Fell!Poth One-Shots

Drunken Nights (Part 4)

Lotus was mindful to stick to himself for the rest of the night, going unnoticed for the most part by his partner who'd taken to sitting silently on the couch.

The umber brown arm rest on the side of the seat, closest to the hall, made a good place to lean against. Rurik struggled with teetering on the edge of reality and his own betraying thoughts. He was on edge, he could taste the steam and sulphur of past gun smoke. The chemical smell of blood.

His fingers dug into the leather as his toes curled. Then the distant thuds of other soldiers hitting the floor, kicking up the uncovered dirt and dust, long exposed by the constant movement of heavy boots above. That choking, constricting smell of dried earth was mixed with the thick, black gunpowder, making the smell of carbon dioxide worse by a tenfold.

He gagged, the fire overhead brought forth the fresh urine smell from the saltpeter. None of this knocked him off his guard as he staggered up from his seat, looking around levelheadedly as he folded his hands together. No, he was reloading his gun.

But then the monster next to him fell down. His eyes settled on the corpse with blood soaked fur, dead on impact, the bullet pierced cleanly into the brain. It had ripped through all structures that housed higher function, all in all sweeping most of the frontal cerebrum. Mind matter spewed out the exit hole, throbbing and oozing in disarray. The owner's eyes had rolled into the back of their head, puffy red veins unnaturally visible in the spheres.

The sight was only there for a stomach wrenching second before their body flaked into dust. It was just another death. Another unfortunately casualty. But Rurik had known this monster.

Just the previous night they had been around a fire, sharing a couple of drinks and laughs. Now he stumbled back, tripping over another corpse.

The coffee table's glass panels clattered as he walked into it. More fresh blood stained his pants, it had just happened. He hadn't even heard the gunshot this time, and with no time to register the face that lay dead in front of him, his brother in war was a pile of grime and soot. Sunset orange magic began to collect around his skull, the sweat trickled down in droplets as his bones rattled.

Now he had two dog tags in hand, but he couldn't read the names. His vision had grown too blurry. A constant, steady warmth escaped his body. After straining to look down, Rurik saw the small wound. It had punctured his breast bone and now red marrow trickled freely. It coated his leaden, forest green shirt making his clothing darker and his head fainter.

He soon felt an overwhelming numbness. When had he been shot? Had he really been hit? He hadn't felt it. He slammed up against the living room wall, pressing himself up against a bordering tree on the war zone.

Medic, where was the medic? Undoubtedly the monster clothed in white garments was in the process of trying to help some other damned soul and keep them from their deathbed.

It was cruel that the healing monster wore such bright clothing. They had the audacity to give soldiers hope in their last fleeting moments that there was really something better, something brighter, that waited just beyond the grave.

He had a choice, to either return to the battle field and fight with honor with his last few breaths. Or, to do precisely that, for anything else would be mutiny and a disgrace on all monsters. Unwillingly, he found his feet dragging him into the heavy bushel, high on adrenaline. He cracked unfortunate twigs and leaves that were unlucky enough to get in his way as he sought refuge.

He fell to his knees, his camouflage proving its worth as he was left unbothered in the outskirts of the battle. The bed's blankets were disturbed and wrinkled as he fell atop of them with a pained grunt. The moss and rocks were knocked away as he secured his spot, breathing heavily.

Drums told of the other side retreating. It hadn't been for nothing. Rurik clutched the two dog tags close to his body, his other hand reaching into his shirt and holding his own. A flower shaped pendant sat in his hand too, inside the picture of his precious Lotus. They hadn't died for jack shit, none of them were going to. He could sleep now.

Feet approached his resting place, large boots of a commander and the daintier ones of the medic. "Rurik?" barked out some gruff voice.

This wasn't real, it was all a distant memory. "Rurik?" called the concerned, very real voice of Lotus.