It was easy to forget that shock was a physical condition, not just a synonym for being surprised. Alexander had certainly been surprised to have the wind be knocked out of him by a blow to the stomach, in synch with a rather alarming gunshot. What a coincidence, he’d numbly thought. Maybe Nia had been so surprised that she’d accidentally elbowed him very hard. Neither of them were quite used to firearms. He could easily forgive her, once he got his breath back, and the commotion died down.
No further shots followed Nia’s retort, which was probably a good sign. There weren’t any blood-curdling howls of agony, so their attacker had likely only been frightened away, but that was fine. Alexander assumed it’d be difficult to shoot anyone at a decent distance, given the rain. Nia had reacted quickly and decisively, which was all he could really ask for.
The ambush had certainly been a rude wake-up call, but in its aftermath all they could do was stand up, brush away any greenery that was clinging to their clothing, and make their way out of the gardens, likely with much more hurried steps. He’d have to ask Nia to find where his cane had clattered off to, but for the time being there was nothing stopping him from getting to his feet - it wouldn’t do to delay.
There was nothing stopping him from getting to his feet, aside from how his limbs had suddenly been transmuted to lead, and he still couldn’t breathe properly, and Nia was pressing something into his stomach? Confused and mildly irritated, he raised a hand to indicate that he was perfectly fine -
His fingers brushed against the bundle of fabric. It was wet, sticky in such a familiar, heartstopping way, and he remembered viscous letters traced on his palm, and there weren’t any recently dead bodies around to have polluted Nia’s hands this time, were there?
Oh.
Alexander had always considered himself to be quick on the uptake, but, well, medical shock sent tendrils of denial to one’s brain, didn’t it? If only it was as easy to break free of as its emotional counterpart.
“Oh, hell,” he finally managed, with the mildly inconvenienced tone of someone who had just missed their bus. This was happening, wasn’t it? No, it had already happened, hadn’t it? The crucial moments had come and gone before he’d even had a chance to realize it. His hands came to rest on Nia’s, as she desperately tried to stem the flow of blood. How kind of her.
“Who… did this? Did you see?”
I Know in Darkness, I Will Find You (Giving Up Inside Like Me)
[day 3, mid-afternoon, private for m u r d e r]
Nia shook her head before realizing doing so was useless; she moved her hand from under his to sign the word, as though that was any more helpful. Their means of communicating the concept of no had long since been established. People with brain injuries, people with dementia, people in traumatic circumstances, people feeling overwhelming emotions all reverted to their first language. Her fingers started twisting into words instinctively that no one was there to see. She stopped herself with a deep breath, she needed to hold the shirt down, anyway, she clapped, twice. Loud and clear.
Hands back down, then, pressing down on top of his, as though the shirt wasn't already fully saturated, as though blood wasn't soaking his fingers and starting to bubble up through hers. A pointless gesture that felt, at least, better than begging for help from a room full of people who couldn't or wouldn't understand her. It was a motion toward salvation. I don't want you to die, it said, with words she didn't have, however worthless the sentiment was.
Alexander hadn't been one for sentiment.
Wasn't. Wasn't one for sentiment. He wasn't dead, not yet, but they had minutes, if not seconds. So little time it was all the same.
She supposed it was better to not die alone, but she wasn't much to him, in the end. They'd known each other three days. A fraction of a fraction of a school year, an adolescence, a lifetime. A lifetime pressed into a minute more. She was the rest of his life, she was the last person that would ever see him, speak to him. She didn't know his mind, not half as well as she would like, she wanted more time to know him. Maybe it was just trauma. Maybe she'd truly met a kindred spirit whom she never would have met in any other world. Three days, and now she was all he had.
It didn't matter, she said over and over like a mantra, but nihilism was pathetic, weak, cruel in these circumstances. Her thoughts were what truly didn't matter. A million things she could still say but she didn't know that his hands weren't too numb to feel her fingers and she shouldn't waste his time on them anyway.
Her hands squeezed his, reassuring him of nothing but her continued presence. She would stay. She would not flail and panic and lose herself. Not again.
His face looked the same, still. His consistency was a comfort. She held on tightly and heard his peace.
