March 8, 1916 - Flanders Fields
Paddy sat still at one of the tables that could barely be called as such. A bloodied bayonet lowered towards his side, shots still ringing across the fields, the valleys, and the flatlands. It was a moment of such peace rarely experienced before, the black eagle weaving its wings into the air on some poor other village, yet its burning sight, quelling with hatred, already extending its greedy grabbing grip elsewhere. There was little to do other than to listen to the tiny voice of reason left, an hour of glory, yet it felt more like months, years, decades even. No devil could break hell, and no angel could breathe through the toxins left behind as man himself razed the lands to the substratum. But it takes fewer brutes than prodigies to tear down a construct by its stabilizers.
He drew a book drenched in mud out of his pockets of his khaki serge uniform, its cover being entirely blank, the wet dirt running dry along the book's fabric. A crumbling brick was thrown through what was left of a window—a blank shape with no purpose left, no purpose other than to reminisce. Martin made his way through one of the massive holes in the sides of the wall, taking in a glimpse of Paddy and the bayonet before returning to his frivolous task of clearing the remains of the battlefield. He had been doing this for hours; it was a noble task, but its actual results were minimal at best, and neither would Colonel McCrae be necessarily pleased. A battle was fought to be won; a battle was a place where harmony or accord had no place; a battle was meant to show results in progress.
He tore at a dry piece of ruined paper for a second, deciding whether to tear out the empty page in its entirety or not, yet he kept it in one piece, wiping away the dirt across its edges. Paddy took another long look at the book in its entirety; there was something off about it; no author was mentioned at the start or end of the book, nor was it necessarily a notebook, although someone was using it as such. He swore to himself silently under his breath as his hopes washed away; the book had been unused for at least two years, certainly not untouched, however, else it would not have lain on the rotten table of a fleeing family, but it would not have been of any use directly towards the Colonel. Albeit it could still be used as a steady supply of paper, even with them ripped from their original context.
A sepia-colored image has been imprinted onto the left side of the page, staring back at the reader, the text below identifying the person as Heinrich Heine. "We should forgive our enemies, but not before they are hanged," the quote below reads. Paddy starts absent-mindedly tapping the wafer-thin before starting to search for his pen, covered from top to bottom in mud as everything else kept within his pockets, but at the very least it was still on him. He started to rehearse the same swings he has been growing so used to in the last few months: "Dear esteemed Colonel," but the words that were sitting tauntingly on the tip of his tongue did not budge. What was there to truly say? There was no civilian left far and wide across the land; they had all either fled or been buried under rubble, neither did his troop make any meaningful encounters with the enemy. But McCrae would certainly move him and his acquaintances to a more engaged position if he were to find out the truth. Paddy glances back at Martin, who was still fairly busy shoveling bricks across the place with his bare hands, supposing the intense amount of dust will not do much harm after weeks hidden under the earth.
The quotes within the book did not end at that single one; there were several more listed below, all less inspiring and more condemning than the next, but it sure was better than complete radio silence from the Colonel. Nevertheless, this was no time for mutiny, yet it would not hurt to modify the report to sound slightly more hopeful than what the horrors of Flanders had given them so far. The early destruction of Louvain had evidenced that there should be no holding back the saber when fighting the black eagle. In war, there was a winner, counter to popular belief, yet there could only be a winner in judgement and revenge for what had been done. Certain actions could not be undone or taken back, as evidenced by the still consistent ringing of gunfire far across town. A mess was what it was; the peaceful area it once was has turned unrecognizable, torched to the ground until victory was exclaimed.
"A bit of help here would be appreciated." Martin's voice rang out from outside, barely audible over the constant noises in the distance. Were they getting closer? Regardless, Paddy stepped outside, an ashen black cloud of smoke arising from somewhere in the illegible distance, but that was not of importance as of current. Martin's hands looked bruised, slightly oozing crimson here and there, but it did not appear as anything serious, nor was he making any notation of such. He scrambled down to the floor to remove some more rubble from the site he had been working at for around an hour now. Paddy buried the book and pen in his pockets as Martin nodded towards the pile. They did not speak a word with each other, especially not after realization had kicked me. There was something entombed below the rubble—or more so, someone. The site was sickening in of itself; an unnamed grave could never do justice to those who were lost towards it. But there was little to do to save the dead other than to pray. So pray, they did.
April 16, 1916 - Calais, France
The crowds were raving back and forth like massive waves of hats with military insignia. People of all backgrounds, people shouting in French, in English—all were united in an utter fever of revenge for what has occurred so close to their homeland. These men were not afraid to die, not even to dream of failing; these men came here to deal the winning blow against the German eagle. Owen could not help but feel patriotic for his king and country for once; it was not a common feeling to do so, but it was necessary, even after the heaving rationalism that this war would likely change nothing in Europe. They would go die, purging their youth in trenches of gas and mud, and what was the lesson? The lesson was to win in order to have the history books accept you; those who had survived this atrocious war would simply go back into their normal life, if they ever even had the chance to. They would return to whatever they were doing before, as if an entire decade of history was nothing more than a few lines of text. This and that happened, and in the end, we were all still right where we left off.
But Owen was in the minority, clearly. The crowds have not calmed down in the slightest; in fact, they have only intensified. They were all eager to earn themselves some German skulls, and they were prepared to lose it all for such. Although he could not help but feel the opposite, most of these men likely never have held a single rifle in their entire life, never mind the skill to target an enemy dead-set on killing you before one gets to them. Their engines were fired up purely by their neverending confidence, which was sure to run short in a year-long conflict, but there was no reason to discourage them. Their decision has been made, and it was not like the enemy will not be going by the same tactics. They have their own, personal war machines, ready to clash with each other in a bloodbath like no one else had seen before.
Reports, true reports from the front, were rare. Owen had watched the media, the newspapers closely, eyeing each and every town mentioned in the weekly paper. But they had been sparse, especially for a conflict that has rocked the boat way past ever recovering. A newsboy was carrying a newspaper far in the distance, too far for Owen to read the headline, but he could assure himself that it was something along the lines of "Progress made in liberating the people of Belgium!" or "German casualties at an all-time high!" for the only reason that these had been the headlines in Shrewsbury for months now. But what had really changed? As far as Owen was aware, not much; the frontline stood at a standstill. At some point in his office, before jumping over the Channel, he had decided to lay out a map to see if there were major changes, such as the headlines clearly advocated for, but there were indeed no changes, a frightening lack of changes actually considering the amount of coffins shipped back to Great Britain.
A figure emerged from the crowd, and the horde in turn went wild, cheering in absolute certainty. Owen pressed on through the waves of people; it was difficult to move, never mind even hear anything being said by the people who came here to be front and center. After a while of scrambling, he saw what people were enthusiastic about. A middle-aged, small man, looking as tired as always, spoke to the crowd in words that never reached the ears of Owen. King George V had safely arrived on the shores of France in what would have been a transgression were it a hundred years earlier. Another reason the words were not reaching Owen was likely the fact that the King did not speak up loudly; he never was a good speech giver, and Owen was aware of how often he had ridiculed the man standing a few meters away from him. Sure, he would not be able to publish such works in a time of war, but his points were made as clear as always: The self-proclaimed king was nothing more than a weak, feeble, and pathetic man trying to unite his country behind his policies, while the machinations of Asquith did all the dirty work. None of them knew how to fire up a crowd by their way of words, but they did nevertheless simply by their presence. Abruptly, some British advisor behind him tapped on his shoulder two or three times, to which the king would leave the podium without a further word. What appeared to be royal guards quickly followed him behind, leaving the podium entirely empty, causing the crowd to slowly go more mild while everyone was waiting for some sort of follow-up. There never was a follow-up. Eventually the people dissipated, some as patriotic as ever, while some others were left slightly scratching their heads in confusion.
Owen sighed to himself: The man never failed to fill him with false hope. He had written about George V in a less than ideal way in his past, and albeit that he was ready to move on, at least in times like these, his caricatures nevertheless haunted him behind his back, fearing that he might be right, that the King was nothing more than a feeble figurehead, meanwhile the Emperor extended his grasp in the east. It was a fleeting thought, but one that he could not just forget. At the very least the French were doing better on their own, and while Owen was disappointed by the standstill, he could acknowledge that it can always be worse in the end. While encased in his thoughts, he realized the crowd had finally somewhat settled. It was still extremely crowded all around, yet it was more bearable and breathable, albeit that did not make the noises any less loud. He reached into an upper pocket of his coat and pulled out a fancy notebook. Really, it looked fancier than it actually was, but the morning sun almost gave it an ethereal glee. But Owen had to remember why he had gone out of his way to visit Calais in the first place; it was his duty after all.
A vibrant banner flew wildly through the northern Channel wind, somehow waving erratically in a calculated manner. He had to make sure his notes did not glide away in the lively wind; therefore, he slowly made his way to the front entrance. Two large doors greeted him, filled with remnants of monarchial and absolutistic ornaments, being stripped from context yet still emanating a certain source of power, of might. The building inside had no carpet, which looked odd considering the large effort that had been made to make the house look as prestigious as possible, but washing out the dirt on the outside on such a carpet would have probably been a mess by itself. Nevertheless, the front entrance was similarly crowded from top to bottom by people of all classes. Everyone had wanted to know how the future of the three countries would progress while the bear in the east was struggling to hold their own. The sun shone brightly through the clear windowpanes, forming stripes across the crowds while others were left in the dark. The wild chatter of the people, however, was almost unbearable to Owen; he had firmly enjoyed the company of few, but this was by far too much. He preferred sitting in his own gloomy chambers, writing and drawing away for the masses to see, albeit that does not mean he ever was good with other people.
The main event—the speech of the Belgian Knight King—was still a good few hours away, and he did not even want to begin imagining how the rendezvous would look like at full capacity. But duty calls for sacrifices to be made, and his small job surely was worth those little sacrifices, especially after seeing what other, entire families had to give up in the name of their country. Such was life, however. Owen escaped to the chambers of the building towards the left, which barely had any people to his surprise, but he did not mind. The fewer the merrier. He had begun scribbling erratically across his notes, surely to such a point that any civilized man would be deeply upset by his handwriting, but it was his for a reason; as long as he could read it, it did its duty just as fine as Owen did. There was a balcony coated in royal marble, high above the people, rigidly staring down at them, as if their lives were worth less, despite their titles depending on the common man. He kept a mental note of the area, taking in its exquisite architecture, the large chandelier hanging above, and the place where the King would be talking later; it all had a really imposing feel to it, and it was sure to be distributed in the newspaper plenty if he could draw a caricature reflecting that. An actual photo of the place would probably be a better idea, but cameras were expensive and unhandy; there was no way he could buy one and, nevertheless, get it over the Channel in one piece. Owen had to work with what he had at the moment; putting all eggs in one basket was not the way to go, especially not during war times.
But he still had time, a lot of time until then in fact. So, he had nothing left to do other than to ponder and to wander; the building the conference would take place in soon was quite large. Owen was not aware of French history nor British, for that matter; he had been left in the dark on the original context of the building, but from its large outdoor gates to its marble floors all the way to the fleur-de-lis being engraved into seemingly every corner. Neither was he sure if the choice of Calais held any symbolic meaning, but the people back home would not care about what happened a few hundred years ago; no, they wanted to hear about progress on the front; they wanted to hear that the suffering of their loved ones was nearing its end with a glorious return to be expected in a year or so. Owen had his doubts about such a result, but a man can dream that the news he was hearing at least had a glimmer of truth to them. Entranced within his own bubble of thoughts, Owen accidentally bumps into a tall man wearing a military uniform of sorts.
"No visitors are allowed beyond this point, mate. Sorry, but you're gonna have to return back to where you came from." The man in uniform said firmly. His expression was blank; there was no indication of being necessarily annoyed nor understanding. Before Owen had a chance to come to his thoughts, however, another man in uniform next to him gazed his way. He took a few seconds to study him before nudging the elbow of his associate.
