Through the Skin

Some things can't be explained. They can only be surrendered to.

Jamie carries his son into the lagoon with desperate hope and deliberate secrecy. He knows what the water does — the tingling, the arousal, the overwhelming intensity that builds without warning or mercy. He's felt it himself, though nothing like what he suspects is coming for Kain. The others can't be here for this. Can't see what's about to happen, to either of them.

Kain wades in without understanding. The cold of Joel's body seeps through his hands while something else entirely seeps through his skin — a warmth that starts in his legs and spreads with terrifying purpose. He tries to ignore it. Tries to focus on keeping the dead man afloat. But this place doesn't negotiate, doesn't wait, doesn't care about dignity or timing or the fact that his uncle is standing three metres away.

Then the light appears.

It rises from the depths like something alive, tendrils of glow reaching for Joel's grey skin, entering through his pores, disappearing into flesh that should be beyond saving. The stitches across his throat pulse with luminescence. And then — impossibly, miraculously — Joel gasps.

The dead man breathes. The nephew comes undone. And Jamie, watching both resurrections unfold, finds himself caught between joy and the knowledge of conversations still to come.

The aftermath is awkward in ways that defy description. Kain wakes in the dust to explanations he didn't ask for: the lagoon's effects, the healing properties, the source of that glowing light. Some revelations land harder than others. Some mental images, once formed, refuse to leave.