FERRUM PERPETUA

YOU COULD LIVE FOREVER

Linoa Linette

1931

April 11, 1931
Boston, Massachusetts

Thin, delicate notes of humming stirred Beverly from her slumber. In the passing seconds that it took her mind to reassemble reality, she thought the sound to be a pleasant remnant from the dream she was already beginning to forget. Finally registering its presence as odd, her eyes snapped open and fluttered. She was instantly met by darkness, with her narrow bedroom cleanly severed by a wide bar of moonlight, tinted warm by the glow of streetlights. Her pupils widened and shifted in frantic patterns in an attempt to mold shadows into shape again.

Between the familiar impressions of furniture and the various objects they beheld, there emerged a distinctly humanoid figure. It was tall, but thin, gliding through space and followed by the eerie whispers of that disjointed melody. Her heart cinched in her chest and panicked, she peered beyond the light to check on Leigh. As expected, her twin was still contorted in her quilts along the opposite wall, snoring soundly and otherwise oblivious to the figure now parked at the foot of her bed. It leaned, clearly observing her.

Just as a scream was rising in Beverly’s throat, her inhale pulled in spices of tobacco and she paused. Reading the shadow for another time, the fear once stretching her features collapsed into bemusement.

… Is that… who I think it is?

The figure passed between their beds. Most telling, even before he entered the light, was the molten glow carving a path along his unusually near-white hair. Conflicting was the sight of her brother’s face as it materialized in blocky shadows, and as they were revealed to her, his dark eyes donned that typical glimmer of wonderment, made brighter by naivety. His humming ceased as he ducked beneath curtains and pressed his face to their window.

What in the world is he doing?

Perhaps feeling her stare, his head turned and through the murky distortion of the lace fabric, she thought they may have locked eyes. He let out a soft, short whistle, but when she failed to react, the shadows of his face curved with the suggestion of a smile. With a slight eye roll, his attention returned to the window and in small scoots, he clung closer to its sill.

Curiosity piqued, Beverly rose onto her elbows. Though she had considered clearing her throat, she opted to pinch the curtain and just peel it from his back.

“Whitby—”

Beverly found it difficult not to chuckle at his flinching.

“…Why are you in our room?”

His mouth twisted to suppress another smile. He glanced at the window and at Leigh, before whispering a fast confession, “I’m trying to see a comet.”

Detecting her confusion through the silence, he rolled his eyes again and expounded, “You have a West facing window and it’s the only way to see it. … Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you, but—” His voice briefly faded as turned his head to look at Leigh again. “I’m not about to sneak into our parents’ room to try and see it…”

“Ma would be rather cross with you,” Beverly agreed. “Especially since we have church in the morning…” Yawning, she pointed out, “Really, it was your silly humming that woke me up though.”

“Oh… Sorry, I didn’t even realize I was doing that…”

Disturbed by their voices, Leigh stirred. Raking herself free from her mass of dark curls, she squirmed and squinted, before shooting up with a gasp.

“Whitby?!”

“Shh!” After jumping again, he twisted to face her with his finger pressed firm to his lips.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” She batted back his hands as he pawed to calm her. “Why are you here?”

With a teeter of his head, his eyes rolled for another time and flared. “You are going to wake up the entire house.”

“Why are you in our room?! Get out!”

Beverly failed to restrain her laughter again as she interjected, “He says he’s ‘looking at the stars.’”

With what he could make of Leigh’s puzzled expression in the limited light, Whitby huffed and complained, “I really gotta go over everything twice with you two, don’t I? It’s not just ‘the stars’. It’s a comet. See, in one of my books—”

Beverly and Leigh exchanged knowing glances.

“—it said that right around now, there would be a comet visible to the naked eye in the Western part of the sky, close to the horizon, but…” His freckles condensed as he leered onto the street again. “… there’s always so much light pollution, I can never manage to see a damn thing anyway…”

“Watch your mouth—”

“Boy, times like this, I really wish we lived out in the country.” He deflated with a sigh. “You’d be able to see everything… The whole entire sky…”

“You know—” Beverly’s words warped as she fought through another yawn. “—you’re getting to be that age where you shouldn’t let your imagination get the better of you.”

“It has nothing to do with imagination,” he groaned. “It’s science. Geez. Don’t you two know anything?”

The girls snapped in unison. “We know plenty.”

“Well—” shrugging and throwing up his hands, he conceded, “—it doesn’t matter anyway…”

Beverly watched as Leigh rolled her eyes and turned into her blanket, but guilted by her younger brother’s tangible disappointment, she exhaled and slid from her bed to join him on the floor.

“Alright… Where is it supposed to be then?”

Smiling, he lifted the curtain and scooted to create room at the window. Ducking beneath his arm and nearing her nose to the glass, she peered through the fog of her breath and into what little sky there was to behold. Sharpened by the solid nightfall, the row homes across the narrow street consumed most of their frame of view. Rarely did the smog separate to reveal deep pockets of blue beneath the amber reflection of the repeating streetlights. Her attention strayed onto the rare sight of the vacant cobblestone, until Whitby nudged her and started pointing across the way.

“So, if the horizon is about there, behind those buildings… then—” he drew his finger up the pane and stopped with a gentle tap. “—it would probably be right about there… I think? … Or maybe…” He pinched his bottom lip and squinted. “Well, either way, it’s small, but the book said that its still normally visible to the naked eye. Like a little, green smudge…”

“Well, I don’t see anything.”

“Yeah…”

With a long exhale, his shoulders slackened and he sat back on his heels.

“Well, maybe next time, right?” She yawned again. “Whenever that is…”

“Yeah, maybe…” A new smile began to lift the corners of his mouth. “But you know, I was also reading about this other comet that’s coming around in the forties… It’s called Ferrum Perpetua and its supposed to be the biggest and fastest comet known to man. Maybe even the oldest, too. Can you believe that?” Oblivious to her dulling gaze, his eyes lifted to the highest point in the atmosphere. Flickering with excitement, their near black surfaces captured the streetlight, compressing its reflection into simmering embers. “In the drawings, it looks as big as the sun. And, it’s supposed to be so large and bright that you can even see it during the day. Isn’t that something?”

Brow lifting, Beverly smirked, “Sounds outlandish.”

Lowering his head, Whitby agreed, “… It does sound unbelievable, doesn’t it?”

Her eyes narrowed. She could tell by his suppressed smile that there was more he was keeping to himself. Before she had the chance to question it, he perked to announce, “Anyway, I think I might go down the park. Do you wanna come with?”

“The park?” She reeled. “At this hour? Don’t you know how dangerous that is?”

“Oh stop it.” He wove his hand and rolled his eyes. “I can take care of myself. I do it all the time. Ask Wally. He used to come with me before he moved out.” Following another moment of scanning the sky, he glanced at her and frowned. “But, don’t tell Ma.”

Peeking at them now from a small opening in her blanket, Leigh grumbled, “Just like we don’t tell Father that you’ve been skimming his tobacco?”

“You really do just spend your whole life with your head in the clouds, you know that? Day and night, doesn’t matter. I used to think it was just a saying, but you really do! In fact, so much so,” she rustled his hair, “-you’re even starting to look like one.” “And what’s so wrong about that?”

