10 Moments.
One. One step. One thought. One moment.
He took a step towards their crumpled bodies. Their muscles still contorted in pain, he could see the image of their faces, mouths open in a silent scream.
His mind was a battle ground; racing to conclusions, screaming 'no – this isn't my family'. He knew it was fruitless, these thoughts were correct. That was his wife laying on the floor; her legs bending in unimaginable angles, brown hair sprawled over the floor, in a matted mess. Her once shining eyes, which were once filled with happiness when she saw him were now filled with pain. They were dull and lifeless – a mirror image to how he felt.
Two. Two steps. Two eyes. Two people.
Upon his second step, he saw his daughter.
The battle in his mind stopped, raising a white handkerchief in defeat. Instead, his body began a fresh assault on his heart - filling it with lead and making it drop a hundred feet. He felt it stop.
Much like her mother, she had her legs spread in unnatural ways, her hair had come loose from the plaits he did this morning. There was a sudden realisation with that thought. An 'oh god' bombardment in his mind. He had seen them this morning, had treated it like any other morning, practically taking for granted the way his daughter bounced up to him.
"Daddy, Daddy! Do my hair please please please!" The utter joy in her face then was a stark contrast to the complete pain that replaced it now.
Now they were dead. He should've said 'I love you' to his wife, one more time.
Three. Three steps. Three memories. Three conclusions.
His third step was when the memories hit. They had been drafted in to help with the war effort in his head.
Nervous was an understatement for what he felt. It wasn't that he didn't want to marry her – he wanted that more than anything in his life. He was scared that there would be someone burst into to his room and scream that "you need to come with me! There has been an attack and we couldn't save her".
Breathing in deeply, he pushed away the image of an old man coming in and telling him the news that would break him.
Like they had rehearsed, he was the one to open the doors, the few, maybe 15 guests, turning their heads and smiling as he walked down the aisle and taking his place at the front of the room. His backed turned.
Three minutes later his soon-to-be wife walked down the aisle, he could hear the gasps of the entourage as she walked down to meet him. He felt her hand on his elbow, a gesture which said 'turn around and look at me'. It was one order he was eager to have.
He took her in, blue eyes bright with happiness, a smile wide on her perfect lips. This was the women he wanted to spend all his life with.
And now she was dead.
At the time, he thought the image of the man coming in and telling him his family were dead was a mere product of his nervous mind. He had never thought that one day it would be true – how wrong was he?
He had come home from a busy day's work. He was tired, feet hurting and arms aching. There was a war going on. And he was one of the lucky ones who could go home, not have to wait for Mevolent's forces to attack at any time.
He opened the door, like usual except his wife didn't greet him like normal. His brain went straight into battle mode. Something was wrong. He felt the air to find any sense of movement or bodies. There was none.
Clicking his fingers and summoning a flame, he walked to where they cooked their food, finding a note on the floor. It was his wife saying she had gone to see a medic – why would she need to do that?
"Hey". It was his wife, her voice instantly soothing his tense muscles. Extinguishing the flame, he slowly turned around. Ready to ask what the bloody hell she was thinking when-
"I'm pregnant". All anger left. Replacing itself with joy and happiness and fear.
He grinned, mimicking his wife's face as he ran over to her and embraced her.
He wished he could see that face again. The upturned lips, the happiness in her eyes when they found out he was going to be a father. It had made things complete, made things seem right. Now look where it got them.
It was her sixth birthday, everyone was laughing and having a good time. Birthdays were a time when you forgot about the war, forgot about the war and death and had fun.
An arm around his wife's waist, his daughter playing with the other children – it was perfect. He had done her hair this morning, as per her request. He only did her hair if it was her birthday. Making bad jokes and watching her cringe was perfect. This was what he was meant to do with his life.
He was a soldier second, a father and husband first.
He realised three fundamental truths at that point. One was that he would grieve later, he was going to eradicate Serpine from this planet – from this universe. The second was that he knew this was a trap, his wife was smart; he hasn't married her just for her good looks. And three, no one went after a man's daughter knowing they would breathe for much longer.
Four. Four seconds. Four names. Four agendas.
He drew nearer and nearer to them. A strangled sob left his mouth.
The concrete walls of the chamber making the sound bounce off, there to intensify what he felt, what he couldn't conclude in his head. His vison blurred as he realised with brute force what this meant. They were gone. He had failed. He stumbled before he even reached his wife.
