Red noise rumbled like that of a bass. In a dream of quakes, as he waded through the vast and empty flooded plains, the earth’s surface was felt being lifted to the sky for repair. Whose feet weighed heavy and his arms yet unliftable, his eye lids were like metal shutters which were impossible to open without a key that locked it down. From a blankness came a darkness that became somewhat pinkish. The ambience was growing louder, fading into his ears as the sounds that he could make out were, without a doubt, human. Life, with somewhat a warmth, soon became a bubbling heat stored within his chest that was soaked into every part of his body. The clamor that was once distant was suddenly near him and deafening. It was impossible to stay in a state of sleep and for the boy, he was forced awake, crawling out from nothingness, strapped onto his soul still intact with wings of his spirit in flames. Out of a human’s three parts, his body was weakest, yet it sought to climb the ladder into the realm of the living. Finding a key in the hive of his mind, it was wedged between thin files and books. With it, they, together, unlocked the gates of his sight, and returned himself the vision of the world. Colors appeared once more, one by one, blurred like a short-sighted fellow. It took some while to readjust, as the hues and shades differentiated from the primary colors of the palate. The light was separated from the darkness and common shapes came to be, forming a simple child-like painting. Blinking to wet his eyes, to clear the mist and uncertainty, beyond it, outlines and shades began to fixate and his image sharpened. From the heavens, a brightness shone.
Forever, like no calamity had occurred, the boy stared into an open field blue with cotton clouds. Clumps glided over the canvas, above an exposed roof that had collapsed. From the arches of the burned-down church, its body had been flayed clean to its ribs clawed inwards. Caved upon itself, it was better that the sky was revealed than being incased, falsely, within the paintings of the supernatural realm on walls of stones and wood around the gods’ shared home. Collapsed and demolished, as dictated by humans as a place built for worship, there were many halls such as that for prayers around the town. But the seaside had been stripped of chimes of bells. There was no chatter of nuns nor the recitals of priests. The devout had all but gone, never to oversee the clamor of gossips and panicked voices again. Such noises were maintained in moderation, never escalating, but never quietening. For so long he had gone without the sense of hearing, every sound was crisp and clear around him. From the washing tides at the seafront, for he knew exactly where he was, to the caws, which were far, of the gulls returned but dared did they not near the town. Perched away on the cliffs and hills, many across the South Downs, they would not risk igniting their feathers from the embers and plumes which were still heavy. The settlement had been burning for days with slight signs of slowdowns. There were no more crackles of flames and greater fires had mostly subsided. Despite there being a hint of burning air and rotting of flesh, it blended up a scent that reminded of both a cemetery and an incineration plant.
Unpleasant, it was barely bearable. For the nights he had lived unaware, in his sleep, he smelt nothing, and have seen nothing. Hearing nothing, even the thought of feeling and being, as he stared into the clouds, made his eyes draw morning tears. Woken into the wake of destruction, pained tears flowed down his face to his ears and dripped onto the cloth and coats beneath his head. Folded and stacked into a form of a pillow, they were rested over a sheet laid on the hard tiles of the church’s floor. A rough blanket hardly covered his body and though it did cover half at best, his legs and upper chest were still cold. Wrapped under the pressure of tightly knotted bandages, every movement around his stomach was with agony. Even to breath and to think, as he tilted his head sideways, slowly, he took care not to strain his neck even more. From where he laid, beside him, were people all the same. In situations worse and better, to his right and left, and across the aisle, the wounded were either being treated or recovering, hoping to gather the blessings of the sainted place. No one could ever be blamed for receiving more care than others as doctors and nurses did all they could, teaching brave volunteers who were once untrained, yet had already soiled their hands with blood. Everyone who was able was helping, regardless of faction and belief or whether they were once afraid of even a paper cut. Most voices came from them. Shouting across the hall in emergency and asking for medicines even if they knew that its stores had been empty since the first night, their responses were simply put on repeat, one after the other. In the settlement of a military clinic, troops from the garrison militias, squadrons of the citizens’ watch patrolled as the people’s wartime police. Their ragged attires were no different to those they protected as they watched out for theft against the weak. Infrequently breaking off little squabbles between patients and healers and helping with whatever they could to earn their next meal, as thought, many fought for their own gains, not for the good of others. Not as a community nor as a society.
It was laughable how humans, having such complexity in thought and moralities, had reverted from their civilized manners to that of primitive acts when the troubles had befallen them. Arminius steered away from the show, bearing no longer the humanly realm, and returned his eyes to the more pleasing skies that smiled upon him. To end his thoughts with the heavens in his sight was preferable, and from there he closed his eyes and blanketed himself in darkness again. The lights of auras faded and the beings around him were reduced to only hints of life. In the haven of healers and evil-minded creatures, there was one who shown himself with most peculiarity among the crowds. Their soul was purer than a newborn’s, but featured so many hurting scars. Like a freshwater fish, it had accidentally descended upon the open seas and did not seem at home. Running and slipping by souls whose dark hearts of selfishness were the loudest with grumbles of deceit, their footsteps, whose heels were resonant on the church tiles, neared. Hurrying towards him, it came by to his right, and when the rustling of clothing could be heard, Arminius was sure that it was the same who rescued him that night. Settling down the weight of his bag with an arsenal of equipment, the savior drew a sigh and took in an abundant breath. Easing on his heartbeat, he shuffled closer and sat beside his own patient, casting a short shadow over him. Water poured and swished in the shallow but wide vessel. Its ripples crashed. As bandages, in the shape of a cylinder, unrolled, over him, Arminius enhanced his remaining senses that he had not sealed off. The detection of everyone else’s aura was not false, then perhaps, this boy was an anomaly. Come, a draft blew despite the day being calm, a cool air was emitted from the selfless youth whose abnormality was that there was no warmth telling that he was human. Feeling this oddness when his arm was raised, unwrapped of old bandages, there was a half-burning sensation from the salt in the breeze that touched him. But there was another, in the moment of freedom, where the pair of soft hands that kept his arm steady was not hurting. The cold from the other boy helped with the pain as Arminius could not help but wake for a second time.
As his vision had been adjusted before, his eyes were quick to adapt. The details of the world flooded and sharpened in an instant, and as he had felt, to his side, sat a boy his age. Carefully washing his wounds and the dried blood on his hand that had been half destroyed, with marks of medicine around cuts and indescribable burns, his senseless arm was placed on the foreigner’s lap to be carefully administered. His eyes had pupils blue like stained glass, so focused on changing the dressing that he had not realized that Arminius was awake, being nursed to health by one of the few in the community with blond hair that was dirtied by the ash afloat in the air. Concentrating, with an expression still concerned, he tightened his lips as he began wrapping Arminius’s burns with the first layer of a new bandage. Taking notice of his shining jewel, Arminius was sucked in by the gracefulness of the charm of sorts, that was a necklace with a whole, raw sapphire dangling out of his shirt. Mesmerizing, it sparkled at the smallest instance of sunlight, refracting a dark blue glow around it and onto the face of its master. Of an innocence that saw no spoil or rot, it was but tainted by a singular cut. A scar that ran along his cheek had clotted and was repairing naturally. That was his only apparent injury in return for his aid. They seemed familiar to each other, but those memories were all but forgotten.
Weakly, Arminius’s voice had not yet returned when he asked his savior, “Did you bring me…here…?”
The redressing paused as the foreigner looked towards him, ever more tensed as he found him awake. Taken by quite a surprise, for all this time, Arminius had been laying there, knowing who had healed and given him care besides the works of good doctors who sealed his wounds. Shy and with reservation, the other gave a gentle nod, hiding his face. His hands did not move, with one loosely holding the other’s wrist.
Thinking of what felt right to say, he regained some traction on the confidence in his self as he continued to wrap the wounded hand in bandages, distracting himself from what nervousness. “We were lucky that we weren’t far from a place like this.” Glad, the child of grace sounded timid in his voice. “Your injuries were pretty bad, but light enough that they would help.” Troubled by another matter, he would not say what it was.
Experienced in the art of treatment, as if he knew every procedure there was to it on the road to recovery, he wrapped the last layer tightly, however not too tight, around the dislocated joints and the disfigured hand that he was still holding onto. From the rim of his boots, the foreign boy took a clip and slipped it onto the loose ends of the cloth, fixing it in place lest it move and ruin his work. It was clear that his eye had a desire for perfection, as although it was not a need to trouble himself more, he would take his time to straighten out every crease and fold before he rested the arm down on the blanket. Rolling up the heaps of used cloth into a ball of mess, it was put to one side for him to consider later, where beside him was a bowl and a cup of water. One was clear, and another was a vessel of dirt, blood and more. At the sight of a drink, Arminius was reminded by his thirst and the drying of his lips. His throat was sore and his lungs were unable to project any more sounds. Reaching for the cup, he struggled to extend his arms whose skin had yet to regrow. Tensing his limits, annoyingly enough, the fingertips of his’ were able to touch the rim of the metal vessel. But because his nerves could not be dictated so well anymore, it became an impossible task. Without breaking open his wounds again by stretching over his left arm to aid, his right was stuck with two disabled fingers, taped together. Grunting from the difficulty of what was once a normal task, he gritted his teeth whilst he fought. To his healer, his struggle could not be allowed any longer and in a moment of pity, the anxiousness in his heart was broken.
“Here…” Taking the cup of water that he thought Arminius would be unable to hold alone, the boy held it for him.
Halted of his impossible fight, Arminius realized it and accepted his own defeat. Embarrassed by his uselessness, he veered his eyes away, clear from contact, though they seemed however thankful and allowed himself to be fed. The foreigner tipped the water over his mouth and held a hand underneath, defending the bandages around his body from unavoidable drops. Sipping, not being fed too much, the taste of water was sweet. Perhaps such were his dehydrated thoughts, it revitalized him and the coloration of his skin neutralized. Settled on the ground, the cup that was only a quarter full, the water within swished about in cycles, shaded by a shadow.
Awkwardly, Arminius found his will to face the other again, recovered from the brief instance of shame, “Thanks…uh…”
Wanting to say his name, it was, rather than not knowing, like a blockage in his head. Like characters from his dreams, once he had awoken and was treated of pain, everything had dissolved into the unknown. No matter how hard he tried to remember, nothing came to be, and from the futile fight against his past, he soon gave up. It was unlike himself to do so, to surrender, and it was already the second instance for which he did.
“What’s your name…?” Arminius finally asked.
Stumped again, by the confusion, the boy dunked a towel in the bowl of water and left it to soak. More questions flooded him and the gears of wonderment grinded.
Looking at Arminius, he was certain that he had said it before when they first met. “I thought you knew…” The foreigner mumbled to himself, away from Arminius’s ears.
Glancing back and forth in two cycles, his eyes of uncertainty were reflective of his bewildered ears. As if every happening on that night was but a construct of a simulated dream. He refused to believe it.
Shaking his head and clearing his doubts, the foreigner treated reality as it was. “Never mind, that’d be ridiculous anyways…” He said what seemed only natural to do, for it could neither be questioned nor accepted.
The boy came to face the wounded and as he brought his legs back, from a crossed position to a kneel, both his knees were pushed together and his hands were clenched on this thighs. Reminded by the posture that once he thought only easterners did, Arminius’s eyes gently widened, caught in his own stranger surprise. Unless that position felt natural to him, it was most unlikely that his background was that well-known and everything about his past had been researched, as what the boy postured himself with was always reserved for the most diplomatic settings.
Bowing, lower than it would have been between equals, he saw Arminius as one who was greater than himself. “I’m Julien Carlstadt.” In a shy voice, he uttered his name that stung.
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