GODLESS

ERIK CASTILLO, 34. Traveling with The Days. Situated on the outskirts of Oryol. Galit rin ang Diyos. point total ninety two ( as of 03.02.18 )

[castilloerik-blog1]

daryavolkov:

They hoped Erik was right, that there was an abandoned town somewhere in the distance, within an hour’s trek ahead of them. They hoped he was right and they hoped they would make it there, rest while he found whatever supplies he could dig up, pray away the pain in their head and the weariness in their muscles and prepare themself for the long walk back to their camp. It would have made this entire trip worth it, if he was right. And it would have improved moral, too, for everyone, if they came bearing food stuffs, or new shoes, or any other kind of supplies, a sign that they were going the right way.

But as they pressed on, forcing themself to push through the dizziness, it didn’t take them long to realize that the discomfort they were feeling was only getting worse. A tightness in the joints of their neck, a strange taste in their mouth. A pressure, around their eyes, like even the dim light of mid-afternoon was too much for them. They blinked, against it, and when they opened their eyes again, their vision took longer than usual to come back into focus. They swallowed and tasted copper. 

There was a mantra, a small prayer, that they used when things got too hard. When pain came, in unbearable waves, or when stress and pressure closed in on their chest cavity like walls pressing fractures into their ribs. They had learned it, at a young age, from the nuns in the orphanage. Meant to be an act of repentance, the short phrase was instilled into them as deep as anything, fell naturally from their lips or whispered thoughtlessly through their head when their mind went blank.

Господи Иисусе Христе, Сыне Божий, помилуй мя грешную…

                     Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner…

It was designed to be repeated. An ascetic practice. One they had used when fasting, when repenting, when trying to lull themself to sleep on cold nights. Now, it was a panacea against pain, an anchor that kept them grounded when the entire world felt as if it had turned on its head and left them stranded. 

They looked up, then, casting their eyes towards the pale gray sky, as if in prayer, and the vertigo hit them all at once, a sensation of falling, though their feet were still firmly planted on the ground. And then, as they looked down to ensure that their feet were, in fact, still firmly planted on the ground, they found the ground moving closer, all at once–

–and found their eyes closed, and wouldn’t open again.

There were only so many ways that Erik and Darya could have prepared for the worst case scenarios upon walking out into this mission. For either of them, none of the scenarios they readied for were theoretical. Any one of these scenarios could happen. At any given time. Without so much as a warning. Perhaps, such was the fragility of life. But, really, such was just the cruelty of the way of the world. Gone were the days of leaving one’s home knowing they could come back. Gone were the days of safety. Gone were the days of screaming help into the void, knowing that somebody would arrive with good intentions in minutes.

No, Erik did not scream. Erik did not give so much as a gasp, even.

Somewhere in the back of his mind was a siren: loud and unending, the kind that came only with the grief he had long learned to subdue. Yet, while his mind screamed with irrationality, his body knew what to do. It had faced too many losses to know what to do. Somehow, it made sense: when the sirens in one’s head never slowed down to a stop, one learned to navigate against it.

At once after the thud of Darya’s body into the soft earth, Erik knelt beside them. There was no need to tell him what to do: he simply did. While he searched for the cause for their fall --- perhaps, a stray bullet, a silent shot ---, there remained a part of him aware of his surroundings. He couldn’t disconnect from the world; it was this world that would kill them both.

Yet, Erik would find no stray bullet. He would find nothing from the outside causing Darya to fall.

There was a voice inside him that claimed it was always like this. That everyone was like this. That sometimes, bodies just gave out. That the over-fatigue of the world had gotten to Darya, and their body had to resort to its own means to give them rest. A voice, so eager on convincing Erik that all was fine, kept him going.

Even though he knew. Even though he knew this was different.

There was nothing else to do, though. It took a series of shaking and tapping and attempting to get Darya to awaken before Erik resigned. He raised Darya’s feet above their heart level. Any constrictive clothing had been loosened.

This was his fault. His fault. His fault. 

[castilloerik-blog1]

beverlymcneil:

LOCATION: Kaluga Oblast, Russia WHEN: Present, or recent past OPEN

The True Pathers kept to themselves, and often Beverly was grateful for that: a family, kept small and close, to make up for the family she’d never see again, now that what was once only a day away by plane might as well have been on another planet. But sometimes the enormity of what was still out there overwhelmed her: so many people, so much suffering. It was more than one person could comprehend.

