34. Vinicola

34

Vinicola

M y legs feel like they’ve been stuffed with stones, and I can already feel the sunburn spreading across my skin. Sweat trickles down my face, pooling under my chin like a faucet with a terrible leak.

Saints preserve me, I hate running. Truly, it’s an abomination—every ounce of me rebels against it.

I lower my head, squinting against the ruthless sun, praying for some divine shadow to swoop down and shield me, just for a breath. It’s in moments like these—when I’m stranded in places without a single palm tree or building to throw a sliver of shade—that I realize just how different this inferno is from the world I’ve known.

Yes, back home we have a desert too, but it’s practically a tourist trap—a tame patch of sand where pale, sunburn-prone souls like me can try to ‘experience the wilderness.’ I went there once, only once, when my mother was swooning over some guide. We did the whole spectacle: sandboarding, camel rides, the lot. It was the only time she let go of her notion that my father might stroll back into our lives. I despised that trip, and I despised that man for it. I hated it so much, I decided then and there that I’d bring my father back myself.

And here I am. Doing physical labor so a goddess won’t kill me and my friends.

“Keep going, Vini!” Gypsy calls, sprinting ahead toward the sea like she’s got the wind itself at her back. How does she do it? She’s a blur—swift, strong, relentless, like a storm bottled up in human form. Meanwhile, here I am, trudging behind her, sweating like a pig, feeling more like a sluggish garden snail than a man.

“Aye, Miss Captain,” I rasp, mouth dry and scratchy as old parchment. The salt of sweat mingles with the grit clinging to my skin, and I can taste the misery in it.

Gypsy’s already reached the water again, scooping up another handful of sand with that blasted seashell, her motions as swift as ever. She’s off again, racing toward the pillar, leaving me to trail along like some sad, sunburned pack mule.

“Come on, Vinicola,” I mutter, trying to summon the tiniest bit of her relentless drive. I reach the water’s edge, dip my shell in, and turn, clutching my prize like it’s a royal jewel rather than wet grit.

Torture doesn’t even cover it. This is an endless, brutal slog through the very pits of hell.

Gypsy’s already halfway back, and Zayan and Fabien are just blurs near the pillar now. Sweat stings my eyes, blurring everything around me, which is probably for the best. I don’t need a clear view of how far behind I am.

How long has it been going on like this? Half an hour? A century?

“What did I ever do to deserve this, Lady?” I whine under my breath. “Truly, what?”

By some miracle, I drag myself back to the pillar, dumping the sand in. It does practically nothing, barely shifts the damned thing. But just when I’m ready to resign myself, the pillar lets out this strange, low hum—different from before. The sound vibrates in the air, and the sand beneath my feet trembles.

“Uh…” My heart’s pounding, and I’m caught between terror and sheer exhaustion. “Miss Captain? Mr. Zayan? Little help here?”

Of course, Fabien’s the one who comes charging over first, his scowl as permanent as the stars. He sneers down at me like I’m some pitiful stain on his fine boot.

“What did you do this time?” he demands, as if I’m the designated calamity coordinator.

“I didn’t do anything!” I gasp, holding up my hands in defense. “I just added the damn sand!”

The ground shudders again, more violently this time, and I’m fighting to stay upright, teetering like a tipsy sailor. Fabien grips my shoulders to steady me, his fingers digging in with an unexpected firmness. Under different circumstances, I might even call it... kind. But with the rising panic clawing at my chest, all thoughts of sentiment are washed away.

“Fabien! Vini! Look at the sea!” Gypsy’s voice cuts through the chaos. She’s sprinting toward us with a seashell brimming with wet sand, her eyes wide and darting to the waves behind her every few steps.

I turn toward the sea, my heart hammering in my chest. The water, which had been receding, is now surging back. The island—well, it’s morphing again, swallowing up the shore bit by bit.

“Oh, thank goodness…” I breathe, daring to let a sliver of relief into my voice. “Maybe that means we won’t have to keep running like this!”

Fabien shoots me a withering look, grimacing as he jerks his head toward the horizon. “Don’t go thanking fate just yet, bard,” he groans. “Look. At. The. Waves.”

