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In the beginning, before anything was, the universe had forces keeping balance everywhere. Anything and everything was equal throughout the galaxy, maintained by multiple forces, keeping each other in check but never meeting. That was for the best, at least according to Time, the supreme ruler of all forces. They all had great power and any contact between any of them would surely result in an unimaginable shift in the balance.
But, even the plans that the universe lays can go awry, disturbed by unforeseen developments. Humans began to grow in large numbers, and as insignificant and confined as they were, they caused a constant power struggle, shifting moods and beliefs and ideas, challenging the world as it had been before.
With this revolutionary change, the other forces began to adapt some of their traits, Time was unable to forbid them from mingling without making the situation worse. Peace, War, Life, Death, Strength, Weakness, Happiness, Sadness, Knowledge, Ignorance, Kindness, Cruelty, Power. So many of these forces, after millennia of wandering the galaxy alone, formed bonds and attachments that the very humans they were influenced by would later write songs, poems, books, and dramas about them, immortalising them in stone, long after anyone who was there to witness it would have died.
The most powerful among these stories was of Chaos and Order, fire and water, opposites attracted to each other. The first time they met was about 100 years after this new era had started, near Callisto, one of Jupiter’s moons. There were other people with them in that moment: Happiness, Knowledge, Death, Strength, Kindness. Yet, it was as if there was no one in the entire galaxy but them, locking eyes and beginning a battle of wits that would define their future path.
At first it was mental sparring. Order’s stoic and cool personality constantly at odds with Chaos’s free spirit. They always seemed to be near each other and their arguments became the stuff of legends, entire worlds shaking from the strength of their sheer force and determination. Time used it as an example of why forces were never to meet, causing an unbalance that was simply not good for the wellbeing of the universe. It was far too late, though, to do anything about this problem, he thought with a sigh. They had tasted this small piece of freedom and would refuse to go back to the way things were before.
It was during this, the galaxy slowly changing, that Chaos and Order fell in love. From harsh disagreements, to grudging respect, to simple conversations, to looking into each other's very being and being content with everything around them. The entire universe felt the effects of this. Shooting stars becoming more frequent, the aurora borealis dancing brighter and bigger, stars shining their fullest, comets streaking through the sky. It seemed as if there was never more harmony in the galaxy than there was at that moment.
It was not to last, for all it seemed to glitter. For Time had been observing the humans for a very long time, puzzled by these creatures who had the power to disturb the very forces of life itself. And what he saw was not pleasing. They had followed the rules of the universe, just as every other being alive had. But now they were becoming more and more unpredictable, their actions and thoughts not making any sense to a force of the universe that had been there since the very beginning. They would stab someone in the back and then go and present a loved one with a flower stolen from the deceased’s garden. It was strange and unsettling and could be traced to the moment Chaos and Order had exchanged glances. Their love for eachother, as strong as it was, was causing a shift in the universe, a back and forth between their two beings that would result in unimaginable catastrophe.
So he gave them a choice. Stop seeing each other for the better of the entire universe, preserve the balance. Or refuse his order and be cast off.
The choice should have been easy. The former was the correct path, putting the good of the galaxy before anything else. After all, they were nothing but 2 forces. Powerful forces, yes. Important forces, yes. Flawed forces, yes. But forces nonetheless. It was their duty, their purpose in life. They could not destroy the entirety of the universe for a foolish infatuation between 2 people.
Yet, they refused to consider the fact that there was even a choice. They might be two separate entities but it was one soul. Where one was, you could most likely find the other. They would not be separated, they refused to be taken apart. The universe would no longer be the same, for Chaos and Order had met and found in each other the other half they did not know they had been searching for. Either way, there was no going back to what once was. The balance had been destroyed the moment these forces had discovered the freedom that the humans had shown them and nothing would restore it in the way Time wanted. Together or apart, things had changed. Seeing as the goal they were trying to accomplish wouldn’t be achieved, whether or not they broke themselves into a million different pieces, they made a decision. They would face Time’s wrath, deal with anything he saw fit to do to them, as long as they did so together.
For all they braced themselves, his fury was uncontrollable. Raging on about how they would destroy the universe and still only see themselves through it all, all the heavens themselves seemed to shake. Eventually calming down, he stared at them for a while. In that moment, all the forces held their breathe, for these were their friends and their paths was to be decided.
Voicing a small sigh that chilled all their souls, Time finally spoke. In a weary voice, he said that they obviously didn’t understand that their actions had led to the end of a long prevalent peace. Now, discord was sown everywhere and there was no way to fix it. The only thing that could be done was to closely observe the balance, always making sure Order and Chaos were present in equal measures. But, seeing as they didn’t understand the severity of the situation, there was only one thing left to do. They would be cast down to live with the humans, no longer forces but humans with stars in their souls. There, they would live their lives over and over again, finding each other and losing each other until they truly understood the consequences of their actions. There, they would witness the horror and beauty of what they had unleashed upon the universe by forgoing the balance for their love. Each life, they would find each other and love each other and lose each other, no matter how much they pushed against it. Over and over again, until they understood the truth.
This was all explained to them in a solemn voice, never breaking for a second. Once he was finished, the gathered forces barely had time to process what was said when a flash of light appeared and a deafening sound followed. With that, Chaos and Order were gone, beginning their endless cycle. It was with growing horror that their friends realized that it could be eons before they saw each other again. So many years that Chaos and Order would have to suffer alone,not knowing when it would end.
For the most part they were two men. That wasn’t always the case though. Sometimes their gender changed, the age at which they met changed, religion, name, sexuality. It all depended on the life. They lived their lives over and over again, in many different places as different people.
One of the first lives in which there was a written record of their love was in Africa. It was fitting that the birthplace of humanity was also where the world first saw lasting proof of their dedication to each other.
It was in Babylon, Nebuchadnezzar a king and Amytis the illegitimate daughter of another king, that they first met. She was always underestimated by those around her, conceived out of wedlock and a fiery personality deterring any good thoughts others might have of her.
Her father was there to discuss an alliance and had brought her along, not willing to leave this unruly child of his to cause mischief back home. Bored and itching for the freedom she was afforded back at home, Amytis escaped her guards and went to the market place, roaming around for hours and returning back to the house where they were staying unrepentant and fulfilled. It was there that they first locked gazes, Nebuchadnezzar making rounds in disguise, listening to the complaints of his people. Within a few seconds, it was over, but he was intrigued. Her eyes had a fire that captivated him and it was rare for someone to look at him like that, king or not.
Having his guards follow her, he found that she was the daughter of King
Cyaxares, whom he was currently in negotiations with. In an impulsive decision, he declared to the king that he would agree to his agreement on one condition: his daughter Amytis’ hand in marriage.
The King was bewildered, for when had he met her and why would he want to marry her, but he did not question it. He would have his alliance and if giving away a daughter in marriage would aid his quest, so be it. As for Amytis, she had no say in it, as it was a man’s world and she was expected to be silent and obedient.
Which led to their first actual meeting, Nebuchadnezzar quiet and sharp and Amytis fuming and full of rage at being taken from her homeland. While getting up to leave, her hand brushed Nebuchadnezzar’s and each pulled back from the shock, stunned at what they had felt.
That night, in their own rooms, they examined their hands, finding something very strange. Amytis discovered a mark on her wrist in the shape of what appeared to be a flame, previously not there but here now. Nebuchadnezzar found what he interpreted to be either waves or a river, traveling across the expanse of his wrist. These marks surprised them both but they decided to remain quiet about it. Their marriage was complicated enough as it was, with Amytis angry and Nebuchadnezzar unable to express his feelings. Any strange sorcery would surely make it worse.
