You Will Never Leave

"The portal didn't speak. It inscribed—carving five words into my skull like a death certificate I'd never asked to see."

Luke's voice reached us before he did, floating across the dust from the direction of the portal like a buoy in a shipwreck sea.

"I've come bearing gifts."

The attempt at levity felt strange in this place where nothing was light, where the very air seemed to press down with the weight of our circumstances. But hearing my brother's voice—familiar, unchanged, carrying that particular note of forced cheerfulness I'd known since childhood—stirred something in my chest that might have been relief if I'd had the energy to examine it.

Jamie's response was immediate.

"There had better be a knife in that bag of yours."

The words crackled with barely contained fury, and I found myself tensing at the sound. We'd spent the last however-many-minutes struggling with boxes we couldn't open, building nothing, accomplishing nothing, while the reality of our imprisonment settled deeper into our bones with each passing moment. Jamie's patience, never abundant to begin with, had worn through entirely.

Luke, to his credit, seemed unfazed. He reached into the bag slung over his shoulder with theatrical flourish.

"As a matter of fact, there is."

The knife emerged from the bag like a conjured object, blade glinting in the light. Luke's face split into a grin of triumph that seemed wildly out of proportion to the accomplishment, but then again, perspective had shifted dramatically since we'd arrived. A knife. A simple tool that would have been unremarkable back home. Here, it represented the difference between sealed boxes and accessible supplies, between frustration and progress.

"Thank God for that." The words left my lips on an exhale of genuine relief. I found myself almost smiling as I recounted our earlier struggles, the absurdity of it providing a strange kind of distance from the horror underneath. "We moved all these boxes ready to put the tent up and then realised we couldn't get that blue plastic crap off. I was about to start trying to bite my way through."

The mental image—a thirty-five-year-old businessman gnawing at industrial strapping like some feral creature—would have been humiliating in any other context. Here, it felt like a shared joke, a moment of normalcy in a landscape where nothing was normal.

"You may find these useful too." Luke held up a small toolkit in his left hand, the plastic case scratched and worn but blessedly present.

Jamie's scepticism was immediate. "Did you check that all the tools were actually in there?"

"Of course, I did." Luke's response carried an edge I rarely heard from him—genuine irritation breaking through his usual easy-going facade. "And most of it is in there. Only a few random bits are missing. But I don't know what any of them were anyway so I doubt they would have been very useful."

The admission—so perfectly Luke, so completely in keeping with his lifelong tendency toward grand visions and imperfect execution—surprised a laugh out of me.

"Now, why doesn't that surprise me?"

But Jamie was already loading his next volley, and this time the target was me.

"Well, it's not like you're any better. I've seen the unfortunate state of your latest home construction project. Scrolling through your Facebook is like watching all the 'before' bits from DIY SOS back-to-back."

The words landed like a slap.

My face tightened, the instinctive defensive response of a man whose inadequacies have been exposed. I opened my mouth to retort—something cutting, something that would turn the attack back on him—but the memories came flooding in before I could speak. The cubbyhouse. Mack's excited face when I'd announced I was going to build him the best backyard fort in Broken Hill. Claire's barely concealed eye-roll that had told me exactly what she thought of the plan. And then the slow, humiliating realisation over the following weeks that I had massively overestimated my abilities, culminating in the spectacular collapse of the entire structure two days before Mack's birthday, wood and nails and failed ambitions scattered across the lawn like a monument to hubris.

The bitter chuckle that escaped me was entirely involuntary. Jamie was right. This time, at least. My track record with practical construction was precisely as dismal as he'd implied, and no amount of defensive posturing was going to change that.

"Anyway." Luke's voice cut through the awkward silence that had descended, his tone brisk and businesslike in a way that suggested he'd witnessed this kind of tension before. Perhaps he had. Perhaps navigating between Jamie's moods and the rest of the world was part of his daily existence. "The two of you had better get to work putting this tent together. We have no idea what the temperature or conditions are like here at night. We'd better be as prepared for the unexpected as possible."

"We?" Jamie's response was sharp, his gesture sweeping between himself and me with pointed emphasis. "And what about you? Aren't you going to help us?"

The accusation hung in the air, unsubtle in its implications. Luke got to come and go as he pleased while we struggled with boxes and strapping and the crushing weight of imprisonment. Luke gave orders while we did the labour. The division felt suddenly stark, the distance between the Guardian who could leave and the captives who could not.

"I'm going to see if I can get us a couple more tents. I know this one is huge, but I'm sure you'd both appreciate having your own space."

