On The Open Sea
On the Golden Shore, things aren't so golden. Warning for lots of character death and suicide.
--
The Golden Shore was said to be a paradise. The Golden Shore was supposed to be a respite. After The End, Xanth figured nothing could be worse, had assumed that they could rebuild. There were trees here, as well as rocks and rubble. There might not be electricity, but there were flints and people who could make fire. They could survive, and if they were lucky, maybe even thrive.
It took days for everyone to get their bearings. The bodies, piles and piles of them, had to be dealt with. Some burned their dead. Others set them out to sea. Others yet buried them. The day the last body was gone was one of sadness, but also of freedom. Without the risk of infection or contamination, they could truly try to make a life for themselves.
Still, it was strange, seeing one Riku dead and the other alive. Xanth didn't like it. He buried the body before Kairi or Riku could find it.
Many people could work together. Some could cook, some could fish, some could heal, and some could build. Xanth threw his lot in with those who could build; as soft as he'd gotten on the Elegante, he could follow instructions, tie knots, and carry supplies. Soon there was housing. Soon there was a small amount of trade - the beginnings of an economy, maybe.
This, of course, could not last.
Among those left there were those who cared not for anyone's survival but their own. Those who would go to war over food. Those who couldn't hold their temper and would attack at the slightest provocation. They were there on the Elegante, but Redd had been there to stop him. One night, while helping Vie patch her wounds, Xanth found himself longing for the protection of the Elegante. It was ironic, he thought bitterly.
And when people died, they did not return. On this island, this Golden Shore, nothing could bring them back from the dead. No one aged, and still there was no illness, but immortality was nonexistent. Xanth had never grown used to people coming back, but this time when Gideon died, it was that much worse. Xanth would have rather buried Gideon's body, but there was no room; it had to be burned. Xanth kept his goggles.
Xanth found a discarded gun in the ferns and grasses. Miraculously, there were three bullets left.
As the time went on, Xanth realized something else: there was no energon on the shore. There was no way for Ironhide to refuel. He kept on as long as he could, but one by one, his functions began to shut down. His already poor mobility was reduced to nothing, and from then on, it was an agonizingly slow process.
One night, Ironhide, the closest thing Xanth ever had to a father, offlined permanently. Xanth's heart just about broke, but he had to keep going.
Xanth could see what little society they had collapsing. Those with strength ruled; those who were weak perished. He and Riku struck a tense truce for the sake of keeping themselves and Kairi safe and alive. Xanth applied this idea to others, too. He knew many people on the Shore and he cared more for some than for others, but keeping anyone safe, anyone who could help, was vital.
Kairi had the idea to build a raft and search for other islands, other survivors. They couldn't be the last ones left, she said, and Xanth wanted so much to believe her, but he wasn't sure if she believed herself. Still, it was a better idea than waiting there to die. They would wait and stockpile what food they could, then take whoever they could fit and escape the Golden Shore.
It took weeks. In those weeks, Xanth saw two more of his friends die: first Mikaela, at the hands of a vampire; then Vie, who'd been torn apart for her bracelet. By the end of it, Xanth wanted nothing more than to leave.
Of those who were to leave on the raft, there were only Xanth, Riku, and Kairi left. Once they collected their supplies, they chose to leave at dawn, without a word.
This was not meant to be.
They were attacked just as they were about to set off. They all fought and fought well, teenagers hardened by the Elegante and everything it had on it. In a flurry of panic and violence, they shoved off, scrambling out to the protection of the ocean. No one escaped without injury, but Riku fared the worst; he had protected Kairi, taking blows that otherwise might have struck her.
Xanth directed their course while Kairi tended to Riku's injuries. Xanth was irritated by it, but not because of jealousy; it was because of the immediate use of so many of their medical supplies. They needed those bandages, needed those poultices.
For days, they drifted. Kairi continued to care for Riku, but his wounds healed slowly. They had little disinfectant and even less fresh bandages. Soon, he succumbed to infection, spending hours lost in fever dreams. It tore Kairi up to see him that way, and to see Kairi so upset did the same to Xanth.
One week at sea and Xanth knew they wouldn't make it. Their food supplies had washed overboard during heavy waves, leaving the three of them even weaker than they would be.
And so there he lay, floating on the open sea.
First, Xanth looked to Kairi, who was slumped over against the floor of the raft. Her hair was unkempt and her clothes were ratty, but Xanth could see past all that. She was his first friend, his first love, his first kiss. Idly, he wondered if they could have ever been anything more, had the Elegante not sunk. Her side rose and fell in the slow pattern of sleep, and Xanth smiled.
