Beada woke up to the monotonous sound of mosquitoes, their maddening buzz loud in the hot night’s silence. He felt them all over his face, mosquitoes and sweat. He sighed and moved his right hand to swat them, but the tight, cold grip of the shackles stopped him halfway. He made a half-serious attempt with his left hand, but the devilish suckers were quicker than Beada’s disoriented reflexes, leaving frustration and a few fresh bites behind.

A streak of reddish moonlight wove through the curtains, painting the refugees' apartment in a bloodlike hue. It was late, well past midnight. The Fort Tar-Saleinne was silent except for the unrelenting buzzing of mosquitoes. Beada turned his gaze to his wife’s bed, expecting to see her asleep, but it was empty. Her shackles were neatly draped over the iron railing. 

Beada’s eyes shifted to Frances’s bed. It too was empty, except for the restraints. Where had they gone? He tried to dismiss the annoyance creeping into his thoughts. Did the young girl have nightmares again?

Beada undid his shackles, the metal cool against his skin. As he made his way through the dim red room, his steps felt soft and warm on the sandy floor. The thick wooden door closed softly behind him as he stepped into the cooler night air. He paused for a moment, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, trying to clear the thoughts that had been creeping in throughout the night. The eerily stillness of the camp was a stark contrast compared to the bustling chaos of when their group had been on the road. Memories of a nightmare tried to break through. Another deep breath. He needed to focus on the present.

The buildings of the refugee camp were huddled close to the fort as if not only the occupants but the buildings themself were seeking protection from its thick stone walls. The two-story buildings in a simple style, typical to deamonfolk, seemed out of place with their graceful arches, delicately carved wooden shutters and woven tarp overhangs. They were new but held a charm that made the camp feel less temporary. The fort’s clergy seemingly took pride in showing their hospitality and giving the refugees the feeling they would be welcome to stay as long as they wanted. Beads focussed on the details of the surrounding buildings, but still, thoughts of their narrow escape slipped in. The camp was smaller than he would have liked, so few people survived the journey.  

He slowed his stride as he walked in the direction of the fort. It had stood here for more than a century, weathering countless storms and quakes. A tangible symbol of safety. Beada ran his fingers along the rough stone surface as he walked through the gate. It helped to anchor him in the moment and he turned right following the inside of the wall. As he continued his walk, he focused on the mundane: on the sound of his footsteps, on the contrast between the warm ground underneath his feet and the cooler night air that prickled his skin, and on the few sounds that broke the night’s silence. He heard voices from beyond the temple walls.

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“Why do we have these lines, Marcel?” Frances’s voice asked. “If we didn’t have them we could go back home.”

“The lines show how brave we are,” Marcel replied “They’re like battle scars, telling the world we survived something terrible, something none understands. And people fear what they don’t understand. But you don’t, do you? Because you, little one, are braver than most adults I know.”

Frances giggled. “I think they’re kind of pretty in the dark.”

“That they are. But remember, they also mean we have to be careful. We’ve got something special inside us now, and we need to keep it safe. The outside world isn’t ready for us just yet. At least not until people no longer fear us.”

“And then we’ll go back home?”

Marcel took a deep breath before answering. “See, well, euhm.”

Marie’s voice joined in, “Home is a tricky thing. Sometimes it’s a place, but sometimes it’s the people you’re with. Right now, this is our home, and it’s as good a place as any to start fresh.”

A silence followed as Frances seemed to ponder this. “I would like to make our home here. It is pretty and the deamonpeople are not scary at all. They don’t care that we glow at night.”

Marie’s voice was full of warmth. “We can make a home anywhere you want. We’ll plant gardens like these and start over. We are safe now.”

Beada stopped his hand still on the warm wall of the fort temple. Marie was encouraging Frances to look forward, but they were not safe yet. To hear Marie speak with the girl of home and safety stirred old sorrows.

“I know we are safe,” Frances said, her voice growing softer, “I’m not scared anymore. I have you and Beada.”

“We’re lucky to have you too, Frances,” Marie said. “You’re so strong and brave. Together, we can face whatever comes next.”

Beada turned away from the garden, not wanting to hear more. Marie had promised that she would only take care of the girl until they reached safety. He knew Marie wasn’t ready yet to take on that role again, and she should know too.  He wasn’t ready to join them, yet. 

He let their voices fade as he walked back to the camp and felt like he was losing something. Something he knew he wasn’t ready to lose again.