--Narrative resumed by Walter Avery—

Over the quiet bubbling of the creek, I heard a bell so many minutes ago. The cheering that resulted continues now, muted by distance and trees and muffled by running water and the beating of my heart. My breathing has calmed, but it is all I can focus on. How my heart beats, how my lungs fill. How the sounds in the distance no longer depict violence and bloodshed.

It distracts me from the aching of the bullet in my shin. My bandanna, tied tight around the wound, has stemmed the bleeding, at least.

"I wonder..." Laod, my voice trembles, but if I don't hear something, I'll go mad, here. "I wonder if we have won."

I exhale heavily, shuddering. The shaking of my hands diminishes slightly, my fingers relaxing in their grip on the painting; my responsibility. Perhaps one day soon, I will take this painting and the map and find the treasure—if this is the right painting. Like an adventurer, like the Captain, I might explore and seek out treasure. Maybe I will find a large emerald to bring to my mother's grave. She always loved emeralds. She said that they reminded her of my father's eyes—eyes which I inherited. I see it now.

I should like an emerald to—

Leaves rustle nearby. Debris crunch under boots.

My chest rises and falls faster, eyes widening and lifting to the cave wall. Blood flowing, suddenly, I try to quiet my breathing so as not to give myself away; so as not to give the painting away. I am responsible.

A man grunts and wheezes. I hear him fall on the ground with a heavy thud. Then, splashing as he drags himself into the creek upstream of my safe place. Unsettled pebbles and mud tumble past me.

"Dorian!" he shouts. My eyes bulge and I scrabble to unfurl my cold, shaking limbs from the cramped space. "Dorry! Little Fox!"

Tumbling out into the water, I hear his retching and, gaping, scrabble up the bank. His lunch dribbles past in the currents. His fingers are in his mouth, unaware of me. He convulses a second time, then tips his head back, eyes closed, his face deeply creased with an aggrieved emotion. So much deeper than pain. I don't know what to do, I don't know what he is thinking, I don't know what is wrong. There are shallow scrapes on his forehead, and nothing more.

He collapses in a heap on the bank, shoulder knotted with tension. Wincing, he stretches his fingers out ahead and laboriously drags himself further from the stream. His legs lag uselessly behind him, as though broken or limp.

I carefully cross the water and offer my hand. "Captain?"

He looks up, recognition slowly bringing warmth to his pallid cheeks. A small smile spreads on his whiskered lips. He reaches for my hand and holds firm. "Hello, Walter. It's good to see you."

I pull him up the bank, falling with the effort, then roll him on his back. He gasps in air, as if taxed by such movement. His head rolls to one side, eyes seeming to lose some characteristic light and vigor. They close wearily and he breaths long and deep in a peaceful way. Why had he been so frantic before? He'd forced himself to vomit, he'd nearly sobbed to the sky filtering through the leafy canopy, he'd fallen as though wounded.

Frowning, I peer at his hand in mine, its strength run out. It does not move; not at all. His skin has turned grey, like those wolves, like stone, like steel and other lifeless things. "Captain?"

My voice breaks.

I pick up a leaf and jump to fill it, cupped, with water from the creek. He is only tired. Weary. Nothing that can't be helped. I lift his head and pour the refreshment carefully past his lips. He opens his eyes as he swallows—lethargically and savoring as if it is honey. He offers a meek smile. My hands fold around his again. Chills charge from my fingers and prickle at my nape, rising hairs all over my suddenly stone-cold body. The temperature seems to have dropped at just a touch of his palm, but I refuse to let go.

"Have you seen Dorry?" he asks softly.

All I can manage is a shake of my head. I am here, not Dorry. I am here. Your son.

His lips purse together, a disconcerting shade of blue, and he glances aside, worry drawing on his forehead. Laod, were his clothes always so big on him? His wounded emeralds return to me after a few moments and his cheeks raise in a gentle, warm smile, marking creases around his stare, lifting the purple-hued half-circles. "How did you go?" he asks, voice calm and endearing, like a father's. My jaw hangs, eyelashes fluttering with bewilderment. "You've been shot. Did you fight?"

I nod a few times. It helps to coax the thick lump down my throat as I swallow. "I... I took out their cannons, sir." I brush my hair back—so unkempt—and search for my leather tie.

His lips part further and his tired eyes glint with such pride and wonder that I begin to feel so, so, so happy and yet...

"Did you?" he marvels. "Very good, my boy."

I take a handful of my hair, pulling it tight enough that it hurts, and wrap it with the leather.

