Between Nowhere and Not Yet #2
Even now, the world outside was alive. In warmer seasons, he might have relished this—the wild theater of nocturnal lives unfolding in shadows and moonlight.
He had always loved the peace and dance of the forest at night, the way its creatures moved with purpose under starlight.
He knew their rhythms. He had learned their songs.
The brush of paws. The twitch of wings. The breath held before a pounce.
And above it all, the constellations stirred—celestial players in an older hunt. The warrior queen ever chasing the ice dragon, always just behind.
Nic watched her trace the heavens through a slit in the wall, silver light spilling across the shack.
He used to feel wonder at that sight.
Tonight, it was only distance.
At some point, he must have drifted off—because dawn arrived sooner than he expected.
The first golden ray pierced the gloom, washing away the silvery chill of night, and with it came an aching urge to leave the crumbling lodge behind.
But as he stood in the early light, stretching the stiffness from his limbs, he knew he wasn’t ready to leave the wilderness just yet.
Not until he found what he came for—even if he didn’t yet know what that was.
Nic dropped his pack into the sand with a heavy thud.
He drew a long breath, letting the salt air fill his lungs.
A breeze swept in from the sea, cool and clean, stirring the locks fallen across his brow.
Before him stretched the raw edge of the coastline—dense forest giving way to sheer cliffs, white-capped waves curling like fingers around black stone.
As he stared out at the horizon, the vast ocean rising to meet the low-hanging clouds, the knot under his ribs uncoiled.
The wind whispered through the cliffside like a distant voice in song, calming the restless churning deep beneath his heart’s lake.
For the first time in what felt like forever, the urge to run began to loosen its grip.
The Singing Cove in winter was both sanctuary and crucible.
It looked peaceful—but it was not gentle.
Most never bothered to travel this far, especially when the cold wind could tear at skin like glass and the waves—towering and unpredictable—could devour a man without warning.
But Nic welcomed its sharpness. He needed the wild. He needed its honesty.
For the past week, he'd been preparing for this—packing carefully, gauging tide patterns, charting where he could camp along the coast or take cover in the woods when the storms rolled in. He’d told his family and friends where he would be, and when they might expect his return.
He didn’t know exactly what he hoped to find.
But here, in this windswept place where countless Nesaea men had once wandered off to remember who they were, maybe a son of Stargazer Creek could find the strength to make himself whole again.
Nic chose a spot just inside the tree line.
The wind’s bite softened beneath the pine canopy, and the woods offered a hasty retreat should the surf turn volatile.
It took time—he wandered up and down the edge of the forest, weighing the incline, the light, the proximity to water.
Eventually, he found a patch of ground nestled between three stoic firs, their roots shallow but broad enough to cradle his tent.
He pitched it with practiced ease, looping cord around one of the trunks, driving stakes into earth grown soft from weeks of rain.
Then came the kettle—he upended it near the fire circle, shaking out twigs and ash, and sorted his modest collection of metalware.
Forks into the mug, plates stacked like coins, pan to the side.
He’d packed light—just the essentials: tea leaves, dried fruit, smoked meat.
Enough to hold him until the forest offered more.
He had water for now. Tomorrow, he’d hike out to the falls tucked between the cliffs. They were harder to reach, but the water there was the clearest he’d ever tasted.
For now, he wandered the shoreline.
The sun had begun its descent, the sky rippling into amber. He shed his boots and socks, rolled up his trousers, and stepped out onto the realm between land and sea. The wind needled his cheeks. Salt clung to his skin.
He dug his toes into the sand.
The wave approached—a wild silver tongue reaching up the shore. He braced himself, forcing his legs not to retreat. The water stopped short, just a breath away. He let out a laugh—a breathless, startled sound.
The next wave didn’t hesitate.
It roared in and wrapped his calves in frozen ribbons. He gasped, instinct to retreat tightening every muscle. Cold—genuine, invasive cold—filled his marrow. It wasn’t pain exactly. But it was a reckoning.
He stood there, shivering, letting the water speak to his spirit.
Could he survive a winter here? Not just survive it—endure it. Could he face the storms, the bitter nights, the aching solitude? Skill wasn’t enough out here. Neither was fire. It would take will. A grit born deeper than the body. Did he have that kind of steel in him?
