I’ve died before—clinically that is—likely at least once or twice but I never properly kept count. I didn’t see there being a point to it. Although, that wasn’t what was happening this time. No, I wasn’t dying. I just couldn’t feel my legs, unsure where they went. Everything from my knees down felt as numb as everything else had for the past eight years.

A ringing grew in my ears. A sort of mangled cacophony that bled into my skull, deafening the gunfire and shouts shooting in all directions around me. I rubbed my eyes, trying to remove the dirt that had sprayed into them, each particle infesting every crevice under my eyelids. When I opened my eyes again, the world still appeared as a murky blur shrouded by a dense cloud of dust.

Of course, those bombs always had to land near me as if being in the middle of war wasn't hard enough. Although this time, they may have landed a little too close.

I pressed my hands and knees hard against the ground before pushing myself upward, trying to stand. Barely a few seconds later, my chest collapsed to the ground with a loud thud as the side of my face collided with the earth. Every limb was shaking…

Something was wrong.

That numbness in my legs had contorted into an excruciating pain. Every nerve became a screeching symphony that bled into the ringing and pounding still raging in my head. But as always, pain was just an inconvenience. There was no time to linger on it if I didn’t want another bomb blowing my head off. Then again, if that happened, at least the ringing would stop for a little while.

I dug my fingers deep into the earth, ignoring the exposed flesh on my hands and my peeling skin as the filth of the battlefield merged into the open wound. I held my rifle close to my body, gripping it hard with my spare arm, before dragging myself forward.

Every rigid stone, twig, or bullet casing left rogue on the soil dug into my body as I hauled myself across the battlefield. My uniform became increasingly wet, dragging me down into the earth as if desperately wanting to drag me to my grave. I was unsure if it was from the mud or my own blood. I didn’t look down to check.

But amidst the hail of gunfire, there was a faint ruffling to my right. I grasped my rifle with both hands, snapping my head toward the direction of the sound. With barely a second to even register what it was, I aimed and then fired. The bullet sliced through the air before piercing through a soldier’s head. He and his gun fell limp to the ground.

He didn’t stay in my thoughts for long. My eyes flickered elsewhere, searching for anyone else nearby. There wasn’t anyone. I took a deep breath, attempting to steady the adrenaline coursing through my veins enough before digging my fingers straight back into the ground to continue the job. All I needed was to get out of the line of fire, take a few seconds to recover, and then I’d be fine.

Yes, a moment was all I needed.

Ahead of me, the earth seemed to cave downward with pieces of wood and barbed wire planted around it. It was the trenches and the best safety I could get here. I grasped again at the ground, hauling myself forward even harder. But the fact I was only using one arm made the pace more torturous.

When I finally got within arm's reach, I grasped at the edge of the winding ditch, my knees digging into the ground, before pulling myself over. My body hit the bottom hard as my arm slammed against the ground. But my head fell against something softer, something more alive.

Damn me.

I quickly shoved myself away from him. My hands found their place on my rifle and my finger was already on the trigger ready to shoot, but he was already lying there lifelessly. His eyes were still wide open, and yet unable to. It was the stricken image of the exact moment before he died.

I didn’t pity him. In fact, I tried not to think of him at all. I scanned my surroundings, finding body after body of nameless faces lying there in rotting piles on top of each other, soaking in sludges of their own blood. While their company wasn't ideal, the walls of this section of the trenches were tall enough to stand without being seen so I would tolerate them for now.

My shoulders relaxed slightly and I was lowering my gun when a shuffle against the ground nearby reached my ears. I whipped my head toward them, my eyes narrowing and my finger already halfway down on the trigger.

“Wait, don’t shoot!”

I paused. A pair of eyes—fragile yet panicked ones—stared back at me. One of his hands was raised in an alarmed surrender while the other was pressed against his abdomen where blood seeped through his uniform, slowly flowing through between his fingers.

His uniform was a patchwork of blood spatters and mud stains, but I could still make out a dull green undertone that every other soldier’s uniform down here also had. Mine, however, was a bluish-grey.

Blood trickled down his forehead, mixing with the dirt and sweat also soaking the loose strands of blond hair that fell against his forehead. His breathing was labored, coming out in heavy and uneasy bursts. He could barely keep his eyes open as he stared at me.

My grip tightened around my rifle, but it was clear he was already close to death. Killing him now would be easy, but there was no use wasting a bullet on a dead man.

“Your gun,” I said, my voice hardening as I eyed the sidearm resting on his belt.