The practicality of the statement was undeniable. Whatever tensions existed between Luke and Jamie—and I was beginning to suspect those tensions ran deeper than anything I'd previously understood—the idea of sharing sleeping quarters with Jamie held approximately zero appeal. His current mood, combined with my own frayed nerves, seemed like a recipe for disaster. Separate tents meant separate spaces, boundaries, the ability to retreat when everything became too much.

"Good point." The words left my mouth before I'd consciously decided to speak them. "He's not wrong."

Jamie shot me a look that suggested I'd just betrayed some fundamental alliance, but I was too tired to care. The prospect of a space that was mine, however temporary, however illusory, felt like the closest thing to hope I'd encountered since arriving.

Luke had begun to turn away, his body orienting toward the portal, when Jamie's voice stopped him.

"Wait!"

The single word carried an urgency that made me look up, made me pay attention. Jamie's eyes met mine, seeking something—agreement, perhaps, or simply witness to what he was about to propose.

"We may as well see if we can leave with you again."

The suggestion should have felt hopeful. Instead, it landed in my chest like a stone, heavy with the weight of foregone conclusions. We'd already tried this. The portal had already rejected Jamie with violence and force. What could possibly have changed in the intervening hours?

But the alternative—admitting that we'd simply accepted our imprisonment, that we'd given up on escape—was somehow worse. So I heard myself responding, my voice hollow and unconvincing.

"Sure! Good idea."

The words tasted like lies.

We walked back to the portal in silence, the three of us forming a procession of conflicting hopes and expectations. Luke moved with the easy confidence of someone who knew the way, knew the rules, knew he would be welcomed on the other side. Jamie walked with the desperate energy of a man who refused to accept the obvious. And I... I walked like someone attending his own funeral, going through the motions because the motions were all that remained.

The portal shimmered before us, that wall of dancing colours that had seemed so magical when I'd first stepped through and now felt like the bars of a very beautiful cage. Jamie stepped forward, his movements hesitant despite the determination etched on his face. He extended both hands toward the surface, palms open, reaching for the world beyond.

Nothing happened.

No flicker of response, no hum of energy, no acknowledgment whatsoever. The portal simply existed, indifferent to Jamie's touch, offering nothing but its own luminous presence. I watched Jamie's face drain of colour, watched hope evacuate his features like blood from a wound, and felt my own stomach clench in sympathetic dread.

What the hell just happened?

The question screamed through my mind even though I already knew the answer. The portal had silently, absolutely, refused him. No violent rejection this time, no dramatic expulsion—just complete and utter denial, as if Jamie's hands weren't even touching anything real.

He turned to face me, the motion sharp and frantic. His back was to the portal now, to the world we both ached to reach, and the expression on his face made my blood run cold. Raw defeat, naked despair, the look of a man who had just watched his last hope dissolve into nothing.

"You try."

The words held no hope, no expectation. They were an instruction born of desperation rather than belief, a demand that I confirm what we both already knew.

I stepped forward, my legs moving of their own accord. Jamie looked like he'd seen a ghost, his skin the colour of old parchment, his eyes wide and unseeing. Something profound had happened in that moment of contact with the portal, something that had shattered whatever remained of his optimism.

My thoughts spiralled as I approached. Why is Jamie always so rude? The complaint surfaced from some petty corner of my mind, irrelevant and yet insistent. We were trapped in an alien dimension, facing impossible circumstances, and Jamie's harshness made everything worse. Couldn't he see that we needed each other? That antagonism served no purpose except to deepen our collective misery?

The landscape stretched around us, harsh and unforgiving, a constant reminder of how vulnerable we were, how dependent on each other for any chance of survival. And yet—

The shove came without warning.

Jamie's hands slammed into my back, a hard, violent push that sent me stumbling forward. Instinct took over—my arms windmilling, my hands reaching for anything to break my fall—and what they reached was the portal itself.

The world exploded.

Light—blinding, searing, more intense than anything I'd ever experienced—erupted from the portal's surface. A sound like thunder tearing the sky apart crashed through my skull, vibrating through my bones, rattling my teeth in my jaw. And then force, unimaginable force, an invisible hand the size of a house swatting me away like an insect.

I flew backwards through the air, my body ragdoll-limp, my mind wiped blank by the sheer overwhelming violence of the rejection. The ground met me with a heavy thud, dust billowing up around my crumpled form. Somewhere, distantly, I became aware of heat—the fabric of my clothes radiating warmth, a soft hissing sound that might have been steam or might have been my own flesh sizzling.

