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They aren’t even supposed to be in battle.
Cleo’s a necromancer; she’s supposed to stay back and revive the bodies of Hermitcraft’s strongest warriors to continue defending the city. As the days wore on and their cavalry dropped more, however, her duties had expanded to medic. And when their numbers dwindled to less than a quarter of the attackers, going out into the field and getting more soldiers.
Joe, on the other hand, is supposed to be on defense, holding up the city’s force fields. But those force fields had long since broken, and so he’d been thrust back into the fray, tasked with protecting Cleo as she seeks out more soldiers.
So here they are, trudging through the blood and muck, trying to find bodies that aren’t mutilated beyond repair.
Cleo nudges another body with the toe of her boot, wrinkling their nose. “Void, why are they all burnt?”
“The blazes,” Joe says, looking straight ahead. Then, in a smaller voice: “Third barrier to fall.”
Cleo’s gaze snaps to him, then softens slightly. “It’s not your fault.”
Joe sighs, slowing his steps enough for Cleo to catch up with him. “I know. I know. It’s just- I wish I could have done more to help. Like you, y’know? Actively contributing to the war efforts.”
Cleo stops. Joe does, too; turns back to them, his brow furrowed slightly. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t say that,” Cleo snaps, and Joe recoils slightly. “Sorry. But, look, you’re being too harsh on yourself. We couldn’t have made it this far without you. Don't fault yourself.”
Joe groans, slumping. He runs a shaky hand through his hair. “I mean,” he says, at last. “I’m just glad you’re here. By my side. Instead of, y’know, there. In the thick of it.”
He motions vaguely to the right, and they both turn. It’s a mess of swirling colours and echoing yells. Neither of them can quite make out what’s going on there, but it’s clear their side isn’t winning. Cleo grimaces.
“Be careful, Joe,” they say, quietly, pulling him on.
Joe splutters. “I- me? Me? I literally have force field powers-”
“-Not what it’s called-”
“-I know that, Cleo. But you don’t. So take care of yourself first.”
Cleo lets out a long, slow breath. “I know. I just… I worry, sometimes.”
They continue walking, steps in sync. Joe reaches for Cleo’s hand, hesitates, then thinks better of it.
Then there’s a yell, a flash, a misfired spell. A blast of red light shoots towards the two, and hits:
It hits Joe square in the chest. For a moment, it seems like time slows. Joe, eyes wide and slack-jawed; Cleo, eyes wide and reaching out.
You keep your eyes closed, just for another moment. The world is so bright and you want nothing more than to slip back away into the comfort of darkness.
Then grass and flowers and weeds start to sprout beneath your palms and between your fingers. Your eyes flutter open against your will, and you squint in the light. There is someone standing over you, their face illuminated by the dancing firelight in the background of– is that a battlefield? Did you take a nap in the middle of a battlefield?
There’s a fight going on in the distance, maybe. It’s hard to tell, considering the fact that you’re lying on the ground and also the distance between where you are and the fight itself.
And then the person standing over you blinks, and you forget about the maybe-fight completely, staring up into their green eyes and studying their fiery red hair which curls around them like smoke from the maybe-fire at the maybe-fight. They look downright murderous, though as soon as they notice you’re awake, it melts into a relieved smile.
Void, they’re amazing.
“I’m so glad you’re back, Joe,” they say softly, and reach out to brush strands of stray hair off your sweaty face.
“What?”
Who’s Joe?
They pause, frowning slightly. “Are you alright?”
No. No, you’re not alright. But there’s something in their eyes, a desperate sort of hunger that yearns for one answer and one answer only. And so:
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you say. Very convincingly, if you do say so yourself.
They squint at you, and you think that maybe they see right through you, though you can’t possibly imagine how.
“No you’re not,” they snap. “You just died, Joe. That’s not called being alright.”
You frown up at them. You’re not dead. At least, you feel very much alive. You’re breathing. You exist. Isn’t that enough?
“I didn’t, though,” you reply. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
They sigh. It’s oddly familiar, the soft sound of their slow exhale. “Void, you’re pathetic.” A pause. Then, rushed: “Can you at least…tell me what’s wrong?”
You push yourself up, scratching the back of your head. They visibly untense at this, though you can’t imagine what for.
“There is absolutely nothing wrong, beautiful stranger!” you say, grandly. It feels right, that inflection.
They frown. “I am neither a stranger nor beautiful, Joe. I- I’m Cleo. Don’t you know me?”
You hesitate, and they- Cleo, the beautiful person with the beautiful name and beautiful hair- sigh. Beautifully. Void, they’re beautiful. You should really find better words to describe them. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Void.
“Joe,” they say.
“That is a name,” you agree, amicably.
“That’s your name. Joe. Joe Hills, of Nashville, Tennessee."
“Is it really? That’s an awfully long name for a person.”
“Joe,” Cleo repeats. You like the way it rolls off their tongue, the way they say that name. “Joe, please, you know who you are. You have to. Joe, come on.”
“I mean, I’m Joe Hills!” You frown. “Or, at least, that’s who you say I am. Hey, why should I trust your word, anyway? You’re still a stranger, beautiful as you are.”
