What Kreig held in his hand at that moment was not the crushed ball of car-metal, but the half-destroyed helmet of a man he’d slain. It could have been any man from anywhere, but in Kreig’s trembling hand, it was just a helmet.

He brought death everywhere he went. The bleeding sky loomed upon him. He seemed to move, but he felt nothing.

Everything was so quiet. Like the wind wasn’t roaring and the bones hiding beneath the mud weren’t chattering and creaking and cracking under the weight of a thousand sins. Soldiers and civilians. Believers and faithless.

“Kreig, is everything alright?” George asked.

What was he, that man in the mud, doing there? Who was he? The only living man in a field of eternal massacre, his body half-submerged in the mud, looking up at him with no great malice and no great fear. Not young, not old. Barely a man. Was he an enemy? Soldiers were usually younger. Then, a mud-mover? Impossible, the man had a face.

Kreig raised his arm, placing the edge of his sword at the level of the man’s throat. “Speak your name.”

The man reacted peculiarly, glaring at Kreig’s hand rather than the blade. “Kreig, what are you doing?” It was off. It was all off. He was alone, alone and there and he shouldn’t still be there, why was he there? “I’m trying to drive, Kreig, please put your arm away.” Although Kreig thirsted for answers, he had no mind to put up with the mocking words of someone already in the mud. With a flick of the wrist, he forced the blade through the man’s throat.

But the man’s head didn’t slip off. He simply glanced at Kreig, confusion and mild discontent evident. “Your eyes are… are you here, Kreig?...”

Here? Why, of course he was-,

The sky flashed blue but his head flashed white.

His brother wasn’t in the mud anymore. He was sitting down in a luxurious white throne, facing to the right, shooting quick glances at Kreig. His skin was so pale. “Look, Kreig, do you want me to stop the car? If you’re not feeling well, that is,” the white pope said, his white eyes catching another brief glimpse of Kreig.

Everything in this world was wrong. This place couldn’t exist. This man, sitting in front of him like a beautiful spectre, could not possibly still be alive.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

This was all-,

George’s hand fell on Kreig’s. The world flashed again, surged as if alive and buzzing, and then it was all gone.

The car had whirred to a stop beneath him, the wind hummed distantly and right there was George. Concerned. The car stood parked at the side of the road, half of it propped on the sidewalk. A warm hand touched Kreig’s own. “Are you okay?” George asked in a low, soothing tone. Kreig would have been a fool not to see the hints of fear in George’s eyes, the way they trembled ever so slightly, how his black hair reluctantly matted against his forehead.

“...Yes,” Kreig lied. He hated lying. He hated untruth and dishonesty so much, but when he couldn’t even tell what was real and fake, when even the very reality that surrounded him seemed untrue, he couldn’t bear to understand the truth itself.

George pulled his lips tight. “-They didn’t leave us aimless. Before we met you, before you came home, we traded letters with a man. Doctor Darius Falk. There wasn’t much he could tell us about you, but he did tell us a few things to look out for. Some situations to avoid, some signs that you may be experiencing some form of,” George glanced away from Kreig for a moment, “-dissociative reactions. Derealization. Like you weren’t quite… here.”

“I am here,” Kreig said, omitting the now that he spoke in his heart.

“Yes, you are. But I can’t just… I can’t tell at a glance. I can’t always know, so when you’re not here, can you try to tell me? If you can, that is. In return, I… I promise I’ll avoid taking you there,” George said, still unable to meet Kreig’s eyes. The air seemed thick between them, like water. Like they were both calmly drowning, each in their own seat. “...I’m sorry. You don’t have to talk about that kind of stuff, okay? Not to me, not to Sam, not to anymore. It’s okay, you can just… Keep it to yourself. For now. Until you can have someone comfortable to talk to.”

Kreig looked down at his hands. Thick, calloused, old. “I hear and obey.” Words he had spoken more times than he could remember, words all men above him had demanded.

“Don’t say it like-, yeah. Okay, let’s go,” George said, pulling the car out onto the road, back to their primal mission. There was only one family left, one letter to deliver. A letter that weighed heavy in Kreig’s hands. A terrible tale of a good man. A tragedy to witness, a comedy to experience. Yes, Peter had always laughed about it, never expressing any wish to go home. He didn’t hate his family, he just didn’t care for them.

The notion of living a new life always appealed more to him than the former life they all rapidly forgot.

By this way of thinking, Kreig couldn’t imagine that Peter’s family could possibly miss them, since he barely gave them a thought himself. Despite his doubts, Kreig had put his all into the letter. Every detail he could recall, every part of Peter’s person. Every flaw and virtue.

...But as Kreig’s thoughts drifted, he couldn’t but feel how they kept returning to what happened just minutes ago. What had happened.

There’s something wrong with his mind. Something that made him see things that didn’t exist and feel like he wasn’t even where he was, supposed to be, and he didn’t know what was doing this. But George did. George had been there, and George had looked him in the eye and said he knew a bit about it. But not enough. Something was wrong with his mind, but Kreig didn’t know why.

He wasn’t dead. Wasn’t that good enough? Why did it have to be more than that? He knew healing spells of all kinds, he even used them regularly, so why was his mind damaged?

He was fine. He was okay.

The car slid to a close. “We’re here.”

And they were now at the Willowgrove residence.