Falling Down

All that lives must die, but that is not the end. Some live on.

Roanoke Colony 1588

Dying light bled through shades of orange and red. High above his head the leaves were turning, rattling in the wind.

He is not supposed to be out here. His mama had always warned him not to go out of her sight, out of the walls. It didn't matter if the other boys did, he was far too little. She always said that, no matter how much he grew. But she is sleeping right now. Her breath is hot and rattles though their cabin. He hates to hear how it scrapes out of her mouth. Day after day it had only gotten more and more painful to hear. She couldn't even leave her bed.

He could feel it in his own throat now, clawing up and knocking on the inside of his chest.

He had to get away from the sound. He had to leave the cabin. He had to get out of the heat. His mama never saw him creep out of the cabin. He left his shoes behind to be extra quiet. He slipped between their neighbors' homes and then between the watch posts. They used to have men always watching, but there's not enough people for that. They have too much to do. There's a clearing between the walls and the forest. He passed over it quickly. Then he was free from the hot breath and rattling coughs of his mama.

His breath is louder than any of the trees shifting. With each step away the woods become colder. The white shift he wears neither hold warmth to him nor keeps the cold at bay. Instead the wind moves through his clothes in the same way it moves through the trees, swift and thoughtless. He barely feels it through his fever.

Something shrieks from deep inside the darkness of the woods. He had never heard such a sound before. It sounded human, maybe. He had heard about things that were almost human that lived in the woods. His mama hadn't wanted him to hear the stories. But when the men of the settlement talked, mama left them to their business.

He pauses in the shadow of a tree, digging his nails into the bark as if he could burrow inside of it.

He remembers his papas stories too. His voice had been low and he could feel the rumble in his chest under his ear from where he was nestled against his papas chest., He described the pelt of a bobcat in an Indians lap and the sight of birds taking flight from a tree revealing that all the leaves were in truth birds. The tree had been dead for many years. He even spoke of towns so big and full of people that Alfred could not believe that were so many people in the world. But his mama had agreed that England was truly like that.

He did not know if England or the woods was a more unimaginable place to live. But then, it did not matter what he could imagine. They would all soon be living with The Indians. He did not think it would be better than their cabin with the hot air and rattling, because neither of his parents were excited about it. And his mama's hands had shook when papa told her that they had no other choice.

He didn't understand his mama's nerves. The Croatian had always seemed nice to him. They always had food and shared. Pls, they weren't afraid of the woods. Although he had heard some of their stories too and they made the woods seem scary too. They talked about forest spirits and people turning into trees.

He peers around the tree. No tall figures were lurking behind anything he could see. He peers up into the branches above him. There was nothing he could see. He waits a moment more and steps out. Even though he has not gone far, even though he knew he had been behind that mossy tree, nothing looks familiar to him.

He steps forward and yelps. He tumbles to the ground. His foot hurts. He slowly pulls it into his lap. Red mixes with dark brown and clings to his sole. He should have taken his shoes. He could picture them nestled warm between the fire and his mama's bed.

Mama had always said that kisses make the hurt less. Mama also said that he shouldn't get dirt on himself or put dirty things in his mouth. Alfred frowned down at his foot. What should he do? After several minutes he decided that he couldn't leave his foot bleeding. Things that were bleeding in the woods were all but caught. That's what all the men said when they went hunting. He tries to clean his foot before he kisses it. He rubs most of the dirt away, biting his lip as he does so. He is big enough not to cry. He bends over and leans as far to the ground as possible. His lips fall short. He tries again and then once more. It would have to wait for when he gets home. Then mama could kiss it better. Until then, he presses his lips to his fingers and presses them to his foot.

There's dirt on his mouth now.

He stands and looks around. Nothing looks more familiar to him than before. He walks for a bit in the direction he thinks he might have come from. The shadows of the trees grow longer. They reach for him and soon his shadow is consumed. He rubs his hand against his eyes and sniffs. He's tired. He's cold. And hadn't Papa said the best thing to do when he was lost was to stay in one place and wait for him.

He finds the biggest tree to wait under.

He wraps his arms around his legs, He doesn't want to lay down. The ground is cold and dirty. Mama was already going to be mad about how dirty his feet were. His Mama had said she's send him to bed without supper if he ever got mud in his hair again. He presses his back to the bark of the tree. He tries to ignore the feeling of it digging into him as he buries his face into his knees. He tries to blow his warm breath over his nose.

He couldn't be too far from home. And the big animals never came close to home, even when he had wanted to see them. They wouldn't come now. But Papa would. Papa and the men know the woods better than him and their Indian friends would help. They wouldn't leave him out here.

Slowly, unwillingly the boy falls asleep. All night he waits for his papa to come and find him. All night the settlers search for the boy. The Croatians do help. Still, they are all only mortal men and there are things that they can not do. They call until their lamps run out of what little oil they have and the sky starts to lighten.

