On the Meaning of War (Solo, A Corone Civil War Thread)

[Hannibal]

The bark of the tree felt tender and warm to his touch, almost inviting. It was one among many, a forest of oaks that were ancient, uncut – untamed. To friends, there was an open invitation; to enemies, a more menacing invitation to enter and never leave, and even the Corone Rangers avoided this part of the Concordia Forest. Nature was the orchestra that accompanied the concerto of his footsteps as he walked through the forest, countless curious eyes following him.

These woods are dark and deep, just like the secrets they keep.

Not a master scout and unfamiliar with these woods, he marked his path as he went. An arrow scratched into a tree here, a curiously arranged pattern of rocks there, but no bread crumb trail. His marks were not permanent, as he didn't want to offend the trees – after all, only a sharp druid can tell a sentient tree from the rest, and he wasn't a druid – but neither were they as transient as he, made today but gone tomorrow.

Though the forest was as much a symphony of sound as anywhere else, during the dusk it was in a mellower key, its tempo steady and slow like a resting heart beat, always gentle and relaxing like a rocking cradle. As the morning opened slow and picked up speed to crescendo to the lively afternoon, the setting sun was the mellow third movement, conducted by an elderly man, his eyes closed and his baton slowly swaying to the shape of his warm smile, and he was always reluctant to reach the last note. Night, young and impatient, hounded him, eager to prove himself just as worthy and bring on the finale.

This is home. This is where I was raised, and this is the only place that will never judge me. Here, I am king and kingdom.

Twelve years ago was the last time Krausse Kreugar had been here, in this very forest. A dull ache in his arm was the ghost that came back to haunt him, bringing the horror-stricken faces of dead men as its friends. Minds were tricksters, and Krausse thought he could smell the gunpowder all over again, feel the metallic tang of blood in his mouth as he tore into the taut flesh of a farmer with his mouth, and the feel of flesh gathering under his fingernails and the sheer power he felt at the moment he took that man's life. There was no remorse. There was never any remorse. He had been hungry, a child in mind and a man in body. They had tried to kill him for surviving. Mouse around the world don't feel remorse for the cats that die, even if the mice killed them.

Corone had been different then. There was no great civil war, with the men tearing at the throats of former comrades over ideology. Though he thirsted for all knowledge and knew well the recorded history of Althanas, and knew the arguments of great political scientists, Krausse never understood it. He never understood why men fought another for freedom from oppression, because there was never a change – there was always the few strong ruling over the many, many weak. Once the mess of history was boiled down to its basest elements, this was always the truth. Krausse saw no reason this would ever change, but some disagreed.

A deep, Russian accented rumble interrupted Krausse's reverie: “Comrade, do you know where we are going? If you do, are we there yet?" A pause. "I am thirsty.”

“No, no, and the last one wasn't a question, but still no,” Krausse responded, annoyed about his broken state of reverie. He'd lost himself in his head, and he continued as his eyes darted around the forest. “Alcohol is tragically hard to come by in this civil war, otherwise I'd consume it as often as possible to forget that I travel with you, Igor.”

Wait, I haven't been-

“My friend, you wound me! After the fire and flames we have been through, and you are so cold to me! Like my first three wives.” Igor mewed. “About this wound, though, it bleeds. We must pour alcohol on it, comrade. To fight infection.”

God damn it! I forgot! I completely fucking forgot! Stay calm. Just stay calm.

Krausse plucked the tiny black kitten off of his head and held it up so that his purple eyes bored into Igor's adorable golden slits. He couldn't help but break into a laughing smile. “Well, I did smuggle a bottle of hobo wine through the blockade with us, in case we had to negotiate with hobos.”

On the ground, Igor purred and rolled onto his stomach as the wine was placed into the iron grip of his paws. When the kitten nibbled the cork off, he began to nurse the cheap alcohol concoction.

“You are my truest comrade,” the kitten muttered between gulps.

Krausse snorted. With Igor distracted, he took the opportunity to look around the clearing they'd found themselves in. Trees to the north, trees to the south, trees to the east, and predictably, trees to the west. The ground was mostly bare, the tree canopies sucking up all the rain and sunlight – though, as the night was fast approaching, there was little of that left.

So many trees...

As Krausse began to wander around the edge of the clearing, Igor looked over and muttered something in a language foreign to Althanas, though Igor was always careful speaking it around Krausse. The red-haired man had picked up a conversational skill in the language, called Russian, by listening to Igor.