Hands back down, then, pressing down on top of his, as though the shirt wasn't already fully saturated, as though blood wasn't soaking his fingers and starting to bubble up through hers. A pointless gesture that felt, at least, better than begging for help from a room full of people who couldn't or wouldn't understand her. It was a motion toward salvation. I don't want you to die, it said, with words she didn't have, however worthless the sentiment was.
Alexander hadn't been one for sentiment.
Wasn't. Wasn't one for sentiment. He wasn't dead, not yet, but they had minutes, if not seconds. So little time it was all the same.
She supposed it was better to not die alone, but she wasn't much to him, in the end. They'd known each other three days. A fraction of a fraction of a school year, an adolescence, a lifetime. A lifetime pressed into a minute more. She was the rest of his life, she was the last person that would ever see him, speak to him. She didn't know his mind, not half as well as she would like, she wanted more time to know him. Maybe it was just trauma. Maybe she'd truly met a kindred spirit whom she never would have met in any other world. Three days, and now she was all he had.
It didn't matter, she said over and over like a mantra, but nihilism was pathetic, weak, cruel in these circumstances. Her thoughts were what truly didn't matter. A million things she could still say but she didn't know that his hands weren't too numb to feel her fingers and she shouldn't waste his time on them anyway.
Her hands squeezed his, reassuring him of nothing but her continued presence. She would stay. She would not flail and panic and lose herself. Not again.
His face looked the same, still. His consistency was a comfort. She held on tightly and heard his peace.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Two claps. How simple, how nostalgic. So, Nia didn’t know. That was reasonable, it was raining, it was overcast, their assailant had been some distance away, it wasn’t as if Alexander had hoped to indulge in the simple pleasure of going to his grave cursing the name of his killer, not at all.
Nia squeezed his hands in a way that should have been comforting. Alexander should have taken solace in that, like a good little tragic victim, holding his last friend until his consciousness failed him, but he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t lean back and thank her one last time and smile and be carried to heaven as a beam of light broke through the clouds, just for him,
He tore his hands away from her.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit, god fucking damn it all,” he muttered, then spat, then screamed, impotently pounding the ground with each profane, mood-ruining curse he spewed, hands becoming as covered with mud as they were blood.
What was the point of steeling his resolve if it was never tested? What was the point of turning his back on his friends when he had never even encountered them? What was the point of hardening his heart when it was going to stop beating so, so terrifyingly soon? He could have accepted someone outwitting him. He could have accepted some attempted ambush or scheme gone wrong. He could have accepted falling in a duel where both participants turned and fired after the first pace.
His murderer wouldn’t even gain anything from killing him! Not his supplies, not his excuse for a weapon! If both he and Nia had been gunned down on the spot, well, that would have obviously been less than ideal, but that was how the game went. Uncreative, but one of many ways to get ahead.
Alexander was dying for nothing, for no one’s gain or even satisfaction.
“Now? Now? Not even halfway through? Not even a quarter? Like this? So goddamn arbitrarily?”
If he had given up from the moment he had woken up, he wouldn’t have needed to face the shame of failing so easily, so early. He could have just prayed for a miracle, to hug his friends one last time. But no, he had tried, and where had it gotten him?
Roxanne and Marcy would outlive him. All the Brians of the world who wanted to die would outlive him. All the Nicks who killed with tears in their eyes and apologies on their lips would outlive him. Clayton would outlive him. The storm would outlive him. His fucking dog would outlive him.
His limbs were getting heavier and heavier, the numbness in his gut replaced with a creeping burning pain, and he could feel himself starting to slip into a sleep he’d never awaken from, but he couldn’t let go yet. He still had to nominate his second.
A win by proxy was better than nothing.
He sat up as best as he could. Grabbed Nia by the shoulders, then by the neck of her shirt, fingers digging into the fabric. She needed to hear this.
“Live, Nia. Even if you have to kill every last bastard in your way,” Alexander snarled, fighting to stay awake just a few moments longer, to live long enough that she could reassure him that she wouldn’t go and get herself killed the moment he wasn’t around to be watched.