There wasn't any energy to bring himself up, he crawled to where they were. Tears were falling at this point. They left trails on his face, if his wife were alive she would brush them away and not be the reason they were falling.
Once he reached his wife, it was pure guess work to see where her head was. With shaking hands, placed her head on his lap, he let the sobs he'd been holding in be released. Sounds of a heartbroken man echoed off the walls, bouncing around. His face was the epitome of pain, of suffering.
He turned around, sounds left his mouth as he placed his wife's head on the floor and crawled over to his daughter. A chocked sob left him once more as he lent over her body, tentatively brushing her hair away from her face, afraid of hurting her, of breaking her and closed her eyes. He didn't know what to do.
He couldn't bring himself to touch her, he rested his head onto her torso, crying into her chest like she did to him. Maybe he was trying to hear a heartbeat; anything as a sign for her to be alive.
He must've been screaming, for there were men coming down to where he was. They saw the blood first, it wasn't usual for Serpine to leave blood – but then it wasn't usual to attack a man's family. The men saw his position second, kneeling over his daughter's limp body, and their faces instantly fell. They put their swords away – he must've sounded like he was being murdered. In a way, he was. His heart was slowly being pulled from his chest, his throat was sore from the wailing and he didn't know what to do.
"Where were you?" The question left his mouth quietly, these men knew exactly who he was and what it meant when his anger was hushed. "Where were you when my family were screaming for their lives? You come rushing to help me but my wife? You left her here to die. You are the reason my daughter will never laugh again." They slowly backed away, heading for the exit. They didn't get that far.
Before they realised it, he had hurled fireballs at them, this was just a distraction so he could steal their swords. Within second all of them lay on the ground. Throats cut and heads missing, they got what they deserved.
There were names floating around his head, he couldn't speak them. This was the only time were their names should be spoken and he had them stuck in his throat. A name that he could speak was Serpine. He was going to find him and make him pay.
Five. Five moves. Five blinks. Five days.
He had been working on finding Serpine for days, weeks maybe. Once he had laid his family to rest there was only one thing he had to do.
Narrowing his eyes, he strode to where he knew Serpine was residing. It was risky, but he had the element of surprise on his hand and he was not going to waste it.
Maybe he didn't. It was the figure at the doorway to the ramshackle house which made him decide that he did not have the upper hand. There were stories told of Serpine, how his face looked, how his voice sounded. What no one knew was his battle strategy – because no one lived to tell the tale.
A hand raised and he dodged, move one. In response, he clicked his fingers and summoned a flame, launching the all at him. Move two.
Move three was Serpines, which he used again to raise his hand and he dodged it yet again. Why did people struggle fight him so much?
He ran towards him, hands up and pushed the air where Serpine was, causing him to fall back and hit the door. Move four.
Move five was his last ever move. Serpine raised his hand and he writhed in pain. A scream left his body but this time there were no men to come and check on him. So, that was why no one lived.
"You thought you could defeat me? Did you not do your homework, boy?" Serpine taunted. He clenched his fist and his muscles contract into pain. "You, of all people, should know what I can do. What I did to your family." Serpine knew exactly what he was doing.
And he was powerless to stop it.
He blinked away the tears that were threatening to fall. Once. Twice. Thrice. With each blink, they went and returned – it was a dance he was not willing to go along with.
On the fourth blink, he tried to move but was again attacked with pain. This was where he was going to die. Ashamed, angry, and a failure. He let his family die, and was powerless to get revenge.
The fifth blink was his last. His last action he ever did before his heart gave out and his brain shut off the pain. This was what his family had been through. He deserved worse than what they got.
How long had it been? A day? Weeks? It was hard to gage the time of day, the place or even the day.
All he could see was black.
It was a colour he was used to, after his family met their end the world was devoid of all colour. The flowers which bloomed in spring lost their beautiful yellows, pinks, purples – colours which any sane person would think nature was incapable of making.
But he wasn't sane.
Nature could make bright colours, what it was unable to make – or should've – is the unfathomable evil which the man whom had entered his cell possess.
Serpine was infamous for his red hand, but maybe what other people didn't know is that before his Surge, he was a torturer.
He was suddenly terrified; a feeling which was nearly unbeknownst to him. Serpine reached deep into his black robes, putting nails, hammers, saws, objects which he couldn't name but he was sure the names for these were not nearly as bad as the pain they caused, and placed them onto the table beside him.
