Flesh and Stone

When Luther awoke, he was surprised – he wasn't in pain.

He hadn't expected this. Last night, he'd been so far from the shores of life, he was not even counting on ever stepping back. Like many of the unfortunate souls in the healing house, his fate was in the hands of the goddesses. But now, waking up, the sun absent from the sky judging by the lack of light coming in through the windows, either the healers did not do themselves enough credit, or the goddesses had indeed been good to him.

Not for many others though.

The Hyrulean got out of bed, one of many in the healing house he was in. One of many buildings that had been appropriated in Kakariko Village for the flood of refugees that had come from Hyrule Castle Town in the wake of Ganondorf's takeover. Luther had only heard rumours that the king had a gerudo…a male gerudo in his service, but it seemed that the logical outcome for trusting those desert savages had occurred, and fleeing with every other human from Hyrule Castle Town as monsters descended on it, he'd paid the price too. A slash across the face with the tip of an axe, and a wound to the belly from a spear. Both weapons wielded by giant creatures spawned out of a child's nightmare. And fingering his stomach and face, both wounds that had gone.

It wasn't right. But standing in the centre of the rows of beds, looking across the throng of humanity, looking at all the blood and piss that would have to be cleaned tomorrow morning, Luther wasn't about to complain. But he wasn't going to stay here either. He'd come back in the morning, but…he didn't want to stay. He couldn't stay. He had too much energy. Too much life. And after putting on his gown and passing through the door that led outside, he wanted, needed, to spend it.

That the night was unusually not cold only added to this need.

If the healing house was a microcosm of Kakariko Village, than the village itself eliminated the need for a macrocosm. It was overflowing. Sorrow hung in the hair, tears fed the soil, and everywhere there was the scent of sweat and blood. Usually. Walking through town, Luther found himself unassailed by any of that. True, many people were out in the streets, waiting for new homes to be built, hoping that the new king of Hyrule would grant them clemency, but no-one seemed to see him. All in all, he couldn't blame them. HE was out there walking, healthy, miraculously cured of wounds that could have sent him to where so many had already gone to. He couldn't blame them for the lack of appreciation.

Walking through the sleeping throngs of humanity, Luther found himself heading for the graveyard. He wanted the isolation. And as desperate as things had been in the week or so since Ganondorf's takeover, no-one had reached the stage where they were willing to sleep above those who slept eternal. Amongst those who had entered dreamless sleep so recently.

If the dead can sleep at all after all that's happened.

The graveyard itself had seen better days. The headstone of the Tomb of the Royal Family had been destroyed in a freakish lightning strike, an event that, according to some, was followed by an unusually early sunrise. Even now, the headstone had yet to be repaired. But it wasn't the centre of attention. No. What drew Luther was the new headstone. The one erected over the mass grave, still empty.

Huh. Thought it would have smelt worse.

More bodies would be added to the grave in the days and weeks to come. Heading towards it, and being thankful for not being assailed by a smell of any kind, Luther looked at the inscriptions:

Here lie those who fell

to the King of Evil.

May they find the peace

in the next life,

that was not granted to them

in this one.

Luther raised an eyebrow. If the "King of Evil" ever bothered with Kakariko, chances were he'd want the inscription changed. Or maybe he was happy with the title and reputation his butchery had brought. But no matter what the words were, Luther hoped the names would remain. Names that were added to the list every day.

Damascu, age 24, may he find peace.

Mariah, age 5, loved and missed.

Syri, age 26, may her unborn join her in the next life.

And so the list continued. Name, age, a few words chosen by friends or family, or if neither were available, by the gravekeeper. Going down the list of names, Luther wondered if Ganondorf's name would ever appear on a gravestone. And if so, what words there would be. If any.

We'll need another headstone, Luther reflected, scrolling down to the bottom of the headstone that was already twice as tall as he was. Maybe more. Maybe-

He stopped. He stood back. He opened his mouth, keeping it open before speaking.

"No…" he whispered. "No…no!"

But it made sense. Somehow.

"It's not possible!"

Why he had awoken without pain. Why he hadn't smelt anything.

"It's not true!"

Why no-one had been aware of him. Why he been drawn to the graveyard.

"This isn't right!"

Why he hadn't felt cold. And why the words were what they were.

Luther, age 35.

There were no words carved yet. And he couldn't add any.

For what worth was the word of a ghost?

A/N

This was based on a writing idea/challenge, the line being "your character takes a walk in the local cemetary and discovers a fresh grave with his/her own name carved on the tombstone..." Make of that what you will.