Nia squeezed his hands in a way that should have been comforting. Alexander should have taken solace in that, like a good little tragic victim, holding his last friend until his consciousness failed him, but he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t lean back and thank her one last time and smile and be carried to heaven as a beam of light broke through the clouds, just for him,
He tore his hands away from her.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit, god fucking damn it all,” he muttered, then spat, then screamed, impotently pounding the ground with each profane, mood-ruining curse he spewed, hands becoming as covered with mud as they were blood.
What was the point of steeling his resolve if it was never tested? What was the point of turning his back on his friends when he had never even encountered them? What was the point of hardening his heart when it was going to stop beating so, so terrifyingly soon? He could have accepted someone outwitting him. He could have accepted some attempted ambush or scheme gone wrong. He could have accepted falling in a duel where both participants turned and fired after the first pace.
His murderer wouldn’t even gain anything from killing him! Not his supplies, not his excuse for a weapon! If both he and Nia had been gunned down on the spot, well, that would have obviously been less than ideal, but that was how the game went. Uncreative, but one of many ways to get ahead.
Alexander was dying for nothing, for no one’s gain or even satisfaction.
“Now? Now? Not even halfway through? Not even a quarter? Like this? So goddamn arbitrarily?”
If he had given up from the moment he had woken up, he wouldn’t have needed to face the shame of failing so easily, so early. He could have just prayed for a miracle, to hug his friends one last time. But no, he had tried, and where had it gotten him?
Roxanne and Marcy would outlive him. All the Brians of the world who wanted to die would outlive him. All the Nicks who killed with tears in their eyes and apologies on their lips would outlive him. Clayton would outlive him. The storm would outlive him. His fucking dog would outlive him.
His limbs were getting heavier and heavier, the numbness in his gut replaced with a creeping burning pain, and he could feel himself starting to slip into a sleep he’d never awaken from, but he couldn’t let go yet. He still had to nominate his second.
A win by proxy was better than nothing.
He sat up as best as he could. Grabbed Nia by the shoulders, then by the neck of her shirt, fingers digging into the fabric. She needed to hear this.
“Live, Nia. Even if you have to kill every last bastard in your way,” Alexander snarled, fighting to stay awake just a few moments longer, to live long enough that she could reassure him that she wouldn’t go and get herself killed the moment he wasn’t around to be watched.
No peace, then. No peace for anyone.
She had been looking at his face, his expression, when he moved, and so she saw the moment when his features twisted into a snarl a second before he ripped his hands from hers. She was surprised immediately by his vigor by the extent of his—tantrum was impossibly uncharitable because he was right, he had every right to curse a world that killed him this way, had every right to kick and scream and claw for every moment he had left, she couldn't imagine. There were no words of comfort for him, none for any of them here, even if she could express them in a way he knew. She understood. But still, she hadn't expected it.
Why?
She had watched Jeremiah die. She had watched him be murdered, and he fell to the ground, bleeding, twitching, bereft of strength, and she had frozen. She remembered, it churned her gut to remember watching the light slip from his eyes but she remembered, she knew, she was prepared to watch it happen again to the one person left she had trusted to lash herself to. She expected him to slip away. She had expected to be a witness. A silent watcher at his deathbed. Another burden on her heart.
Jeremiah would have cursed his circumstances, too. If he had been given the chance, the right. Jeremiah was angry. He would have snapped and clawed at Nick with every moment his strength held, he did, he only fell from the nature of his injuries, he didn't have a choice. Nick took that away from him.
The world had always been cruel to her brother that way.
Alexander could not fight back against his attacker; they, whoever they were, had not made themselves known, had not taken another shot. Perhaps Nia had hit them, though she doubted it. She would find out the next morning, when Danya spoke their name. Alexander would never know. That was her burden to bear, a name on a list, a duty, almost, she bore so much already, didn't she? She bore his curses at the sky because no one else would. She knew. She understood.
He would be gone, in moments, and she would still be here.
The one constant in her life, and the one constant on the island, and in moments she would be alone.
Selfishness. She thought about running. She thought about putting a bullet in his head for a fleeting, intrusive moment. Faster that way, she could justify, as though Alexander wouldn't choose to claw for every painful second of his remaining life. She never would have shot him. She would have debated and wavered and given up, over and over again, every time. Her resolve had never been as strong as she needed it to be, as she thought it was. Every thought she'd had of him being a burden, of using him, of abandoning him, thumped against her skull in a heartbeat rhythm, guilt that had no purpose or destination.