“Comrade?” This time, there was a drunken slur to Igor's accent.

Krausse looked back at Igor from the edge of the clearing.

“We're lost, aren't we?”

“Well. About that.” Krausse turned back, looking ahead. So many fucking trees... “Yes. We're very lost.”

Igor rolled on his back, the half empty bottle of wine tilted upwards by his back legs. A second later, the empty bottle landed in the soil next to the kitten. “At least I will die drunk, and it will be your fault.”

[Hannibal]

“Comrade, when the wolves come to eat us and you die heroically defending me, I will make my escape and tell the world of your deeds. You will not die in vain.”

Igor sat curled atop Krausse's head, the occasional drunken hiccup interrupting his slurred speech.

“There are no wolves in a humid continental climate in a boreal forest, Igor, especially one this close to human civilization. Bears are a more real threat.”

“Then I will tell the tale of how you died screaming “oh no, oh God! Igor, run, for the children!” while a bear tore you limb from limb. The bards will sing of your deeds, comrade.”

“Ah, yes, the great hero Krausse Kreugar, savior of fair maidens, ravaged by a bear before he did anything of real importance,” Krausse quipped back as he strolled through the forest, his eyes searching for any of the marks he made. “I will be sung as often as that famous love ballad about two star-crossed warts.”

We can be stuck in this place for days. No bow and arrow, not much of a food supply. I'd eat Igor, but I'd have to cook him first so the alcohol dissipates. I'll miss the conversation, though.

“If it comes down to it, comrade, I propose that you feed me your fingers and toes. I am much smaller than you, and my appetite is easily sated, and it is not like you need them that bad, my friend.”

I won't miss the conversation that much.

“And what is to stop me from eating you, Igor?” Krausse wondered aloud as they entered a clearing.

“Morality, comrade! And I am adorable. So very adorable.”

“Adorable meals taste the most decadent,” Krausse replied, his voice mimicking that of a “child of the night”.

This clearing looks familiar.

There was a moment of silence as Krausse and Igor stared into the clearing.

“My friend,” Igor spoke up, “I think we have been here before.”

Krausse sighed and slid to the ground, his back to a tree. “Two hours until full night,” he observed, only a few rays of the summer sun's light left poking out from under the horizon.

For a moment, Krausse and Igor sat there. Their silent share of the day's defeat was interrupted by Igor's ears perking up suddenly, and his head warily turned to the east.

“Did you hear that?” Igor's voice was quiet, focused.

Before Krausse could say anything, a loud sound quieted them both. It was half way between a moan and a cry, a sound that carried its own pestilence and made Igor sick to his stomach. The kitten shuddered, his black fur bristling against Krausse's leg as the red-haired man stood up. He began to walk east.

Igor called out after him. “Comrade, where are you going?”

Krausse looked back over his shoulder at Igor. “I'm going to check it out."

“What about the bears? And the wolves? And whatever else eats dead things?”

Krausse cocked an eyebrow up at Igor. “That was a man dying, Igor. Nothing eats dead people, except other people.”

“Oh, comrade! You are that desperate?! Cannibalism is a slippery slope, my friend, and once you start down the path of eating people, it is only a matter of time before you are getting women pregnant just to eat your own off spring! In Soviet Russia, we see these things.”

For a moment, Krausse just stood there and stared at Igor. Opening his mouth to speak felt like unhinging an iron door. “No, Igor. Corpse looting.”

“Oh.” Igor looked at his paws for a second. “Well, comrade, what are we waiting for? Let us slit the throat of this feeble man and take anything of value from him while his heart still beats.”

“Right.” Krausse muttered as he walked on, Igor keeping pace. “Communism is all about sharing, I see.”

[Hannibal]

OOC: I just noticed the Concordia subforum (I somehow missed it earlier). Could any moderators that are reading this move this thread there?


Without the ears of a bat, pinpointing something based on sound was difficult. For what seemed like forever, the odd pair wandered in the general direction of the sound, Krausse inconspicuously marking trees with his short sword as they went. His eyes strained hard to find the discernible shapes of smaller clues in the shrinking light, and the red-haired man hoped that he wouldn't be forced to rely on Igor's sight. As good as the kitten's low light vision was, the drunken Russian inhabiting the kitten was not the spirit of observance.

Something wet and sticky squelched under Krausse's boot. In the near-silence of the forest, it was enough to make Igor to stop, trot over, and sniff.

