#rchk

Alright so two weeks ago I went to the esf design day event and

When we sat down they gave us a really nice bag, 

A quality blank notebook. It had an extremely nice leather like cover. It felt so nice. A helpful guide, a booklet and a bookmark.

Also a special edition pencil, that says “esf design day 2019″. That was cool.  For my first event we were supposed to plan and create short comics in the time provided.

This was based off another drawing I had done, I’ll create a higher quality digital version, but I really like the sketchy look that pencils have. Oh well

For the second event, we learnt about what is required to make a video game, and it was more or less a long talk, with little video game character design time, but it was very informative, so there’s that. For the last and final event, it was planning a future city, no not a futuristic city, but like a city that could exist in the near future. It was fun, I worked with two other people, so that was nice. 

Despite being unremarkable – nothing happened at this beach, except for drunk kids and ham roasts – I knew that the sand and the waves and the palm trees and rocks had eaten you up and swallowed you in that sudden smack of your hands. And so, with your glazed lips hanging low from your jaw and eyes pried wide open, you gasped,

“Stop the car.”

I remember, I looked to my side, and asked,

“Why?”

“Just do it,” you replied.

So I did.

You scrambled to reach for the door’s handle, heels scratching against the leather of the seats, and as soon as that lock clicked open, I saw you unbuckle the straps of your wedges with one hand, and fling the door open with the other. “Come on!” You laughed. “Run!”

And I did run.

I couldn’t help it.

I was in love with you.

You sprinted outside, whooping and hollering, feet pounding against the pavement. Once you had reached the stone barrier, you dug one hand into a stray rock jutting out from the mass, and hoisted yourself up, climbing onto the top, before swinging your thigh and dropping off onto the other side. I attempted to do the same in vain, struggling to catch my breath, half from exhaustion, and half from giggling.

When I had finally managed to clamber to the top of of the rough, rocky wall, I glanced down, and saw you, smirking at me from below.

(The same half-smile, crooked but bright, that I so desperately need to see again these days.)

“You’re so slow,” you had teased, stretching out a hand to help me down.

Reaching for you and grasping at your wrist, I whined,

“I’m old.”

“And I love you,” you smirked, “what’s new?”

And we ran again.

We were going,

And going,

And going,

gone.

When our feet met the slosh of the waves, I clutched at my stomach as I panted for air. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw you grinning wildly.

The waves splashed against your legs over and over again, soaking your dress in brine sop. The budding morning light hit you in every curve of your bones, floating against your skin like glitter in water. Crumbling the cotton under the fingers of your left hand, you slipped your free hand into mine.

“It’s going to be okay, you know,” you whispered. “We’re going to break out of this town.”

I forced myself to snap my eyes down towards the ground, tears building up at the edges of my eyes, threatening to burst out at any moment.

You stayed silent for awhile, stepping closer to me.

“I’m going to New York and I’m going to become a model. And you’ll be a famous director.”

“We’ll live in a nice apartment,” I continued, murmuring in a shaky voice, “with two dogs–”

“Three, if I can help it.” You nodded, bringing my hand to your lips and pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles.

I choked out a laugh.

Something wet and hot ran down my cheek. Bringing my fingers to my face, I felt as my index finger moistened with a salty streak of tears. Suddenly, I was crying.

You pulled me in.

“I love you. More than anything in the world,” you whispered. “I would give up anything to see you happy.”

Drip, drop – my tears fell into your hair, where they tipped into the scent of berries and sea salt.

Drip, drop.

Drip,

Drop.

Drip, drop.

Drip, drop.

Drip, drop.

The sound of your IV drip in the hospital. Bag full of cold liquid, hooked into a needle, punctured into your bandaged hand. You laid there, in a plain white, patterned dress, on top of a slab of hard mattress.

Something wet and hot ran down my cheek. Bringing my fingers to my face, I felt my index finger moisten with a salty streak of tears. Suddenly, I was crying, and I instinctively reached for your familiar warmth.

But you weren’t there to pull me in.

So now I’m praying.

This is my prayer for you. God, angels, whoever’s listening, take note too.

