"Whoa! What happened in here?” The cavernous expanse of the Portal Cave, with its ancient walls and the eerie silence that often filled its vastness, seemed to amplify Freya's voice as she stepped inside. Her words, tinged with concern and surprise, bounced off the stone surfaces, a stark contrast to the solitude I had been enveloped in since my return.
The hours since I had fled Gladys's house had stretched into an eternity of reflection and regret. Not a moment of rest had graced me; instead, I was haunted by the vivid replay of my actions, each recollection sending shivers of pain and guilt coursing through my veins. As I bent to retrieve another shard from the floor, the remnants of my outburst, I masked the turmoil with a veneer of indifference. "It’s nothing," I stated, my tone striving for detachment.
Freya moved closer, her steps measured in the dim light, suggesting a blend of concern and wariness. "Come, sit," she urged, gesturing to the cold rock beside her, a makeshift seat in our austere surroundings.
I countered, my attention fixed on the task of cleaning up the dangerous debris scattered around us. "Someone’s going to get hurt if I don’t clean up this mess," I said, focusing on the tangible, perhaps as a means to anchor myself amidst the storm of emotions.
Freya’s retort was swift, carrying an edge of insight that pierced my defences. "Hmph. I’d say someone’s already a bit hurt." Her observation, simple yet profound, forced me to confront the depth of my own pain.
My response was almost reflexive, my gaze, red and swollen from the tears and turmoil, meeting hers. "I don’t know what came over me," I confessed, the words heavy with the admission of my rage. My hand, a physical manifestation of my inner struggle, clenched and unclenched as I grappled with the emotions. “I was so angry.”
“I can see that.” Freya’s acknowledgment of my anger, indicated by a gesture towards the collected shards, prompted a desperate clarification on my part. "No," I insisted, driven by a need to convey the depravity of the situation. "It’s much worse."
Her prompt, "Worse? How so?" opened the door to a confession I had dreaded to voice.
The words that followed came from a place of deep vulnerability. "I almost kidnapped her, Freya." The admission hung heavy in the air, a haunting revelation of the darkness that had nearly consumed me.
Freya's reaction was immediate, a mix of shock and disbelief etched into her features. "You did—how—but why?" she stammered, her words a reflection of the tumultuous thoughts that surely raced through her mind.
"I panicked," I admitted, my hands slicing through the cold air of the cave in a gesture of sheer frustration. But even that word felt inadequate, too controlled for the maelstrom of emotion that had engulfed me. "No," I corrected myself almost immediately, seeking a term that truly encapsulated my despair. "I crumbled." Settling next to Freya, I felt the stark contrast between the frigid rock beneath us and the warmth of her presence. She offered her attention, a silent anchor in the tempest of my confession, as I poured out the dark tale of the previous night's events.
Her response was not one of judgment but of compassion. Freya reached out, her palm warm against the chill of my cheek, offering a touch that spoke volumes. "Don’t give up hope on Gladys, father," she whispered, her voice a balm to my frayed nerves. Her faith in Gladys, in the love I harboured for her, and in her potential role in our lives, shone through her words. "If you love her and believe that she is right to be our Guardian, then don’t give up hope."
The simplicity of her advice clashed with the turmoil within me. "But the two glasses. Two bottles," I countered, the evidence of Gladys's betrayal—or what I perceived as betrayal—fuelling the tension that knotted my insides.
Freya met my gaze head-on, her conviction unflinching. "It means she had company. It doesn’t mean anything more happened between them," she asserted, her words fierce, as if willing me to believe, to see beyond my doubts.
"But that was my bottle!" The pain of the moment I discovered the bottle, the shattered plans it represented, spilled out. "We were going to share it while I told her about us," I confessed, seeking solace in Freya's eyes, a plea for understanding, for a way forward.
"Then maybe you should just ask her," Freya suggested, her solution deceptively simple.
"Ask her?" The idea seemed as foreign as the concept of peace in that moment.