"Don't be so rash, Francis. I recognize a fellow ambassador when I see one. You're Mr. Villiers, are you not?" Owen hesitated. Was he really being confused for Mr. Villiers? He has heard that name occasionally in the newspapers back home, but surely they did not look similar, right?
"That's me. I was struggling to find the place, if I'm being honest. A bit of help would've been appreciated." Surely he couldn't just let this opportunity slip, could he? Owen knew fairly well what he was doing was treasonous, and there would be no digging out of it if things went south. But this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see behind the facade, to finally have his news report be seen by the right audience. Owen could play it off as an anonymous tip, all while his popularity would rise. He could imagine it clearly now. The wealth, the fame, the reputation.
"I'm so sorry to hear that, sir. The meeting is about to start backdoors, so it'd probably be best if you were there soon." Owen entered without saying another word. He was taken aback a little after the guard had motioned for a backdoor meeting, but he was too far in to go back at this point. He should have assumed it was not going to be as easy as waltzing in, exchanging words with the top leaders of the Entente, then heading back to London as a hero. But nevertheless, he knew his way around; he was sure this was going to be just as easy. What was the worst that could happen? Owen knew how to maneuver his words in the right tone to get monarchs and diplomats to listen to him. All it took was patience and confidence so Mr. Villiers could bloom in a new light.
April 18, 1916 - Flanders Fields
Dear Colonel McCrae,
The front has been rather stagnant. We have not been able to push further into the heartland of the Belgians to free them from their occupiers. Our troop is restless; most of us have not received enough sleep due to the constant amount of artillery shelling of the local village. We have woken up almost every day to smoke arising in the distance. It is a restless endeavor in the trenches, day in, day out. Our losses have been minimal, luckily; however, Conall has contracted a nasty disease that looks to be rotting him from the inside out. We've considered leaving him behind due to the lack of medical supply left in this area but have decided against further action without command to do so, in hope of it being non-contagious. Our expeditions to the aforementioned village have been rather unfruitful, and we have been quite low on supply ever since. The town is well and truly empty, and there is nothing we can do for them. Not that there are any people left to save there anyway.
As already mentioned, most of the troop has gone restless and has demanded that I send this letter as a demand to march forward to beat back the eagle. I have decided against it, obviously; such an attack would be nothing short of suicide. But I do have a request, which is for you to show up personally, Colonel McCrae. Our morale has been low, and I am afraid that we will grow unorganized until the Germans or disease have plucked us out one by one like crows. Write to me as soon as possible, because there is only so long our group can go built on lies and false hope, and there are only so many false promises I can make. Please write to us at your earliest convenience, because I am not sure if there will be another letter if not.
Sincerely,
Paddy Marcas
Paddy laid down the paper on his dirtied lap, staring it down for a little while, as if it would bring itself to life and tell him what to do, because he was fairly sure he did not know by himself, and he would not know by himself. He gazed up; there was not much to see: rotten wood holding back the landslides of the earth, nasty puddles of what can barely be called water, rotting as much as the rest. He had woken earlier than the rest of the troop due to heavy artillery shelling somewhere in the distance, which had shaken up the ground. He slowly got up in a groggy manner, a manner that would have been frowned upon where he was trained. Franklyn was supposed to keep watch during the night, just in case a German assault was on the way; there obviously was not, from the given situation, but Paddy dispiritedly discovered Frankyln slumped to the side of his watch post—engulfed in a deep sleep. If only he knew what sort of disappointment filled the dreary air afterwards. But with nothing else to do other than to wait for a messenger to receive his letter that he had written, he had taken up watch, for it was better than entertaining subversive thoughts down there.
There were few trees left in the distance, their eyes staring back at him. The lively leaves had fallen off, been incinerated by various amounts of weaponry. The trunk had been covered in the black ash of gunpowder, nature slowly rotting away from the blazing horrors of tormenting warfare. Black clouds close the sight to the heavens, barely any sunlight shining through the mist, the grey burning in the eyelids of anyone passing through the wasteland, leaving anyone and anybody wasted. There were certain moments when the sunlight did pierce through the heavy fog, certain small, little moments of hope, coming and passing by, never staying there for more than a few minutes. The clouds are unrecognizable if they come for rain or have been scarred.
A small town—or more specifically, what was left of an idyllic town—sat quietly at the edge of his sight. Ruined buildings stare back with their hollow eyes, broken windows, and crooked mouths and broken-down doors. Even the sturdiest of medieval structuring is crumbling from constant pressure, breaking its back and collapsing its spine. Ever so often, there might be a fire in the distance, a fire extending high into the sky, feeding it with oxygen. An insult to injury for all it was. Sandbags lay haphazardly all around the compound, some organized on top of one another while others lay in ditches, tainted by the ground, tainted by the constant and never-ending warfare around. Paddy's eyes wandered back to his own trench, the one he had been staying at, dug by the people that came before him. No indication of moving was coming from it. Usually this would have been a massive red flag, a single organized assault, and his soul would be gangrene-infested; however, he was willing to be lenient, as they were far away from enemy lines, despite the destruction still being obvious to all.
Paddy's shoes slowly sank into the mud below. It tensed and relapsed, as if a breathing organ ready to feast. The longer he stood still, the further he would sink into the unrecoverable. Another boot emerged from the sludge, just barely piercing the surface. He shifted over to retrieve it, taking a significant effort to pull it out, as he would become aware that it had been filled top to bottom with dirt. He looked at it for a while, just taking it fully in: a nameless boot within the wasteland. For a single, flashing moment he thought it might have belonged to his troop at some point, but such would have been surely apparent. Drifting afloat within his thoughts, he absent-mindedly placed it onto the ground carefully, making sure it did not tip over. Yet after venerating such, the shoe slowly began to sink once more. Very slowly, the soul would disappear into the unknown again.
"What're you taking one for the road for?" Martin emerged from the trench behind him, startling him for a second or two, before managing to compose himself.
"I'm not. Just admiring." Paddy replied withdrawingly.
"Right." A moment of silence ensued, a moment where both were clueless on what to say or how to continue the conversation. What was there really to say? "Do tell, have you finished that report for McCrae yet?"
"I have."
"Good. Thought you might never get to it." There was a hint of sarcasm in the air. Martin always had a thing for unnecessarily teasing, but that was just how some people were.
"I have my deadlines." Paddy responded, to which he bemusingly nodded, unsure how many ounces of trust he can put upon his shoulders before the building collapses. "What are you doing out here anyway?" For once in his lifetime, he sounded genuinely intrigued to find out, although the reality may be rather disappointing.
"Taking in the landscape. It's..." Lying through his teeth, that was what he was doing. He was about to finish his sentence with 'lovely,' but his poorly constructed lie was already on its last two legs. In truth, he did not know what he was doing out here; it was somehow absorbing him. Maybe it was the endless hopelessness of the monotone, maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was stupidity. There was nothing to be seen out here other than destruction and death, both of which he was deeply afraid of in the usual sense. Martin did not respond either; he just continued staring into the distance, right past Paddy. There was nothing there, however.
"I suppose that makes sense." Martin responded unusually. He had almost completely ignored his original answer, and it somehow felt out of character for him. No sarcastic remarks, no back talking, no nothing. Paddy averted his gaze to the rising smoke in the distance, falling back into a trance once more. The raging infernos of the heavens.
A burning fireball.
Smoke arises high into the sky.
Enough meteors to tear down an entire wall.
To leave that what brings the masses to cry.
The mud below quells little.
The troop would wake up soon.
The ones that will be left brittle.
The rest that was left was an empty dune.
And in the mud, there now lay five barren boots.
April 16, 1916 - Calais, France
A dull atmosphere settled over the even darker room. The curtains were cast across the sunlight that ever so slightly grasped at straws below. Nevertheless, the aristocratic wallpaper, the elaborate carpet patterns, and the grand chandelier above told all the words they needed to mutter. A haul of secretiveness in the grand. Owen did not know exactly what he was getting himself into; it was an opportunity he could not simply refuse, that was for sure, but he did not know either what awaited him backdoors. He just continued on, corridor by corridor; surely fate would take him somewhere, striding along downstream. As free and trapped at the same time as a small fish, there was no one around to stop him directly, but he did not have much choice in his decisions either.
He stopped in his tracks for a second, just to stare and admire, running his fingers along the prestigious wallpaper, likely a one-of-a-kind for this room alone. Owen really was not the person that one would ask about architecture or similar, but even men like him could hear the history speaking throughout its winding corridors: the people that once proudly marched through here with military insignia and the coat of arms of ancient houses. From rise to fall to civilization, from the Middle Ages to the war to end them all. All the voices were so vibrant, full of life, like they were all still inhabiting this home in spirit, not in a haunting fashion, no, simply reliving memories. Like they were all still hiding right around the next corner.
Suddenly, a small, stubborn man stepped out from behind the bend, several awards coating his suit in bright red and blue. He looked as if he had just spotted a ghost, bleaching the color out of the man's face almost entirely.
"Mr. Villiers?" The man stumbled over his words; despite the knowledgeable lack of them, he was speechless. For a blatant liar, Owen was surprised to see him sweating more than he was; he was not a bad liar, but he was not deadpan either. A slow—perhaps a bit too slow—nod was returned by Owen, still letting the surprise slowly set in.
"Goodness gracious." The man starts, "We didn't know you would show up, Mr. Villiers. The meeting has already started without you." He starts motioning towards a door towards the end of a singular long corridor, looking slightly darker than the rest.
"My carriage was late." Owen had no idea if diplomats had nowadays moved onto faster technology, but a carriage sounded the most plausible. "My driver apologizes on his behalf."
"I understand." The man slowly looks down, then up again, the cogs in his head slowly turning one by one, slightly stroking his beard as if adding coal to the engine. "If I were you, I would enter that room silently. As silently as possible. Personally, I'd say his Majesty would hate to be interrupted at a time like this." The man then stormed off on his little legs towards another room out of sight, leaving the unfortunate question in the room if that was meant as a threat, a warning, or a nice gesture of goodwill, but there sure as hell was only one way to find out: to enter the lion's den.
The room was cast into an even deeper shadow, statues of people moving in the background with vivid and quick hand movements, and the sound of voices growing ever more steady, each broken by a short pause before picking up again. While they may be intelligible from over there, there was no denying that the conversation was to some extent tense, judging from articulation, but perhaps that was the slight ringing of an echo. Owen made sure to follow the advice of the small but somewhat humble man, treading very lightly on the fancy carpet. Eventually, he arrived at the area the man had generally pointed towards; approaching a curtain coated in crimson and gold, Owen started to slowly pull it away.
“I really do not get what your point is here, your majesty.” A man with a white, sharp beard said in a calm tone, resting one of his hands on the comfortable chair. “This should not be the concern of the Western powers; if you cannot deal with deserters on your own, then that is not our responsibility.” Next to the man stood a tall man in military uniform, Owen’s journalism experience telling him that this was none other than the King of the Belgians himself. Albert I looked furious, like he was about to burst out of the room for whatever reason, but instead he took a deep breath and started explaining.
”You do not understand the severity of the situation at hand, Mr. Cambon.” He waves him off, as if motioning for him to sit back down, but Mr. Cambon does none of such. “I assure you there is more going on, and I do need the support of Belgians loyal allies for such an occasion. There is no other way around this. I didn’t travel all this way to Calais to be waved off as a lunatic!”
“We understand your situation just fine, your majesty.” A different man got up from his chair, Mr. Poincaré, giving a short bow that did not match the atmosphere in the room. “May we, the room and everyone present, dare hear your explanation then? We would not fathom calling you a lunatic, Albert, but this whole situation is rather odd, is it not? Troops disappearing precariously? Just entirely wiped off the battlefield within minutes.” He starts snapping his fingers repeatedly, a motion to which Albert I looks on with little to no amusement. “And you expect us to fund an entire investigation? Are you not aware of what is at stake here? Bedevil me all you want, but may I show you your own country—” Before Mr. Poincaré could finish his sentence, the stunted man from earlier barges into the room with a manner that would break his own suggestions.