Like everyone else, they didn’t have much to give away. Needed every bite of food they could get, every small scrap of something that could contribute to their survival. But, awhile removed from their current base and towards the end of a scavenging trip that had lasted the better part of two weeks, she’d gathered more than she could easily carry back.

And so, a gift: a can of fish left in the center of the entryway of the tallest, sturdiest building still standing in the small town she’d spent the morning picking over. Around the can, a shock of red yarn run through with other colors, all of them worn and faded but still brighter than anything surrounding it. A hat, once made around small campfires the past few nights, using up some of the materials she’d scavenged along the way.

It was a skill picked up what felt like a lifetime ago, trying to keep her hands busy and her nerves calm in hospital waiting rooms, when life seemed like nothing but doctor’s appointments and waiting for things to get worse. A hobby, but an idle one, something she’d never predicted would became as useful as it has. But Beverly already had a hat on her own head, as did those she called family back at the True Pathers’ base. The things she made now, she mostly made to trade, but she would part with one now, who knew who was out there now who needed one, who might find it days or weeks from now. 

Or now, as the door creaked slightly on its hinges behind her. The village had seemed empty when she had found it, as had the others she’d passed through on this trip, but there were always other people out there. Looking, searching, surviving. “Oh,” she said, putting a smile on over her surprise. “You can have that. I left it for whoever would find it first. Looks like it’s you.” 

The world was as cruel as the people who lived in it. Sometimes, even more. It was a conundrum if the world had always been this cruel so as to make the people in it just as cruel as it was, or whether people had been the first one to strike a hand of cruelty against the only home they had. At one point, the answer had gotten lost. The state of the world didn’t give a lot of space for one to ponder, as the ending would always be true, always be the same. And, the ending was thus: the world was cruel either way, and people, just as.

Erik Castillo had learned this early on: as a child on the Alexandrov farm, with a mother starving to death, and the workload of a full-grown adult at the age of fifteen. He had been born to work the fields and the small herd of cattle there, and hadn’t really an education anywhere else to be able to do anything other than that. And so, life had never been a pretty picture. If it had been a pretty picture of a field full of flowers for anybody else, that would only be because Erik had worked day and night to ensure the bushes on which flowers grew on were in prime condition when spring arrived.

He’d gotten so used to the thorns, to surviving in the way he needed to, to the harsh hands of the world, to the cruelty. Erik so rarely believed in the good now. It was even rarer to witness it.

So, to find a gift was not simply finding a gift. It was waiting for the attack, too. It was waiting for the trade, for the catch, for the return. The woman before him stood with a smile, willing Erik with her words to take what she had left for him, but it was all too good to be true. There had to be something she wanted --- whether his belongings, or his life. Nobody gave anything anymore, not unless there was something they would take in return. Nobody had hearts so giving, so generous.

Erik remained where he stood by the door of the building. He did not move, but his eyes searched the area --- for any signs of another exit, for any signs of trouble. He did not look at the woman when he spoke. “What do you want in return?”

[castilloerik-blog1]

DAMNED: What is a promise your character muse gave, and still hopes to pursue?

DAMNED: What is a promise your character muse gave, and still hopes to pursue?

title: cross my heart (and hope to die)characters: erik castillo, mentions of maria florestimeline: over various points in time after the world fellsetting: varies per scenetriggers: death, grief, and the general atmosphere that comes with losing somebodyword count: 556

i.

At one point, despite the rubble left of the earth --- or, perhaps, because of it ---, Erik whispered a promise to himself: “I’ll find her, and I won’t lose her again.” Nobody else but he heard the words, but he uttered them anyway as a pact to the hollow of him that still made sense. The words flickered like hope: the only things that kept him going inside the metal walls of the factory, and more so the only things that had kept him going after all these months of futile search.

How long had it been since?

The soil is harsh, unable to foster anything into growth. The sky, dark from all the grief that it cannot cry. The air, filled with the stench of death and fear. Erik had no telltale signs, but he held onto his promise.

ii.

