The Lazarus Effect

Prelude

A period of uncounted years, decades, and centuries could bleed into seconds here. I had been fortunate to watch all those times before. If I squinted and tilted to the stars, they almost didn't look like they were burning. I knew how the fire tasted, but I had never struck the match.

I started the evening as a murderer. That wasn't the issue. Nor were the burning bodies. It was that my hands were turning blue instead of red.

 The faceless crowd cheered—anonymous under the veil of night. Though I knew them all. 

I knew the man missing half his face this time as 23.

Anyone with half a grip knew to divide their hold by threes by sundown and settle for their empty hands come morning.

I never knew where to put my hands when they were to stay in one place. . The ground was on fire. For once instead of the sky. I was very eager to know, but not to learn how to firewall.

Oti had bet four shells on me, offering to double the wager if I never returned. I didn't take that one, I didn't like my odds.

Humans waste a lot of time stockpiling tools to build a basis that can hold one up against The Something. Just for The Something to come in many different forms and pockets of time and swallow every dimension they persist in. It never came all at once, and never in its expected shape. Some would give their entire bodies (up to the head) (the heart certainly) for some type of leg to stand on, against the gravitational pull, but sooner or later, they will wobble and then they will fall.

It was a thin tightrope they were walking, and nothing was certain except the ground.

Oti and I were the first twins born since the Endbringer, rumored to be the final Something. I had an invisible line tethered to his throat and vocal cords. Sometimes, we came to an understanding without a single word exchanged. Mostly, it took hours of frustrating practice in secret.

Oti enjoyed alone time more then I could stomach. He enjoyed the voices of a few. I didn't blame him. People had a way of staying and leaving this place at the same time. 

  Margaret said that this would happen. She said as much, in fewer words than I could have managed. While I believed she wasn't scratching the surface, apparently, I should have been building my stability on top of hers. Luckily, the story didn't end with her, and it wouldn't end with me. Someone, somewhere, with a bleeding heart would try what they believed was their first and last time to revolt.

When the world is ending you don't think, and you think about everything.

One was all that was needed to spark a fire; two to cause a reaction. The myth came from somewhere. Somewhere the torrid dirt pleaded for rainfall, and any wandering drizzle warranted celebration. Any leader worth their weight burns with the fires they set..