Reviewers, you rock my socks off. Thank you for your patience.
Wow, this chapter was hard to write.
I am happy to say that I successfully completed National Novel Writing Month by the skin of my teeth (having written my last twenty-nine-thousand words during the last three days of November). However, NaNoWriMo did rather eat my soul, and pretty much totally threw off my Haley's Book groove. That's why this chapter was so difficult for me; my brain is still on some other planet chasing very different lines of plot. So please, if I could ask a favor of you--if anything seems... out of character for Reyes in any way, don't hesitate to pm me or say something in a review. If something's out-of-whack I want to fix it.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

------------

Thirty-First Waking.

There is a song in my head.

I realized something after my last entry. Usually, when I begin a new journal, I'll start with my name. I didn't in this one, because... this is not my book. This book belongs to Derek Haley. I looked, and I did cram my name into the first entry, but I didn't want to seem like, I don't know, like I were claiming it for my own. It's still Haley's.

Having it, it makes me feel... I don't know. Bad things haunt me. And then I kept thinking to put it in, my name, but it always made me feel bad or wrong for wanting to. And then eventually I just... forgot about it. But when I signed my ending mantra last waking, I remembered.

I usually put something like this in the beginning of a journal:

My name is Alexandro Estevan de los Reyes, son of Carlos Estevan and Felicia Maria Fernandez de los Reyes. I live on Naranja, Mid Ocean, with my sister Elena, my grandmother Rosa Carmen, my uncle Salvador, and his children and my cousins Seth, Carla, Josephine and Michael.

Shivers that scared me. Thunder. Not fish-thunder, real thunder. It rained a little bit this waking, but it's been thundering most of the time. That one was very loud.

Is it wrong to claim this book as my own? Is that why it thundered? Haley...?

Now I'm afraid to even write.

It rumbles in the dark sky, in our tiny world. Haley I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, how can I--what more is there left for me to say or do?

I sit.

And do you know where I sit? I sit upon a sheet of rock.

It feels... disrespectful to change the subject so. But I want to tell you.

There are no sleds on my boots. We didn't need the sleds this waking. The rock, the ground--is solid enough for us to walk on. It was strange when I took them off; I felt slightly shorter, and my hands felt unoccupied without the ropes. But my legs remembered what to do. It feels good to walk with just my boots again.

We definitely will not need the anchor-board again. And we may not even need the sleeping-boards anymore. There are places where we can lie flat. I'm sitting on one of them now. I could stretch out and lie flat and sleep here if I wanted. Maybe I will. It looks like Greys has chosen a place. Wait, I will ask.

I said, "Are you sleeping on a board tonight?"

And he said, "I don't think so. We might not need to sleep on them anymore."

And I said, "What should we do with them?"

And he said, "Nothing useless." Or something to that end.

I'm trying to think of what we could do with them, what else we could lash together or make from the planks to help us. I think of pikes or skewers, but there are no fish. Not that we have seen anyway. And no more mud for any mud-worms either.

Do we even have any fishing equipment? I think we left it all on the ship. Our nets were for sardis, and sardis don't live this far down.

Are there any other fish that do live this far down? Do we have hooks or lines? We could make them I am sure, from our ropes. We could twist out some of the twine for the line and then use... something for a hook.

I immediately thought of Shanda's ring, and shook the thought from my head. I would never use that for bait. It may be shiny enough, even down here, to be interesting to a fish, but... are there even fish here? We have not seen any.

We could just use a pointy shiver for some kind of hook.

Am I leading myself on with false hopes? We don't see any fish.

Or maybe the only use left for the anchor-board is to burn it. That would feel nice. Warm. That would look nice too. We would be able to see ourselves a little more clearly, just that much more. Maybe it would shine brighter and farther than our lantern has been able to. Maybe we would see something of interest. Or maybe we would light the fire, and then the rain would come back and immediately douse it.

That would be fun. Once.

More scenarios in my head. Do I ever even write what actually happens? Yes, yes I do, I remember. It just seems like I write so much of what may be, instead of what is.

Well, what is?

We are here, in our stone's-cast-world, and the lantern-light makes the moist air fuzzy. It's like walking in a dream. And we have ground to lay on, different shapes we can curve around, and water to drown our hunger. The sky booms and grumbles, and so does my stomach. The rest of everything is dark. We'll take our pocket of existence further up the mountain the next time we wake.

Do you know the song that is in my head? It's Shanda's song.

They've been with us. They've helped us. Dhalan and Shanda. It makes me grateful and sad at the same time. And to remember them all I have is a ring and a cutlass. And my strength. They gave me the strength to make it this far. And Greys too.

I can hear it in my mind, the song, going up and down, and the little trilling parts before the long notes at the ends.

Was she the only one who knew this song? I hope not.

I hum it. I don't want to forget.

What is wrong with me? Do I consider myself so learned? I have knowledge within me, on a wide range of differing subjects of study. I read books every chance I get. Quote me a passage and I'll tell you the author. I have the largest vocabulary of anyone I know. I can read and write and speak Old Valuan fluently. My spelling is always perfect. I can tell you the entire history of the Gigas War. But for the life of me--no... for the life of her--I cannot write music.

All the knowledge in the world, and none of it useful for what I ache to be able to do. I am a recorder. I record things. But music is a language I have never studied. I can't record it.

Moons, that makes me sad.

I'm looking at her ring and humming her song. I never wrote much about the ring. The band is silver, and it gets a little bit wider and flatter where the stone is. The stone is red. A moonstone. I suppose that was a good thing for Haley to consider, since Shanda is from the land of the Red Moon. The facets are perfect and even, and the inside looks flawless. It sparkles when I hold it right next to the lantern. It makes little patterns and designs on the supply-board.

I have not written of Dhalan's cutlass either. The blade is curved and tapered, a little longer than my arm. There is an etching near the base of the blade, depressed into the steel. It's a little flame-looking motif that happens again on the hilt. Except on the hilt the motif is colored red. The rest of the hilt is all steel and tightly-wrapped leather.

I have to stop. It's drizzling.

Dear family, in case I die, finish my story. I love you.

Alexandro