“There is no need to alienate, Mr. Poincaré.” His manner seems a lot more composed now that he is surprisingly talking to someone a few social circles higher than him. “We mean no harm to the Belgians just as much as vice-versa. I do believe his Royal Highness' wishes should be respected, even if perhaps not outright accepted.” Mr. Poincaré looks rage-stricken and stares at the small man in utter disgust. “Surely everyone here can agree on that proposition.” Everyone in the room returns a nod, even Owen, who is unsure if the people around him have even noticed him; everyone except Mr. Poincaré and Cambon, albeit the latter looks more composed rather than being comparable with an artillery shell. Mr. Cambon slowly gazes up at the small man, then proceeds to give him a slow but steady nod. "Yes, we can, Mr. Bertie." Albeit the strain on his face was not mimicking the words he had spoken. "Let us proceed with the proposition."
Albert I adjusts his coat a little towards the top before beginning to speak once more. "As I was saying, this is a very important matter not just for us Belgians but for the rest of our allies. The disappearances have racked up a significant amount, while families in Brussels are left wondering where their loved ones have gone. In some occasions, it may be better to simply lie, yes—but such a lie will only take us thus far, while not actually attempting to solve the actual problem. It is better to treat the wound, which is exactly why I proposed investigating this matter in the first place." In his last sentence, he turns towards Mr. Poincaré. "Without such additional support, a deadly blow may be dealt upon us by the Germans." The room was silent for a moment, then another moment, and another. No one was quite sure what to say, and Owen would surely not take over the duties of the supposed Mr. Villiers. That was too high a risk even for a man like him.
"What do you expect its cause to be?" Mr. Poincaré stood up proud and tall; he looked determined, if just a little exhausted. But he looked proud to show his cards to the table. Albert I floundered a little and stared him down. "I am not aware of what is causing it fully either, which is why exactly I am proposing such an investigation. We need answers now, not tomorrow, not some time in the future."
"Right, no, you must have misunderstood my question." Mr. Poincaré looked unfazed by Albert's rebuttal; perhaps he even enjoyed this little argument. "You see, your majesty, my question was, what could it possibly be? I mean, what options do we have? People do not just vanish out of thin air, nor do thousands of people desert without any knowledge of their whereabouts for weeks, maybe even months." After a moment of silence, Albert starts speaking but is rudely cut off by Mr. Poincaré again. "There is nothing else other than death that could have happened to them. Maybe they're buried under rubble and smoke bombs, but if they don't have the capability to find their own way back, then they will be as good as dead soon enough." He begins reaching for a cigarette before turning away.
"What other option do we have?" Albert counterclaims, albeit Mr. Poincaré looks to be barely listening at this point. "We can't just lean back in our royal chairs and expect the problem to solve itself. Our troops and our divisions are looking towards us with hope, and this is what you give them? We need to know what is happening, Poincaré. We, at the very least, we Belgians, will not blindfold ourselves in the face of crisis. Can we at least count on the support of the French?" No reply. The question sits silently in the room, taking a seat next to a warm fireplace, looking bemusingly at each member of the conference. But Mr. Poincaré does not respond; he had made up his mind way before coming towards Calais, and the answer is a strong 'no.' He puffs his smoke and then responds with just that: "No." Nothing more, nothing else. All that could have been said has been said. He then moves slowly to stride out of the room without saying another word, leaving the room in complete silence.
"I have to admit, I am curious." Albert begins, emphasizing each word carefully in order to not alienate. "Mr. Cambon, what is your opinion regarding the issue? You may not be in the same position as Poincaré, but every bit of support helps." Mr. Cambon looks away, away to some far-away window, with little to no sunlight piercing through the curtains. "I'm not sure. I cannot convince Poincaré either way; once that man has made up his mind, he will pursue that idea until he's a rotten corpse buried in the graveyard. Either way, I do think it is important to support your investigation. France has enough funds to support it; I'm not entirely sure why he is throwing this fit in public." No one said anything for a whole minute before Mr. Cambon picked up again. "It's not my call to make; if Poincaré is sure that French support of this investigation will lead nowhere, then I cannot intercept such."
The lines across Albert's face have grown deeper and deeper the longer the conversation has been dragged out for; they were scars of sheer annoyance from the ignorance of everyone around him. He sighs deeply and lowers his voice. "Have you no morals, Cambon?" The question uncomfortably lingers in the room for way too long. Mr. Cambon does not directly seem irritated by the question, surprisingly, yet he does not answer either. "Surely you can understand our plight." Albert adds fuel to the fire, a small but growing fire of cold distance, a chaotic whirlwind. "Politics overrules morals, your majesty." Without further elaboration, he leaves the room, picking up pace to presumably catch up with Poincaré. Albert on the other hand, collapses within his chair, usually comfortably cushioned, but it does not manage to calm his disappointment.
"Your majesty, I apologize for the disturbance, but I wanted to inform you that the main conference will start in around five or ten minutes." The servant leaves as fast as he can, speeding to the door obstructed by curtains. There were only a handful of personalities left within the room, none too enticed about the current situation. Albert mutters something to himself in disgust while the robust yet fragile frame of King George enters the room, silently judging from the sidelines. He seemed a lot more threatening while isolated rather than in a frenzied crowd, but perhaps that was his slow yet steady pacing towards the darkened window. "You overheard, did you not?" Albert says under his breath. George returns a slow nod but does not bother turning to face him. He moves to open the curtains, letting sunshine into the dungeon, then contrasting with the fancy wallpaper. He stood there for a minute, taking it all in: the people far below him, the war-torn hills and bunkers in the distance. Owen scribbled on his notes as fast and inconspicuously as possible; he did not necessarily have to make it pretty; it just had to be decipherable for himself in the future. Once he felt satisfied, he shifted in his seat to stand up but was rudely interrupted by a voice across from him.
"Leave them be. That's what I say." The King had said, before slowly turning towards Albert, who was sitting in his shadow, barred from sunlight. "What?" The confusion in his voice was palpable, and he made no effort to hide it. In the meantime, Owen had slowly stood up and begun encroaching towards the exit, yet he made a short U-turn as the conversation picked up once more. "There's no point in arguing against Poincaré or Cambon, Albert. The only thing you'll achieve is splitting us further apart in a time of need." His tone of voice was unclear; it was a mix of regret and realism, and exactly as such, Albert must've felt, albeit he did not take the time to stand up to meet the eyes of George. "I've realized that." He claps his hands absent-mindedly. "But I won't stand for this intolerance, this ignorance!" He basically spits the last few words in aversion.
"There is a simpler way, Albert." He speaks, the latter turning to face him in anticipation. "We leave this problem until the storm has passed us. We simply cannot solve it now. If anyone asks, tell them they've perished for the glory of their nation." Albert does not avert his gaze. "I cannot do that. I will not be the king chosen by God to lie to thousands of people about what happened to their loved ones. I can't wrap my head around how so many of you people don't understand such a request. No, if even you won't support this mission, then I will have the Belgian government itself organize an investigation into the disappearances. I will repeat myself a thousand times if I have to; I will not lie to the Belgians!"
"Then I will." George replies coldly right away, which ends up shutting Albert up. "I advise you to manner up, however. We don't want the media to start suspecting there is a rift between our countries. Perhaps you should return to the battlefield." George turns around and starts tying his neatly made tie. "No. I've come this far; I won't turn around at Calais. And even then I had Villiers keep watch in Belgium. I fully trust in his ability to keep my country safe from the German menace." There is a brief moment of silence, a moment that takes up way too much time, so much so that it ends up feeling like hours, until George emits a sigh.
"So if your country is preserved in such good hands by Mr. Villiers, may you explain to me why he's among us right here?" George begins pointing towards Owen, who had slowly backed off towards the exit.
"That's not." Albert begins replying until it hits him straight in the face.
April 18, 1916 - Flämische Felder
Parading bonnets pierced towards the blocked sun in the sky. A thick haze had settled upon the wasteland, obscuring what was right in front of our scouts. Shouts echoed through the smoke, unintelligible in the hope that they were not meant for oneself. But everything had to be a necessary sacrifice for glory and fatherland: They were born for situations like such. Heinz took out his binoculars to stare at the rampage left behind him—it must have been a hit; he was sure of it. Sharp headgear followed their march up a small hill, or at least what was once a small hill. A frantic wave, a piercing outcry, and an everlasting struggle. The daylight is retreating behind clouds of ashes; the sky is collapsing.
The eyes of broken buildings in the distance ever-watching, following each innocent life to their grave. He looked through the scope towards where the battlefield should be, if his estimates are correct. Calming his pulse, he waited for the clouds of despair to fade away to torment the trenches somewhere else. His finger rested on the trigger, ready to pull it at a second's notice. But nothing was happening, the anticipation growing, but the smoke not fading, despite the people rushing past him, throwing up gravel and sand into the sky above. One person trips in chaotic non-formation, while others align themself with Heinz, rather waiting it out instead of blindly rushing in the grasps of the enemy.
Another shout emits from the valleys below, his finger tensing on the trigger once more, just in case a figure emerges from the fog. A raging inferno of no bonfire, only of gunfire. But the bullets settle after a moment: Was it over? They were sure they had the advantage in the offensive, especially keeping hidden for as long as possible, but even Heinz did not expect the battle to be as quickly over as it came. Perhaps the modern battery of the army did more than they had thought originally. The atmosphere quiets down; the endless stream of unknowing soldiers rushing down the hill has stopped, and it sounds like the bloodbath had concluded with a clear victor. Heinz raised his palm in the air to signal an end to the offensive.
He got up slowly, the joints in his lower legs popping in restraint. He got down to pick up his rifle and was still ready to shoot at a minute's notice, just in case the battle had not gone the way he had hoped. He indicated to his fellows to follow his lead down the hill, despite him almost stumbling across a rock that had been deeply buried within the hill. The smoke had slowly begun clearing, dissipating into the heavens above where there would be nothing else but small clouds wandering the abyss. Staring down the small highland, his gaze wandered towards his fellows, some of whom had holstered their weapons, while others looked on, dead set on the mist. There was a lingering sense of confusion hanging in the air, smelling of sour chlorine and the bitter rotten.
However, one thing seemed off about the whole altercation: There was no sign of the enemy anywhere, despite the neatly placed fortifications. Had they simply retreated before they had gotten here? 's lungs felt as if the air strained itself thin. He strode over, still grasping for his bayonet with one hand, while the other was still resting on his binoculars. His shoes slowly sinking into the mud below,He looked into the general direction of his peers; they looked just as confused as he did. They could not have escaped this place as fast as they did, not without outside support at least. But the sounds of marching, or trucks, or any other vehicle for that matter, surely would have been audible if they did escape. A young face with a spiked bonnet emerged from the trenches, holding three bayonets. How odd.
He curiously inspected the weapon; it was no doubt of French origin, even looking somewhat pristine for rotting away on the battleground for probably weeks or months. But there was one thing that raised more questions than it answered: Who in their right mind would leave their rifles behind in a combat zone?
He walked—basically rushing towards the trench, a move many others began to copy after the passing disorientation. Heinz stared with bewilderment as muskets lay scattered haphazardly all around the trench, not in any particular formation, just randomly placed throughout. Some still lean against the walls, while others had their gunpowder replaced with puddles of dirt, having been basically kicked over in a hurry. It was an odd sight, oddly discomforting, disturbing almost. They had been stripped from the logical; there was no reason for these to be left behind aimlessly. No signs of fighting had been visible for Heinz either; the trench looked unnaturally pristine, especially with the gunshots he had heard earlier.
