[1st] Week 278: The Names That Never Were

[Inks]

Total Word Count - [ 2,375 ]
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The Names That Never Were

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He was drowning.

He had been for...for how long now? Time was relative enough already, and any grasp he may have had on its workings had long since gone. Death did that to a man.

He was in the ocean, and he was deep. He knew that. Every lost breath only pushed him deeper; he was never dead long enough for his body to float, and he was never alive long enough to <nobr>break the water’s surface.</nobr>

So he drowned, and he drowned, and he drowned.

The water was frigid. Its weight was heavy on his chest (in his chest), and the absence of light left nothing but an all-consuming blackness. He couldn’t tell whether his eyes were open or closed, which way was up, or how long it’d been since he’d known.

He was drowning (he'd always been drowning, the water just made it more literal). He was dying. And it hurt, just as all death hurt. But it had become so familiar that he was starting to find it difficult to remember what it felt like to inhale something that wasn’t seawater -- something that didn’t burn its way into his aching lungs -- something that didn’t flood his system with adrenaline and set his heart to hammering with a panic too deeply-ingrained in instinct to be suppressed.

He died. He lived, for a desperate handful of time. <nobr></nobr>Then he died <nobr>again. </nobr>

Eventually, he wondered if he was real. Could a man no one knew existed really be said to exist at all? Could a man who was denied by death really be said to be alive?

His lives slipped away from him like clockwork. Lungfuls of water at a time.

It was because of death that life held such meaning.

And without life, death could not exist.

And so as he died, he lived.

He lived a hundred lives. Lungfuls of water at a time.

Word Count - [ 347 ]
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[Inks]

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Johann crouched in front of his little sister, a smile on his face. “Is one of those for me?”

The hem of Elsie’s dress was dirty and streaked with mud, and her feet were far, far worse. Brambles and burrs had tangled themselves in her long hair, and she was clutching three brilliant blue flowers in her chubby little fist.

She gave him a snaggletoothed grin (she’d lost two of her front teeth barely a week ago, falling from some tree or another), nodded enthusiastically, and shoved her hand forward into his face. She drew it back again just as quick. “But only one!” she said. “The others is for me and for papi.”

“‘The others are for papi and me,’” Johann corrected.

Elsie’s rosy cheeks turned redder, and her smile turned into a scowl. “Do you want a flower or not?”

Johann bit back his laugh. “I do, I do. I’m sorry, little princess. Please forgive me. Which one is mine?”

“The middle-est one. Since you’re the middle-biggest, you get the middle-biggest flower.”

“All right,” he said. He held out his hand.

His sister pouted at him for a second longer, than heaved a dramatic little sigh and pulled one of the flowers from her hand. Its stem was crumpled and slightly crushed, and it had lost a few petals in its journey, but it was still mostly-intact, and Johann was sure to give it an appreciative once-over as she dropped it into his waiting palm.

“Thank you. Now go on and give papi his. Check around back; I think he’s still at the forge.”

“Da,” Elsie agreed, bouncing past him. “Ich liebe dich, Johann!” she called over her shoulder.

“Ich liebe dich, Elsie.”

Johann smiled after her, then looked down at the little flower, taking it between two fingers. It was pretty, actually. He wondered where Elsie had found flowers such a light shade of blue; it reminded him of ---

Life.

And death.
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Word Count - [ 327 ]
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[Inks]

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The winter sky gave nothing away. Its countenance was crystal clear, blue as blue could get. Émeric swallowed down a mouthful of gummy blood, chest heaving, and twisted onto his side. That single, simple movement sent a spasm of pain lancing through his body, originating deep in his gut. He groaned, lowly, and let his head fall to the ground. His hands clutched at the bloodied mess of his uniform, pressing hard into his own abdomen.

Stop the bleeding. Unless you want to die out here and wake up in a shallow grave, you need to stop the bleeding.

He willed strength into his arms and his trembling, pale, bloodstained fingers and pushed harder. If he could just heal faster...

No. He couldn’t think like that. Thoughts like that were dangerous.

