it is ironic, how hard it has been to have a simple life to call his own.
sheltered amidst a phantom town in the thickets of wales, donovan can almost call this normal. this life he gets to finally call his, permanently shelved away with flaxen books decades older than him with the lingering scent of ink, in this little bookstore that they own at the end of a sequestered block, where time almost feels stagnant under the gloomy skies and dampened air. the bell by the door whistles few times every day and in comes a curious visitor searching for the next fascinating read or someone lost in the nameless neighbourhood, in need for a kind stranger to help with directions. he can almost call this normal, almost call it safe.
but the thoughts have never left them. not him nor his lover. fragments of the war that have latched onto them and seeped into their marrows, refusing to ever bid their awaited goodbyes. he supposes no one who survives a war gets to forget — this is the price they pay for surviving. the multitude of bodies with names that they grew up uttering, either with adoration or dismay, it doesn’t matter. all that matters is only few have survived and the good side has won, right? after years of too much blood shed and too many souls torn asunder, the righteous has prevailed. the fraction that annie fought alongside with all her might and he reluctantly followed ( he preferred to run far, far away — it pays to remain anonymous in a war that spares no one — but she’s always been more pertinent than he was ). their axis is victorious and the dark lord met his eventual quietus at long last. to most, it is perceived as the dawn of decades in undisturbed repose when they can sleep with their eyes closed once again.
what if another war’s coming?
what if it didn’t end at all?
time and time again, donovan has contemplated on the alternatives for them to be finally rid of this forever. the traumas marked on their skins and within the folds of their minds, the names that they carried on their sunken shoulders, the creases by their eyes too jaded to be borne by such young souls. in his maddest hours, he has berated himself for not opting for something more clear-cut, more irrevocable. should’ve just asked flanagan to obliviate the both of us, fuck. even in the quietest hour, their minds are fraught with caliginous chaos, friends that they failed and forsaken, voices on the broken radio that dwindled and returned again, enunciating names of the missed, the missing. sometimes he is reminded of the fact that he is both — the missed and the missing. or, he would’ve been, had he not made the gruelling decision to do what must be done. his family is too mundane, reserved in the typical british fashion with no affinity for the peculiar, they have no place in this pandemonium fused with magic.
so here he is, nestled aside of his only family even though they both swore at one point that they hated the other’s guts, with nothing but venom in their spats at each other amidst unlit corridors. it remains amusing, no matter how much time has passed and how many sleepless nights endured under tattered, quivering roofs. but he knows better than to believe that this is permanent. this temporary shelter, this transient bliss. at first it seemed like his cynicism existent since birth, but one must be blind to neglect how wrong things have been heading, how ominous the signs. even situated miles away from the eye of the storm, there are whispers and whistles to be hearkened. maybe there are no benevolent rulers, no goodness to be found within the vessels bearing the crowns. after all, how can one tyranny be won if not replaced by another? and with corruption comes correction, subversion — a word that he does not want to hear ever again.
if there is another war, he wants no part in it.
but the letter has found them, no matter how far they have ran, how splintered their brittle knees after all that they have lost and endured. stacked beneath a heap of ordinary muggle letters — all pristine white and blank — is one that beckons his attention more than the rest. he can notice the uncanny aura right away, the touch of magic near unmissable to such vigilant eyes as his hand touches the envelop with an amalgam of ire and consternation. an aparecium in a hushed breath and the message surfaces as if brought back to life from inundating waters.
it has been a while. please accept my sincerest apologies for disrupting your new lives of peace and solitude, but we need you —
these are all the words he has skimmed before he notices the faint footfalls, indicating that he is no longer the only one awake, too awake on what could have been a perfectly tranquil morning unburdened by work. hasty hands shove the letter under some other, before he removes the pile from sight to the drawer brimming with settled bills and miscellaneous to be sorted through, tossed or recycled. he tries to regain his calm by taking a greedy gulp from the ceramic mug before he realises the liquid is far too hot, almost scorching. a muttered curse evades him as he traipses back to the living room, crossing path with his lover just descended from the staircases. “good morning.” he hums as if nothing’s wrong, as if nothing’s troubling him at all. “i must admit — that new café knows what they’re doing. probably the best dark roast i’ve had since we moved here.” the fragrance permeating the room speaks for itself, but his customary cup of coffee is the last thing that attributes to the mania on his mind right now.
ft. annie mccall @noctevita.