Selfishness.
She could have ran.
She didn't even flinch when he grabbed her. She stared, instead, through him, and heard his words, and those were a burden, too.
Her hands grabbed his. She felt them, rapidly becoming limp, too cold, her hands were already soaked in his blood.
She clapped them together.
Once.
She had been looking at his face, his expression, when he moved, and so she saw the moment when his features twisted into a snarl a second before he ripped his hands from hers. She was surprised immediately by his vigor by the extent of his—tantrum was impossibly uncharitable because he was right, he had every right to curse a world that killed him this way, had every right to kick and scream and claw for every moment he had left, she couldn't imagine. There were no words of comfort for him, none for any of them here, even if she could express them in a way he knew. She understood. But still, she hadn't expected it.
Why?
She had watched Jeremiah die. She had watched him be murdered, and he fell to the ground, bleeding, twitching, bereft of strength, and she had frozen. She remembered, it churned her gut to remember watching the light slip from his eyes but she remembered, she knew, she was prepared to watch it happen again to the one person left she had trusted to lash herself to. She expected him to slip away. She had expected to be a witness. A silent watcher at his deathbed. Another burden on her heart.
Jeremiah would have cursed his circumstances, too. If he had been given the chance, the right. Jeremiah was angry. He would have snapped and clawed at Nick with every moment his strength held, he did, he only fell from the nature of his injuries, he didn't have a choice. Nick took that away from him.
The world had always been cruel to her brother that way.
Alexander could not fight back against his attacker; they, whoever they were, had not made themselves known, had not taken another shot. Perhaps Nia had hit them, though she doubted it. She would find out the next morning, when Danya spoke their name. Alexander would never know. That was her burden to bear, a name on a list, a duty, almost, she bore so much already, didn't she? She bore his curses at the sky because no one else would. She knew. She understood.
He would be gone, in moments, and she would still be here.
The one constant in her life, and the one constant on the island, and in moments she would be alone.
Selfishness. She thought about running. She thought about putting a bullet in his head for a fleeting, intrusive moment. Faster that way, she could justify, as though Alexander wouldn't choose to claw for every painful second of his remaining life. She never would have shot him. She would have debated and wavered and given up, over and over again, every time. Her resolve had never been as strong as she needed it to be, as she thought it was. Every thought she'd had of him being a burden, of using him, of abandoning him, thumped against her skull in a heartbeat rhythm, guilt that had no purpose or destination.
Selfishness.
She could have ran.
She didn't even flinch when he grabbed her. She stared, instead, through him, and heard his words, and those were a burden, too.
Her hands grabbed his. She felt them, rapidly becoming limp, too cold, her hands were already soaked in his blood.
She clapped them together.
Once.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Good.
Here, finally, Alexander should've thanked her.
His grip slackened.
He couldn't.
Here, finally, Alexander should've thanked her.
His grip slackened.
He couldn't.
And he was gone.
She didn't believe it. Not for a long moment, spent holding limp hands tight. She thought to shake his shoulders, as though he had simply dozed off and she needed to wake him. A breach of etiquette and nothing more. It was his strength, until the moment he couldn't hold onto it anymore, his conviction, the hands curled into her collar had felt strong enough to throw her bodily backward into the tall grass, and now they had nothing in them at all. She held them, still. They were still warm, still human, but empty. A remnant of his anger still etched onto his face, as though he hadn't had time to resolve the feeling. He hadn't. He hadn't had time, for that or for anything else. For all the things he could do, achieve, become.
One moment his voice rang true in her ears, and the next he was forever silent. The veil between life and death was paper-thin.
The ghost had left the shell.
She cautiously, as though handling a porcelain doll, placed his hands on his lap, one over the other. His wound still bled, impudent in its imitation of life but slowly now, thickly, as though running out of fuel. He had already been so pale that the difference in him bloodless was hard to discern, easily overtaken by the difference in him still and silent. He had spoken, always, every moment, and she had grown to appreciate the sound of his voice and she would never ever hear it again. It existed only in her memory. She thought this, deliberately, looking over him. She would never see him move, trace another word onto his palm, walk with him, laugh at him, laugh with him, again.
