X99.2XXA [Tremily]

_{(Warning for mild body horror, and gore.)
Recommended listening: An Ending (Ascent) - Brian Eno}

Everything around Trellis felt soft and comfortable. It was odd really, considering that comfort wasn't something he was generally used to; throughout his life it'd felt more like a gift of sorts, a rare blessing, bestowed occasionally. After all, he’d spent a large majority of his life practically living in armour, which was hot, heavy, and occasionally rubbed his skin raw in places if he wore it for too long. Which was always.

"You are a prince, and we are at war. To wear anything else would be foolishness," his father had intoned once, upon being presented with the suggestion of not wearing it. Despite the mask, the King had looked at Trellis as if he were treading on thin ice, just one remark away from a second, matching scar.

“But-“ Trellis had begun, and the force of the blow that’d followed had knocked him clean off his feet, heavy armour and all. Sybrian had chittered and squeaked, twining around him in an indignant way, as he lay on the floor, winded.

“If not for your armour, that blow would have killed you. Remember that,” the King had said, before sweeping away.

Trellis never asked again.

There had been the occasional moment outside of armour of course, mainly to sleep when at Valcor. But the bed there had been a dreadful thing, more like lying on an uprooted tree than a piece of furniture designed for rest. Besides, those moments at the castle had been rare; the majority of the time he ended up sleeping out in the wild in full armour, off on some mission for his father, carried out under Sybrian’s influence. He wasn’t sure what was worse: sleeping on the bad excuse for a bed, or sleeping out in the open. At least in the open there was no way of running into his dear father, where the only way to keep in contact was via their stones.

But this, right here and now? Ah, this was soft. It was as if a lifetime of missed comfort had decided to hit him, all at once, washing away any memory of hard beds and outdoor sleep. The very essence of softness permeated the air around him, and there was an oddly hazy quality to everything. It even seemed to be slipping into his mind, blanketing it in a gentle carpet of fog. Perhaps he should be worried about this? This lack of focus, and general lackadaisical air which now filled him, inflicted upon him without his consent? Once upon a time, such a thing would have sent stress spiking through him, the muscles at the back of his head tightening in an anxiety-fueled response, as cold fear settled at the nape of his neck – no no no no no no not again not again I can't go back I won't go back not the dark shadows not them anything but that again - but somehow the emotions simply weren't there. Like they'd just stepped out for a bit, back in five, leaving an air of 'everything's fine' in their place.

Well then, if that was the case then there was no need to worry, was there? No use wasting time or energy on it, when there was this delightful comfort to enjoy.

Trellis settled himself back down, a faint smile drifting across his face. Huh. Well, that was something too, his normal frown wiped away like a bad dream. Ah, well, no one was around, it’d be fine. It took him a moment to realise that he was actually lying on his back; the radius area around him was so plush that it was hard to tell at first, rather like he was surrounded by a load of cushions, and only now was he feeling the floor beneath those under him. But even then, 'floor' seemed much too hard a term for whatever was underneath him. Perhaps this was what it was like to be an air spirit, living in the aether, surrounded by the holy clouds, with a body as light as a feather and looking through the mirror of truth to the world below.

Was he an air spirit now? His face crinkled in hard-won thought. That couldn't be right. You had to... do something to become an air spirit. What was it? Pass through the mirror of truth, leaving your body behind. Yes. With a strange amount of effort, Trellis lifted a hand, and shook it. No, his body still felt very much there, but there was a curious lightness to it, as if his whole body were hollow. Strange, considering how hard it'd been to lift it.

Oh well.

Wasn't the aether supposed to be cold, too? Trellis concentrated for a moment. It was easier said than done, his thoughts kept slipping here and there, concentration wavering like the heat haze on a hot day. It was strange, the temperature was slipping about; he'd be certain he was hot, but then actually realise he was cold, but no, that wasn't correct, he wasn't cold, he was warm, but that wasn't right either, there was a slight chill, but no...

The fug in his head dismissed it. It's all right. At the end of the day, what does it matter? You're here, you're comfy, it's all grand.

He lay there and relaxed.

Clouds. Feather pillows. A goose-down duvet. Grass in the spring. Kitten fur. Compared to what he was feeling, they all seemed as hard as rock.

But where was here? a vaguely determined part of his mind persisted, underneath the haze.

Lazily, Trellis rolled his head to look.