They slowly fell in love, however, just as Time had said. And as they opened up to each other about their secrets, their memories of past lives also flooded back to them. As Amytis began to remember more and more, she began to withdraw from life, dreading the end of this cycle and the beginning of a new one.
For all his power as king and his strength in other parts of his life, Nebuchadnezzar had no idea what to do. Growing up, no one deemed it necessary for a future King to learn how to deal with his emotions. It was expected that he would get his way, always, and that would prevent any sadness from occurring.
In a last ditch effort to console his queen, he decided to bring her home to her. The rolling hills and green trees and fragrant flowers of Media would be brought to her palace, where it was hoped that the sight would bring back her joy for life.
Through the construction of this wonder of the world, a testament to his devotion to her, Nebuchadnezzar assured Amytis that they would deal with anything that came next together, as they always had, as they did so for centuries before. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, they would come to be called.
She returned to him but there was always a lingering sadness to her, one that you couldn’t help but notice. The more she looked around, the more she found Time’s words to be true. The people around her, they cared not for each other or their families,willing to do anything necessary to win the King or Queen’s favor. Backstabbing, scheming, corruption, hatred. They all surrounded her in this court, suffocating her with their presence.
The one thing that kept her same was him. And when she took her last breathe, they say that her last act was to squeeze Nebuchadnezzar’s hand in hers, giving him the same assurance he had once given to her.
By the time he died, three years after she did, he had became a bitter and paranoid old man, seeming older in those three years than he even had while Queen Amytis was alive. Without the Queen’s spirit and wit to counteract his cold persona and calculating mind, it had been a living hell for him and everyone who knew him. He prolonged his last breathe, knowing that it’s end would start another torturous cycle. But when it ended, he had a smile on his face. To meet the queen,they said.
They grew up together, Alexander a prince and Hephaestion his closest friend and companion. To the outside world, they were a perfect example of a friendship, loyal and devoted to each other through it all. Yet the bond that was between these two ran was not strong due to friendship alone. It was a strength that came from friends who had also became lovers, finding in each other someone to spend the rest of their days with.
At first it was just Alexander, a young boy destined to rule a kingdom, alone despite the crowd that always surrounded him. They fawned over him and showered him with compliments, yet didn’t hesitate to turn their back on him in a second’s notice. He learned to guard himself well, refusing to fall for their tricks, not after the last time left him bruised and so badly broken. He closed himself off from the rest of the world, showing them a cold impersonation of a human, the image of the ruler they all wanted him to be, the quiet and vulnerable parts of his soul visible only at night, in the privacy of his own rooms in the dark.
He would need an entourage, however, when he came to rule. Officials, generals, diplomats, allies. It was best to start cultivating these friendships at a young age, made stronger through time. His father, King Philip, gathered the sons of noble families from all over Macedonia to serve him and for Alexander, it was a nightmare.
Being forced to interact with people who only cared about his power and wouldn’t hesitate to use him, being in the spotlight at all times, having all these expectation on him, it was a hard life. He dealt with it, because it was what was expected of him, his duty as a leader.
This made his first meeting with Hephaestion all the more irritating. After years of being obeyed and all deferred to, someone challenging him and not having a care in the world was a shock. He can’t quite remember what they had argued on. It was long ago and they were so very young. Regardless, they sought every opportunity to best the other, whether verbally or physically.
In Hephaestion, Alexander found someone who was his equal, not hesitating to point out his wrong doings or shortcomings and encouraging him in his own unique way. In Alexander, Hephaestion had someone who could match his brilliant brain, far beyond what anyone else was capable of, and not be worn out at the end of the day. They were young but they knew that the matching marks on their wrists, a flame for Hephaestion and waves for Alexander, were signs that the gods themselves had brought them together.
In a court full of intrigue, they couldn’t let anyone know of these symbols, for friend could easily be enemy. The one person they could go to, however, was Aristotle, Alexander’s tutor and as close as an uncle. He was a philosopher, not a priest, but even he could see that these marks held significance and their bond was a strong one.
Taking Aristotle’s suggestion, King Philip allowed Hephaestion to learn with Alexander, preparing him to be Alexander’s right hand man. This is how they came to grow up together, there for each other when no one else in the world seemed to be, a prince that was alone and a boy whose genius no one truly understood. Knowing each other since childhood, the feelings that started to grow plagued both of them neither willing to destroy the most important relationship he had. But command was a lonely job, whether it be a country or an army. It was inevitable that they confess their feelings, the two friends never going long without telling the other his deepest secrets and fears.
That did not mean that they could openly be together. Aristotle knew the truth about them, had even commented to the queen that they were one soul in two bodies, but left it at that, a note on their strong friendship rather than implying their romantic bond. For all the world might approve their strong friendship and laud them for standing the test of time, it would not look kindly upon them as lovers. Alexander was expected to marry a fertile princess of another kingdom, meant to secure both an alliance and an hier. Hephaestion, too, had to have sons, meant to be raised in service to their King.
This path had been chosen for them long ago, set not only by their parents but by the Fates themselves, the threads of life woven close together and touching, but never quite as close as either wanted.
So they had long strings of lovers to assure the world that they were vigorous and healthy young men and looked away when one saw the other, the constant reminder that the women at his arm sent too painful to consider. Each whisper of a new lover, each rumor of a bride, all the talk was a new current of pain in their bodies, their souls in constant torture over what couldn’t be.
The few times they could be together was during wars and conquests, where it was perfectly ordinary for the King and his second in command to spent every moment together, talking late into the night and eventually falling asleep, discussing future plans. When they were done with all of that, sure that everyone else had fallen asleep in anticipation of another day full of work and battle and fatigue, they made love. It was urgent, and rough, and vulnerable, and gentile. All they couldn’t do or say back home was said while on the move, conquering various lands.
They knew it would end one day. Eventually, land to conqueror would run out and so would their excuse to be out here, away from the confines of their lives and the expectations placed on them. It was why they were here, after all. On the run, going from country to country, desperate to buy themselves some more time, time spent together, as more and more of their previous memories came back. And with those memories, a guarantee that their time together was getting shorter.
They talked about it in bed, after they were spent and could see the beginnings of the sun rising up from behind the rolling hills. Hephaestion talking about a future that wouldn’t be, rambling on and on, creating a fictional world in which they could do as they please and get the ending they deserved. Alexander would always scoff, roll elaborate insults off his tongue and then go get ready for this new day, each wondering if this was their last day together.
Both of them had spent hours upon hours wondering how it would end, ever since they started receiving their memories of past lives. Would one of them die first or would they have the pleasure of ending together? Did it happen on the battlefield, an assassin, some poison, maybe a dagger and a disgruntled civilian.
Sickness and food was not how either of it imagined it, though.
The fever itself ran for seven days and Hephaestion seemed to be on the brink of death when he miraculously healed. Alexander was relieved, for although they would have to one day die, they had more time, more moments in which to remember each other. The imminent threat of his death gone, Alexander went to a meeting, content in the knowledge that the fates would not take the other half of his soul from him yet.
Hephaestion, however, had relapsed into the fever. Ignoring his doctor’s orders, as he was wont to do, he ate a large meal. His body, weak from battling illness for so long, could not deal with the additional stress the meal brought. He died before a messenger could reach Alexander, informing him of this unexpected turn of events.
Alexander, however, already knew. For they were the same soul and now he was empty, the youthful longing for tomorrow gone from him.
He mourned him, clutched his body, screamed at the gods. And when he was done, he prepared a burial unlike anything seen before. No expenses were spared for his funeral procession, games were held in his honor and a tomb was designed. There was one final honor left to give to his lost love.