She thought this, as though to test herself.
How large a hole could be carved into her heart in three days?
She wasn't crying, she noticed. She wasn't sure how much that meant, if anything. She had cried more since yesterday than she had remembered crying since she was a child. Perhaps her well had simply run empty. Perhaps she was succumbing to compassion fatigue. Perhaps, taken one after another, tragedies simply could not be given the gravity they deserved. Doctors saw worse and they lived with themselves. Her father had seen worse and he smiled when he came home from work.
Or perhaps, eyeing him, remembering the strength in his hands and the power in his voice, she was still waiting for him to wake up.
She stood, slow enough that she knew she was taking a risk. Logically their assailant was likely long gone, though Nia couldn't say for sure if the time between Alexander being shot and her standing now measured in minutes or seconds. Still, she imagined it likely they had fled or at least fired again by now, and considering the only alternative was to stay crouched here for eternity she chose to expose herself to potential enemy fire, retrieving the gun she'd dropped in her shock to point in the general direction they'd come from. If she was wrong, if another shot rang out, and at least she could shoot back. Though considering her visibility disadvantage she'd likely be shot herself, first, and bleed out here with Alexander, alone.
If that happened, it happened, she supposed. She couldn't muster the emotion for fear.
There was no shot, nothing breaking the sound of rain. It would be unreasonable to assume they were alone, considering the size of the garden and the amount of places one could hide, but she felt alone because there was no they and she couldn't think about that, anymore. There were logistical details to consider. There had been gunfire, that could attract trouble, or their assailant could simply have chosen to target them from another position and was currently on the move. She couldn't stay here any longer. Alexander was nothing if not pragmatic. He would understand.
First, his bag. Contents already rifled through on their first morning, identical to hers but for the gun that she had already taken. With Jeremiah's rations split between them they already had more food than the average person; taking Alexander's would leave her rich, though it would stuff her bag full to bursting. Jeremiah's second bag still had room, though she hadn't had the emotional energy yet to open it, and for once sentiment overpowered practicality. She took the remaining energy bars and one extra bottle of water, stuffing them into her own bag, along with a granola bar, the one remaining of Alexander's trip snacks that the two of them hadn't shared over the course of the previous days.
The bread and crackers she tore open and crushed into the dirt with her heels, the rest of the water she poured out, stomping the bottles into useless shapes. If she had access to poison she would have thought to leave poisoned bottles behind, but as it were this was the best she could do. She popped the batteries out of his flashlight and slipped those into her bag; she cracked open his compass and destroyed it, crumpled his map and ripped it to useless shreds. The medical kit was too bulky to carry and she imagined it wouldn't be much help to any who found it, but for the sake of caution she emptied its contents anyway, kicking and scattering their contents beneath the brush, not taking the time or effort to destroy them but rendering them at least not worth scavenging.
The bag sat empty but for the useless survival guide, and the hammer.
Alexander had never known, died not knowing, who the hammer had belonged to. He had no reason to know. and she didn't think to bother him with the knowledge. It passed from one dead friend to another before falling into her hands. Cursed, she might call it if she were the superstitious sort. Impractical, she thought more logically, compared to a pistol, in the hands of someone whose physical strength was limited. She ought to keep it, if only to keep it out of the hands of someone who might make better use of it. She could hardly destroy it like she had the rations. It could go into her bag, to be called upon if its less violent uses became required.
She swung it in front of her, on a whim. It passed through the air more easily than anticipated, the muscles in her arm carrying the momentum in slow-motion, like moving through water. She held it in front of her for a moment, processing the weight of it, imagining the power it would have had when her brother swung it.
She slid it into her waistband, behind the pistol.
Her own bags would be a bit heavier, but not overwhelmingly so. She was well-rested enough that she was certain she could travel a decent distance, even with the added weight, before a break would be necessary. She could travel far more quickly, alone, though no one would be able to help her with her things temporarily if she grew too weary to carry them further. Advantages and disadvantages. She would manage, somehow.
That left one more obvious task to take care of.
