HotelKilo
Inactive Member
Mehitabel's Apartment
Mehitabel was wrapped up in a gray Army blanket on her futon amidst the seemingly increasing clutter of her apartment. The slender Elysian was nestled into the thin mattress among a tangle of wings, her tossing and rolling leaving her a disheveled mess. She seldom remembered much of her dreams, mostly jumbled combinations of people, places she knew and the fantastic. However... Something different plagued her sleep.
Spread before her mind's eye was a muddy landscape, trees limbless and black, standing in stark contrast to the white overlaying most of the ground around. It was dark, but with snow and the moon above to reflect light down it was actually fairly bright all things considered. She didn't feel the cold either, though she fluttered her wings nervously as she was wont to do when in an unfamiliar place.
There were dark lines gouged into the earth ahead, short posts and a tangle of thin lines in front that she took for some sort of defensive field positions. Her mind rebelled to a degree against the unfamiliar scene; she had after all never been on a battlefield. Much less one this primitive. The lines were so close that it was practically point blank for powered armor weapons, and the trenches certainly would have provided little cover from missiles or gauss cannons.
She walked barefooted across the torn ground with surprising ease, folds and craters seeming to have no effect, as curiosity drew her forward. No cloud of steam formed from her exhaled breath as she looked for some sign of life in the frightfully empty dreamscape.
"Schau! Ein Engel!" a voice broke across the still ground, and the wings Mehitabel had finally tucked away since her balance seemed to be as preternaturally steady as it always was in dreams, found them once again extended in shock.
The voices grew in number and volume, shouting practically in a chorus of an unfamiliar tongue, though she could make out the words 'engel' and 'gott', plus the more familiar but no more reassuring 'alarm' among the clamor. If this truly was a battlefield, and even in the dim light she thought she could see the profiles of crew served weapons and rifles in the shadowy ditch, she hoped to avoid a sudden conclusion to even a dream this strange. Holding her hands up in an empty gesture, hoping to placate the surprised observers, it surprisingly seemed to halt the scramble for weapons.
Celestial white light lit her pale skin and limited sleeping attire, further reflecting the moon's glow around her. The trench was silent again in shock, or perhaps awe while Mehitabel raised her arms higher hoping to continue the trend of signifying she was unarmed. As her eyes adjusted now she could make out helmets, staring bloodshot sclera beneath them wide with shock. Apparently they weren't used to someone just walking up on their fighting positions nearly nude in the night. Exploiting that shock, Bel finally took a step back, wings flapping as she took to the air, not willing to chance luck in backing up.
As soon as she broke contact with the earth beneath her feet, the scene beneath began to fade, as if the physical contact had been all that tied her to the strange terrestrial battlefield. The light became more intense as she rose towards the moon above, wind whipping through her hair until it covered her eyes. In a moment, it was gone. All that was before her were the spartan walls of the apartment.
Bel groaned, rubbing the bridge of her nose and rolling herself back up in the blanket that had been kicked away from her legs. Perhaps more coherent dreams would await when she got back to bed...
When you see millions of the mouthless dead
Across your dreams in pale battalions go,
Say not soft things as other men have said,
That you'll remember. For you need not so.
Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know
It is not curses heaped on each gashed head?
Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.
Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.
Say only this, “They are dead.” Then add thereto,
“Yet many a better one has died before.”
Then, scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should you
Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,
It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.
Great death has made all his for evermore.
-Captain Charles H. Sorley, Suffolk Regiment
Mehitabel was wrapped up in a gray Army blanket on her futon amidst the seemingly increasing clutter of her apartment. The slender Elysian was nestled into the thin mattress among a tangle of wings, her tossing and rolling leaving her a disheveled mess. She seldom remembered much of her dreams, mostly jumbled combinations of people, places she knew and the fantastic. However... Something different plagued her sleep.
Spread before her mind's eye was a muddy landscape, trees limbless and black, standing in stark contrast to the white overlaying most of the ground around. It was dark, but with snow and the moon above to reflect light down it was actually fairly bright all things considered. She didn't feel the cold either, though she fluttered her wings nervously as she was wont to do when in an unfamiliar place.
There were dark lines gouged into the earth ahead, short posts and a tangle of thin lines in front that she took for some sort of defensive field positions. Her mind rebelled to a degree against the unfamiliar scene; she had after all never been on a battlefield. Much less one this primitive. The lines were so close that it was practically point blank for powered armor weapons, and the trenches certainly would have provided little cover from missiles or gauss cannons.
She walked barefooted across the torn ground with surprising ease, folds and craters seeming to have no effect, as curiosity drew her forward. No cloud of steam formed from her exhaled breath as she looked for some sign of life in the frightfully empty dreamscape.
"Schau! Ein Engel!" a voice broke across the still ground, and the wings Mehitabel had finally tucked away since her balance seemed to be as preternaturally steady as it always was in dreams, found them once again extended in shock.
The voices grew in number and volume, shouting practically in a chorus of an unfamiliar tongue, though she could make out the words 'engel' and 'gott', plus the more familiar but no more reassuring 'alarm' among the clamor. If this truly was a battlefield, and even in the dim light she thought she could see the profiles of crew served weapons and rifles in the shadowy ditch, she hoped to avoid a sudden conclusion to even a dream this strange. Holding her hands up in an empty gesture, hoping to placate the surprised observers, it surprisingly seemed to halt the scramble for weapons.
Celestial white light lit her pale skin and limited sleeping attire, further reflecting the moon's glow around her. The trench was silent again in shock, or perhaps awe while Mehitabel raised her arms higher hoping to continue the trend of signifying she was unarmed. As her eyes adjusted now she could make out helmets, staring bloodshot sclera beneath them wide with shock. Apparently they weren't used to someone just walking up on their fighting positions nearly nude in the night. Exploiting that shock, Bel finally took a step back, wings flapping as she took to the air, not willing to chance luck in backing up.
As soon as she broke contact with the earth beneath her feet, the scene beneath began to fade, as if the physical contact had been all that tied her to the strange terrestrial battlefield. The light became more intense as she rose towards the moon above, wind whipping through her hair until it covered her eyes. In a moment, it was gone. All that was before her were the spartan walls of the apartment.
Bel groaned, rubbing the bridge of her nose and rolling herself back up in the blanket that had been kicked away from her legs. Perhaps more coherent dreams would await when she got back to bed...
When you see millions of the mouthless dead
Across your dreams in pale battalions go,
Say not soft things as other men have said,
That you'll remember. For you need not so.
Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know
It is not curses heaped on each gashed head?
Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.
Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.
Say only this, “They are dead.” Then add thereto,
“Yet many a better one has died before.”
Then, scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should you
Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,
It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.
Great death has made all his for evermore.
-Captain Charles H. Sorley, Suffolk Regiment