On the day of the burial, Alexander ordered that the fire in the temple at Babylon should be extinguished, a sign for that gods that a great light of the human world was joining them. An act usually reserved for Kings, he gave Hephaestion all that he couldn’t give to him in death.
Years later, when he fell ill while trying to conquer India, he couldn’t help but smile. How strangely comforting it was that just as an illness had taken Hephaestion from him, an illness would bring him back to him. Closing his eyes, he began to imagine a whole new life’s worth of memories to be made, all awaiting him to join Hephaestion so the course could be set.
They met at the “longest cemetery on earth.” It was a dubious start to a doomed relationship and if they’d paid attention, they might have avoided it. They didn’t, however, so their lives continued in the way it did and they collided in the worst possible way and maybe Time was right. They’d seen destruction and horror in previous lives but this, this must have been what he meant about the balance being upset. There was death all around them and nothing could be done but to shuffle forward with your head bowed down, resigned to your bleak fate as insignificant chess pieces for those who had power or longed for it.
Liao Xinya observed this all, his eyes growing more and more dull with each passing day. He was older than most of the men here, old enough to remember how, ten years ago, China finally saw an end to the warring states period. Lasting for more than 200 years, the people had suffered continuously as noble families fought each other for power over China. In the end, it was Shi Huangdi who ended this endless cycle of bloodshed, ruling over all of China with an iron fist.
For those who hoped peaceful times would follow, they were severely disappointed. The emperor may have won the war and have control but he was a paranoid man now, seeing enemies everywhere. Early on in his reign, Legalism was instituted, a philosophy that emphasized strict moral laws and severe punishment. Anyone who did not comply to the emperor’s standards was executed, no trial given and unable to disprove their guilt. Liao Xinya’s father was one of the first killed, a teacher who spread the words of Confucius. Books and knowledge was strictly forbidden by the emperor, anyone who was connected to learning in any way executed. It was a great blessing from heaven that Liao and his mother had escaped punishment, only his father dying, instead of the entire family suffering, as others had.
Not that it helped them much, he thought wearily as he lifted a large rock, he arms aching. Their beloved emperor had decreed that a wall was to be constructed and men from every part of the kingdom were to aid in it’s construction. They had dragged him from his home, his mother sobbing, towards a group of other men and their journey had begun. Marching all the way north, where the wall would be constructed, like prisoners on their way to meet death.
Which it was, after a fashion. Working the entire day with little rest, they were given meager portions of food and drink, if anything at all. The men were worked until they couldn’t work anymore, starving and shrinking as they hauled bricks along the wall. With each death, a new replacement was sent from somewhere in China, a family never to see their child again. Often times, they were instructed to work regardless of the piling amount of dead bodies, packing them into the wall itself. It would be him there soon, he thought to himself. But hopefully not too soon. The wall was almost completed, a few months more of work. He’d survived a year, he could make it home to his mother.
But that wasn’t going to happen, he could feel it. They were working them more and feeding them less. Some people gave up. Others, like him, lived on the hope that one day, they’d be able to go home. Bumping into a man, he muttered a quick apology and hurried back to work. Laziness could be punished and if he was flogged to death, he wouldn’t make it home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was a cruel irony that the man Liao Xinya had brushed against was Mao Zan, his soulmate and other half, never to meet him again. If they had the luxury of a bar of soap and a shower, the marks on their wrists would have been visible, signaling that something had changed. As it was, both of them were caked in weeks worth of dirt and sweat, so they passed each other with whispered apologies and moved on.
Whereas Liao had an objective in mind and wanted to see it through, Mao was the complete opposite. In previous lives, chaos didn’t take active measures towards sowing disaccord, seeing enough of it wherever he was at the time. This, however, was a different sort of chaos, a quiet sort born out of the fear of people who were broken and defeated after so long wishing for change.
Mao, he had no memories of his previous life. He did not know that what he was about to do was his very essence, the reason for his being. He was simply a farmer, brought here to do the emperor’s work. But he looked around him and saw a clear truth, one in plain sight that no one was willing to voice. Their lives were miserable and would continue to be so throughout Emperor Shi Huangdi’s reign and his son’s and his son’s and his son’s, spanning generations and centuries. There was no guarantee that things would ever change.
It angered him, that possibility that he couldn’t do anything to help his situation. Bothered him more and more everyday. So he seethed quietly and rebelled in his own way. A bit longer to bring water to the useless guards, standing around and watching them work to death. Angry looks directed at the officials. Giving what little portions of the food they got to someone else. One day soon, they’d catch him and execute him but he’d die anyway. He’d prefer to go showing a bit of the truth.
Still, it happened quicker than in previous lives. The dreams hadn’t even begun to appear, those lives that they had all but lost. Neither had the opposite marks on their wrists. No, that would all be borne by Liao. A week from the moment they had first met, their ending began.
Bringing bricks to one side of the wall, some slipped out from his grip, the heavy weight too much for Mao’s weakened and starved body. Normally, he would have picked them up and moved on but this time was different. The bricks had landed near the feet of a particularly sadistic guard, one who enjoyed tormenting the workers. He barely had time to process the flash of anger in his eyes, the hard set of his face, and the stillness of the moment before he was flung back in the air, blood dripping from his nose and fists punding into him repeatedly.
He decided he would smile as he was being beaten to death, this one final (and it would be final) resistance to a life that had betrayed all the expectations that had been set for it. It infuriated the guard more, he saw that now, seeing his broken and bloody grin, growing wider by the second. Suddenly everything was growing dark and he felt no more.
In other lives, their second meeting is much better. It isn’t that difficult a standard to beat, really. Because a few days after he is killed, the body rotting away and no one making a move to clear it away, they issue orders to two unlucky individuals. Liao and someone else is to move all the bodies in their section and put them on the wall, their final resting place the mud and clay prison they had died creating. Dreams had been disturbing Liao lately, visions of strange places and people, but he didn’t mention it. There was a time and place for everything and this surely wasn’t it.
So, with the other worker, he went and moved the corpses near the bricks, not knowing that the man with the strange face was his other half, smiling up at him even in death. He would soon join him in this burial site but that wouldn’t happen for another few weeks. For now, a heavy cloud would settle over his heart, weighing it down. And he would wonder why he felt that way, unaware that the answers he seeked were right in front of him.
Their first meeting in this life wasn’t as auspicious or fateful as other lives. Cato was an apprentice for the best blacksmith in Pompeii, a star pupil with a bright future ahead of him. Rufus had seen him at the marketplace while working behind the fruit stall. He’s come to buy lunch for his master and his stern expression begged for Rufus to needle him. For all his charisma and willing admirers, he never seemed to interact with anyone else outside of his apprenticeship. Which meant that Rufus simply had to make it his mission to irritate the future creator of the best armor in the region. He prided himself on his ingenious plans.
It started with a small comment. He’d introduced himself and ended the transaction in an off handed sort of way, asked whether he’d sold his voice to the gods in exchange for unrivaled talents. It was meant as a dart, challenging his hard work, seeing if he could get a rise out of this living statue.
The reply had been short, concise and dry, aimed like an arrow, finding its target and letting go. Had his mother looked at his hair, he questioned quietly, and known it would match his personality. When he’d looked up, surprised at the turn this had taken, he’d continued. Rufus meant red haired, and any other reason for the name would be an insult to the child, regardless if he was fathered by a pig or not.
Smirking back at Cato, he’d replied with another barb and handed him his purchase. They’d set a routine from then on, circling each other like harpies, going in for the kill each time they saw each other. At the end of one of these daily occurrences, now entertainment for the whole of Pompeii, he’d come home after a long day arguing with fisher wives to find that he had a mark on his wrist, strangely shaped like a flame. He brushed it off with an excuse, telling himself that it’d been there before but he’d never paid it any attention, his brain thinking a thousand different thoughts a minute. Unbeknownst to him, Cato was puzzling over a similar mark on his wrist, this one a wave. Neither of them thought to attribute it to the fact that they had their first kiss today, in a dark alley, hidden from the rest of the world.
