Then There You Were.

he who haunts.

- prologue ii.

❝𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓫𝓵𝓮𝓮𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓬𝓻𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓾𝓹𝓸𝓷 𝓪 𝓫𝓮𝓭 𝓸𝓯 𝓯𝓵𝓸𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓼,

𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱 𝓼𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮𝓭 𝓫𝔂 𝓐𝓹𝓻𝓲𝓵 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀𝓮𝓻𝓼 ❞

.....

He wandered the damp soil of spring, smoke rising from the chimney, mingling with the heavy smell of blossoming poppies and mud.

I'm dead, I died at Gettysburg.

But the yawning pain at the cavity of his chest stretched in agonizing sense of hopelessness, fear and the nagging taunt of never waking up to the warm shaft of the sun and the scent of the lace handkerchief he used to hold every night when the heavy blanket of longing and depression smothered him like the last sparks of a cigarette crushed under the heel of his boot, screamed at him in haunting flashes of the ebbing moon, arcs of blood across his shifting vision, the dull ache across his ribs and someone calling his name, that he didn't die at the battlefield.

"Cicero!"

Because something- no, someone, kept him alive.

"Cicero!"

That voice again.

"Cicero- "

Gone again.

Sometimes he's back at the battlefield, the fear and sadness- a ripper, pulling him back to every moment he dreaded would happen. Blank eyes staring back at him, the heart seizing explosions, the blood curling screams, the silence.

"Tell Bathsheba I love her, will you?"

He never did.

Among the swarming names in his head, the empty promises, sweet nothings, he only heard one name being spoken by his voice, he couldn't hear it clearly, like being said under water, being swept by the current before he could grasp it. Then he was drowning again.

Again.

Again.

Then, he's back at the battlefield, then, he's walking, walking, he's supposed to be somewhere, the urge, sickening, but the wicked scheme of Death blurred it with blinding white pain, rage, sadness, longing, as if his emotions anchored him to the same route, gripped him and brought him to the battlefield all over again, like a cycle, a loop.

Battlefield, drowning, battlefield, walking down a path to a house.

Then, comes the tormenting phantoms of his death.

God, I'm tired.

His voice falls to deaf ears.

No one can see him.

He can't see anyone.

....

But after the onslaught of his loop, the house looks different, a little older, at the least, 60 years old different people, an old couple traversing between the carriage to the front door, but the man wanders off the barn, now run down, he holds a bunch of lavenders in twine, his hat tucked respectively under his arm, he wears a brown coat, his murky brown eyes almost looks familiar, his limping- his knee buckles painfully, he raps at the door, thrice, curious, he easily slips in, without needing assistance from the other side of the threshold.

He emerges, holds something in a brown cheesecloth, their eyes meet, he looks away, scratching his white scruff.

" 'Ey Jemma, thought I saw my old pal by the shrubbery."