Author's Note: I definitely do not own the S.T.A.L.K.E.R. series, but I do own the Old Man, I guess. I got the idea of this while listening to the song (surprise, surprise) by Ed Sheeran, I don't own that either.

I See Fire

The old man stared at the makeshift grave marker in front of him. The gas mask still draped over the wood, showing signs of its age. It was common courtesy, after all, to never disturb the marker of a resting Stalker. The items within the grave, however, were long gone. That was fine with the old man, nothing but a few bits and pieces anyway.

Anything important was taken with him when he left the Zone for the first, and what he believed, to be the last. How long had it been, 46 years? 46 long years since the day this grave was made. 46 damn years since he lost his own blood, and for what? A few dollars and a near worthless Artifact.

The discovery of the Zone years ago had sanctioned in a gold rush like frenzy for the mysterious items within. He and his younger brother were among that frenzy for the untold riches of the Zone. They were never wealthy, hell they were anything but, but that was to change when they heard of the Zone. When the idea of untold riches reached their small town in the States, he and his brother came immediately. It was hard here too, but they survived. Through it all they survived and carried each other through it all. They thought they were playing it safe. Never straying far from Skadovsk, not joining any sides of that useless war between Freedom and Duty, and keeping watchful eyes on the sky for signs of blowouts. They split all the money made there, 50/50. They made quite the profit. It wasn't enough though, it never was.

One day, however, they had struck "gold" One day, after an emission had passed, they were the first to make it to the Boiler. He remembered the fire, surrounding them. After a few hours of trudging through the god awful heat that seemed to make the very furnace of hell seem like an icebox, he had found it. It was a Flame, a beautiful Flame. This was it. Between the money they had gathered and the money they would get from this beauty, they would be set. One of the Zone's rarest treasures and it was theirs.

Theirs?

His.

It could be his and only his. People back in the States were BEGGING to get their hands on Artifacts, especially rare ones like this. It would be worth plenty if given to the right man. What about his brother? If he found out, he would surly demand a share of the money. No. Why should he give a cent? HE had found it, not his brother! He had spent years getting leftovers. His brother always came first. Care for the youngest, give to the youngest. He looked over at his brother, still walking through the heat and fire. This was his chance. His chance for the good life!

He drew his pistol, an old Colt M1911 his grandfather had given to them when he passed, and aimed at his brother. "It would be quick," he thought, "It'll be quick and painless." Right as his brother turned to him to ask of his luck, the crack of thunder sounded. His brother fell to the water flooded floor of the anomalous pit. He had missed by a few inches and, while fatally wounded, his brother was still alive. His chest heaving for any breath he could get.
It was then that he had come to his senses about what he was doing. He had shot his brother. His own brother! He rushed over only to see the eyes of his brother, peering through the goggles of his mask.

No. No, no, no. Not here. Not like this.

His brother was struggling to stay in this world, staring at his brother with eyes filled with pain and fear.

And betrayal.

What can he do? What could he do? He looked at his brother, tears in both of their eyes, one with fear and asking why, and the other with guilt, knowing of the betrayal he made over petty greed. He knew what had to be done; there was nothing else he could do. He lifted the pistol and fired. When the smoke cleared, he saw his brother, lying still, blood mixing with the water around still remembered that sight; it had haunted him for years. 46 years. 46 years of every dream he had being of his brother's eyes, filled with fear and betrayal.

What had happened next was like a dream, filled with white noise. He had dragged his brother out of the pit, and dug one of his own beside the anomaly, with an E-tool he was carrying. It had taken him a while, how long he can't remember. Once he made a decent hole, he removed some of his brother's personal gear, the mask forcing him to stop to allow a fresh wave of guilt and tears to spill out, and placed his brother's body within. He covered him with the soil and placed a small pile of rocks to be used as a mark. He didn't even return to Skadovsk, just took stole some planks from a nearby bridge. He didn't even use fresh wood. He used stolen wood. He grabbed a hammer and a few nails kept in his bag, ("A Stalker must be prepared for anything," he had remembered himself thinking, bitterly), and hammered the makeshift marker together. After securing the stolen wood into the ground, he wrapped his brother's mask around it.

The last thing he could remember before the dream state ended was stumbling through the door of Skadovsk. From there it was just general memory. People had asked where his brother was and his silence answered their questions. Bandits were what most probably believed, Beard did. He had even given him a more than generous offer on the piece. He accepted the money and the next day he left the Zone.

When he returned home, the money was drained quickly. Not on a house, car, or anything he and his brother dreamed of getting. No, it was lost to drink. Vodka, whiskey, beer, anything he could get his hands on. He spent most days in bars, carelessly throwing away the money gained through the Zone. Eventually though, the drinks did nothing. Nothing to help him forget the brother he had buried next to a pit of fire.

Now, here he stood, staring at the grave he had made. Tears dripped down through his mask as he reached into his bag to grab a bottle of Cossack. He remembered first tasting it when they had arrived in the Zone. He remembered him and his brother recoiling at the harsh taste, laughing about the fine liquor they would buy with their earnings. Now, all he could stomach was the harsh taste. He removed his mask from his face, now wrinkled with age with a beard that had long grown white. Popping the top of the bottle, he began drawing deep from it. He didn't forget his brother though, and removed a second bottle from his bag. It was a rich vodka, the most expensive vodka he could find. It drained the last of the money he had left, and it was for his brother and his brother only. Popping the top of the beautiful bottle, he began emptying its contents onto the grave. Once the bottle was empty he sat down on the ground and let his eyes rest on the pit in front of him.

Suddenly he heard the sirens ring out and slowly looked at the sky above him. Sure enough, the sky was filled with the angry storm clouds of an emission. He didn't move though. He was tired. He reached to his side and slid a pistol, the same one he used to end his brother's life, and placed the barrel against his temple. The last thing he saw was the fire lapping up the sides of the pit.