Cleo splutters. “You know me,” she says. She sounds desperate. Tired. You don’t like that, so:
“Yeah, I do,” you say, trying to make your tone all light and jokey. “Cleo.”
She doesn’t smile.
“Joe, you really don’t need to- look, you don’t need to lie just to make me feel happy. It’s fine; I’m not that fragile.”
Oh. Well, then:
“Genuinely, I don’t know who you are,” you say, and you can see her frown. “Like, I don’t know who I am. Or why we’re here, or how we got here, or-”
Cleo lunges at you, and for a moment you think they might actually kill you, with that look in their eyes. But instead they wrap their arms around you, pulling you close and hugging you tight, and void if it doesn’t feel so natural to be like this: melting into each other’s bodies, puzzle pieces slotting into place, vines tangled up and reaching for the stars.
“It’s fine,” she murmurs in your ear. “You’re still Joe. Even if you can’t remember it. You know it, don’t you?”
Yeah. Yeah, you do. You know flashes of memories long gone. You know the care in which she crochets with, even if you don’t know what exactly she’s made. You know her laughter. You know her smile. You see her smile, right now, when she looks at you.
And you think:
You slam every last dredge of your magic into his body. The air around the both of you stills. It’s dead silent, the ringing in your ears drowning out the rest of the world. You focus.
Come on. You can’t lose him like this, not in this stupid way. You force another wave of magic out of you, feeling it drain the energy from your body. Still, you don’t stop. You can’t stop.
His body practically glows with the amount of power you’re using, his minor cuts and bruises fading away. When the magic has nothing left on him to work on, it spills down his body and onto the ground beside him, which blooms and flourishes; a stark contrast to the barren wasteland around.
Still, he does not wake.
You’re about to give up when you notice his eyes flutter open. You let out a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad you’re back, Joe.”
Joe pauses for a moment, squinting up at you. “What?”
That makes you tense up a little. “...Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, and it would have been convincing if you couldn’t immediately tell otherwise, with the way his gaze shifts to focus on a point above you. You don’t say that, though. Don’t point that out. What comes out instead is:
“No, you’re not. You just died, Joe. That’s not called being alright.” You hate the way your voice wavers.
He frowns up at you. “No I didn’t. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Void, you’re pathetic.” You sigh, run a hand through your hair. “Can you at least… tell me what’s wrong?”
Even as you say this, you already know. The suspicion bubbles in the back of your head, teetering on the edge of overflowing.
He pushes himself up, scratching the back of his head. You relax. Maybe you’re wrong-
“There is absolutely nothing wrong. beautiful stranger!”
…What?
“Uh, yeah. Have you seen yourself?” Joe says, and he sits up straighter. You sigh, knowing exactly what’s coming.
He clears his throat, and:
“Okay, Cleo. This is what I see when I look at you:
your eyes. They’re the most gorgeous shade of green,
and I would drown in them if it was a sea,
raging and storming; would let the water flow
all over me. If only you could see it. They shine
oh so prettily in this light. Cleo, come on, just
listen to me. I don't know you. But just
this once, let me speak. Did you know? You
are like a star in this dark night. You shine
like one too. And back to your eyes: they're green
in the leaf-y forest way, like how bushes flow
into each other, a mess of nature, a sea
of branches and bramble. And if it were the actual sea,
with the raging storming waves, I’d just...
Well, I’d like it. Because it's you. Because the words flow
out of my mouth when I'm talking about you,
even if I don't know who you are. And I'm green
with envy, stupid as it sounds, 'cause I see the way you shine;
the way you smile, laugh, talk. And I want to make you shine.
I want to learn everything about you; your sea
of memories, how you ripped your sleeve, the exact shade of green
your nail polish is. It’s nice, seeing you smile just
so. And, well, I'm getting ahead of myself here. My point is: you,
Cleo, are absolutely beautiful. Your hair: the flow
of it, that sunkissed fiery hair of yours; it makes my words not flow
but stumble, trip, fall out my mouth. And I would stumble trip fall, into the shine
of you, your light, and I would be fine. Because it's you.
I would carve myself up for you, melt into a sea
of flesh and bones if it made you happy, because I really just
want to see your beautiful amazing stunning smile. Don’t look so green;
I'm sorry if that's too much. My point still stands: your green
eyes – hey, wait, about the eyes! This might flow
a little weird, but they're the window to the soul, just
so, and if your soul is even half as beautiful as the way your eyes shine
in the light, then I’d bet you're a real great person. I'd bet you're a sea
of all-around amazingness, because that's the thing about you:
you are just like a goddess personified, with the way your green
eyes sparkle in the night, how you look; the flow
of your hair: trails of shooting stars that shine in the dark sea.”
He looks way too proud of himself.
“I- void, Joe.”
“Yeah? I mean, I don’t know you. Unless I do, and I forgot, in which case I’m sorry.”
And Joe looks so earnest that you sigh and go, “It's fine, Joe. Really.”
You pull him into a hug, tight, and he relaxes into you the way he always does, and you hope that even if he doesn’t remember you, he remembers the comfort this brings him.
