Quite complex death is, yet so seductively simple.  It exists as the silent, calm conclusion to life's chaotic calamity; the final verse to the song that is sung for each and every person.  The final words to one’s story: the end.  How very simplistic those words may seem.

            Yet death, in its seeming simplicity, bears a burden for those yet to be taken by its open arms.  Some may see it once, maybe twice in their lifetime, but in those few instances profound revelations, reveling admonishments, and abolished beliefs are born.

            To experience death is to live, to live is to die.  In young Hope's case, the effects may question how much exactly he has experienced.

            “OK,” Hope mutters, wiping the sweat from his brow with a worker's arm hard in motion.  “If you aren't going to tell me your name, then I am going to have to find out myself.”  Beads roll down his forehead, crafting rivulets of salt within his wrinkled brow. 

            “Trust me; it is easier if you just tell me.”  His worn hands grip tightly, toiling onward with his task.  “Please, ma'am, just –  oh-ho!”  Swiftly, he snatches a small folded piece of paper from her open hand.  “What is this?  A letter?  I like letters.”

            He carefully unfolds it, eying the words briefly before casting his gaze back on the woman.  At best, she is in her late twenties.  Brown hair, and a firm figure – all the parts in full bounty and where they belong.  Most importantly: cute, very cute.

            “Want me to read it to you?”  Hope tosses another brief glance before taking her silence as an affirmative.  “OK, here we go!”  Clearing his throat, he preps himself.  Using his best narrative voice, he regales to the young lady, “Dear William, I am sorry.  Where I go today, you cannot follow.  Where I go today, you wouldn't want to.  Do not take me as a liar.  I meant what I said, but fate simply felt otherwise.  Please find it in your heart to forgive me.  If not for yourself, then for me.  For me.  Your love, always and forever, Elizabeth Wrekker.”

            Hope cocks an eyebrow at the lady, “Elizabeth is it?”  Only silence in return.  “Pretty name.”  He pauses, refolding the paper and haphazardly choosing his words.  “Mind if I ask you a question?”

            She cannot muster a word.

“You don't?  OK.  Well.”  Nervously, he scratches his head.  “Why are you so upset?”

            He peers into her eyes.  Hers hold firmly, never blinking, never breaking, yet mysterious.  They are glazed, making it is very apparent that she hides something.  Whatever it is, she is holding it back.

            “Elizabeth...”  Hope cringes as her eyes stab at his very tongue.  “OK.  OK.  I get it.  You don't want to tell me.  But...” he hesitates, taking a moment to pick the shrapnel to his verbal explosives.  “Mind if I guess?”

 Silence. 

“You don't?  Great!”

            One may take Hope to be a bit overenthusiastic in his display.  Actually, from the smile on his face, and the glint to his eye, his joy may seem a bit sadistic.  “OK, Liz – You don't mind me calling you Liz, right?  OK.  Liz, you are very clearly in love with this young William, am I right?”

            A weak frown welcomes him with bitter silence – a very definite 'yes'.  “OK, well, Liz, you left him to come here, correct?  Ha.  Of course I am right.”  He chuckles to himself.”  No.  You came here because it was asked of you.  Demanded of you.  It is your job, I can bet.”

            Again, silence, but her eyes tell him all he needs to know.

            “Simple enough.  It is why so many come here to Vollin: work.  Why else come to this barren waste?”  Hope shakes his head, his focus on the true question at hand.  “What isn't so easy, though, is that promise.  What promise did you make, Liz?”

            Her lips are parted ever-so-slightly.  Dried and cracked, they reek of what she wants so desperately to tell him.  As much as Hope yearns to know, she too wishes to tell him.  But she will not. She cannot. 

            “Did you promise him that you would marry him?”  Hope, his eagerness border lining desperation, attempts a few makeshift theories that he plays out in his head before every uttering a word.  “No.  Of course not.  That is silly.  Oh.  No.  Why would you promise him that you would marry him, and then refute it?  Stupid.”  He leans against the dirt, drawing his eyes close to the young lady's.

            Not a single word is muttered from her lips, but she wants to tell him.  She wants so badly to.  “I know.”  Hope smiles, peering into the lover's young eyes.  It is there, within those gray pools, where she gives him the hint she prays he will uncover.  “You told him you love him.  You will always love him, and that you would return to his arms.  Right?”

