Darkness.

Aches in the back.

Aches in the arms.

Sore neck.

Bitterness on the tip of the tongue.

Beep.

Cold.

Had it all been dream? He was still stuck under the collapsed mines, wasn’t he? Slowly expiring under the hundreds of meters of ice, stone, and snapped iron rods. Willard didn’t know if his eyes were open or not. It didn’t matter. Soon they’d be open forever. Twitches on his cheeks told him his lips had curled into a grin.

What a dream.

There’d been an accident in Ferah. A freak show of nature. Mother and Adrian were dead. Mia was gone. Wait, Mia? When did she show up? He was sure he’d forgotten all about her. They had a plan…didn’t they? He was going to betray her……

Beep.

So it was all but a nightmare. Being stuck here meant none of that had ever happened—the delusions of a fever dream. His mother and brother would be some hundred miles from him, back home, watching that old television Samwell had brought back from the junkyard. Mother would be rocking on her wheelchair, and Adrian…well…Willard just hoped his little brother didn’t get into any more trouble.

But who would take care of them then? Samwell, probably. If not, Krummlae. That old Sorissian would pressure himself into repaying Willard’s various minor debts to him. In that sense, Willard realized, he was not needed anymore. It brought some him some comfort along with a tinge of sadness. He should’ve spent more time with them. Now that he was stuck here, though…he couldn’t even say his goodbyes.

Ah well. If he was going to die on the cold, hard glass panes of the elevator, he might as well get into a more comfortable position. Willard curled into a ball and tried to pull his arms around his legs. Something bit into the back of his arm and a wave of pain shot through him.

Beep.

He blinked. Still blackness. He listened. The groans of faraway ice were absent. He couldn’t smell the rust in the air. Instead, a faint, artificially minty aroma permeated the air—the refreshing smell of purifiers. A small, bright red light winked at him somewhere to his right.

Beep.

He knew that sound all too well. It was the stabilizing light on an infusion pump. He raised his left arm, and through the darkness he saw two needles carefully inserted into its crook.

“P-fifteen’s awake,” someone said somewhere to the right.

“Come again?” A familiar voice.

What?

“Your brother’s awake, Himironn.” Another familiar voice. A deeper one spoken with a raspy, hoarse throat.

Krummlae?

“Can I see him?”

“I’d advise against it. His vitals have returned to normal but…it is a miracle we even found him. He is weak. Any external shock would be devastating.”

This is a dream.

A flood of pain erupted from Willard’s chest. His breaths quickened. His pupils dilated. Sweat rolled down his forehead, and he felt like someone who just had the biggest lottery win of their life ripped away from them.

“Ah…ahh…” he croaked, waving his arms frantically around, ignoring the pain in his arms as the needles were pulled out. He didn’t know what he was saying. He didn’t know what he was thinking.

“Ahh…ahh…AGHH!” Incomprehensible screeches escaped his hoarse throat. He tried to scramble up but was pulled back by some sort of wire entwined around his torso. He rolled, tumbling down the bed and knocking down the Vital Signs Monitor by the bed. Nearly simultaneously, his eyes went out of focus from the a strong light as the curtains to his bed were thrown open.

“Ahh…wha...” Willard squinted at the lanky figure before him. An oval face. Bandage on the nose. Sharp chins. Eyes like almonds, hair glistening like obsidian. The face of his brother.

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He pushed himself up from the ground, staggering as he tried to regain his balance. His throat burned, his heart raced, and hope gripped the edges of his chest. Adrian was alive. He thanked all the deities he could think of.

“Hey, hey, take it ea-” Before Adrian could finish, Willard had thrown himself onto him. Actually, it was more accurate to say that he collapsed on him, bawling like a kid. Tears streamed down his cheeks, his chin, and dripped onto Adrian’s neck. He tried to speak, to tell him just how much he wanted to see him, but the words were washed away by the gurgling in his throat. Willard felt something hot and wet fall onto his head. Then a second drop. Then a third. Adrian was shaking slightly.

“You’re bleeding,” Adrian said. Indeed, Willard saw a patch of red on Adrian’s back where his left arm was wrapped around him.

“…I might’ve…hic…been a bit overexcited.”

“…that’s enough.” Adrian squirmed out of Willard’s arms and stood several paces to him. His voice was cold.

“Alright, Mr. Price. Let’s get’s you up.” A man in a white overcoat came over and helped Willard to his feet, careful not to squeeze his left arm. “How’re you feeling?”

