A dull whine. A faraway sense of urgency. An emergency behind a mile thick wall of mist. There was something amongst the nothingness, an echo of a promise, a regret, an apology. A weak desperation from the tallest corner of a newly abandoned chapel, fallen to ruin. The choir that once held themselves there but a faded memory.

There was light. Somewhere, not here nor there. But light nonetheless. It reflected nothing and cast no shadow in every direction. It grew into the nonexistent view and overpowered everything.

The void shifted into a tunnel and cast the abyss behind, launching the light closer and ever further away…

Nothing…

Then there was everything.

A gasp. Light stabbing his eyes. Sweet, dusty air filling his lungs. Then there was the cold. The chills sent shivers everywhere. The hard, rubble of the floor half formed a surface as he contorted in sheer rejection at reality. His head was a cloud, solidifying with every breath.

Then it calmed. The world made more sense. Dust in the air. Stones on the ground. His body was cold, to the touch and to the world surroundings. A red stained pistol lay on the ground beside him.

He looked around. Everything was broken. There was a dull ringing in the back of his mind. There was supposed to be something he remembered, as if this was familiar but nothing rose to the surface. The absence of memory was chilling, more so than his shivering. Then there was the man that stood over him.

Golden hair and shifting grey-black eyes over an exhausted expression and sweat covered linen clothes, which were also stamped with gold. As their eyes met, relief and rage rose into his face like boiling seas. He rose to his full height, shifting golds seeped into the air from his body, as if the very air was grateful and terrified of his presence. His irises lost all trace of silver, turning his eyes pure black, so that his pupils were almost indistinguishable.

“Are you happy with yourself, you utter fool?!” The man spoke with a voice that can only be described as heavenly, but steeped in fury. The man turned his back and walked to the pistol and scrunched up his face in disgust.

“Do you know how fortunate you are? If it was anyone but myself, you’d still be a corpse on this damned floor. Even then I wasn’t sure I could bring you back, in fact, I'm not entirely sure that I was the only reason you survived. A wound of that caliber has never been healed before, and some of what was destroyed wasn’t saved.” His expression changed from anger and chastising to resigned and slightly sorrowful. “You will not be the same person that you once were. That much is certain.” He turned his head and started inspecting the boy’s eyes, the silver returned to his own.

A second passed before the boy spoke.

“Who the hell are you?”. He asked matter of factly, his voice slightly hoarse.

The golden-haired man was taken aback slightly.

“You dare…” He sighed and sat on a nearby section of broken workbench. “Well, you're certainly ruder than before.”

The boy sat up, loudly cracking his neck and massaging the dust off of his head. He felt rough, uneven patterns on both sides of his head, the left side was more damaged. An echo of a memory surfaced. A gun shot.

“Did I shoot myself?” He asked curiously, glancing at the flintlock on the ground.

“You don’t remember anything? Anything at all?” The man leaned forward, fascinated. His eyes shone a light and sprightly silver.

“I…”. His voice trailed off as he tried to recall. He saw fragments of scenes that flashed by at incredible speeds.

Two happy faces looking down at him, a man and a woman. The man was large and muscled with a jovial face and brown hair, while the woman was almost in tears with happiness, matching the little blue streak in her hair and the beauty in her features perfectly. Sewing clothes and tapestries with one of them, aiming weapons and sparring with a pair of pretend wooden cutlasses with the other.

A young, silver haired girl, full of energy and skill smiling confidently at him. Mead fuelled parties at the dead of midnight with large men laughing and singing out of key. The man sobbing beside a small dead bird as the woman held him close. The woman pale and thin, her hair without volume and depth, her beautiful features hollow with tiredness as she slaved away at a tapestry of unmatched quality and the man’s unheard pleadings for her to stop and rest.

The broken anguish on his face as he sat alone in a cold, dark house. The hate filled eyes of that silver haired girl as she threw herself into the water. The face of the old warrior when he saw his son die. The gun shot.

The boy sat in silence, trying to make sense of these flashes. He held his hand in front of him, studying the unfamiliar features in detail.

“Only pieces. This place was my home, yeah? And my name…” He pressed his hand to his forehead in thought. The man focussed his eyes, intrigued by this curiosity.

“Gill, I think.” He closed his hand and looked to the open box on the shattered floor. “Don't suppose you know why there's a small armoury in here, do you?” He asked absently, inspecting the gear.