"Yes. Ask her if she was with somebody last night. You’ll know whether she is telling the truth." Freya's advice, rooted in honesty and directness, offered a path I hadn't considered, a way to confront the gnawing doubts head-on.
"And what if it is the truth? What if she doesn’t join us? She’s the leverage we need to get Luke to find us," I confided, the weight of our predicament, of the roles and expectations I had placed on Gladys, making my hands tremble. The enormity of what hung in the balance—not just my personal turmoil, but the fate of hundreds of lives—pressed down on me, a burden that felt both personal and profound.
Freya's expression shifted rapidly, her brows knitting together as a storm of anger brewed in her eyes. "Please tell me that’s not why you want her — to separate two sisters for your own gain." Her words cut through me, a sharp reminder of the moral implications of my actions.
"It’s for the greater good," I countered, my voice a blend of conviction and desperation. I tried to justify my plans with the noblest of intentions, hoping to paint my motives in a light that could, somehow, be understood and accepted. "It will give Luke a reason to come looking for us." The words felt hollow, even as they left my lips, a feeble attempt to cloak my actions with a veneer of necessity.
Freya rose, her movements animated by a surge of frustration. "If I had a wine bottle for myself, I’d be throwing it against the rocks right now," she declared, her anger palpable, her finger jabbing in the direction of the cave's cold, stone wall. Her challenge to me was clear: "Have you listened to yourself? Have you really thought about what you’re proposing?" Her words echoed in the cavernous space, a stark reminder of the gravity of my contemplated actions.
My face fell from the internal turmoil her words ignited. The skin on my forehead gathered into deep furrows, markers of a life fraught with challenges and decisions that now seemed to loom larger than ever. The lines etched into my skin felt like the physical embodiment of my moral and ethical quandaries.
Freya's voice softened, her earlier anger giving way to a plea for reason. "Look, I get it. You’re tired. You’re lonely. But if Gladys is going to come here, let her know the truth. All of it. No tricks. No manipulation. And for the sake of Clivilius, no kidnapping!" The earnestness in her voice, coupled with the softening of her features, underscored the sincerity of her appeal.
A brief smile flickered across my face, a momentary light in the darkness of my thoughts. Freya's eloquence, her ability to articulate the heart of the matter with such clarity and passion, never ceased to amaze me.
"Gladys deserves better than that," she persisted, her conviction unwavering. "I deserve better than that." Her words, a testament to her own integrity and expectations, resonated with a profound truth.
Taking a deep breath, I allowed the weight of her words to settle over me, the reality of my actions—and their potential impact—coming into stark relief. "You’re right," I conceded, the words escaping in a heavy exhale. “I am just an old, selfish man.”
Freya's return to my side brought with it a sense of calm, her presence a soothing balm to the turmoil that had churned within me. "You have a good heart," she affirmed, her words echoing in the cool air of the cave. "You’re just trying a little too hard. Be honest and transparent and let things work the way they will." Her advice, simple yet profound, resonated deeply, a reminder of the path I knew in my heart to be right but had strayed from in my desperation.
"I will tell her," I committed, the nod of my head reinforcing the promise I made to myself and to Freya. The weight of this decision settled on me, a mantle of responsibility I was determined to bear with integrity.
"When?" Freya's question, laced with skepticism, pierced the newfound resolve I felt. Her doubt was not of my intention, but of my timing, a reflection of the urgency she sensed in our predicament.
"Soon," I answered, the word hanging between us, laden with the complexities of the situation I faced.
Freya clasped my hands with a strength that belied her gentle nature, her grip a tangible manifestation of her support. "Until you’re ready, if you truly believe that this Luke Smith is the one you’ve told me about for all these years —"
"I do," I interjected, cutting through her words with the certainty of my conviction. Luke Smith was not just a name, but a beacon of hope in the darkness that surrounded me.
"Then help him," she urged, her counsel clear and direct. "Help him in any way that you can. If he is the Guardian you say that he is, he will want to find us. Whether Gladys is here or not." Her words painted a picture of a future where our fates were not tethered to manipulations or schemes, but to the strength of our cause and the bonds of our shared destiny.