They never spoke about the kiss but still, they came back to each other. It evolved from there. They became lovers soon enough, enjoying the challenge each brought the other and the safety too. Who knew which person would betray them out there, bring them before a council for the crime of sodomy. They knew that the other wouldn’t do that. They fought and sparred and yelled but they always made up and at the end of the day, they enjoyed each other’s company. Thy were two different people who were very similar on the inside, finding in each other some comfort and pleasure. It was never meant to be more than that. These trysts, their meetings, it was all so they could have some fun without losing their lives, trusting the other to be discreet.
But somewhere along the way they started to care for each other, deeply and more than they had thought possibly. That’s when the memories started to arrive, scaring them away from each other for a few weeks.
When your mind isn’t your own, people can be driven to do unreasonable things. During that time, the past haunted both of them. Images of other people ran in their heads, meeting, falling in love, time together, death. Countless less, countless stories. Yet, it was them. It was undoubtedly them. Different names, different skins, different homes, different languages, different religions, different jobs but the same souls. He could feel it. Because the feelings these people had for each other, it was the same feeling that he had for Cato, that insufferable son of a bitch.
After he’d cleared that neither of them was insane, as they’d first believed, it took some more time to build up his resolve. He might believe what these images showed but that bastard always was stubborn. He might refuse to see what was infront of him simply because Rufus was pointing it out, true or not.
The day he finally resolved to meet Cato was bright and clear, a good omen, he hoped. He’d informed him yesterday that he’d like to talk to him and would arrive at his home late the next day. The fact that an angry reply hadn’t arrived yet was very comforting.
The entire morning leading up, he was constantly in motion. Much of his energy needed release and urgently, unless he wanted to risk slapping a customer in the face. By the time he made it to his door, he was having second thoughts. Getting ready to turn around, the door opened suddenly and he was face to face with Cato, his eyes tired and face unshaven.
All of his doubts were later erased, Cato saying that he came to the same conclusion as Rufus, but unable to figure out how to proceed. He’d joked about how he was an insufferable bastard and they’d laughed and then fell on each other, making up for the past few weeks of absence.
He woke up when the ash fell, smoke covering the entire city. Some people were trying to leave, others looting and living as if today was their last day alive, which it most likely was. Thinking, he came to a decision. Tightening his arms around Cato, he rubbed his bare back soothingly and whispered sweet nothings into his ear, tears falling down his face. Cato was a heavy sleeper, he should know, so there was no threat of him witnessing the pain of this realization. The sting of reality, the fact that they would never get a tomorrow, for they would die today. It hurt that their story had ended before it had a chance to truly start. There were other lives, yes, but he was living this one currently and the pain was crushing him. At the very least, he thought, Cato wouldn’t have to deal with this. He was asleep and for him, tomorrow was all but assured. He was secure in the knowledge that he would wake up the next morning, make love to him one more time before going to work, and then return home safely. That was not to be but that was his reality, still present in his head from before he went to sleep.
And that was enough for Rufus. He might be suffering but that was inconsequential. Cato was at peace and that was what mattered. He’d had a harsh life, parents both dead and a society that would kill him for who he was, and he deserved this last night of calm slumber. Closing his eyes and tightening his arms around him, Rufus settled down for their last night in this life, ending too early but doing so together.
This was a peaceful life and and a bit boring if Kanuha was truthful. As boring as life could get with Kealohi present, that is. They belonged to separate villages and had become friends after they first met, despite the elders clucking at the constant disagreements between the two.
They went straight to the village chief when the marks first appeared, a flame and waves, in the middle of a conversation filled with laughter and ribbing. He examined both of them and had proclaimed that the gods had blessed them, their futures tied together, for better or for worse.
It made it easier for the both of them when they first developed feelings for each other and the memories arrived. Kanuha wasn’t afraid of these visions, as he would have been previously. He knew now that the gods had destined for him to always find Kealohi, the confoundedly demented hemorrhoid that he was. He was also destined to lose him but nothing could be done to change their fate. It was all set and they had to make to with what they had.
Not that it was all that bad. After all, they could openly love each other, their society accepting Aikāne, relationships between two people of the same gender, a respected and revered tradition. They have struggled previously, attempting to come to terms with the troubles they have unleashed upon the world. Spent entire lives witnessing horrors they could do nothing about. This life isn’t that.
In this sense, they had more than they could have hoped for. Able to love each other freely and intensely. None of the constraints of other lives bound this one. He’d be lying if he said that he didn’t miss the thrill and urgency of other lives lived.
But then he looked at Kealohi, a stupid smile plastered on his face due to catching a large fish with his bare hands, and he thinks that it’s alright. There’s plenty of other lives where they will have to deal with constantly being on the edge. Taking the fish from his hands, putting it in a basket, and then kissing him, Kanuha takes time to appreciate that this isn’t one of those lives.
He dies first, old age catching up to him. It’s in his sleep, so he doesn’t have to witness Kealohi cry over him. There are many other lives where he will do that but this isn’t one of them. Six days later, Kealohi joins him.
They grow closer together on the ship to China. It’s an impossibility, how two people from two separate parts of the world meet, continents apart and with countless barriers between them. But Time swore that they would find each other and lose each other and that’s what happened, in this life and the ones before and after.
Leonardo Fonte was a merchant, taking over the family business for his old and ageing father. He’d prefer to travel the world, see everything with his own eyes, but he was trapped. The only son, his duty was to his father and his family. They had taken care of him for so long and he dare not turn all their sacrifices to dust in order to chase a fantasy. Still, his bones ached some days, when he was out near the docks, as if pulling him toward the sea and the adventure it could bring. Soon, he became bitter and withdrawn, the ghost of chances past taking over his every free moment.
His chance came when people began to buzz about the Silk Road and how one trading trip could swamp a man in riches for the rest of his life. Leonardo wasn’t a greedy man, never had been. They had enough food and money, living comfortably and without fear. As far as he was concerned, that was more than enough.
But this. This was a way to fulfill his duty without destroying his family’s hearts. He could travel to places unknown to most people, visit temples and sample spices and meet interesting personalities. He could do all of this while still working for his family, giving them everything they’d hoped for and more. He could see it now, this shining future, just within his grasp, if only he’d reach out and take it.
It took some time to convince his mother. All his father had asked was how the family would get money while he was gone. His mother, however, fussed over her baby boy, her youngest child, wanting to go off to the land of heathens and savages. Seeing her tearful eyes and pleading face, it almost made him stop. To change his mind and go back to his office, quiety checking the accounts. He held his resolve, though, reassured her that he’d be fine and it wouldn’t be for a while yet anyway. Because he had to do this one thing for himself, feel the freedom at least once.
These past few years, he hardly recognised himself. It was as if a shell of a being was walking around, moving through the motions of life. If he could go on this one trip, his life would be complete, he knew it. Knew it in the same way that his bones had ached for travel and adventure.
So with his intentions declared, he began to plan. The trip would take about two years, three if he truly took his time to admire everything. That, however, wasn’t advised. The Silk Road might be a new place for a changing world but it still had bandits, same as everywhere else. It wouldn’t be wise to travel so long with valuables near you. The shorter the better, it seemed, Leonardo thought sadly. He’d also need a guide, someone to help him navigate the lands they’d be traveling through. He’d get one in Constantinople, where his journey would truly begin. Right now, he would have to work harder than ever, earning enough to last his family the entire time he was gone, if he ever wanted to go.
