Aaaand... here it is. The final chapter.
Many thanks to Perosha for beta. :)
Epilogue
A lone man in a green hood is sitting near the cliff's edge, busy with making arrowheads. Just like primitive hunters thousands of years ago, he shapes the chunks, hitting its edges with a hard rock found at the bank of the stream. It works surprisingly well as a makeshift tool. Over the last few months he had to use all his intelligence, cunning and inventiveness to find replacements for many things he had no longer access to on this forgotten scrap of land.
The time he has spent here on Lian Yu, living as a recluse, has wrought a change in his appearance. He is wearing a shabby vest and pants; once they might have been green, but now they are so faded from the sun that they seem to be grayish. He is barefoot, his long blond hair and beard are unkempt. No one would recognize in him the Oliver Queen who got lost on the South China Sea on the night the Queen's Gambit sank. He is a different person now, not a boy, but a man, who's had to fight hard to survive.
After the downpour earlier this afternoon the sky is still covered by a thick layer of clouds. Those rains never make it any cooler. Shortly after they fall the air again becomes humid, almost suffocating. It is hard to breathe. The nights are very cold though, and darker than he could ever imagine. It was very hard for him to adjust to those conditions, as well as to the fact that the sun appears and disappears on the horizon in the blink of an eye, and climbs so high in the sky during the day.
It has been roughly a year since he found himself on the island again. That was Amanda Waller's way of thanking him for fulfilling his last mission for A.R.G.U.S. She had found him in Russia and gave him an offer he couldn't refuse. But instead of buying him a ticket home, she had sent him back to the island against his will.
"It is too early for you to come back to your hometown, Mr. Queen," she had told him, a small smile dangling on her lips. "You've been stranded on an island, there would be too many questions if you suddenly popped up in Russia and flew back to Starling. Questions we want to avoid. We've fished you out from Lian Yu's waters, now we're sending you back to your island home, so we can say that we just reset the situation."
He curses her name every day. He often dreams about appearing on the doorstep of her office with a bow in his hand to wipe that arrogant smile off of her face. This moment will come one day. But for the time being he is stuck on Lian Yu, and his main objective is to live another day. Waller at least has left him his chest containing the bow and the hood, as well as few other necessities that increased his chances to survive. How very generous.
He adds another cut on the riser of his bow for every day he has spent here. At the beginning those marks were simple straight lines. Then out of the boredom he went for a wider variety, although he had never been much of an artist. He has carved small circles (it took longer to make them, but he had a lot of free time to kill), triangles and dots, scratched one line over three others to create some fantastic shapes, and has created many, many more combinations. Eventually he started to fill in every cut with a "paint" made out of a mix of ashes and juice squeezed out of some fruit he couldn't even name. His recurve becomes one of a kind, unique. He is sure that there is no other bow like this, just like there is no other man who went through what he had to.
Over time he manages to make his life as comfortable is it could be in such conditions. He chooses Yao Fei's cave as his shelter. It is dry and safe (although this time he is alone on the island, his bad experiences have made him extra cautious). At the same time it is located quite close the seashore so he can keep watch over the bay. The fuselage where he used to live with Shado and Slade brought back too many painful memories. He has taken from there only a couple of things that could be of some use to him, like blankets, or a hunting knife that once belonged to Slade.
Eventually he finds some routine in this life. His main aim is to survive, and to do so he has become a hunter. He has taught himself how to make arrows out of the materials that are accessible to him. He has used bamboo nodes for shafts, resin as a glue, turkey feathers and coconut fiber to make wrappers and to attach the arrowheads more firmly.
At evenings before he goes to sleep, in the poor light thrown by the flickering flames of fires he builds, he studies the List. It is the only "book" he has, and eventually he has the impression that he has learned the names written in it by heart. Some of those names sound familiar—although he has always shown little interest in the family business, he recognizes influential and wealthy people from Starling. Sometimes he wonders who has made this List; he is sure that it is not his father's handwriting. But one thing is certain—he is meant to have it and to use it. Even though his father hadn't mentioned it when they talked for the last time.
Oliver wipes his brow and reaches for a coconut shell lying in the shade that serves him as a mug to have a drink of water. It is still a bit cool, pleasantly refreshing in the heat.