"You think that I'm going to let the fun end there? Do you not know who I am? Who I was?" Serpine's drawl was cautious but confident. He knew what was coming – he was an idiot.
Slowly taking up a nail, Serpine looked at the metal, a smile dancing across his thin lips. He leaned in close, breath tickling the man's ear. "We're going have some fun. Maybe not for you – unless you're into that sort of thing. No judgements here." He leant back, an evil grin playing on his lips, transforming his face into the thing which legends and nightmares are made of.
Before there was any time to register the action, there was a nail through his finger. Not the bone, not the flesh. The nail. A scream, a whine which sounded much like a wounded animal, these sounds couldn't begin to express the pain which he felt. Blood started to drip down the chair which he was bound to – his magic bound.
Even before he could finish his screech, Serpine's face was in his, searching his eyes for any sort of evidence which would suggest he's about to faint. Clearly satisfied that he wasn't, in quick succession there was one, two, three, four nails in his hand. All of them hit in the same place.
He could muster no scream; no human sound could describe what he was feeling. A burn, a throb, an ache in his hand, his fingers.
"Are you going to leave me this way?" His voice was weak, vocal cords nearly shot from the screaming. He spat blood.
Serpine laughed, a wicked and horrible sound – a promise for more agony. His eyes said the answer, his speed to hit more nails into his other hand was the conformation. Serpine turned on his heels, satisfied with the days work.
In a daze, he opened his eyes. In the corner of his room, he saw a woman. Eyes bright as the sun, hair as dark as night. This was the contrast which he immediately fell in love with – there was always something dangerous about her stare; but when she was in his presence all danger flooded away, leaving only love and weakness.
She strolled towards him, hips slightly moving in the way they always did.
He loved everything about her, her fierceness on the battlefield, her gentleness around their daughter. The way she whispered things with no substance in his ears.
"You know, I am pregnant. I've been searching for the right moment to tell you…now seems like the right time." She had tears welling up in her eyes, as did he.
"How could I expect you to care for your unborn child when you couldn't even take care of the one you already had." Her voice turned into a sneer, a voice he only ever heard when he had done something wrong, like forget to feed the horses for three days.
"You failed us. You failed all of us." Her face, the once high cheekbones turning sunken. Her golden skin turning pale and deathly. Her eyes had bags under, he could see her skin shrivelling and decaying. This was how she looked right now, he was watching her slowly disappear into a pile of bones and he was powerless.
Waking up was horrible, hard and uncomfortable. There were nails and blood everywhere. He didn't know how long he had been out cold for, how long he had been alive when he was meant to be dead.
The door was behind him this time, was he moved? He could see the shadow of Serpine before it disappeared as the door closed. Serpine was obviously showing off, a statement not to cross him and his expertise in torture.
A hand which was always gloved raised – the glove off – and a surge of power could be felt. It was magnificent if you weren't on the receiving end. Other times he would hold back his power, not wishing to spend so much energy on a lesser being. He was different.
It couldn't have been anything less than all Serpine could give which he got. With the nails in his fingers, he struggled to writhe in pain. Pain being caused from his hand but the goddamn nails.
He had been planning this – was his last thought before the embrace of unconsciousness enveloped him.
There was a child sitting at his feet, he recognised the hair, the soft pressing of her back to his shins.
For a moment, he forgot about everything, in that moment he was her father, preparing her hair for a special occasion. Like his wedding anniversary.
"Daddy?" Her voice was delicate, high but not annoying. Just right, she was just right.
His response was an absentminded hum, willing her to carry on talking. He went to move his hands, temporarily ready to being the three-strand braid he did. Pain came in waves, but nothing like the tsunami of pain he felt in his heart after this.
"What did mummy do? Why are we dead?" Her voice shifted to something other, something dead and awful.
"I trusted you, Daddy, I really did. Mummy did as well." She laughed, laughed and turned around; her face was like his wife's – she had the same bright eyes but his fiery hair. She was a burning inferno of colour, she was his little girl who hated every fragment of his being.
"You know, Daddy, I said to Mummy that you would come for us. You would hear our screams and come running and save us – like you did with everyone." He heard the betrayal in her voice, her eyes burning the shame into his soul, his very being, leaving him at last with nothing but humiliation.