A year from when he made his decision, he was standing by his caravan, ready to begin the longest leg of their journey when, Abdul, his guide, came, reprimanding a man next to him.
Stopping beside him, he explained that the smiling man was Temujin, their Mongolian translator. Assuring him that he he knew many different languages, Abdul hurried to the camels, double checking their food and water.
Leaving him alone with Temujin, Leonardo immediately disliked him. For one, the twinkle in his eyes and the shape of his mouth was all too suspicious, as if he knew something no one else did. Second, he began to ramble on about inconsequential events, forming the beginnings of a headache. He couldn’t curse him in Venetian, for the bastard knew that language too apparently.
That’s how the first few months of the journey went, Leonardo doing his absolute best to avoid the devil incarnate and Temujin following him everywhere, citing his duties as translator to avoid being throttled.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was exhilarating, if Temujin was honest with himself. Most people were calm and reserved, even when faced with his unique personality. Very rarely did someone show their emotions so clearly on their face, no matter how big of a show they made out of being cold and emotionless. One night, weary after an eventful evening of avoiding bandits, he cornered Leonardo and demanded why he was truly here. Anyone with half a brain knew he wasn’t here for business. He spent much too much time with the locals and not enough counting his coins.
When his face pinched, he felt a slight twinge of regret for prying. Brushing the tiny voice in his head aside, he assured himself it was perfectly fine. Afterall, he thought, he’d regaled the man with tales of how he’d learned dozens of languages from travelers passing by in his village. It was an exchange and he had to receive, as well as give.
Perhaps it was the fatigue or maybe it was loneliness but it all came out. After a second of hesitation, he let out a sigh and told him the entire story. A boyhood spent dreaming of the world and an adulthood longing for it to become reality. It would explain why ne was so closed off all the time, Temujin thought to himself. A lifetime of disappointment could do that to anyone.
They got closer after that, a barrier between them broken. They talked and laughed and fought and ate. With all that, however, came the visions and the marks, always present. They’d excuse it as tricks of the desert air and go to bed at night, dreaming of having what these people had, the happiness, even if their ending was tragic.
It boiled over in Constantinople, where it had all began. Two years spent together, the visions getting more and more insistent and the both of them resisting more and more. That last night, before his ship was to sail for Venice, Temujin found Leonardo in a tavern, ready to drink himself into a stupor.
Convincing him that it wasn’t the best course of action, especially for sea travel the next day, Temujin helped him to his room above the bar. Leonardo leaning heavily on him, he could smell his scent more than he ever had before, the wood and desert and cotton. It drove his senses crazy, making him want to give into his private longings, made all the more sharper by the visions of these past two years.
It seemed that the same thoughts were going through Leonardo’s head, for they could feel each other’s lips touching and their clothes coming off and their hands roaming each other’s bodies with a freedom they might never feel again.
In the end of it all, the sun peaking out through the window in their small room, he heard Leonardo ask him to come with him, in a small voice, as if hoping that the quiet would swallow the question and prevent an answer he dreaded hearing.
It wasn’t a good idea. He had his own family, the one he had made, his biological one was dead or gone, to worry about. He had a job to do and it wasn’t as if Venice was a good place for people like them. He was a foreigner, an odd man out in the white man’s world. It was only by chance that Leonardo happened to be a kind employer, along with a faithful friend. There were many others he had experience with, and they all treated people like him with disdain, thinking of them as the dirt underneath their feet, even as the labour they provided ran their world for them. He knew of these types of men and they would be the only ones to employ him, if word ever got out that he, a savage, was living with a white man. He had his family to think about, the one he’d left behind. And if not them, he had to think of himself. They’d go separate ways eventually and it would hurt all the more, for he’d see Leonardo’s family and witness the disapproval of him on their faces.
But for right now, he threw caution to the wind and gave an answer that put a smile on Leonardo’s face, one like he had never seen before. It was as if the sun itself was shining behind his curved smile.
Those were the best days, as sad as it was to think. The open sea breeze, cool night with a clear view of the stars, quiet conversations, hushed lovemaking. It was like a lifetime of memories in a few short weeks, a small bit of happiness to remember in the darker days to come.
And come they did. Arriving in Italy, Temujin had the unfortunate opportunity to witness Leonardo’s face when he was told that his mother and sisters had died from a disease a few months ago, something the people were calling the Black Death. He didn’t even have time to come to terms with it before his father caught it too, the disease spreading like the winds, killing people all over the city.
He was there to witness the hopelessness in Leonardo’s eyes with every painful hack his father gave, the dread as the red rings formed around his face, the tears rolling down his face when the physician shook his head and left, giving them a few days at most. The pain ran through him, sharp every time he saw father and son spend time together, united after so long but forced to part once again.
It was the constant presence at his father’s side, perhaps, that caused Leonardo to catch the disease. But then again, there could have been a thousand other causes. Either way, it doesn’t change the way it slowly crept up on them, about two weeks after his father’s death.
It began with chills, Leonardo waking up at night shivering uncontrollably. Then, headaches and sores. By that time, they both knew what was going to happen, had seen it occur in many other people, but never said it out loud. As if by saying it, it was truly real and would never disappear.
But it didn’t disappear, it progressed and got worse. Every time Temujin looked at Leonardo, he couldn’t help but remember the previous desperation at the death of Leonardo’s father. The helplessness at seeing your loved one waste away, shrinking into themselves, unable to get better while you continued to be the picture of health, fit and vigorous as always.
Leonardo had begged him, all throughout the week that the physician said he would die at the end of, to leave. Save yourself, he said, I’m going to die either way. But how could he? If Leonardo was to be the cause of his death, so be it.
But that was not how fate had planned it out for them. Temujin saw Leonardo take his last painful breath, close his eyes one final time, and squeeze his hand before drifting away from this life.
He went through the burial process, took care of his business, handled his properties and made a decision, looking out at the ocean where they had had their happiest memories. He would go back east and he would travel, guiding other people in their adventures. He would do this for the rest of his life, hoping to help people find their true selves, just as he had done with Leonardo. And when his time was up, when he left this life, he would always have had Leonardo with him, twinkling down at him from the skies, where he had joined the stars, done with this planet and traveling space.
It began before the war for American Independence, but after the Seven Years War. France in the 18th century was a frivolous and carefree world for the nobility, which Andre Barbaroux most definitely was. It also, however, was a chess game of sorts, a constant struggle for power. No one was a friend and you had to watch your back at all times.
They'd grown up together, one a noble and the other a street rat who had been taken in as an act of charity. Andre's parents were among the more compassionate of the French nobility at the time, allowing him to do small tasks as payment for his education, clothing, food and the roof over his head. No matter how big the social difference was, children are children. They were both different from others, they sensed it and so did everyone else. It was understandable that they would play together. It build a bond between the two, one that was strengthened by the loneliness surrounding them.
It said a lot about who they were and their affection for each other that they continued to communicate, even when Andre became an officer in the French army and Renee became a teacher in a small school in Paris. Their correspondence wasn't something that anyone could make sense of, if they ever opened the numerous letters. Andre's letters were equivalent to monologues, littered with creative insults every few lines or so, all aimed at Renee himself, his parents, looks, intelligence, job, social status, habits, culture, anything really. Renee returned the favor, cheerfully telling vulgar and strange stories, describing them in obscene details. It became their signature, carried over from their childhood spent together, ribbing each other from miles apart.
That distance got further, both physically and emotionally, when the war against Britain began. It was Andre's first official military campaign, leading his men into battle. He’d always been closed off, that was his nature. But the letters coming to Renee during the war were more than that. They were from a stilted, dead, man, a stranger in the place of his beloved friend.
The proof of that was right before him, coming off of the ship, his eyes resigned and his walk weary.
