no room for interpretation. The look Chris gave me in return was silent but sincere. He understood. He would see this through.

Rising to my feet, I felt the ache in my knees, a dull reminder of the night’s toll. The weight of our decision lingered in the stillness that followed, heavy and waiting. Karen voiced the thought that hovered unspoken. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" she asked, her arms folded tightly across her chest, the line between concern and frustration blurred.

"We're sure," Kain interjected quickly, his voice cutting through the uncertainty. There was defiance there, yes, but also a yearning—to be trusted, to not be handled like fragile glass. His answer was both a shield and a challenge.

Our collective eyes turned to Chris, seeking a stabilising force, some anchor in this shifting moment. But his shrug—simple, resigned—offered no answers, only acceptance. It wasn’t indifference; it was realism. He would do his part, but no one could promise outcomes anymore.

I guess we just have to trust him, I thought, that quiet, unwelcome truth settling deep in my chest like sediment.

"You could lose your leg if you don't let the water help you," I said to Kain, my voice low but firm, edged with urgency. My hand found his shoulder, squeezing once—a tether, a reassurance. My fingers lingered there, not just to steady him, but to convey the weight of my conviction: we were in this together.

Reaching down, I extended my hand to Karen, helping her rise from the ground. The gesture was simple, but as our fingers locked and I pulled her up, I felt the unspoken current pass between us—a reaffirmation of everything we had endured, of the shared resolve that had brought us here.

And in that moment, as the breeze stirred the surface of the lagoon, I hoped—fiercely, irrationally—that it would be enough.