My stomach somersaults as I follow his gaze. Ah, right. So maybe gratitude was a bit premature. The waves rise, each one taller, fiercer than the last, bearing down on us like they have a vendetta. The sea, once calm and peaceful, has turned into a roiling, turbulent force, crashing against the shore with an intensity that sends chills down my spine.

Those waves—they’re not just creeping in. They’re charging right at us.

The island isn’t settling back into place; it’s about to vanish, dragging itself back into the murky depths from whence it came.

Oh… Fuck.

“Hurry!” Zayan’s roar cuts through the air, his legs a blur as he tears across the sand. “Before the land is gone!”

I shove myself forward, ignoring the throbbing ache in my legs and the way my chest feels like it might burst.

“Move it!” Gypsy barks, dumping her sand into the pillar. I watch it lower—barely, infuriatingly—but those waves are closing in, and time is slipping through our fingers like the sand we’re trying to pile.

Fabien paces alongside me, shouting, “Run like your life depends on it, bard!”

I grit my teeth, legs burning. My life does depend on it. Oh, Mother, what would you do in a situation like this? I don’t even want to think about it.

I push harder, my heart drumming against my ribs. If the waves reach us before we lower the pillar enough to grab the item on top, we’ll have to dive to the seabed for sand.

No, no, no, no. It can’t come to that.

The thought of plunging into those dark, churning waters sends a fresh jolt of terror through me. Swimming? I can barely float! But diving into a sea so vast and indifferent? That’s another level of madness entirely.

A nervous laugh slips out, a last-ditch defense against panic. And then… Then, my pace turns frantic .

As if summoned by my terror, words start spilling into my mind, taking on a rhythm all their own, as they tend to do in these moments:

What are you chasing, you funny little bard? Why do you tremble, with fear on guard? Do you think the waves won’t find their mark? Do you think you can flee from the sea’s cold dark?

.

You’re just a speck, a grain of sand, You can laugh and dream, jest as you stand, But when your time comes, the sea won’t bend, And perhaps this run will be your end.

A shiver crawls up my spine. No, no—this is not the time to write my own eulogy! I need words of courage, words that might actually get me through this.

The funny little bard, so fast and strong, He thinks he can face whatever comes along. In his mind, he’s ready, for any test or trial, But the sea sees him differently, and waits with a smile.

.

For the ocean cares not what the bard believes, It will dance its own dance, as the bard deceives. Two wills collide, who will conquer, who will yield? Both may be strong, but only one holds the field.

No, no, no, this is worse! It’s like my thoughts are betraying me, turning traitor at the worst possible moment.

Stop it, Vinicola , I scold myself. Write yourself a ballad of bravery, not an epitaph! A war chant, not a dirge!

But… no, I can’t. The words won’t come, and neither will my strength.

“Fabien…” I whisper, voice trembling as it claws its way out of my throat. “I can’t—“

“You can,” he cuts me off, gripping my arm with a resolve I wish I could borrow. “And you will. We’re almost there.”

But he’s got it all wrong. We’re barely touching the shoreline, and I can already feel my heart fighting against me. What about all the other times we’ll have to make this run? When the sea itself tries to swallow us whole, waves crashing down like they’ve got a grudge? I can already hear them, churning and foaming like they’re itching for the chance to drag me under.

“You don’t understand, I…”

“I understand!” he shouts, his voice raw as a jagged wound. “I fucking understand , okay?! But I have to do this. For my parents.”

The words hit me like a wave, scattering my doubts like spilled wine on hot sand, evaporating before I even realize they’ve left a stain. My eyes prick, tears drying up before they can even dare to fall. I blink hard, pushing back that sudden, silly burn.

“For your parents?” I blurt out, the question tumbling free before I can shove it back. His grip tightens on my arm, and for the briefest moment, the hardened mask slips—just a hairline crack, a glimmer of something raw, something beautifully, heartbreakingly, and impossibly tender beneath all that scowl and swagger.

I’ve only known him a short while, but moments like this—they’re as rare as those sea-glass shards that wash up on the shore after a storm. Every so often, I sense it—something more alive, something painfully beautiful trapped inside him, like a song too precious to be sung aloud. And now, with these words, I hear a stray note of it, something just for me, and it stirs something in my heart I’d almost forgotten was there.

“Yes,” he says, voice low, hoarse, barely above a whisper. “They gave up everything for me. I can’t let their memory sink with this godforsaken island. I won’t.”