Funeral rites were as old as humanity itself. That Neanderthals buried their dead and may have buried them accompanied by flowers was considered a sign of their humanity; that elephants mourned their dead was considered a sign of their unusual intelligence. It was a natural way to give respect to the dead and bring some small comfort to the living who remained behind, and while cultural standards differed wildly many of the fundamentals were cross-cultural. She had read plenty on the topic, one of those anthropological subtopics with a lot of interesting details to dig into when she was bored.
She had never given thought for a moment as to her preferences as to the disposal of her own body, when she died. Considering she would be dead at the time, she couldn't imagine she would have any particular feelings about the treatment of her corpse. Whatever made whoever cared about her enough to care for her body feel marginally better about her passing, seemed like the reasonable answer. Besides, death had always been an abstraction, a distance so difficult to fathom traveling that it was not worth the effort to consider what lay on the other end.
It was so close, now, that she could reach out and touch it, but she still had no answer. It didn't matter. If she was to die here, it would be alone. Her body would rot where it lay, and that would be all.
She had never asked Alexander, and perhaps she should have, now, faced with what it was still difficult to think of as a corpse. He was hardly the sentimental sort, she didn't imagine he would have much appreciation for a full-service sort of funeral even in a circumstance where he could be provided one. If he had religious beliefs, they had never discussed them. They had steered away from the subject of death, except to joke about the unlikely possibility of them reaching the end of this game together. Until the moment he realized he was shot, Nia knew, Alexander had not truly believed he would die.
She had not, either. She still didn't. That was the correct way to think, of course. Jeremiah fought until his body broke down. Alexander fought until his last breath. Acceptance earned you nothing.
Even if they had had that conversation, what did she have to give? She had a lighter, but in this rain it would be impossible to set a funeral pyre, even setting aside the difficulty of creating one and the possible infraction of the rules doing so would cause. There was the ocean, but she couldn't imagine herself strong enough to drag him more than a few feet, let alone all the way to the sea. The lake was closer, but still far too far away.
She had dirt, and grass, and leaves. She had no shovel, and the ground was soft from rainfall; with enough time and effort it might be technically possible to dig him a grave by hand. But to what end? It would take hours, leave her filthy and exhausted and vulnerable to anyone who might wish her ill. She didn't know what Alexander would have wanted done with his body. But she did know what he wanted. The only thing she had to go on, the last words he would ever speak. She could not risk her life for this.
She knelt down again, next to—it. It was not Alexander. She owed it no debts.
She slipped the glasses off its face, a whim, she saw its eyes were open, she closed them. Mechanical actions. She tucked the glasses into the collar of her shirt where strong hands grabbed her minutes before and opened her bag, the medical kit. She owed it no debts, but she could give Alexander some peace, on the offhand chance that there was some shadow of him somewhere, on this world or another, that might care.
The emergency blanket was a bit garish for her purposes, but it would do. She covered the body with it, tucking it in so the wind wouldn't rip it free as the storm picked up, some dignity, at least, hiding inevitable decomposition from the eyes of the cameras. Looking around, she ripped grass from the ground, strands of ivy. There might be flowers here, somewhere, but they would feel so incongruously sentimental. She gathered enough to cover the blanket, at least enough that one would have to be fairly close to spot the silver sticking out from the green. A bid for privacy, for solitude. It was better not to be disturbed.
She wished she could leave a note, the way she did for Jeremiah. But the rain did not stop falling.
She stood again, her energy drained by a relatively simple act. She was rooted to the spot for a long moment, finding it near impossible to turn away from what had still only minutes before been a talking, breathing, living person, as though he might stand at any moment. She knew there was no he left to stand. But she watched, for a long moment, a silent witness, anyway.
"GOODBYE."
>> She signed, at no one, at nothing. No one was there.
She didn't believe it. Not for a long moment, spent holding limp hands tight. She thought to shake his shoulders, as though he had simply dozed off and she needed to wake him. A breach of etiquette and nothing more. It was his strength, until the moment he couldn't hold onto it anymore, his conviction, the hands curled into her collar had felt strong enough to throw her bodily backward into the tall grass, and now they had nothing in them at all. She held them, still. They were still warm, still human, but empty. A remnant of his anger still etched onto his face, as though he hadn't had time to resolve the feeling. He hadn't. He hadn't had time, for that or for anything else. For all the things he could do, achieve, become.