“A rather large pool of blood.” Igor's gold eyes looked up at his tall human friend, then darted to in front of the splatter. “There's a trail. Shall we follow the red brick road, comrade?”

“Of course the Communist quotes the novel arguing for populist economics,” was all Krausse had to say as he let Igor take the lead.

That's the blood of several people. For a moment, Krausse's hands sifted through the thick blood with a bare finger, then he stood up and followed Igor as the cat padded along the only blood trail.

An armor-clad woman was the source of the noise. She was propped up against a tree, her mouth hanging agape, blood dripping from the corners and heavy pants her only source of oxygen, as her nose was smashed. Superficial injuries coated her body and even combined weren't life-threatening, but dried blood caked on the tree and around the blade of an axe buried in the woman's side.

Igor observed from a few feet away. “Ah, a nasty wound. I doubt she will survive- eh? What are you doing?”

From afar, the woman looked near-death. When Krausse peered at her from a hand's breadth away, she was sweating from fever and the intensity of how she fought for her life. Death will fight for this one. He grabbed her hand and felt for a pulse.

Heart beating fast and hard to compensate for heavy blood loss. Probably hallucinating from a combination of that and fever. Krausse felt the wound, and it felt slick with pus. Wound badly infected, axe was probably poisoned. Wasn't even that deep, her chain mail stopped most of the penetration, but the wound didn't close until just a few minutes ago.

Beautiful. Thick brown hair, so dark it was almost black, rolled down to her shoulder in lazy curls, framing a pale face that was reminiscent of a porcelain doll in its fragile beauty. A fragile beauty that was ruined by swollen and cut flesh and chain mail that reeked of death.

But that's not her. Krausse frowned. “Igor, we're going to make camp in that clearing. Go ahead of me and gather as many fallen branches and leaves as possible. We're bringing her with us.”

“Ah so we are cooking her after all, then? A hefty decision comrade, but the weight on your shoulders will soon be in our bellies! In Soviet Russia, you eat guilt.”

Why do I care? It's not her. Probably involved in this stupid war, this is only going to be trouble for me. Like every other time. “No.

Igor continued on blissfully. “If we leave her in her armor, she will cook faster, but I don't know how we will find a spit big enough to hold her up- wait, what? We're not saving her, are we?”

“Yes.” Before Igor could even protest, Krausse gave his companion a withering stare. “Do as I said.”

When Igor's gold eyes met with Krausse's purple eyes, the black fur bristled as the cat shuddered, like he just looked into a bottomless pit and could only think about falling in. Krausse turned back to the woman and began to pick her up – surprisingly light with that armor on- and heard Igor scamper away a moment later.

As Krausse looked at the dying woman in his arms, he could only mutter to himself, “Why do I always want to fix people?” Despite everything I tell myself.

[Hannibal]

A large heap of dry sticks had been gathered in the center of the clearing by the time Krausse set the woman down. From within the satchel that hung at his left hip, he plucked a piece of flint and began to strike it at against the flat of his steel short sword. In the moon lit night, the sparks that jumped from the blade to the dry sticks illuminated Krausse's worry-lined face, focused intently; they illuminated the wry amusement in Igor's golden slits as the cat peered up lazily from his head buried in his paws; they illuminated the clenched jaw of the woman as she whimpered, delirious from fever as she moved closer to death millimeter by millimeter, with death fighting hard for every precious bit of ground.

Years of living in the wilds alone had taught Krausse survival skills, and within a minute, the dry sticks took to flame. There wasn't the roar of a crackling fireplace with thick logs fueling the ever-hungry flame, and there wasn't the explosion of light accompanied by a wave of flame surging forth, but the flame was born silently and sullenly. Like a candle being lit, a small, healthy flame rose up and gave Krausse just enough light to do what he needed to do.

Along the way back, he had stopped to gather several leaves from various plants that grew at the base of the trees and wrapped themselves around the bark, living in symbiosis or a parasitism. In the past few years, Krausse had seen this particular poison a lot; he didn't even need to further examine the woman to figure it out, especially since Corone's plants weren't famous for the variety of poisons that could be made from them and importing poisons is rather difficult. It was preferred by Imperial assassins.

I'm helping a rebel. Great. Still not picking sides, though. Krausse produced a mortar & pestle from within his satchel as he replaced the flint, and ground the leaves up. He poured the mixture into his canteen, closed the cap, and began to shake vigorously. Instead of pouring it into the woman's mouth, Krausse set the canteen close to the fire to let the alchemical mixture warm up to gain potency.