Renee gave him time to get comfortable, adjust to being back home and allow his mother to fuss over him. Then, a week later, he invited Andre to his school, to watch him teach and catch up on missing time later.
It was comforting to know that he was just as awkward as he was before, this one thing staying the same after so many years. Walking around to look over the children’s shoulders, they could almost pretend that it was like old times again.
But it wasn’t. Andre’s eyes darted around at all times and stilled at any sudden movement. He kept a safe distance from most people in the room and he may hide it well, but Renee was a former street rat. He knew when someone had a knife, whether it be up their sleeve or in their boots.
He tried to figure out what was wrong but when Andre blocked his every attempt, he changed tactics. Every day, he met him with a large smile and a story of one antic or another, filling every moment spent together with a bit of the normalcy they had in the past. What Andre saw in his head may keep him awake at night but he could be at peace around him, Renee made sure of that.
Maybe that’s why it happened like it did. Or maybe it had been festering for a long time. But one evening, grading papers by candlelight, Andre sighing every so often, he felt a sudden shift in the mood. Turning around, Renee found himself looking into Andre’s eyes, the intention clear in them. Deciding in a split second, he moved his face closer and closed his eyes, comfortable and accepting what followed.
Over the next decade or so, their relationship continued, going from a casual way to release emotions to something that would be part of their distant future, whether they discussed it or not.
It was difficult at times, with Andre required to be at Versailles and his mother constantly inquiring if there were to be any grandchildren in her future. They always met at night, of course. France at this time may be very forgiving to the rich, powerful, and beautiful but this wasn’t something they would be willing to overlook. Still, they had a comfortable existence, better than many in Paris.
When Andre told him of how the Marquis de Lafayette was planning to aid the British colonies in their revolution, Renee understood what he meant and panicked. After over ten years of living peacefully, without worries, the thought of spending his days waiting for Andre to come home, whether it be on his feet or in a coffin, was too much. It had taken so much time and effort to heal Andre after the last war, he didn’t know if they could do it again.
So he begged, pleaded, argued. Tried to convince him to sell his commission, get out before anything could happen to him. After all, what use was an officer’s salary to him? He had the Barbaroux fortune, he could live the rest of his life in peace and luxury. While he talked, he knew it was useless, that his pleas fell on deaf ears. Andre was many things but never a quitter, seeing his goal to the end or dying with it. And this goal, the goal of freedom, was too irresistible to walk away from. He’d always been a romantic at heart, no matter how rigid he seemed and Lafayette was a close friend of his. Everything was already set, before it even began.
Watching their fleet sail away from the harbor, Renee clenched his fist, the flame shaped mark, the one that appeared after they first made love, hidden from the rest of the world. There was a matching one on Andre’s wrist, that one shaped like waves. He’d probably be mulling over what had been said, looking off into the sunset like the tragic hero he was so eager to become.
Later, when it became dark and cold and his bed was lonely, he would regret the words that’d came out of his mouth, most likely his last ones to Andre. In that moment though, the future that could have been theirs just out of his grasp, all he wanted to do was hurt him the same way that he’d been hurt. So he’d spoken, in a low and calm tone, about this being their end. He’d said he couldn’t take the pain and waiting and it would only hurt the both of them. He’d said that he wouldn’t be waiting if he ever came back but they could always catch up as old friends if he ever did make it back. He took some small satisfaction in the fact the way that Andre’s face dropped, so cruel but necessary for some dark and desperate part of him. That was the last time they say each other, even after the war had ended and everyone had returned. Because they’d chosen separate paths in life and neither of them involved the other’s presence.
Renee, his anger had festered, after the initial sadness and despair had worn off. The nobility in France always were a flighty lot, caring only for themselves and not giving a shit about the common people. They were willing to fight for freedom in America but what about their own people? They were dying, starving in the streets due to taxation and famine and corruption.
When the fisherwives of Paris marched to Versailles and brought back the King and Queen, Renee cheered with them. When the Third estate called for reforms, he joined in their talks of revolution. When they were planning to storm the Bastille, he pointed out flaws in the plan and helped to create a better one. From the beginning, he had a hand in creating this new France, one where he hoped that a child’s future would always be bright, regardless of whose support he had.
But it wasn’t up to him anymore and those visions he had, of lives lived in peace, they wouldn’t ever become fulfilled, most definitely not right now. The people had been powerless for too long and now that they had some, right within their grasp, they could think of nothing but revenge. Rather than focusing on the future of their fragile country, old scores were being settled in front of crowds. Anyone thought to be an enemy of the state lost their heads, the cheering and laughing people gathered around providing a stark contrast to the gruesome scene that was their entertainment, heads dropping into baskets and blood pooling around.
This was where Renee saw Andre for the first and last time in a decade. Getting off the cart and holding his head high with dignity, it was hard to picture this weak and plain clothed man as an officer that had fought in many battles. Still, time in prison could do that to anyone, he thought vaguely, before reality set in. Andre was here, in the town square, climbing up the steps of the platform, his destination the killing machine that the people had coined the guillotine, it’s sharp blade glinting dangerously in the sunlight. He was to die, then. He was the son of a nobleman, he would be one of its first victims, it shouldn’t have been surprising. But it was and the cruel irony of his role in Andre’s end didn’t escape Renee.
As if sensing his thoughts, Andre turned from where the executioner was tying his arms and looked directly at Renee, his eyes just as penetrating and soulful as they had been the day they had last seen each other.
What was he thinking? Did he regret their acquaintance? Or was he wishing that they could go back and turn time? How strange it was that life had separated them, and after so long, after time spent recovering over their supposed loss, they saw each other once again, this time once and for all.
He tried to put into his eyes all those things he couldn’t say, all the hellos and goodbyes and I’m sorrys and I love yous and forgive mes and it wasn’t worth its and I’ll remember yous that they had missed out on, the life time they could have had together.
He wasn’t sure if he deserved it but Andre’s face soften a bit and his eyes flashed with emotion, right before he was shoved to the ground and made to place his head on the block.
Renee couldn’t turn around and leave the crowd, there were enemies everywhere. They’d report him and he’d be facing the same fate as Andre, accused of supporting enemies of the state. Dying didn’t seem bad right now, with the state the country and his life was in currently. It would be welcomed, in fact. But he hoped to do some good before he left. So he steeled himself for the cheers and clapping, picked a spot to stare at above the guillotine and pasted a smile on his face, whispering mindless sweet nothings in his head, hoping that Andre would somehow sense them, as he had sense his gaze.
When the blade fell and there was a quiet thud, drowned out by the voices of the crowd, Renee knew that the deed was done. There would be no going back.
Today felt just like that day ten years ago, when Andre had sailed for the American colonies and Renee had followed his own path, vowing never to get involved with the fickle aristocracy. Tonight, he’d be going home to a bed that felt cold, not so much due to the December air as to the lack of hope in his life. Maybe he’d always hoped, somewhere deep inside him, that Andre would come and find him and things would go back to the way they were before. But that wouldn’t happen, not anymore. And the weight of his heart in his chest and the shaky footsteps he took were just a precursor was what was yet to come. Alone, watching hundreds of previous lives play out in his head, as they had before, knowing that this could have been them.
That life, it began with tragedy and ended with tragedy. Not that they knew it at the time. It was all such a rush, they didn’t have time to process it all. They did know each other for a few years, yes, but when those years were spent looking over your shoulder, they didn’t amount to very much in terms of happy memories.
Their paths were set to meet with Hitler’s rise to power and the Schwerner family’s decision to leave Germany. It irked Karl, the eldest son, to no end. At eighteen, he was a closed off person for his age and leaving behind the few friends he had been able to make was somewhat of an annoyance to him. It was true that he could remain in the Fatherland and work for himself. He was of age now, no one could stop him.