He glanced back at his fellow soldiers, all seeming more confused than the other. What were they even shooting at if there was no one here? Heinz picked up a rifle carefully, shifting it around more delicately than his own, fearing that it might shatter into a billion pieces—it was loaded and ready to use. A shorter man of the troop moved towards him, looking around frantically as if searching for something, in the meantime, more or less ignoring him. He gave a quick salute and reported on the situation. "Sir, the enemy must have somehow retreated faster than we were able to catch on. We must have lost them in the quick exchange of gunfire in the smoke." He turned his shoulder and went on his way back out of the trench, but Heinz stopped him before he got that far. "So how'd all these guns end up left behind?"
The short man looked at him for a long time, the cogs slowly turning in his head, desperately searching for some sort of answer to this mind-game, but there was no obvious one. "I'm not sure, sir." He replied stiffly before heading off anyway. Heinz made no effort to stop him. He knew that none of them could fully grasp what was going on, all the bewilderment hanging in the air. On the ground there lay a revolver, a lot more muddied than the rest, so it must have been dropped in a hurry. Heinz inspected it carefully, searching through all of its chambers, fully loaded and not used before, at least not with this batch of cartridges.
"Let's get a move on." Erich said from behind him, sending a quick shock through his oldened heart. "There's no point in lingering in enemy territory for too long, lest they might return in an ambush." Heinz nodded towards his longtime colleague, but he did not let go of the revolver. Something peculiar interested him about it, its history, how it ended up in his hands exactly. He recognized the design, obviously so; such was within the realistic duty of a soldier, but its story meant more to him than the people that could have been killed within the press of a trigger. Before heading out and after Erich, he opened his uniform and stashed the stolen revolver into one of his side pockets; maybe it will come in use one day, maybe its secrets may be lifted someday. Albeit all of such was just wishful thinking, he knew he would likely never decrypt its true meaning, but it was a nice change of scenery to have hope for something once.
He slowly trotted out of the trench, gazing back at it across his shoulder, all the rifles still being in their same original spot. His group had already moved on, occupying the same hill they had come from, as it actually was a pretty defendable location, and it allowed a soothing view over the war-torn valley. The clouds began to slowly settle somewhere else, allowing for a scuttle to peek through the dark, a light slash of bright blue. Heinz knocked off some dirt from his knuckles and looked back just one last time, memorizing the place around its edges and unfine corners. A memory to hold dearly. In a small picture frame in his empty house. A small painting symbolizing his return in all its regret. There were things—objects to go around, all at their same position. But there was no one, the lingering silence of never-coming surprise. A low-hanging wail over an empty trench. The bright blue is only the calm before the storm.
And far away, hiding from sight, five barren boots lie.
Barren in plight, barren evermore, as return can only be achieved in what exists.
Winds grieved back and forth, swaying along like a lonely swing—a swing forever empty, yet it continues to wave with no purpose. It was cold, so very cold. A freezing atmosphere with no warmth, a cold, lonely place in purgatory. He reached into the abyss, but there was no answer. No one could hear him, for there was nothing ever there, and there will never be anything there. Realization of the non-realizable slowly set in, for there was no answer in the realm of the philosophical. It could be wrong, but it should have been right. History had absorbed him wholly in less than a thousand years. Digging further and further, but nothing ever happens, as there is only nothing.
The wind whipped around the bend once more. It was dearly uncomfortable to exist within, to exist with even. A burning ache made its way through his body, straining each muscle and decimating each blood cell. Letting the corpse slowly bleed out from within. It was getting colder and colder, slowly nerves failing all across, as if buried under an archaic glacier, never to be seen again. There was nothing to break the ice, nothing to smoothen out the spreading frigidity. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing until he stopped and listened to his heartbeat, unresigningly fighting on. A small center of warmth fighting back.
The eager greed starts to relish in its starvation; a serpent of eternal rest begins slithering through each and every single blood vessel. Carbonizing each atom of oxygen within his lungs in agony, the serpent in its carnivorous nature slings itself from one side of his neck to the other. A lack of air starts to make its way into the abyss, a last, eternal breath into the dark night. A requiem of a howling, freezing breeze sings the final funeral, but no one is there to mourn the loss of the unexplainable, drowned within.
Moving further and further down into the bottomless. Way down deep into the rabbit hole, it was impossible to turn back towards the logical. A slow, silent, drowned prayer lost by the multitudinous preachers. Immersed somewhere deep below the earth—veins of the trees—the roots moving down far below into the abyss. No sign of where up and down may be, except for the constant intermissions of the puffs of the atmosphere, which have increased in speed and intensity. It has broken down into a sprint, a sprint down below and up above, far into the unintelligible darkness. A place not meant to be. All that was left to provide safety was in prayer and thought.
A quick, unseen flash ripples through the atmosphere, tearing cracks through the waves and oceans. The blinding dark turns to blinding white as the former vanishes within seconds. Submerged and absorbed. The air was even worse here, invisible clouds of smoke arising from nowhere, bringing the oculus to tears in force of habit. It was no longer a simple fall; it was as if floating slowly downwards. Slow but agonizing, yet perhaps it was something worth paying to stop the free fall.
In the distance, there was a small light, bouncing across, up and down, left and right. It grew before shrinking again. He locked his gaze with it, as if staring back helped, but it quickly stopped moving altogether. He tried swimming towards it, floating towards it, somehow getting closer, but with each breath it escaped his chase. He kept trying to get somewhere, however, to escape from the endless river flow pushing him in seemingly random directions, but nothing ended up helping, slowly entangling him in confusion about his actual orientation.
Eventually giving up, his tired bones relax, embracing the cold gush of supposed wind. The carnivorous serpent determines where his life and soul go as he floats in snake-like patterns. The new-arising light bulb had been shattered as quick as it came, and in the aftermath it left a dark, blinding future. The glass shards of what remains are scattered and thrown into the unknown, where they would not be found in years, decades, or centuries. Lost in the whirlwind of the seasons, of time: An era where the clock will never strike twelve, where it will be entirely beyond its usage.
Embraced in the cliffs of thoughts, a murky surface fades into the view, growing faster and faster.
Paddy coughs coarsely, landing loudly with a thud onto some godforsaken empty field. He rests unintentionally on the farmland for a moment or two, resting—slowing his ruined heartbeat, audible cracking noises making their way through his joints. He raises his hands to rub the dirt off his eyebrows before slowly but steadily getting up. The unfortunate feeling of dirt puncturing through his shoes—or what was left of them, more accurately. His eyes took a while to adjust to the blinding brightness once more, but once they did, he did not fully trust what he had seen.
An empty field—devoid of crops or the like—a few tree brushes standing somewhere far in the distance, obscured by fog. The trees that were visible, however, stood in a perfect square formation, as if carefully calculated. They were all barren; they did not occupy a single leaf, not a single sign of life. He crouched down to inspect the field: A single sprout infiltrated the ground; a few feet away there was another one, and then another one. They were the exact same distance apart for whatever reason. He ran his hand across the sprout, trying to spot something that would make a difference, but there was nothing unusual about it. Why would there be?
He stood up once more, accidentally shovelling a handful of soil over the sprout. Not bothering to deal with it, he let the sprout suffocate from an action out of its control. Unintelligible shadows were moving in the distance aimlessly. For a moment, he had thought he saw something in the distance, but there was nothing in the void. There was no one that could have been there, as such would be physically impossible. Knowing this fully well, Paddy trotted on into the unknown mist, occasionally stumbling across small hills of soil on the uneven surface.
The unknown never budges, however, for it would be alien if it did. The mist takes over all that one can see until he is wholly encased in waves upon waves of thin strands. He looks around for a moment, a second to take it in, but there was nothing to truly admire or be astonished by, nor was there anything of note. Just an empty field drowned in fog. A low-hanging wail suddenly atones somewhere far away, miles apart yet still so loud. As if a giant whale were at his own doorstep, readying to terrorize him. But nothing ever emerges from the far-away, nothing except shadows moving up and down, ignoring gravity as a whole. They were not humanoid, not humanoid enough to recognize at least, but they were not something else either: Just unplanned dark dots floating off into space. There was something there; he knew it!
Something was telling him to sprint, to make a run for it. See how far he could get and if he could escape his own fate. Whatever that fate may be will be up for God-knows-what to decide, but he easily figured it was not worth sticking around and finding out. So he took off, as fast as his legs could take him over the uneven soil, as fast as he could manage without tripping over a small hill, as fast as he could muster. He stayed focused on the dots in the distance; whatever they may be, they were not supposed to be, they could not be. They turned around, and above, floating aimlessly behind his vision, they were moving somewhere—not in an organized manner, but like a small herd, they started rushing off. He stood still for a second, watching their movement. Then it stopped.
He hung around, all the way until none of them inhabited the field anymore. He caught his breath, slowly but surely, slowing his pulse and watching his shoes sink into the ground ever so slightly—slowly getting buried under the dirt and mud. He lifts his foot out of the forming sinkhole and accidentally kicks over a small slope. A tiny sprout blooming out from under it, exactly the same distance apart as the others. Paddy crouched down to observe it, the detail of the small sprout, its texture and color: No, it had to be the same sprout; there was no other way. It looked identical to the one he had seen earlier.
He stands up fully once more before glancing around, realization slowly beginning to kick in like the daunting of an ever-moving clock arm. As the clock approached twelve, Paddy realized the trees in the far distance were still around the same distance away; it was difficult to tell, but they still looked the same. He pondered; he let his thoughts drift off at possibilities, possibilities that had seemed impossible, but there was also a fright in him, gnawing at his consciousness. The unending fear that there might be no way out, that the walls of mist and fog had trapped him, trampled him before he had a chance to react. He did not know how to react; he stood there, staring at the faraway, hoping something was not right. Something had to have changed.
He looked up, up at the sky, at the Gods—the God that may have judged him or may be judging him as of current. What had he done wrong? The sky did not respond; it sat there, laughing to itself wickedly in silence, for it knows their day is coming. There was no movement in the sky; it was entirely blank. There was no irregularity, nothing that seemed non-perfect. It was so perfect indeed that it was frightening. The sky had no personality; it had no life, unlike those things moving in the distance. They knew fairly well what they were doing, and they were getting on his nerves. They were doing it on purpose; he knew that they were. There was no one else around to be toying with. But at the same time, there was nothing direct that he could do. What was he supposed to do after all?
A second fear took over as the derelict flatlands spanned and spanned for who knows how long—not that such would matter. A strong, claustrophobic fear took over, that no matter what he did, what he tried, or what he attempted, no matter what, he would be stuck. He would be trapped in not only a place that he did not recognize but also his movement was trapped along with such. It did not play a role in how much he would run or how long for; it did not change anything because the world simply did not care. The power of the world would surely be enough to overwhelm and vanquish a single man. He knew that they were watching his moments steadily, the dots in the fog; he knew they were there, aware of their existence. Much like they were of his. There was no consensus on how he knew as such, but a gut feeling arose that told him as such, that had spoken to him as a prophet would, telling him of the dangers out there.
And as such he was given one direction to go, and one only: forward. He marched forward with newfound confidence, with the confidence to know that what he was doing would change the outcome in some shape or form. So he marched over the soil, making sure to avoid the sprouts—or more so the same sprout over and over again. He trotted, he walked, he ran, he sprinted. Nothing would happen; nothing would change. It was as if the hourglass was tipped over each time he took a step forward, the sand swirling around before ending up in the same position again, a devilish cycle held together by the unbreakable chains of time. He stopped running, a slight sense of déjà vu washing over him, brushing against his still muddied uniform. The trees were in the exact place; the sprouts were in the same place, so was the sky, and Paddy himself too. Nothing had changed, to not even his surprise. Mud covered his shoes.
Yet something was off; the mud was slowly but surely growing, not only expanding in size but infesting the shoe from the inside. It rippled loudly, a disgusting, sickening sight for the eye to bear. Paddy tried escaping, moving his foot and his leg to escape the ground's grasp, but all attempts were futile, as he was slowly sinking below. First it took over his legs; then, within seconds, it rose further, panic arising even faster; his heartbeat quickened as the cold took over. Within singular moments, without struggle but with stress, he sinks below the earth and drowns faster than his thoughts can take him.