Nic didn’t step back.
The tide pulled away, stealing warmth from his bones.
The sunset was the most breathtaking he had ever seen.
Even through the thickening veil of cloud, vivid rays spilled from the heavens—cascading color upon the world below.
Hues of molten gold lit the undersides of storm-tossed clouds, igniting the sky with drama and awe.
In the final seconds before the sun vanished beneath the sea, the world seemed to catch fire, a light so fierce and holy it felt as if paradise itself were falling gently to earth.
He sat by his modest fire and squinted into the blazing horizon.
The ocean mirrored the sky, a sheet of liquid gold, so bright it erased all detail.
But then, in the space of a breath, soft shadow swept across the landscape like a silken veil.
The brilliance faded—first warm yellow bleeding into vibrant orange, then into tender pink, and finally, mauve.
That hue—the muted violet twilight—settled over the sea like a dream.
Nic inhaled deeply, letting it fill him.
It was the color of euphoria, the shade of healing. Somehow, always, it reminded him of Helen. That mauve haze conjured her—her voice, her scent—saturating his thoughts until they were no longer his alone.
Darkness crept in soon after.
The clouds thickened, eclipsing the stars.
Night fell solid, impenetrable. Only the soft golden ring of his fire kept the void at bay, casting light across a few feet of cold sand and brittle leaves.
The flames snapped and whispered beneath the wind, but their voice was smothered by the louder, constant roar of the tide.
From the forest, the trees groaned—long, low complaints stirred by the wind's haunted lullaby.
Nic leaned closer to the flames, letting the heat kiss his face.
His fingers wrapped around the mug of tea, grateful for its lingering warmth.
He took a sip. Then another. Cooling fast. He drained the rest in swift gulps, sighing as the heat slid down his throat and pooled in his belly, coaxing warmth into the hollow core of him.
It wouldn’t last.
But for now, it was enough.
It wasn’t difficult to find the freshwater pool.
Nic had only to follow the music of the waterfall, its steady voice calling from somewhere deep within the forest. Hidden behind sheer granite cliffs and wrapped in dense trees, the pool remained invisible from the beach—cloaked as if by design.
Perhaps, once long ago, the cascade had been much greater, carving through stone over eons to shape this secret hollow.
He stepped onto the smooth stones at the water’s edge, peering upward.
The cliffs rose so steeply that he felt as though he were gazing from the bottom of a vast, forgotten well.
The waterfall echoed between the walls, but its sound was not oppressive—it was soothing.
It silenced the chaos in his head, softened the clutter of thought, until all that remained was stillness.
And the beauty—there was no denying it. It was a sacred sort of quiet.
Nic dipped his bucket into the crystalline pool. As he watched the water swirl around the pail, he considered moving his camp here. The cliffs would shield him from the searing wind, offer calm. But it meant losing sight of the ocean—the mauve horizon that greeted him each morning.
Not yet. Perhaps later in the season. For now, he wanted the first thing he saw each day to be the sea touched by firelight.
He spent hours wandering the hollow, drawn by the slow language of stone. The boulders bore stories—shallow runnels worn by centuries of water, patterns where once the pool had been higher, fuller. The cliff walls wore smooth grooves where the cascade had shifted over time, retreating into shadow.
He reached up, fingers grazing the worn hollows above his head.
He traced ancient channels with reverence, imagining the pool as it had been—vast and still and full.
He wondered about the caverns it might still conceal, the tunnels etched beneath the surface.
If not for the biting cold, he might have dared to swim, to see what secrets the water held close.
But for now, he remained content to dream.
Who had found this place before him? Who had stood beneath the same falls, listening to its secrets and wondering what else lay hidden?
Had anyone ever made it far enough into the heart of the pool to be welcomed by its mysteries?
He liked the idea that someone had—and that, someday, perhaps he might too.
Nic tore through the forest, laughter catching in his throat as he ducked beneath low branches and leapt over roots slick with rot.
Leaves burst beneath his boots. Twigs snapped in his wake.
Behind him came the sound—scuttling, loud and relentless—the clatter of thousands of armored legs tearing across the forest floor.