*Cross-posted from AO3 under my account oxymoron_prone, if you prefer to read there! (the formatting here is strange and unflattering in my opinion, but what can you do?)
A post-canon fix-it.
enjoy!
love you
oxy
The moon was bright and full with the star called Metia smoldering red just beneath it. Clear was the sky and cool was the breeze over the ocean. Frothy, salty waves gently lapped up the sand.
Looking upon the sky and admiring the moon, a man wondered, "Can you see it, too, Jill?"
Shortly thereafter, the man's eyes closed and his breathing grew shallow.
Far beyond the reach of any man, beast, or god, Metia dimmed.
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Torgal, the loyal hound, disappeared from the Hideaway the next day.
Jill had not noticed his absence, so consumed she had been in her grief, until Torgal failed to eat the food that Gav left out for him. The entirety of the Hideaway was in an uproar searching each deck for the wolf, but to no avail. Obolus's search of the blighted waters revealed no clues, either.
The only person who was not worried about Torgal was Charon. Charon stood at her counter as usual with pipe in hand. She did seem a mite downtrodden as she prodded the sack in which she kept Torgal's antelope bones with her foot.
"Never could force that dog to be anywhere but where he wanted to be," Charon groused when Jill asked. "Just turned up one day - came and went as he pleased. No takin' the wild out the wolf."
Jill understood. But still…
"I suppose…I thought he would want to stay among friends, after…" said Jill.
You take care of her too, boy.
Jill sighed shakily as more tears threatened to fall. She was tired of crying. There were pieces of Clive's life all over the Hideaway, and none but Torgal had given any measure of comfort. Perhaps Torgal associated the Hideaway too much with Clive, so he felt the need to leave. Perhaps now that the fight was over, Torgal simply wished to live out his life elsewhere in Valisthea.
"We can start sending Cursebreakers out to search the mainland for him?" Gav offered tentatively, glancing between Jill and Charon.
Jill shook her head. "That wouldn't be wise with how few resources we have at the moment." She couldn't manage a smile, but she did manage a neutral nod, "It's as Charon says; if Torgal wished to be here, he would be here. That he doesn't…well…"
"It'd be wrong to force him," Charon said with finality, "Now, if the pair of you don't mind, I've inventory to take stock of."
"Of course."
Jill was about to turn and leave to attend to the messages waiting for responses in Clive's chambers when Charon stopped her. Fake though one of them was, Charon's eyes were kind as she considered Jill's countenance.
"It might not be what you need, but I've a bottle of strong rum and a mind to share it," said the trader.
A lump grew in Jill's throat and her eyes welled up again. "Thank you, Charon."
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Searching for Clive was not a new experience for Torgal.
Torgal had spent many springs, summers, autumns, and winters searching for Clive before. It took him a while and was frustrating, but Torgal always found Clive.
On the rocky shore of Bennumere, Torgal shook black water from his coat and put his nose to the ground.
If Clive could be found, Torgal would find him.
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The sea did not easily relinquish that which entered its grasp. The ocean, roiling and teeming with life, aether, and all manner of sundry cast off from manmade civilization, held depths and secrets the likes of which were far beyond the ken of humanity. However, the shifting and changing currents made the will of the sea unpredictable at even the best of times.
From the violent fathoms and elegant, white-foamed azure crests, it was possible for any lost thing to be returned from whence it came. The grip of the ocean waxed, then waned, and released him upon the bleached sands of the shore.
It was there in the light of the sun, among shells and small stones tumbled smooth long before even the first men set foot upon the land, that salted water rushed from the delicate tissues of his chest and returned to the waves. The time for the ocean to claim him had not yet arrived, and the sea was nothing if not patient.
Salt stung at his eyes and remained sticky upon his skin, though all was overlooked for favor of the relief of breath rattling through his nose, mouth, and lungs. He laid amidst the gentle wash of the surf and slept.