She decided to flip the script. Boulevard didn't get her intentions twisted, and for that, she was happy. Wynter could complete this step in the staircase to exploring the whole world and all it had to offer. With no true objective other than to keep moving and keep surviving, she had seen many things. Some she wishes to forget but know will never fade and others are life changing in a completely different way that preface smiles instead of screams. The reason she keeps going and the reason her parents kept going were for experiences.
If Wynter had a choice, she would have never wished for the apocalypse to happen. Who would? That isn't an easy to answer question, unfortunately, as a couple domineering few thrive in the flames. But even through an intervention by fate that changed the flow of the world, she found some light in a permanent shadow. People and all that their words and actions had to offer, places with their beautiful sights and history, and things. Things like the cabins.
Polar opposites going on a cabin excursion will be an experience that won't be forgotten any time soon. The general area around The City is known for its scorching summers, freezing winters, and how close together they were. One day sweat coats the skin and the next frost takes its place. Wynter hoped that her idea would be well received, and it was. Boulevard said – in response to Wynter's invitation – "I think that's a good idea." All questions she had for Boulevard would be answered tomorrow – all she needed to do was to find a map.
The area where the cabins were built was one mile away from Boulevard's memorization border. He set down his drink and asked Wynter about the trip she was planning. "Is this the final piece in your extensive discography of symphonic traveling?" He asked. She nodded, not knowing a word of what he said, but inferred that he asked if the cabins were her last stop. Which they were; in Unmei National Park, anyways. Wynter had one more question for Boulevard, but she'd save it for tomorrow night. That would be the best time to ask, for it was a big one. A complete change of pace.
In contrast to the cluttered floor, the two bookcases that were stashed together on the right wall of the lounge area were very organized. The left shelf was reserved for novels, textbooks on math and science, and booklets on philosophy. The right shelf was all made from scratch. Journals that once held blank pages were now complete with every line filled, containing plans detailing projects for expanding Boulevard's territory, improvements to the yacht, tactics for fish acquisition, and handmade maps of all kinds – some of the peninsula, some of the sea, and one of The City.
The first thing Wynter noticed when looking at the map of the national park was a big circle made with red sharpie surrounding the land that Boulevard had made his own. Written in all caps was, "CLEARED OF A MAJORITY OF GLUTTONS AND MEMORIZED IN MY BRAIN." The streak of maroon marker started at the beach and ended at the entrance to the park. What unique but all too familiar wording. A tenth of the park wasn't touched; the upper right border was that one point of interest. The cabins.
"I have no need for those cabins. Searching each one would be a waste, as I have my humble abode right here." Boulevard said, motioning to the wooden floor of the yacht. Ten cabins together in a cul-de-sac were at the end of a hiking trail and were designed for people with the "luxury package", the legend said at the bottom of the map.
"They must be as fancy as the yacht if they were reserved for the highest flying of customers." Wynter thought. The stretching and compacting of her toes was a habit used to contain excitement. If the cabins weren't too ravaged, maybe they would resemble an old-world excursion.
Wynter pulled out the map and jumped up to return it to Boulevard when she heard a light thud behind her. Peeking from her peripherals, she spotted the leather journal from that dinner a week ago; the one Boulevard had written extensively in when he questioned her about the war.
Wynter believed she had gotten out in the wilderness a lot more than Boulevard (at least, that's what she could gather from the limited past she's been given), but that was obviously a complete guess. So, an uncontained "curiosity killed the cat" mentality washed over her as she pocketed the black leather entries for later inspection.
When the moon was directly overhead, Wynter took out Iggy to be used as a makeshift bed. Never once had she happened upon a sleeping bag in her travels. Even in the sections specifically made for them in outdoor activity stores, there were none to be found. The blanket did just fine to make her feel comfortable, though. Iggy's constant presence was a bad habit, almost.
When Wynter was little, Iggy would never leave her grip. Even when she ran from Gluttons and tripped over it – her group practically begging her to leave the tattered cloth behind – it would have to be pried from her cold, dead hands. As time went on and more responsibilities came Wynter's way, just having the blanket near her was satisfactory enough. Even she had to become an adult and not have such immature qualities like owning a safety blankie, as much as she hated the idea as a child. No matter, whenever she felt the old threadbare wool against her skin, she was at peace. Wynter was in her own little world. A bad habit, almost.