And you think to yourself:
It hits Cleo square in the chest. For a moment, it seems like time slows. Cleo, eyes wide and slack-jawed; Joe, eyes wide and reaching out.
No. No, no, no. This can’t be happening. Void, you’re an idiot. You should have just thrown up a force field or something, should have protected Cleo-
It’s too late for that, now, so all you do is take a deep breath and conjure up a force field around the two of you. Better late than never. Or safe than sorry. Or alive than dead, though Cleo’s really not helping that last one much.
Deep breaths. Okay. You can do this.
The first step to reviving someone without any fancy powers like Cleo does is to regurgitate everything you’ve ever learnt about necromancy from the books you’ve read. It’s not a lot, admittedly; and it’s even lesser when you take into account your lack of proper spontaneous magic.
The second step is, of course, to lament your lack of magic. And then you take another breath to ground yourself. That's step two-and-a-half.
Step three is to try anyway, because there’s a first time for everything. You channel every single bit of magic you can into her body. Void, have you waited too long? Is Cleo rotting? Are you doing something wrong?
Time passes. That’s not supposed to be a step, you think, but mostly you’re focused on trying to bring Cleo back and your never-ending mantra of wake up, wake up, please. This isn't your forte; you’re more of a ‘take a step back and logically consider your options’ type of person. But this is Cleo you’re talking about, Cleo you’re trying to save, Cleo who’s currently dying beneath you and rotting- Void, why is she rotting?
You can’t pause to think, can’t stop and figure out what’s gone wrong. You’re out of time. Sure, Cleo can revive people who’ve been dead for years, but you aren’t on the same level as they are when it comes to necromancy.
Step four is that Cleo wakes up. They’re not waking up, though, even though- even though you’re trying, you’re trying so hard. And maybe you might’ve panicked a bit too much at the start, there; maybe you’ve accidentally shoved the wrong kind of magic in their body, which is why they’re decomposing quicker than usual-
Oh. Oh.
So that’s what you’ve been doing wrong.
It’s far too late for that now, though, so you just whisper an apology in Cleo’s ear and try again.
And again,
and again,
and
again
.
.
.
until you hear a gasp. You feel no pulse running through her veins, but that's fine, because Cleo’s back and she’s here and maybe you’ve messed up her body a little too much but it’s fine! She’s here! With you!
And then she looks at you. Frowns.
“Do I know you?”
No. No, no, no. This is your fault. You’ve screwed up, and now she's lost all her memories, and it's all your fault. How could you have done this? This is- this is bad. And she's staring at you with that strange expression, like how she used to- like how Cleo used to do whenever you were freaking out, but this isn't Cleo, is it? Yet they are exactly the same.
And all you can think is:
The first thing you feel is your skin rotting beneath you. No, not beneath – you’re rotting. It’s weird and gross and mildly terrifying, so you gasp and open your eyes.
There’s a guy standing over you, with a stupidly long beard and a stupidly chroma green shirt and he’s looking at you with the biggest widest eyes you think you’ve ever seen.
“Do I know you?” is the first thing that leaves your mouth, and you immediately regret it, because his face falls so instantaneously you would have laughed if it weren’t for the fact that he looks really sad.
“Cleo,” he says. “Cleo, this isn't funny. This isn't- you nearly died, Cleo. No, not nearly. You did die, and I had to bring you back, and now you’re all rotting and stuff-”
“I’m not dead,” you say, standing up and brushing yourself off. A little bit of skin comes off. You stare at your hand, morbidly fascinated by the fact that you can see your bone, while the guy looks on in mild horror. “Ah, so maybe I am dead. So what?”
“...That is not the point,” he says, finally. “You’ve lost your memories, haven’t you? You’re not really you.”
You have, obviously, and you have told him that. But you decide it’s more fun to mess with him like this. You’re sure Past-You won’t mind.
“I know you,” you say, and squint at him. He looks like a Joe, you think. “You’re Joe, aren’t you?”
He pauses in his pacing. “Oh, so you do know me! This is a prank!” He seems genuinely delighted.
.
.
.
Okay, now you feel a little bad.
“No, I don’t. That was a lucky guess. You look like a Joe.”
“Oh. Oh, well, that’s fine! That’s perfectly fine!” he says, in a tone that suggests otherwise.
“It is fine,” you agree. And then, because you honestly feel sorry for this guy you’ve never met (or met for the hundredth time, or whatever): “I’m sorry? If that’s what you’re looking for.”
“That’s not what I’m looking for,” Joe says, wringing his hands. He stares at you with a gaze so intense you feel like you might actually decompose right there and then. “I’m looking for Cleo.”
“I am Cleo,” you say. It feels right, the way it rolls off your tongue so very easily.
Joe hesitates for a moment, as if he’s reconsidering. “Maybe you are,” he repeats, in a voice quiet as the wind whistling past.
He sighs, and pulls you into an awkward, one armed hug. He’s gentle, careful not to jostle the bits of you that are already peeling off. It’s almost familiar.
You nuzzle your head into the crook of his neck, and you think, maybe, that: