The Past is Never Dead

Prologue

The soldier washes his armour fervently, tremoring hands causing the metal to shake. He grunts and throws the breastplate and rag beside him on the bed. He buries his face in his hands, groaning loudly.

"Rose? You alright?" He lifts his head to stare at the officer, mentally screaming at him to fuck off.

"Just fine, sir," He mumbles, looking away.

"Listen, Macsen." The officer nears closer to him but remains standing, perhaps reveling in the only time he'll be taller than the man, "You're new, it's hard to deal with this."

He clenches his jaw as he stares up at the officer, whose eyes immediately glide to the movement of muscle and down to his balled fists.

"I'll leave you to sort this out." He walks to the entrance of the tent, but throws one more sidelong glance in the soldier's way, "Take care of yourself, Rose."

He sits for a moment before moving to turn the lantern off, quickly being consumed by the darkness. He lies back in his cot, muscles and joints aching for rest. He closes his laden lids, but sleep doesn't seem to take him as easily as it usually does. He sighs and turns over, once, twice, thrice.

As his attempts to sleep prove futile, he resorts to peering into the darkness of the night. His thoughts drift to those of Brenton, the way his eyes glossed over as they looked at one another. He can smell it and feel the wetness against his fingers, and the feeling that the blood would never dry. His heart thunders in his chest and he brings a shaking hand to his collarbones. Pathetic, He tells himself, You pansy shit, you can't deal with a little blood?

***

Macsen wraps his arms around Kelric's slender frame, feeling the torrent of the other's tears soak through his shirt. Kelric screams and gasps, grief racking the very foundations of his mind. Macsen feels the other's hands grip his arms, squeezing the newly hardened muscle. He looks to the side and makes eye contact with the healer, Thoreth, who attempts a smile. He stares back down at Kelric, not realising the cause of his blurred vision until tears fall down his cheeks. He hugs his friend tighter.

Thoreth moves in and pries the two apart, urging Kelric to look her in the eyes. His light blue irises have darkened and the whites have become bloodshot. Macsen realizes he's never seen Kelric cry so badly, or be so utterly desperate. Thoreth brings a gentle hand to Kelric's temple, who leans into the touch. Her hand glows white, and she closes her eyes, reciting a spell in Elvish, "We urge this mind to forget, to bring in the light of tomorrow and the dawn of a new day. Banish the horrid and protect the good. We urge this mind to forget."

Kelric smiles slightly into the palm of Thoreth's hand, a sign that the incantation worked. Macsen watches cautiously as the light from her palm dies down. Once Kelric seems alright enough to answer questions, she begins.

"What do you remember?" Kelric stews in the silence that follows the question, searching his mind for something. Throreth stares at him expectantly, a blonde brow raised.

"Macsen," He mutters, and she nods softly.

"What about Aegthïr? Or Ikeshia?" Kelric tilts his head in confusion, and she smiles softly. She motions for Macsen to come closer, and he obeys. She leans in to whisper something in his ear, "Should he remember, promise me you won't turn away."

***

Phigalia sinks her hand into the wet soil, her tears making no change to the spring dirt. She pleads to Ardenia and curses Carafon, but she knows nothing will come of her prayers. Her mother sits next to her, a gentle hand rubbing circles on her back.

"Phigalia." Her mother's voice is soft and quiet, like if she spoke too loud something might break, "We need to go back."

She wants to scream at her mother, but she knows she's right. She hates being so vulnerable, feeling like her every emotion is on display. She looks up at her mother with tearful eyes and she stares right back. The woman stands and raises a hand to help Phigalia. She takes it, the dirt of her hand rubbing off on her mother's.

She feels distant as they walk the dirt path back home, like she's floating outside of her body. Her tears blur the path in front of her, so she's only able to use her mother's hand as a guide.

She begins to wonder if a dryad can die of a broken heart. She's heard of it happening to humans and elves, but never to a dryad. Perhaps she'll be the first.

"Think of good things, Phigalia," Her mother says, "Like the sun on your back or the grass beneath your feet."

"Is it that easy, mother?" She questions but does it anyway. The sun warms her skin, her clothes, and her hair. When she focuses on it, she can feel the warmth blossoming in her chest. The blades of grass are soft against her feet, having just emerged from the ground after a long winter. It makes her realize that there's always light on the other side, no matter how hopeless things may seem.

Despite this newfound warmth and happiness, she vows to never forget today. As she looks up to the clear sky, she calls upon Siôni to grant her strength.

***

The water makes no noise, no matter how fast the stream of the fountain is moving. Arken stares up at the altar of Ffaran, sinking their teeth into a fresh plum. With the coming of summer, they always say a prayer to Ffaran and Ardenia to bring plentiful days. They spit the small seed into the rushing water and return to their desk.

A letter sits upon the mahogany surface, reminding them of their necessary decision. They had run into a party of three at the market two days ago. The seeming leader, a man named Macsen, had proposed for them to join the group. He complimented their engineering skills, talking about their clothing and the gun that sat upon their hip. They said they weren't sure, so he jotted down some information onto a piece of parchment.

They retrieve their own paper and ink, and begin thinking of what to write. They decide against the idea of going to see them themself, despite the fact they seemed like travelers. If they get the letter, perhaps it's meant to be.

They set upon writing the letter, airing out their concerns over specific topics. The opening and closing of a heavy door behind them would have been tuned out had they not known who was entering the temple.

"Arken?" The baritone voice asks behind them. Concern lies thick in the man's words, made even more evident by the way his feet falter as he steps toward them, "Are you writing to your father again?"

***

Kissos stumbles out of the tavern, one hand loosely holding the mandolin at his side. He all but stumbles onto the small bench against the brick wall, giggling at nothing and everything. A clear puddle sits at his feet, reflecting the lantern's light from the walls. He leans forward to look at his reflection, but finds himself puzzled at what he sees. A wide gash digs into the flesh of his cheek, the dark blood nearly matching the maroon of his skin. He reaches a hand up to touch, the blood has dried around the edges but it remains wet on the inside.

He kicks the small pool with his boot, causing violent ripples in the stubborn water that remains. He leans back hardly, his horns clashing harshly with the bricks. He grunts quietly and shifts to lay down on the wood panels, resting his head on the iron armrest. He plucks at the strings of his mandolin clumsily, his heavy eyelids closing against his will. His hands slip off his chest, the instrument falls into the puddle quite loudly.

As the night owls of the town pass by the tavern, they stare questionably at the sleeping man upon the bench. His blood-stained hands hang beside him limply, moving slightly as he breathes. They avert their gazes awkwardly, not bothering to check-in or prop up the wooden instrument.

The streets grow quiet, and Kissos remains in the same position. The wind has stopped blowing for the night, the bushes and trees are still. To an onlooker, the scene may appear as a painting, of sorts. The man, and everything around him, is stagnant and tranquil. The same could not be said about his restless mind.