Like a disobedient tween reading spooky stories after hours, Wynter buried her head under Iggy and looked at the journal with a flashlight from the station. The cover was creased and had no words conveying who it belonged to or what was inside. This made her even more restless to see what populated the many pages glued into the covering. She flipped to the page she remembered Boulevard writing in and saw the first of four displays before she stopped.
The first page was about the war and what Wynter had said last night. Small handwriting in bullet points were mostly questions. What happened between the prince and king of Xerathan? Who is the Progenitor of the Dead's leader? Path to Junewolf? Sneachtia nearby? The pencil used to write these words must have been worn out down to the eraser and discarded a long while ago, as the latest entry on the last line was in ballpoint pen ink while the other notes were so pallid it was almost unreadable. Wynter could discern some names she didn't know and events she didn't know of. The new entry stated, "Has Wynter seen war?"
She shook her head back and forth. She didn't wish to remember the Trench of Miles. Wynter didn't move for three days after that, aching as badly as she did.
Wynter's fingers scrambled to the next page which was entirely about her. The top-left fourth of the surface area was a crude drawing of the traveler with over exemplified features. Most likely not what Boulevard wanted to create, but it was kind of charming to see him pay such attention to detail. The beauty mark she covered with her bangs was noticed and Wynter had never even made its presence known.
The rest of the page was a diary of day-by-day logs of their interactions. Distrust and a lack of determination at first led up to something the both of them had in common. Curiosity. Who was he? Who was she? The last line was the final but most compelling question. "Who has she known?"
While Wynter's traits were made as clear as day, she hadn't talked to Boulevard about anything that personal, like where she's gone in the world and who she's seen. Likewise with him. The cabins would be cozy and have a big fire to sit around while the two of them could just talk. She made careful movements so as to not rip the flimsy pages and went to the third.
This one was weird. Abstract art was Wynter's first guess, but she suspected differently after analyzing the page. Words big and small were masked in scribbles and holes were pierced into the beige paper. These, what seem like tangents, took up every inch of the page. Some sentences she was able to decipher were, "What's next? Why? The feast is a lie. No more platoons." Other markings like doodles and quotes were chicken scratch to her. Wynter felt the scarred paper between her fingers, slowly moving from the bottom to the top, stopping at those first written words. "What's next?"
This page made Wynter be filled with worry. What problems lie within the mind of a man with such depth that would lead to these scratches and scrapes? She took a deep breath and thought about what she was told about coping. When Wynter was sad, she would cry. She met people who, when they were sad, got angry. Some were even furious to the point of destruction, but they weren't bad people. Just lost. The contents of the journal must've been one of those. Boulevard thought about every thought and had the bad ones seep out of the pencil's tip so they could be somewhere else. At least, that's what Wynter hoped. She flipped to the last, mysterious page.
It had a title and contained a torn but taped back together graph taken from a different kind of paper. A diagram of the male body with black outlines, surrounded by pure white, was stapled onto the note. The bold drawing reminded Wynter of a school worksheet for an anatomy class. The body was normal, but what was outside of it wasn't. Arrows pointing to different sections of the body like the head, wrists, and throat had symbols like broken lines, scratches, and a body of water. And on the sides of these hieroglyphs were facts. Scientific discoveries. About how much blood would be lost.
She got up from her bedding and left the journal behind. Wynter went downstairs to the back deck where she saw Boulevard staring into the night in new clothes. They were dirty, really torn, and coated in ash, but it was a change for sweater weather. He had only worn the same t-shirt and shorts, but he had put together something new for the occasion. She asked, "Boulevard. How are you? Are you feeling okay? Be, um, be honest, alright? F-for tomorrow!"
He turned around to see Wynter. No changes in her appearance were very noticeable, but she leaned forwards a little like she had a stomach ache. Like her core was frozen. Boulevard said, "I'm feeling good."
Before Wynter tried to go into a dreamless sleep, she needed to cover her tracks. After navigating through every word in the black journal, these other pages a lot less interesting than the ones before — littered with the past — she slipped it back with the other handmade encyclopedias. But she noticed that one page, all the way in the back, was pressing out of the others.
Wynter hadn't noticed this final page because it was folded – almost hidden away. The nerves in her fingers shivered a little as she unraveled the last entry. It was a poem. The poem had no title. Dated a month ago, it's written as follows.
"To walk with no destination. To travel forwards but always move back. Every step is nonexistent underneath me. For I do not exist. I have no purpose. Until fate finds me, I am but a husk who, under weary knees and a weary heart, will continue to walk. I go onwards, imagining the others besides me. The footsteps forgotten. They are my legs that keep me upright. My purpose."