Erik often felt like his body was more warrior than it was body. More machine than human. More fear than anything else. The fatigue that lingered in his bones were a state of permanence he had gotten used to. Accepted was too giving a term; he simply had no choice. Each morning, he rose with his body that was not his body. Each night, he laid his body that was not his body down for some pretense of rest.

Tonight, Erik let the hope of sleep go. There were no stars, and the moon was nowhere in sight, but still he looked up. If somewhere, Maria was looking up at the same skies, then Erik hoped she could hear the way his heart beat. The way his heart still beat. The way his heart struggled to. The logic in him knew that it was impossible; that love was love, but also that the world no longer welcomed it.

Still, he repeated over and over in his mind: “I’ll find you, and I won’t lose you again.”

iii.

Their love had never been wild. It had never been loud or bold. It was the kind that had walked up to them, and one that they had willingly fallen into. No pretenses. No denial. No second choices. 

And yet, still, some moments caught Erik off-guard. He had once thought he’d fallen in love and that was that, but in the quiet moments, he found himself proven wrong. He could fall in love over and over again. And then, after that, another time over.

She reached for his hand now, placed the back of his palm to her lips for a tender kiss. And then, god, she smiled. She smiled, and the rays of the sun seemed dull in comparison. She smiled, and the world was okay again. For the first time in a long, long time, Erik found himself smiling, too.

Somewhere from the distance, something howls. Erik awoke in cold sweat---

The empty space beside him was as heavy as the heave of his heart. The silence was as loud as the grief he had collected in the last five years. And, still, in the dark, his heart screamed: “I’ll find her, and I won’t lose her again.”

iv.

He never said it out loud anymore, but still, this promise was the only thing that kept him going.

[castilloerik-blog1]

CHARACTER TITLE ASKS --- NOVAC EDITION

I thought this might be something fun for all of us! I read through everybody’s small blurbs on the main, and then gathered relevant questions from lines that struck me. I actually wanted to copy paste the lines that inspired these questions, because they are honestly so beautiful. That’ll make the ask meme a little messy though, so I opted not to do that! Anyway, I hope everybody enjoys this!

RAVAGED: What is your character’s biggest fear? PROPHET: What bruises does your muse hide? CRIMSON FLOWER: What skills did your character have to learn in order to survive their present situation? WEASEL: How does your muse deal with their devils? SHRIKE: How different has your character become since the war? MUTE: What moral codes does your character live by? WAYWARD: What are some objects from before the war that your muse holds on to? GODLESS: Does your character believe in a god? BOTANIST: What would your muse be willing to do in order to protect their ‘safe place’? REVENANT: Describe some of the most painful losses your muse has experienced. VAGABOND: Who does your muse trust? WRAITH: Has your muse killed another person before? How many? WAR VETERAN: Does your muse work better alone or with others? DAMNED: What is a promise your character muse gave, and still hopes to pursue? HUNTER: What does your muse consider as home these days? SAINT: Has the apocalypse changed your muse’s sense of self? SAMARITAN SOLDIER: What traits has your retained, even after the apocalypse? GHOST: What is your muse afraid of? CONTRARY: What are false hopes that your muse has fallen for?

[castilloerik-blog1]

Pride, Gluttony & Sin

PRIDE: What is your muse’s biggest flaw?

Erik has a God-Complex, born from when he was little. He had to go lengths in order to keep his mother safe, which meant risking himself. In some ways, he is still that person today: always risking, always going beyond himself, always going out of the way. While lending a helping hand isn’t a flaw, the entitlement that Erik feels is. With a high regard for himself, Erik feels he is owed something when he goes out of his way to “save” somebody. This isn’t always the case, of course. Not everybody he “saves” needs saving. Sometimes, all he does is make things worse.

GLUTTONY: What is something your muse wants but does not need?

He’d do stupid things to get alcohol, even if that’ll only do him bad in the long run. He also wants some books, maybe a notebook to draw on, some comics. He wants anything to immerse himself in, anything to keep him from losing sanity.

SIN: Which of the deadly sins best represents your muse?

Pride.

[castilloerik-blog1]

a-rko:

LOCATION: straddling the Polish-Belarusian border, deep in the Białowieża forest WHEN: at least two weeks prior, at any point in the past few months WITH: open

It was another one of those cold, stillborn days. The sky refused to brighten, and even the trees seemed to huddle closer and shiver.