He spent a moment catching his breath between pained groans. Gutshot. Around the campfires the soldiers had always said it was one of the worst ways to die. Slow and painful. Every veteran had his share of horror stories from battles prior; things they’d seen and wished they hadn’t. Grisly deaths, torture at enemy hands, screams that echoed in their ears long after the fighting had stopped.

I’ve had worse, Émeric thought. It’s not...

Then another wave of pain came, and he vomited in the grass beside his head. He rolled away from the sick and nearly did it again. Shudders wracked his body, and he had to bite his lip to keep from sobbing. Crying would only make it hurt worse.

He needed a medic. He needed a medic or he was going to die here, curled up in the grass like a stray dog. He didn’t want to die. No matter how many times it happened, every death was the worst -- the agony, the coldness, the nothingness in-between. The reminder of what he was.

He didn’t want to die.

"B-Brodeur!” he called. He lolled his head around, eyes searching wildly, desperately, for the other soldiers. There had to be others. He just hadn’t been found yet.

“Brodeur! Delacroix! M...Montague...?”

There, heading straight for him, was a figure in green.

The French uniforms were blue.

“No...no...” Émeric hissed, groping with one blood-slick hand for a gun he knew was too far away. His eyes remained fixed on the figure: a man holding a musket with a bayonet already painted red with blood.

“Really,” the Englishman said one he was standing over him, “I’m doing you a favor.”

“Please, don’t. Please--”

The bayonet punched into his chest with horrible finality, spearing him through and driving deep into--

Life.

And death.


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Word Count - [ 433 ]
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[Inks]

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The grass was growing in nicely. In another week, forbidding any unexpected frosts, Dáire would be able to let the goats out into the fields again.

Good; he’d been running low on feed, and he didn’t plan on making another trip into town for a while. Fionn was on his last legs as far as working was concerned, and he didn’t want to tax the old draft horse any more than he needed to. Raghnall was well-trained and had a good temperament, but he wouldn’t be ready for regular trips until winter at the very least.

The day was young and full of birdsong, and Dáire stood on his porch, letting himself take a moment to enjoy the atmosphere. Shea was still inside, cooking breakfast, and he had time to waste until she was finished. He’d get started on work after they had eaten.

It was both a boon and a trial, living as far out of the way as he did; he’d never been very good at socializing, but he still missed the bustle of towns -- he supposed he always would. The clean air and seclusion of farm life did him good, though. It settled his thoughts, cleared his mind.

So did Shea. They were still still settling into their marriage, but the new companionship was more than welcome. Dáire had missed having someone to share space with. Shea was kind and intelligent, and she spoke with confidence where so many other women kept their mouths shut and their eyes downcast. She was tall and lanky for a woman, knobby-kneed and pointy-elbowed; her eyes were too narrow, and her cheekbones too high, and her dark red hair never grew longer than chin-length before she chopped it off, and like Dáire, town life had never turned out well for her.

She was an outcast, just like him.

They slept in separate beds -- they’d never had any intention of consummating their marriage from the start. And that was for them, and them alone, to know. They enjoyed each other’s company, and that was all. That was enough, wasn’t it? The world didn’t need to understand, because they did.

Dáire considered himself a lucky man. He had his own land, his own house. He had a wife who understood him. He had enough livestock to easily support them. The forests beyond his home were full of game; his days spent fighting for a meal were long gone. His life was simple, but it was good, and these quiet reflections helped to remind him of that.

“Dáire?” Shea’s voice drifted out the door. “Come on inside, the food’s just about ready.”

“All right,” he called back. He straightened, and let his gaze sweep his fields one last time. He was happy. He didn’t need to know --

Life.

And death.
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Word Count - [ 469 ]
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[Inks]

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Why.

One word.

Why.

Again and again, louder with every repetition.

Why.

It rose to a crescendo, a wild roar to drown out the sound of his gasping breaths.

Why?

It rebounded in time with the beating of his heart.

Why?

Blood pounded through his head, and it carried one word.

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Why?!

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This...This wasn’t supposed to happen!