“My my, you have changed. You used to be so polite but now your ability to care about anything seems to have taken a hit, your emotions as well.” The man muttered in thought. “Your father left that there after he left the military, I assume. You found it and used a pistol from it because of the voices.”

“Voices? Oh. Yeah. Those.” Gill muttered to himself as he opened the box to its full size.

It contained everything a soldier on the run could ever want. A set of tough brown leather wrist and shin guards as well as a padded, red cloth shirt underneath, woven as to catch small and fast blades. The weight of it suggested that there was strips of chain mail woven into it as well. An army uniform lay underneath, supplying the equivalent padding for the legs and a cold weather red jacket with swallows sewn on. A sewing box lay underneath with a whole range of coloured thread with it. It would be useful if he adjusted it for his size.

Then there was the weaponry. There was the now ruined flintlock pistol on the floor, but that was no use to anyone. There was a pristine and sharpened broadsword with a belt attached, basket hilted and all. A set of small daggers on a strap that fit perfectly to the sword belt.

The dagger, almost as long as Gill’s forearm, that was fitted perfectly to Gill’s back for fast drawing, with a mirrored silver blade with black leather binding the grip.

Then there was the centrepiece of the whole box. His father’s passion and work combined. A large pistol with two barrels and two hammers side by side. The wood was coloured black, the metal segments were a polished steely silver with a large bird carved into the side. The bird was larger, less graceful and far more powerful than the swallows that covered the rest of the gear. The barrels detached just behind the trigger, folding down to expose the chambers.

The special shots that lay in a small knapsack under it were regular musket balls, with half of it wrapped in cloth and packed with powder. Gill remembered his father’s words on the design: just make a tear the cloth, shove them in and shoot.

He’d named her Raven.

“I’ll need to take out the military insignias, that way people won’t mistake me for a soldier. That’d be a pain.” Gill thought out loud as he peeled his filth and blood covered clothes off. “A wash wouldn't hurt either.”

The man sat back, keeping his eye fixed on Gill. The gold in his hair flickered as the sliver played on the black of his eyes as he examined the web of fresh, pink scars that were hidden by Gill’s mess of black hair.

“Boy.” His voice was so smooth and commanding that it was impossible to ignore it, so Gill looked up in surprise. “Do you know my name?”

Gill shrugged as he inspected the dried blood on his skin, and walked over to the pile of rubble where the barrel of water that was used for the makeshift forge used to be. He noticed on the floor beside it was a bent and broken pair of once pristine cutlasses that he and his father had forged together for if he ever needed to fight seriously. The memories flashed through his mind and tugged at the empty void inside him in a curious way. No matter their sentimental value though, they're no use to anyone. He barely turned his head to answer the man.

“You're a king, that much is obvious with all the gold. And the attitude, you're way too vain to be anyone else.” Gill swept the dust and splinters off the broken barrel, scowling at the cracks in the barrel. He snapped off some of the wood that made the top of the barrel, and chuckled at the few inches of water at the bottom.

“You are correct, though it’s been a while since I've ruled. In fact, you could say I was the first.” The man said, his voice musing over his life.

Gill stopped and turned to look at him, his face a mask of disbelief.

“Gilgamesh? The Recluse King Gilgamesh? The same king that killed half this country in his wars?” Gill dropped the cloth he had found, grabbing his anchor out and pointing it to the man’s face.

“Drop that stupid thing, boy. I’m not the monster that the tales tell of.” He walked closer, inches away from the anchor. “Besides.” He raised his hand and phased through Gill’s outstretched arm.

“I’m still dead. And you're the only person who can see and hear me, because you are me. Or at least have my soul.”

The anchor disappeared as Gill stood there, frozen, processing what Gilgamesh said.

“I’m you?” The words were weak and quiet as flashes of his life came back again.

Gilgamesh chuckled and shook his head.

“Don't be foolish. You're your own person, but as you can tell, I'm here as well. And if you'll listen and trust me, you'll find that I'm your best chance of staying alive.” Gilgamesh spoke in absolute authority, with enough conviction and experience that it was as if he was speaking the truth of the future.

Gill stood dumbfounded for a count of five, before awkwardly nodding his head and picking the cloth back up to clean himself with.

