The Silent Guardian — Chapter 26, Part 1: Aftermath at the Acropolis

This installment is part of The Silent Guardian Series.

Soon after we emerge, there’s a ripple of shock at the Acropolis. Voices hush and heads turn. Xia lies on the ground, her shirt darkening as the wound darkens the fabric. Clara kneels beside her, trying to stop the bleeding while I hover close by. The curious crowd gathers. A woman gasps while others shout for help, their voices blending into a confused chorus. Xia is conscious and agrees to move. After she gets up, we work through the throng as Xia inhales in ragged bursts. Her body sags; her legs give out. Clara and I support her as best we can, carrying her down the sloping trail that leads to the exit while pushing aside nosy tourists. Clara’s whisper reaches my ear: “What now?” Xia forces her voice through clenched teeth. “Somewhere to rest,” she manages. “Get this bullet out. Need stitches.” She almost slips away, her eyes drifting shut. I tighten my hold around her, refusing to let her collapse. Determination propels us forward, guiding us through the tight knot of onlookers.

The hotel room is small. I hurry inside, arms full of supplies: gauze, antiseptic, scissors, and a makeshift suturing kit scavenged in desperate haste. Clara clears a space on a small table beside the bed; she prepares to remove the bullet. Xia lies on the bed with the wound near her collarbone. Clara fixes her attention on Xia’s injury. She probes the area around the bullet’s entry point with gentle fingers. Xia stiffens, pain etched into every line of her face. I arrange the supplies, spreading them out so Clara can grab what she needs. She hasn’t been this focused since we entered the interrogation room. “Xia, this is going to hurt,” Clara apologizes. Xia responds with a shaky, “Uh-huh.” I kneel beside Xia, laying a hand on her arm, hoping to steady her. Clara picks up the tweezers. She eases the metal tips into the wound with measured care. The bullet is lodged deep beneath the bone. I can feel Xia’s agony as she tenses. A low grunt escapes her throat; sweat beads on her brow. Finally, with a careful twist, Clara extracts the bullet, dropping it into a metal dish with a sharp ping. “Almost done,” Clara mutters with a strain in her voice. She reaches for a needle and thread. Steadily, she stitches the wound closed. Each tug of the thread makes Xia flinch. Her grip on my sleeve tightens. Her nails dig in as she rides out the pain. When Clara knots the last stitch, she wipes her forehead with a long sigh. Xia’s eyelids flutter, then drift shut. Exhaustion washes over her while relaxing into something resembling calm for the first time in days. I gather the bloodied cloth, tossing them into a pile in the corner. Clara washes her hands as if cleaning offers a shred of control amidst the chaos. The room smells of antiseptic and sweat, but the tension eases. We have momentarily won the fight for survival. Clara and I slump onto the nearby sofa, fatigue settling into our bones. She leans against my shoulder. Outside, the world remains uncertain. However, within these four walls, we have found a moment of peace. This silence is unlike the oppression of my past. It is a gentle quiet shared with Clara without fear or judgment. This shared interlude offers a more profound comfort than anything I’ve known before. I reach into my pocket and pull out the Dalek Clara gave me. As I rotate the figure in my hand, my fingers trace the spot where one of the arms broke off long ago. A tiny glint catches my eye in the empty socket—a tiny nub of metal I hadn’t noticed before. It doesn’t seem to be part of the toy. I try to pull it, but the piece is too small to grip and impossible to pry loose. Holding the Dalek up for Clara, I point to the strange fragment. She shrugs, dismissing it as part of the old joint. I let the thought go, deciding she’s probably right, and slip the Dalek back into my pocket. I feel Clara tense beside me. Her lips part as if to speak, then snap shut again. Her fingers twitch against her sleeve. Briefly, I think she will let it pass. Instead, she lifts her chin. “You’ll think I’m crazy,” she mutters. It takes her another minute to continue. “You should know,” her lips press into a thin line. “In the anomaly, I saw our mother.” Clara’s shoulders slump as though speaking the truth has drained her. “I don’t know why she was there. She looked… real.” Her voice wavers. It is easy to see that this truth costs her more than she wants to admit. “I didn’t want to leave.

I wouldn’t have if it weren’t for you and Xia. Whatever the vision was, it was pulling me in.” Her voice shakes. “What do you think that means?” During my first encounter with the anomaly, I saw a moment from my past. The second time, I found the time lock. Xia saw an escape from the future, while Philip claimed he could travel through the anomaly. Now, Clara says she saw our mother. I don’t know what connects these experiences. I squeeze Clara’s shoulder, trying to ground her, then step over to the nightstand. From our supplies, I pull out a notebook and pen. I don’t know what it means. It might be real or a trick of the anomaly designed to lure you in. “I guess,” Clara says, “What if mom is in there? Maybe the anomaly lured her in. I know I was. Weren’t you?” I have to agree. I wanted to stay in the anomaly, too. I reply, Yes, I did feel that way. I don’t know if someone can be trapped inside or not. She might be in there. What do you want to do? Clara doesn’t answer right away. I can almost see her working it out. She straightens, determination set. “I want to keep going after the Phylax,” she says firmly. “That’s what mom wanted. If she is trapped, it’s because of the Phylax. Maybe if we destroy that machine she will be freed.” Clara offers a sad, half-smile. “Besides, we have no proof she’s even alive, right?” Is it possible that the anomaly could swallow someone? If so, is it possible to bring them back out? Regardless, Clara is right. We have no evidence that our mother is alive. Still, I know that if Clara had chosen to chase the phantom of our mother, I would follow. Clara brushes a strand of hair from her mouth. “Where do we go next?” Reaching into my jacket, I feel the talisman’s warm surface and hold it up for her to see. I write, I know exactly where to go. I believe the merchant who sold this to me was a Phylax. I believe I saw him in the anomaly. He was on the Council. He has answers. I know it.

Previous: previous installment. Continue with Chapter 26, Part 2.

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