He pulled the gun out of his personal pack. Neither Kairi nor Riku had seen him take it on the raft. As his finger traced the trigger, he wished that he could have used it during the attack as they left the Golden Shore. If he had done it then, perhaps he wouldn't have to do it now.
The smile slipped from his face, and as he blinked, tears rolled down his cheeks. He set the muzzle against Kairi's temple. "I-I'm s--sorry," he whispered, and then pulled the trigger. Her death was instantaneous; her blood painted the raft red.
Ironhide was right. These were easy to use.
Then, Xanth looked to Riku. He, too, was disheveled, and his clothes were bloody and torn. His sleep was restless, unlike Kairi's. Xanth watched him fidget, finding no satisfaction in the power he held over Riku. As much as he disliked Riku, as much as it might have bordered on hatred, Xanth never wanted this for them. Riku was the first person Xanth truly stood up to, he realized; Riku was the first tormentor he'd ever confronted. For this, Riku very nearly had Xanth's grudging respect.
The muzzle was against Riku's temple, now. Xanth swallowed hard, whispered another stuttering apology, and then fired the gun. Riku's blood mixed with the ocean spray.
Xanth then looked out to the ocean. The waves were calm and blue, the breeze salty and warm. It reminded him of the summers in Falas. If he closed his eyes, perhaps he could imagine that he was once again sailing on the Ella Blue, that when he opened them again he could see K'lai and the rest of the crew. Perhaps this was all a dream. Perhaps he'd fallen asleep on deck and imagined this entire year.
Or perhaps he'd fallen asleep atop the Elegante. Perhaps the Golden Shore was a dream, but perhaps the Elegante was not. Everything Xanth felt had been too real to deny; all the pain and the suffering, all the joy and the triumph. Another smile played across his lips, but this one was entirely bitter.
No. None of this was a dream. Xanth had met the best of people on the Elegante, and he'd watched every single one of them die on the Golden Shore. It dawned on him that while the Elegante had been a hellhole, it was a hell of a lot better than the Golden Shore.
So alone he lay floating, without even a gull for comfort, on the open sea. He raised the gun, set the much-too-hot muzzle against his temple.
"I'm sorry," Xanth whispered again, without a stutter, without a pause.
And then, without hesitation, he fired.
--
The Golden Shore was said to be a paradise. The Golden Shore was supposed to be a respite. After The End, Xanth figured nothing could be worse, had assumed that they could rebuild. There were trees here, as well as rocks and rubble. There might not be electricity, but there were flints and people who could make fire. They could survive, and if they were lucky, maybe even thrive.
It took days for everyone to get their bearings. The bodies, piles and piles of them, had to be dealt with. Some burned their dead. Others set them out to sea. Others yet buried them. The day the last body was gone was one of sadness, but also of freedom. Without the risk of infection or contamination, they could truly try to make a life for themselves.
Still, it was strange, seeing one Riku dead and the other alive. Xanth didn't like it. He buried the body before Kairi or Riku could find it.
Many people could work together. Some could cook, some could fish, some could heal, and some could build. Xanth threw his lot in with those who could build; as soft as he'd gotten on the Elegante, he could follow instructions, tie knots, and carry supplies. Soon there was housing. Soon there was a small amount of trade - the beginnings of an economy, maybe.
This, of course, could not last.
Among those left there were those who cared not for anyone's survival but their own. Those who would go to war over food. Those who couldn't hold their temper and would attack at the slightest provocation. They were there on the Elegante, but Redd had been there to stop him. One night, while helping Vie patch her wounds, Xanth found himself longing for the protection of the Elegante. It was ironic, he thought bitterly.
And when people died, they did not return. On this island, this Golden Shore, nothing could bring them back from the dead. No one aged, and still there was no illness, but immortality was nonexistent. Xanth had never grown used to people coming back, but this time when Gideon died, it was that much worse. Xanth would have rather buried Gideon's body, but there was no room; it had to be burned. Xanth kept his goggles.
Xanth found a discarded gun in the ferns and grasses. Miraculously, there were three bullets left.
As the time went on, Xanth realized something else: there was no energon on the shore. There was no way for Ironhide to refuel. He kept on as long as he could, but one by one, his functions began to shut down. His already poor mobility was reduced to nothing, and from then on, it was an agonizingly slow process.
One night, Ironhide, the closest thing Xanth ever had to a father, offlined permanently. Xanth's heart just about broke, but he had to keep going.