It’s a prayer for a blip – a blip like that night we stood on the edge of the sea and you told me that it was all going to be just fine. I’m returning the favour now.

I know that life is getting harder for you. I know that it’s exhausting, and that you’re tired. I know that some days you can’t even get out of bed. Get dressed. Fix yourself something to eat. Talk. I don’t know why exactly, and when I ask, you cry and get violent and say you don’t know either.

I know that right about now, you don’t think that you’re very important. That the universe wants you discarded. That you think you’re cosmologically, in the entire span of our universe, subatomically tiny–

But love,

You are a galaxy spanning wide. You are each and every star hung in the fabric of the night.  

When you say you love me, more than anything in the world, don’t forget about yourself.

When you say that you would give up anything to see me happy, darling, don’t forget about yourself.

This is my prayer for a blip.

Amen.

There were people talking near her when she woke up, her vision bleary and unfocused. They were little more than blurred outlines, but she could hear whispers, and strained her ears to try and make out the conversation.

“Four,” one of them said solemnly, and then they walked out of sight and sound.

She tried to get up, wincing as bullets of pain shot across her chest. A healer rushed to her side at the sound, and eased her into a sitting position. “Easy there. You’ve had a rough time of it.”

A touch brushed across her waist, and her eyes flashed towards him angrily. “Easy, easy!” He backed away, holding up his hands. “I need to check your bandages, make sure you’re not going to die on us after all that work.”

With a jolt, she realised that her torso was bound carefully in bandages, the white stained in some places with the dull sheen of dried blood.

She let him closer, and he began to carefully unwind a few of them, inspecting the flesh beneath with a critical eye. A gentle touch at her ribs, a light pressure-

Pain flashed across her body, strong and unwavering, and she grimaced as he quickly removed his hands. “Thought that might be the case,” he muttered, reaching for the herbal stock at the side of her bed.

“Hurts,” she muttered, raising an eyebrow at the purplish-black bruise that the removed bandage had exposed.

“If it didn’t, I’d be worried.” He had a small pile in a mortar by her bedside, grinding them up steadily with the accompanying pestle. “You cracked several ribs from that hit you took to the chest, not to mention the cuts and possible infections we had to account for.”

He added water and a sprinkling of some foreign powder to the mortar, continuing to work on whatever mixture he was making. “I’d say you’re lucky to be alive. A lot of others weren’t.”

The healer set the pestle aside, revealing a thick paste in the mortar. He eyed it critically, then dipped a finger in the mix.

“Hold still.” His finger touched the exposed bruise, and she bit her lip at the pain, screwing her eyes shut. Then a wonderful coolness spread across the injury, and her pain fell away, fading into a soft tingling.

She opened her eyes to find the healer applying that paste of his to the cuts that adorned her shoulders, having moved on from the patch exposed by her stomach.

“Could you-” She coughed, the motion sending black spots through her vision as her ribs protested. “Could you do my chest too? I don’t-”

She coughed again, massaging her aching chest. “Don’t think the bruise ends there.”

He obliged her, slowly unwinding the bandages from her torso. She heard him curse as every strip that fell away revealed more of her battered body.

As it turned out, the purplish-black bruise stretched across her chest, the skin discoloured and swollen angrily in some places.

She grimaced as they began to throb, and he began to apply the paste to her chest. “What the hell hit you?” he muttered.

“Catapult shot hit my century,” she murmured, enjoying the steady coolness that spread across her body as the healer worked his way across the bruise. “Took part of the debris to the chest, but my armor blocked a fair bit of it.”

He eyed her ruined chestplate in the corner, the metal rent in several places and caved in at its center. “I’ll say.”

She shivered as his hand went to her sternum, covering the last of the bruise in the paste.

“Alright, that should ease the pain and swelling for a while. I’ll need to rebind your chest so that your ribs will heal properly, though, otherwise we run the risk of you getting a bone through something important.”

He went about it rather quickly once she nodded, winding them tightly enough that she winced a bit at the pressure, but not so tightly that she couldn’t breathe.

Then he turned to leave, and with a jolt, she remembered what she’d wanted to ask. “Wait!”