There is no scream, no battle, but a calm return to the monotone as dead fishes drown.
A building lies in the distance far away. A building so little, so small, only ants may fit within its corridors and halls. A building so little inhabited, it rests as sleepily as a sleeping child. A building so asleep it makes a graveyard look vibrant with life. A building that had been built long ago by a man far away, long since perished by his own machinations. A building overrun with his shame, its corridors breathe fear and fright as if his emotions still stain it. A building that one would not wish to live in, to breathe in, to exist within. A building that has since lived in luck without an owner. A building that had fulfilled its pleas to let it bleed out. A building that knows only fools would strangle its lungs.
The name of mercy has been spoken out loud. Paddy lay exhausted on some godforsaken front porch, the gentle wood brushing against his dirtied face, after his lungs had been drowned out in mud and dirt. He had drowned long before, twice by now. But it did not change anything, partly to his detriment, partly to his relief. After all, he was still right there, right where he was before—almost at the exact same spot. He stood up gently, resting his elbows on the railing, looking out to the prairie. There were still evenly spaced-out blocks of trees in the distance, but they clearly were not the same he had seen earlier. Perhaps from a different angle, but it was as clear as day that things had changed, at least partially.
It is wonderful how the pity erases itself through the chimney. It is wonderful how easily crimes can be forgiven by those who were not present, who cannot be present. It is wonderful how easily a man can forget previous encounters, shoving them far into the back of their mind, where they may never be rediscovered again. It is wonderful how the absence of such light can influence a man, yet he still feels as if he is his own torch: his own guiding light. It is wonderful how even when the Sun has burned dry, the dust that it has left behind still deceives and poisons those who exist within.
The stairs led out to the fields once more, but by now Paddy was aware that there was no going back—such would be a major mistake. Instead, he turned around and faced the front door, its mahogany color greeting him sheepishly. He knocked politely, not sure what to think of it himself. He was not sure if he hoped anybody would open, perhaps a new face would be a pleasing sight, but it did not matter what his hopes were, as none opened in the first place. He rocked the doorknob, seeing if it was unlocked. It was not. Disappointed but not defeated, he went out back; the house was home to a small, bushy courtyard. A back door greeted him in an even more unfriendly manner, but he tried his luck anyway. The door was unlocked and opened to a dark, mushy living room, the smell of rot lingering in the air.
A shade of darkness still hung over the small home, despite no one being able to consider it 'home' by now. A shade of fear, of fright, ushering between its corridors, entering through the windows and leaving through the chimney. A shade of life being shed. A shade of the endless—of the timeless ticking by, not in seconds, minutes, nor hours, they ticked away in emotions, in regards to life. A shade of regret making its way from basement to attic, from back door to front door. A shade of the white and empty shining ever so little bright in the sky, reflecting off the home's dark roof. A shade that swirls away the smoke.
Ancient wind whipped around the corner, as if having been trapped within this dungeon for decades—perhaps even centuries. It smelled of must, of despair, of death. It was unpleasant. Despite that, however, the hallway seemed to be in a well-kept condition. Paddy let his hands glide over the fancy carpet, a layer of dust clinging to his fingernail. He rubbed it off and continued, suppressing an incoming sneeze from all the grime and lint. He walked up to another wooden door, checking if it was unlocked before ripping it open—a new gust of wind threatening to suffocate him. Barely any light entered through the shutters; it was dark and empty; furniture had been pushed towards the far end of the room. An old armchair was kicked over in a hurry near one of the corners; it must have been lying in that position for a while, considering the amount of dust.
A low-hanging wail, a cry, sounded far and loud from somewhere far in the distance—it rippled through the landscape.
Nearly jumping in dismay, Paddy needed a second to calm his nerves from whatever atoned from the mistland. After what feels like forever, he walks over to the windows, scrambling to open the shutters by even just a gap. Light did not shine into the dark living room. There was no outside. A white void greeted his increasingly worried eyes, as the field before him had been split into thousands of shards. He rushed towards the front door, almost ripping out the doorknob, but there was only nothing greeting him. The porch and its stairs leading straight into the abyss below, black holes and revelations. With a stumble back, he shuts the door with surprising force, holding it down to make sure nothing enters. A sigh of relief and straining pain makes its way through anyway, however.
Paddy took a few minutes to register his surroundings, looking out the window, hoping to see the world return, its colorless form, its dry trees, its rampageous soil, and its motionless sky. But nothing changed in the distance; it was still, slowly breathing in and breathing out, a steady pulse that more closely resembled a constant flatline. He let his gaze wander the room: rows of shelves positioned behind the door, that armchair that had been knocked over, a grandfather clock looking over it all, the mess. The clock had stood still at exactly two after noon. He shifted over towards the clock, moving its hands around, each number emanating a menacing ticking noise. He stood there for a second or two, messing around with the clock, shifting the time forwards and backwards, eventually settling on two hours before its original time.
To his surprise, a singular clock within the hallway he originally entered from showed the same time he had set it to. He trotted towards it as well, his curiosity slowly getting the better of his consciousness. He moved it back to what the grandfather was set to: two in the afternoon. Walking back towards the living room, he noticed that the grandfather clock had indeed not moved to the one the other one was set to. Paddy stared dumbfounded at both clocks for a while before deciding it would be best to get a move on, else he would haltingly drive himself insane.Tartarus stepped through the mist. It had gotten dark, a shining darkness. He had seen and known this routine plenty of times before; however, henceforth it hardly changed anything. His boots left dark imprints on the soil he had traversed; each hill slowly judged until all that was left was flatlands. A house—his—sat in the distance quietly, isolated from the influences around it, shades of white and black contrasting with the grey around. The lights inside were cut, not that electricity would have been an issue. Tartarus approached the front door and twisted the knob.
Yet nothing happened; the door did not budge. Confused but not deflated, he started knocking against the cold wood. No response—who would even respond to his pleas? He tried twisting the doorknob again and again; perhaps he did not use enough force the first time, but nothing moves; the front door is stuck in place. He walks over to the back door, peeping through what the shutters revealed, yet the living room looked the same as it always had. Before looking through the back door, he decided to eye through the doorhole—to his surprise, there was movement inside. He could not identify what was moving inside, but there was something inside, ravaging through his home. He was enraged and started pulling the doorknob with a firmer grip, but the door did not budge. Quickly debating his actions, he decided to not try and kick the door open; such would be too obvious.
Paddy trotted upstairs like a pale ghost who did not recognize his own home. The stairs made terrible, jarring noises, loud enough to wake up an entire neighborhood, but nevertheless he made his way up. Outside, the wind had been getting more and more violent, with now bangs emanating from the doors downstairs as it beats against the back door. Despite that, a quick glimpse outside revealed that everything was still very much the same: There was no outside. To stop his mind from having substance to keep him questioning the reality of the situation, he shut the curtains and pretended that this was all perfectly normal, a perfectly fine afternoon indeed.
The upstairs was even more barren than the downstairs. Down there, there were at the very least singular pieces of furniture—even if not in the best condition—but here, there was barely anything. A single chair was ominously swinging back and forth near one of the windows, windows that somehow let in less light than what was present. Paddy walked over slowly, resting his eyes on the armchair, yet it felt more like a far-reaching struggle than a rest. He used his muddy shoe to press the armchair down, stopping it from swinging. Must have been the wind. Only now does he realize the stains his shoes had left behind on the carpet; not that it was in a pristine condition, but it was certainly noticeable.
At the end of the hallway sat a lonely door. The corridor felt like it was creeping together, slowly getting smaller and smaller, close to claustrophobic mine systems. Perhaps that was the air as well; these rooms had not seen oxygen in what felt like years; it was threatening to suffocate him in must the longer he stayed within. He shifted towards the door, pressing down on the handle. The inside was dark, terribly dark; the rest of the home was already rather devoid of light, yet this room in particular felt like breaking a lightbulb, with no shards to relapse in. The windows did possibly leave in a tiny amount of light, as this room was lacking in windows as well, an odd architectural choice given its large size.
While almost aimlessly wandering within, Paddy accidentally walks against someone—something, definitely something. A strand hung in the air, something very thin. In complete surprise to this, he instinctively started wildly flailing around, pulling on the rope. In an unorganized orchestra of chaos, a ladder barges through the ceiling, almost striking his head, albeit he manages to barely dodge it in— There, sat before him, was an attic. The darkness creeping into its lower chambers like a foreign plague. Slowly feasting on whatever light was still in the room below before assimilating it into the overcast. He hesitated; he always had a certain distaste for attics; something had always felt shifty about them, yet with no way out, being snowed in nothingness outside and an unnerving active wind, Paddy had decided his best course of action would be to continue.
The ladders felt like they would give out below him; they did not only feel like they had not been used in years or so—no, they felt as if they had not been used since the Victorian age. Entire piles of dust coated each creaky step upwards, threatening a sneeze on multiple occasions, yet it never came; it only hung there uncomfortably for a few seconds before disappearing again. The rush of wind had increased; it had gotten colder and colder, almost freezingly cold. For a moment, Paddy took the time to rub his hands together to generate some sort of warmth as he began shivering. Then, a loud bang. The door that he had entered through suddenly slammed open with a force unheard of, but there was no one there—well, he hoped no one was there—it was difficult to truly say for certain in the darkness, yet he reassured himself that it was only the wind. The wind had caused this.
Muttering curses to himself in small fright, he hauled himself upstairs. The attic, rather than being creepy or derelict, was almost pleasant, almost. A marine carpet coated the floors, and there was little to no dust anywhere to be seen, even if the air within felt abysmal, threatening to poison him any minute now. In fact, this entire attic felt a little off, slightly debauched and misguided in its atmosphere. The white walls almost seemed pristine, like they had recently been cleaned. Speaking of which, it did feel like someone was actively living up there, especially when compared to the rest of the house. The rest of the house smelled of death and abandonment; it felt like a reclusive spot in humanity's history, one where something may have happened in the past, something that had and will never be rediscovered, but all that lies in the past makes it irrelevant to the present, except what lies behind.
What unnerved him the most about this attic, however, was the doors. The attic possessed multiple doors, but what kind of loft needed extra doors? He walked up to one of them, pushing down the handle, but nothing occurred. A part of him was glad that it did not open; who knows what lies behind? Yet his curiosity did not end there. A thing that did not help was the warning sign on the wall warning of possible carbon monoxide poisoning. Paddy laughed at the idea; it was almost breathable up here, especially when compared to the musty air below. He snaked along the corridors, slowly moving further and further into the darkness, until he felt like it had fully absorbed him.
There was a weird, blue light shining in the distance. In the colorlessness of this world, this was off-putting, to say the least. It felt like the earth itself decided to stop playing by its own rules for a moment, that it remembered, for even just this one second, what had made the earth so vibrant. The vibrant strands of blue and marine drawing lines like sunlight across the corridors—this attic was much bigger than Paddy originally thought. There was a serene absence of negative thoughts within his head; not once did he question what such blue could mean. But he felt like he would not like the answer, his curiosity still getting the best of him regardless. So he ignored the literal warning signs on the walls and proceeded deeper into the trenches of the unknown. There, what felt like multiple meters away—a definite anomaly when compared to the size of the attic from the outside—a door lay, a door showing blue skies: the outside. Or at the very least, the outside he had recognized so fondly, that played right back home, not in the grips of war, but in the loving company of family and friends. Without further thought, he sprinted towards the door, showcasing the sky, hoping to free himself of the shackles of this realm.
May they sing high, may they sing bright, may they sing with all their might. Trumpets from the clouds above call out; they call for listeners; they call out for peace. A grand occasion for all those present, each one who had believed, each one who will believe. May they look onto the lands below and thrive in all its glory once more, a land of honey, milk, and blood. I call out to thee, those who may woefully listen on, who have been misled to believe otherwise. May they, the ones above, may they have mercy on your soul lest it shall break into a thousand biting pieces, each destroying one another as memory fades and fate reveals. The skies will be painted red in bloody crimson, the sun, a hateful judge readying to deliver its awful verdict—in the name of justice and glory.
