Endings

Content Warning: mental health, implied self harm, mentions of physical violence, war, revolution

Excerpt of Chapter 7 of “On The Life of Alarie Montgomery,” “Endings,” written by Esther Lambert

Perhaps one would find it cliche to ponder a messy situation by connecting it to the trolley problem, wherein you can either let a train hit 3 people but, debatably, you can keep your hands clean, or you can change the tracks, redirect the train to 1 person stuck to the tracks, but you’re now very directly responsible for that death, even if some people would claim that it’s the good and noble action. Of course, that’s not a perfect metaphor, since you have the weight of an entire country stuck to 1 track, and a dude who really wants to be hit by a train, not particularly tied to either, but too exhausted to get up from the track with a bunch of other people, and he somehow has control of the tracks, so your place is to beg, plead, exhort him to move to the other track, even though he complains that it would simply be far too exhausting. 

That’s the thing with working in the shadows, with the gears rather than the clock face; you can only influence one specific matter in the ticking machine, while they have to work with the entire world facing them, adding their own input despite making no real effort to make a change. Many men rally for change for their own benefit, but very few are willing to fight in the revolution to get there. Of course, it wasn’t exactly like he was keen on fighting either, except perhaps for his own eternal rest, but there was no situation where I was willing to let him simply give up, and let the world crumble beneath the weight of his fall from status and life itself. 

March 17th, ‘37, excerpt of transcription from log number 174: 

“Alarie, you can’t keep throwing yourself into battle like that, please-”

“Every day you tell me that there aren’t enough men who care, and yet you treat me like a mother treats her young daughter when she throws a tantrum simply because I have the passion that the other men here lack.”

“You treat yourself as though you’re just as disposable.”

“Am I not? Am I not just another man?” 

“You’re the face of this whole movement!”

“A face holds no purpose rather than being a simple poster boy. I’m sure there is not any contest from either one of us when I say that you’re the one pulling all these strings, Esther.” 

“All of the strings? Because then I would have to starkly disagree with you. You’re the one speaking, convincing, moving all these people.”

“And you could find another.”

“I have my doubts.” 

A year into our fight- though ours started far before what others realized, planning, creating, building- it was clear Alarie was losing hope. One could say that was a fault of my own, partnering with a man who I knew fully well strained to find the energy to fight his own battles, but I had seen the way he had been able to move crowds. Ever since we were young, I had seen how the intelligence that oozed from every sentence he spoke could move people, and I always knew he’d be on the right side of history, the way he spat on the worship of the ever growing tyrannical state, risked his own wellbeing for the sake of doing what he thought was right. Maybe, looking back now, I should have taken that as a sign of just the amount of disdain he had felt for quite some time, or, at the very least, understood that his jaded mentality would only worsen mental health issues. 

I turned a blind eye, though. 

When the violence finally peaked, starting with riots and growing into a full on civil war, we finally started getting our footing, with Alarie leading our own pseudo-party. Of course, it’s not like our side of the fight really had any government to really facilitate a need for any parties, but there was still division between the Free Birds. The justification of violence, defense plans, even simple regional location, while we shared one unifying factor, the small facts were enough to drive stakes between us. 

June 25th, ‘37, excerpt of transcription from log number 201: 

“You almost died!”

“And many men have.”

“Yeah, and we’re all going to completely fall apart without your voice!”

“Esther, you could take over perfectly fine without my presence, and anyways, a bullet to the shoulder is not fatal-”

“You know just as well as I that you could easily bleed out. I suppose you have been well acquainted with that sort of matter since you were young.”

“What, bleeding?”

[There’s approximately 10 seconds of silence between the two, before Alarie laughs bitterly.]

“I don’t understand how the people out there see either of us as anything more than 2 more bodies that will be burning before this war is over.” 

“You certainly won’t make it if you keep acting like this.”

“Perhaps that’s good.” 

I watched him begin deteriorating exponentially as we hit the winter, the snow dyed red as we looked out, morale fading just as quickly as our chances of getting the support we fought so hard for, and as we fought battle after battle, I began to grapple with a realization. Alaire’s recklessness was no longer simply a harm to himself. Despite the fact he somehow managed to dodge the Reaper’s icy grasp time after time, the bodies that laid behind him certainly didn’t. This wasn’t simply a game for him to release some of his impulsive energy anymore, it was jeopardizing this entire cause. 

And yet, when I attempted to speak to him, he was barely responsive. At this point, I am far more empathetic to his state, the numb look that made it clear that he wasn’t sure who he was anymore, craving the sort of sleep a night couldn’t give a man. However, with regret, I must say that I snapped at him, my words far more harsh than they should have been. I was faced with a dilemma- either allow this man to keep getting our men killed, or force him to stop by whatever means necessary, and risk worsening his mental condition,- but I didn’t have the capacity to fully think through that matter.

It seemed that both of our gut reactions in that situation were to go tumbling into the snow, my own stabbing words changing into a flurry of fists and kicks between the two of us, until I finally got myself on top, pinning his arms down into the slurry below us, blood dripping from his nose. 

The lack of inflection in his tone haunts me as he spoke. 

“Do it. Do you think I fear a dance with death, Mr. Lambert?” 

I hadn’t the energy to respond, so I simply pushed myself up onto my feet and went to limp my way back into my tent. 

I have regrets that that discussion happened when it did, though I’m thankful it wasn’t our last. He avoided me the week following, only coming to discuss matters that I had the greatest jurisdiction with, and I couldn’t blame him. I wasn’t of as steady mind as I am now, but I knew I made a mistake. Yet, I don’t think there was any decision I could have made that would have been correct in the situation. Perhaps, but I can’t think of a situation where I could have helped them and us. 

December 24th, ‘37, excerpt of transcription from log number 276: 

“...Alaire?”

“Yes, how can I help you?”

“...Merry Christmas, Alarie.”

“Mgh.”

“Let me know if I can assist you with anything.”

“...are you recording this?”

“...I was hoping to do logs, but we can wait-”

“Yes, please.”

“...I’m sorry.” 

Alarie died in battle the next day. 

I haven’t internally decided how much fault that is of my own, bringing him into this situation and expecting him to handle it well. I don’t have much time to make that decision, either, as my own end grows closer and closer and the breath of execution breathes down my neck. I took over, but I could only do so well. I was never the charismatic leader he was, and we all fell apart. Small factions are far easier to take down than a large, connected force. 

Of course, they knew quickly that I was a leader. Yet I have no regrets in fighting as I sit in this cell, waiting for the weeks to pass and my chance in line to meet Madame Guillotine, as my ancestors would have called it. 

I simply have regrets that he had to fight with me. 

That I couldn't get him out of the way of the train he so desperately wanted to allow to embrace his being, at the expense of our fight.