Okay, sorry about the long delay, I can explain, I swear... Last weekend I got mauled by a plot-bunny named Willie while simultaneously hatching a mad scheme that had been incubating for almost a year. I blame the bunny-attack on Verizon and Marti's friend DanikaLareyna (who writes awesome fics; read them). And Marti, I blame the hatching of the mad scheme on your sister. Give her my profound gratitude for suggesting that CD, will you?
Thank you for everything, Reviewers. Your input means so much to me.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

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Twenty-Fourth Waking.

I have read Greys' notes. We talked a lot before last sleeping. Greys asked if he could read my log. His voice sounded strange when he did. Like a man close to breaking. It sounded so unnatural, not like him. He's First Mate Greys, he's so strong. But I guess even he is human, too.

So I let him read the entire thing. I hadn't realized how large this journal had become. I didn't expect it to take so long for him to read it. But it did, and I was tired from hiking that waking, so I took to dozing. I heard him laugh a few times. I remember him recalling his joke about Shanda being loud, and he laughed at the Nasreans' pet bird they used to have. He told me a "koda" is the tail-end of a piece of music--it follows the beginning. So now I know why they named their bird Koda.

This is almost funny. Was I the only non-musician in our crew? Now I wonder how much Greys knows about music. Wait, I will ask. He said he learned it from Dhalan and Shanda. He had asked them about the songs Shanda would sing, and all about Nasrean music. I suppose I could have guessed it. He says he takes every opportunity he can to learn. I find that...admirable. What untold stores of knowledge must he have?

Now that I think about it, I do remember him at the beginning of the season. Getting to know all of us, all of the crew. He had been just inquisitive enough to still be called polite. I remember he asked me about my books and pens. I love my pens. Uncle Sal got them for me for my last birthday. Real quality ink-pens made in Valua. They have the ink already inside them. I was so excited to get those. I have four more.

But yes, I can see now. He did ask a lot of questions. Just polite questions in passing, in his dry, aloof tone, almost gruff. It makes me wonder how much I would know if I spent more time talking and less time recording.

But I can only move forward from here. That's all anyone can do.

Where am I? Greys read my log. Then he asked if he could add to it.

I was a little taken aback. My immediate reaction was selfish, to say no, to protect it. But then I considered. We are in Deep Sky. There is nothing here, and I must have the only paper and ink for a hundred leagues. And he must have something to say, too. So I told him "Of course," and gave him my pen.

Then when he was writing I must have finally fallen asleep. When I woke up this waking, the book was safe in my rucksack. I had thought to look at it, but we had to get going. We ate, and went.

I don't know if there's something wrong with me. Was I just blind? Or is Greys just hard to understand? He seemed so solid and strong and sure. But now he seems just as lost as I am, as I have felt this whole time. Is this Porter all over again for him? Telling me what happened? Does he think he's taking away my hope in finding another solace for himself? But I can't let that happen. I will not become a Porter. I cannot.

Moons he killed Porter. Can I even think of that? Can Greys even think of that? What did it do to him? He killed a man. His own crew. To save someone else. Still his own crew. Does it drive him mad? Would it drive me mad? Choosing the lives of others. But I am glad he did what he did. And it sickens me. Glad for another's death? I don't know who is worse off, me for being thankful at another's demise, or Greys for actually causing it. Two evils, and which is the lesser? Does it matter? And yet still, this face he wears. Still so calm. Still so steady. Even when we... took the meat. I could not do it. I could not even bear to watch. But Greys finished what Porter started. For us, for our sustenance. Always practical. What is in his head? It made me feel sick.

No, he is human, he is human. Like me. On their bodies the damage was already done, the butchery already begun, perhaps that made it easier for him. But he left Porter's body. He would not start another, not a new body. He is human. Human like me. He would not do that.

Maybe he has felt lost this whole time, but has been hiding it behind his calm air. I hide enough behind my pen and paper. Maybe everyone was hiding. Maybe everyone is still hiding. Can we ever truly know what another person thinks? Maybe we're all trapped in these body-vessels, looking out our eyeballs like windows, receiving signals through our ears, feeling reality through a hull of skin. But what goes on inside the cabin of the vessel? Where we are truly alone, all to ourselves? Greys' vessel is painted on the outside like a mighty pillar, steadfast in the tempest, cold and hard and real in the phantom dream and fog. But what is he inside? Under the paint? A crumbling stone? Breaking and worn, covered with moss and spiders? A mighty pillar still? How can I even guess? All I can see is the paint on the outside.

I'm writing myself crazy.

I sigh and it seems faster. My breath. Easier. Was this what the air was like before we crashed?

That does it for our water. Finally gone. I didn't want to make myself sick with worrying about it. So I didn't write it. But now it's gone.

Is this where we die?

Now we are truly down to nothing.

But we still have a little meat. Maybe there is some juice in the bottom of the tarp. Shivers I sound sick! What is wrong with me! Why are we here?

I breathe. Because we crashed. And we can only move forward.

I feel as if I ought to say something final. I don't know how long we can last now. It makes me sad. Or it would, if I were not so tired. Or am I calm?

I just feel odd. Is death near? Is it frightening? Does it hurt?

Why am I thinking this? All I can do is keep going. I have to keep moving. What? Am I afraid? There is nothing here to be afraid of.

I don't know when my last entry will be. So in case I don't get another chance, I will say this: My home island, Naranja, is in Mid Ocean, eight leagues northeast of la Torre Vieja, close along the stone-reef. There is a small orange-grove on the south side.

Whoever you are, if you've found this book and are reading it, please take it to my island, to my grandmother, Rosa Carmen de los Reyes, or her son Salvador, or any of his children. Anyone of the name Reyes.

I feel strange. Like writing from the dust.

From there I would want it to go to Elena. I want her to have all of my books. Elena is my closest family, but she and Diego sailed away south to another island. I don't know exactly where it is. But Uncle Sal would know.

I feel so strange. It's like carving your own gravestone, and I don't know how it's done, and it makes me... uneasy.

But I can only keep moving forward. I just have to keep telling myself that. Just keep moving forward, just keep moving forward.

But I am a little afraid. I shouldn't have reason to be, but I am. Before there was nothing to be afraid of. Now there is just... nothing. A growing nothing. Maybe it's just the moonstones wearing down, but our lantern doesn't seem to shine as far as it used to. I remember my fear: the unknown thing, the unrecorded, unseen oblivion. I am afraid because we are hiking into it. It is as if the air is getting thinner and thicker at the same time. Thinner to the breath, thicker to the eyes. The distance to the horizon seems to shorten itself with each passing hour, but we never reach an end. Just up and up and up, and mud. Are we still moving up? Are my eyes playing tricks on me? Maybe they are. Or maybe the world is shrinking. Or maybe I am going crazy. Maybe I already am crazy, or maybe I'm already dead, and I only think I'm still alive. A ghost in the mud.

Greys said think positive. Greys said think positive. "I've written that before." Ha!

No, I've got to snap out of it. Make myself think clearly. No, we'll be all right. But for now we will sleep. In our shrinking world. But what if the world ends? What if we fall off the edge into oblivion?

I'm just scared.

Maybe Greys is scared too.

Am I doing it right? I would want it to be the last thing I say, in case I die: I love you, dear family.