When the sun rises, the boy does not.

There's a moment when a child is born where no one breathes. The child has left its mother's womb. The mother is fighting to keep her eyes open. The father waits tense and anticipating. The midwife holds the child and lifts their hand. The child hangs between worlds. They have not yet drawn their first breath. Never have they been so close to life and so close to death.

But time works differently for non-mortal beings. What is a space between breathe for men can be much longer for a nation.

Time passes. It grows colder and darker. Leaves continue to fall. They pile around a small still body. Time continues uncaring of the men that search through the woods of the New World. No one, no man nor beast nor man-shaped being heeds their calls. They must move on. To stay in Roanoke is to die. They take few things, only what they can not bring themselves to leave. There is much they won't need during their stay with their allies and they anticipate their return before they have even left.

The leaves rot. Snow falls. This body does not move, it does not breathe. The body remains completely unchanged. Its fingers don't turn blue. Its hair does not fall away. Even though the leaves are now partially dirt the body still lays. No animals touch it.

Across the sea, nations fight to lay their claim. The wills of hundreds, if not thousands, of men strive onwards. God or Fate or whatever you chose to call it, if there is anything to call, holds destiny in their hands. The world around one small body stills in anticipation.

The snow melts. Stalks of green escape from the cold ground. The beast awaken from their hibernation. New life springs up all around this New World.

And something else is born.

In the woods off the coast of what will be called North Carolina there lays a body. It's huddled against the roots of an old oak tree. That tree has seen much but never this. A breathe held since autumn slips out. It is much quitter than the birth of a baby. But this is not a mortal child.

This child-shaped being awakens alone and knowing. It doesn't fear anything that dwells in the surrounding woods. It does not fear the men on the coast or the fields. It arises uncaring of its bare feet and wanders without care. It goes to the shore and looks out over the sea. Something is coming. Whatever that is, it will be important. But what will happen, that is one thing the child does not know.

While pulling in their nets, the men on the coast see it. Some are confused by the sight. Most of these men are new to the land, new to the ways of things that are not men, and new to the tribe. One of them can not believe his eyes. He has lost everything. He has left his home twice now. His wife had been taken from this word before the first snow. And now to see his boy, who he thought gone months ago, alive and well, he can hardly breath around the pounding of his heart. He gasps the name of God and then "Alfred."

The man is quickly seized. Two natives hold his arms tight. One says something harsh that he does not catch. The other moves close to his ear. "My friend," he whispers, "look closely. That is not your son."

He does not understand. He knows that face. He had been the first one to hold that little boy. He saw that face every day of the boy's life. He has wiped away tears and pressed kisses to those cheeks. He raised his son in ways his own father had never thought to consider. He has loved him.

He has never seen his boy move like that.

His son had never stopped moving. He squirmed in his swaddling clothes, crawled across floors faster than he had thought possible, and flew around their cabin like a bird in a cage. He had too much energy to contain and as a result he was always too enthusiastic. He knocked into tables, shattering bowls and cups. He picked up bruises and scrapped knees at impossible rates.

But now…But this...it moved with the grace of a falling leaf. Its path seemed completely uncharted, but upon landing you could not imagine that it had not always known where it was to land. The boy on the cliffs jumped from rock to rock with the enthusiasm of a child, but it did not struggle to maintain its balance or pause to judge a jump. It moved with an inhuman confidence.

The Croatian watched with him. "Your son is gone, but he has given himself to something greater. It is yours."

"Mine?"

The man offers him something too sad to be a smile. "It is not one of us." The Englishman makes to move towards the child-thing again. The arms holding him do not move. "It is for you, but not yours to take. It will come to you or another will come."

"Someone one else? Who else would he come to? I am.. I was his father."

The Croatian pauses while he tries to find the right words to explain. "You were a father, but not to it. It has no father or mother that is flesh."

"But still, it is a child. We can not leave it. If it will come to someone shouldn't we at least try to find-"

"No, not someone. Something else, like it, will come."

The Englishman looks at him. He had thought his son lost. He had come to accept it. The grief had never left him and every time he pictured his wife's face as he told her it felt fresh again. He had kept busy and the pain could be…sometimes it could live with it. "I don't understand," whispered.

"Neither do I," The Croatian said, "It is not common. Perhaps something things are not meant to be understood, not by us."

AN: Hello, if you have the time please review. Reviews are really inspiring and I do consider all criticism.

There are many theories as to what happened to the Roanoke Colony. It's a fun dive if you have the time. This fic takes the stance that the colonists moved in with local a friendly group of Native Americans, which is probably one of the most boring of the theories but a plausible one. It is my hope that this fic managed to be respectful to all.

I am working on some fics that will have Nations possessing corpses. (Which is such a weird thing to say.) These fics will be pseudo sequels that can be read alone.