Ve'Rah Daa (The Ephemeral: Book 3)

Chapter 4

The light gave way to a cirrostratus cloud of memories, and I dug my heels into the astral realm I'd come to know, boots skidding across nothingness.

Okay, Kingsley.

Here we go again.

I relaxed my soul's mental muscles, and the memories sailed in my direction like streamers of iridescent gossamer. Delivering nutrients to my bloodstream, fuel to my consciousness.

The first memory that pulled me in was a precious moment between Sol and me at the border of camp, this time recalled from the 26-year-old's perspective. Compared to some of the older memories floating by, these images were vibrant and detailed, Sol's thoughts and feelings easily accessible.

A canvas stood on an easel several feet away, covered in yellow, green, and brown paint to capture the autumn riverscape. Gripping a paintbrush in one hand and a palette in the other, Sol stepped back to assess the piece he'd created.

Not bad, he thought. But also...not great.

His comrades used to tease him for his "feminine" love of the arts, but then he'd gifted them each a personal painting, and the jokes withered pretty quickly after that.  Because what was there to degrade when a family portrait sat at the end of your cot, reminding you why you were there in the first place, risking your life?

A long-haired Alex Kingsley sat nearby, throwing rocks into the stream for Richard. The dog bounded after them in joyful, silly leaps, submerging his entire head beneath the surface to retrieve the sunken stones.

The young soldier had abandoned her own canvas well over an hour ago, and Sol smiled as his eyes roamed over the horrendous splatter of colors.

"...and you know how Tom can be," my younger self complained, clambering to her feet. She dusted off her knees and glanced at Sol. "What about you? Any siblings to look after? A wife and kids?"

Sol dunked his paintbrush in a mug of river water, chuckling. "God blessed my two older sisters with wealthy husbands, so they're doing just fine. And like Tom and Rove, I've delayed my marriage contract by insisting I know too much about our enemy for reintegration. Not sure how much longer we'll get away with that one, but I'd rather avoid marriage altogether if it means subjecting my girl to a lifetime of worry." He wiped the brush clean on his pants. "Sadly, Dad broke his hip in the military, so he's not able to work the fields anymore. And Mom serves as a midwife, but it doesn't pay well. They were the reason I joined the military in the first place. Without my salary...I'm not sure what they'd do."

Younger-Alex mused over his response for a few heartbeats, and then she said, "You're a good son, you know that, Sol?"

"I do my best."

"Well, your best is much better than mine," she replied, lips twitching with a self-deprecating smile.  "All I ever did was kill things and make trouble for my dad. Constantly."

Sol shook his head, frowning at my response, and as an older, more merciful version of myself, I felt like doing the same. "That's not true."

"It is, though. Like...I try to be good, you know? But I always end up making a mess of things." Her gaze dropped to her gloves. "I've always been a mess-maker. I think that's just who I am."

A tenderness blossomed in Sol's chest, and the feeling was not unlike my love for Fudge. "You're right, Kingsley. You do fail...a lot, honestly." Younger-Alex gaped at him, and he snickered. "But the commendable piece is that you still try. You don't let the fear of making a mistake get in your way." He shrugged. "I say it's better to be a mess-maker than an un-maker. By a long shot."