Looking into Freya’s eyes, "You have the logic and wisdom of your mother," I acknowledged, my voice soft with emotion.
"And the kindness and gentleness of my father," Freya added, a gentle reminder of the balance of traits that she embodied, traits that I had admired in her mother and hoped to see in myself.
Squeezing Freya’s hands in return, I felt a surge of determination. "Okay," I affirmed, the word carrying the weight of my renewed purpose. "I’ll help Luke." The decision felt like a turning point, a step away from the shadowed paths of deceit and towards the light of honesty and action. Freya's faith in me, her belief in the goodness of our intentions, fortified my resolve.
"I really need to activate a closer location," I grumbled under my breath, the words barely escaping my lips as I faced the final stretch of my ascent. Each step up the steep incline felt like a battle against gravity, my muscles protesting with every movement. The journey from the dilapidated shed, a structure that had served as my secret lookout over Gladys’s house, had been a gruelling trek of over ninety minutes. That shed, standing alone on an otherwise vacant lot, had been more than just a vantage point—it was my haven, a place where I could watch over her unseen. Yet, the necessity of shifting my focus towards Luke had rendered my favoured hideaway in Hobart less than ideal.
Reaching the top of the driveway, I paused, hands resting on my hips as I fought to catch my breath. The physical exertion of the climb reminded me of the relentless demands of my life as a Guardian, a role that typically kept me in peak condition. Yet, this particular challenge had pushed my limits, a testament to the urgency and weight of my current mission.
My eyes immediately fixed on the small truck parked in the driveway, its presence signalling the day's early activities. Luke's been busy this morning, I observed silently, the truck standing as a testament to his industriousness.
As I edged closer to the vehicle, the abruptness of the command halted me in my tracks. "Speak to me, boy!" The voice, gruff and imposing, sliced through the morning's quiet like a knife through silence. It jolted me, sending a shiver down my spine that felt like an electric shock. Recognition dawned with a cold dread; it was Nelson Price, a name synonymous with danger and a moniker feared as a Portal Pirate of notorious repute.
"Where are they?" His voice, laden with a threat that needed no embellishment, dredged up memories I had long tried to bury. Los Angeles... The recollection of our last encounter flashed before my eyes, a moment so fraught with peril it had imprinted itself indelibly in my mind as the closest brush with death I had ever faced.
"Luke," the name escaped my lips in a whisper, strained and barely audible, laden with a sense of impending doom. The mere thought of what might be unfolding before me sent waves of apprehension crashing through my mind.
With a caution that bordered on the instinctual, I moved, my steps silent and measured, towards the front of the truck. Merging with the shadows, I became little more than a spectre in the morning light, pressing my back against the vehicle's cold, unyielding metal. The world around me seemed to sharpen, every detail pronounced under the weight of my heightened senses. The front door of Luke's house, slightly ajar, caught my attention—a detail that seemed at once an invitation and an ominous omen. Shit!
My gaze dropped to the ground, to the unmistakable sight of Nelson's well-worn black boots visible beneath the truck's rear door. That door, left carelessly open, offered no clues to his intentions, masking them as effectively as the darkest night. I watched, heart pounding, as those boots moved with a purpose toward the back gate, each step a silent testament to the threat they posed. Then, in a moment that felt both surreal and terrifying, they disappeared from view, swallowed by the swirling hues of Clivilius.
"Shit!" The word erupted from me, a whisper-sharp reflection of the adrenaline coursing through my veins. My pulse hammered against my temples, echoing the acute sense of danger that enveloped me. Portal Pirates, the very name a harbinger of peril, whispered among Guardians with a mix of respect and fear. Their reputation preceded them, a shadowy collective known more for their ruthlessness than for any ideological pursuit. While they didn't primarily hunt for kills, their willingness to eliminate those who stood in their way was well-documented. And yet, the life of a Guardian, especially one as pivotal as Luke Smith, represented an invaluable asset—leverage that could tip the scales in their nefarious dealings.