A careful and steady hand may guide you towards inner Elysium, put to rest quickly, resting in placidity. All shall meet this fate, despite their banners, as aslong as one respects their judgment, there is nothing to fear other than betrayal from one's own face. But brother and brother go hand in hand; free this land of its awful scorn and hate, for that was judgement, united and indivisible in the name of peace. As long as the scripts role and the ink spent in study are there, there is progress to be made and divides to be bridged and harmony to be brought. One cannot be united under a single banner if they cannot trust their own brethren; betrayal is not afoot, for judgement shall bring inner destruction upon those who know no honor. A death to be forgotten, a death not to be mourned.
Their punishment, in fright, was worse than what their actions may have shown. They will die a thousand times over until their fate has been laid out clear in front of them. Ravage through their minds, break their thoughts, and let the greedy serpent of suffering take its next victim—in the name of judgement. Not all may be perfect, yet all should strive to be, else condemnation may follow for the slothful and lazy. The cards have been dealt, with each clearly showing where their true allegiance may lie, so judgement may follow suit, as there will be none who remain safe from their own actions. A man's own two feet cannot be used to run from himself.
Rolling thunder rocks the sky like shuddering thunder. Its anger enthralled, it takes it out on the lands, the flatlands, the fields, the valleys, and the woods. They all experience its hatred, not for them in particular, but in general. The skies rip apart; fog dissipates as quickly as it showed up; they rip open the wound to reveal bleeding thunder. It does not destroy; it does not ravage in the name of judgement. No, it does so as it was part of its nature: It could not exist without destruction. That would be against its purpose within this world. Nevertheless, it could—but will not—smite arbitrary targets either. Each one has had to be chosen carefully, staking it out slowly with consideration to deal the finishing blow.
As such, they wander far and wide in the distance. Barely noticeable to the naked eye, yet still so clear to most. It has become crystal clear what they appear as, what they may look like, and what they do. It was all known to the instigator above, yet one could not have it be a reality, for it was an absence of proof. There was no physical evidence to prove that the roaring thunder did, in fact, wander the fields aimlessly. Searching out its next victim, it staked it out gradually and with time. The thunder was in no rush to reduce its victim to ash; it could do so easily, but where was the joy in that? It did not need to hunt to survive; it only did so out of pleasure, pleased with its own destruction, what it may only describe as accomplishments. Twisted and cruel accomplishments at that.
It raises its wicked head in the distance, scouring for its prey. And once it does arrive, it silently laughs, for what can only be described as a thunderous upheaval from the heavens. Its hollow eyes are looking for someone, for something. Somehow both alive and lifeless at the same time. They stared with all their horror and delight as it rampaged through meager, small homes. Tearing off its roof, destroying its attic, and leaving it to be forgotten evermore. Almost freezing it in time and space, dust collecting. All such until one comes to free it of its long-ridden curse, yet this may only end up with them becoming the victim, as the bear trap tightens and the crimson bleeds. A low-hanging wail in the distance to sail such fate.
Tartarus kept knocking regardless. It was not even knocking at this point; he was basically punching against the door, letting out his anger. He was not sure who he was angry at: himself? The home? The door? Regardless, however, he spent minutes trying to loosen the door, but it just would not budge. No matter how much he tried, how often he kicked against it, how often he tried to pick the lock, or how often he slammed the door hinge. He stared at the white, cold door, himself burning with rage. Locked out of his own home, pathetic. He took a few steps back, minimizing his increasing hatred, looking for a way inside. There it was: An open window on the second floor.
Without hesitating, he attempted to make his way up, first jumping on the railing of the back porch and hanging onto the wall for balance before pulling himself further upwards. The roof he clung to was slippery, even if just the tips of his fingers reached it for now. But nevertheless, he did not second-guess himself, as such could be deadly in such a situation. What it took was commitment. Slowly and carefully he started pulling the rest of his body up, making sure not to slip on the slightly tilted roof. It felt odd standing there, the wind getting more and more rabid, which had continued to knock against the door in his name. But the thing that worried him more was the sky; it was getting almost cloudy; it rarely did that; in fact, its featurelessness was what was calming him. A so-called storm would not be in his best interest as of now. He ripped his gaze from the upcoming rolling thunder, however, and redirected himself to the open window a few feet away from him.
He inched closer and closer towards it, steadying his footing with each opportunity he got, muttering curses under his breath. He could clearly see the open window from this angle now; there were not even any curtains obscuring the sight inside. It was empty, however. He clinched the corner of the outer wall before nearing his foot towards the window. With a single gust of energy, he basically sprinted towards it, not in panic but in a calculated manner, despite his boot slipping on the slippery roof for just a moment. The inside was dull and musty. It looked untouched, exactly how he had originally found it. No doubt, it was not much and it was shabby, but it was a home indeed. He closed the window behind him, still fearing the upcoming storm, yet he knew he was more than ready, finally.
The atmosphere inside was charged, though; it was unsteady and uneasy. Something was not right about the place. Rushing downstairs, he noticed the clocks did not show the same time. Something was clearly off about his home, especially the locked door. Out of curiosity and slight worry, he checked the backdoor, but to his horror, it was unlocked. It was weird, yet nothing completely out of the ordinary. But he had this ever-encroaching feeling of someone being within his own walls; the atmosphere smelled tampered with. Ruining its original spirit and replacing it with something else. He walked upstairs again, basically rushing across the long corridor. He ripped open an old door, its hinge almost breaking apart. The room was dark, but to his dismay, the door to the attic was wide open. Someone had to have been prying around, and he was to make sure that someone was not leaving his home in one piece.
Everything slows down to a halt, an everlasting halt. The air gets lighter, the musty dust replaced by a pleasant, fresh breeze of air. The clouds, soft and curly, and a nicely decorated carpet, free of fuzz and grime. The sky reveals and retreats, for a new wave of blue is upon the world, as it drowns out sorrows within its chambers. The burning sphere that is the Sun arises once more to shine its beams across the lands, as it illuminates those who had never seen light before. May the light shine bright to rid this world of suffering; may the trees beam with vibrant leaves; may the soil be fresh with agriculture once more; may the sky reflect the emotions of this world again.
Paddy rushed outside, his feet basically floating above the ground with how fast he was going. It was beautiful seeing the terra heal itself of the wounds, as giant stone structures—Orwellian in nature—crumbled below their weight, but there were no clouds of dust and smoke emanating from the structures themselves. Unintelligible even before their total collapse, they melt and die out in the name of life. Never to be seen again, never to be rebuilt, slowly buried below the ground as the new blooms. Flowers taking a hold of the new fields, trees spreading out naturally, a symphonic chorus emanating from the sky above.
But the moment only lasts for so long, as clouds darken, the sky becomes featureless once more. There is no rainfall, but the less than gentle absence of it just makes the emptiness feel larger. Flowers wither away, their corpses floating freely in the stark wind; trees collapse, and the large, mounting sound of machinery can be heard echoing in the far distance. The mist resettles with joy only to itself, spots in the fog taking ahold as the structures rebuild themselves from the ground up. The melodic song is now melancholic before stopping altogether, grayscale taking over the land until its life is drained in singular barrels. The world had been wiped like roadkill, its recorded life being given and taken in the span of a few seconds.
But that does not really matter, as the door to the clouds never truly does open. Paddy clenches onto the door hinge, but it never budges. The clouds move on with the wind, and a rainfall overtakes the area. The blue hue had faded, now and forever. A little while after, he gives up too, being overtaken by the ensuing rainfall. He releases his hold on the hinge, not with care but with indifference. It bleeds; it bleeds in sorrow. As he had gotten stuck in the sky, in a cloud, a vibrant cloud of his own thoughts that did not matter to the exterior, yet it was there regardless. A given curse, a hidden blessing perhaps. Paddy slumped to the side of the door in debilitation, resting on the soft carpet. Clenching his teeth, his mind began to wander, occasionally glancing back to the door in confirmation.
Lying there silently, he breathed in, breathed out, listening to his steady heartbeat: Quickening and slowing once more. He let his hand glide over the carpet, the now absence of dust being almost pleasant. For a second, he took time to reflect on his predicament, how he had arrived here in the first place, and what it meant. And the more he pondered, the more his mind raced off, leaving him in the dark. Realization began to kick in like a dark, stormy cloud: He had no idea, no clue. There was not a shred of evidence of the things that were happening: the fields, the quicksand-like soil, the mist—it all did not add up. It could not be possible that these things were happening, because it would speak out against the natural order in fiery speeches. But regardless, he could not go back to alter the past; what was done was done. He wandered further off into the darkness.
What about his friends? What happened to them? Were they subject to a similar fate, or were they left alone entirely to their own devices? Would they remember him? Surely some would, of course they would; there was no other way around. Some of them had to speak up about his own sudden disappearance; surely such would be noticed. But he could not help but feel alone and isolated; even if it may sound crazy, he feels a slight veil of jealousy of those still fighting on. Never in his life would he have mustered to bring out such a sentence before, but here he was anyway. A melancholic, sad, old man slumped next to the door. He did not feel like himself anymore, neither as someone else, something in-between, or something uncertain. Perhaps that was the uncertainty of action; there was nothing happening, or, more so, there was nothing that he could do. He felt powerless, for he was completely powerless, all alone to withstand the upcoming blizzard.
Even when he did try to take the initiative, to take his actions into his own hands and push forward, nothing had changed. The sprout's the same, the trees were the same, and the sky's the same. None of his actions had changed the final outcome, for he could have simply done nothing to end up in the same predicament. He sighed to himself heavily before mustering the strength to stand up again. Even if he could not influence the final verdict, he sure as hell was going to try. He glanced back to the entrance of the attic; it was quiet and empty, but he knew he could not go back. Not now in a situation where he had felt he was making progress. He turned around a dark corner and descended into the unknown, with not even the slightest indication of the true size of the attic. But he must not care about that; if they can ignore him, so can he; he can play their game. And as such, he did.
He stumbled further into the darkness, his eyes starting to numb from the lack of light, but nevertheless he persisted. Turning some corners, he felt, to be frank, nothing. There was nothing to see, pure darkness. His eyes never adjusted; the dark only got darker. As if hiding something behind its veil. Paddy rubbed his eyes anxiously—no, determinately. He knew fairly well that this was the only way forward, wherever he was going. He always took a step forward with one of his feet first, seeing if there was anything unexpected hiding in the shadows. Something that he should fear. Yet rather than fear, confusion took over his consciousness after his foot felt the floor descending ever so slightly. A staircase? Surely not within an attic. But the steps below only slowly increased. One after the other, he was sinking into the floor.
And then it stopped: As quickly as it had arrived, it had scattered. A hole having been formed into the carpeted ground, the floor now reached a little higher than his knees, judging from his resting hand. Yet Paddy stumbled across something lying on the ground, something that had pierced the silence sharply after a light knock by his foot. He moved to pick up the object; it was round, not spherical but circle-shaped. Its material gave weight against the pressure of his fingers. He could not help but realize the massive amounts of dust basically layering whatever he was holding, a lot more so than the rest of the attic. Its actual material, however, was rough around the edges, scratching back almost, but it felt volatile, as if too strong of a brush could bring it to crumble into a million pieces. Frisking the item further, he finally realized what it resembled: a film base. Why would they keep films up here?
There was not just a single film base; there were multiple. A bunch of them, all stacked neatly on one another like someone had carefully collected and placed them here specifically. Paddy guessed to himself that the films were somewhere in between ten and twenty. It should have been easy to tell with the way they were organized, but not in total darkness. Quickly, he caught on to what was standing beside the film bases. A large machine: A kinetoscope, with a peephole being placed on top of it. Paddy had always heard of one of these machines through the newspapers from America; he has never used one in person because they had always been too expensive in this day and age, but he sure as hell was going to try. His mind swam through a river of thoughts on how such extravagant machinery may have found its place up here in a forgotten attic, but at this point he has learned that it is best not to question.
