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If it wasn’t for the smell of gunpowder lingering on the air, it might’ve been a peaceful evening. Crickets chirped among the leaves and branches of the forest, in harmony with owls’ calls and the croaking of frogs. The waves brushed over the sand, soaking into the hems of the red and yellow towels that were still left on the beach from the party-that-wasn’t. Wind swept through the tall grasses, whispering in a hushed voice over the field. It was funny, ever since Tommy’s shoe had become worn beyond repair, he’d found something entertaining in the mismatched sound of his footsteps. One heavy, one light. One awkward, one graceful. Together, as he walked, it was almost like a heartbeat. When the ringing in his ears faded, he could hear it all.
Without thinking, Tommy’s feet carried him to the shoreline, paying no mind to the sand that trickled through the cracks and tears in his remaining shoe. His breathing had evened out over the past… hour? Minute? Time was a funny thing. He let his eyes focus on the horizon, or, more specifically, what he guessed was the horizon. The only thing that separated the dark water that stretched out for a hundred miles in front of him and the pitch-black night sky were the stars. There were thousands of them visible that night, tiny and twinkling. They felt so, so close. If only he could reach them. If only…
He towered up a few blocks. Still not close enough. A couple more. He was high enough up now that falling would hurt. He kept building. Every bit of material he had with him brought him closer and closer, if he reached, stretched, maybe he could brush his hands through the cosmos. Closing his eyes, he could imagine the feeling like imagining the face of an old friend. It felt like running your fingers through a cool, clear stream. Like tucking a lock of hair behind the ear of someone as they slept peacefully for the first time in months. Like holding what’s left of the clothes you wore on the best day you’d ever had and weeping. No, that was right now, he was crying already, as he built. Placing the last block he had, he sat for a moment.
Tommy did not consider the place he’d been exiled to any kind of home. Even as he dangled his legs over the remains of Logstedshire, hundreds of feet in the sky, he couldn’t call it home. It wasn’t his home. But it was his. He felt the hot tears falling onto his lap. Can I have something that’s mine? He felt the words well in his throat behind a sob. His arms circled themselves around his torso, squeezing until he swore he could feel his ribs cracking.
“Please.”
The word choked him, tearing out of his mouth with a rough cough. He tilted his head up, blinking the tears out of his eyes to see the stars more clearly. Carefully, minding his balance, he stood. With a shaking hand, he reached up. They were so close. He reached until his arm ached, on the tips of his toes, with both hands, but there was nothing but air. But he kept reaching.
He wasn’t sure when he fell to his knees. One moment, he had his hands in the sky, and the next, his knees stung where the fall had reopened old wounds. Tommy had always been a boy of scratched knees and band-aids, of pride, of holding on so tight that the things you love turned to dust in your palms. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine it — a laugh, the rhythm of footsteps running alongside him, warm honey on his tongue. But that was so far away. Was that even him in these memories? Or was it a far-off dream, a wish for something sweet that he’d never tasted?
There weren’t any more tears left in him, but the sobs kept coming, gasping heaves of breath that threatened to suffocate him. Nothing was ever going to change, was it? Nothing he had would ever be his, not even his own life.
His own life.
Breath still uneven, he rose to his feet. Suddenly, he could see beyond the horizon. He saw the ruins of L’manburg, burning to ash. His discs, shattered beyond recognition. The dead-eyed face of a boy with curly brown hair and stubby horns in the rubble, left to rot. All alone. He saw the rest of his life and knew that nothing would come of it. It would be this, and only this, forever. He saw the end of all things and knew that he was powerless in the face of it all.
How do you go on, knowing that you’re fighting a battle you’re doomed to lose?
Tommy glanced up at the stars one more time. He traced the patterns that he’d learned from Wilbur all those years ago, the stories echoing in his mind. “All the great heroes die,” he’d said. “Usually tragically.” He wondered if he’d be remembered well enough to have his outline hung in the sky. He wondered if there’d be anyone to remember him.
Of all of the ways to die, this was definitely dramatic. He wondered if Wilbur would be proud of him.
For the first time in too long, he took a long, deep breath. He couldn’t feel his arms anymore, or his legs. Or anything, really. He floated there, untethered. One step, and he’d be on a new adventure, following in his General’s footsteps. Tommy had always been a good soldier. Another deep breath. A second.
Let me tell you a story, Tommy.
In. Out.
A story of a man called Theseus.
He found a familiar constellation. Corona Borealis.
He slayed the Minotaur and saved his city.
He looked to the horizon, but there was nothing beyond it anymore.
They exiled him, he died in disgrace, despised by his people.
Tommy had been many things. A friend, a brother, a soldier.
That’s what happens to heroes, Tommy.
Tommy was not a hero.
As he fell through the air, he watched the sky. The stars stayed in their places, neither further or closer. Someday, he knew, he’d meet them. Not today. He wasn’t finished.
The water hit him with a wall of force, the chill forcing the air out of his lungs. For a moment, he sank, the cold shocking his limbs, before regaining his strength and kicking up to the surface. He let himself float for a moment, face towards the stars.
Tommy felt a ghost of a smile creep up onto his face. He didn’t have a plan, really, barely a clue. But he was alive. Closing his eyes, he let the symphony of crickets and waves and wind fill his mind.
He was alive.