I lay there, stunned, staring up at that impossibly blue sky, trying to remember how to breathe.

And then the voice came.

Not from outside. Not from Luke or Jamie or any physical source. The voice came from inside, filling my skull, resonating through every cell of my being with an authority that brooked no argument, no appeal, no hope.

You will never leave Clivilius, Paul Smith.

The words were not spoken. They were inscribed, carved into the bedrock of my consciousness with the permanence of stone. Not a threat, not a warning—a simple statement of absolute fact, delivered with the impersonal finality of a death certificate.

Tears came then, hot and unstoppable, spilling from my eyes and tracing tracks through the dust on my face. The declaration echoed through me, reverberating in spaces I hadn't known existed, and with each echo the horror deepened. Never. Never see Mack's face again. Never hold Rose in my arms. Never return to the life I'd built, the family I'd created, the world where I belonged.

Never.

Luke was beside me in an instant, his face swimming into view above me, concern etched into every line.

"Are you hurt?"

The question seemed to come from very far away, muffled by the roaring in my ears and the tears that wouldn't stop flowing. Before I could attempt an answer, Luke had already turned, his attention swinging toward Jamie with a fury I'd rarely seen in my gentle, dreaming brother.

"What the fuck did you do that for?"

The shout cracked across the dust like a whip, raw with anger and something that might have been fear. Luke, who always found the optimistic angle, who always sought understanding rather than confrontation—even he had limits.

But Jamie wasn't interested in Luke's anger. His focus had locked onto me, his eyes searching my face with an intensity that bordered on desperation.

"So, you heard it too?"

The question bypassed Luke entirely, cutting straight to the shared horror that Jamie and I now carried. He knew. He'd received the same message during his silent rejection, the same terrible pronouncement that had just been branded into my soul.

I nodded, the motion small, defeated. My voice had abandoned me, fled somewhere beyond reach.

"Heard what?" Luke's demand came softer now, the anger giving way to something more vulnerable. Fear, perhaps. The growing realisation that something had happened which he didn't understand, couldn't control.

The tears continued to fall, and with them went any pretence of composure. The words were trapped in my throat, a blockage of grief and terror that refused to be dislodged. To say it aloud would make it real. To speak the verdict would be to accept it.

"Fucking shit!"

Jamie's foot connected with the dust, sending a cloud of rust-coloured particles into the still air. The explosion of frustration was violent, uncontrolled, and immediately punished—the dust swirled back toward him, coating his face, filling his mouth and nose, provoking a coughing fit that seemed almost like cosmic justice for the shove he'd given me.

"What did you hear?" Luke pressed again, his voice quieter now, almost gentle.

I forced the words out, each one scraping against my throat like broken glass.

"That we can never leave." The admission felt like surrender, like the final lowering of a flag I'd been holding aloft through sheer force of will. "This is it. Forever. I'm going to die here."

The stark truth of it hung in the air, undeniable and absolute. Not a fear anymore, not a possibility to be considered—a fact. A sentence. An ending.

Luke's response was a single syllable: "Oh."

Just that. No shock, no protest, no rush to offer comfort or alternative explanations. Just a small, quiet acknowledgment that landed in my chest like a blade.

I stared at him through tear-blurred eyes, a new suspicion kindling beneath the grief. Why didn't he seem surprised? The question circled through my mind like a predator, dangerous and demanding. Luke had heard us describe a voice from the portal itself, a definitive pronouncement of eternal imprisonment, and his reaction had been... acceptance. Calm. As if he'd known this was coming, or at least had suspected.

What else did he know that we didn't?

The thought had barely formed when Jamie moved.

His advance toward Luke was swift and terrifying, fuelled by a rage that had been building since we'd first discovered we were trapped. Each stride ate up the distance between them, his body coiled with violent intent, his face contorted into something barely human.

"You fucking arsehole!"

The roar was primal, animal, a sound of pure betrayed fury that made the hairs on my arms stand upright. Before I could react, before I could even fully process what was happening, Jamie had reached Luke, his hands shoving hard against my brother's chest, sending him staggering backward.

"What in the name of holy fuck were you thinking? How the hell did you think this was going to go? Did you think we wouldn't find out? Is that it? Did you think you could literally kidnap us and no one would fucking notice?"

The accusations poured out in a torrent, each question a blow, each word a weapon. Luke tried to defend himself, his hands coming up to swipe away Jamie's grip, but the movement was purely reactive, offering no resolution to the violence that had erupted between them.