Somewhere... white, it seemed.

Hmm.

White and soft.

Perhaps he was inside a pillow, chimed a small, young part of his mind, thought to be lost a long time ago.

No, no pillow would ever be this soft.

He looked again.

The whiteness was hazy, tinted with colours that were on the tip of his tongue, but couldn't quite name. Had he seen these colours before? They looked familiar, and yet… not. The whiteness rolled and drifted, more akin to a fog than anything else. He peered. Was that-? Was there something beyond the fog? He should be concerned, but it all felt so far away...

An eternity passed by.
There was no rush.

Presently, a small fire appeared. Trellis watched it idly. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he had a dim recollection that there were certain emotions he should be feeling, brought on instinctively at this sight. Perhaps a sort of panic? Mixed with sadness, and determination? And there, right underneath, was a small dab of self-loathing, maybe? He could speculate and speculate, but once again, the emotions weren't there. Everyone was out to lunch today, it seemed. Slowly, the fire drew closer, growing steadily all the while; at first it was no more than a candle flame, which fanned into a small fire, which then grew into a fire proper, and continued to grow from there.

Another eternity passed by, Trellis watching the expanding fire drawing nearer all the while.

How curious.

As the fire approached, it steadily resolved itself into an upright column, instead of spreading along the ground and billowing upwards like fire usually did. Now the column was splitting at the top, two branches paradoxically dropping downwards, whilst a large tongue of flame formed a head. And now the fire was splitting at the base, dividing into two, and those two strands were moving, back and forth, back and forth, and oh! The fire collapsed in on itself for a moment, but then next it was upright again, having not collapsed, but stumbled, back on track once more.

With his muddied thinking, it took Trellis a moment to realise that it had resolved itself into the shape of a person, whose hair shone like fire.

Wait.

Had they always been fire?

Or was it just the hair he'd been fixating on?

The more he thought the less certain he became.

He soon stopped worrying, his attention settling solely on her hair. Ah, it looked so soft. He hated to admit it, but once or twice, in the dark of the morning, in that half-awake state where the mind wanders, he'd entertained thoughts of carding his fingers through her hair, focusing on the sensations. What would her hair feel like? Would his fingers encounter the odd knot here and there, hidden beneath the surface? Would the scent of her hair linger on his hands afterwards, occasionally distracting him through the rest of the day?

Of course, when he looked back on that fancy once fully awake, he’d chastised himself, and shoved it to a far corner of his mind. What had been thinking, filling his head with some pointless fluff of an idea like that? Neither of them were the sentimental type; their images were carefully crafted, and such a sappy scenario was incompatible with them! She would probably rather chew off her own leg than have her hair carefully stroked and fussed with! The days that’d began with that little fantasy had been ones spent with his fists firmly balled at his sides, as if they’d betrayed him somehow, his normal frown twisted into such a scowl that it’d sent both Miskit and Dagno scuttling out of his way when he’d encountered them.

Her hair waved suddenly, as she jerked forward. Ah. It was the first thing he’d noticed about her, and it was almost funny in a way; a long time ago that same soft hair had helped him track her – it stood out so marvellously, a clear, colourful beacon. Things had been different back then. They had been strangers. They had been enemies. Now? What were they now?

Allies, he had to suppose. Friends.

(His friend whom he had, once again, in the pre-dawn morning, thought about kissing.)

A universe had been born and died in the time it’d taken her to reach him, but now she was here, at his side.

Emily.

What was she doing here? How did she get here, wherever this was? Oh, but perhaps she was fire, holy fire, from the aether same as the air spirits, which travelled wherever it wanted.

There was a certain jitteriness about her, a jolting quality to Emily’s actions as she leaned over him, gesticulating. She was gripping his shirt, shaking him slightly, but for whatever reason, he couldn’t really feel it. Whatever the matter was, she seemed in an awful hurry. What was the rush? There was no need to hurry, for time was spreading luxuriantly around them. Her mouth was moving, but everything seemed muffled and distant. She looked… Upset? Angry? What was there to be angry about? Oh? She was… crying, tears trailing down her face. Why would she cry? Did he even realise that she could cry? The soft miasma in Trellis’ mind had shot his inhibitions to pieces, and for whatever reason, he found he didn’t care. With a gargantuan effort, he raised his hand, aiming for her hair, but it ended up on her cheek.

The blood on his hand mingled with the tears there.

Blood?

The air around him pulsed.

The haze began to clear.

When had he gotten bl-

Oh.

Of course.

He had gotten hurt.

How could he have forgotten?

The memory unfolded in his head.

The Elf King loomed before them like some ghastly spectre, towering and imposing. His head hung at an impossible angle, and an arm and a leg were mangled and sliced beyond repair. But still he stood, and still he moved, laughing at them with a voice that was more Spirit than King, any pretense of life gone. He gripped a sword in each hand, their points resting on the floor; it was impressive considering the fingers on his left hand were entirely broken, less a hand and more like a meaty pulp with a sword handle jammed into it.

There were six of them were scattered in a semicircle around the Elf King, beaten, bloodied, and bruised: Leon, Emily, Vigo, Roni, Loni, and himself. The plan had been for there to be eight, Riva and General Pil among them. But they’d gotten separated, and that is when things had started to go wrong; the tunnel blocked off, Riva’s voice calling from the other side that she’d find a way around, General Pil chiming it that they were going to give the King a good kicking, whilst in front of the rest of them a white phantom had risen out of the darkness to meet them. Still, despite what’d happened, Trellis could see that there was no disguising the relief on Emily’s face that Navin wasn’t among them, instead safely with the other cadets, fighting off that… thing that the Spirit had summoned.

Curses! This had meant to be a sneak attack, get in, immobilize the King, move on. You can’t kill what is already dead, but even the dead have a hard time getting about if they’ve got no legs or arms. They weren’t supposed to still be here, fighting this gargoyle! They should have moved onto the next area by now!

“Well now,” said the Elf King, “this is interesting. Trying to incapacitate me via disabling my limbs? My, my, I must applaud you on your strategy. And you, soldier-“ he swung to look at Leon, who quietly stared back, unwavering, “-going for the killing blow immediately! It’s any wonder my head is still attached! You certainly don’t waste time. But as entertaining as this has been, this is as far as things go.” With a horribly fluid motion, the Elf King hefted his swords into position, one raised horizontally above his head, the other pointing the opposite way across his chest, effectively framing him as he slipped into a solid stance. “You can cut off my limbs and I won’t die, but rest assured, I can cut off yours, and you will.”

He lunged forward with inhuman speed.

The battle resumed.

There was no time to think, it was just an unending stream of react, react, react, as all six of them converged on the Elf King, narrowly dodging the wide sweeps of his deadly twin swords, retaliating with their own attacks, some getting through, most getting parried, stone magic cutting through the air and making it fizzle and hiss, filling the air with the scent of ozone. Out of all of them, Leon had the most success, nipping in and out at a speed which almost matched the Elf King’s, trying to herd him into a position that left him open to the others, and then Vigo would be rising up, old but strong, his magic hitting with the force of a brick wall. Loni, Roni, solider and spies, used to working in tandem, weaved this way and that, picking up slack where the other dropped it, moving like a single entity, with a single purpose. As for Emily and himself, their magic had been cutting through the air, Emily firing off powerful blasts with her aptitude for attacking, himself hurling masonry and debris with his more defensive magic.

The going was tough, but inch by inch, the group was making progress.

And then it’d happened. So caught up in the fight, Trellis didn’t have time to read and analyse the scene before him; it was as if it arrived in his head as a full equation, the details all planned out for what was going to happen.

Emily had dodged out of the way of one of the King’s swords, a clumsy dodge, but one that’d seemingly taken her out of danger.

But the King had a second sword, and there it was, poised like a snake to strike upwards, unnoticed by her. It would definitely hit, striking upwards into her chest, killing her.

Trellis hadn’t thought, body moving before he knew what was happening.

He leapt, the words "Emily, move!" rising up and ready to be said, but as his mouth formed the ‘Em’ of ‘Emily’ it'd instantly skipped onto ‘move’, so what came out was:

"Em-move!"

(If he’d hadn’t been in midst of such a deadly battle perhaps he would have lingered on that faux pas; a dreadful slip of the tongue, really.)

He’d cannoned into her, shouldering her out of the way in a most ungraceful fashion, just as a starburst of pain erupted from his side as the sword sliced into him.

He felt himself hitting the floor, agony shooting through every nerve.

From nearby, there was a shriek, drowning out part of a cutting remark from the King.

The light suddenly grew bright, dazzling, and the sound of stone magic rose from a hiss to a roar.