“You might not be able to see it, but it’s there! As sure as the nose on my face! Haven’t I always told you? Haven’t I? That I see the things normal folk can’t? I can see it! ​

“This man isn’t human!”​

Rolan looked down at his hands, still shaking with unspent adrenaline. They swam before his eyes as nondescript shapes. Blurry. Unreal. His eyes refused to focus -- refused to look at what he’d done.

“This again...? Abram, what the hell is wrong with you? Come on, let’s get you home.”​

“There’s nothing wrong with me! What’s wrong is him! You all can’t see them like I can! You can’t see!”​

But he knew.

“What the-”
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“Abram--!”​

“Stop!!”​

He knew what they looked like. Pale, scarred, and red with blood. Some of it belonged to him, and some of it belonged to men he’d called friends just a few hours ago.

Two knives. Two men. ​

One man hit the ground, a knife in his chest. The other knife clattered to the floor beside him, and the other man stood frozen, hands clamped down on the bloody gash in his throat.​

“Fuck!”​

“Someone get the doctor!”​

“Rolan, stay still! Christ, you’re bleeding everywhere...”​

“Look at him...” the man on the floor wheezed. As one, the room fell silent, listening. ​

“...Look...”​

Rolan stood in the middle of a tavern, and a massacre surrounded him. Tables and chairs cluttered the floor, knocked around and overturned in all the commotion. The smell of beer and blood stained the air.

They had looked.
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What they saw, they couldn’t understand. And what they couldn’t understand...​

They feared.​

The tavern's owner, a balding, older gentleman with a thick grey mustache and liver spots on his forehead, was draped over the bar with his gun still in his hand.

Too many guns. Everyone had drawn their weapons, and too many of them were aimed at him.​

“Stop it, all of you! We can...Why don’t we talk this over? Rolan...”​

His name was Luka.

“...I’m sorry. I ... can’t. I don’t know--”
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A gunshot. Rolan staggered backwards with a hole in his shoulder.​

He’d been one of the first people in town Rolan had spoken to beyond monosyllable pleasantries, and the two had shared stories and kept each other company over cheap bowls of soup on quiet, lonely nights.

Another. The man who’d fired fell backwards onto a table. It pitched over, and both hit the floor.​

Another.A bullet tore through one temple and out the other. Luka collapsed like a ragdoll.​

His wife had died of pneumonia five years ago this coming spring.

Silence, as Rolan’s injury vanished.
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His was the only one.​

He had two sons, Isaak and Ilya, who ran the watermill over by Abram’s farm. They were on the floor, somewhere.

After that, the sound of gunfire and shouting filled the night.​

Yesterday Rolan would’ve died for any of the men here. Tonight he had.

He sunk to his knees, hunched over, and screamed until --

Life.

And death.
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Word Count - [ 575 ]
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[Inks]

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He was tired.

He was tired, and there was a dead man whispering in his ear. It wasn’t the only voice, and it wasn’t the first time he’d heard one, but where he usually tuned them out, or ignored them, or forced them away with blood and violence, this time he couldn’t find it in himself to try. He was too tired.

“Why do you keep going? Why bother?” asked a man’s voice; low, rough, and tinged with bitter sorrow. “Do you think it can change who you are? A man might change his nature, given time – but you are no man.”

You’re wrong, he thinks.

“No,” sighed the voice of a younger woman. Soft. Caring. “No, it’s the truth. The sooner you realize it, the sooner it’ll stop hurting.”

You’re wrong, he insists.

“You don’t really think that.” Another man’s voice; it spoke in velvety tones, but, unlike the woman, beneath the veneer of charm lurked something dark and sadistic. “Look at you. You’ve got nothing. Not even a name. No name, and no purpose. You just go on and on and on. Poor thing, the only thing that can keep up with you--”

You’re wrong.

“--is the same thing that denies you with your every breath.”

You’re wrong!

“You don’t deserve to live, Yuri.

“But you don’t deserve to die, either.”

“You're wrong.”


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Word Count - [ 224 ]
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