#cazimir

If I open my eyes, will I see you? Or are you a ghost, some type of spirit that I'm cursed with?

"You'll see me, Caz. Come on." There was a hand on hir chin, cool to the touch, but not icy like ze imagined a spirit’s would be. Reluctantly, Caz obeyed.

"Boo!" said Imrah, her face filling Cazimir’s vision. "See? Right here."

"So are you a ghost?" But even as ze asked it, ze knew the answer was no. Ghosts weren’t real. This was Imrah. Here, in the flesh.

"I mean, I could be," Imrah said, her tone teasing, in a way that usually meant no, of course not, what sort of dumbass question was that? It was familiar, soothing.

"No, you couldn't be," Caz said.

"No, I couldn't be," she agreed. "So. What are you doing all the way up here? Isn't there a revolution you should be helping with?"

Damn it all. "Fuck off, Merari. I'm not telling you shit." The rough-spun flax of hir prison garments itched at the back of hir neck. Grandmother would never have accepted spinning that shoddy, back home on the farm. Not that it matters now. Caz turned away, leaning hir side against the cell wall instead.

"That's a new tune, Cazimir, I thought we were friends."

Caz stared listlessly into the dimness. The lamps must be burning low, or maybe prisoners didn't even warrant the use of oil now, in wartime. Either way, ze couldn't rouse the energy to match Imrah's vicious false enthusiasm, or even speak in anything more than a monotone. "You thought wrong. I'm not your friend. I wish you were dead."

There was swishing noise, then a crunch of metal through flesh and bone, and Imrah gasped "Caz—"

Caz twisted around, stumbling awkwardly to hir feet. Imrah lay on the muddy ground, trembling. It could have been from the freezing rain, but rain didn't explain all the red, bleeding like rivers across the landscape of Imrah's form, flowing downwards to feed the trees when Imrah was right there and needed it more.

"No," said Caz, "no, Imrah, fuck!" Ze stooped and tried to cover the wound, but Imrah’s whole chest was wound, hot blood welling up and cold rain dripping down on Caz's hands in unbearable, almost painful contrast. "I didn't mean die here," ze insisted, but Imrah was already dead, and she stood up and walked away silently. You did this to me, her retreating back told Caz.

Cazimir was left alone, kneeling in the shoulder-high grass, except that wasn't right, either. The summer moonlight filtered purple-blue through the needlegrass stalks, but the air smelled of dead leaves and damp—autumn scents. Not the muddy, metallic scent that should be rising from hir hands right now, not even the halfway-to-straw scent of needlegrass after midsummer. Where am I?

Gone, the wind whispered back, and Caz startled, nearly falling on hir ass. Ze rubbed at hir eyes as ze stood up. It was darker in the forest than the field, the moon less than half-full where it hung in the sky. "Fuck," Caz muttered, running clean hands—hands that had never actually been dirty, at least tonight—through hir frustratingly short hair.

"Damn it, Imrah," ze said, louder, voice rising. "Fuck! I wish you'd stay fucking dead!"