The third time Serpine came was the climax of the event.
The saw was used, his toes were hacked off. The lesson was to cause as much pain as possible – a lesson he passed with flying colours. The nails in his hands were hammered in deeper, each bash of the tool causing pain in every. Single. Finger.
That wasn't were the torture stopped, Serpine had clearly been practicing on some poor bastard, as he pointed at his leg and only pain there struck. Bone was shattered, ligaments torn, blood vessels ripped.
He had given up screaming, it wasn't going to let the pain cease. A few days ago, he had bitten through his tongue, spitting it in Serpine's face. Again, he laughed; a sound which was devoid of joy, just filled with death and suffering.
This was his final day, he could sense it. There was an aura around Serpine when he finally came out of unconsciousness, he saw Serpine stare at him.
"And he lives! For a second there I thought you had died before I got to the real fun!" Serpine's voice was joyous, a fake demeanour there to soothe and comfort the tortured. He was a fool for falling for it.
Serpine broke his knee caps in a fluid strike; the crack of bone was ear piercing and he was sure then and there he would not leave this room.
All his friends, his comrades would believe that he died a saint, his legacy would be that of Deuce, that of someone who didn't fail their family and cause.
A raise of Serpine's hand was the last thing he ever saw. He pointed at his heart – his finger pressing to the sweat and blood soaked shirt he wore. There was pain, then nothing. Pain, then nothing. He was being slow, calculating exactly how much force and magic would be needed for his heart to finally give out and yield to death.
On the third pain then nothing, his heart gave out. If he cared, he would've been embarrassed for dying so quickly. Pride was a cruel thing.
Six. Six realisations. Six erasures. Six screams.
He should've been dead.
It was what was equitable. He shouldn't be here.
He was angry. He had left his family die and he had done nothing to prevent it. He yelled to the wall: why me? What did I do to deserve this?
He was a skeleton. No brain tissue, no skin, no nothing. A skeleton. There was no way he could end his suffering, no way to stop being.
As the days passed, he became accustomed to the pain, the blanket of depression which covered his mind, became a friend – something he could reside in and find comfort. It had been years since he was killed, and yet here he was. Only days since he was resurrected.
What he hadn't become accustomed to was the forgetting. Blue or brown? Or were they green? He hated himself, he claimed to have had loved this woman but couldn't remember the colour of her eyes. He couldn't remember how the morning light used to bounce of her hair when she was sleeping, or the sound of her laugh after he made a spectacularly bad joke. What was worse, he was forgetting the feeling. The feeling of what it felt like to be loved, to have her touch him and it be okay.
Seeing his daughter slowly slip from his mind was the worst of it, his own flesh and blood leaving his thoughts. When it was her birthday, she used to laugh so much – but what was the sound? How high pitched was it? Was it high pitched? He called himself her father yet he couldn't protect her, couldn't cease the pain she felt.
All he could imagine was the screams of his family, of the men he had killed. He could see the light fade from their eyes, their bodies go limp as they gave up. Every waking moment was a nightmare. A repeated image of what he had done. The wall was the canvas for his mind to recreate these memories – the only ones he remembered had suffering in.
Seven. Seven years. Seven birthdays. Seven anniversaries.
He had become a detective – the Skeleton Detective. People feared Skulduggery Pleasant, feared the rage and lifelessness of his voice. It was a profession which had called to him, saving other people's lives when he couldn't save his own families.
He had become ruthless, going beyond what may have been legal to bring those to justice who had caused pain.
Every year, there were four days where no one spoke to him. He carried on with this life as normal on those days but if anyone spoke to him, it would be their last word. He possessed an aura around him on those days, of sadness, of morning, of anger, and of hurt. Criminals he caught on those days were open for a server ass kicking and a harsh sentence.
Eight. Eight friends. Eight successes. Eight beginnings.
Nefarian Serpine had come out of hiding. Had caused chaos everywhere, killed a twelve-year olds uncle.
This was when Stephanie came into his life, a stubborn and annoying girl who happened to have descended from Ancients. She chose the name Valkyrie Cain, she reminded him of himself and his daughter.
He was adamant that he was not going to get another child killed, see another parent go through the pain that he had. He made a vow, a promise to the Gods, that if he let another child die he would endure the pain of Nefarian Serpine again. He had been alive for hundreds of years, hoping and praying for death, for peace. Maybe this girl was his incentive to stay alive, to have a person depend on him.