“We all thought at some point you would grow out of it, but I’m starting to think that you really won’t…”

Whitby’s eyes flickered with hurt as he smoothed his hair back into place. “Why doesn’t anybody take me seriously? … I think I could do it. I could be a pilot if I wanted…”

“Whitby, you have yet to even drive a car,” Beverly chortled. “Plus, where would you even get the money to afford a plane? Never mind the lessons? You really think Father would humor that?”

“I’ll figure it out.” Rising, he insisted, “And you’ll see. One way or another, I’ll learn to fly. And when that big comet comes around, I’ll have the best view of it than anyone. So don’t come crying to me when you want to see it up close, cause I won’t take you.” “If you say so, Whit…” Beverly climbed back into her bed and wrapped herself snug in her quilt. “Just try not to stay out there for too long…”

“Don’t worry. You’ll see me in the morning.” Leaning over her, he helped tuck her quilt beneath her chin before pecking her on the forehead. “Good night.”

“Oh, stop it.” Freeing her arm, she swatted at him before wiping the residual moisture from her skin.

Whitby turned to Leigh, but reeled back as he saw she was already wielding her slipper. “Don’t you dare!”

“Okay, okay…” Laughing, he put up his hands and stepped backward, out of the light and back into the shadow. “I’ll see you two tomorrow. Promise…” “Good night, Whitby.”

As his head receded into the narrowing void of the hallway, he cast a final whisper, “And please, don’t tell Ma.”

With a soft suck and rattle of its latch, the door slotted back into its frame. Together, they stared onto its surface before exchanging quick, concerned glances. The old house ticked and settled with its natural murmurs, but through her pillow, Beverly thought she could hear the hollow echo of oddly spaced footsteps making their way down the stairwell.

With a chuckle, Beverly reminded Leigh, “… Remember when you were convinced that the house was haunted?”

Despite the ensuing silence, Beverly knew that Leigh had reached the same realization. Stretching her arms above her head, she yawned and concluded, “Well, there’s your ghost…”

This time as she breathed in, the air was cool and scentless, but just as her thoughts began to quiet again, Leigh’s voice, small but amused, wormed its way back into her ear.

“What do you think, Bev? …Do you think he’s going to do it?”

Considering the idea, Beverly squirmed onto her back and stared onto the ceiling. With no discernible surface to find in the darkness, her eyes invented random patterns and colors that continued even as she closed them. With half a shrug, she murmured, “I don’t know… But, he sure seems awfully set on it, doesn’t he?”

“I’ll say.” Leigh flopped over, pointing her back to her sister. “I really do worry about him sometimes.”

“So do I…” Beverly agreed. “He has too much imagination for his own good…”

Through the window, she could hear the front door squealing quietly on its hinges. Kept awake by the image of her youngest sibling wandering the city streets and humming foolishly, she tossed from one side to the next and sighed.

Even if it was only to herself, she concluded, “Someday it’s going to get him into trouble…”

Ferrum Perpetua
You Could Live Forever
Linoa Linette ©2025

1944

May 31, 1944
Bentswood Airbase, England

A warm, fragrant and long-lasting wind unfurled down the length of the airfield. It whistled along the glass nose of the A20J Havoc, before dulling into a hum across the surface of its wings. Soothed by the strange, but pleasant tides of late spring air, Hugo had nearly forgotten where he laid as consciousness started to leave him. The heat absorbed by the aluminum, hard and flat against beneath his back, further brought him comfort as it seeped through the wool of his uniform. Like a shuttering projection, the darkness of his lids dispersed into nostalgic impressions of Alaskan mountains. He could almost start to see the inversions nesting at their peaks and melting into fog.

“Go-lly… It’s really something, isn’t it?”

The sound of Merle’s voice yanked Hugo back into the present. His eyes fluttered but overwhelmed by the glaring daylight, his pupils shrunk and struggled to adjust. Shielding his brow, he tried again, this time peeking through the narrow aperture of his parting fingers. Among the tall clouds and bending with the curve of the atmosphere, the massive comet continued to shatter and refract with prismatic, near-white light. Even with refreshed lucidity, the anomaly was jarring and difficult to accept.

Every time I see it…

Its tail glimmered brilliantly, subtly but constantly changing shape, always for the longer.

I can’t believe how… frighteningly large it is… How bright is… I’ve just never seen anything like it… and yet, it gives me a strange feeling…

He could see the air swelter around its coma.

Like something about it isn’t quite right… Like we don’t want it to be here…

“What’d Antler say it was called again?”

Seated beside him, Merle swiveled, bending the shadow already cast along the wing. With his movements finally piquing Hugo’s attention, they joined gazes. Hugo blinked hard in an attempt to banish the flashing stains of color still lingering in his vision, but as he thought on the answer, his eyes dulled back into a cool shade of jade.

“Uh… It was something odd. Some kind of Latin, I think? … You’d have to ask him. I don’t remember…”

“Yeah, I’d rather not.” Merle’s shoulders bounced with a dry huff. “I can already hear it in that snobby accent of his: ‘What’ah you, dumb? Ah?’”

Hugo quivered, but let go of his laughter as Merle started to wag his finger.

“’Gee whiz, I really gotta explain everything to you twice, don’t I? Now gimme yer cigarettes.’”

“You sound just like him.”

With his voice readopting its natural, Southern inflections, Merle complained, “Yeah, well, I’m never gonna get that voice out of my head for as long as I live. So help me God… I’m going to hear it in my nightmares when I’m eighty on my death bed. Probably callin’ me lazy for just ‘laying there.’”

With a knowing sigh, Hugo’s brow perked in agreement. Just as his thoughts began to wander, Merle rose to standing and dusted his pant legs, reclaiming his attention.

“You headin’ off?”

Hugo could see that Merle’s gaze was trained on something in the distance. Registering the question after a short delay, Merle’s mouth twitched into a smirk and he shrugged. “Yeah, I think I oughta…” Fastening his cap again, he was slow to tear his eyes away from whatever it was he was tracking, but eventually returning to Hugo, he smiled and expounded, “It’s a nice day after all. I think I’m going to go make something of it.”

“Sure is…” Shutting his eyes again, Hugo’s words warped as he yawned, “Good luck.”

“Yeah.” He could feel the weight of Merle’s footfall reverberating through the metal as he stepped over him and made his way to the ladder propped between the engine and fuselage. “You too.”

Finding the tone of the comment strange, Hugo’s brow creased, though soon, the warmth and aromas of the valley began to lull him back to sleep. His ear still picked up on Merle’s voice, now distorted and distant as he was pulled into some other conversation, but against his waning consciousness, even the clearest utterances were bereft of any meaning. Images of his parents bakery seeped into his thoughts and surrounded him, but as the dream was slow to take shape, their faces, fixed with uncanny smiles and caked with flour, gradually became strange to him.

“Twinkle, twinkle little star…”

He watched his father’s mouth blur into impossible shapes in an effort to synchronize with the words, but while familiar to him, he knew the voice did not belong there. Still, he struggled to place it, especially as it modulated through unexpectedly graceful and ethereal cadences.

“How I wonder what you are…”

Unconvinced that it was real, Hugo stirred and turned his head. He locked eyes with the pilot, whose head nearly seemed disembodied as it hovered just above the wing.

“Up above the world so high.” Whitby’s smile, already taut in a derisive shape, further widened as he concluded, “Like a diamond in the sky…”

Hugo stared though Whitby didn’t seem to be fazed the awkward silence.

“Good afternoon, sir… “ He made the motion to sit up and salute, though Whitby dismissed the gesture with a wave of his hand.

“Ah. Stay as you are, Sergeant.”

Hugo was cautious as he noted, “You seem like you’re in a good mood, Captain.”

Whitby’s chin lifted, carrying his gaze down the bridge of his freckled nose in that conceited expression Hugo had grown to resent. His tongue rolled along his teeth, bending his wide mouth back into an ugly shape, before it broke into sneer, “I could say the same for you. … At any given moment, I half expect I gotta talk you down from some kinda fit. Yet, here you are napping on the job like you’re at some kinda picnic… Is it really always up to me to find something for you to do?”

“Well, I finished up my maintenance tasks early, sir. Then spent some time practicing reloading. And then Conor said he didn’t have anything he needed help with, so–”

Eyes narrowing, Whitby peered past Hugo and scoured the crowded tarmac. “Surely, someone else could use a hand somewhere, with something… There’s always something to do.”

So then what’s your excuse? -and why are you pestering me like this?

In an effort to change the subject, Hugo cleared his throat and asked instead, “Where’d you learn to carry a tune like that, sir?”

He could tell by the pilot’s flat stare that he saw right through his deflection, but to his relief, he merely rolled his eyes and humored the question anyway.

“Church.” Whitby’s voice stretched as he hoisted himself onto the wing. “Helps me stay calm.”

Catching his breath with a single huff, he cocked his head and leered at Hugo expectantly. Trying to ignore his wriggling fingers as they invaded his peripheral, Hugo reached beneath his head for the pocket of his coat.

Growing impatient, the pilot barked, “Cigarettes?”

“Yes, sir… I’m working on it.”

Moments after producing the fresh carton, Whitby snatched it from his grasp, smelled it, and tore back the top with the hook of his finger. Eyes dulling, Hugo’s hand retracted back into a loose fist and returned to his chest. Fidgeting with the button of his shirt, he merely observed as the pilot drew a cigarette with his lips before patting himself down for his lighter.

Out of all the nasty things I’ve seen come and go through that mouth, I can’t say I ever expected to hear something like that… With a snort, Hugo kept the thought to himself. It’s almost silly… Church, huh?

“What’s so funny?”

“… Nothing, sir.” Hugo pursed his lips. “I was just thinking of something Merle said earlier.”

“Hmm. Don’t spend too much time on it. Couldn’t have been anything smart.” Angling his head, Whitby lit the cigarette with a small golden zippo and snapped it shut. “He sure fancies himself a real comedian though, doesn’t he? … Glad someone can find the humor in all this.”

With the glint of the lighter catching his eye, Hugo commented, “Say, that’s not real gold, is it?”

“I think so…” Whitby stared at the lighter tucked snug in the leather of his glove. Scoffing, he buried it back into his pocket and agreed, “Yeah. …It’s a bit gaudy for my tastes. But, it was a gift from that photographer, and well, it beats a wet matchbook…”

“Oh… Is that still going on?”

Whitby hummed but Hugo wasn’t sure exactly how to interpret the sound. Following the pilot’s gaze back to the comet and with Merle’s voice emerging in his mind for another time, he thought to ask, “What’d you say that thing was called again?”

“P1664 J1…” The cigarette bounced in Whitby’s mouth as he spoke. “Or better known as Ferrum Perpetua. … Right on time.”

“Ferrum Perpetua…” Hugo repeated it carefully in an attempt to commit it to memory. “That’s… quite the name.”

“Yeah…” A soft chuckle slipped through the space of Whitby’s teeth. “Iron everlasting…”

“What’s so funny about that?”

“Oh…” The sigh that eventually left the pilot was almost melodic. “I was just thinking back to when I was a kid… There was this one night I snuck into my sisters’ room because I was trying to see some other comet I’d read about in this book… I think I was thirteen or so… Anyway, obviously, it wasn’t anything like this. Not that I ever did see it, but…” His smile became huge. “… Boy, how I wish I could see their faces right now…”

His voice better materialized as he turned his head to peer down at Hugo. “I remember trying to tell them about this and they said it was all in my ‘imagination’.” He tapped his temple and rolled his eyes. “My imagination… Can you believe that?”

Taking in the colossal entity again, Hugo shrugged. “Can you really blame them? Even looking at it right now, it’s… Well, it’s something else.” He tracked a small, single glimmer that leapt from its tail like a flea. It fell for a ways before extinguishing out of existence somewhere in the brighter layers of the aging atmosphere. “I don’t know that I would have believed you either.”

“Yeah, well… They also didn’t think I’d ever become a pilot.” Whitby brought the cigarette back to his lips and grumbled, “Dumb broads.”

“Well, you sure showed them, sir.”

The pilot muttered something but a sudden wind was quick to steal it.

“But, you know,” Whitby elevated his voice on an inhale, “-as far as comets go, they speculate that this one is a little different. Not just because of its size, but…” Hugo could tell by the way he chewed the cigarette that he was lending the statement some deeper thought. “Well… I’ve read a lot of different theories about it and none of them seem to quite agree…” His head tipped at an angle almost matching the curve of the tail. “Although, its said that its meteorites, if you’re lucky enough to find one, are probably some manner of iron or… or something like it, they say… At least, that’s what it was originally thought to be, hence the Ferrum in its name…”

Hugo hummed thoughtfully.

“And I suppose that would make sense, given it’s color…” Whitby rambled, almost losing his voice to the breeze again. “And with how often it appears, it really must be moving awfully fast. … And, given its supposed age, it—”

“Boy, you sure seem to know a lot about this kind of stuff, sir,” Hugo yawned. “Just a regular encyclopedia.”

“Yeah…” Chin dipping, Whitby tapped the ash from his cigarette and admitted, “Well, I was a terribly lonely child… Just tragic. Had a lot of time on my hands to read and nothing but.”

“Sounds like some things never change,” Hugo quipped, to which Whitby smirked dryly in agreement.

“But wouldn’t a good pilot know a thing or two about the sky?”

“I suppose so.” With some effort, Hugo sat upright, donning his cap and adjusting it along the way. “Still waiting to meet him.”

“Oh…” Whitby’s brow perked. “So you think we’re friends now, is that it?”

“We’ve been through a lot already, haven’t we?” Hugo’s gaze swept across the expanse of the airfield. Trading glances with another airman, he smiled and exchanged waves.

That’s right… I’ve been here for a while now. Faces are becoming more and more familiar. At least, the ones that still remain, anyway…

He continued to track the airman as he crossed the tarmac, eventually disappearing between the swarming aisles of identical planes. The reflection of the comet repeated across their windshields.

Even so, I’m not as scared anymore…

Sunlight glared along a belt of freshly-oiled brass bullets, bending and flashing as a similarly young gunner attached it to his turret with a relatable struggle.

I mean, sure… It’s still frightening… knowing what’s at stake…

Dark were the holes of flak spread along the face of the neighboring bomber. They punctured the aluminum in such a way that the once attractive pin up was not only faceless but also missing her pointing hand.

But, I somehow get through it.

He watched as two airmen huddled close in the shade of a wing, their cigarette smoke intertwining. They squinted against the sunlight and pointed, no doubt discussing the conspicuous comet with growing curiosity.

Somehow, I keep surviving…

The more Hugo scoured the airfield, the more he seemed to notice other soldiers pausing in their duties to stare at it.

I keep waking up… Vivid still was the memory of the asphalt, flooded with brass casings, as he lowered himself from the glass nose of the bomber plane, still warm from its time against the sun.

My feet keep returning to the ground… Everything in place for yet another day…

Light slid across the scuff of his boot as he tipped it from side to side. He flexed his toes, focusing on the feeling.

Maybe I will get through this… Maybe–

Time seemed to resume as Hugo returned his attention to the pilot. The colorless way that his eyes were already stuck to him was jarring, and in a similarly toneless manner, Whitby needled, “… You think five missions is a lot?”

Silence swelled between them and in that space, Whitby took the cigarette from his mouth and tapped off the pillar of ash. As it landed before his boot, he stepped on the ember and spread it into a long, black arc. Unsure of how to answer, Hugo observed the pilot, noting that he seemed to stare at the stain for what felt like a long time. Eventually recognizing the resemblance, he peered beyond the fence and onto the charred fissure still scarring meadow of poppies.

It’s been like that now for so long that I nearly got used to it…

Condensed into single frames, Hugo recalled the image of the pilot, blood branching down his face as he rose from the smoldering wreckage.

So many things have happened since then that somehow… I’d almost forgot about that day…

“… How many missions had it been?”

“Sixteen.”

“Really?” Light pooled into Hugo’s eyes, turning them lime as they widened. “That many? You’re kidding.”

Whitby twisted the cigarette between his fingers before taking another long, deep drag.

“Yeah.” Smoke bloomed from his lips as he finally answered on a sigh. “We were awfully close, weren’t we? … We watched a lot of other guys die around us and get replaced… But we were really starting to believe that it wouldn’t ever be one of us… It just couldn’t…”

“But you decided to stay…” As Hugo peered onto the field, he kept the rest of the thought to himself. Even begged to, from my understanding… Knowing full well that you would have to look at that every day… Poppies, some wilted and charred with black, shuddered and flattened with another gust of wind. I bet part of them is still out there too… Hugo stared into a particularly dark patch, uncertain whether it was ash, oil, or blood …just pieces now… bone… lost in the grass…

“Well-,” the sound of Whitby’s voice pulled Hugo back from his morbid tangent. “-why should I get to go home? I’m the one still here…” Though Whitby stared onto the field, Hugo could tell his eyes weren’t quite connecting with any particular object. “… I know Matty was still alive up until we hit the ground… I had control of everything until I didn’t… I don’t know what I could have done differently… Maybe if I…” He tilted his hand sideways and trailed off.

Acknowledging the silence that followed, Whitby let his arm fall. Shaking his head, he muttered, “Sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you this… It’s rotten for morale.”

Though Hugo agreed, he failed to formulate a way to say so with tact.

Whitby folded his long legs to take a seat beside him. Peering up, his dark eyes fully swallowed the reflection of the comet, expanding its light like an explosion. “Still… I do wonder what they woulda thought of this… Matty and Benny… I told them to wait and see… But like my sisters, they didn’t believe me either. You know, it’s odd. Sometimes, when I look at it, I still get excited to see their reactions. And then I remember…”

Reading the sadness brewing beneath his features, Hugo thought to change the subject himself this time. “So… what about the ‘ever-lasting’ part? In the name? Perpetua?”

Snapping out of whatever thought, Whitby’s brow perked though he soon collected the question. His grin was initially restrained and sheepish, as though he were privy to some embarrassing secret. Instead, he asked, “Don’t you remember what I said about it, during our training exercise with the flares?”

Frowning, Hugo admitted, “My mind is torn between so many things these days… Honestly, it’s hard to even remember what I had for breakfast sometimes.”

Following a hum of agreement and another pause, Whitby explained, “Well, there’s this little folktale about it. They say that its meteorites are sorta like the fountain of youth. Find one, and you get to live forever.”

“Live forever?” Hugo chuckled. “Geez, well… I’m hardly nineteen and about fed up. Never mind forever. Who could stand that?”

“I don’t think I’d mind it,” Whitby mumbled. Voice lifting, he leered at Hugo and snapped, “But, don’t you have any curiosity? Huh? Geez, for someone so afraid to die, you sure don’t seem to care much about your life. Don’t you ever wonder what the future will be like? What you might miss out on?” He cupped his hands and concluded, “What the girls might look like? Hm?”

“I thought you knew me better than that,” Hugo struggled not to laugh. “God no, I don’t try to plan for it… Not anymore. No, I don’t want to die, but… I don’t really want to get my hopes up either… One day at a time, that’s how I survive. After all, I’ll be lucky if I get out of here. Cause, most of us won’t, right?”

And you ought to know that better than anyone…

“So, I don’t want to jinx it…”

“There you go again.” Whitby rolled his eyes and elbowed him. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll get lucky and find one of those rocks, ah?” Putting on a wry smile, he teased, “You just have to promise me that you and Loretta will come visit my grave sometimes… I’d hate for her to forget about me.”

“Captain…” Failing to restrain his grin, Hugo asked, “You really don’t believe in that nonsense though, do you?”

Hiding his mouth into the confines of his scarf, Whitby’s voice was further muddled as he grumbled, “Of course not…”

Even so, Hugo could still see hint of an unusual smile influencing the shape of the pilot’s face. His brow lifted knowingly, but he thought better than to press it.

Whatever, I’ll take it. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and savored the warm wind as it crashed across his hair. I’m just glad he’s not screaming at me today…

The aluminum of the wing softly ticked.

I was a rather lonely child…

With the comment passing his mind for another time, Hugo huffed. Explains a lot…

A strong, strange, but stimulating aroma washed over him on the next crash of wind. Intrigued, his eyes opened and turned onto the pilot, though the sudden presence of surprise on his face prompted Hugo to perk. A small, yet particularly rotund robin stood before their feet. Observing them, its head twitched every which way, with its unusually dark beak shimmering against the sunlight. Switching directions with a single bounce, it inspected a bolt in the seam of the wing before aggressively pecking around its edge.

Ping! Ping! Ping!

“Hey.” Brow creasing, Whitby straightened his leg and wagged his foot at the bird. “Get outta here. Scram.” Beneath his breath, he grumbled, “And take your fucking bird shit with you…”

Wings out stretched, the bird staggered, but to their ongoing perplexity, it did not commit to flight. Rather, it opened its maw wide and chattered with such volume that it prompted them both to coil. The shape of the melody was one that had since become familiar to Hugo, yet this time, it was oddly discordant, nearly transforming into something else as it unfurled from the pits of its throat.

Wait a second… Upon glancing, Hugo came to notice that half of the bolt’s drive appeared frayed, almost as though it had been stripped. … Was that always like that?

Abrupt silence brought his attention back onto the bird. Its head was now twisted at an unnatural angle, with its beak pointing straight into the sky. Whitby and Hugo exchanged befuddled glances before following its line of sight to the comet.

That’s odd… Like tinder, the comet’s tail sparked again, this time shedding multiple flecks all at once like a weeping, soundless firework. Hugo could tell from the short, stiff adjustments of the robin’s head that it appeared to be studiously tracking their descent.

Smart little guy… Never figured a bird would actually take notice to that kind of thing…

The robin hopped to face the horizon where the cinders had since fizzled. Again, Whitby kicked, but it flew off before his boot could make contact. Sharing the silence, they watched on as it flitted over the fence and across the valley, rapidly shrinking out existence not unlike the remnants of the comet.

But the way that it just stopped to look up at that thing…

This time, as the wind filled his lungs, it only smelled vaguely of oil and tobacco, and somehow had become a little cooler.

It’s almost like it heard something…

Ferrum Perpetua
You Could Live Forever
Linoa Linette ©2025

1975

May 21, 1975
Highway 22, North Dakota

With a violent lurch, Whitby awoke to an aggressive pounding along the roof of his dated Ford Galaxie. Scrambling upright, his eyes, now huge with alarm, snapped from window to window. Beyond the water-stained panes, he found only vacant valleys, infinitely unraveling into forested hills that splintered into sharp, bare-faced canyons. His face further warped as the knocking continued, a little softer this time, drawing his attention to the ceiling.

His ears tacked as dread surfaced in his features. Snapping out of it, he curled forward and rustled through the duffel bag crammed on the floor behind the front bench. From a bundled shirt, he produced a long, black revolver, but upon inspecting its empty chambers, he froze with a curdling realization.

“… Fuck.”

A single panicked breath rattled between his teeth as he peeked over his shoulder and through the back windshield. Across the surface of the trunk, he could see the projection of a shadow, stretched and breaking the beams of sunlight spanning the shallow slope of the metal. The figure’s limbs bent in tandem with the groans and creaks that accompanied the dents randomly emerging in the dome above his head. As he helplessly stared onto the dust particles blinking in and out of existence before his nose, sweat began to bead his pallid skin.

His lips pursed and his fingers, already shaking, tapped the handle of the gun in broken patterns. Tucking it between his knees, he dug through the bag for another time, frantically worming his hands between the folds of mixed fabric before running them flat along the bottom seam.

“C’mon… Please…”

Finding nothing, he cussed again, and folded further to paw beneath the seats. Coming into contact with something small, cold, and solid, his eyes shut and he breathlessly muttered quiet praises of relief. He kissed the bullet but nearly dropped it as he broke apart the gun to feed it into the chamber. Just as the cylinder slotted back into place, a large presence dropped into his peripheral, quaking the car and casting webs across the windshield. His head was slow to turn, but there, through the distortions of the latticed glass, a large ram seemed to be dragging its nose down the length of the hood. Wind swept off the nearby canyons and hummed through a tiny opening within the cracks. As it passed over the animal, it brought with it a metallic and concentrated aroma, one that leeched the remaining color from Whitby’s face as it invaded his next shaking breath.

Suspecting that the beast had yet to actually notice his presence, he scooted and slowly lowered himself behind the front bench. However, in the moment that the top of the seat leveled with his eyes, the ram turned its head and immediately locked into his gaze. Its stare was vacuous, further exaggerated by the alien shape of its straying, flat pupils. Sunlight curled along its unusually black and prismatic horns, glimmering so brilliantly that random patterns switched and danced along the leather of the bench that spanned a barrier between them. With another churn of its head, it wrapped its lips around the radio antennae and over seconds, the thin rod broke, bent and vanished into its salivating maw.

Hands trembling, Whitby rose the revolver again and balanced his wrists upon the bench. He centered the sight between the animal’s horns, but unfazed by the threat, it shook the flies from its neck and swung its head forward, lowering its nose out of view. Whitby winced against the groan of steel as the ram bit down on the edge of the hood and peeled back a long strip. Between its crooked, square teeth, the metal tore and crumpled, folding and disappearing as though it was merely a cheap sheet of tinfoil.

“… C’mon…” With the gun patiently trained, Whitby beckoned in nervous, shaking whispers. “…Look at me… Let’s get this over with… Nice and quick…”

His lips hesitated to form the shape, but he somehow managed to project a sharp whistle. The ram’s ears perked and flitted in response, but this time when it rose its head, it seemed fixated on a neon sports car rapidly materializing on the horizon straight ahead.

Whitby grimaced as the Plymouth slowed and crossed the center lane, aligning its lights to that of his Galaxie.

“No… C’mon.”

As it pulled in close, he reset the hammer and retracted the gun behind the seat. Past the ram’s shoulder, he watched as a couple emerged from the idling car, pointing and grinning, seemingly oblivious to his presence. Wielding an instant film camera, the woman giggled and aimed snap a picture.

Distracted by indecision, Whitby’s gaze meandered across various points, only to snap to the windshield again as he detected the woman’s approach.

Jumping up, he shrieked, “Get back!” He froze as the ram straightened and turned its attention back onto him through the glass.

“Wait—” Exchanging a glance with her partner, the woman squinted at the vehicle. “Is someone in there? Hello?”

Whitby’s lips quivered with hesitation as he stared back into the animal’s intent visage. Raising the gun, he aligned the sight with its forehead again, and once more hollered, “Move away from it! Get back!”

“Are you okay?” The woman struggled to see him through the distortions of the damaged windshield, but concerned by his tone, she drew closer. “Do you need help?”

“Get back!”

“Now hang on, it’s okay,” she cracked a nervous smile and rose her hand, taking another step forward. “We can help you. Don’t worry. It’s only just a—”

“Cindy, wait! Stop!” Catching the vague shape of the revolver through the glass, the man’s eyes went huge and he stumbled after her. “He has a gun!”

“What?”

“No—” The noise barely had the chance to leave Whitby before the ram stretched open its maw and clamped onto her hand. Blood splashed her face and her camera shattered across the asphalt. Before she could even seem to process what was happening, her arm, up to the elbow, had disappeared into the animal’s throat with three more instant snaps. Her flesh tattered as she yanked the limb free from its clenching teeth and stunned, she stared at what was left.

“…J-… James?”

With her remaining shaking hand, the woman pawed at the splintered bone in disbelief. She released a choke and then whimper, both likely meant to be a scream.

“James…?”

Both windshields exploded as Whitby fired the gun, though he only managed to graze the hill of the ram’s back as it leaped from the hood and brought the woman to the ground. The cabin quaked hard as she kicked his bumper, but her struggle was short and mostly silent as blood splashed across the grill of the Plymouth.

Face slack with terror, the man could only stare as the woman was quickly rendered into something unrecognizable.

Whitby rolled over the bench and landed with a thump. Through the open frame he could now vividly hear the snapping of bone and something wet, all while the air filled with the stink of iron. Trying to ignore it, he dug his key from between the cushions, and fumbled to insert it into the ignition.

“…Help her…”

Whitby froze, his eyes huge as they stuck to the steering wheel.

“Where are you going?! Please… Help her!”

Though Whitby tried to speak, all he could muster was a single stiff shake of his head. The engine roared to life, drowning out the man’s pleas, and draping his arm along the bench, Whitby averted his gaze through the rear windshield while pinning the wheel as far as it would go. Switching gears, the nose of the Galaxie spun in the other direction, briefly dipping into the ditch, as he slammed the acceleration. A torrent of grass and stone spewed off the tire as it dug a deep groove into the gravel, but eventually gaining traction, the vehicle lurched and screeched away down the highway.

Through the mirror, and tethered by the breaking tire tracks of blood, he could see the animal standing among scattered limbs. Intently, it stared back at Whitby, somehow still meeting his eyes through the rapidly shrinking reflection. The details of its face blurred with distance, but with a glint of sunlight refracting off the curl of its horn, he could tell that it had turned its head. Now, it stared up onto the man still frozen there in shock before his blooded car and what was left of his partner.

“… I tried to tell you…” Whitby murmured, pinning his eyes onto the road now. Warm, humid air flooded the cabin, blasting and tangling his already unkempt hair and what remained of the windshield incrementally rattled free from the frame. A nauseous expression curdled his face as an agonized scream shuttered through the spaces in the wind.

He switched on the radio and turned up the volume. Repeatedly, his eyes snapped between the road and the revolver resting crooked beside him on the bench. Grimacing and shaking his head, he put his hand over his mouth, trading between his palm and knuckles before gulping and gripping the wheel with force again.

The squealing of the belt grew louder over the next mile but the loud pop that followed made him to jump and swear. The car shuddered and started to expel smoke through the tear in the hood. He flattened the accelerator, but to no avail. The engine wheezed and the steering wheel stiffened, with momentum rapidly leaving the rotation of the tires.

“No, c’mon,” he pleaded. “Not here. Please…”

Swearing again, he switched his foot to the brake and pumped, slowing the car enough to persuade it to the side of the road again. With a firm press, it lurched to a stop and lips pursing, he jerked the gearshift into park. The vehicle shuddered and belched a final black geyser of smoke before the dials on the dashboard slackened in unison.

The silence that followed was stagnant as he sat there, blankly staring onto the scant shards of glass glinting across the seat and his lap. Blinking once, he twisted the ignition, only for the engine to offer an impotent tick. He slouched against the bench and sliding back into his face, his hair twitched across the bridge of his nose with his subtle trembling. His hands shook more obviously as he raised them, but uncertain of where to place them, he simply balled them into fists and shrieked.

“Fuck!” Voice cracking, he furiously punched the steering wheel, inadvertently sounding the horn a couple times. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

He drug his hands down his cheeks until his eyelids stretched. After a moment of covering his mouth, he groaned and buried his face entirely into his hands. With a bridge of saliva snapping from his reddened, weary face, he reemerged and swung open the door in one decisive motion.

As though entranced, he shuffled to the trunk, with the remnants of the windshield crunching beneath his canvas sneakers. Hands still stiff and uncooperative, he struggled to insert the key into the lock. Eventually, with a single twist, the latch snapped and the door bounced open, revealing garbage bags, clothing, and books that had since shifted into disarray from the highways sharper curves.

Digging up a white grocery bag, he only briefly fumbled with the knotted handles before sneering and tearing it apart. Tamping back the plastic, he stopped and resentfully stared at the box of ammo before snatching it and slamming it down with the trunk. Seething silently, he gathered six rounds, all the while checking the ends of the highway. In the midst of loading the chamber, he glanced up again and paused with a double take. Hoof shaped dents formed a uniform line leading to the now partially dilapidated roof of the car. His jaw clenched, but breaking away from whatever thought, he finished loading the revolver and slapped the chamber into place.

Releasing a breath, he turned around and leaned against the car. He crossed his ankles and then his arms, before drawing a heavy, grounding breath. After a while of absently staring into the gravel, his lips parted, and sound escaped. At first, it was monotonous, bordering on speaking despite his incoherence, but following a shaking inhale, his voice lifted into a weak, disjointed melody.

Just as he was starting to calm down, a small, dark, and round shape materialized on the horizon, stretching and warping amid the heat waves. Falling silent, he unraveled his arms and pushed himself from the bumper. Though he squinted, he already understood what he was looking at, and it only took minutes for the ram to arrive into form and detail. Sunlight glared down the tight twist of its horns, keeping wet the blood that soaked the whole front of its chest. Rhythmic was its breath as it barreled forward, so loud and forceful that it nearly overcame the clap of its glimmering hooves against the cracked asphalt. As the wind funneled at its wounded back, it carried bursts of potent, metallic fragrance.

Whitby’s mouth began to water and his jaw clenched with anticipation, but fighting to keep his arms steady, he rose the revolver and aligned it with the beast’s growing figure. He pulled the trigger, and watched as the ram’s shoulder tore to little affect. Only yards away now, it rose onto its hind legs and tucked in its chin. Dust plumed from the gravel as the next shot cracked across its horn and ricocheted, but in the short moment that it reeled back to reveal its wild eyes, he thumbed down the hammer and squeezed the trigger for a third time.

He flinched as blood speckled his shirt, but with a black hole splitting open between its eyes, the ram staggered backward before falling onto its haunches with a thump. Eyes huge and bewildered, it sat in this unnatural pose as glittering blood branched into rivers down the long bridge of its twitching nose. It breathed hard and fast as mixed fluids roped from its mouth with a viscosity and sheen reminiscent of motor oil. After what felt like a long time, it choked, gurgled and snorted a clot of blood, before collapsing onto its side surrounded by a faint haze of parting dirt. Its limbs straightened and seized with such force that its body rotated against the gravel. Then, all at once, it fell still.

Closing the distance between them, Whitby aligned the barrel with its vacant, relaxing and dilating eye. The revolver kicked, and the skull of the beast blossomed, sundering its flesh into curtains now embellished with glimmering, black fragments of shattered bone. He stared at the corpse for another while, but with a deep exhale, he finally let his arm rest. Following a stiff laugh, an empty smile arrived to his face and he started to crouch. It was then that a chugging sound invaded his ear, drawing his attention onto the stretch of the highway behind him.

A well-used farm truck emerged around the curve of the hill and battled the sweeping incline. The sheep huddled in its bed swayed and bleated as it tapped its brakes, predictably slowing as it encroached. Whitby’s neck straightened as the driver’s window arrived into alignment with his face. His eyes latched to his terrified reflection, flickering as though the image jarred him. He snapped out of it however as the window lowered, revealing the weathered face of an aging farmer further scrunched into an expression of bewilderment.

Inspecting the dead animal, the farmer broke the silence to ask, “… You alright, son?”

“…Yeah…” Whitby’s voice was nearly a whisper as it left him, but drawing a breath and filling his lungs with power again, he answered, “Damn thing came out of nowhere.”

He forced a smile though it faltered. Nodding, the farmer’s head turned to face him, but his eyes were slow to follow. He took a moment to search Whitby’s features, but when he spotted the gun and tensed, Whitby seemed to remember he was still holding it. With a loose shrug, he explained, “I had to put it out of its suffering…”

“That’s a shame,” the farmer murmured, skepticism naked in his tone. “Though I spose that explains all the ruckus I heard coming up here around the hill… Really spooked my girls back there.” Chuckling, he quipped, “Your shooting must leave something to be desired. Think I counted about three or four.”

Whitby tried to smile but it better resembled a wince. Feeling their staring in his peripheral, he looked to the sheep in the bed, now lined up against the wooden rail to better gawk at him through the spaces. “Really busted up your car there pretty good, too… You’re lucky you’re not hurt. Least, you don’t seem to be.”

Tearing his gaze from the bed, Whitby looked over his shoulder onto the deceased ram. “… Yeah.”

“You want a ride?”

Whitby’s chin lowered but following a moment of consideration, he shook his head.

“… You sure? Your a long ways from anything. I’d hate to leave you out here, stranded like this in the heat.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead, leaving behind a faint trail of dirt. “Could at least drop you off in Killdeer. It’s a little out of the way, but at least–”

“I’ll be okay,” Whitby insisted. “It still runs.”

The farmer stared hard at the sedan, mostly fixating on the oddly cut fissure in the hood that exposed the smoldering engine bay.

“I’ll be fine. Please… Thank you,” Whitby smiled. “I appreciate it. Really…”

“…If you say so.” The farm truck rumbled as it switched back into drive. “But it’s getting dark soon… Hope you at least got a plan for supper.”

Again, the farmer’s attention was slow to separate from the ram, but with a weak shrug and tip of his cap, he rolled up the window and pressed his foot on the gas. As the truck crept back up to speed, Whitby returned the empty stares of the teetering sheep until they disappeared behind the next series of hills in the far distance. His gaze drifted to the road, staying somewhere in the cracks of the asphalt until wind crashed against his back and wrapped around his face. With its fragrance pulling him out of his trance, he turned around and once more peered onto the ram. Its fur bristled against the breeze.

Silent and calm, he returned to the Galaxie and opened the back door all the way. Exhaling, he he limbered his arms, before bending forward and collecting the ram by its horns. Backing into the car and onto the bench, he drug the ram into the cabin with some difficulty.

With a grunt, he leaned over it and pulled the door shut, forcing its legs to awkwardly fold in order to fit. Reclining onto his heels, he took a moment to catch his breath, and between pants, a smile started to crack across his lips. Adjusting again for comfort, he gathered its head between his hands and covetously gazed into what remained of its dilapidated face. “I win,” he whispered and nodded.

Angling his head, he wrapped his teeth around its horn. There, it cracked and crumbled into dust as it vanished somewhere inside his mouth.

Ferrum Perpetua
You Could Live Forever
Linoa Linette ©2025

2014

April 22, 2014
North Arbor, Alaska

From the void of Martha’s waning consciousness, a young, clean, and familiar face began to surface in the ink of her dream. His dark eyes lidded pruriently, with his features further modulating into suggestive expressions as a cradle of hands emerged all around him. His full lips were slow to separate as he mouthed something she couldn’t quite hear. Over and over again, it moved in the same patterns, repeating the same phrase.

… Forever? …

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

All at once, the image collapsed into a point, before exploding and flooding Martha’s vision with daylight. Her eyes, blanched into a cold, pale blue, were slow to focus, but as the seconds waxed, the comet, brilliantly tearing across the sky, sharpened into existence above her. Rebuilding her surroundings, she looked beside her, onto Iseult, who seemed fixated on its presence as well. Though the sight of her friend brought her comfort, her thoughts were quick to wander again. That face, transparent now, shuttered through her mind for another time.

… That dream…

A pleasantly warm and fragrant wind rushed over them and whistled down the slope of the roof. Even through the thick layer of her sweater, she could feel the coarse shingles itching at her back. She squirmed in an attempt to find relief, but when she closed her eyes again, impressions of that face began to bleed across the dark canvas of her lids again.

What is it? …

Her brow knit tight as she thought back on the hands surrounding him. Those that weren’t trying to pull him apart were trembling and pointing, always in alignment to the position of the comet in reality. Amid the evaporating details of her dream, she could still see his mouth, black like a portal and permanently smiling, constantly transforming with oddly alluring movements that she began to recognize as singing.

… What are you trying to tell me?

Piqued by the ensuing silence, Iseult tucked her chin to her shoulder and peered at Martha. Thin brow creasing, she snapped, “Uhm, are you napping?”

With a grimace, Martha pushed herself to sitting and pressed her forehead into her palm. Her long, copper hair curtained her face, dulling her already weak voice as she admitted, “Sorry… I just… really haven’t been sleeping well lately…”

Traces of annoyance still lingered in Iseult’s features even as they softened. “Still having nightmares?”

Martha nodded.

“What about this time?”

Head lifting, Martha looked at the comet. “They’re… hard to describe.”

“Hmph.” Iseult wrapped her arms around her knees and drew them in against her chest. With a small smile curling at her lips, she admitted, “Well, I had a dream about my grand-dad’s pilot last night.”

Martha perked. “… Really?”

“Yeah.” Iseult’s face scrunched. “To be honest, it was kind of dumb. Just one of those weird kind of dreams that doesn’t really have any meaning or sense. But, he was in it. It was him, and like… a moose? I don’t know. But he kept trying to talk to it in this weird language…”

“Oh. …”

“See? I told you it was dumb.” Iseult snorted, expecting that Martha would laugh as well. When she did not, her head tipped with offense and she squinted. “What’s going on with you? You’re so off lately. Just… not your usual bitchy self. What gives?”

“Yeah,” Martha agreed through a stiff breath meant to resemble a laugh. She tucked her forehead into her palm again and stared onto her knees. “I don’t really feel like myself either…”

… And I still can’t bring myself to tell her what it’s like to eat now…

She swallowed, though the sensation was still numb.

I mean… how do I tell anyone? -without looking and sounding as crazy as I feel?

She thought back on the other day; to the strange way that Whitby had stopped himself from putting his mouth around a clean spoon the moment he realized she was watching him. The coy shape of his smile haunted her still.

…Really, I can’t even find words for it…

Feeling Iseult’s stare, she fixed her expression before insisting, “I’ll be fine. Really… I just need some actual sleep is all.”

Stretching her arms high above her head, Iseult yawned and agreed, “Me too. I really miss my own bed… Even if I have to share it sometimes with my dad’s old, farty beagle.”

“Yeah…” Martha’s tone dropped into a pointed mumbled, “Well, you and the pilot sure seem to have a lot of long nights together. I don’t think you’ve spent a single one in the attic with me this entire trip… Which, if I’m being honest is actually pretty lame of you…”

“Oh, whatever. I spend all day with you, don’t I?” Iseult leered at Martha. “But, we’re not up to anything… We just talk and watch TV.” She picked at her nails and shrugged. “Or… well, I watch TV. He just reads like some kind of nerd. It’s annoying. Eventually one of us just falls asleep. Usually him. I’ll just look over and suddenly, he’s out like a baby, drool and all. And sometimes, he snores. Or has night terrors, which… can be pretty startling… You know,” perking, she continued to ramble, “—you’d think he’d be an attractive sleeper, but really, he’s not. Still an upgrade from my Dad’s beagle, I guess, but—”

Her mouth scrunched, but feeling pressured by Martha’s silent staring, she rolled her eyes and insisted, “Anyway, you know I would tell you if something was actually going on… You’re my best friend and you know my track record better than anyone. Obviously, I would want to brag big-time if I made that kind of score.”

