Come daybreak on Day 44, the tribemates awake to a wonderful sunrise. Cheipar continues to doze as Weatherbird and Crescent go in search of tree-mail. “We didn’t talk much,” Crescent says later. “What do we really have to say to each other now?”

They find a large package waiting for them at tree-mail. The two women bring it back to camp and open it up to find several small jars of body paint, sequins, feathers, and other accoutrements. “‘The time is nigh, seize the day,’” Weatherbird reads from the poetry. “‘Don’t ask why, just fight to stay. Adorn yourself in colours bold, war paint for battle. Take your steps along the road, and face your... ah to hell with this, I am not going to try to make a pun with death rattle. Just dress yourselves up and get ready to move. You’ve got a long mile of montage shots ahead of you.’ That’s what it says.”

So to the tune of the going-merry-about-their-day-music, the elves adorn themselves for battle. Weatherbird and Crescent paint each other elaborate pseudo-Indian designs in blues, purples and red, then give each other sequin bindis. Cheipar paints a cat’s mask around his eyes, then adds a few spirals around his arms.

They gather their belonging and begin their picturesque hike over valleys and through mountains (or it the other way around?). Along the way they pass the extinguished torches of their former tribemates. Saccharine music plays, and slo-mo flashbacks fade in and out of focus.

Picknose struggling to stay afloat in shark infested water... Ember racing across the sands for an immunity challenge... Kahvi belching loudly... Kit writing in her journal... Gypsy Moth sunning herself on the beach... Scouter gnashing his teeth... Cutter looking majestic and windblown... Skywise looking contemplative... Brightmetal looking shirtless...

Swift laughing with her tribemates... Spar shirking work... Littlefire punching Winnowill then looking bashful about it... Nightfall bonding with her two daughters... Coppersky strutting with pride... Tyleet falling prey to Spar’s feminine wiles... Savin emerging from the sea à la Ursula Andress in Dr. No....

And finally... Strongbow lining up the sights of his bow and arrow in a perfect Polaroid moment...

Crescent pauses at her father’s torch and bows her head in silent respect. The camera pulls back for an aerial shot of the entire hillside as the music swells to new heights.

They arrive on a hillside plateau to find Winnowill stretched out on a chaise lounge, sunning herself. “Ah, you’re here,” she says, flustered, as she takes off her sunglasses. “That was quite a walk, wasn’t it?”

“Would have been shorter without the pit trap,” says a dirt-smudged Weatherbird.

“Or the tigers,” adds Cheipar as he wipes the little streak of blood off his cheek.

“Or the Mindcoil,” Crescent deadpans.

“Weatherbird, I’ll need that immunity necklace back. Immunity – back up for grabs one last time. Now, today’s challenge is what the final challenge always is. You’ll have to assume a very awkward pose and hold it as long as you can. One foot on the ground, the other on the top step of this step ladder cunningly disguised as a ceremonial altar. Hold your arms wide out. In your hands you have to hold two heavy paperweights in the shape of traditional Beacon doorstops. Whoever lasts the longest gets immunity and a guaranteed spot in the final tribal council. Survivors take your places.”

They get up on their respective step stool altars and hold the paperweights in their hands. “Survivors, ready? Immunity – one last time! Go!”

The clock starts ticking. Weatherbird teeters, slightly off balance. Crescent closes her eyes and goes zen. So does Cheipar.

At the fifteen minute mark, sweat appears on Weatherbird’s brow. At twenty minutes she is struggling to hold her balance. “Feeling that knee lock up, eh, Weatherbird?” Winnowill asks.

“Bite me,” Weatherbird mutters.

At half an hour, Weatherbird is in agony. At forty minutes she steps down, cursing under her breath. “I’m just so tired...” she says as she sits down. “Bad day... bad day...”

The hour mark approaches. Neither Crescent nor Cheipar has budged. “Okay, bring out the sadistic temptation,” Winnowill commands. A troll comes out, bearing a pepperoni pizza and a six pack of cold beer. Winnowill and Weatherbird dig in. Cheipar and Crescent stay the course.

An hour and a half passes. Then two hours. “Okay, bring in the humiliating plot twist,” Winnowill informs her cell phone. A seagull circling overhead drops a fat dollop of white goo on Cheipar’s forehead. He wrinkles his nose but does not move.

Two and a half hours. Cheipar is starting to shiver a little. “Let’s even things out,” Winnowill informs a stagehand troll. The troll applies an electric cattle prod to Crescent. Her spirit shudders, and she utters several unprintable curse words, but she does not lose her balance.
At three hours, Cheipar is struggling to hold focus. He blinks repeatedly. Winnowill sneezes loudly and Cheipar flinches. One of his arms begins to sag, and when he struggles to right himself, he overcompensates and loses his balance. One of the paperweights drops and he is eliminated.

“Immunity, Crescent!” Winnowill declares. “Congratulations, Crescent. You now have a guaranteed 1-in-2 chance at becoming Sole Survivor and the right to choose who you will take to Final Two, and who will become the seventh member of our Jury. You can head back to camp now.”