"Hey!" My own voice surprised me, emerging from the depths of my chest with an authority I didn't feel. I scrambled to my feet, dust cascading from my singed clothes, and grabbed Jamie's arm. "Fighting isn't going to help any of us."

The words were reasonable, measured, the kind of thing a mediator might say. The kind of thing I'd said a hundred times in business disputes, in marital arguments, in the countless small conflicts that punctuated ordinary life. But there was nothing ordinary about this, and Jamie's response made that brutally clear.

He turned on me, his eyes blazing with a ferocity that made me flinch.

"You're no better than your pathetic excuse for a brother."

The shove came hard and fast, his hands slamming into my chest with enough force to send me staggering. My feet tangled beneath me—exhaustion, shock, the accumulated trauma of the day—and I went down, landing hard in the dust for the second time in as many minutes.

I sat there, the dust settling around me, and felt something shift inside my chest. Not anger, not anymore. Something colder. Something that looked at Jamie with new eyes and wondered what kind of man treated people this way. What kind of partner. What kind of threat.

Is this how he treats Luke?

The question rose unbidden, bringing with it a cascade of implications I wasn't ready to examine. The way Jamie's moods seemed to dominate every interaction. The way Luke had flinched, just slightly, when Jamie's voice had risen earlier. The way this violence felt practiced, familiar, like a pattern rather than an aberration.

"Cut it out, Jamie!"

Luke's scream cut through the air, desperate and raw, a sound I'd never heard from my brother before. It carried something beyond simple protest—fear, perhaps, or the accumulated weight of countless similar confrontations.

Jamie stopped.

The halt was abrupt, as if someone had thrown a switch. His chest heaved with laboured breaths, each exhale visible in the disturbance of dust around his feet. For a long moment, he stood frozen, the rage slowly draining from his posture, replaced by something that might have been shame or might have been simple exhaustion.

The silence that followed was absolute, oppressive, a physical presence that pressed in from all sides. No one spoke. No one moved. We stood in our separate islands of dust and trauma, connected by circumstance and divided by everything else.

Then Luke turned and walked toward the portal.

He didn't say goodbye. Didn't offer comfort or explanation or any of the things a brother might offer in a moment of crisis. He simply stepped into the swirling colours and vanished, leaving Jamie and me alone in the wasteland with nothing but our mutual hostility and the terrible knowledge of what the voice had declared.

I watched the portal's colours fade into the air, that beautiful, hypnotic dance of light that represented everything we could no longer reach. The transition felt symbolic—hope dissolving into nothing, possibility collapsing into the flat, translucent screen that marked Luke's absence.

My head dropped to my knees, the motion slow and heavy. The dust was everywhere—in my clothes, my hair, the creases of my skin. It tasted of copper and emptiness, like blood and the grave.

We were lost. The word seemed inadequate, too small to contain the magnitude of what had happened. Lost didn't capture the violence of the portal's rejection, the finality of its decree, the way the future had simply ceased to exist in any recognisable form. Lost was for misplaced keys, wrong turns, temporary confusion. This was something else entirely. This was annihilation.

Lost to my children.

The thought arrived with fresh agony, sharper than anything that had come before. Mack and Rose, waiting in Broken Hill with their grandparents, expecting their father to return from a quick visit to Uncle Luke's. They would wait for days, then weeks. They would ask questions that no one could answer. Eventually, they would stop asking, and that silence would be worse than any grief—the gradual, terrible acceptance that Daddy wasn't coming home.

Would they remember me? In five years, ten years, would Mack still recall the sound of my voice, the feel of my arms around him? Would Rose grow up with only photographs and other people's stories, constructing a father she'd never really known?

The tears came again, silent now, tracing familiar paths down my dust-coated cheeks.

And then, in the depths of that despair, I did something I hadn't done in years. Something I'd stopped believing in long before Luke's phone call had set this disaster in motion.

I prayed.

Not to God, exactly. Not to anything with a name or a form or a doctrine attached. I simply... reached. Opened something inside myself and sent a wordless message into the vast, uncaring expanse of whatever universe we'd stumbled into.

Let them find me. Somehow. Someday. Let Mack and Rose know that their father didn't abandon them. That he tried to come home. That he never stopped trying.

It was desperate, irrational, the action of a man who had nothing left except the love he couldn't express and the hope he couldn't justify. The universe offered no response. Clivilius remained silent, indifferent, its dust and sky and empty landscape unchanged by my plea.

But I'd made it anyway. Cast my small light into the darkness, however futile, however foolish.

Because that's what fathers do.

Even fathers who will never hold their children again.