Vigo’s voice, yelling something indistinct; a warning, perhaps. Leon’s voice joining it.

More panicked yelling, accompanied by scrambling.

The light became white, tinged with red.

There was a terrible scream.

And he knew no more.

‘That’s right,’ thought Trellis. ‘I took the hit instead of her.’

With some effort, he tilted his head upright to look down at his body.

Oh.

Oh.

He flopped it back down. It was a miracle that he was still alive at this point.

Suddenly everything made sense.

‘I’m dying.’

Odd. He didn’t feel as upset as he should have. He was dying, for crying out loud! But the soft miasma, although now not as strong as it’d been a moment before, still blanketed his mind, making it all feel rather distant, like it was happening to someone else, far, far away. Underneath, his mind protested. There was so much he’d meant to do! He was supposed to become the next Erlking, and set about fixing what the Spirit had broken! What was the point of getting this far, only to fall at the last hurdle? He couldn’t die here, he mustn’t die here, leaving things unfinished! But the haze pressed down, and Trellis found that he could no longer raise the strength or energy to protest against it.

You tried your best, it whispered. It’s okay. This is just how it’s going to be. You tried, and that’s what mattered.

He exhaled, breath clouding the air.

A thought shot through his mind, enough to disturb the haze for the briefest of moments, before it settled back into place.

The Erlking! What’d happened to him?

Trellis tried to look around, but the mist, although now clearing, was still thick.

Something must’ve happened to the King, otherwise Emily wouldn’t be here…

Unless… she was dead too?

With blanketed horror, Trellis looked at her face. Blotchy. Red. Full of life, and strength, and vitality. No sign of injury, internal or otherwise Oh thank goodness.

But if she was alive…

Slowly it slotted into place.

The only stonekeeper who could ever kill a stone.

The bright white-and-red light.

The roar of stonekeeper energy.

Oh. She must’ve done it.

Then…

Then if she’d been able to do that as a result of him taking the fatal hit, maybe dying wasn’t so bad after all.

Gradually, Emily’s voice came into focus, like someone was turning a radio knob and tuning into a particular station, with sobs instead of static.

“-ou idiot! Why’d you have to do that! Why?! I would have been fine!-“

Somehow, his hand was still on her face, but his sensation of touch was fading fast, like he was growing hollower all the while. It was becoming harder and harder to concentrate. Something must’ve shown on his face, because all of a sudden Emily gave him another shake, dislodging his hand in the process.

“No! No, don’t give me that look! Stop dying! Stop it! I won’t let you! I can’t let you!”

An, old, large, weathered hand descended from somewhere onto her shoulder. Trellis couldn’t make out who it was attached to, but he didn’t have to see to know who it was.

“Emily.” Vigo’s voice rumbled, sounding far-off, like thunder over a distant plain.

She sagged, her hand losing their grip on Trellis’ shirt. The next second she whipped around, fire igniting once more. “No! There must be something! He’ll die and it’ll be all my fault!”

A lighter voice cut in, a familiar braid flashing by, joined by a distinctly mechanical one, but he couldn’t catch what was said. Still, he sagged with relief. Riva. General Pil. They were okay. Another thing to be thankful for.

“-No!” Emily snapped in response. “We’ve just gotta-“

“Em.” It was with a great deal of effort that Trellis spoke, having to force the word out, feeling it drag all the way up his throat, across his tongue and out past his lips. It wasn’t even her full name part of him whispered, but he shot it down. It was okay. He wanted to call her that. It was okay. Propriety could go hang, let the implications be known. He was dying. There were no last chances after this. Her head swiveled back to him, the dim glimmer of hope in her eyes.

He tried to raise his hand, but the strength just wasn’t in him anymore.  Emily saw what he tried to do, and grabbed his hand with both of hers, forming a warm cocoon around it.

“Not. Your. Fault,” he just about managed to choke out, and here it was, this final action was going to be the difficult part, his energy almost gone.

With the last of strength, he smiled.

The hollow feeling consumed him.

And he died.

---

The Spirit never stood a chance. There were traces of Emily’s stonekeeper magic in the air around the crafter for weeks afterwards, the air reeking of ozone, as animal and bird alike avoided that place like the plague. It was one of those events that no-one was really entirely one-hundred percent sure of what happened, each person’s account slightly different, but the fact the remained that the Spirit – and the stones - were gone.