Weatherbird: So... who is Crescent going to take with her? That’s the two million dollar question.

Cheipar: (shaking his head) I just don’t know.

At dusk, the tribe of three arrives at tribal council. The Jury lines in next, Strongbow at the tail end of the line. He has shaved his facefur, to the surprise of the remaining contestants and the viewers at home.

“It doesn’t suit you,” Winnowill remarks off-hand before she sits herself down and turns back to the Survivors. “So... Crescent. You hold all the cards tonight. Did you ever think it would come down to this?”

Crescent: Never, Winnowill. I always hoped. And I knew I wanted to play harder than anyone else – I wanted to win. But to come this far – to know I am going to be sitting in the Final Two... I realize now I never really believed it could happen. I don’t think any of us imagined ourselves making it this far.

Winnowill: What about you, Weatherbird. You’ve managed to glide under the radar all the way here. You stuck close to Swift. Then you stuck close to Savin. Then you stuck close to Cheipar. You’re still sticking to Cheipar. Some people might say you only made it this far because you have powerful friends. What do you say?

“No regrets?”

“None.”

“Must have been hard for you, giving up so early in the challenge.”

“I know when it to fight and when not to fight. Today wasn’t my day. No regrets.”

“Cheipar, you can only vote for Weatherbird. Weatherbird, you can only vote for Cheipar. Your votes cancel each other out. Crescent, you’re the only one who can vote. And it is time.”

Crescent gets up and goes into the voting booth. She returns promptly. “I’ll go tally the vote,” Winnowill says.

“Now, once the vote is read, the decision is final,” she reminds them all as she returns with the jar. “I’ll read the vote.” She fishes it out and slowly unfolds it. “And the final member of our Jury... Weatherbird.”

Weatherbird lets out a long breath of air. She turns and hugs Cheipar goodbye, then reaches over to take Crescent’s hand. Then she rises and brings her torch over to Winnowill.

“It’s time for you to leave,” Winnowill tells her as she snuffs out the torch. “Crescent, Cheipar, you can head back to camp. I’ll see you all tomorrow for final tribal council.”

Cheipar is stunned at the results as he walks back to camp with Crescent in the dark. “Didn’t see that coming...”  he murmurs. “Thought for sure it would be me going...”

Crescent: I made a decision and I stand by it. Whether it was the right decision, well... we’ll see.

Cheipar shakes his head. “Swift and Cutter maybe... or Coppersky and... someone.”

“I guess we both sort of slipped under the radar, didn’t we?”

Cheipar nods. “I’m glad we’re both here,” he says at length.

“Me too,” Crescent says. “It’s... I don’t know. Fitting. Sorry about Weatherbird,” she adds.

“It’s all right.” He smiles. “Like you said. Only one of us has to make it to Final Two.”

“You’re assuming you’ll win,” Crescent teases. Cheipar only shrugs, and Crescent bursts out laughing. “You are Skot’s son!”

They arise on Day 45 to see the sun already climbing over the trees. “Damn, we slept in,” Crescent says as she stretches. “Oohhh... can’t wait to go home. Back to the Palace... or the regrown Father Tree... how about you, Cheipar? Where are you calling home these days?”

Cheipar shrugs as he stumbles of out his fleece blankets. “Wherever the Wild Hunt calls home. But maybe we’ll go to the Great Holt and just rest.”

“Yeah, no one actually does anything in your Great Holt, do they?”

Cheipar shrugs. “Nothing productive.”

They spend the day housekeeping around camp. “No reason to leave things untidy,” Crescent explains. They take down the shelter and neatly fold all the fleece blankets and stack the pillows. “So why don’t you ever talk much?” Crescent asks as they take a break to skip stones over the water. “I know Father doesn’t like it because sending is more efficient. But you don’t really send that often either. So what’s the deal?”

Cheipar shrugs. “People talk all the time... I don’t say anything. I want my words to mean something. I don’t waste them.”

Crescent: You know... if I wasn’t seeing Redstar... and he didn’t have a lifemate – no, no, don’t air that, actually. Please. Come on, don’t show that. Seriously. Come on, guys, I'm begging you.

Cheipar nods. “I’m... a little nervous.”

They have a final meal of coconut popcorn and grilled fish Cheipar catches in the shallows. “Nothing too greasy,” Crescent explains. “We don’t need the indigestion tonight – oh yeah, ghosts totally get indigestion. Our auras get all... staticky and gross.”

The sun begins to set, and the two sit on the beach to watch the sky turn colour. “Any regrets?” Crescent asks.

“A few,” Cheipar admits. But he reveals nothing when Crescent questions him.

They watch the sun slowly slip beneath the western horizon. Now there is nothing left to do but gather their torches and head for the last tribal council.
 
 

WEATHERBIRD’S LAST WORDS I guess Crescent figured it was better to go up against Cheipar than me. I guess we’ll see huh? See you all at tribal council.

On to Part Three
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