My name is Godfrey.
I am an unknown age. Of an unknown age? I think they call it the ‘Spanish’ inquisition. Now I am here.
So many bright lights and sounds, I do not know this world, it is unfamiliar to me. Perhaps that is the point? Claimants, Aikekunai. We have no start, no end. We begin again. Again.
“Sir, your peppermint hot-chocolate.”
Until now all he could hear was his fingers pressing against the keys of his black type-writer. His male companion, or rather a glorified baby-sitter stepped away and towards the door of this mock cafe.
‘Simulation rooms. To help you assimilate to modern life. When you can handle it. You can see the real world.’
He picked up the tiny rose-gold spoon and poked at the marshmallows, he hadn’t written for them. He rubbed at the jagged scar that ran completely length wise across his throat, it made swallowing hard and the skin was nothing like the rest of his skin; rough almost like he was made of leather and dry-rot rope. He dare not look in the mirror, he didn’t want to see the damage that the great axe blade had done, perhaps it would be best to hide it with a scarf? Or a high-collar?
Sitting in front of him was his type-writer which his most recent life told him was going to be much easier than trying to write with an owl feather quill. It had been three days since he had been introduced to the modern version of himself, without so much as an explanation as to where she’d be going or rather where they were going… she had dragged him around on what was or could only be described as a metal bird. After that ordeal, he had been thrown in this mock parody of a facility with all manner of fake situations he could expect in the modern world that was Earth. So far, apart from choked sounds that made no sense and attempts to say his own name out loud. Godfrey had been mute.
He blinked, the drink was no longer hot, not even warm… the sweet confections that had topped it were gone; completely dissolved into the light-brown liquid. He didn’t even have to look up to know that the babysitter was giving him a look of utter hopelessness; writing down notes - observing his behaviour like a scientist. It was quickly replaced with a cup that was identical in nature, though he no longer felt like drinking. Reaching for another one of the bright little papers that had some sort of glue on the under-side and wrote with shaking fingers. He inspected his penmanship; that was another thing, these new ‘ball-point pens’ were ridiculous in the speed in which ink would come out, he had no control so all of his letters looked like numbers and all his numbers looked like letters. Oh well, at least it was still legible and besides someone could just decode it or ask his modern self what he was trying to say.
So he couldn’t write as he once did, what else had he lost? He hadn’t been allowed any fabric, needles, scissors - nothing that could potentially used to hurt himself. He found it frustrating that his current life did not trust him enough not to be that stupid. Pushing back from the chair, capping the pen and placing it down next to the post-it notes; he didn’t bother removing the page he was writing on from the type-writer, no one was going to touch it.
There was no such thing as privacy in this new world he had woken up to, he was never left alone and if he spent too much time in the bathroom than one of the stupid baby-sitters would knock and demand that he give them a sign that he hadn’t fallen head first into the toilet, electrocuted himself or otherwise. He left the mock cafe, the lights turning off behind him; as another baby-sitter - he had counted at least five of them, switched with the one who had been his sole company inside the mock cafe.
He gripped the handrail and stepped tentatively onto the see-through stairs, he had been told that they were made of industrial strength glass and would not shatter, even if he tried jumping on it with all his might or dropped a chair on them from a great height. Godfrey didn’t like it, it felt like he was not walking on anything other than air, though he could see his reflection somewhat. Up, up and up he went until he found himself in a small alcove that he was treating as his personal library - it was also thank the ancients; the only place that the baby-sitters couldn’t go, as there was no space up there and it was the only part of this facility with an actual window into the outside world.
Though the view was entirely uninspiring and Godfrey had already counted all the bricks he could see, all the different leaves on the shrubs and trees, identified all the colours that came from the blooms, even how many drops of water had splattered against it when it rained. It was only the street-lamp, once again powered by electricity that changed, only ever on at night and never during the day. But some boring lamp was not the reason Godfrey made it his mission to always be there watching.
It was because at exactly three in the afternoon, no matter if it rained or if it was as hot as the Forge; a woman would come to a stop, lean against the pole and light a cigarette; she had to be human and she never saw him or looked up. He watched her, because it was only she who gave him any impression of what was now popular fashion.
He had seen her with long hair, short hair, dyed hair and styled hair, hair that looked as though she had rolled out of bed, sometimes she had a drink over a cigarette and she seemed to be waiting for someone there. Sometimes she changed her position and would sit at its base and stare aimlessly at the sky. Though, some of her clothing left him wondering why he had to be brought back during a time where no one seemed to have any vivid imagination anymore.