People went on to call it a miracle – a miracle that everyone had dived into battle and survived! Well, almost everyone…

As expected, clean-up was almost as big of a mess as the war. The direct heir to Gulfen’s throne was dead, and with no others seemingly in reserve, civil war threatened to break out anew. Only through a timely discovery of Luger’s legitimacy, cemented through a mountain of paperwork and an in-depth family tree, did things quieten down. Despite feeling unfit to rule, Luger stepped up to the throne. But instead of taking up the mantle of the Erlking, he cast it aside, and instead enlisted Riva’s help in running the country, despite her initial protests. (“I’m only a mayor! You want me to run a country?” “Yes.” “Well, fine! If there’s no way, I’ll help.”)

It took years, but together they set up a new system, and dissolved the monarchy, gradually stepping back.

“I think we have had enough of Kings for now,” Luger had said, tiredness lining his eyes, but a familiar smile on his face.

Slowly, the world settled.

Leon travelled here and there, helping stabilise things, and helping create a new governing alternative to the old Guardian Council for Cielis.

Karen moved into the Charnon house. She was never lonely, not with Cogsley, Miskit, Morrie, and the rest of the house robots for company. And of course, Dagno, who insisted on growing to an enormous size, but still loved his robotic ‘momma’.

Navin and Aly continued to study to be pilots at the Academy, eventually graduating and becoming pilots proper.

Enzo found his bones settling, and following their advice, settled in Cielis, sending a steady stream of postcards to Selena. Naturally, Rico settled there too.

Vigo retired to his island, ready to be a hermit once more. He found his plans quickly foiled quickly by endless visitors, and with a gruff sigh, he packed everyone up, and moved back into Cielis.

Balan and the rest of the resistance put down their weapons, and resumed wholly the lives they had before the war.

Loni and Roni assisted with cleaning up of Gulfen and restoring the relationship between it and Windor, acting as ambassadors.

And Emily travelled between them all.

---

Thirteen years had passed. One night, as Emily lay beneath the stars, cocooned in her blankets as best she could to keep out the cold, she was visited by a dream.

‘Mind if I…’ the dream said, an indistinct shape, gesturing with a misty hand.

She shrugged. ‘Sure.’

They sat, one in front of the other, like children playing at being a train. She noticed, without much fanfare, that she was fourteen again, the dream almost a head taller than her, just as they’d been all that time ago. After a moment there was the slow, careful sensation of fingers that were not quite there running through her hair. When they found a knot, he carefully teased it out, trying not to pull too harshly. Gently they found a comforting rhythm, fingers occasionally touching the back of her head, the edge of her jawline, and the soft space behind her ears as they passed by.

‘This isn’t actually that bad,’ she’d meant to think, but it slipped down and out, spoken aloud instead.

‘Really?’ said the dream incredulously. ‘I always thought you’d give me a new scar if I ever did this.’

‘Wait, you thought about this?’ She twisted her head back to look.

The dream looked slightly embarrassed, then tried to shrug it away. ‘Once or twice, when I was half asleep.’

At that, she faced forwards again and snorted. ‘That really clashes with your image. The grumpy elf prince who just wants to braid hair, ow-!’ She winced at the sharp tug on her hair.

‘Whoops,’ said the dream.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the only sound being the slow rustle of fingers through hair. Emily found an air of quiet melancholy descending on her.

‘Why? Why’d do you it, -------?’ She spoke his name, but not a sound came out, as if it’d been snatched away on the wind. ‘You could’ve, rrg, I dunno, pushed me out of the way with magic! You were always good at the defensive stuff, you didn’t have to- didn’t have to…’ She trailed off. She’d gone dangerously close to opening up old scars. ‘You didn’t have to die,’ she quietly finished.

The dream sighed, but Emily felt no air brush against her neck. ‘Yes, I know. But in the moment, I just didn’t think. You were there, and his sword was poised, and I was moving before I was even aware of what was happening.’ Another airless sigh. ‘Besides, magic probably would have been too slow, anyway.’

She leaned back, half expecting to fall through nothing, but instead came to rest against his chest. He was neither warm nor cold.

‘Idiot.’

The dream paused in combing her hair. The next moment, a faint arm had slipped around her waist.

‘We both know you were the only one who could kill a stone. You were the only one who could cut my father down for good.’

‘That doesn’t make it any better!’ A pause. ‘We could have saved you; you could have been healed and survived.’