Sinking to the forest floor, Arko crossed her legs lotus-style and placed Iskra flat across her lap. The Doc Martens were already standing off to the side, their leather tongues lolling and their laces unknotted; next to them, her rucksack slouched to the ground, half-empty. She’d gotten desperately low on food. Starvation was a grotesque look on anyone, but on someone so small it was even more pitiful; beneath the optical illusion of her enormous jacket, her stomach had started to cave in towards the spine. Like there was a sinkhole yawning beneath the skin.

 Brow creasing finely, Arko pulled off two layers of socks, then set to work unwrapping the bandages on her feet - padding, to keep the men’s size shoes from falling right off as she walked. She folded the dirty gauze and placed it neatly next to the boots. Then she lowered her hands, like a pilgrim praying at a road shrine, softly onto the sheath of the katana. Her eyes fell shut.

Somewhere in the forest, she could hear the river moving, talking to itself in its own slow language.

When she meditated, she could sit like this for hours: eyes slitted, breath coming shallow, her face slack and utterly lineless. She almost looked like she could be sleeping, if not for the rigidity of her spine and the way her hands rested on her sword with the slightest suggestion of a grip. She was something unmoving, unfeeling. A body without a tenant. The hunger pains were growing distant now; the cold air winnowed around her, but it was a bone-deep chill she no longer felt. Arko tunneled into herself, burrowing deeper, excavating the quiet, immense spaces that made up the caverns of her heart -  places that echoed back her own loneliness like footsteps, places where no word had ever entered.

Leave it behind, punker. 

Slowly, she emptied out. Erased every face, every unspoken name, every experience her body had ever collected. She discarded all the days before this one; whittled down the hours and minutes till she was only left with the passing seconds. No past, no future. Barely even a present. The gulf between her and the world widened, and she drifted off further and further, a little ice floe in the middle of a black Arctic sea.

Leave it behind. Nothing unclean can stay.

It wasn’t obvious what gave the intruder away, but something did; beneath the twitching eyelids, her pupils briefly pulled in to the size of pinpricks, then spread again when her eyes cracked. Arko took in the sight of the stranger with no alarm, only a serene, slow-blinking clarity. Her hands remained motionless on the sheath of her sword; she simply stared back, waiting for the stranger to determine this interaction for the both of them- to reach for her boots, or her bag, or pull out a weapon of their own. 

Some days, Erik liked to entertain the thought of death. Some days were most days, of course. In the last five years, some days almost felt like his entire life. They felt like the only thing he could hold onto: that somewhere, at some point, for some reason, he would die. Perhaps, such was a grotesque picture for anybody to paint in their own mind. Perhaps, it was nothing but an unhealthy coping mechanism. But, in the quiet of the night, when Erik laid his head down in attempts to sleep, the thought that he could die at any point was his only comfort.

Wouldn’t it be nice to finally have a huge breath of air for the last time? To be filled with peace that could not be taken from him the next morning? To sleep, and to wake up not weary? To sleep, and never wake up?

This was an unhealthy coping mechanism, but it was a coping mechanism nonetheless. No, Erik would never have himself the courage to get on with it. To put a knife to his own throat was still a difficult thought to swallow. But, then again, putting a knife to anybody’s throat had been difficult  in the beginning of all this. Perhaps, in the next five years, Erik will finally have enough guts to take himself. For now, this would do.

But, as anything unhealthy did, this had consequences. During nights when the thought of his own death didn’t do the trick to help him sleep, Erik dragged his body to the quiet for days at a time. It was true that he could not kill himself; he could, however, kill anything else. More than his mission as a Days member, this helped keep him alive. Irony. Full of it.

Four days had passed him by; the number of walkers he’d burned escaped him. If he looked up, he could still see the smoke. But, it was time to turn back now.

 And then, Erik would run into the serene: someone, meditating. Once upon a time, he might be amazed by this. Once upon a time, he might think it necessary. Now, as he crouched behind bushes in the silence of the deep forest, Erik eyed the woman’s surroundings. He could only think of her bag, what it might have, what he could take from it.