“Where’s Ma?” Willard ignored the question, looking around. Now that there was light, it occurred to him that he wasn’t in a solid medical bay. Rather, a large tent with twenty or so curtained beds stretching all the way to the end. Some curtains were drawn back, other still tightly shut. Mother would be in one of them, he was sure of it. If Adrian was here, so was she. The tent’s covers fluttered and made a flapping sound like two pieces of raw ham slapping together. Willard turned back to the man in the white overcoat.

“Elena Melinoe. Where is she?”

“Melinoe…”Numbers flashed across the man’s optics, “we don’t seem to have her in our custody.”

“What? No, that’s not right. That’s, that’s…” Willard’s gaze fell onto Adrian. His back was half turned towards him, but he could see make out the silhouette of his downturned lips against the orange light outside.

Willard’s ears rang.

The man beside him said something and placed his hand on his shoulder. He shook it off halfheatedly whilst stumbling across to Adrian, not hearing what the man had said. He couldn’t. All he could hear now was his own heartbeat, like a thousand drummers beating on the insides of his head.

He reached Adrian, tried to pull him towards him. Adrian didn’t budge.

Willard squeezed his eyes hard and stared at his brother’s face. Pupils like almonds. But…the white were replaced by a dirty red. Swelling under both eyes, darker and puffier than any punch to the face, dried tear streaks on his cheeks. Adrian pulled away, refusing to look at him. Krummlae, who was standing beside the two, came over to Willard and put a firm hand on his back. Shaking, slowly Willard glanced up. Krummlae didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The sadness in his old, Sorissian eyes told Willard everything he needed to know.

“No…no. That’s not happening. You’re lying. Tell me you’re lying,” he whispered.

“Sir…you should go back to rest,” someone said behind him.

As though someone had turned a coil in him, Willard pushed past Krummlae and sprang into a full sprint, bursting out of the tent. He was out, shaking in a barren white field that burned his eyes. Several dozen meters above him he saw the swaying branches of a dead tree—the limbs of dead men waving. Without stopping, he sprang up the slope that led to the rows of charcoal tree-stumps. The snow crumbled below his bare feet. The wind billowed against his skin. The smell of rusted iron was strong in his mouth. He heard shouts behind him, but kept on running, running, up that little hill until the ground flattened again, and he was running past the rows and rows of dead, blackened Alpaco trees, completely unchanged, standing there like somber tombstones. Amidst the blizzard he could make out the silhouette of Sunnyside Diner on top the slope of Jamel street, or what was left of it. The top half of the roof had been blown away, along with its right half facing the open cliff edge, the rest standing like a paper-thin card in the snow. He scrambled on top of the slope, his nails digging into the ice covering the road. Jamel street. It was hard to say what was still there. Most buildings were completely gone, reduced to a few charred timbers and singed concrete. It gave him the familiar feeling of staring at an empty room just before moving, its walls and floor rid of any accustomed presence. Even the factories were torn down, their walls and chimneys littered with dark, scorched holes like cigarette burns.

Turn right.

Still the same. Most buildings had been leveled. The remaining ones standing were damaged beyond recognition as if an angry child had taken a sweep at their miniature townset.

Turn left.

Willard slipped, catching himself before he could fall, and kept going. He was nearly there. Around the corner of the metal factory and—

He skidded to a stop in front of what used to be the lawn.

A pile of snapped timbers. Broken glass. Shattered tiles. A piece of cloth stuck under a pole of what used to be Willard’s meat rack, flapping wildly in the wind. That was all there was. Charred black, crumbling, disintegrating.

The debris of his building was higher than the other wreckage around it, but what used to be there was completely gone, just like the others. It was disorienting, staring at the gray skies when he expected to see the dark red bricks with their unfinished paint job. He could still see Samwell watering his Gramweeds, cursing at the cold every time he did so. He could still see the men dancing and singing in the commonroom, arms linked, mugs of beer in hand.

Willard was terribly aware of his wheezing. It was so loud. Too loud, like the grunts of an engine that refused to start. Why couldn’t he stop? He was cold, wet, and shivering. He might as well just lie down and sleep. And when he woke up he would be greeted by mother’s warm smile, reassuring him that it had all been a bad dream……He was hot. Sweating a bit on his arms, even. Why couldn’t he see clearly? He blinked hard. There was a fog over his eyes, and the black rings on the edges of his vision were getting more and more distinct. He couldn’t hear the flaps of that white cloth anymore.

Distant shouts. Slaps on his nape. A dull pain down his neck. Someone shined a light at his eyes. He didn’t blink. A large jacket was thrown across him. His jacket. As he unconsciously pulled it on, his fingers touched something in the side pocket. Something long and rigid.

The bolt on mother’s wheelchair.

He passed out, laughing hysterically on his way back to the tent.