The nightmares still came. Maybe not as often as they did after he was released, but they still came; and it seemed as though they became more vivid and realistic as he aged. The hours of darkness, followed by piercing sunlight that burnt his eyes like acid and never enough time to adjust before he was summoned to do some disgusting task… And the smell the smell of rotten meat, piss, and excrement, the smells of suffering and dying…they all came back…And the sounds the sounds of peoples chests rattling in a death rasp, and the crying…always the crying. But worst of all was he always woke up starving, fierce pains grasping his stomach, until he came fully awake, drenched in sweat, and realized he was safe, and in no danger.
That’s why he worked the night shift. The dreams seemed much less intense when he slept during daylight. Sure keeping watch over the fat Ber traders warehouse was boring. The biggest threat was always a stray pack of hungry dogs, or a young Flint teenager trying to break in on a dare from his friends, but it kept the dreams away…for the most part.
He had been captured fighting in the Yerasol’s about a year before the last cease fire. Shortly thereafter he was released from the work camp, a shell of his former robust self. He had lost over 80 lbs from his former 200+ pounds, and sleeping sores and unhealed cuts left his body a mass of scar tissue. He also had a slight limp from an improperly set broken ankle, but he was alive, and on a wagon back to Flint. He couldn’t complain about his treatment since he returned to Flint. He had been healed, and nourished so that he was close to his former size, and his ankle only ached on extremely cold days. Even the scars faded and were only evident in late summer, when they stood out in contrast to his summer tan. But the scars inside were still there and it became more and more difficult to arise each night, and return to work. He tried alcohol as did many veterans of the war, but found the wounds were still there when he sobered up.
Then the man appeared who would change his life. He of course knew of the Royal Homeland Constabulary. Many of his more high blooded former company had joined this force shortly after the war, but why was this tall dark skinned one watching him. Not every day, but at least a couple of times a week, he would walk by and make light conversation with Merle. One day he brought him a handful of sweetened Pash nuts while he made his rounds. Another, day on a particularly hot evening, he brought him a cool cloth to wash his neck and face. Finally he spoke the words that would forever change Merle’s life.
“Why are you wasting your life here”? “You still have skill with that polearm you wield, I can tell by the ease with which you balance it”. “The RHC could use a few men like you”. “Hero’s if you ask this mans opinion, and deserving of compensation for your sacrifice to protect Risur”. “Come with me”. “Let’s give you a reason to live”.
That was several months ago, and though he at first resisted being part of an organized unit again, he realized how much he missed that kind of life.
In fact this morning he woke up, smiled, stretched, and realized that last night he did not dream.
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