He stopped, cocking an eyebrow at her.

“Is it true?” she asked. “How many of us did you manage to save?”

The healer sighed, toying with a corner of his shirt. “The messenger was wrong, if that’s what you mean, but not by much.”

“How many?”

He sighed. “Seven, counting you.”

No.

She slumped back into the bed.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go. There are others who need medical attention, and we’re short-handed as it is after that attack. Try to rest if you can.”

She barely heard the swish of the tent flap as he left, her mind humming with thought.

Seven survivors.

Out of her whole century, only ten. She’d known most of them well, had been close to far more than she should have. They’d been friends, family even. And they’d been wiped out, just like that.

That night, she slipped out of the medical tent. The sentries had seen her at the outskirts of the camp, of course, but they hadn’t opposed her.

They’d seen the determined look in her eyes, and an unspoken message seemed to pass between the two of them as they stood aside.

She caught a flash of sympathy in their eyes as she moved past them, and her mouth turned upward slightly.

Of course they would know. They were experienced soldiers, so they would know what it was like. They would understand what she needed to do.

The battlefield seemed disturbingly different, night veiling the chaos that she knew had taken place. Gone were the trappings of battle, no blood, no bodies, no weapons, no sound.

It would have been so easy to forget in that moment. So easy to believe for a second that her century hadn’t died here. But they had, and she couldn’t erase that.

She would remember, for them and for herself.

“We thought you might come out here.”

She jolted at the voice, whirling around and hurling a fist in its general direction. The man behind her dropped his torch and dodged with some difficulty, his leg heavily bandaged.

“Aurelia!” he called, and she paused, peering carefully at him. “Cassian?”

He offered her a grin, massaging his injured arm carefully. “Good to see that you were one of the ones who made it out.”

She could have hugged him in that moment, but her mouth ran away with her. “How-who else?”

He grimaced. “Atalanta, Gaius, Lucius, Aquila, Titus.” The list was short, too short, yet still more than she’d dared to hope for.

“So,” Cassian asked, “are you here to help? Or was it just to….”

He trailed off, and she frowned at him slightly. “I only woke up today. Did they assign us a task out here?”

“No. Not officially, at least. We’re giving our dead their proper rites.” He seemed to dull as the words left his mouth, and she could see wetness at the corners of his eyes in the flickering torchlight.

Almost unconsciously, she found herself moving towards him, placing a hand on his back in a gesture of unspoken comfort.

He looked at her, and some of the tension seemed to drain from his body as he gave her a small smile and stooped to pick up his torch.

She followed him over to where he said the others were working, explaining along the way.

“Officially, this isn’t something we’ve been ordered to do, but it has to be done. The legion marches at midday tomorrow, and our fallen brothers and sisters deserve their rest. The praetors know it. They know we’re here, but they haven’t stopped us.”

By now, her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she was able to pick out several forms trekking across the battlefield.

Cassian raised his torch twice, and the signal was answered promptly when a light flared to life in the hands of the other group.

In spite of everything, she couldn’t stop a smile from rising to her face at the sight of her comrades.

They seemed tired, and each had come away with their own injuries, but they all seemed happy to see each other. Even the ever stoic Lucius grinned as we approached, and Atalanta threw an arm around her when we joined the group.

“Good to see you survived, shield-sister,” she said, hugging the girl firmly despite the fact that her other arm was in a sling.

The embrace was returned carefully, exchanging similar greetings with the rest of them before they got to work. Their fallen brothers and sisters needed to be laid to rest before they could talk.

The sky was still dark by the time they finished, and Atalanta took up her torch. They couldn’t bury them all, it wouldn’t be practical in the time they had left, so they’d had to improvise.

She held the torch to the pyre, and flames quickly took hold of it. In seconds, the pyre was ablaze, wreathing the bodies of the fallen in a burning shroud.

Her ribs ached as she knelt before the pyre and recited the prayer for the dead. The others followed suit, and then it came to the hardest part. Saying goodbye.

Cicero, Drusa, Marcus, Hadrian……The list was long, longer than anyone would like, but they each paid their respects as the flames licked across the pyre.

