Chapter Text
Ellwood stirred in his sleep, feeling the harsh rustle of hospital sheets beneath him. Cool air settled unpleasantly on his face, toying with his hair like the fingers of a ghost. A ghost.
Screams and the howl and rattle of artillery echoed around his mind as a dull, coppery spurt of blood ate at his thoughts. Gaunt’s chest shuddered from the impact, and Ellwood’s mouth opened in silent horror as Gaunt stood up, his military clothes morphing into smart Preshutian uniform. He smiled, blood staining the corners of his mouth as he stared past Ellwood, speaking in a monotone voice. “Theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, into the valley of death, rode the six hundred."
Ellwood gasped, the sudden movement tearing at the stitches in his face. He opened his eye slowly and the room swam into view.
A figure was slumped in a chair under the windowsill, sharp rays of sunlight accentuating the hollows beneath its cheekbones. A leg stretched out, limp, the other crossed under it. Ellwood blinked. It looked so still. So cold. A breath of wind swept into the room, pushing a lock of blond hair over the figure’s eyes. Dead? Mused Ellwood silently. He should probably call for a nurse. Couldn’t have a corpse in his room. Although, he thought with a grim laugh, that is what hospitals were used to. That’s what he was used to. What everyone in this war was fucking used to. He closed his eyes again, and swallowed at the awful silence in his head.
Sleep crept up on him again and he woke hours later, in a pool of sweat and mumbling hoarsely. The ghost in the corner jerked awake. Awake? Do ghosts sleep? Ellwood wondered hazily. He didn’t think so, he supposed they barely got the chance, what with all the time they spent tormenting him.
Warm light poured over Ellwood, heating the bandages over his face uncomfortably. He stared at the ceiling, at the cobwebs, the dust-lined cracks. He wished he could melt through the bed, through the ground, become one with this quiet sense of abandonment. Once, the idea of not having words flowing and crashing through his mind had been unfathomable. But as Ellwood gazed through the fluttering dust particles, he knew that silence was better than the indescribable passion he felt for language. Because who was there left that he could share it with?
He blinked. Could he call it blinking? He grimaced. Winking, was the better word for it, he thought. The ghost stretched its legs with a soft groan. It pressed a hand to its chest and heaved itself out of the chair. Ellwood ignored it. No point in encouraging it.
It wasn’t until Ellwood felt a shadow fall over him that he waved a hand through the air to make the ghost dissipate. His hand met a wall of coarse fabric. He frowned. That hadn’t happened before. Huh. This one seemed to be more insistent.
“Haunt someone else,” he snapped, the effort of speaking pulling dangerously at the stitches in his face.
“No, I don’t think I will,” came a quiet voice, rough from sleep.
“Fuck off,” he spat, feeling a surge of anger at the way the coarse language rolled off his tongue. He scoured the library in his mind for words that he could use rather than feel the inadequacy of his own, but the beast of his memories had ripped up every last page. Ellwood wanted to burn them, and stand in the flames to at least feel some ghostly shadow of the heat he had felt with Gaunt.
He felt a callused palm against his wrist. Ellwood sighed. He turned away.
The hand lifted. “I’ll be here, waiting, until you decide I’m real.”