Inktober #27: Coat

Focus on the cuff. Start there. Just past where you're holding her hand.

Cracked black leather. Worn. Chafed. Scratched. Used. Scorched on the inside. Buttons of polished steel standing out in stark contrast, holding it to the sleeve. Each emblazoned with a different relief of a different battalion. They'll be there, at the end.

But for now you have to keep going.

The gray wool hides well its scars. Finely sewn back together after being slashed apart. Here, from the Midlands. Here, from Parth. Here, the longest, trailing in a curve not hidden but embroidered, stretching from just below the elbow to near the shoulder. The most recent. The badge of honor. The sacrifice that let her get the killing blow on Sehad. The embroidery intertwining and highlighting, making bold, the patch of her rank.

But there's too much there. Keep going.

The shoulder, bare of the traditional fringed epaulet, instead weighed down by a black iron pauldron of her own design. Enough to block any wayward strikes, yet keep her view open through a small crescent when she aimed. Since losing most function in this arm, it was more a style choice than anything, but she always said it felt like having another piece of pride with her. Just like the badge, it was something she earned and made for herself. It was as much a part of this coat, of her, as anything.

We're getting closer now. Be ready.

The grey wool climbs back up again out of the black iron to wrap around her neck and two more perfectly polished...but for that fleck of red...steel buttons. Emblazoned again. One for the crown, one for the land. The crown was always unbuttoned. She said it was because it was tailored wrong. Helped her breathe. Yet she always refused to have any alterations to it. You never got that story, did you? You sneak a glance up to her face.

Too much there.

Too much to come.

Keep going.

Down to her chest.

And there you are.

And there it is.

Between the alternating black and white straps.

Another scar.

And so much blood.

You'll have it stitched. It's what she would've wanted.

Sit with it.

Be there.

Red among the monochrome.

Grieve for the life lost. The warrior. The joy. The love. The smile in the flashes of steel.

Breathe.

Check the other arm now.

Slashed. She had tried the Sehad maneuver again. Maybe she thought she could get a shot off with the pistol you moved from her grasp to hold her hand. Where this began. You'll mend that too.

Have you taken your time?

Will you take up the sword she dropped, the pistol you moved?

"Are you ready?" comes the voice, barely above a whisper. An enemy, but one who knows respect.

And a coat to match hers.

He stays sitting in the chair across the room, this cabin in the late afternoon hiding amidst the pines where you had thought to find some rest, an ally. Rest he had given you. Rest of a kind to her. Though you knew her fight continued elsewhere.

You squeeze her hand. You take up the pistol in your left, the sword in your right.

"Ready," you say.

He stands. Salutes with his own weapons, and readies.

The poor bastard.

Her coat hid the small scars, and reveled in the big.

What better way to honor her than to make some big scars yourself?

And you charge.

Inktober #26: Dark

What an astounding feeling.

Being here.

Surrounded by the dark.

With the only light left in the entire universe shining...but dimming. Slowly. A white dwarf star. It feels...appropriate. Meditative. Rather than exploding out into a massive supernova, the last burning star in the universe would simply leak out its heat into the expanse, and go quiet for the rest of eternity.

And I am here to witness it.

I can only think back to the first humans, the first apes, the first mammals, even the first light-sensitive cells that would eventually through trillions of years become me, feeling the warmth of their sun on Earth. Grasping ever towards it, yearning for its light and heat and energy. A feeling I can only guess at. Though the yearning is there, in its own way.

But how must it have been, having the comprehension first of their own death, then that all things must die, and then realizing that includes their very sun. That which sustains all life will too eventually pass away and take a couple planets with it. And then to expand that, even. To understand that eventually...this day, now, would come. All the stars will die. All heat will end. And without heat, the universe would run itself out, leaving nothing but rocks and dust with black holes for company.

I think of them, as I stand here, the last light of the universe bathing me.

It's almost time.

I stare straight into it.

I want to soak up every last photon. Every last chemical reaction. Every singular bit of heat I can.

And then it's gone.

And then there's silence.

And there is no more light.

An odd sensation, to be truly and suddenly blind for the first time. To be wrapped in a darkness so complete that it will never end. I have eyes. They see. Yet there is nothing there. Nothing but the last image burned into my memory of what light was.

The moment stretches on.

It feels like eternity lets out a breath, to rest.

I savor it.

The endless cold. The endless night. What a moment to live through. To live into.

And with that, a firefly of light pierces the black.

And another.

And a hundred more.

And the lights of the observation deck rise, and the crowd around sees each other. Joy spreads like a fire, as some look to those around them feeling like they're truly seeing everyone for the first time. Others look out to the last sun, which shines once again but with light pushed onto it from countless vessels there to bear witness to the end. There are congratulations, elations, embraces. And I think the humans of the past would look to us and be proud.

Past the heat death of the universe, we make light. We live. We continue on. We find our warmth where we can, with the rocks, and the dust, and the black holes, and each other, for company.

Inktober #25: Tasty

"Breathe, first. Through the nose. Out the mouth. Inhale every possible scent around you. Each breath will be different. Some smells you notice so strongly at first will disappear with desensitization. So hold them, remember them. You won't want to get confused. The more subtle scents should come through then. The surrounding ionized metal. The slightly acrid tease of the sewage leak into the filtration systems. Me. Hold them all. See what comes into the forefront with each breath. Eventually it will seem like you've smelled it all. Every bead of sweat. Every exposed wire. Every fiber of every rat lurking in the walls.
Then, and only then, do you taste the gum.
...
Good. Do you smell it all?"
"Yes."
"Hold it. Hold onto them tight. And then hold onto your ass."

With what felt like the extremest edges of focus on the cacophony of smells around me, sensing each and every particle and where it came from, barely keeping the threads of every link together, I raised the gum to my tongue.
The instant it touches the first tastebud every ounce of focus is sucked into the very molecules of this unfathomably complex substance. The threads of smell are instantly translated to taste, though there are more connections here than could ever possibly be maintained. But I try. I try. I hold.
Whereas every breath brought a new scent, now the second tastebud grabs hold and sends its infinitely sparking cascade of new tastes into my head, back out into the gum, back again. Rebounding echoes. It's too much.
But I can't stop as my arm reacts far too slowly and the next wave hits. An infinitesimal universe of burning atoms greets me as I taste the very electrons sparking, held in orbit by the focus I bring onto them. Every atom vibrates, rapt with my attention and I with theirs.
It's too much to bear. I can feel my mind snapping under a weight it was never meant to sustain.

And then it happens.

Time reverts to normal.

And I see. I can see.

I can see him. Looking concerned. The lattice of every skin cell reaches out to my new awareness.

"Well?" he asks. "You don't look like your brain has melted into goo."
"No. I'm fine."
And I reach out to touch his face. The most direct path. Not just aimlessly reaching for a voice.
"That was the tastiest thing I've ever had."
And it would be for the rest of my life.