Stone Circle We cannot be equal

Laurel was not the first face he saw that day.

As he laid there, sides heaving with exhaustion and eyes barely open, staring off into the distance, someone else emerged from the whiteness around him. A pelt as pale as his own with eyes just as a red, if not more so, materialised from the snow itself; an apparition, taking shape and coming into focus with far more ease than the living were able—“Mommy?” he croaked, straining to raise his head and get a better look. Was she really there? She looked the same as the day their was family was torn apart, still young and vibrant—but worried? Why was she worried? He opened his mouth to call out to her but no sound came out. She turned to leave, movements slow—inviting, almost—and he wanted so desperately to get up and follow her. He willed his legs to move as he struggled to lift his head, mouth agape and tongue lolling out the side with pants.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get up. He couldn’t force his body to listen to him, and was once again made to watch after her retreating form, tears burning his eyes.

He tried to blink the tears away, the burn slowly turning into an unbearable sting as the cold air rushed past him. Pinching his eyes shut, he begged the wind to leave and, when it did, he was greeted again by the face of his mother. Only this time she was not alone: to her left stood Kendra, sweet Kendra, gone too soon from this world due to his failures. He couldn’t protect her—he promised he would keep her safe but never could, the first of many broken promises. He stared at her for a long moment, attention drawn away only by the approach of another to her right side; a pelt of fire with a rabbit’s tail.

“Indra?”

Her passing was still fresh, the image of her lifeless form fleeting through his mind. She was the most recent victim of his broken promises, the most recent of friends he let down. There was an ever-growing lump in his throat, turned rigid by her appearance. Would she be angry with him? She must be—they all must be angry, disappointed in him, by their lack of words. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he needed to tell them—he needed to apologise, to beg for forgiveness from each and every one of them but, just as soon as they appeared, the trio vanished into thin air, leaving him alone again.

Alone—but not.

As his eyes began to close, exhaustion getting to him, he heard a voice—his name. He couldn’t tell if it was real or simply a trick of the mind, his conscious more eager than ever to play games with him. But then he heard it again, and this time there were more words to join it; he slowly opened his eyes, fighting the urge to drift off, only to meet the gaze of another he wronged. Part of him doubted she was truly there, writing her off as another ghost come back to haunt him—but he knew Laurel was still alive, he didn’t want to believe that she, too, was gone. “Laurel…?” he managed to whisper, uncertain. Was she really there? She looked like Laurel, she sounded like Laurel—she sounded like Laurel.

Out of everyone to visit him, she was the first to speak.

When she told him he needed to get up, that he needed to protect her, he could hardly do more than nod his head; a slow bobbing, eyes half-open but never leaving her—he didn’t want to look away, didn’t want to risk her disappearing like everyone else. And the longer he stared, the more convinced he became that she was real—and if she was truly there, asking that he protect her, he couldn’t ignore that. He couldn’t let her down again. Never again.

Struggling, and falling back down several times, Alexander used what little strength he had to push himself up to his feet—because Laurel told him to. He was wobbly, hardly able to maintain himself, but dared to take a step towards her anyway. He had to protect her. But as he raised up a paw to move in her direction, it wasn’t long before he was crumpling back to the ground. “Laurel,” he whimpered, trying once more to just stand; he found his legs and braced himself, spreading them wide enough to maintain what little balance he had without putting too great a strain on himself. “I’ll—” he cut himself off with a sharp intake of air. “—protect.”

He would do whatever she wanted of him, no matter the cost.