When Krausse began to undo the straps and buckles that held together the well-worn chain mail, Igor padded over and began to help unbidden. The cat's long fingernails slid into just the right places to make the small plates that padded her legs slide off. Krausse plucked the axe gingerly from her side, and a small bit of fresh blood surged forth, but quickly ceased. He was then able to remove the mail coat, and the tunic underneath.

With her armor off, the woman looked smaller. Vulnerable. Young. Barely even a woman. Not even twenty. The young are always the victims while the old profit.

Reflexively, the woman drank deeply from the antidote when Krausse proffered it to her lips. As the amateur doctor tilted the canteen higher, the woman drank deeper, until there was nothing left. She coughed weakly, and relaxed a little, her thirst not entirely sated, but she was better off.

Sitting there, watching her breath become more steady and shallow and her heat beat almost visibly slow down, a memory came to Krausse. The man was much taller than Krausse and lanky, with just enough muscle to hint at something truly dangerous, and he had a prodigious beak of a nose that jutted out from a shaved head. A needle like rapier was held in an outstretched arm and he stood sideways, the other hand behind his back. The man's knuckles were pressed against Krausse's, who stood in the same position. Master and student, but also partners - friends. Facing the pair was a gang of heavily armored knights. “Do you know what we say to death, Krausse?” the bald man asked him as a knight inched closer.

“Not today.” For the first time in a few hours, Krausse smiled. He began to clean up the smaller wounds on the woman, using a cloth wet with pure alcohol and stitching up the lacerations that needed it.

When Krausse was done, Igor looked over the amateur doctor's work. He purred in approval. “You would make a good sawbones, comrade. Where did you learn that?”

“Cutting up corpses, read a few books on the subject, and I spent a few months as an apprentice for a doctor.” Before I killed him.

Igor curled up into a furry ball next to the recovering woman. “I am glad you're on my side.”

“Ah, but Igor,” Krausse began, “you've nothing to fear, for you're adorable and infinitely useful. And, most importantly, you entertain me.”

There was no response from Igor, who was fast asleep. All of that hard work gathering dry sticks and undressing a woman must have been so very tiring. He noticed the woman had also fallen asleep, the antidote taking hold. Once the poison is expunged, she'll be good to go. Her actual wounds were mostly superficial.

Most of the time, Krausse thought of himself as pragmatic more than good-hearted. At the very least, he was curious – and hungry. The woman carried a pack with her that Krausse had removed before setting her down. He rifled through it, undoing all of the carefully-packed items.

“Food!” Krausse picked up the brown bar. “I think.”

He sat there staring at it until his stomach disagreed with his suspicion. “You only live once.” And so he ate it. Oh my god, this is delicious.

A tree branch snapped somewhere behind Krausse, in the forest. Something flew right in front of Krausse's face, snatched what was left of the brownie out of his hand, and pinned it to a nearby tree.

“GOD-FUCKING-DAMN SON OF A BITCH WHORE MOTHERFUCKER!” This was a moment where Krausse's almost perpetual calm was ruined. “FUCKING NOTHING EVER GOES RIGHT! NOTHING! I CAN'T ENJOY ONE GOD DAMN MOMENT!”

Igor's annoyed eyes watched Krausse pick up his short sword, stand up, and step in front of the fire. “Go get them, comrade. I fully believe in you. For the proletariat.” Then Igor fell back to sleep.

[Hannibal]

One of the cardinal rules of the smart warrior is to only fight when victory is the most likely outcome. Well aware of that rule, Krausse didn't stray that far from the fire. The short sword he had picked from the ground was sheathed, and his hands hung loosely at his sides. His entire body was relaxed, and his face carried a wry half-smile. The hot anger of moments ago had been forgotten about. There was an enemy unknown in the woods before him, but going into battle tense and angry never worked in his favor.

“Marco!” Krausse shouted out. No response. “Ah, I figured that wouldn't work. How-a-bout -” he waved his arms magically “- I compel thee to show thyself! Weeee-oooo!”

When a glint of metal caught Krausse's eye, he twisted his body away from it and his hand snaked out to grab the throwing knife by the handle. Knives aren't thrown as fast as most people think. Stupid move. Can't know which blades are poisoned and which aren't. Can't risk getting cut by any of them.

“Oh, a gift! You didn't wrap it, but that's okay. It's the thought that counts.” No other blades in response to the quip. Well, at least I know there's only one. And he won't waste any more blades by throwing them at me. “Now that you know that neat little circus trick won't work, would you kindly show yourself? I don't have any tea or crumpets, but I don't think I'd be able to share my tea with you. You might poison it.”

