What had death been like? What hadn’t it been like? It was everything, but it was nothingness. It was bitter, it was sweet, it was quiet. He hardly remembered, but he knew it all; it was quiet. He performed for those there, he knew them all, had never met them, but had shared the same life as them all. He knew them, they were the same.
He saw men he had known, men he had served with in the militia. His enemies were friends, his friends were companions. They spoke with the silent conversations of companionship. There wasn’t much to say, and everything in the world to relay. They spoke with silence, were friends with speech.
Everything was quiet.
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