Over the years, he had made some friends, people he was willing to rely on to help save the world more times than he was willing to admit. Chins Sorrows proved to be helpful at times, helping him through the cases which seemed uncrackable. And saving the world – saving him – once or twice.
A few years after meeting Valkyrie, it was her prom. She had managed to sneak her dress out with Fletcher, having him teleport to Skulduggery's house before he arrived.
She shimmied into her dress. It was strapless, the light, delicate purple making the darkness of her hair stand out. There was a trail of crystals along the bodice. She looked damn good if she did say so herself.
Skulduggery barged into his house. Obviously reading the air outside and testing for intruders and sensing them. They both jumped out of the kitchen, screaming a 'boo' and finding it hilarious when Skulduggery jumped – then pretended it never happened.
"Skulduggery, I figured that since you can't come to come to my prom – why not bring the prom to you!" Valkyrie exclaimed, excitement and anticipation to see what he thought.
"Fletcher and I were just joking that you have the hairbrush which I got you for Christmas when I came up with the idea that you should do my hair – seeing as you'll be awful. Although you can't be as awful as Fletcher here" She was giggling by the end, her face full of pride at her coming up with the idea for once.
"Valkyrie. I'm going to let you in on a secret here; my wife was horrific at doing hair – she could barely do her own" – His voice changed, reminiscing in the happiness of the memory – "so I had to do my daughters hair. Valkyrie – you're on."
He sat at the sofa, and she nestled in at his feet, careful not to crinkle her dress. She was expecting him to be hard and uncomfortable but she found it comforting, his shins supporting her back just enough for it to comfortable.
Fletcher seated himself on the chair across from her, talking to Skulduggery about the case they were currently working. It was an odd one, five people killed – all with different MO's but whenever the Rainbow Dust was used there was traces of Adept magic. This was all they had.
Valkyrie didn't bother listening, she was relaxing into the touch of Skulduggery's surprisingly soft fingers – especially for a guy with no skin.
Little did she know, when his fingers stopped, he was overcome with the memory of doing this to his daughter. Her eagerness to have her Dad create intricate designs into her hair on her birthday – he always got her something small on her birthday for the precise reason that those moments where a gift. This mirrored exactly how Valkyrie was – eager to see what concoction he could create using hair clips.
If only he had cherished them more.
Valkyrie felt him stop, hands tangled in her hair and a distant aura creeping around him. She threw a concerned gaze at Fletcher and he returned it with a shrug. Then it clicked, his daughter.
Oh no. He had done this with her, and she asked him…
Internally facepalming, she slowly untangled his fingers from her head. When she was free, she saw the absent look in his face, the way his hands stayed raised at hip height.
She didn't bother explaining it to Fletcher, but she went and got changed into her clothes.
"Skulduggery? Hello? Are you okay? I'm so sorry, it didn't register that you had done this with her I am so sorry." Valkyrie was concerned, she feared that he would stay in this trance forever and it taking years for her doctor friend to find a cure.
"Boo!" Valkyrie screamed, completely unprepared for the revenge that Skulduggery had just issued. Heat flushed her face, her fist raising and punching him in the arm.
"Oi! I didn't punch you!" His hand rose to his heart, feigning shock.
"Too bad – I did." This soon became a tradition and a game – too see who could scare the other the most.
Nine. Nine lies. Nine deaths. Nine betrayals.
Valkyrie won the scaring game – nothing could compete with what she had asked of him.
It was his job to put down bad guys, especially ones which had been foreseen to destroy the world. Lie after lie after lie is what Valkyrie had told him. She was Darquesse, the thing that Sensitives had been seeing. It went against everything he had in him to put her down. It was his job to put down the bad guys, to save the world. They had done it dozens of times before, it shouldn't be hard. But before, Valkyrie wasn't on the receiving end of his death blow.
He had seen people die before, seen the light fade from their eyes, seen the betrayal in their face. Never had he seen a child die. Not even his own. He should've been there, if he was there then maybe he would've been able to protect them, maybe he would die and they would live.
Valkyrie – no – Darquesse, had told him that she wanted him to be the one to do it. No gun, no magic, bare hands. She was like a daughter to him, he had had a child killed before – his own child killed before – so why was this so hard?