One moment his voice rang true in her ears, and the next he was forever silent. The veil between life and death was paper-thin.
The ghost had left the shell.
She cautiously, as though handling a porcelain doll, placed his hands on his lap, one over the other. His wound still bled, impudent in its imitation of life but slowly now, thickly, as though running out of fuel. He had already been so pale that the difference in him bloodless was hard to discern, easily overtaken by the difference in him still and silent. He had spoken, always, every moment, and she had grown to appreciate the sound of his voice and she would never ever hear it again. It existed only in her memory. She thought this, deliberately, looking over him. She would never see him move, trace another word onto his palm, walk with him, laugh at him, laugh with him, again.
She thought this, as though to test herself.
How large a hole could be carved into her heart in three days?
She wasn't crying, she noticed. She wasn't sure how much that meant, if anything. She had cried more since yesterday than she had remembered crying since she was a child. Perhaps her well had simply run empty. Perhaps she was succumbing to compassion fatigue. Perhaps, taken one after another, tragedies simply could not be given the gravity they deserved. Doctors saw worse and they lived with themselves. Her father had seen worse and he smiled when he came home from work.
Or perhaps, eyeing him, remembering the strength in his hands and the power in his voice, she was still waiting for him to wake up.
She stood, slow enough that she knew she was taking a risk. Logically their assailant was likely long gone, though Nia couldn't say for sure if the time between Alexander being shot and her standing now measured in minutes or seconds. Still, she imagined it likely they had fled or at least fired again by now, and considering the only alternative was to stay crouched here for eternity she chose to expose herself to potential enemy fire, retrieving the gun she'd dropped in her shock to point in the general direction they'd come from. If she was wrong, if another shot rang out, and at least she could shoot back. Though considering her visibility disadvantage she'd likely be shot herself, first, and bleed out here with Alexander, alone.
If that happened, it happened, she supposed. She couldn't muster the emotion for fear.
There was no shot, nothing breaking the sound of rain. It would be unreasonable to assume they were alone, considering the size of the garden and the amount of places one could hide, but she felt alone because there was no they and she couldn't think about that, anymore. There were logistical details to consider. There had been gunfire, that could attract trouble, or their assailant could simply have chosen to target them from another position and was currently on the move. She couldn't stay here any longer. Alexander was nothing if not pragmatic. He would understand.
First, his bag. Contents already rifled through on their first morning, identical to hers but for the gun that she had already taken. With Jeremiah's rations split between them they already had more food than the average person; taking Alexander's would leave her rich, though it would stuff her bag full to bursting. Jeremiah's second bag still had room, though she hadn't had the emotional energy yet to open it, and for once sentiment overpowered practicality. She took the remaining energy bars and one extra bottle of water, stuffing them into her own bag, along with a granola bar, the one remaining of Alexander's trip snacks that the two of them hadn't shared over the course of the previous days.
The bread and crackers she tore open and crushed into the dirt with her heels, the rest of the water she poured out, stomping the bottles into useless shapes. If she had access to poison she would have thought to leave poisoned bottles behind, but as it were this was the best she could do. She popped the batteries out of his flashlight and slipped those into her bag; she cracked open his compass and destroyed it, crumpled his map and ripped it to useless shreds. The medical kit was too bulky to carry and she imagined it wouldn't be much help to any who found it, but for the sake of caution she emptied its contents anyway, kicking and scattering their contents beneath the brush, not taking the time or effort to destroy them but rendering them at least not worth scavenging.
The bag sat empty but for the useless survival guide, and the hammer.
Alexander had never known, died not knowing, who the hammer had belonged to. He had no reason to know. and she didn't think to bother him with the knowledge. It passed from one dead friend to another before falling into her hands. Cursed, she might call it if she were the superstitious sort. Impractical, she thought more logically, compared to a pistol, in the hands of someone whose physical strength was limited. She ought to keep it, if only to keep it out of the hands of someone who might make better use of it. She could hardly destroy it like she had the rations. It could go into her bag, to be called upon if its less violent uses became required.
She swung it in front of her, on a whim. It passed through the air more easily than anticipated, the muscles in her arm carrying the momentum in slow-motion, like moving through water. She held it in front of her for a moment, processing the weight of it, imagining the power it would have had when her brother swung it.