Xanth could see what little society they had collapsing. Those with strength ruled; those who were weak perished. He and Riku struck a tense truce for the sake of keeping themselves and Kairi safe and alive. Xanth applied this idea to others, too. He knew many people on the Shore and he cared more for some than for others, but keeping anyone safe, anyone who could help, was vital.
Kairi had the idea to build a raft and search for other islands, other survivors. They couldn't be the last ones left, she said, and Xanth wanted so much to believe her, but he wasn't sure if she believed herself. Still, it was a better idea than waiting there to die. They would wait and stockpile what food they could, then take whoever they could fit and escape the Golden Shore.
It took weeks. In those weeks, Xanth saw two more of his friends die: first Mikaela, at the hands of a vampire; then Vie, who'd been torn apart for her bracelet. By the end of it, Xanth wanted nothing more than to leave.
Of those who were to leave on the raft, there were only Xanth, Riku, and Kairi left. Once they collected their supplies, they chose to leave at dawn, without a word.
This was not meant to be.
They were attacked just as they were about to set off. They all fought and fought well, teenagers hardened by the Elegante and everything it had on it. In a flurry of panic and violence, they shoved off, scrambling out to the protection of the ocean. No one escaped without injury, but Riku fared the worst; he had protected Kairi, taking blows that otherwise might have struck her.
Xanth directed their course while Kairi tended to Riku's injuries. Xanth was irritated by it, but not because of jealousy; it was because of the immediate use of so many of their medical supplies. They needed those bandages, needed those poultices.
For days, they drifted. Kairi continued to care for Riku, but his wounds healed slowly. They had little disinfectant and even less fresh bandages. Soon, he succumbed to infection, spending hours lost in fever dreams. It tore Kairi up to see him that way, and to see Kairi so upset did the same to Xanth.
One week at sea and Xanth knew they wouldn't make it. Their food supplies had washed overboard during heavy waves, leaving the three of them even weaker than they would be.
And so there he lay, floating on the open sea.
First, Xanth looked to Kairi, who was slumped over against the floor of the raft. Her hair was unkempt and her clothes were ratty, but Xanth could see past all that. She was his first friend, his first love, his first kiss. Idly, he wondered if they could have ever been anything more, had the Elegante not sunk. Her side rose and fell in the slow pattern of sleep, and Xanth smiled.
He pulled the gun out of his personal pack. Neither Kairi nor Riku had seen him take it on the raft. As his finger traced the trigger, he wished that he could have used it during the attack as they left the Golden Shore. If he had done it then, perhaps he wouldn't have to do it now.
The smile slipped from his face, and as he blinked, tears rolled down his cheeks. He set the muzzle against Kairi's temple. "I-I'm s--sorry," he whispered, and then pulled the trigger. Her death was instantaneous; her blood painted the raft red.
Ironhide was right. These were easy to use.
Then, Xanth looked to Riku. He, too, was disheveled, and his clothes were bloody and torn. His sleep was restless, unlike Kairi's. Xanth watched him fidget, finding no satisfaction in the power he held over Riku. As much as he disliked Riku, as much as it might have bordered on hatred, Xanth never wanted this for them. Riku was the first person Xanth truly stood up to, he realized; Riku was the first tormentor he'd ever confronted. For this, Riku very nearly had Xanth's grudging respect.
The muzzle was against Riku's temple, now. Xanth swallowed hard, whispered another stuttering apology, and then fired the gun. Riku's blood mixed with the ocean spray.
Xanth then looked out to the ocean. The waves were calm and blue, the breeze salty and warm. It reminded him of the summers in Falas. If he closed his eyes, perhaps he could imagine that he was once again sailing on the Ella Blue, that when he opened them again he could see K'lai and the rest of the crew. Perhaps this was all a dream. Perhaps he'd fallen asleep on deck and imagined this entire year.
Or perhaps he'd fallen asleep atop the Elegante. Perhaps the Golden Shore was a dream, but perhaps the Elegante was not. Everything Xanth felt had been too real to deny; all the pain and the suffering, all the joy and the triumph. Another smile played across his lips, but this one was entirely bitter.
No. None of this was a dream. Xanth had met the best of people on the Elegante, and he'd watched every single one of them die on the Golden Shore. It dawned on him that while the Elegante had been a hellhole, it was a hell of a lot better than the Golden Shore.
So alone he lay floating, without even a gull for comfort, on the open sea. He raised the gun, set the much-too-hot muzzle against his temple.
"I'm sorry," Xanth whispered again, without a stutter, without a pause.
And then, without hesitation, he fired.