He likes this spot. A clump of trees offers some cover and the wind blowing from the ocean provides some cooling down during the hottest hours of the day. He has been calling it Mountain Hill, after a famous viewing spot in his city. Since currently (and fortunately) he is the only human inhabitant of the island, he has the privilege of naming the places. If the weather is good he can see the whole bay from this vantage point. He calls it Starling Bay, even if it makes little sense. The waters near his hometown were always busy, packed with large container ships and bulk carriers coming to the port, and private yachts. Not this still. Not this empty.
It is hard to believe how many things one can miss when stranded on a desolated island far away from civilization. It is not only having a solid roof overhead and sleeping in a normal bed. He would like to have a pair of scissors to cut this filthy hair so it was no longer than an inch. It gets into his eyes all the time and somehow always manages to get loose even when he tries to tie it in a ponytail; he actually can't believe that there was a time when liked wearing longer hair. He would like to have a straight razor to shave this Robinson Cruzoe beard. He also wouldn't mind to have a proper warm bath with soap. Having something better to clean his teeth than a twig to chew would come in handy too. He would like to never worry again when the next meal will be. He would like to have normal breakfast served, exactly at half past nine (or half past noon, after one of his party nights). Just the thought of having a meal of two or three fried eggs, crispy slices of bacon, crunchy toast with strawberry jam and a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice makes his mouth water.
In dreamlike moments like that, he can almost see Raisa bustling about the sunny spacious kitchen in the mansion and smell the strong scent of freshly brewed coffee.
He would like to eat at least one more time at Big Belly Burger—they had the best ones in the city.
Hell, he would give anything for a piece of ordinary bread.
On top of that, he has no idea why he so often he thinks about eating ice cream, especially when the nights here are so cold. But there was that small ice cream shop they used to go to often with Tommy when they were kids, then in a group of friends with Laurel and Sara... and he was taking Speedy there too. There were so many flavors to chose from, but his little sister insisted on the combination of vanilla and chocolate most of the time.
In such moments his thoughts drift toward his family and friends. He wonders how his mother has coped with the death of her husband and son. It is unimaginable what she had to go through. People often thought that she was made of stone and nothing got to her, but in fact she loved her family dearly and would do everything for her closest ones. It has been a kind of shock for him when he had learned that Dad wasn't acting fairly towards her—he was twelve, and that realization was like a bucket of ice-cold water poured over his head. His cool Dad was not that "cool" after all.
He ponders how Thea is doing. He is not exactly sure how old is she now. Sixteen? Seventeen? It is hard to believe that she is almost an adult. How does she look now? In his mind she is still an adolescent girl, a child running after him and looking up to her older brother. What about Tommy? And Laurel? He still has that photo she had given him on the pier when she had come to bid farewell to him. At that time he had been cheating on her. He has no idea what he was thinking back then. Stupid, irresponsible brat.
He might as well die on this island, and no one will ever know that he survived the catastrophe of the yacht. He is terrified by the prospect of wasting the best years of his life in this prison. No one will ever find his body or what will be left of it, as animals surely would take care of his remains. That would be the only "funeral" he will get.
He pushes those grim thoughts to the dark corner of his mind. There is no use in feeling sorry for himself.
Shēngcún. Survive. SURVIVE.
He wants to live. Actually, if he wanted to be honest with himself, he would have to admit that he had never felt more alive anywhere else than here. As much as this island scares him sometimes and reminds about his worst nightmares, he knows that he could never go back to being the same person as before. He has changed.
But a life like this takes its toll. His diet too often lacks proper nourishing food. Usually he is able to get almost enough, either by hunting or by foraging, to sustain himself, but there are often days when he goes to sleep hungry. Luckily it is not the case today. Yesterday he has been fortunate to catch enough fish to not worry about the next meal. Combined with some edible roots and a few mangos he has picked they should make quite a good dinner. He prefers to not remember the time when he had to eat those giant ants because nothing, absolutely nothing better could be found...
He casually wonders what he will be doing tomorrow. He might start by going onto the rocks at the east side of the bay where birds have their nests. He regularly raids them for eggs.