She slid it into her waistband, behind the pistol.
Her own bags would be a bit heavier, but not overwhelmingly so. She was well-rested enough that she was certain she could travel a decent distance, even with the added weight, before a break would be necessary. She could travel far more quickly, alone, though no one would be able to help her with her things temporarily if she grew too weary to carry them further. Advantages and disadvantages. She would manage, somehow.
That left one more obvious task to take care of.
Funeral rites were as old as humanity itself. That Neanderthals buried their dead and may have buried them accompanied by flowers was considered a sign of their humanity; that elephants mourned their dead was considered a sign of their unusual intelligence. It was a natural way to give respect to the dead and bring some small comfort to the living who remained behind, and while cultural standards differed wildly many of the fundamentals were cross-cultural. She had read plenty on the topic, one of those anthropological subtopics with a lot of interesting details to dig into when she was bored.
She had never given thought for a moment as to her preferences as to the disposal of her own body, when she died. Considering she would be dead at the time, she couldn't imagine she would have any particular feelings about the treatment of her corpse. Whatever made whoever cared about her enough to care for her body feel marginally better about her passing, seemed like the reasonable answer. Besides, death had always been an abstraction, a distance so difficult to fathom traveling that it was not worth the effort to consider what lay on the other end.
It was so close, now, that she could reach out and touch it, but she still had no answer. It didn't matter. If she was to die here, it would be alone. Her body would rot where it lay, and that would be all.
She had never asked Alexander, and perhaps she should have, now, faced with what it was still difficult to think of as a corpse. He was hardly the sentimental sort, she didn't imagine he would have much appreciation for a full-service sort of funeral even in a circumstance where he could be provided one. If he had religious beliefs, they had never discussed them. They had steered away from the subject of death, except to joke about the unlikely possibility of them reaching the end of this game together. Until the moment he realized he was shot, Nia knew, Alexander had not truly believed he would die.
She had not, either. She still didn't. That was the correct way to think, of course. Jeremiah fought until his body broke down. Alexander fought until his last breath. Acceptance earned you nothing.
Even if they had had that conversation, what did she have to give? She had a lighter, but in this rain it would be impossible to set a funeral pyre, even setting aside the difficulty of creating one and the possible infraction of the rules doing so would cause. There was the ocean, but she couldn't imagine herself strong enough to drag him more than a few feet, let alone all the way to the sea. The lake was closer, but still far too far away.
She had dirt, and grass, and leaves. She had no shovel, and the ground was soft from rainfall; with enough time and effort it might be technically possible to dig him a grave by hand. But to what end? It would take hours, leave her filthy and exhausted and vulnerable to anyone who might wish her ill. She didn't know what Alexander would have wanted done with his body. But she did know what he wanted. The only thing she had to go on, the last words he would ever speak. She could not risk her life for this.
She knelt down again, next to—it. It was not Alexander. She owed it no debts.
She slipped the glasses off its face, a whim, she saw its eyes were open, she closed them. Mechanical actions. She tucked the glasses into the collar of her shirt where strong hands grabbed her minutes before and opened her bag, the medical kit. She owed it no debts, but she could give Alexander some peace, on the offhand chance that there was some shadow of him somewhere, on this world or another, that might care.
The emergency blanket was a bit garish for her purposes, but it would do. She covered the body with it, tucking it in so the wind wouldn't rip it free as the storm picked up, some dignity, at least, hiding inevitable decomposition from the eyes of the cameras. Looking around, she ripped grass from the ground, strands of ivy. There might be flowers here, somewhere, but they would feel so incongruously sentimental. She gathered enough to cover the blanket, at least enough that one would have to be fairly close to spot the silver sticking out from the green. A bid for privacy, for solitude. It was better not to be disturbed.
She wished she could leave a note, the way she did for Jeremiah. But the rain did not stop falling.
She stood again, her energy drained by a relatively simple act. She was rooted to the spot for a long moment, finding it near impossible to turn away from what had still only minutes before been a talking, breathing, living person, as though he might stand at any moment. She knew there was no he left to stand. But she watched, for a long moment, a silent witness, anyway.
"GOODBYE."
>> She signed, at no one, at nothing. No one was there.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."