songs for the fallen

a grave of tangled roots

?????
_____

White light.

They bathe in it. This body isn't theirs. Feels more like theirs than ever. White light. The sunset trickles through.

Seeds stick to their fur. Theirs...his. This tongue has never been blistered and bloodied, yet they taste acrid, bitter buttercups nonetheless.

He's dying and they know it's their fault. He's dying and they're already dead. He's dying and they're dying all over again and they're screaming for him to fight back. It's kill or be killed. He doesn't listen.

He's dying and he's dead and they taste dust instead of acid, and then they taste nothing at all.

White light, again.

There are flashes. Back against stone. Tattered bandages. Their own body rotting in the dirt. Roots wrap around their ribcage. They are dead and this is what comes after.

And then they wake up.

There's no dirt filling their lungs, no twisting plants growing from their yellowed bones. They don't feel anything. They don't know anything. They don't know who they are.

Memories come in flashes. They reach for the dirt beneath them to ground themself, but they can't feel it. They can't feel their arm moving. They can't see anything but pale moonlight drifting down from the roof of the cave. They can't move their head. Can't move anything.

They feel their chest move. Feel their body heave in a pained breath, like they've just gotten the wind knocked out of them. It has to be their body. But they're dead. They know they're dead. And they aren't the one choosing to move.

They sit up. It isn't their choice. Their limbs move without their bidding. Their shoulders shake involuntarily, and the confusion and fear in the gesture matches what they're feeling, but it isn't their doing.

The body raises its arm, as if to inspect it for injuries. Its fingers are short and pudgy and brown, freckles dotting the back of its hand. The sleeves of its oversized sweater are striped a garish blue and pink. They don't remember what they look like, but the hand belongs to a stranger. This isn't them. This isn't their body.

They can't quite put the pieces together, but they're starting to get an idea of the image on the front of the box. This isn't their body. They were dead. Are dead. So why are they awake? Why are they still here? Here at the start of all things, at the first place, the only place they really remember? The light is different. They came here so very long ago. They bled against the stones here. There was nothing but scraggly cave grass beneath their broken form then.

Now, beneath the body that isn't theirs, lies a bed of golden flowers.