Without any conscious thought he raises his eyes. And freezes. His keen sight picks up a tiny black spot on the horizon. His heart starts to beat faster. Could it be?...Finally, after so many days of waiting? No one approaches this damned island, apparently the waters that surround it are too dangerous for small vessels. He can't be sure. The gray clouds are hanging so low over the horizon that they practically blend together with the leaden waters of the ocean. He gets up, forgetting about his work, and approaches the cliff's edge. He squints his eyes, waiting for so long that it seems to be an eternity. When the spot finally grows bigger he is sure. A boat! A small vessel, probably a fishing one, that appeared in the shallow waters close to the island, searching for new fishery.
He turns around and starts to run through the forest like a madman, forcing his way through the dense foliage. Small twigs hit him in the face and forearms. He doesn't pay attention to that. The only thing he can think about right now is that small boat and whether it will stay in the vicinity of the bay long enough for him to get to the hill where he had left his bow and arrows. There was no use dragging them onto the cliff, he would collect them on his way back to the cave.
He has been prepared for an occasion like this since long ago. He has built up a large pile of wood on the beach, collecting sticks and branches, and dragging to the shore everything he could salvage from the destroyed and abandoned base of Fyers—loose planks, fragments of broken crates and also some fuel.
He climbs up the hill quickly, dreading that the vessel has sailed away and disappeared behind the line of sharp rocks, but when he looks toward the bay he notices that it is still in the vicinity.
His bow and a few arrows lie here, wrapped in a piece of cloth. He grabs his recurve, places the tip at his instep and strings it in a fraction of a second. He has done it hundreds of times, and it feels as natural as shooting the bow itself.
Then he drives his hunting knife into the ground. The arrow he plans to set aflame has a section wrapped in cloth soaked in some fuel. Scratching the arrowhead against the blade is enough to start a spark. He raises the bow to get the correct angle and sends the flaming arrow flying, straight at the prepared pile of wood.
The effect is even better than he expected. It has been raining more than ever during the last few days, and the once dry wood is completely drenched. He had feared that the fuel won't be enough to start a proper fire. But the pile explodes, sending up a black billowing cloud of smoke.
He waits for the crew to react, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. Will they notice? They have to notice! It seems to take ages (even though it in fact it takes less than a minute) before the small fishing boat averts its course to approach the shore of the island. His signal has been spotted!
He has been waiting for this moment so long... Dreamed every cold sleepless night. He won't believe that it is truly happening... not until he sets his foot on that fishing boat.
He goes down to the beach from the hill using a path made by animals. Once those rocks would cut his feet to blood. Now his soles are so hardened from walking barefoot on various harsh surfaces that he doesn't even notice them.
The two fishermen are on the bank before he manages to get down. He approaches them slowly, to not scare them. They look at him with a mix of surprise, anxiety and maybe even some fear. As if he was a ghost or some mysterious creature that emerged from the forest. He doesn't have many occasions to see his own reflection, but suddenly he realizes how scruffy he must look, and becomes ashamed of his own filthy appearance.
His legs bend under him and he falls to his knees. He pulls down his hood and looks up at the fishermen. He hasn't seen a human face for so long that it is still hard to believe that he is not alone here anymore. That he has been rescued.
They speak something to him, guessing by the intonation of their voices asking some questions.
He tries Mandarin, hoping that he hasn't completely forgotten everything he had learned from Shado and during his stay in Hong Kong. His own voice sounds odd to him, as if it belonged to a stranger. He hadn't heard it much over last months. There has been no one to talk to on the island. Occasionally he spoke to himself loudly. He always felt weird once hehad realized what he had been doing. He wondered if it meant that he is going crazy.
It quickly turns out that his saviors don't understand what he is saying. He is also not able to make out anything of the dialect they speak. So what is left to communicate is a language universal for the whole world—signs. To his surprise it turns out that one of the men knows some words in English. Originally he has not realized that it was his mother tongue—his accent is so thick that it is hard to understand.
The fisherman touches his elbow gently, encouraging him to get up.
"Hurt?" he asks, pointing to fresh cuts and abrasions on his arm. Oliver realizes he must have gotten them while he was running crazily through the forest and hasn't even noticed it until now.
He stops himself from laughing. He appreciates the concern, but those small scratches are nothing compared to some of his earlier injuries. But there is no way to explain it to them.
"Go?" The fisherman indicates the small boat resting in the sand. So that is how they got there. It was probably to dangerous for the fishing boat to approach the rocky coast.
Oliver nods his head and gets to his feet clumsily.