His eyes flickered downward before he let out an exasperated sigh. “Look, I’m not going to shoot you—”

“Your gun, sir,” I repeated, firmer this time as I kept the rifle aimed at his head.

His face hardened, almost scowling before he weakly brought his hand down to take the gun out of his holster. He threw it to the side, far out of arm’s reach from either of us.

“There, are you happy?” he huffed, his words strained through each breath.

After a quick search up and down his body, I concluded he was unarmed and practically a sitting duck waiting to be shot. Ducks, I often found, were the least worth shooting. I lowered my gun and rested it on my lap before letting out the first calm breath that day. But not once did I let my eyes wander from the man in front of me.

His skin was pale, almost sickly so and absent of warmth under his cheeks like the darkened sky above us. The only part of him that wasn’t completely dull were his bright blue eyes that peaked out from under the rogue strands of hair that fell from under his helmet.

“You’re a Candeurian soldier, aren’t you?” he asked, glancing down at my uniform. Even though I’d lowered my gun, the apprehension in his eyes hadn’t left.

“I fight for them,” I said, although only half paying attention as I scanned my surroundings, wary of anything potentially moving behind the curved walls of the trench.

“You must be a terrible soldier then, if you’re letting me live like this.”

“I can still shoot you if you’d prefer.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll pass,” he grumbled. “It might make you a bad soldier, but at least you’re a decent person.”

My grip tightened around my rifle. That blood loss must’ve been making him delirious now.

“I didn’t want to waste a bullet.”

He scoffed, a glint of amusement flickering in his eyes as color returned to his face for just a moment. But he quickly winced, taking in a sharp breath as his jaw clenched. His hand pressed down harder against his abdomen, trying to suppress the bleeding.

“It was a bad idea to laugh.”

I eyed his gaping wound as blood continued to gush out of him. At this rate, he’d likely end up dead and it’d be easy enough to let it happen. And yet for some reason—one I’d never understand—I turned toward the body still lying beside me. When I shoved him away earlier, I’d briefly caught a glimpse of an armband with a dull red cross on him.

I reached over, picking up the arm covering his chest before moving it to the side and reaching into his pocket. I noticed the man eyeing me curiously as I searched around before pulling out a loose object. It was a syringe.

There was a label printed along it, but the ink had long dulled. While I couldn’t read it, I at least recognized what it was from the times I’d seen medics using them on soldiers. I twisted it around my fingers, confirming it was indeed unused before throwing it over to the man.

His eyes widened, rather startled, but he managed to catch it before it could hit his chest. He stared at it for a moment before realizing what it was and looked back with a raised eyebrow.

“Morphine?”

“You’ll die less painfully.”

“Well, aren’t you an optimist?”

He looked down at the syringe again, hesitating for a moment before pushing the cap off with his thumb and letting it fall to the ground. He raised the needle to his arm, hovering it just above before jabbing it straight through his uniform. His eyes winced again as the substance injected itself into his bloodstream.

After a few seconds, he ripped it out and placed it on the ground. A heavy sigh left him and he leaned back against the dirt wall. His eyes only grew more dull, his blue irises becoming an almost faded gray. But his gaze remained fixed on me, searching through my face, trying to read my inscrutable expression.

“You know, you should’ve used it for yourself.”

“It would’ve been a waste.”

He raised another eyebrow at me, glancing down at the lower half of my body. His eyes lingered there for a moment before looking back up, his expression becoming more unconvinced.

“You do realize you’re missing your legs, right?”

It was a little hard not to notice. But regardless, the medics never wasted those sorts of medicines on me before, no matter how lethal the injury, so there was no point starting now.

“I’ll be fine.”

He looked at me incredulously, eyes narrowing and trying to discern whether I was being serious or not. But I gave little thought to his inspections and turned away from him, continuing to skim across the surface of the trench. My finger remained hovering over the trigger.

“So you really are an optimist after all.”

I refrained from letting out a sigh. This had to be the most words I'd ever said in a single day.

“Must you keep talking?”

He raised an eyebrow. “What? You’re not a fan of effervescent witticisms?”

Effervescent—

“Pardon?”

“Sarcasm. I’m referring to sarcasm,” he explained flatly. “Besides, it’s not as though there’s anyone else down here for me to talk to while I’m bleeding out to death. Well, no one alive at least.”

I chose not to respond. Continuing to talk to him would be a waste of what little time he clearly had left. I remained focused on surveilling the surface above us, staying alert in case anyone tried to approach. The sky above was starting to darken, smoke hovered over us like a shroud as ash fell like rain.

