Bloody Muskets

A bloody musket lies on a table in the study of a very distinguished man. It had been last shot about 400 years previously. It had long since rusted over. It was unusable. Every day the man looked at the bloody musket. The dried blood cracking beneath his delicately placed fingers. That day, it was different. That day there was only small droplets of water dotting his pale fingers. It made him curious, even perturbed by this. Why, after all these years, was the blood wet? Shaking hands slammed the gun back in it's velvet box. Throwing himself into a mountain of books to find an explanation, Arthur screamed.

He screamed a scream of frustration and heartbreak.

Miles away a girl fights her way to the surface of a churning ocean. Due to an extremely high torrent of water, she was able to grab onto the edge of a nearby low cliff. The girl hoisted herself up, and sat on the stone, gasping for breath. There, on the cliff, she saw the shining lights. She looked at herself. Her ragged clothes, her tarnished rapier, and Leslie screamed.

She screamed a scream of physical pain and defeat.

Both screamed out of mourning.