He wiped the dust off the peephole of the kinetoscope, having to sneeze a couple of times because of it. Nevertheless, he bent down to reach for one of the film bases. They had names; someone had taped names to them in order to identify which was which. He could feel the coarse, old material withering away as his fingertips moved over it. Yet the issue was that he could not exactly read what they said; it was too dark to read them, yet he squinted in an attempt anyway, albeit the result being fruitless. He chose one at seemingly random, grabbing the first film that reached his hand and holding it with a firm grasp. He needed a second to figure out how to quite operate a kinetoscope, yet he figured that the space below the peephole was to be used as a holder for the film base itself. So without further debating which to watch, he loaded it in, making sure he had closed the lid correctly, and looked through the peephole.
There was a light on the other side, which was supposed to be showing the actual film, yet for some reason, it did not. He looked through the peephole for a little longer, perhaps a minute or so, waiting for anything to happen; maybe the film just had a very long, empty introduction. Alas, nothing would prove to happen, and Paddy removed the film base from the machine, sighing to himself heavily in disappointment. Yet there was something off; now that the machine had operated, or at the very least tried to, there was a faint light glowing through the peephole, a light that would usually be used to illuminate the movie itself, yet considering he was confined in total darkness, the little light made things a bit more bearable.
He took the film base that he had removed from the kinetoscope, placing a firm hand on it to make sure it did not accidentally slip out of his grasp. His fingers searched for the name that had presumably been scribbled onto the base and then held it above the light ascending out of the machine. To his disappointment, through his squinted eyes he could ascertain absolutely nothing. There was paper taped to it, yet there was no text on it. With what became broiling bitterness, he tossed the film off to the darkness as an offering, hopefully never to be seen again, as he would certainly not lay another hand on it; that was for sure.
He reached down for the pile of other film bases; some felt a lot older than others, some felt as if they were slowly withering away with every second, while others felt almost pristine. Albeit he could not have known for sure what their condition truly was, as it was impossible to see. He held them above the kinetoscope, and to his surprise, the other movies did mention a title. They ranged from religious to documentary; at least that was what he assumed from the title alone. The only way to know for sure was to, of course, let them speak for themselves. Paddy glanced back across the attic; he was sure he could have heard something in the corridor, but there was nothing legible. Turning around again, ignoring the noise in bliss, he moved his hand over each of the films, unsure of which to start with. After much inner debate with himself, he decided on
Paddy's eyes basically lit up on their own. The movie had worked: Something was playing. The title card introduced the film, which it stayed on for a few seconds. He was fairly aware he did not speak French, but he had hoped that in his time in Flanders, he at least managed to pick up one or two of the words on screen. The movie opened with vibrant fields, not glorious in color—color was not needed—but glorious in their actual crop. Trees were able to be seen somewhere in the distance sporadically—completely sporadically in fact, to his relief. A crowd of angels was sitting high in the sky, their expressions being hard to tell. Confident would describe them best, possibly. In the fields, the people themselves bowed and prayed to the angels above, praying for pleasant rainfall so the crops may prosper and the food may thrive. The angels did not react in the slightest; like little clay statues, they stood there continually, trumpet in hand.
The people faded out of view; they did not leave the scene; no, they simply faded into the fields. Even though the lack of color made the movement of seasons obvious, it went from fall to winter to spring. The fields bloomed in a newly found beauty. There were crops of all sorts, some being rather difficult to identify while others were easier. Yet nevertheless, the angels remained motionless, yet still acting on their authority for the best of humanity. Children now ran into the scene en masse, jumping over the fields in an excited manner, albeit it did not take long for the rest of their families to show up. It was a glorious summer afternoon; people were having the time of their lives, rightfully so.
And so the peasants of the common folk got to work, earning their own grants of food for the month while being careful not to take too much. Greed was not something that was smiled upon. Nevertheless, the people seemed uncompetitive, engaging in what can only be interpreted as small talk, probably exchanging stories of their lives. All of them had it so easy, to be blessed by the angels such as this. Paddy sighed deeply to himself: It reminded him of the easier, especially simpler, moments in life. Before things had taken a strong turn for him, to be in a land of no crop, to be in a land of no people. The film cut to black for a moment before picking up in a different spot observing the field, yet oddly enough, the angels were still standing in the exact same position. Nevertheless, that did not change the happy atmosphere swinging around the soil.
The scene paid attention to one particular family, which had been carefully placed in the middle of the scene. An old woman was working hard to feed her two children that were swirling around her, yet she did not seem to mind. Occasionally a smile would fade onto her face as the children played tag across the open field. Their company meant much to her in her old, frail years; so much was sure. She started pulling on the leaves of a carrot that was thoroughly stuck in the ground, yet surprising to even the people around her, she managed to do so without much effort, brandishing the carrot with a round of applause by the others. She smiled but then redirected her attention to the angels above, giving them a short prayer before leaving off to collect her children.
The scene cuts again, for a few seconds black being all that is displayed, before it cuts to a nice, small family living room. There was an ornamented wooden table in the middle of view, with four chairs arranged in a neat fashion for a pleasant dinner. Curiously enough, Paddy waited and waited to see if a father of some sort would appear, yet that did not seem to be the case. They were only a family of three. A statue of an angel has been placed neatly on top of the table, being in the exact middle. The woman carefully prepared a dish, which he swore he could smell through the screen—it must have been his dusty nose playing tricks on him. The kids looked a lot more well-behaved during this shot; perhaps they had gotten tired from the games outside, but that was besides the point.
Oddly enough, the scene cut to black again, yet it reappeared as the same scene. The family living room, even with the people still in the same spot. In confusion, Paddy observed the room closely—no, there was something off; the angel statue was gone. Where did it go? Yet despite that being an odd object to have been missing, Paddy simply wrote it off as an error by the movie directors: Nothing that needed more attention. The dish was looking delightfully well-prepared, with steam arising on top of it. The children quickly moved to get on their wooden chairs, as did the woman. She shared her food, giving relatively sized portions to all members of the family. Yet as religious as this film was made out to be, the woman did not give a silent prayer before eating, something which the children, bless their obedience, did. They ate in silence, no conversation being held between them. Then, out of nowhere, the woman of the family collapsed onto the ground, looking about three decades older than she did before. She fell to the floor and lay there, motionlessly. The children did not react; however, they continued to eat in silence until the scene faded to black.
What? The scene remained black for a while. Was that the end? Really? Paddy could not believe it. He was not truly invested in the story as much as he hoped, but regardless, such an ending seemed entirely out of place. Especially when compared to the earlier scene. The way to the attic suddenly creaked in horror, in a tone that was way too loud. Paddy jumped away from the peephole to cover his ears in shock before realizing the noise had passed. He tried looking over to the way he entered the attic in the first place, but the veil of darkness made it nearly impossible to see anything. He considered calling out, seeing if someone would answer, but a quick fear would set in of him alerting someone or something. This was not his own home after all. Yet he continued to listen in silence, seeing if something else would follow the noise—nothing did, however. He looked into the peephole again, but it had switched to an entirely different scene by now. Thoroughly creeped out by that noise in the attic, he decided to remove the film from the kinetoscope, debating if he should try a different one.
Something had seemed very off about this film for one particular reason—the year 1938. The reason why it did was obvious to any and all; it must have played 22 years in the future. Quickly going over that time-span in his head, turning it on its head and upside-down, thinking of what the future may be like in 22 years, the first thing that stood out was how horribly old he was by then. Regardless of any speculation he had for that year, he put the base into the kinetoscope, its title card greeting him as just what was promised to him.
The scene opened with the camera following a serious-looking man in a steady suit, marching down an aristocratic-looking hallway. There were flashes of white that covered the scene for milliseconds at a time, as what looked to be cameras were shoved into the man's unapproving face, which he waved away without much issue but with much annoyance. He kept on marching, while the moves of journalists moved at a terrifyingly fast pace, yet the scene was not transcribed, much to the annoyance of Paddy actually. He was curious what the people were saying or asking him, but if the movie directors did not find it important, then he shall not either. He remembered the title again: War of the Worlds. The name rang a bell somewhere in the deepest confines of his mind, but he could not put his finger on it. Perhaps it was something he had heard in the newspapers or he had otherwise read about.
The man in the center of the screen walks up to what seems to be a microphone of some sorts. He looks distraught about something, oddly dissatisfied with all the cameras being shoved into his face. Regret, perhaps? The camera came to a halt, right behind the microphone in question, as the man sat down in front of it. People wearing all sorts of hats surround him in massive swarms, some sitting down next to him while others choose to stand up instead. They all had their papers ready, scribbling down quick notes in blurry hand motions: Disorganized and unintelligible for the average reader, surely. The face of the man in the front gets obscured in a cloud of smoke, brought into reality by a nearby vape.
"I did not mean for this to happen. It was a simple prank, okay? I didn't think the crackpots would believe it!"
The fancy font used for the speech cards in between seemed almost silly in comparison to the actual conversation. The scene cuts back to the room with the microphone, in which he seemed to rehearse what was just said with increasing anger.
"As if I meant for this to happen! Don't you people see? It was meant as a funny, little April Fools joke, alright? None of this baloney ever took place."
He looked on with ever more terror. From body language alone, it was easy to tell that the people around him did not believe him in the slightest. They all just seemed irritated to be hearing such words; it was madness. Meanwhile Paddy's thoughts raced, theorizing on what they could be talking about. About what supposed 'prank' were they talking about? What happened? A journalist behind him asks another question, to which he annoyingly turns around.
"There is no invasion from space! I made it the fuck up! Don't you people see? How often do I need to repeat myself?"
At this point he was basically fuming at the journalists. What started as a friendly-looking meeting has now basically turned into an all-out shouting match. One of the journalists drops their papers dead on the ground, crushing them with their shoe, and storms off in exasperation. The camera starts shifting from left to right; someone must have accidentally knocked against it.
"I don't know what you expected of me, all of you. I'm not just talking to anyone particular in this room. There is no invasion."
The room had settled at this point, with only a few reporters still hanging around, yet all looking extremely dilapidated. The man in the front who had caused this mess starts speaking up again.
"For those of you willing to listen: I had the idea from this one show, this one broadcast a few years ago. Basically it was about London falling to a foreign invasion—it was hilarious how many people believed it really. That's how I got the idea, you see."
The few journalists left continued writing down their notes, scribbling faster than the camera could pick up. They then all expectedly continued staring at the man who had told them such information, yet he said nothing else. Out of nowhere, all of their heads start turning towards the right of the room to something off-screen.
"They're here!"
The film abruptly fades to black afterwards. What a waste of time. Paddy can not help but feel utterly disappointed with this supposed science fiction film. While it was unclear what was there at the end, it was clearly just lazy film writing. With a deep, sorrow-filled sigh, he removes the film base, almost flinging it across the room like the one before it, yet he changed his mind at the last second, deciding to place it down gently to the right of him. Yet decidedly, watching movie after movie was not going to bring him any further; albeit surely it could not hurt to see what the others offered.
Paddy makes sure to close the lid on the kinetoscope: The film starts. The title card flashes away, and all that can be seen is white. The endless whiteness taking over the entire scene. Nothing was intelligible; it was as if floating. His eyes started to hurt considering the brightness contrasting with the overarching darkness, but he does not inch away from the peephole, remaining steadfast. Then something fades into view, a black spot in the distance. It was hard to tell from the film's quality what the distant object was, but there was certainly something there. As quickly as it came, it faded away into the distance, first in light shades of grey, then completely, leaving him alone with nothing to be seen again.