"Stand up!" The command, issued from Nelson's unseen accomplice, sliced through the tension, a venomous challenge that left no room for hesitation. The voice, laced with a threat as cold and sharp as a blade, emanated from the truck's shadowy recesses, turning the air thick with anticipation.
I tensed, every muscle coiled like a spring, as the scrape of shoes against metal underscored the immediacy of the threat. There was no time for deliberation; my response had to be both immediate and decisive. Edging closer to the precipice of action, I positioned myself at the truck's door, the metal's chill seeping into my palms, a stark reminder of the stakes at play.
The weight of the moment pressed down on me, a tangible force that demanded a reckoning. As a Guardian, my role was not only to protect but to confront the darkness that sought to disrupt the fragile balance of our realms. The thought of Nelson Price and his ilk laying hands on Luke, using him as a pawn in their twisted games, ignited a fire within me. They sought to wield power, to manipulate the very fabric of our existence for their own ends, and standing against them, I was acutely aware of the fine line that separated courage from recklessness.
In that breathless instant, with the threat looming just beyond the truck's door, I steeled myself for what was to come.
The distinct sound of a sharp blade slicing through flesh made me gasp. My heart plunged into my stomach, eyes bulging, while I heard the gurgling and coughing of someone drowning in their own blood. The body hit the bed of the truck with a loud thud. Anger surged through my entire body.
The door collided with a sickening thud as the man catapulted from the truck, gravity claiming him in a chaotic dance with the cold asphalt. Swift and unyielding, I closed the distance, boots crunching on the cement, only to find my adversary already on his feet, hunched in pain, nursing the wounded shoulder that bore the brunt of my door-induced assault.
“Ah, Cody Jennings,” he sneered, his voice dripping with malice, a dark mirror to our shared history. Griffin Langley—a name that conjured memories of conflicts past, a ghost that had lingered in the periphery of my thoughts, now standing before me in flesh and blood.
“Griffin Langley, we meet again,” I responded, my voice steady, my focus sharp. The air between us crackled with the tension of our gaze, two predators locked in a moment of recognition. “I see you’ve lost a few more teeth since we last spoke.” The words were a barb, a reminder of our last encounter, the physical toll it had taken on him evident in his grimace.
“It’s been a rough year,” he shot back, his defiance manifesting in a spray of saliva and blood, a grotesque testament to his resilience. The act was both a challenge and a declaration, a sign that Griffin, despite his injuries, was far from defeated.
“Don’t do it,” I warned, my instincts flaring as I noticed the subtle shift in his posture, the telltale sign of a hand inching towards a concealed weapon. Griffin’s reputation for unpredictability was well-earned; his movements, though pained, were laden with intent.
“I’m the one with the knife here,” he boasted, the flash of the blade in the sunlight a foreboding warning. The weapon, though small, was a clear indication of his readiness to escalate the confrontation, its edge catching the light in a sinister promise of violence.
“Try it, and I’ll cut you with that knife,” I countered, my tone laced with the confidence of experience. Facing Griffin, I was acutely aware of his capabilities and his limitations. He was dangerous, undoubtedly, but his approach was raw, lacking the refinement that comes with disciplined training. My readiness to engage, to turn his own threat against him, was not just a physical stance but a psychological one, a battle of wills where every word, every gesture, was as potent as a strike.
In this standoff, beneath the unyielding gaze of the sun, the lines were drawn. Griffin Langley, with his brutish force and crude tactics, stood on one side; I, with the resolve borne of countless encounters and the wisdom to navigate them, stood on the other. The air hung heavy with the anticipation, a palpable tension that spoke of the inevitable clash. It was a dance as old as time, a test of mettle and mind, and I was prepared to see it through to its end.
