[ The sound of the wind through the grass and the trees masks her approach, this time, as he stares down at the four markers. Billy. Goodnight. Jack. Poor bastards, he thinks. Billy and Goodnight couldn’t have gone too long before or after him, he thinks. He faintly recalls hearing Goodnight’s whoops at his back, his war cry, wonders if that’s how he sounded during the war, too. Horne, though – he wonders what got him. Wonders if he found any peace, wonders if he’s with that family he talked about all those ages ago.
And then Emma’s voice is at his back, and he whips around, startled – and that would have rarely happened in life, to be taken so off-guard. These days, or at least the brief snippets of days when he’s enough of himself to think, his mind is beset with unraveling this mystery.
So when she asks, what are you?, all he can croak out is, ]
I— I don’t know, myself.
[ Admittedly, he wasn’t doing a very good job at solving this particular puzzle. He knows what he should be (dead), knows what he most certainly is not (alive), but he has yet to put a pin on what he is.
His gaze flits down to the bundle of flowers at her feet, to the shock written across every inch of her face, and that warm little flicker licks in his chest again. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, though he’s reluctant to let it show, afraid to suffer disappointment again. ]
But you can see me, can’t you? [ Then, a touch desperately, ] Tell me you can see me.
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And then Emma’s voice is at his back, and he whips around, startled – and that would have rarely happened in life, to be taken so off-guard. These days, or at least the brief snippets of days when he’s enough of himself to think, his mind is beset with unraveling this mystery.
So when she asks, what are you?, all he can croak out is, ]
I— I don’t know, myself.
[ Admittedly, he wasn’t doing a very good job at solving this particular puzzle. He knows what he should be (dead), knows what he most certainly is not (alive), but he has yet to put a pin on what he is.
His gaze flits down to the bundle of flowers at her feet, to the shock written across every inch of her face, and that warm little flicker licks in his chest again. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, though he’s reluctant to let it show, afraid to suffer disappointment again. ]
But you can see me, can’t you? [ Then, a touch desperately, ] Tell me you can see me.