‘Em, I was damn-near bisected. I’m fairly certain that one of my kidneys, part of my liver, and most of my blood was on the floor at that point.’

She made a noncommittal noise, and then it was her turn to sigh, as she slipped her hand over his.

‘”Elmreth”,’ she murmured.

Behind her, the dream tensed slightly. She continued.

‘I heard Loni and Roni mention it as you died, and once everything was over, I made them tell me what it meant.’

The dream was silent in a brittle sort of way

‘I-,’ he began, but she cut him off.

’Ugh, this is weird doing it like this. Turn around, will you?’ She wriggled out of his grasp, and when they’d finished rearranging themselves, they were the opposite way around; she was now facing the dream’s back. Slowly, tentatively, she began to run her fingers though his hair. ’Jeez, your hair is full of knots.’

‘Well, there hasn’t been much opportunity to brush it.’ His voice wavered slightly, unsure at the sudden change of topic, but he didn’t protest at her actions, so she continued.

It was weird, in a lot of ways it felt more like running her fingers through mist than actual hair, and yet there was a certain, hairlike-silkiness to it, making it feel all the stranger, more like a memory of hair than hair itself. She sighed.

‘Anyway. Back to… that. I thought it was a weird custom then, and I still think it’s weird now. I mean, not using nicknames because it’s some sort of insult, except for this ‘Elmreth’ thing, only that can be an insult too if not done correctly? What’s the deal with that? Anyway,’ she continued on, before he had a chance to answer, ‘I know you probably only called me Em because first it was the heat of the moment and then you were dying and could barely speak, but once I learned about Elmreth and thought about it, it went and lodged at the back of my mind, and…’ her fingers stilled. ‘It’s stupid, but I thought about what my nickname for you would be, if you’d survived.’

‘Oh,’ the dream murmured.

She barreled on, desperate to get out of the weird territory the conversation had gone into. ‘I mean, your name isn’t exactly the easiest to turn into a nickname! Tre? Trell? Lissy?’

‘’”Lissy”?! And here I thought your nickname for me would be something like ‘idiot’ or ‘jerk’ –ow!’

‘Whoops,’ said Emily, mimicking the tone he’d taken earlier. She shook her head. ‘Whatever. It doesn’t matter now.’

‘No,’ said the dream. ‘I suppose it doesn’t.’

Once again there was silence, broken only by the faintest noise of fingers running through hair. After a moment, the dream sighed contentedly.

‘You’re right. This is nice.’

‘Mmhmm.’

Between her fingers, a knot was carefully untangled, and pulled apart.

‘You know, you were really out of it, last time I saw you,’ Emily murmured eventually.

The dream snorted out a laugh. ‘I was dying. It was any wonder I was able to move and speak at all.’

‘Yeah. To be honest, seeing you smile and act like that was scarier than the wound itself. It was like “This is happening for real”, you know?’

‘Yeah.’

Another silence descended, and Emily undid a couple more knots. The dream twisted around to gaze at her.

‘I meant it, you know.’

‘Meant what?’

‘When I called you “Em”. The first time might have been an accident, but the second time? The second time I meant it.’

Her heart gave a little jump.

Around them, a golden light slowly began to grow, as Emily finally disentangled her hands from his hair. The dawn was coming.

‘That’s the last of the knots gone. Sheesh, couldn’t you get a hairbrush, wherever you are?’

‘Haircare isn’t exactly a priority here.’

She got to her feet, and the dream did too. They stood, facing one another as the light slowly built around them, consuming them from the ground up.

‘It was good to see you again.’

‘You too. Thanks for-’ she gestured vaguely, ‘-coming?’

The dream looked off to the side. ‘I’m glad it all worked out all right without me, and that you survived.’

‘It was touch and go for a while, but we got there in the end.’

‘Yeah, you did. See you ‘round, Em.’

‘Bye, T.’

‘”T”? Well, it’s better than “Lissy”.’ The dream smiled, and that was the last thing Emily saw of him before the light engulfed them both, and she woke with the sun streaming in her eyes.

That day, her hands smelled like the hair of someone she once knew. It distracted her as she went about her day, but even so, she smiled.


O, the blood and the treasure,
And then losing it all,
The time that we wasted,
And the place where we fall.
Will we wake in the morning
And know what it was all for?
Up in our bedroom after the war.