“Are you trying to ignore me right now?”

I shifted my gaze back to him, my face hardening. “Are you always this sociable with an enemy soldier?”

“Well, only when I’m stuck with one at the bottom of a ditch. Why? Are you going to put another bullet in me for being too chatty?”

Well, since he asked…

My hands tightened around my rifle. I raised it and aimed at his head again,. His eyes widened as he quickly raised his spare arm again.

“God, all right! I get the point! No talking with you then,” he exclaimed, staring at me in disbelief. I kept the gun aimed at him for a few more seconds, wondering if I should actually put a bullet in his head, but I eventually lowered it back down to my lap. He sighed again, appearing exasperated by the situation. “Say, do you always solve your problems with a gun?”

“When that problem involves other people then yes.”

"Right..."

He looked as though he wanted to say something, I assumed another remark. But he kept quiet, giving me one last uncertain look before turning away. A silence grew between us as chatter was replaced by the sounds of explosions, sometimes off in the far distance while others came narrowly close with bursts of dirt spraying down into the ditch and onto us.

But amid all that chaos, there were two faint voices not too far away. I was about to raise my rifle again, readying it with my finger over the trigger whenI realized I recognized them.

“Sir, there’s a message from the commander!”

The firing continued, almost drowning out that voice. But the man in front of me likely heard it too—he'd be deaf not to—although he showed no indication that he did. His eyes bore steadily into the ground, not blinking and already looking like a corpse.

“What do you mean they surrendered? You’re telling me we fought all these years for nothing?!” another voice yelled through the thundering hail of bullets ringing through the air. “Not even that thing was enough for us to win. Damn those cowards!”

All those sounds became noise, obscuring individual souls into a single indistinguishable mass of pain. It was a noise I'd long grown tired of.

I propped my rifle against the wall, the nozzle digging into the dirt. My hands remained around the gun, one on the handle and the other near the top as my head leaned against it.

“Are you all right?” the man opposite me asked. I could almost discern a look of concern from him.

I wasn’t sure how to respond. Did having my legs blown off mean I wasn’t ‘all right’? Physically, I’d be fine. Or was it hearing my commander curse me again that made me ‘not all right’? I didn’t know, and frankly, I didn’t care anymore.

“I just want some quiet."

I said nothing else before closing my eyes and ignoring the look he gave me. I tried tuning out everything around me, including him. I didn't want to listen to the gunfire, the screams, or curses anymore. It was all too tiring.

“Catch.”

My eyes snapped open when I heard him speak again just in time to see him throw something over to me. Before it could hit my face, I lifted a hand and caught it. I narrowed my eyes at what seemed to be a small metal case that barely exceeded the size of my palm.

I opened the lid of the container and inside was a lighter. Its golden casing was stained with dust and small scratches here and there, and along the bottom the characters 'J.C' were engraved. Next to the lighter was also a pair of earplugs.

“Everyone retreat north!”

“But sir! What about the girl?”

“Leave it! We’ve lost the war, haven’t we? What use do we have for that thing now?”

I ignored those voices as they gradually faded further away and gave the man a questioning look. “What is this?”

“Earplugs. They come in handy during the bombings,” he said, a hint of a smile creeping onto his face. “I figured it’d be less noisy for you when you die.”

My eyes narrowed at how blunt he was with his words. Although, I couldn't think of a single reason why he'd do this for a stranger, let alone a soldier from an enemy nation. But I reached for the earplugs anyway. They were small. I placed one in each of my ears, fitting them tightly inside. All the noises around me seemed to muffle away instantly, and while it wasn’t complete silence, they were reduced to something more easily ignorable.

I leaned back against the rifle, my eyes lingering on him one last time. At this point, he struggled to keep his eyes open and his eyelids flickered as he fought to stay awake. Even through the earplugs, I could hear his breaths growing quieter and quieter.

There was nothing else to say between us. I didn’t even care if he reached for his gun to shoot me. I closed my eyes and forced the world around me away—as far away as I could.

The ringing was starting to stop, gradually dissolving into a dense nothingness. This stricken battlefield of ever-growing decay had been my entire world, the most unintelligible of burdens. But it was now obscured into the faintest speck in my mind. That blissful silence—that damned serenity—was all I longed for after all those years. I was alone now, left with only a dead man.

But unlike him, I knew I wasn’t going to die. Not actually.

It just wasn't possible.