Lazarus, come forth

Blue, in death, the River brings them; cold as the frost that pinches the blades of grass on a winter's dawn. The elder brothers are efficient at what they do best, and none arrive with the breath of life. Even the appetites of local beasts cannot keep up with the supply. But if you wait patiently enough, sometimes one arrives with a pulse.

And if you are quick, you can even make him breathe again, but no power in this world can call back a spirit that has gone to the light. That is a big assumption, since I do not know if this one had brought too much darkness into the world to allow him to see the light again; but frankly I do not care. His shell bears all I need, the ghostly memories of mundane, rote movements of walking, eating and even using a breathing-face-device (What's that?) are imprinted in his sinews and the fibres of his muscles.

With him, I can visit the elder brothers.


Move forward.

Raise right arm.

Pick up jars.

Pick up breathing-face-device cylinders.

Turn.

Walk to tunnel.

Crouch.

Start digging.

But the River keeps bringing more fallen brothers and sisters even as I try to feed the ones that still live.

Sometimes, I wonder why I bother.
_____end_____________


Just a quick origin story for Dolgov, written in an interesting perspective.