It was midnight in the old cemetery. The sounds of wild animals passing through the surrounding forest. An old man, gaunt and frail, knelt beside a tombstone. Surrounded by a pack of white hounds with piercing red eyes.
Arvel Baughan
1997 to 2012.
“Your father’s still blaming himself. He has aged years in a matter of weeks since your passing. He spends most of his time in your room, watching as the ceiling fan spins round and around. Stuck in that moment of you looking down on him from above.”
The old man swipes his hand across the text, and coughs. Rope burn marks tracing around his neck. His head snapping to the side. “You can rest now.”
Hobbling away, he sighs as he moves on to the next grave. The hounds follow him, lapping at his neck. The wind whistles through the aging trees that surround the cemetery. A single dirt road winding through the forest. Bumpy and destroyed after decades of no use. Twigs snapping under the hooves of wild Red Deers. The forest left untouched by man throughout the sands of time, with only a single line of gravestones as a reminder that humanity still exists.
Kneeling in front of the next grave, one slightly aged and weathered.
Nimue Belling
1884 to 1906.
“I visited your first home a few days ago, do you want me to tell you about it? A new family moved into it, a young couple with a teenaged daughter, it reminded me of your family. The house looks almost like it did back when you first moved into it all those years ago. I don’t know if you still remember what happened. You were barely 16 at the time. Afraid that your father would kill your boyfriend after finding out that he got you pregnant, the two of you ran away from your homes in the village without saying goodbye. With nothing but the clothes on your back, you thought that you were invincible. You made your way to a sleepy little town. You worked as a waitress in the diner, him as the cook. You soon gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. I still have the photo of you three in front of the house when you first bought it. Her wrapped around your leg, 4 years old at that point, her younger brother sleeping inside of you. You all looked like the perfect family.”
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
“Sadly, that wasn’t meant to be. It didn’t even last for one more year. Screaming your lungs out as you pushed as hard as you could. Your husband holding your hand. Unfortunately, your experience giving birth to her didn’t help. She lost two family members that day. My apologies, I got distracted and forgot to take your feelings into consideration. To make it up to you, if there’s anything you want me to check up on, just let me know.” Using the headstone as a support, he swipes his hand across the text. His stomach bloating outwards as he stands up.
His stomach undulating as he makes his way to the next grave, the hounds gently pressing their ears against his stomach. The smallest in the graveyard.
Haydn Gwyn
1347 to 1349.
“I feel like it’s important that I tell you about your life, before you forget about it completely. You died before you really had a chance to live. Unfortunately, there was nothing you could do. Surrounded by filth and disease from the moment you were born. Although you managed to beat the odds and survived through childbirth, you were swept into an untimely catastrophe. Death and Pestilence swept through the continent, reaping the lives of the old and the young alike. You became just another number in their statistics, inconsequential and forgettable. To stop the spread of the disease they tossed your still breathing body into a raging pyre of filth and ash.”
Sighing, he swipes his hand across the text. Sweat drips down his paling forehead. Bumps and Boils rising and bursting across his body. Hobbling away as pus oozes out of his body. He coughs violently, blood and bile soaking into the ground below. Smoke rises through the air as he catches alight. The hounds blow away the smoke, feasting on the freshly drawn blood. His entire body set aflame as he falls beside the next cracked grave.
Caedful Guild
560 to 584.
“Your name has been forgotten. Hidden away in the shifting sands of time. However, this does not change the fact that you were one of the bravest warriors on the battlefield. You defended your homeland of Gwent from the Saxon invaders with great valour and strength. You protected your people. You slew many a foe and paid the price for your actions. Your arms were sliced off, and you were left to bleed out on the battlefield. You died honorably and can now rest in the loving embrace of the afterlife.”
One last time, he swipes his hand across the text. His arms fly off into the waiting mouths of the hounds, who fight over their master’s flesh. a clean-cut severing them from the elbow down. Blood shooting out of the stumps. The largest of the hounds pulls his master towards the final grave. This one with a freshly dug grave, and a shattered tombstone with only one word remaining.
Arawn
Bleeding, bruised and battered; he is thrown into the open grave.
“Goodnight my friends.”