The sky was starting to grow light when they rose from their vigil, making the slow trek back to camp. The sentries nodded to us. “You did well out there. Get some rest if you can, we’ve been ordered to march out a few hours before noon.”

A brief word of thanks, and then we walked past, exchanging a glance as we did so. “Tomorrow, then. We’ll rest now, find each other when we wake up.”

Atalanta and Cassian followed her to the medical tent, while Lucius and the rest went to their own quarters. Most of them had come away with little more than concussions and scrapes, something which she thanked Mars for before her eyes shut.

It was a dull ache in her chest that woke her early the next morning, a headache pounding behind her eyes and a deep-seated tiredness in her body.

She grimaced as her ribs and bruised chest throbbed in tandem, waiting carefully for the ache to pass.

Then she made the mistake of trying to sit up.

Aurelia barely held the scream back as pain spiked through her chest. As it was, a choked cry left her lips, and she scrambled to bite off the sound.

“You warrior types,” someone muttered, and her eyes swept across the tent. “Always thinking you’re not supposed to show pain, like it’s some kind of weakness.”

Her eyes landed on the herbal stock by her bedside, finding a healer mixing some concoction in the mortar there.

“It makes our jobs a whole lot harder if you won’t say when you need help.” He set the pestle down and turned to her, and she blinked.

“You were the one from yesterday.”

A chuckle. “That I am. Were you able to find the remainder of your century last night?”

So he did know. She sighed. Of course he knew. “Did you tell the sentries to stand aside?”

He shook his head. “They did that on their own. They understand the need to honor the fallen. While I was hoping you wouldn’t have gone and undone all of my work, I expected you to do that.”

The healer held out the mortar to her, and she saw a familiar paste in it. “I’m guessing you’ll be needing more of this, then.”

If she was a more prideful person, she might have been embarrassed by how quickly she accepted. But Aurelia had never been particularly self-oriented, beyond the typical warrior’s pride.

He pretended not to notice when she made the occasional wince, or when pain spiked through her and every muscle went rigid.

That alone made her grateful to him, and she clung to that gratitude when she and the rest of her century were pulled into the praetor’s tent.

They stayed together when they were reassigned. They’d made sure of that, and for a time, things were right in the world again. There were days where she could lose herself in battle, let instinct guide her sword and forget about the days when there were more than just the six of them.

The battlefield had an order to it, an ebb and a flow, and she embraced it wholeheartedly.

Then one of them died, and it was like the world had shattered.

A lucky arrow had pierced the shield wall and caught Titus, burying itself deeply in his stomach. He slipped away as they pushed the opposing army back, their ranks breaking and bending before the legion, but Aurelia didn’t care. Her comrade was dead, and suddenly, they were six.

It was worse when they met again after the battle. There was a gap where none had existed before, and they wept. It had been chaos at the start, when they’d first joined a new century.

They fought differently, they acted differently. More ordered, more rigid, less adaptable. Perhaps that was why they had never connected with the members outside of their own group.

It dulled slowly over the next few months as they patched up the hole and moved on, and then it was ripped open again later.

Aquila had his side sliced open by a dagger in the midst of battle, though he quickly dispatched the one who’d given him the wound. They saw him in the infirmary later, bandaged and tired, and he swore he was fine.

He wasn’t.

The wound was poisoned, the edges of the cut tinged with an unhealthy yellow, and they could only watch as he grew weaker and weaker until one day, he gave into slumber.

When the legion routed the opposing force and publicly executed their leader, Aurelia was only sorry that her century had played so little of a role in the combat.

The battlefield was loss and pain and hate, broached only by the hearts and lives of the friends beside her and the soldiers behind, and she trained and trained to keep those safe.

Of all the people to fall, Lucius had been the one she least expected, yet she was still staring at him in the infirmary, his chest rising and falling in shallow movements.

Atalanta tried to put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off angrily. “It was my fault. I should be the one in that bed.”

She’d been careless. She’d lost sight of the battlefield for a moment in a killing fury, and found herself surrounded and overwhelmed. Lucius had barrelled through with a squad as she neared her limits, and she’d fought desperately to reach them.