I feel my chest tighten. Everybody knows his story—how his parents went down to the sea. The way he clings to his beliefs about the Lady and the sea gods, it’s as if he’s decided she’s the one to blame. He hates her. He’s determined to make her pay, though he’d never say it so plainly. Not to any of us.

“The sea chooses whose life it takes,” I whisper, words tumbling out without permission.

The Lady is the sea.

His gaze holds steady, and he nods. “Exactly.”

There’s a kind of sorrow in him that feels like an echo of my own. The ache to return, to be welcomed back into my mother’s arms—even if I arrive empty-handed, with no grand riches or redemption. Just the scent of her warmth and her laugh would be enough.

But Fabien? He’ll never see his parents again. That hurt cuts so deep I can’t begin to imagine it. It’s a loss so consuming, I’m certain it’s what’s kept him moving all this time.

“Help me,” I breathe, not even sure he’s listening. “Because there’s no way I can do it alone.”

For the briefest second, his eyes meet mine, then flick away. His face is all angles and shadows, a battlefield with hidden scars I’ll never see. But I don’t need to. I can feel it—like the rumble of thunder before the storm.

“I’m going to count,” he says, panting “Don’t look at the water. Look at my feet. Just keep time with me.”

I nod, words escaping me, clinging to the rhythm of his steps pounding against the sand. I tune out the roar of the waves, the heat that’s sucking the breath right out of me, and the coil of dread in my stomach. Fabien’s heels become my north star.

“One,” he counts, his tone even in the middle of the chaos of my thoughts. “Two. One.”

Surprisingly, it works. Each number becomes a rope pulling me forward, reeling me in. The world shrinks to his voice, his feet moving through the sand.

It’s a rhythm we’re making, a song with our bodies. Desperate, pounding, relentless. A painful beauty wrapped in grit and sacrifice. We’re not just pushing forward. We’re creating music with each aching step.

There’s beauty in the tragedy of it.

“Two. One,” he counts again.

I fall in line, my legs moving on their own now, the rhythm swallowing me up. The fear lingers, sure, but it’s pushed to the side, hushed by the beat we’re creating.

And when the weary bard thought all was lost,

He remembered love’s most precious cost,

How it drives us on when hope runs thin,

And his mother’s voice softly echoed within.

.

“One, two,” it sang, as he marched with a friend,

Her spirit beside him, a hand to extend,

Her voice entwined with his steady breath,

Guiding him onward, defying all death.

.

With her strength in his heart, he could run once more,

Love lighting his path like it had before.

Tears filled his eyes, as they often had,

But this time was different—this time, he felt glad.

By the time we reach the waterline, my tears mingle with sweat on my face. The ocean looms before us, a dark and menacing expanse but I don’t even look at it.

Bending down, I scoop up the sand at the same time Fabien does, and I turn around to get back to the pillar.

The water splashes me whole, the spray hitting my legs, my face, soaking my clothes. Yet, all I care about it the sync Fabien and I have.

“Don’t stop!” he shouts over the roar of the waves.

“Oh, don’t you stop either!” I shout back, catching what looks like the tiniest smirk on his face.

We sprint back toward the pillar, the weight of the wet sand heavy in our shells. My legs burn, my clothes stick to me, and each step feels like it could be my last.

“Keep going, you two!” Gypsy yells as she darts past us. “Just a couple more runs and we’ll have it!”

When we finally reach the gouge, I understand what she means. The top of the pillar is now closer than ever—so close, in fact, that I can clearly see what’s sitting atop it.

“An hourglass?” I mutter, hardly believing my eyes.

It’s small, barely the size of my hand, with two delicate glass bulbs. The bottom bulb is filled with shimmering golden sand, much like the sand we’re running on, the grains glowing with an iridescent sparkle even under the harsh sunlight. The top bulb, though… it holds something else entirely—a miniature storm, water thrashing wildly inside like the sea itself is trapped in glass.

“It mirrors our situation,” Fabien observes. “We couldn’t see it before, but when the sand kept rising, the hourglass must have been flipped, placing the sand on top and the water below.”

“Not good,” I pant out. “Not good at all. Means there’s no end to this tide pressing in on us!”