What had happened to all the gowns? Corsets? All these items had brought him some kind of material comfort, it didn’t matter if he had lived so long that he had known every fad and trend and every moment in fashion that would like dirt be washed away. For himself, he was dressed in a rather drab ensemble; no colours to be found here - really only the things he used had any sign of colour in them.
I wonder what happened to Needle? Thread? Are they alright? Are they together? Will I ever be blessed with their presence again?
He adjusted the lamp shade, and resumed writing.
I never thought I’d want for company more than I do now. I am used to being alone. Like a bird in a cage, safe from all but never close to any.
I wonder if I will ever see Qrow again, why was I not brought back with him? Am I being punished, is he out there? Is he hurt?
His fingers rested against the keys, he hadn’t noticed that he had been crying. Again, the silence haunted him. There were times he wondered if he would ever speak again - the doctors that Stasia had employed certainly thought so, there was no reason he had to be silent but no sounds would come out. All of it a garbled, horrible mess.
First it had been a male, a hyperactive fellow metal claimant who had said that all Godfrey needed to do was forget about his previous life and his previous fate and treat this new journey like he was a newborn, when Godfrey had pointed out the flaws in this particular idea; the claimant had called him a depressed wanker - he couldn’t find what this word meant, not in any of the many dictionaries that he become in the habit of collecting. Language was important, it was how one got around the world and Godfrey had always been just a little bit obsessed with the idea that he’d have the best and most expansive vocabulary in existence.
Second it had been a small human lady, who smelt of artificial oranges and who insisted that it was his diet that needed adjusting. Godfrey never really ate, having a tongue back meant having to relearn how to eat properly and not just swallow things down. He didn’t like the way his tongue felt - it was too raw and rough. She had insisted that he try all kinds of foods, from the oddest suggestion of goat testes poached in vinegar and white wine; to oysters every hour with a shot of alcohol - she had to have had a drinking problem or just believed too much that alcohol was the solution to everything in life.
Third had been someone who had such an appalling sense in fashion and manners that Godfrey had slapped them and the force of the blow had quite literally knocked the person’s tooth out - Godfrey hadn’t anticipated that he would be so strong, and for whatever reason he was not ill like he had been in the past. He was not brave enough to test the boundaries and find out if he was still afflicted as he had been.
'All of these fools, I don’t want to see them anymore. Please send them all away. I will wait for Qrow. Perhaps then I will remember how to speak.'
He had told Stasia, when he had taken her hand and given her this message, she had furrowed her brows and nodded - she had no luck or progress in locating his husband, though she didn’t want Godfrey to lose hope that Qrow was not coming back.
Nine weeks, that’s how long it took. Well at least he had counted nine weeks in his head, for Stasia to come visiting during one of his so called ‘physical-exercise’ hours, again still in the facility with mock plants and grass and more baby sitters than he ever wanted to see again or thought was necessary for one person.
He had been trying to stretch his limbs, in some mockery of this yoga; he was being instructed by a man who he swore had sweat that smelt of moth balls and incense - not the pleasant kind either, he found it hard to breathe and had to put all of his focus into just keeping up with the man. The man never spoke and he didn’t seem that keen on seeing whether or not Godfrey was actually keeping pace or paying attention to all the things that he had pointed out after every session that he could improve on.
Stasia’s appearance had brought this particularly stressful session to an end, there was a loud almost rumbling sound - perhaps it was brick? Or maybe it was just fate deciding an earthquake would be the best end fate for Godfrey. He hoped that the woman and her streetlight was safe and hadn’t been impacted, but when the noise continued to get louder and there were footfalls of what sounded like panicked individuals trying to no avail to get out of the way of a rampaging elephant.
He wiped his forehead on a towel as the source of the sound finally made itself known, the sight had taken Godfrey by surprise and a gurgled-choking sound of gasp left his lips as his eyes were swallowed up by crimson-red eyes. there were dark shadows, no sleep or a lack of sleep and though Godfrey had expected Qrow to be dressed in what he had been when they had last seen each other - or rather when Qrow had seen him be decapitated; covered in gore and all. Qrow was clean shaven, dressed in something not too unfamiliar to the uniform that Godfrey had gotten used to wearing.
Stasia turned and put her hands on her hips, scowling at the intruder who had so rudely barged through brick, stone, glass, metal and more to get inside the place. She wasn’t really wanting to fight the male but would if he caused more trouble than he was. She turned her head back to her ancestor who was still gasping-choking and trying to make out a word with his newly-reinstated vocal-cords. She had heard his voice, so she knew what his voice was like but he’d never managed an actual audible word during their exchanges.
“Qrow.”