            As if the weight of the world is lifted off her shoulders, she relaxes.  If only in mind and soul, her eternity seems to be cleansed of a curse.  Hope, however, finds little comfort in her seemingly welcomed relief, “I am sorry,” he mutters, “If it means anything.”

            He braces the side of the hole, pulls himself up, and drives his shovel into the dirt.  Gently, kindly, he wipes the strands of wandering hairs from her face.  Warm fingers dance over pale, cold flesh, and he sighs.  “Don't worry, though, I won't tell a soul.”

            Carefully, he braces the woman's side, and with all his might, he rolls her over the precipice and into her grave.  She smacks the dirt as if a feather – her burden already left.  Her face is lost in the darkened chasm, but it matters little.  Where she lay, looks mean nothing - merely a forgotten bed for a soul as such.

            Hope, however, will know exactly where she rests.  He will know precisely where he planted her seed – even if she has no intentions of staying there.  It isn't so much for her, or them, but for him.  He needs it, as she needs her forgiveness.

            “It was nice meeting you, Liz.”  Ripped from its perch, Hope takes his spade in his hands.  “I will try to give William this, letter, OK?”  He peers down at her.  “Don't worry, though.  I won't tell him I figured it out.”  He chuckles, taking the first bite of the earth.  “How did I?  Ha.  Well that is easy.  You see my --”

            Hope freezes.  He tries to talk, tries to let forth the words, but a dam is erected in a blink.  He wants so desperately to tell her.  He wants to, with every fiber.  But he cannot.  Instead he locks, unable to speak.  He is only capable of working; only capable of draping the lady in her final lace and veil.

             “Bye, Liz.”

            In silence, Hope unleashes a downpour of dark rain.  Pebbles, grains, rocks, and earth layer the sleeper before her inevitable Awakening; blankets to try and keep her warm before the everlasting frost.

            It takes him but a few fleeting minutes.  Some might have taken hours; others, maybe only one.  Even the most skilled could do it only in half that.  Hope, however, has had practice.

            Softly, he rounds the mound, patting the top with the slope of his shovel.  He takes but a moment, admiring the work he has achieved.  Fine and splendid, it is as it should be.  Another job well done.  Yet he feels nothing.

            His mind is elsewhere.  Lost in the conversation he had with the young Liz; lost in those final few thoughts; lost in what he wants so desperately to tell her; lost.

            As he gazes at her temporary home, the darkening of the coming twilight catches his eyes.  A frown sweeps his face as he gazes at the brew of gray, white, and black that swirls overhead.

              Over a decade now since Hope has seen the sun.  He wishes he could remember what it looked like, but he would be lying if he could say he did; though, deep down, he always knows he can imagine.  As he always has.

            With a smile on his face, he heaves his shovel over his shoulder.  His feet realign, directing him towards the nearest town.  Though not his home, it will make due for the night; a proper, sheltered place to keep him hidden from that which stirs in the sun's sleeping hours.

            As he moves, he passes dozens of mounds, each and every one built by his hand.  Each and every one but a fraction of the still exposed collective of corpses that blanket this field.  Not much, but it will do.

            He played his part, even if, to some, his efforts are as fruitful as dancing to end a drought, or praying for a miracle, or hunting for love.  Nonetheless, it is what he does.  And with a smile is how it is done.

            It is simply how he has always accomplished it -- if for no better reason than 'because'.  Yet one mustn't look far to see the truth. 

            Here in Vollin, amongst the fields of the damned, where bodies do not rot and the dead do not stay dead, it is the mark of one who tests the boundary of death.  The sign of a being way beyond never seen and long crossed the threshold of 'too much'. 

            Hope has a received a fate much worse; a gravedigger's fate.  He hasn't merely witnessed a life time of death; he has lived in its shadow. 

 

2: Home Sweet Home

            It would be a lie to say Hope doesn't like it here.  It would be a greater one to say he can recall anything better.  He is hard pressed to remember anything else besides what is now.  But he does dream.

            Not any dreams, but a gravedigger's dreams.  What, precisely, are those?  Well, that is a dirty question that requires a hefty shovelful of an answer -- mainly so because Hope doesn't really know.

            What he does know, however, is the desire for something more.  Not necessarily greed in the sense we know it, but something...different; a world that exists beyond this one.  A world filled with glorious things that reek not of the suffocating power of death, but...life.

            Hope rolls from his bed, planting his feet squarely on the floorboards.  Toes wriggle, enjoying the brief moment of freedom they will have.

            He grabs his boots and oddly smiles.  Admittedly, these boots are his favorite item of his attire.  They are, at the same time, the newest part.

            They, his boots, were delivered from the giving feet of Sir Ransem Vorrum – one of the few names he actually filed in his memory.  He normally doesn’t keep track of everyone’s identity, but this time he did.

Regardless, they were a gift given to him approximately four months ago.  Not too bad, in Hope's opinion.  Considering that some of his outfit is as old as he is, and very in need of a washing, something new never hurts.

            Part of Hope wishes he could have repaid Ransem more so than he did.  While Ransem received a slightly larger than usual earthen establishment, it just didn't seem fair.  These boots, these marvelous boots, were taken straight from Ransem's very feet, and all Hope could do...was give him a proper burial.

            No point in dwelling on that, he thinks.  What was done was done.  All that matters now is to give the boots one last firm tie and let his feet soak in the glory of their silent shelter – which he wishes he could say the same about this building.

            As he ties his laces, the rafters above wail and moan.  Hope glances upwards, heeding the whining from above.  As if on cue, the entirety of the structure seems to whimper in unison

            Dreary and rather dreadful, the walls scream of rot, the floors cry of cracking, and the ceiling...well the ceiling is rather holy – literally in the sense.  Tiny holes litter the roof, sending pockets of light sprinkling upon the floor.   Quite the treat for Hope since the boarded windows damper any other means of obtaining it.  The light gave him a slight head start to his day, even if he knows he won't really need it. 

He creeps from the moaning mattress, letting the baying boards bow beneath his boots.  Carefully, somewhat cautiously, he takes a step forward.

            Strained planks hiss – very unhappy with their current predicament.  He takes another.  They howl.  Another.  Hissing, howling.  Alas, as he reaches for the handle to the crooked door, Hope realizes he left something at the head of the bed: his shovel.

            With a heavy heart, he twists, peers uneasily at the instrument propped against the wall, and he commences the trek backwards.  Step.  Hiss.  Step.  Howl.  Step.  Silence.  Hope takes the shovel, pivots once more, and prepares for take three.

            He sighs, glares at the door that seems a short eternity away, and takes another long lunge forward.  Oddly, the floor makes a new sound.  He cannot quite place his finger on it.

            Mocking a frog, in a manner; somewhat mimicking a growling dog.  A sound he has heard before, yet it eludes him…

            Gravity tugs fiercely at Hope's ankles, tearing him through the weak boards.  Crashing wood erupts around him as he slams into the equally as decrepit floor below.  In a flash, he is on his back, pain dancing up and down his spine.

            He takes a gulp of air, only to taste the pulp.  Dust, layers of startled dust whip into his lungs and heave straight back out.  Coughing rather nastily, he purges himself of the substance. 

Once rid of the bitter, dry rot, he calms, reveling in the settling particles.  Silence becomes him, the room, and everything else.

            Normally, Hope would be displeased with his circumstances, but he is also quite experienced in the art of falling.  Ceilings, floors, poorly made bridges, cellar doors that he didn't know were beneath that pile of leaves, a plethora of items of which Hope has ventured upon knowingly and unknowingly.

            In this case, though, Hope is quite pleased.  He pulls himself up, dusts the dirt from his chest, and nods with a pleasant smile.  His eyes glance towards the stairwell, and he takes this moment as a gift: he really didn't want to go down those stairs.

            Checking himself over, he makes sure he wasn’t impaled.  Quite nasty business, harpooning oneself is.  Only once, and that was enough for him.

            Hope peeks out the front door, scans the roads, and once certain of its safe passage, he pops out into the glorious daylight.  Meager indeed, this illumination is.  It matches that of day plagued by the threat of looming storms.  Nonetheless light, though – more than enough for Hope. 

He quaffs the sweet, dank air, smiles, and turns on the road.  Immediately, he freezes.  Orbs, glistening in the light, let him know of his hasty mistake; fearsome eyes to a beast equally so.

            Hope cannot take a step before the creature pounces.  Slobbering jowls spew globs of goo – saliva frothing from his maw.  Gleaming teeth smile from behind the folds of flesh, testing Hope's resolve.

            It moves swiftly, its claws clanking the cobblestone in unison to the bob of its head.  Lunging forward, it gives Hope little time to prepare.  Equally as little time to set up a defense.