“We need to flip it soon,” he groans, cursing under his breath. “Fuck, let’s move!”

We dump our sand into the gauge and break into a sprint. Fabien’s counting, and I do my best to match his rhythm. Somewhere along the way, I notice Zayan and Miss Captain syncing up as well. And then, before I know it, we’re running together, not a scatter of legs and breaths but a single, ragtag unit.

Even Miss Captain—whose legs, I swear, are fashioned from iron rather than mere flesh and bone—seems to be reaching her limit.

Two laps later, the island is barely a floating dot in a churning, furious ocean, the waves sending sprays so high they reach the pillar.

Zayan lunges for the pillar, stretching, straining, hand reaching— “Damn it, it’s not enough!” His face is red, eyes narrowed in frustration. “Rancour!”

“No dice!” Fabien shouts, stretching his arm but falling just short.

Miss Captain, breathing hard, looks like she’s ready to make a desperate sprint. And just then, an idea hits me.

“Hey, big guy,” I rasp, forcing a grin through my exhaustion. “How about a lift? Think you could hoist up a bard?”

Fabien’s eyes widen with a flicker of realization before he nods. Without a word, he stoops, wraps his arms around my waist, and, with surprising gentleness, hoists me up as if I’m weightless. But I’m not. Once I’m perched on his shoulders, I feel the tremor running through him, the strain in his arms. It’s not strength holding me up—it’s sheer, stubborn determination.

“Steady, Fabien,” I murmur, trying to keep my own body steady. “Just a little closer.”

He shifts forward, his toes at the very edge of the pool that circles the pillar, but he can’t go any further. His whole body is tense, balanced at a precipice.

I stretch out my hand, pushing forward until my chest feels like it’s going to pop. But even with all the bending and reaching, my fingertips are still shy of the hourglass.

“It’s not enough,” Gypsy whispers, her voice breaking with something I rarely hear from her—doubt. I feel it too, that creeping sensation of ‘what if this is it?’

Is this the end? Really? Just like that?

“Come on, love,” Zayan tells her. “Let’s run one more time. It’s a short route.”

Her eyes flash, her eyebrows twitch. And then, right when I think she’s going to break, she nods.

After all this is over, I need to tell her she’s the most strong-willed person I know. She must have ran the most out of all of us. She’s not doing it out of revenge, love, or necessity.

No, she’s doing it because quitting just isn’t in her bones. That’s a rare kind of strength, the kind that doesn’t need a reason or reward.

What fuels someone when they’re not driven by passion or pain? What gives them wings, then? I swear, Miss Captain looks like an angel right now, one who’s carved her own wings out of sheer willpower.

“Get me down,” I mutter to Fabien, casting a glance her way. “We should run, too.”

But he just shakes his head. “No. If I get you down, I won’t be able to pick you up again. I’m too weak. You stay. They run.”

The way he says it… He’s not lying. He’s barely standing up. I can feel it. I can feel his heartbeat thudding through his chest, matching the rapid pace of my own.

“I need to do this. For my parents.”

God dammit, that heart of his. The longer I stick around, the more of it he shows.

I swallow hard. “Alright,” I tell him. “Let’s wait for them to come back.”

Gypsy and Zayan aren’t exactly sprinting at this point. No, their legs are dragging, as if the act of moving itself that became too difficult. I can almost feel the weight pulling them down, each step carving itself into the sand.

As they near the shore, scooping up the wet sand one last time, I find myself tightening my grip on Fabien’s shoulders. Everyone’s giving their all here; I’ll be damned if I’m the only one playing spectator. I reach up again, arm straining, hoping for just an inch more height to snag the edge of the hourglass.

“Come on,” I rasp out. “Just a little… bit… more…”

I’m so close I can almost taste it—just another inch and I’ll have that cursed glass in hand. But then, like a thunderclap, a scream shatters the moment. No, not just a scream—two sharp words slice through the air.

“Watch out!”

Gypsy. Her voice punches through my focus just as a wall of icy water smacks me dead in the chest, sending me tumbling off Fabien’s shoulders. Watch out. Right, would have loved to, but, uh… it seems it’s too late for that.

Because, naturally, a wave the height of four huge men crashes down, swallowing the entire island whole.

And me? Well, lucky as ever, I get caught right into the current.