But he trusted his father and his reasoning, and as much as he was loathe to admit it, this was probably the right decision. Jews hadn’t fared very well after the Great War, whether they looked like the average German or not.
So when Hitler passed the Nuremberg Laws and the first rumors of strange plans started to escape Germany, his family was safe in France, starting their new lives. When Germany invaded Poland, he watch anxiously, along with the rest of his country, to see what Hitler’s next move would be. When France fell to the Nazis, he felt despair and anger and a drive to do something. People were dying all around him, just days into the occupation. Anything to aid this country that had taken him and his family in as it’s own.
Which was how he found himself a member of the French Resistance. You couldn’t talk freely anymore, for fear of being taken away and never seen again. And yet, while it may not be clear who could be trusted, there were enough of them to band together and work to free their country.
It helped, of course, that if one of them were caught, all of them were dead.No one could risk giving up another, for it would mean giving up yourself. One slip up meant dozens of lives destroyed. Fighting back, it had more risks to it than rewards. But it they managed to succeed, life as they knew it would return back to normal (how naive they were.)
It was at one of those first meetings, hushed and full of quiet whispers, where he first saw him. Dark and cramped, Isaac Deslys seemed to draw the light around him. His world was drab now, filled with quiet, obedient people and a life that had lost its charm. Everything, it seemed, except for this man, who was attracting his attention with no effort on his part. A smile, a laugh, and Karl was watching him from the corner of his eye, not able to pull away.
It wasn’t safe, this attraction he was feeling, especially since Isaac seemed to return the feeling. The country was overrun by Nazis and they wouldn’t be very kind to him, a hidden Jew that had abandoned his fatherland to take up relations with another man. Not to mention the fact that he was a member of the resistance. Basically every part of his identity was something to be hated, in the eyes of their current occupiers.
Yet, when Isaac asked to meet him somewhere quiet, he didn’t say no. And when their lips met suddenly, bodies hidden in the dark, he decided to throw caution to the wind and let life take him where he was meant to go. If that somewhere was in a small corner, kissing the most amazing being to exist, he wouldn’t complain.
He’s not sure if the other freedom fighters know about them or not. The way they glance at each other isn’t very subtle but then again, everyone’s concerned about their own lives at the moment. Either way, they continue on as normal, the only difference in daily life being the meetups they have every few days.
It isn’t enough for them, not by a longshot. Sneaking around, hoping today isn’t the day they die, wishing they had more time than a few hours a week for each other.
But they don’t. They made a pledge to the resistance, were dedicated to it before they ever knew of the other’s existence. The marks on their wrists, opposite yet complimentary, would have to come second to their country.
Karl has his job at the Gestapo headquarters, his perfect Aryan appearance a disguise to gather intelligence. Isaac relays that information all over France, personally handing over the necessary data to various people. It’s all very tiring and the strain of keeping up appearances is too much to handle at times. When Isaac touches the arm of a woman to play the part of the free spirited flirt that the world sees him as or when Karl goes on dates with a respectable young girl, all the senior SS officers looking at them approvingly.
In these moments, so hard to bear, memories come to them. They became more frequent over the last few months but it appeared that they always came during a time of need. They were images of different people, from all around the world, speaking different languages and doing various tasks and living their lives. The one thing that connect them, stringing together through all of history, was their love for each other. Watching clips of lives play out in his head, Karl was sure of two things: 1) these people had loved each other to infinity and 2) they were Isaac and him. He knew the last fact like he knew himself. It just was. There was something deep inside him that connected to the lives in his head and he choose to believe it was due to having previously lived through them.
It made it easier to deal with the more difficult aspects of his job. Filing the paperwork for the transfer of prisoners to camps. Kissing Greta infront of Isaac. Watching as Hauptsturmführer Goeth shot a child. Unable to do anything with the confidential information he received, for fear of blowing his cover. Not knowing how Isaac was for months at a time. His people despising him, thinking he had sworn allegiance to their occupiers. Knowing what the horrors going on in camps all around Europe, hearing the Germans gloating over the deaths of millions of innocents and not being able to do anything to aid those unfortunate souls. He hated it all and the thought of having lived happy lives with Isaac, even if it was only a fantasy, kept him sane.
And then, suddenly, everything was happening so fast. The Americans were now in the war and various forces were on the beaches of Normandy and the Allies were pushing back against the Germans and gaining ground.
Suddenly, it didn’t matter if he blew his cover. He could leave his job, disappear, and join the resistance in their activities once again. Karl could kiss Isaac for as long as he needed to reassure himself and they saw each other nearly every day. Sometimes, after a particularly long day, with the liberation of Paris so close they could grasp it yet still so far, they slept with each other. The others turned a blind eye to them, everyone too war weary to refuse someone else that small bit of comfort.
Hiding in a rundown building, small and dilapidated, the best you could do was a small cot per person, a couple people in a room. They’d push together their beds and lay side by side, attempting to listen to each other’s heart beats over the sound of planes and sirens and shouting. Other times, they’d reach out across the two feet distance between their beds and hold hands, linked together, fighting the demons in their nightmares together.
Liberation for France was coming closer and closer and they’d decided to make a statement, one that would celebrate all that they’d fought for. Help was coming and the entire organization was preparing for the inevitable battle that was to come. From August 19 to August 23, there were various skirmishes, the retreating Germans a target for the French freedom fighters.
It was the 24th when everything truly came to a head. There were about twenty of them involved, more than was possible to maintain their stealth but necessary nonetheless. The plan was to blow up the Gestapo headquarter in the middle of Paris, one of the few ones still busy and the biggest in the city. While other German forces were retreating, the SS were forced to stay, tasked with organizing and shipping all pertinent information in the building back to Berlin. Allied threat or no, Hitler refused to leave information on his various political prisoners behind.
They’d done it perfectly. The bombs were set up all around the building, no civilians were near, he knew for a fact that the sadistic bastard who was in charge was currently working in his office. They’d gotten as far away as they safely could, eager to watch the downfall of something that had symbolized their captivity.
And that was when it went downhill.
They had known that the SS officers usually weren’t allowed many breaks. What they hadn’t counted on was a small group exiting the building, apparently taking advantage of the uncertainty of the situation to get free time. There weren’t many of them, only five or so, but any attempts to eliminate them would result in more attention from their fellow Germans. They’d held still, hoping that they could stay for the detonation, despite the risk involved in that.
But fate never was kind to Karl, to any of them really. Ten seconds before detonation, they were seen, a young man catching them from the corner of his eyes and swiftly alerting his friends. They shot off after that, the sounds of boots hitting the ground and explosions and smoke and breathless laughter the backdrop to this exhilarating day. He didn’t get to see the hell where he had been trapped for the past few years disappear but with the wind in his face, Isaac by his side, the pleasant burn of pain in his stomach and the scent of victory all around him, it was hard to complain.
And then Isaac was slowing down and they were turning around to shoot at the SS while Karl got him and oh god- there was blood. So much blood. He’s bleeding out, Karl’s hands slick with bright red. He can make it, Karl just has to get him back to base in time. See, they’re almost there, up the steps and to their makeshift hospital. The medics look at Isaac and shake their heads, sympathetic looks in their eyes, but it can’t be. Karl and Isaac, they’ve worked so hard these past few years, sacrificed so much. After such a long period of time, full of sorrow and pain, surely they deserve the smallest bit of happiness. Lives like the ones their other selves lived out. But Isaac is squeezing his hand gently and his mouth is curving upward, a struggle filled attempt to smile, which only shows the blood covering his teeth. It hard for either of them to say anything, their eyes conversing for them instead.