            Knocked from his feet, Hope hits the path hard.  The pain means little to him; only the pressure of the paws, the sinking of the claws, the overwhelming might of its legs.  Hope would scream.  He would let out a cry for help that isn't waiting.  But he cannot.

            The dog's tongue makes certain of that.

            Hope had been called tasty once or twice before.  He cannot remember by whom, but he does recall the line.  This dog, as it licks every inch of his face, lets Hope know actions really do speak louder than words.

            “Hey!”  Hope finally manages to muster.  “Hey, Wriggler, stop it!”  He chuckles as the dog pins him, daring to lap the very flesh from his bones.  “Nathanus would be mad!  Ha!  Stop!”

            “Oh, is that so?” replies a raspy voice that commands both eyes.  They swiftly find him, the owner of the voice, sitting upon the second floor of a dilapidated building, the man draped black.

            Black leather lines him head to toe.  His jacket, his pants, boots, and gloves, all of it: black.  Everything, say for the dark green hood upon his shoulders.  Part of Hope still believes the cover is in fact black, but he knows better than to tell the man in black that.  Dark green, it is dark green.

            “Worm,” groans the man in black, “why must you make my dogs act stupid?  No.  No.  don't answer that.  I know.  You are contagious.”  Tactfully, he leaps from his perch, landing lightly on his toes.  As if gliding he approaches until he casts a long shadow over the pair.  He frowns.  At least Hope thinks he is frowning.

            “Trigger,” the man in black barks, “get off of the idiot.  With a deep yarp, the dog recoils.  “Sit.”  Obediently it obeys.  “Good.”  The man peers down at Hope.  “Get up.” 

Hope blinks at him in confusion. 

“See, Worm,” the man promptly jerks Hope from the dirt, dusting him off with a look of disgust and disappoint, “one of you two were smart enough to take orders.  Want to guess who?”

            Hope blinks again.

            “Worm,” the man grips Hope's shoulder, squeezing gently, yet firmly. He takes a moment, holding the boy as one might hold a small, confused child.  “Why are you here?”

            “Why?”  Hope replies with an added shrug.  “I needed a place to sleep.”

            “Sleep?  Worm, there are caves filled with snakes and spiders, but no confused little men.  You should have picked those instead.”

            “Nathanus,” Hope's words are coated with confusion and a bit of worry, “those spiders are as big as me.”

            “I never said they were going to let you stay for free.”

            “...what?”

            “Worm,” he gives Hope a gentle shake.  “Let me make this easier: why are you here, ripping holes in these fine houses?”

            Hope glances backwards, peering at the rather obvious damage he had caused to the building behind him.  He would say he was looking through the door, but there is a rather large gap in the side of the building that gives him a clear view in, but he must admit, he did a fine job adding to the...decor.

            He peers back at Nathanus and shrugs again, “It had it coming.”

            “Really?”  Scolding in a sense, disbelief in another, he gives Hope a once over. He groans as a sense of futility becomes him. “Fine.  Worm.  If you are here, I have use of you.”  He places a finger to Hope's lips.  “No, before you say anything, the dogs cannot help me.  I would have asked them first.  What I need is a person.  A person with thumbs.  You still have those, right?”

            Hope checks his hands – to be safe – then gives Nathanus a gleeful affirmative.

            Nathanus sighs before accepting the awkward moment.  “Good.  Then follow me.”

            “But Nathanus, I--”

            “No.”  Nathanus swiftly heads down the road, limping gently as he moves, “No holes today.”

            “But Nathanus --”

            “Worm, if you question me again, I will have you bury yourself.  OK?”

            Hope blinks at Nathanus once more.  Finally he surrenders.  Hope takes after the man in black, yet, to his dismay, Nathanus waits for him.  Soured lips and an impatient toe taps, but Nathanus nonetheless waits until Hope scurries to his side.

            A bitter look has swept Nathanus' face, as usual.  At least Hope thinks it is bitter.  He can tell from his crooked brow, and soul stabbing stare, but the rest is somewhat difficult.

            Nathanus, despite his overwhelming confidence and strive for perfection, is lacking a few features that would make him similar to Hope.  Where a nose should rest, a hollowed hole lingers.  His lips, once supple and firm, cease to exist and only the far fringes of his mouth remain. 

            While some would be taken back by such a gruesome visage, Hope is used to it.  Hope, after all, only spends his time with the dead.  Nathanus is no exception to that rule.