With a swipe that carried all the venom of his intentions, Griffin lunged, the blade cutting through the air with a precision that spoke of his desperation. I moved with the agility borne of countless encounters, sidestepping his attack with a grace that felt almost like a dance with danger itself. The air around us was charged, thick with the tension of our silent battle, a clash of wills as palpable as the physical blows we traded.
"Do you know why we call you Portal Pawns?" I taunted, unable to resist the urge to needle him further, a smirk playing at the edges of my lips. The question hung between us, an added provocation aimed at unsettling him further.
Griffin's response was a silent, seething glare, his eyes narrowing with a mix of hatred and begrudging acknowledgment. He knew well the game of hunter and hunted we played, yet my words seemed to burrow under his skin, striking a chord.
"Because you’re disposable," I finished for him, the declaration sharp, a verbal jab meant to undercut his resolve and remind him of his place in the grander scheme of things we were both entangled in.
The response was immediate—a low, guttural growl that vibrated from Griffin's throat, a sound that was both a warning and a clear indicator of the fury I had ignited within him. It was the sound of a cornered animal, desperate and dangerous.
Timing was everything. As Griffin prepared for another assault, I counted down internally, aligning my instincts with the imminent rush of action. Three, two, one—his body tensed, and he lunged, predictably falling into the trap I had mentally laid out for him. My movement was a blend of anticipation and precision, stepping aside just as he committed to his charge.
Seizing his arm, I felt the surge of adrenaline as I twisted it behind him, my grip ironclad. The snap of his wrist bones breaking under the pressure was a grim chorus to the dance we performed, a sound that was both shocking and satisfying in the context of our struggle. Griffin’s cry of pain was immediate, a wail that cut through the standoff, and the knife falling from his grasp, marking the turning point of our confrontation.
With a swift kick, I sent the knife flying, its metallic glint winking out as it buried itself in the garden bed, rendered harmless. Pressing Griffin against the truck, I utilised every ounce of my strength to immobilise him, his body pinned by mine against the cold metal. "I did tell you," I whispered, my words a cold breath on his ear, a reminder of the warning he had chosen to ignore.
The lifeless gaze that met mine from the back of the truck sent a shiver down my spine, the stark emptiness of death laid bare in the dim light. The body, ensconced in its own crimson, offered a grim tableau. Yet, amidst the horror, a wave of relief washed over me—it wasn’t Luke. This realisation, though cold comfort, steadied my resolve.
"Nelson will kill you for this," Griffin hissed between laboured breaths, each word laced with venom and pain. His threat, intended to intimidate, only drew a laugh from deep within me. "Not if he can’t find me," I retorted, the confidence in my voice unshaken by his dire predictions.
Griffin’s laughter, a deranged echo of his earlier defiance, cut through the tension. "You think we don’t already have your location?" he taunted, his mirth tinged with madness. "We just… Don’t… Like it," he spat, his words deliberate, intended to unnerve.
With a resolve hardened by countless conflicts, I moved. My action was swift—a calculated manoeuvre that brought Griffin’s forehead crashing into the truck bed with a thud, his consciousness extinguished as quickly as it had flared. The weight of his body, now limp and unyielding, pressed against me.
My knees threatened to give way beneath the burden, a momentary weakness that belied the strength required to navigate the path I had chosen. The Portal, activated with a sense of urgency, shimmered against the side of the house, its swirling colours a gateway to safety, to secrecy.
Dragging Griffin’s unconscious form was a task that taxed every fibre of my being. The concrete driveway scraped against us, the small garden bed of rocks and flax plants a minor obstacle in the path to the Portal. Each step was measured, a balance between haste and caution, as I moved us through the vibrant maelstrom of purple, blue, and green that marked the threshold between worlds.
The moment we crossed into the Portal, the familiar yet always unsettling sensation of transition enveloped us. The world behind us faded into darkness, the problems, threats, and the lifeless gaze in the truck relegated to a reality I had momentarily left behind. The immediate danger may have been averted, but the implications of Griffin's words lingered—a reminder of the ever-present threat Nelson and his ilk posed.
