[open] swallowed the sickness, a fever, a flame; any

[brigade]

I was a poor boy; you were a bright light
I was a sinner and you were a snake

Part of him is surprised by how easy it was to die.

How easy it was to remain dead.

There was very little of him that strained against it—that fought back. Very little of him that did not immediately give into the promise of the darkness, the shadows the crept forward as the wolves found his throat. He wanted it, he thought. He wanted that nothingness that lived on the other side. It was weak of him, he knew, but he had never thought of himself as anything but weak. He had never given himself or anyone else around him to expect anything different, let alone more. He was weak and a coward.

And, soon, he was dead.

But he was not even able to hold onto that peace. There was a roiling in his soul that brought him back to the surface, that dragged him back and spat him into the forest. He felt it like an atrophy in his muscles as the life breathed into him, leaving him stiff and resistant and furious for the life thrust upon him.

When he finally does open his eyes, it is night. He swallows the bitter air and flings his antlered head back as he throws his legs forward and then pulls himself upward. His body shakes with disuse and his throat feels like sandpaper as he tries to get his bearings, tries to deny that which is so obviously clear:

He is alive.

Brigade groans, shaking his head, and staring into the darkness. As if on cue, he hears the howl of a wolf in the distance and a tremor races up his spine as his throat closes in phantom pain.

There is only part of him that wishes to turn on his heel and run.

He does not care to think of the other part that wants to call the wolves down upon him once more.

shook like some old souls when our bones broke
swallowed the sickness, a fever, a flame

BRIGADE