The next few minutes passed in silence, with Gill cleaning the bloodstains from his skin as best he could before resizing the uniform to himself with the sewing kit and the thread from his old clothes, as the thick, strong sailing thread was much more stronger than the thread in the box. That and Gilgamesh called him unwise and moronic for not saving as many supplies as he could.

Gill complied out of annoyance over Gilgamesh’s perfect voice. Gill lost track of time as he worked on adjusting his fathers massive proportions to more suit his smaller size, as well as picking out the military insignias wherever they were found. By the time he had it fitted for him, the amber of sunset was beginning to shine in.

“Tell me, boy. Do you feel anything?” Gilgamesh asked, mild curiosity in his voice.

Gill turned to look at him, a slight shrug in his shoulders.

“Can’t say that I do. But…I remember.”

Gilgamesh raised an eyebrow, the silver in his eyes seemed to shine as he awaited further explaining. Gill sighed. Seemed a king always expects everything.

“I remember what it felt like to feel. But now I don’t feel anything.” Gill paused his movements a moment before beginning to get dressed.

Gilgamesh tapped his chin in thought for several seconds.

“And pain? Do you feel pain?” He asked without even turning to look at Gill.

Gill pulled the armoured shirt down his body, making sure that it wasn’t too loose. He looked towards Gilgamesh out the corner of his eye, catching his attention, causing him to look in curious concern. Gill could only shake his head as his answer. The black in Gilgamesh’s took over once more, but with a sorrowful expression in place of his previous rage.

Gilgamesh sighed, stood up and walked over to the box as Gill was strapping the leather greaves to his legs, and tugging the sword to make sure it was secure.

“You're gearing for quite the journey. Where are you going, cabin boy?” Gilgamesh mused, looking to the sunset.

Gill strapped the knapsack around his hip before taking two shots from it, slightly tearing the cloth with his thumb and loading Raven’s two barrels before slotting it into its holster comfortably at his hip.

“The capital.” Gill yawned, looking to the sunset.

“May I ask why?” Gilgamesh chuckled, raising his eyebrow in confusion.

“Those visions I had, while I was dying of thirst. I saw you and your drinking friends, and something about a women in a forest. That one’s still fuzzy. But the last one, with that redhead in church, those buildings are from the capital, no question about it.” Gill stood up and walked through the devastated house.

“And you're going there because…?” Gilgamesh asked with a large dose of sarcasm laced in.

Gill turned to face him, his eyes hollow and empty.

“Because I have nothing anymore. Might as well find some answers.”

Gilgamesh grinned, but moved himself to stand in the doorway, blocking the exit.

“Good plan. Probably what I would’ve done before I was a king. There is one problem though.” Gilgamesh jabbed his thumb outside. “To everyone, you're a murderer. And you are, there's no doubt about that. But it would be a problem if everyone recognised you.”

Gill sighed. There was always something that he had to do before he could go forward.

“What should I do then, find a new name?” Gill looked to the ground, the reality of being a killer dawning on him.

“Of course. A new man after all.” Gilgamesh mused, almost looking like he was about to spout poetry.

“I’m not a man anymore.” Gill snapped back. Gilgamesh was taken aback, his eyes turning black. Gill wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of getting the last word. “I lost a lot of myself when I took that bullet. I'm less than I was before. You wouldn't call a pile of feathers a bird, would you?!” Gill only just realised he was shouting. He fell to his knees, as if this new emotional void inside him was draining his will.

Gilgamesh stood in silence, his face unreadable and stoic. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something flicker. There was something outside. A bird. Large, black and subtly knowledgeable. It hopped along the grass, looking down into the ground, snapping up the occasional worm. It stopped suddenly and turned to look at Gill. It's beady black eyes never moved but bored into ins soul.

That day was when Gill had an idea. One that would define him from that moment until his dying day.

He looked down to his hip and looked into the eyes of the bird on his gun, then the bird outside as it stared back into him.

“I’ve got a name.” Gill whispered in half surprise and wonder, half determined acceptance. Gilgamesh looked at him, waiting for his answer. “It’s true. I'm less than the man I was before, so I’ll take what I am and stick with it.”

Gill stood up, adjusted his various weapons and strode passed Gilgamesh, who flashed the slightest hint of a smile before following behind.

“From now on, my name is Corvus.”