Because she wasn't his. She was someone else's child, someone else's little girl. She reminded him of his own daughter, her legendary ambition to do what was right. His daughter was only young – but she could have rattled the stars.
There was so much more she reminded him of, her smile and her stubbornness, the way she cringed but laughed at his jokes. But also in her, he saw himself. The eagerness to fight, to learn, to protect those she loved. This was what she was doing, protecting those she loves by sacrificing herself.
"Valkyrie…. please don't make me do this" He pleaded, his voicing being a mere whisper. It wasn't for his sake. It was for her parents and sister's sake, he would have to go over to their house and tell them that they're little girl was murdered. Their whole lives would change and he'd be the reason. He didn't know how he'd manage it, yes, the façade would be up. He would have a face for them to see how he felt. But to them, he would just be the policeman who gave them the news which would break their hearts. To them, he would just be another person, the person who ended their world. But to Valkyrie, he was her friend, her mentor. Her murderer.
She nodded. She understood what she was asking him to do, the magnitude of the task. She had thought about doing this for days, considered every outcome, every possible thing she had to do was done. She had said goodbye to her parents – hugged them a little too hard for a little too long. Her sister, she is too young to fully understand what she was doing, but Valkyrie knew what she was doing. She had taken her sister to the park for a couple of hours, played with her for the last time. Hoping for a chance that her sister's last memory of her will be a happy one.
Ten. Ten seconds. Ten tasks. Ten lessons.
Skulduggery Pleasant looked at Valkyrie Cain for the last time. Everyone was here whom she cared about. Fletcher, her boyfriend had tears in his eyes. Her gaze drifted to him; roaming his face, engraving it into her brain for the last time. Kenspeckle Grouse, who was basically Valkyrie's grandfather had been told to not try to revive her, he had always shouted at him to keep her out of trouble, otherwise one day he would end up being the cause of her death. He hated being right. Tanith Low, Valkyries best friend, her big sister. She would never admit it but she was crying, Valkyrie had told her first what would be happening and she was immediately against it. She still is.
He placed his hands on her jaw, either side of her face. He had done this to his daughter hundreds of times, placed a kiss on top of her head as a goodbye. He repeated the action to Valkyrie, saw her smile and well up.
"You don't have to do this, there has to be another way". Skulduggery knew this was a lie, knew that there was no other way. Futures like this were set in stone and there was no way to overcome it. Even sealing her name hadn't done the trick.
"There isn't, I'm ready". She was far too young to be making decisions like this, she's only a child. He didn't think he would ever hear a child say they were ready for death. But he admired this, the bravery and selflessness in the act which no one should ever be ready for.
"I'm so sorry Valkyrie, forgive me", and with that she smiled. She hugged Skulduggery Pleasant for the last time, a ten second hug. He nestled his head into her shoulder. She was no longer the little twelve-year old whom he told about magic, she was taller now, stronger. When she let go, she placed his hands on the side of her face. It was hard to tell how he was feeling on the best of days, but from his posture she could tell he didn't agree. He was crying, he didn't have eyes to physically make tears but she knew that he was.
With a twist of his arms, a crack sounded from her neck and she fell, her fall slowed by Fletcher teleporting to her side. He held her head as she went limp, as her life force left. Fletcher muffled a wail, his vision going blurry like Skulduggery's when he found out his wife was dead. He couldn't watch. Kenspeckle moved to give first aid but Skulduggery blocked the doctors path with an arm and a wail escaped him, the old man tried to fight against him, to move the arm which was blocking his path. He soon gave up, slumping against Skulduggery's arm and wiping his nose with his own sleeve. Kenspeckle was trying to be professional, try not to let the emotion show. This trying stopped, and he let out a wail and a cry. Thumping Skulduggery's chest in anger and sadness at what he had caused. Skulduggery could rely on Kenspeckle to tell him where he had failed. Tanith shrieked, a sound he had never heard her make before, her legs gave out and she was no longer the strong fighter she was, but a frightened and bereaved woman.
The final sound came from him. A muted grunt as he felt something break, just like when he saw his wife and child dead. There were things to do, as he turned to give the news to her parents there was movement. They all stood by his side, they were pushing their feelings to one side to grieve as a unit. But to also give strength to him – he had family killed too many times to ever really be used to it.
He took the first step towards telling a mother and father their baby wasn't returning, and as he did so there was a –
"Hello."