The scene cuts, and he mentally prepares himself for what was to come next. It was not promising so far. The new scene revealed a rocky cliffside, the camera panning out to enjoy the view. The man holding the camera points at something far in the distance, but it's impossible to see what he was pointing at, if even anything. The view was freezingly cold, even just through the peephole alone. It looked barren and abandoned, not that someone would have been crazy enough to live here. The trees looked as if they were frozen in place, while mountaintops of giants peeked out in the distance between what appeared to be clouds. The camera panned downward, a trail of footsteps leading to its current position, barely being able to be made out in the strong snowstorm.
The scene cuts again to a lonely tree on top of a small ledge. The camera is about ten to fifteen meters away from it, yet it can still be made out clearly regardless. The cameraman slowly trudged towards it, almost stumbling over a pile of rocks in the process, yet he managed to catch himself during his fall. Eventually, after what feels way too long, he reaches the tree, resting his gloved hand on its cold trunk. Birds sit above in a nest of sticks and stones. The camera once again pans to something in the far distance, but due to its quality, it's unsure what it was pointing at. Paddy looked away from the peephole, blinked repeatedly to stop the white sore in his eyes, and continued watching in utter silence.
And it was back to white. Nothing intelligible is being shown on the screen, much to his tepid disappointment. The camera was clearly moving, moving quickly from left to right, but the movement itself could barely be identified. The snow laughs in its silence as the film becomes barely watchable. Rocks occasionally pierce the monotony here and there, but it never lasts. The person holding the camera clearly was running towards somewhere, away from something: but what? Eventually, he comes to a halt, the camera barely moving, just bopping up and down. The lack of identifiable features really came to his own detriment. Yet, after a while he raises the camera to face the sky; it was extremely cloudy, with a thin layer of mist swimming through the atmosphere. But what really caught his attention were the floating dark spots in the distance. There was something there, but he could not quite put his finger on what it was exactly.
Before he could answer his own question, however, the camera cuts to black. A terribly dark contrast to the flashing white from earlier. And then: nothing. Nothing happens. The camera stays black for an extended amount of time. Was the film over already, so awfully short? Alas, it did not, as it returned on a surprisingly serene field, away from all the mountaintops and freezingly cold wind. The grass stood high, and flowers were blooming in all their spring glory. Occasionally a few trees in the distance sprinkled the terra. The man holding the camera sat down, watching the field carefully, as if something might jump out in a second or two. The grass moves carefully in the wind, but it never reveals anything hiding behind it.
The next cut is quick in speed, the camera being panned upwards to the sky. Clouds rush past the shades of grey, black, and white. They do so at a surprisingly quick pace, almost unnaturally so. It only takes a few seconds for one cloud to pass from one side of the screen to the other. While Paddy had no idea how windy it might have been nor how far a distance of such may be, he could clearly guess that something was not right about those clouds. It did not fit with his view of the world. It could not fit with any view of the world for that matter, for it was not natural. It could not have been natural. The clouds eventually stopped, revealing the clear sky above in all its emptiness. At least that was what he thought, until he could have sworn to see something far in the distance, way behind where the clouds once sat. It was not quite intelligible what it was exactly, but it looked ginormous in size and possibly humanoid in shape.
The film suddenly cuts off completely and halts on a single still shot. It was of a person standing still on a field, possibly moving towards the camera, as it was hard to tell, yet the blur certainly makes it look as such. The fog behind the figure obscuring the rest of the field. Paddy continued watching, but nothing happened afterwards: The film froze on this one shot in particular. The figure itself was clearly unidentifiable, yet he oddly felt connected—almost drawn towards it. An odd, unnatural link.
He clinched the film base in the kinetoscope and ripped it out with much more force than originally intended, but it got the job done just as fine. Reconsidering his options, there was a growing feeling telling him to leave the rest of the films alone, lest it cause a great unholy might. But his curiosity got the better of him once more. Surely, one more could not hurt. Perhaps the next one could tell him something more useful.
The title itself was odd enough, and Paddy did not really know what to do with it or what to think exactly. It did not reveal much, but then again, none of the films he had watched necessarily went the way he thought they would. Without further considering his options, he inserted the base into the kinetoscope, watching the light pierce through the peephole once more, and started watching.
The film started with someone knocking frantically on a door. Judging by his speed, it must have been something very urgent. He keeps knocking against it, but no one answers. Then, the camera just sat there. The person had laid it down onto the porch, probably to apply greater force to the door. Now the man holding the camera originally came into view: He was a bit shorter than expected but still strongly built, albeit he looked oddly familiar. Unexpectedly to Paddy, he started kicking next to the doorhole, attempting to break into the home itself. It must have been very urgent then, yet he could not put his fingers exactly on what it was. The door did not budge; however, it stood valiantly against the incoming kicks and jabs. Eventually, still with a rush of energy, the man came hurling back towards the camera, grabbing it in anger, suffocating it in static.
The camera returns, pointed at the ground from high above. It does not take long for Paddy to realize that somehow, the man has climbed onto the roof of the porch, his camera pointed downward. He supposes the man intends to climb through a window or some sort instead if the door will not budge. His suspicion is quickly confirmed as he hurls the camera through a window frame and onto bright carpet. The camera still picks up as the man holding it a second ago jumps through the open window himself. He almost trips over the camera lying on the ground but manages to stop himself in time, kneeling down to pick it up.
The corridor of the home he had just broken into looked lively. A grandfather clock ticking loudly as the seconds turn into minutes. Oddly enough, all the windows within the corridor were opened. Must it not be freezingly cold with such openness constantly? But he digresses; it was not his battle to fight nor his business. Unnervingly, the man frantically looked around once again, making sure no one was in the corridor with him. It felt odd watching the scene of a crime unfolding right in front of his eyes, but Paddy did not want to stop watching. He was curious as to what he was searching for or why he had broken in in the first place.
The man starts treading through the hallway, inspecting the objects lying on a bookshelf to the right of him. Oddly enough, the bookshelf does not actually contain any books, just randomly assorted jewelry, clocks, and whatnot. To his surprise, albeit, the man does not actually end up taking any of such objects; perhaps he did so while pointing the camera away, but in the end it seemed like all was still at the right place. A door was at the end of the corridor, old and decrepit. Were it the same door downstairs, it would have surely broken under his struggle.
Nevertheless, he approaches the door carefully, minding each and every step on his way there. He turns the hinge slightly, and it opens surprisingly easily. The door revealed a room, of course, a room looking almost—almost pleasant. A bouquet of flowers sits quietly near the window, rays of sunshine shining in serenely, illuminating the room. A couch sat in the corner of the room, looking freshly cleaned, almost in a pristine manner, just almost. Yet the man did not seem too interested in what was in the room itself; he seemed to largely ignore such. No, he was focused on the small entrance to the attic, gloomy and musty in appearance. Paddy's heart sank and numbed to the point that he could not feel it anymore. It was racing.
The man let the camera float around the room a little, admiring each little detail. Paddy could not help but feel like it was toying with him, the sinking feeling only descending further and further. No, it could not have been. It was just a film, he reassured himself steadily. Yet the rooms had eerie similarities; while one was coated in darkness and this one seems rather pleasant on the outside, there are few key similarities that make it stick out. Yet then, the camera pans towards the attic, slowly approaching it, foot after foot echoing on the damp carpet below. Then a thought arises, a terrifying thought: If this was a silent film, then how could the carpet echo? There was simply no way, unless, of course, he was imagining things. A part of his fear gripped him further, begging him to remove the base from the kinetoscope, something to stop this expanding nightmare, which had slowly started to eclipse not only himself but also the fundamental laws of this world itself.
He averted his gaze down the peephole, across the dark attic, his eyes taking a few seconds to adjust properly. There was nothing there, nothing there yet. He needed to reassure himself that nothing truly was there, but he could not simply go out and look: He was trapped in the corner, with no way left to run. So without any further action, he resumed watching it, much to his own dismay. The film had in the meantime continued playing, but there was no option to reverse it. Now, the man stood within the attic, and his fear only began to grow and grow until it threatened to consume him in its entirety. It must have been the same attic; he was within the same attic as Paddy. There was no way around it. Paddy ripped away from the peephole to look behind him, but only the growing dark greeted him. The growing dark and the barely intelligible faces out there.
He resumed watching. Steadying his heartbeat. Assuring himself that it was only a movie, it could not and it did not have any real-life consequences. The figure moved slowly, tauntingly slowly, through the attic. Paddy considered his options: should he run away? Find a place to hide? Facing the man clearly was not an option; that would surely result in his demise. God, what was he even thinking? No, it could not have been real. He waded through the blue carpet, now-turned dusty. He was not holding the camera correctly anymore either; it was just barely hanging onto something. The video quality also kept getting worse, skewered by whatever godforsaken other objects were within this attic. Static was making its way across the screen from left to right, but somehow the camera held on, albeit Paddy could still barely make out anything in the footage.
A moment of realization hit him worse than expected. He knew the corner the man was currently turning: It was headed directly his way. Directly towards the kinetoscope. Paddy looked away from the peephole on multiple occasions; he was not able to get his own thoughts under control. It was a constant struggle between flight or fight, and he knew fairly well that there was no fighting his way out of this, yet there was no flight, no place that he could escape to either. The only way out of the attic was through the corridor the creature—the man—was trotting along. Slowly. So slowly, in fact, that he felt like he had plenty of time to decide but not enough time at the same moment. No amount of time would have been sufficient to deal with this threat. No, but surely there was something he could do, something he could try to escape out of its grasp. Yet he just did not know what exactly.
He looked through the peephole again, and there it was. The camera was pointing at Paddy; he was right there. A tear shot into his eye: He was too busy deciding to have seen it approach; at the same time, he could not face it directly. He continued watching himself through his camera. He just stood there in utter silence, watching Paddy, considering. What was it waiting for? Yet neither did he have the courage to turn around and face it. He just continued staring into the peephole and at the film. Albeit a sharp realization had hit him once again: How could he be watching himself on a prerecorded film base?
Yet questions as such did not bring him to break his gaze with this thing. The camera panned out, weirdly enough leaving the grip of the man who had held it, floating off to some corner of the room. For a moment he was entirely vulnerable, his back turned to the man with no way to calculate its action. But then, the camera panned enough to show the entire room. Behind him was standing a dilapidated corpse of a man. It took him a few seconds to realize: Not just any man, it was Martin. His face had begun falling off in certain sections; his left eye was swollen beyond recognition, while the other one did not react or seem to move at all. He was still wearing his dirtied uniform; there was mud all across his face. He was not smiling; he was expressionless, like the life in his face had all gone out, left long ago. There was a dark mucus leaking from the back of his head, blood possibly. The long wait had given Paddy enough time to have a close look at his former friend—no, what was left of his friend.
He closed his eyes in pain, every muscle in his body telling him that what he was about to do may seem frivolous but necessary. They burned like hell, rotting away. He stood up straight, not bothering to look at the peephole any longer, and turned around, accepting his fate.
"Angels Sing."
A heavily chorus atone.
The final bells chime.
Yet it never ends; the bells go on.
They sing along. They sing alone.
There never was an end.
There never was a beginning.
There never will be.
Why would there be?
Would it not be rude to interrupt?
Would it not be rude to dissect?
It would.
Great.
Let me ask you this again.
A fair end would be rude, no?
Something that is fair implies that there is an unfairness.
There is no unfairness.
So if there is no unfairness: That is why I am here.
It would be rude to question.
I am the Balance, for there would be no Balance to keep.
I am the World, as much as I am its.
Do you believe things to be predetermined?
Your actions.
Good, that is great.
There is nothing but loop and repugnance.
I will not free you.
Would that not be rude?
That would be unfair.
Gratitude is not your strong suit.
This, a prison.
A necessary evil.
For I am Balance.
For I am the World.
The glory of having finished the page after a writing project gone mildy off-task😵💫.
Written by
for the unholy symphony of
Partially inspired by
Image Credits
Some secrets are, perhaps best left to the unknowable. Trapped somewhere far away, locked up behind the imaginary bars of the mind.