With silent movements, Erik neared her. He cared little for her. Perhaps, maybe a little jealous for her peace. Survival was an instinct in him that overpowered his need for peace, though. He was close to taking her things, when ---

The lack of alarm or panic in the person’s eyes, when she met his, made Erik look at her in confusion. The clarity she held alarmed him. but he would take into consideration all things: the bag, his distance from it, her distance from him. Her body language told him little --- save for that she was much smaller than he --- but he did notice her hand on the sheath of her katana. His own weapon was heavy hanging on his waist. Still, he never wanted to hurt.

Perhaps, it was the rush of having killed walkers. Perhaps, it was the recklessness that came with wanting to die. Perhaps, it was just hunger and the stupidity anybody was willing to risk for it. Whatever it was, it was something.

Erik dashed for her bag.

[castilloerik-blog1]

daryavolkov:

They knew that if they told Erik one more time that it was time to turn around, he wouldn’t argue; he was decisive but he wasn’t stubborn, didn’t disobey direct orders when they were given. He wouldn’t have resisted, would have trusted that they knew something he didn’t and that their call was the right one. It was part of what made him such a valuable member of the Days – he could think for himself, but he always fell into line when it mattered, always followed the plan when there was one. 

They took a moment to evaluate their situation: the light-headedness wasn’t a new experience, just another symptom in the symphony of tiny ailments, little annoyances that lit up their body when they started to get tired. Fatigue, muscle aches, bruises that bloomed across their pale skin without reason. Their teeth hurt, sometimes, like they might fall out of their head if they weren’t careful, and their head ached more often than not. It wasn’t any worse than any other day; it was only the thought of lasting the return journey that concerned them. 

But Erik was right – there was no good, tactical reason not to keep going for another hour or two before turning back, nothing other than Darya’s own body preventing them from the possible opportunity to find something valuable while they were out. 

And they didn’t want him questioning the decision, didn’t want to admit to him the pain they were in, the unsteadiness they felt growing with each heavy booted step they took through the underbrush, the slight throbbing of blood in their head, the distant nausea that accompanied it. It wasn’t time, yet, for him to know that they were sick. Not until they were sure, and ready, and everything was in place. 

     ‘Alright,’ they answered, steeling themself for a moment, gritting their teeth against it before continuing on, pushing to catch up with him, to match his pace, as if pushing themself through the discomfort might banish it altogether from their body. ‘Another hour, and then we will return to camp.’

It was a bargain to go through with this scouting mission. To trek through the thick forests with no certain hope for an end to it, was to put lives on the line. Every move was a risk. One wrong step could snap a twig; the snap of a twig could alert anybody of their presence; the knowledge of their presence could mean death or life. The forest had never hidden echoes in its wilderness, and it would not begin now. Death had never chosen its survivors; everybody had the same fate at the end.

For Erik to say an hour more in the face of his leader was not an isolated decision. Everything that there happened beginning from this point was a choice that bounced off the one he had made. If anything should happen, it would be on Erik. Nobody but Darya and the forest would bear witness to it; if Erik and Darya should die, then nobody but the forest would remember the choice Erik had uttered out loud. Even then, the forest would forget. With so many deaths it had seen, how could it remember the face of a man who dared make a choice for anybody other than himself?

But, all this was a risk Erik was willing to take.

In some angle, perhaps this was a decision as selfish as the desire for shelter and safety. Darya was with him, after all. It was not only his life on the line, but Darya’s, too. And Darya bore a more important role than he. Erik could die, and his only real legacy would be that he had lived for so long despite the call of death knocking on his door. If Darya should die, though, then a whole group of people would come out of their hiding place to search for them.

But to think! To think! If Erik should die now, then maybe a whole group of people didn’t have to. An hour wouldn’t cost him much; he was always tired in the first place, and rest was never a tangible thing. But, perhaps, it could mean more. Maybe they’d find a river, a place to stay, some canned food left behind.

For as much as this mission was a bargain, it would not be as big as a risk as to head to Voronezh without an idea of what to expect.

The quiet that took place between the moments he had spoken and Darya thought of what to do next was a lingering thing in the air. Whatever what was next, Erik would follow the orders given him. He knew his place. So, when Darya gave their go signal, Erik gave a simple nod.

