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[i]That voice.

By the Valkyrur,[/i] that voice.

His [i]voice.[/i]

Alexandre’s mind plunged into civil war.  The sight of…  The sight clashed against the walls in his mind, built and fortified by half a year of self-loathing – and made purchase.  Memories long kept at bay now tore at their structure with the reinforcement of immediacy.  Alex Schäfer had been his deputy and friend, his companion-at-arms.  He had valued his sense of honour and calm conscientiousness.  Alexandre had found someone in Alex whom he could trust, laugh with, lead beside.  A half-dozen days flashed before him, all from Bihain, all so joyous and righteous and –

He was dead.

[i]I led him to it.[/i]

Alexandre shut his eyes, exerting his force again on those walls.  [i]No.[/i]  No.  [i]This is past.  Those are[/i] memories [i]and I am[/i] now.  And, indeed, as his eyes opened again, Alexandre found details.  The two were alone, the trench empty where it had been full of soldiers.  When he spoke, though he could not make out the words, Alex did so in the same considered tones he had always done when issuing orders.  The man was still in the uniform he had worn on that day, now beaten and stained from the horrific fate that he had condemned him to.

Alexandre knew ritual better than he knew theology.  Even so, somewhere in the recesses of his mind-fortress, some part of him could still recognise what this was.

[i]The stories of confronting a draugr…  They are wrestled to a point of submission, then…  Decapitated.  The strength of the Valkyrur, followed by the mastery.[/i]  Steadily, deliberately, the Gallian reached up to his neck, clasping the spiral amulet there, and then raised his other hand.

Every step seemed a league.  He fought to keep his gaze locked forwards and his expression held at determination, sallying against the onrushing waves that only grew stronger themselves as he approached, staring at that face, those dark hair and eyes that shouldn’t be familiar but were, oh so much…  Feeling his hand trembling, he clutched his spiral and launched himself across the remaining distance.

Though his push was feeble, Alexandre still felt a warmth through the fabric against Alex’s shoulder.  Fully shaking now, his hand drew upwards to lie against the other’s face and neck.  The heat, the [i]life[/i] there pooled against his touch, and yet it was shivers that coursed down Alexandre’s arm, torn away, the man stumbling back until he reached the trench’s edge, the memories [i]surging[/i] now to surmount the walls he had so carefully built.  He stared downwards; Tue-Tyran felt as the weight of a star at his hip, blinding in its reminder of everything that [i]should have been[/i].

The last holdouts in his mind pushed him to look back, then stand to face the man before him.  Struggling for anything coherent, Alexandre brought forth the only expression of his mental state that he was barely able, intoned with a mote of strength behind it: “How.”

[@Smike]