Ā Ā sheās always here.Ā Ā always, always, always.Ā Ā he stands at the entrance, the scent of ash and soot and smoke and deathĀ lingering on the body of a feeble boy, his hands marred with bits of black, with callouses and cuts that hadnāt been there before. itās easy to read in his expression, the way his chin tucks away, how he flinches at the slightest show of company, that the mission is far from over. explosions and screams play terrifying symphonies in his ears, like cymbals crashing again and again and again; the light is a little too bright for eyes more accustomed to the dark, to the shady, smoky depths of carnage, and he shies beneath the overhang, reaching for the wooden pillar for a bit of support. thereās nothing to remember and he doesnāt remember a thing about nameless faces and disembodied dog tagsāābut the dead have always clung to him, their only voice in this world that casts them aside.
Ā Ā his hand, once gentle, hovers and shakes in a failed wave before he clenches it into a fist and pulls it away. lithe frame leans into the safety of the support beam, the exhaustion draining the color from him as the adrenaline leaves his formāāhe sighs, he huffs.
Ā Ā this sort of thing is too much. itās too hard. it hurts, Mother, it hurts.
Ā Ā but she speaks. itās not much. itās two words. two words anybody else would hear all the time, but theyāre magic to him, theyāre a treasure.Ā two words that break him from his reverie, that briefly give succor to his wearied limbs and see the sun emerge from the clouds in those sky blue hues, life itself twinkling in their depths. he pries himself away from the structural crutch, rubs his sleeve against his teary eyesĀ āfore she gets the chance to notice the bubbles that had formedāāshe doesnāt need to worry anymore about him; she didnāt need to see him at his limitsāāand walks. one foot in front of the other, kicking pebbles and flattening blades of grass, all until he finally comes to a stop, dress shoes not even a foot away from her own pair.
Ā Ā āIām home.ā the hesitance is still there, it taking a full second for him to actually take her hands with that gentle, carefulĀ grasp. his cheeks burned red, his smile hurt, and there were still tears threatening to spill, but he doesnāt mind it. this wasnāt pain, after all; not with the way it warmed him to the brim with giddy euphoria. no, no, noāānot a pain, but a blessing. āIām home, Lina.ā and he was never one to take blessings for granted.
Ā Ā āIām sorry that Iām late again. Do you think that bakery in town is still open? We can still go if we hurry, I think.ā