I hunch forward, holding my breath behind a desperate grimace. How could he say this to me, now? Now, when he is... he is not himself. He is fine, but not himself.

"Thank you, sir," I manage. My numb fingers fumble to find the painting. I unroll it and tell him, "I kept it safe for you."

"I shall hang it in my cabin."

"Cabin? Sir, the ship... it's..."

"No, Walter, not my cabin on the Orpheus." He sighs, eyes drifting to the sky glimpsing through the rustling canopy. "I told you. I shall hang it in the cabin that I build on the smallest isle's point, from the wood of the Eclipse."

I smile. "I... I'll help you build it."

Footsteps crash through the leaves, and I turn sharply to see who comes. Professor Simon Woods throws a rifle aside and leaps across the creek in one long bound. He squeezes my shoulder with a harrowed look behind his smudged spectacles, then reaches for the captain's neck, taking a knee.

"Oh." Breathless. His head shakes at the pulse he finds and his fingers draw back to ruffle through his untidy hair. Blood clots on his bitten lip and his oiled locks fall limp over his brow. He crawls to the creek and dips an empty glass bottle under the water, then turns and raises the captain's head. The man's eyes narrow and his lips curl in distaste.

"I don't have an antidote, Captain Avery," Simon says raptly. So focused, intent. "But Officer Langley may be on his way, and what's more, Dorian may be, too. We can dilute it. That is the best that we can do, for now. Dilute it. Give you time."

Dilute it. No antidote? Lifeless fingers... Could it be poison? No, it must be one of Simon's stupid conspiracies. It is Simon, at it again with another wild superstition and some intricately spun ridiculous and cruel story about how the captain's tiredness is more sinister than it is.

The captain parts his lips and takes the water as it is poured, though much of it dribbles through his whiskers and over his cheeks. The gray creeps around his collar. His hands are traced with swollen veins of grotesque blues and purples, as soft and cold as sea sponge.

"Your father," the captain pants, when Professor Woods takes the emptied bottle away, "would be delighted to see this."

The professor's brows and lips pinch, stone-faced. "I am not my father. I know you are a good man, and this is not the fate that you deserved. I am sorry for it."

My fists clench. "He's fine."

Simon looks at me, unfathomable, then looks away.

We sit in silence for a few moments. The captain takes another few strained mouthfuls of water then spits and coughs.

His neck does not turn, but his pointed ears pivot ever so slightly, and his glistening gaze turns past me to the trees. Swollen veins creep up his throat. "Dorry. Dorry."

The fox bursts through the brush, sprinting on all fours, his haunches kicking powerfully behind him, as lithe as a rabbit. Spittle froths at his jowls as if rabid, and the tails of his tunic—covered in mud—fly at his tail.

Professor Woods takes my hands from the captain and gently leads me away. I clutch my painting. It is to go in his cabin. I am handy with an axe—perhaps I could fashion a suitable frame. We cross the creek and sit on the other side of it.

Dorian's claws grab ahold of Captain Avery's blouse, twisting the fabric so that its wrinkles compare to those in his muzzle. The fur around his wild hazel eyes is spiky with damp, his tunic torn from the feral sprint. His scrawny ribcage swells and clenches like a fist.

A snickering sound gargles from his throat and escapes his sharp, clenched teeth. His head bows and his large ears flatten against his skull. His black lips pull almost as far back as the arches of his cheeks, exposing his glistening teeth and gums.

"I love you, Dorry," the captain says. His voice wavers.

Oh, what I would give for that to be my name.

The professor is motionless against my side, without expression.

Around the clearing, eyes emerge from shadows and leaves, glinting in the light that filters through the trees. Low to the ground, I make out the new guests as foxes. Silent, they watch respectfully through their shining orbs, as full and round as the moon.

The blue wisps floating over the land cast light over their muzzles. The strange, mystical radiances drift towards the center of us all and congregate around Dorian and the captain's darkening skin. The fox lifts the man's hand between his two paws, blue reflecting from his sharp black claws.

"I love you," the captain repeats, his eyes and lips crinkling with the effort to express himself compassionately and truly. "I am sorry for my failings. You will be a great Speaker." He takes a long breath, but it catches short. His chest ceases movement. His eyes are wide with desperation and love and fear, lips quivering. A single tear rolls down his silver cheek. With the last of his breath, he croaks, "Make waves, my—"

Dorian squeezes his hand tight and presses his long forehead against the captain's unmoving bosom. His furry chin curls against his collar. "Your son."

Silence.