A thrust through the heart to a nameless soldier in her way, and then she was within touching distance, her friend’s grizzled face wearing an expression of relief as he took in her exhausted form.

Then his eyes widened, and he threw her aside as a spear flew, goring him through the stomach as he moved to block the strike. He sagged, his face alarmingly pale, and she’d gone into a killing frenzy as she saw him clutch the wound, gathering the troops around her and routing them before rushing him to the infirmary.

He lived still, but he was weak. They didn’t know if he would even wake. She had failed again, and what had been seven was now four.

“No one else,” she swore silently, hacking at the practice target in a vicious motion that sent its head spiralling through the air.

The battlefield was chaos and hell and sacrifice, and she’d be damned if another of her friends fell.

“What I would give to be back in those times,” she mused, staring at the chart before her.

She’d kept her promise in the year that had passed. No one else had died. At least, she hoped no one had. She’d not heard about Lucius’s situation in a while. Not since she’d been promoted.

“The Iron Vanguard”, they called her, a moniker earned from the steadfast defense and relentless strikes that she’d perfected in all her training. She was fearless and unyielding and inspiring, a symbol of courage to the forces she led.

But looking at the chart laid before her, she saw no way to win. Retreat was unthinkable, but the numbers……Any reinforcements would allow for a chance of victory, even just a quarter-century, but command was terribly overextended, and as they stood now, she would need a miracle to hold this off.

She closed her eyes as she made her choice, picking up the full-faced stylised helmet that had become her signature as a warrior.

Atalanta, Gaius and Cassian entered the tent, each ready and waiting as she stood before them. “We fight,” she said heavily. “Pray for a miracle, or that Command sends us reinforcements in time.”

They nodded, sitting beside her as she sighed. “It’s been a long road,” Gaius rumbled, his deep voice ever a source of comfort for her. “It has to end somewhere.”

There was liquor hidden in her desk for special occasions, and she judged it as time, pulling the bottle out and pouring them each generous glasses before taking a large swig from her own.

“Perhaps it’s fitting that we face death here, after all this time. Our brothers and sisters fell seven years ago. Maybe they’ve finally decided it’s time for us to join them.”

“Slash, parry, stab, ram the shield into him and slice-” The soldier tried to counter, and she flicked her blade down the length of his to slam the hilt into his fingers, driving the sword through his gut moments later.

Another bore down on her, and the spear on her back was unslung, snapped in half as a mace bore down on it and its owner was impaled by the head-

There was one behind her, and she had no weapons this t-

A whistle split the air, and the man fell with an arrow in his neck, Atalanta lowering her bow grimly. She nodded to Aurelia as she wrenched her weapon free, ducking under a spear and retaliating with a shot that punched clean through the attacker’s leather armor.

Aurelia grimaced as she surveyed the battlefield. They were fighting hard, but they were still being pushed back by sheer numbers.

Still, she had to try, she thought, stooping to grab a shield from one of the fallen before charging forward into battle.

She lost track of time as the battle went on, the minutes and hours bleeding into an endless cycle of fighting, defending, killing until she was nearly coated in the blood of the slain.

They’d been reduced in number greatly on both sides, but the end was coming for them as the legion was forced back. She saw Atalanta still fighting valiantly, dodging a javelin with a lightning-fast movement before an arrow hit her in the shoulder, and with a growl, she rushed to defend her.

The archer was still on her feet, but struggled to fend off the two approaching her without the use of her bow. Aurelia caught one, ramming her shield into his chest and removing his head as he stumbled backward, while Gaius roared in from god-knows-where to tackle the other one, throwing him to the floor and ramming his polearm through the man’s throat.

Cassian joined them moments later, leading the remaining two centuries behind him as they rushed to their commander’s position.

“This is it, eh?” he yelled, directing the soldiers to form a shield wall around them. “Seems that way!” Atalanta called back, grimacing as she tore the arrow from her shoulder and pulled back the string of her bow.

Aurelia and Gaius stayed silent, their blades raised in preparation for the end. And then they heard it.

The sound of drumming hoofbeats was the only warning the enemy got before a force of cavalry smashed through their lines, carving a path through the bulk of the enemy forces to reach their embattled force.

Aurelia felt only relief as they approached, her mind whirring frantically. “They came through, they got reinforcements for us, we might actually turn this around-”

She heard a familiar warcry as they drew closer, saw the bulky figure of the lead rider, and then stopped dead as his face came into view.

Lucius grinned down at her from his jet-black charger, his greying hair and grizzled face the most welcome sight she’d seen in more days than she cared to remember.

“Am I ever going to stop needing to save you lot?” he called, wheeling the horse to slice a spearman’s weapon in half before stopping beside them.

If her face hadn’t been obscured by the helmet, he would have seen her dirt-streaked features light up. “You’ve been sleeping for ages, old man,” Atalanta called, barely flinching as she drew the bow with her injured arm and dropped an enemy archer. “It’s been us saving you for a while!”

The veteran’s grin only widened at that. “Suppose it means I’ve got to make up for lost time!”

His cavalry wheeled and turned for the enemy again, as did he, and she let a roar touch her lips for the first time in years as she rallied her own forces into a charge.

Everybody is that person.

As long as you hold any opinions, you are disgusting.  Greedy.  Immoral.  Any stance you have is wrong.  

Slowly, society splits itself.  The linear political spectrum that is left and right, I swear, it became 3 dimensional.  Groups formed naturally, like the coagulation on spilt oil forming lumps large and small, but more importantly separate from one another.

People were taught that their feelings mattered.  That they should fight for individual liberty and honour.  And that was the biggest mistake of all.  They always had something to fight for.  They were always unhappy, and they always wanted to be right.  With the absence of the need to fight for their survival, these animals turned to fight against evil.  And what more powerful an evil that didn’t exist?  

They turned against each other.  Pointing and yelling.  What was more scary though, wasn’t the violence or the hatred.  It was the absurd sense of self-righteousness.  They believed themselves to be right.  They only socialised with people who believed they were right.  

So, they built themselves a house with a structure of bias, cemented by ego, with windows that were bricked in with disdain so that you couldn’t see what was inside and they couldn’t see what was outside.

And in this house morality was thrown out of the door.  Like money, morality only had value when people gave it meaning.  Pandemonium begun.

The end of the world began when someone started speaking their mind.  The freedom that was the result of thousands of years of culminated sacrifice and pain, the freedom of expression would lead to people being way too cocky and egotistical.

And so, once the first word of purely subjective opinion was spoken, the world was turned on its heels.  Millions displaced, died, in the name of righteousness.  Oh, how world leaders shook in terror as their own people turned out to be the one they swore to fight against.  Religious extremists, left-wing anarchists, right-wing facists, the full host of characters appeared.  

It is all too late to stop it now.  But you, in the future, after all this is over, should know this.  That opinion is dangerous, that man is far too proud to be able to stand wrong or the slightest offence.  

……

‘People are so loud… Honestly, I don’t like them. But I like you, it’s easy to talk to you and all.’ Alex twisted the black chain-like bracelet on her wrist, took it off, fiddled with it, and held onto it like that. Repeating the process over and over again.

Jace listened to her, watched her fidget like she always does, still staring outside into the menacing light on the other side. What a weird child. This kid’s always been like this, hasn’t she? Ever so blunt, even since we were small children. She’s great though, it’s always nice listening to her talk about the things that don’t matter.

‘It’s always nice to have someone that would watch the world burn with you, amirite?’

Alex giggled. Jace would always say things like that. He sounds morbid, but he really isn’t, and that’s what makes him so fun to talk to. She thought.

People kept walking past, the two of them just sat there watching and that is normally how a day goes by for them if they weren’t in school. They watched as a mother clutched her child, rushing to the bus station. A man in a suit entering his car in a hurry. The beggar who normally sits around the corner limping towards the train…

It was only 8:05 in the morning. Alex knew Jace hated loud noises and the ruckus is surely putting the both of them in quite a foul mood.

‘It’s kind of ironic how the lights are what taints the sky, isn’t it?’ Jace contemplated. He reached his hand out, ‘Do I look like Gatsby? Trying to reach the green light.’

‘ Didn’t you tell me last time Gatsby’s dream of getting the girl didn’t pay off, plus he technically got killed for Daisy’s sin, right?’

‘Well, I will achieve my dream. And probably, add some locks to my front door so nobody can just walk in and shoot me.’

‘Or I can do you a favor and lock you in a giant bulletproof pickle jar?’ Alex suggested, pointing her index finger up, pretending to be dramatic while still keeping a straight face.

‘You wouldn’t be so cruel to me… Would you?’ Jace covered his mouth in “shock”, ‘Plus you wouldn’t even be able to find a giant bulletproof pickle jar.’

‘You underestimate me.’ Alex smirked.

That was when a familiar face ran past them, a boy carrying his schoolbag. Running towards the train station while simultaneously looking down at his watch.

He ran past Alex and Jace but paused soon after to shout back to them, ‘Are you guys not gonna go? This one’s the last train. Hurry up or it will be too late!’

Jace waved at him and said ‘We’re gonna stay here, but thanks!’

‘Ugh, whatever, you guys are two weirdos. I’m better off without bothering you, have fun in hell.’ The boy left on that remark and ran towards the station as fast as he could.

‘He’s from school isn’t he? I think I’ve seen him around.’ Alex said. ‘When do you wanna go anyway?’

‘Maybe a little later, we still have some time.’ There were no more people around, Jace stared out into the now empty space in front of him.

Alex wondered if Jace had ever felt rushed, he’s always been calm and collective. Even when she would throw tantrums at him.

They felt the warm, humid wind on their faces, the tranquility of the place was unknown to them.

‘What would you have done if you were Cersei?’ Jace asked, breaking the silence.  

‘Lannister?’

‘Yea.’

Of course he’s talking about literature, Alex thought.

‘I think I would’ve burnt everyone at the sept too. It was the only way she could’ve eliminated all who were going against her.’ Alex said slightly hesitantly, ‘But that was at the cost of her last son.’

‘Mm, that probably sucked for her, I guess Margaery being engulfed in the flames wasn’t the worst thing that could’ve happened. It’s said that dying in the green flames brings you to the Pandæmonium…’

["Pandæmonium" (in some versions of English "Pandemonium") stems from Greek "παν", meaning "all" or "every", and "δαιμόνιον", meaning "little spirit", "little angel", or, as Christians interpreted it, "little daemon", and later, "demon". It thus roughly translates as "All Demons", but can also be interpreted as Παν-δαιμον-ειον, "all-demon-place".]

They fell silent for a moment.

‘It’s funny how Greek fire burns in the rain, isn’t it?’ Alex hopped down from the Jeep, walking closer towards the bright green flames in front of them while droplets of rain fell onto her face.

‘Do you want to go now?’ Jace asked, jumping off the Jeep, landing silently on his feet.

‘Yea, I guess. It’s time for us to leave our Pandæmonium.’

‘Hey! That’s so ironic considering what I just told you a minute ago.’

‘Whatever. Let’s just go, it’s a green light.’

She sings: The moon has melted in this nocturne spring, Into nightshade berries, the poison, Spilling across palms, Swelling skin, and drenching lungs, In infected toxins.

Mars has been a merciless fire, Raging across our evening seas, The pain striking nightly into our bones, Tombstones red with fresh bloodmarks, But my child, My child,

She sings: The soup I have cooked is getting cold, And your sister is calling for you to our table, Of sweet bread and almonds.

Come back in.

It is cold outside.

The fern sways once from the chipped windowsill, And I watch from a cloud as my home is torn apart, March fire licking the edges of paint.

Days passed, and months flew by When I finally ran out of tears to cry. No more sadness, no more despair Just an empty feeling left there.

For years I was trapped between these walls But today was the last one of them all. No more darkness, no more pain, Just happiness till my dying day.

I ran back home relishing the feeling, Of the freedom I was now experiencing. I believed that the dark days were finally over That I had received my four leaf clover.