33 minutes later, around the time when Isaac Deslys took his last breathe, the first Allied soldiers were entering Paris.
The next day, the city was celebrating the German’s official surrender of Paris.
All Karl could do was stare at the bloodstains left from the previous night and wonder, how would he ever live the rest of his life with his other half?
They’d met for the first time in Afghanistan and it seemed like Brad was always five seconds from killing Ray. He didn’t do it but that was a minor detail. The point was that in the opinion of practically everyone in Bravo, there wasn’t a weirder friendship- or whatever it was- in existence than the one Sargant Colbert and Corporal Person had. One had an icy demeanor with the personality of a brick wall and the other refused to shut the fuck up, end of the world or no. Regardless, they balanced each other out very well, in a way that would have been strange and perhaps a bit frightening if the guys didn’t benefit from it. Person kept Colbert from burning holes into innocent people walking by him and Colbert told Person to shut up on a frequent basis, allowing them small moments of “peace.” It was a great arrangement.
And the shit show that was Iraq happened and BAM! Everything was happening to them, all at once and at all times. Everyday, a small part of them died and everyday, they couldn’t quiet recognize the person they were becoming.
All of them were suffering. How could you not, under these shit conditions? Under constant attack, half the time because of the stupidity of Battalion and their officers. Not enough food. Watch entire villages get blown up. Not knowing why they were here. Listening to the wails of children in pain and being able to do nothing about it. Seeing the fear in Iraqi eyes, causing wave of hopelessness to wash over them. Worrying about the safety of everyone in the platoon. Wondering if they were going to make it out safely. Wondering if they would ever leave this place at all, mentally and physically. Carrying the ghosts of so many regrets with them, wherever they went. Frustration and resignation as to what was going on all around them.
It was too much and it would break them.
So it made sense, really, that they’d start looking for small comforts wherever they could find them. Singing in the humvee. Poking fun at Trombley. Listening to Poke’s lectures/rants. Making faces behind Encino Man’s back. Combat jacks. Rudy. Wherever you could find comfort, you took it.
For Brad and Ray, it was each other. The strange friendship that was cultivated in Afghanistan turned into something more in Iraq.
When Brad was recalling the betrayal of his best friend and fiance, Ray was there, ready to lend a small smile while thinking of fifty different ways to murder someone.
When Ray’s face was burned by Rudy’s espresso maker, Brad expressed his worry and concern through angry lectures and insults aimed at his intelligence.
When the road got boring and miles of sand and dirt were messing with their heads, they sang songs for each other. Good or bad, it didn’t matter. They were here and they were together and that was enough.
When Trombley shot that child, it was Ray who went to Brad and sat by him the entire night. They sat quietly, side by side, saying what needed to be said through the silence of the night.
When the village got bombed and everyone else could only hear Ray’s ignorant comment about his cookies, Brad saw past that. He understood that Ray was just as affected as the rest of them and this was his way of showing he cared. Because if he let himself break apart right now, he wouldn't ever be able to put himself back together again. At least not how he was before.
When Brad’s high from defusing the bomb in the garden was brought low by the news of the Iraqi children, Ray stayed behind. This wasn’t the time to joke around and annoy. He needed some time to himself, time to release everything inside of himself with the assurance that no one would see this vulnerable part of him.
When Ray was playing football with the guys, Brad could see where this was going. Understood it when Ray needled Rudy. There were only so many emotions you could bottle up and Ray was about to explode. So when Ray ran towards Rudy, he let it happen. Let him yell and lunge and attack. Only when did it get more serious did he make a move to stop the two of them.
Moments like these, the country and situation they were in getting the best of them, requiring them to need each other like never before. The horrors they’d seen, the things they’d done, the moments they’d looked away from, it was difficult to deal with. They’d played a role in these innocent people’s downfall, the destruction of their lives, their hatred having a justifiable source and they’re gratitude baffling, and they could do nothing about it. So they took refuge in each other and hoped for the best.
There were times, however, when something felt missing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I’m telling you, something should be happening,” Ray informed Brad, walking away from the humvee together, shitters in hand.
“Something is happening Ray,” Brad said, scanning the area. “You’re taking a shit and we’ll get back in the humvee and around around senselessly for a few more hours. What more could you possibly ask for?”
“Homes, this ain’t nothing! I’m talking, like, something from your soul is missing type of shit. Maybe the cycle of life has broken or the demon spirits inside of Trombley have awoken. That sort of stuff.”
“If you continue talking like that,” Brad informed him, “you’re going to be gayer than Rudy. And that’s a problem.”
“You weren't saying that last night,” Ray sulked, zipping up his pants. “If you really had a problem-”
“Shut up Ray. Trombley coming our way and I’d rather not have to kill him.”
“Doesn’t seem like a bad idea to me.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I’m telling you, something is wrong. Seriously wrong. Things should be happening, we should be living to the fullest. My wrist itches all the time and my head’s been feeling empty. They’re all signs, signs of the end!’
“Ray if I didn’t want to hear it thirty years ago, why would I want to hear it now.”
“The end is near us!”
“A) You’re life is empty because you’re a goddamn mechanic instead of a Recon Marine. B) You’re 52. The time for living it to the fullest is long over. C) That’s a mosquito bite on your wrist, you whisky tango inbred kick. And D) Your head was always empty. Nothing has changed. So stop blabbing and let me read the newspaper in peace. I understand it’s hard for animal hybrids like you to process the request but try to do so.”
“You may be old but I have a long life ahead of me. I won’t let someone who reads the newspaper at exactly 8:05 am everyday ruin my fun. I mean, the actual newspaper. Not even on a tablet. A living, breathing, piece of paper.”
“Ray…”
“Fine, fine. I’m leaving. I’ll call you when I get to Walt’s place.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I feel-”
“We went over this, Ray. The restlessness is due to being a former Marine. Now let me spend this plane ride in peace. You’re worse than a crying baby.”
“You know what, I take offense to that and you’re wrong. It isn’t restlessness. It’s this feeling like the end is about to come.”
“I thought you learned your lesson in 2012 and 2016.”
“Brad, I wasn’t going to clean the house if the world was ending, you know that. Besides, it isn’t like an end end. It’s like an ending that feels like a beginning. It’s coming up. I know it.”
“Congratulations. You now qualify as a fortune cookie.”
“Does that mean-”
“No”
“Why do you have to be like that Brad?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Guess I was wrong about the whole, new beginning out of an end thing.”
“No Ray, you were right. Death is but the next great adventure.”
“Look at you, being poetic in the face of death.”
“...”
“Hey, can I ask you a question?”
“When have you ever needed my permission?”
“Did you ever think it’d end like this?”
“I can’t say I gave my death much thought after I left the corps.”
“Same. It’s like its impossible for you to die once you leave the corps safely. Someone should sue them for false advertising.”
“They weren’t the ones who promoted that idea. It was you and your inbred hick, peas sized brain.”
“I always knew you loved me.”
“Well, if I’m going to die with anyone with me, it might as well be you, Ray.”
“Stop talking and hold my hand now.”
“We’re married. This doesn’t need to be a teenage, angsty, end of the world drama, type of ending.”
“I’d like to die with my hand in yours, so the entire world can see how gay we were when they find us.”
“It started out so beautifully and your whisky tango upbringing had to come through, didn’t it.”
“How much longer do you think it’ll take for us to bleed out? I’m tired.”
“Not much longer, Ray, not much longer.”
The After
It was like waking up after a nice, long nap, that pleasant ache throbbing through your body. But it wasn’t their bodies they were feeling. It was their souls. And the very being of the cosmos. And as understanding slowly coursed through them, other forces appeared, coming closer to welcome old friends home.