Cold Blows the Wind

[Rookie Eyes]

Cid tossed, and turned, in his bed for the fourth restless night in a row. The worry which was keeping him awake in turn made him worried about lack of sleep, and that had quickly turned into a frustrating cycle of mild insomnia. He irritably checked the time on his PDA next to his bed: It would be four hours before he had to get up for next shift, and it had been five hours since he had laid down. With a defeated sigh he again closed his eyes, and allowed his mind to wander, but he could only find further morbidities that brought him back to the present.

//The story below might offend some people. I've spoilered it out. It involves a cruelty done to a frog. No that's not a joke. If that doesn't bother you then read on.//

Spoiler

It was a warm day in Ashton, and several families were taking full advantage to come out to what he had only ever heard called "The Lake". Looking back he probably had visited it again with a different name at some point: Flathead maybe? Meat sizzled on grills, kids ran about at play, and people of all ages casually cast their lines into the lake. He doubted if anyone expected to catch much with all the commotion that would surely scare the fish away, but for many it was nice just to be outside in nature. A somewhat tall, lanky, and dark-haired boy casually made his way across the small docks. He couldn't remember the names of his temporary companions there only that they were related to a friend of his father's so they were stuck together for the time while the adults talked. He had just returned to the group with a fresh can of worms when the tallest of the three, standing slightly taller than himself, excitedly turned to him, and held out a frog nestled between his hands. Cid just nodded at first, and set the can between them. With a mischievous smile the boys complained that since they hadn't caught anything so far maybe they needed to switch bait. That had turned his attention towards what would quickly turn into a morbid spectacle. With one hand firmly grasping the frog, the other drove an indifferent hook through its belly. He remembered at that moment the frog's mouth had opened as if to scream, but no noise came. It's body had tensed as if in pain, but no readable expression had reached anyone else. At that time he was met more with morbid curiosity than disgust "If that frog could scream would they have stopped?" He wondered. He thought he had learned from that day his stance on life - either all life had value, or it did not.

 

The lesson had not stuck. Now back in his bed it seemed history had repeated itself in a different way. Except this time it was people, and they could scream.

An old folk tune joined his thoughts. An appropriate tune for grim realities.

Cold blows the wind, O'er my true love; Cold blows the drivin' rain. I ne'er had, but one true love; in the greenwood they are lain 

They had screamed, pleaded, fought, bargained, and no one had stopped - question answered. Again he had played the part of the morbid observer rather than doing anything.

I'll do as much for my true love, as any lover may; I'll weep and mourn upon their grave for twelve month and a day

What could he have done? Asked them to stop? Try to take on not just three trained, armed individuals, but also the rest of the team that he had worked alongside? Suicide. Someone else had tried. They were lucky with the punishment they got.

When twelve month and a day had passed a voice rang from the deep; Who is this who mourns for me, and will not let me sleep?

He was told that they were terrorists, but it was honestly hard to tell. He was shaking again. He focused on his breathing, and willed it to stop. He could manage to get the shaking down to just a feeling of cold tension now. No one had noticed so far, or at least no one had said anything. 

Tis I, Tis I, O my true love. A kiss is what I crave. Give me a kiss from thy sweet lips, and I'll go from thy grave.

Part of him still wanted to run. Just leave back for Ashton, and forget the whole thing had ever happened. The mere thought left him disgusted. Even worse that he'd foolishly agreed to try to do something to make this right - as right as it could be.

My lips are as cold as the earthen clay, my breath is sulfur strong. Were you to kiss these rotting lips your days would not be long.

He would bring the issue to light, and maybe there would be several people like him just waiting to see that they weren't the only ones who thought what had happened was wrong. Either that, or he'd find himself alone. 

My days be long, or short, my love - tomorrow or today; Let me have what I request, and the gods take what they may;

If that happened he'd likely just be next on the chopping block. They had done it to those three, what's one more? Worse still he was far from a leader - even if they agreed would anyone even answer, much less help? So what he would need first was someone who could make up for that. An orator who could articulate the issue well enough, or a wordsmith.

O don't you see the flowers, my love, where we were wont to stray? The finest flowers that e'er did grow are withered on this day; 

Aye, withered to the stalk, my love, so too must you and I; For the dearest of friends on Earth may part so too must you and I.

 

//I'm open to any comments, or constructive criticisms. Thank you for reading.//