He stops at the edge of the beach, not only because the cold water washing his feet reminds him about the night of Queen Gambit's catastrophe and his fear of boats.
He has almost forgot about something very important..
Somehow he is able to explain his rescuers that he needs to take something with him from the island.
He collects his bow that he has left nearby, lying on the ground. He didn't want to scare them, appearing with a weapon in hand.
He leads them to Yao Fei's cave, walking up the narrow path he has traveled countless times.
An old chest, covered in peeling green paint, sits in its usual place. He puts the unstringed bow inside, as well as the quiver with several remaining arrows. He checks if everything else is there. The List, a pouch with the herbs from the island, the Hōzen... Every single thing that chest contains bears some significance for him.
He barely pays attention to the fishermen that are apparently exchanging some remarks. It is not hard to understand what they have been talking about, guessing from their tone. They are probably wondering how long he has been stranded here and how he has been able to survive in such conditions.
They go back to the beach and the boat. For a moment Oliver feels an overwhelming sense of guilt that he is leaving this island, while his father, Yao Fei, Shado and Sara will stay here forever. He had made it, they did not, and what happened to them will be preserved only in his memory. He doesn't even know where exactly Sara's body is... Guys from A.R.G.U.S. said that they hadn't found her, and in that aspect they were most likely telling the truth.
At this point he has no idea that he will take a part of Lian Yu with him. That it had left a permanent mark on him, carved as deeply as the cuts he had made on the riser of his bow.
Wrapped in a blanket, he sips hot green tea one of the fishermen has brought him. The mug warms his hand. He observes Lian Yu gradually vanishing in the distance. It gets smaller and smaller. With every passed mile he is closer to civilization. Closer to home. Closer to family and friends.
To his surprise it turns out that the fishermen have a satellite phone and he can make a call. He chooses to phone Mom. At first she doesn't believe it is truly him. She thinks it is some cruel stupid joke. After all, her son has been dead for five years. He has to convince her otherwise.
"Mom, please... just listen to my voice. It's me. It's Oliver. I didn't die on the Gambit."
Something in that desperate tone makes her believe that it is truly him. Her long lost son is alive. Just hearing her makes him overwhelmed by emotions. He feels tears in his eyes, and he can tell that she is crying too.
"Oliver? Oliver, is that you?" she sobs.
"Yeah, Mom. It's me. Just... don't hang up, okay?" he pleads.
"Oh no. No, no, no, I won't. Oh, my beautiful boy... Is... Is your father a-alive?"
He doesn't answer for a long while. He can't force himself to speak, as if something has been crushing his throat.
"No," he says finally in a small voice. He feels tears running down his dirty cheeks and disappearing in his scrawny beard. "No... he... he and Sara didn't make it."
Saying this aloud is like seeing them die again. And it is not easy for his Mom to hear it from him moments after a spark of hope has been raised that maybe there have been more survivors. He can hear her shaky breath and silent sobs as she desperately tries to regain control over her voice.
"Oh, Oliver, sweetheart..." she says finally. "I can't imagine what you have been through. Where are you?"
"I'm not entirely sure, but... But I'm... I'm on a boat. And I'm coming home."
A recurve bow and a green hood hidden in the chest are waiting for their time to come. Soon. Very soon. He feels he is prepared for his mission, ready to give whatever it takes, feeling an inner fire burning inside his chest. Nothing and no one will stop him.
He will save his city.
END
A/N So after almost four years this is finally the end of A Professional Observation. Although the story came the full circle, the ending is very open. I planned to write a sequel (actually some bits have already been written) and I hope that one day I will find enough inspiration and time to get back to writing for this fandom more actively. I still plan to finish To Another Earth and His Quiver, but now my main focus is my other long WIP (not for Arrow).
If you would like to get a notification when the sequel will be published please keep this story in your follows. I will add the note to APO.
Once again, many thanks to Perosha—it wouldn't be possible for me to write this story without your help. I'm not a native speaker and writing stories in English was one of my ultimate goals…and it happened. :) Still without a beta my fics would look much worse.
I owe thanks also to my regular readers/reviewers, especially mjf2468 and supercode.
I would love to hear what you think about the story. So if you have followed APO for some time or you have just discovered it—please, share your thoughts in the review section. All types of feedback is welcomed.
See you soon.