It was the next moment that would make Erik think: the discomfort in his leader’s body language as they pushed themself to catch up, the weight they carried themself with. It was difficult to notice these things. After all, when the whole earth weighed like all the bodies that had seen their death before their time, it was almost necessary that the bodies alive weighed like death, too. But Erik had a damn good look at Darya now, and he noticed.

He dismissed it as nothing. Everybody was tired. Everybody was aching. Perhaps, Erik thought, if he had a good look at himself now, he would see how heavy he carried himself, too.

So, once Darya was at his side, Erik turned and headed towards the direction he had been trekking. He had a gut feeling they would encounter what may be an abandoned town --- if they were so lucky.

[castilloerik-blog1]

daryavolkov:

title: the sun down location: a forest, a little ways outside Oryol time: present day, morning      ( @castilloerik )

They had some idea what it was going to take, to get to Voronezh, but that didn’t mean they had a fully realized plan. There were too many things to take into consideration: in which direction were there enough abandoned towns to keep them sheltered for the weeks it would take to get there? Where might they find fresh, untainted water, or caches of ammunition or food? Where would they run into the kind of trouble that came in forms other than walkers? Deciding on a route, from here, would be just as much work as the route that had gotten them here. And while they might have trusted in God to guide their heart in the right direction, they couldn’t justify a plan that relied only on divine providence, not when there were so many other people for whom they were responsible.

A scouting mission of the rivers and streams that converged around their current home base promised valuable information, though – seeing from which direction clear water flowed, which land was untainted by the thick sludge of black oil or the sick green of radiation. They’d arisen, that morning, with the sun, and tapped Erik to accompany them on a survey of the forest to the south, hoping they’d find some sign that the way they wanted to go would be the right way to go, or at least a viable option.

The sun never broke through the clouds, these days, not when the clouds were heavy with ash and omnipresent, an oppressive covering that left the sky a stark white, but the gradual lightening told them it was mid-morning, now, that they’d been walking for two, maybe three hours. And they were beginning to feel it, bringing up the rear, a dozen paces behind Erik as he made his way through the underbrush. Their head was beginning to feel light, their vision blurring when they blinked. 

With Gabriel off on his expedition to Moscow, they weren’t sure where that left them. Maybe it hadn’t been wise, to go out themself rather than send someone else with Erik to scout. They pulled a water bottle from their bag, letting the lukewarm water cover their parched tongue as they took one sip, then two. Maybe it was just dehydration. Maybe they could make it back before it got any worse.

     ‘We should turn back soon,’ they said, their voice quiet in the still forest, just loud enough for Erik to hear them, and they hoped to God it sounded like a tactical decision rather than a selfish one. 

The sun never shone anymore. At some point between the siren and the silence, the sun disappeared into the cloudy skies. Maybe it, too, found refuge in being lost, in being invisible, in having disappeared. The sun had been witness to too many deaths, after all. False hope had arisen one too many times, on the premise that the sun will rise again tomorrow. It was better this way, wasn’t it? It was better that the nights melted into the days, that the days disappeared into nothing.

Erik Castillo had gotten used to it by now. Five years under the same melancholy ash could do that to someone.

And so, the world, quiet with all the deaths it carried and heavy with the mourning of the lost, presented only one question now: When will this end? If God were so merciful and kind, it would all have come to a stop five years ago when the sun went out. If God had any kind of a heart, he would’ve taken Erik along with all the rubble. But the forest merged into itself. Thick trees were followed only by thicker trees. Silence was a looming thing overhead, inescapable and omnipresent. As for death? It was always lurking around the corner. Inevitable. It was the only thing as omnipotent as God, and Erik had to admit that he no longer even believed in a god.

As he walked deeper into the forest, marking directions on a makeshift map as he scouted the area, Erik was vividly aware of all that went on around him. Darya’s presence behind him was the most prominent. Still, he was startled by the sudden break in silence. He turned to face Darya with a contemplative look on his countenance.

His instinct though, before replying, was to check his water supply. “I think we can go an hour, still.” Erik looked up. “There’s still a little while before it gets dark. If we trek that way, maybe we’ll come by a shack. Loot some supplies.”

[xshayarsha]

How much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it’s some kind of murder?

Richard Siken, Portrait of Fryderyk in Shifting Light, from War of the Foxes.