Instead of throwing a blade in response, something appeared from a tree, hanging upside down from a tree branch thirty feet in the air. Toes curled around the sturdy branch to hold the creature, all wrapped in boiled midnight black boiled leather adorned with rusted clusters of studs. Even its face was obscured by a black cloth wrap, its eyes covered in red tinted goggles and only a thin-lipped mouth was unclothed. Its head twisted unnaturally so that its scalp was bared to its toes and those red-tinted goggles bored directly into Krausse.

“Creepy,” Krausse noted. “I see that you learned your circus tricks at the circus.”

That thin-lipped mouth curled downward. Its voice was like cracking leather. “Quips. Meaningless to me. Meaningful is that girl. She dies, I leave. You and your familiar live. Step aside.”

Krausse tapped his chin. He doesn't want to fight me. Another man that knows the cardinal rule of a smart warrior. “I'll consider your offer, if you answer several questions for me first. Trust me when I say I don't want to hear that beautiful sing-song voice of yours any more than I want to, so I'll keep these questions brief in case talking hurts you as much as it does me.”

“Ask. Keep it short. I will not be played the fool.”

Clearly, not much of a talker. I must be scarier than I previously thought. Had I brought my ghost costume with me, maybe I'd have already won. “Where are the bodies of those who traveled with her?”

Rows of hundreds of shark-like teeth bared at Krausse were the only response to that question.

“Cute. I'll look for your mother next time I go fishing. Do you work for the empire?”
“Yes.”

“What is her crime?”

“I do not know.”

Just another pawn in the game of thrones, then. “One last question, then. How are you hanging like that?”

When the humanoid creature laughed, it was a sound like an old shelf being dusted off. “I will show you.”

The creature swung upwards, back onto the tree branch, and grasped the branch with its hands. Quickly, faster than a human could, it shimmied across the branch to latch onto the tree bark with hands and feet. Like a slithering snake, it crab walked down the tree, moving at such a pace that it seemed to dart from one place to the next. When it came far enough down the tree, Krausse saw that its feet were bare, like its hands – and that its feet were large, elongated hands.

It dropped to the ground. Like a statue erected by rope, the human-thing slowly straightened to its full height, standing what must have been seven feet tall and made almost entirely of arms and legs. It stood ten feet away. “Your decision.”

Krausse whistled. Tough fight. I may not win. He looked back at the girl. It's the smart thing to do to give her up. What have people ever done but shoot me, revile me, and use me? He turned back to the creature. Relaxed, fear in the back of his mind. I can't. “We fight, you leather-clad monkey-shark motherfucker.”

Two steel daggers slipped into the creature's hands and it leaned low and forward into its fluid charge. Evenly matched in speed, Krausse reacted entirely on unthinking reflex. He moved to the side, careful to avoid the daggers, and swept one of the creature's legs out from under it. A breathless sound escaped the creature's lips as hardened bone and supernatural strength came down on its back in the form of an elbow.

Before Krausse could dance out of the creature's reach and continue assessing its strength, a leg shot upwards and a grimy foot-hand grasped Krausse by the ankle, its grip like iron. Its spine bent almost in half as the creature's torso flipped backwards and its arms struck out with the daggers in hand to drive them into Krausse's thighs. Unable to do anything else, Krausse leaned forward and grabbed the creature's hands at the wrists, bending forward and pushing with his strength to overcome the creature's equally supernatural strength. He came within a breadth of the creature's head, twisted upside, bearing menacing teeth and pungent breath that was almost toxic. He had to fight with all of his strength to resist passing out from the stench alone. Push the daggers away and get bitten, or avoid being bitten and get daggers in my legs. Life's hard choices.

Neither choice was appealing, so Krausse headbutted his opponent. The shock and pain of reinforced bone clashing against regular bone was enough to make the creature reel and let go of Krausse's leg, so that he was able to let go of its wrists and jump backwards, clearing the thing's reach.

Not yet panting, not yet having broken a sweat, Krausse assumed a relaxed defensive position, his basket hilt broad sword drawn this time. The creature re-assumed its bent forward, low-to-the-ground offensive position.

Can't stay on the defensive. I'll die. So Krausse's defensive position switched to a charge, his quick speed and sudden change of plan surprising the creature. It went for the obvious opening in Krausse's stance, and he completed the feint by twisting his body sideways. The tip of the sword sunk deeply into the flesh of the creature's right breast, piercing the apex of the heart and coming out the other end.

“Checkmate.” Smooth as a knife cutting butter, the sword slid back out and Krausse slipped back out of the creature's reach.

For seconds that seemed like hours, the creature stared agape at the wound in its chest, pain wracking its face. Then that dusty laugh welled up from within its lithe body and it looked up at Krausse with a predatory smile as the wound knitted back together before his very eyes.

“That is troubling.” Krausse frowned. And here I thought he was a vampire. Well, never met any thing that's survived a decapitation.

Almost in slow motion, Krausse began his charge, his boots kicking dust from the ground. The assassin moved simultaneously. Seeing it this time, the creature moved around the one-handed thrust of the broad sword with its daggers ready, but it didn't see or feel the short sword that parted meat and bone and brain. Face blank, the creature staggered back, its head made into a shiskebab – and Krausse stepped forward and swung. The blade of his broadsword bit into the nape of the assassin's neck hard, and he pushed with his bare hand and all of his weight, clenching his teeth as his blade sliced both his and his enemy's flesh.

Tinted goggles reflecting a pained, sweaty, and blood covered face stared up at Krausse from the ground. Blood gushed freely from the hack sawed stump of the assassin's neck and the stench of death filled Krausse's nostrils. His own heavy pants and the war drum beating of his heart were the only sounds Krausse could hear as he looked down at his side and winced. One of the assassin's daggers jutted out of his side, having pierced the finely-woven black and purple tunic he wore.

“Well.” Krausse looked down at the blood leaking out of his side, and the blood pooling around the assassin's neck stump. “I think I finished this one ahead of you.”

[Hannibal]

Weak light illuminated the painted lips that were Krausse's wound as he bit down on a stick and cleaned it with what was left of the rubbing alcohol. When he finished, he began to thread stitching to close the wound. Blade wasn't poisoned. Lucky about that. Maybe it wasn't what attacked the woman, but the camp fire will draw anyone else in these woods here. He held the thread between his teeth and cut it with the assassin's dagger after he finished the wound. Shortly after that, a white bandage covered his narrow waist.

Krausse felt Igor the cat's eyes upon him. “Are you alright, comrade?”

“Wonderful,” Krausse replied serenely. He stood up and moved his arm around and wiggled about. He looked pleased. “There is just a hole in my side, but I think it'll be fine.”

“If you say so. What about the guest?”

“Oh, just another traveler that lost his heading, you know.”

Igor wrinkled his whiskers. “You have an odd sense of humor, my friend.”

“Says the alcoholic, talking cat.” Krausse sat back down by the fire, and stared into it.

At that, Igor mewed and rolled over. Krausse sighed lightly. My vigil tonight, I suppose. He looked over at the woman sleeping peacefully. Looks so much like her.

[Hannibal]

Like every other summer day on the southern island, the sun was oppressive. He wore no shirt, only dirtied shorts, but his tanned, muscled skin excreted sweat as the sun beat against his back Sweat matted his fine crimson hair against his chiseled face, sweat made his hands slide along the shaft of the wooden pole he carried, sweat made the cloth of his shorts press against his legs. Sweat was water leaking out of his body that he wasn't about to get back, and every minute he sweated made him more worn and made his feet plod less steadily.

Dry parched lips parted to let his tongue flit across them, and he spared just a bit of the precious fluid inside his body to wet that cracked red flesh. His purple eyes darted along the marked dirt path between the trees, looking for anything that might lead him to water. It seemed like he went on for years as he walked along the path with no real direction but forward. Eventually, he stopped, seeing a building in the distance, too delirious to make it out in detail, or even know if it was real.

“Water,” he mumbled, his voice a weak whisper. He collapsed.

Dirt filled his mouth when he planted face-first on the ground. The pain was distant; he was preoccupied by the taste of blood in his mouth. With an effort, he rolled onto his back. Death comes. He stared into the clear blue sky past the tree canopies. As he slipped into unconsciousness, he thought he heard a woman's voice.

When he awoke, he felt the sweet taste of water upon his lips, heard the soothing song of a woman's voice. He drank deeply and once the taste of water was gone, he opened his eyes to find an angel with long brown curls and chocolate eyes looking at him, humming a song as she laid the glass down on a table next to his bed.

“That's a beautiful song.” It was all he could say. His cheeks matched his red hair.

She smiled.