“I guess…”

“Ugh, could you imagine though? … Just like–” Iseult bit her lip and made a grabbing motion with her hands, but following a wistful sigh, she deflated. “God, I really like him, though… I’m really not ready for him to leave.”

“Yeah, well—” With a wry smirk, Martha quipped, “Trista is.”

“Yeah, I know. She never shuts up about it. She really hates him, it’s almost impressive.” Scowling, Iseult grumbled, “But, I have half the mind to just go with him. After all, I’d much rather be with him than with her. Even if it meant having to sleep on the side of the road sometimes.”

Refusing to accept that the suggestion was just a joke, Martha leered at Iseult with naked skepticism. “And what makes you think he’d want to take you with him?”

When Iseult only shrugged, Martha needled, “Also, his wife? Obviously, she’s been looking high and low for him… What happens when she’s back in the picture? Really that whole thing seems pretty ding-dang messy… And take it from me,” she scoffed and flipped her hair. “—it doesn’t matter how hot he is; if he’s got a crazy ex, it is not worth the headache.”

Nose wrinkling, Iseult snapped, “What do you know about his life?”

“Nothing…” Martha lied, switching her gaze onto the tips of her boots. “But, I don’t think it’s much of a stretch given that he apparently just up and left her. …I mean, who just does that for no good reason? Seems kinda loaded to me…”

“I’m sure there was a good reason…”

The wind whistled, filling in the lull of their conversation. Narrowing her eyes with budding curiosity, Martha asked, “… Does he ever talk about her?”

“Nosy much?” Iseult huffed. “Honestly, not really. Although he has referred to her as a ‘bitch’ on occasion, so… may-be , with Whit-by, I have a chance.” She grinned.

“Hm. Just sounds like I was right.” Martha chuckled. “Mess-y…”

“… She is awfully pretty though,” Iseult picked at the skin of her bottom lip. “Like… way pretty.”

“Yeah, pretty scary,” Martha grumbled. Feeling Iseult’s stare, she expounded, “The more time goes on, the more I think that Trista was maybe right about her… There’s something off about that woman.”

And him… Her nostrils flared as she privately remembered, Especially since I ate that stupid rock she gave us…

They both sat up when they heard the screen door squeal and rattle from the porch just beneath them. A fragrant draft lifted the fragments of the spellbinding song that soon followed. Martha instantly recognized the voice, and as the notes slotted almost perfectly into the memory of her dream, her heart cinched and she felt cold for the first time in a while. Trying to banish the feeling from her skin, she rubbed at her arms, and nervously watched on as Whitby emerged from beneath the awning.

“Isn’t it just the most perfect sound?”

Iseult’s words uselessly melted against Martha’s ear.

I don’t understand it…

Seemingly oblivious to their staring, he crossed the yard toward the old truck parked before the barn. The wind repeatedly kicked the hair from his shoulders, but with every lash, there came that metallic aroma that tugged at Martha’s senses like a magnet.

I feel like… The nightmare flickered before her eyes again. … like I’m losing my grasp on time…

“That’s odd.” Iseult tipped her head. “I thought he was supposed to be with Broderick today…”

Lowly, Martha pried, “They didn’t leave together this morning?”

“No, they did,” Iseult trailed off. “But maybe he dropped him off for some reason… Wonder when that could have been though. Sneaky.”

Martha felt the wind push hard against her back again and she curled into her knees until it stopped.

“Gosh, it’s windy today,” Iseult giggled. “But for April, it actually feels pretty nice… Still crazy to me that there’s hardly any snow, even on Denali. That’s crazy…”

Martha clawed the hair from her face, but upon freeing her eyes, she froze. Though distance had rendered Whitby’s face a blank surface, she could tell from his posture that his gaze was fully locked with her own.

For a moment… her heart began to patter …I thought that he wouldn’t know that I was here… And yet somehow, he always manages to find me…

The wind tickled the back of her neck as though to tease her.

He always seems to know exactly where I am… Vivid was the memory of his stare, alert and unblinking, already always pointing to Martha before she even entered the room. There’s no sneaking up on that guy, ever…

But, I feel it… She deliberately inhaled the metal in the air. He must pick up on it, too… Even if won’t admit it…

“Oh look, he sees us!” Eyes sparking, Iseult perked and waved. “Hi, Whitby!”

… She really has no qualms about looking like an idiot with this guy.

Despite only reciprocating with a single, calm wave, Iseult bounced with delight and giggled.

But it seems to work…

With the bottom of her boot scraping against the shingles, Iseult pushed herself to standing and declared, “I’m going to go down there and see what he’s doing…”

“So much for spending ‘all day’ with me…”

Just as her leg crossed through the window, Iseult stopped and twisted to look back at Martha. “Well, do you want to come with?”

Martha’s head lowered, and a few long seconds passed before she silently declined. Finding the change in her demeanor strange, Iseult squinted. “Fine.” She dipped into the attic and her voice faded after her. “But no creeping on us though, like a pervert…”

“… But, I thought there was nothing to perv on…”

Resting her chin on her arms, Martha continued to return Whitby’s stare, fully accustomed to these long-lasting matches by now.

Ever since I ate that strange little stone… The hair bristled at the back of her neck. … All I can do is think about you…

From a different dream, she could still hear the sound of his fingertip aggressively tapping at the attic window.

Every time I try to sleep… You’re always there… The light pouring in through the glass behind him was almost blinding, washing everything else out of existence. Appearing younger somehow, almost like a child with much shorter hair, he pressed his face to the pane and kept mouthing that odd question, over and over again.

Can you hear me? Can you hear me? Can you hear me?

Smiling with excitement, he pointed up, but abruptly uncoupling from the memory of that dream, she lifted her gaze onto the comet burning over head.

…But who am I really talking to?

With a blink, she dropped her attention back onto the pilot, so still in the valley that she started to wonder if time had stopped.

Either way, I just can’t get a good read on you. Every time you look at me like… that– Ingrained in her memories was the quick, flirtatious way he curled his tongue behind his teeth when no one else was paying attention –it just feels like such a put-on… Like you’re mocking me… But why?

What are you trying to deflect from?

Because I know…

It was easy to recall the alarm in his eyes when she had cornered him in the guest room.

In those rare times where I can actually get you alone… It’s a different feeling… Tense… Almost like you’re scared…

Challenged by the conclusion, her shoulders bounced as she let out a short and dry laugh.

No… Zero chance of that…

It unsettled her that he continued to stare even as Iseult bound right up to him.

But then other times… when you look at me… like this… I have to wonder… What exactly is it that I’m not supposed to know? What are you thinking?

Iseult bounced on her heels, finally drawing his attention. Clasping her hands to her chest, she wriggled with excitement, before straightening and opening her arms with another tall hop.

But then, the way you look at her…

She watched him smile and rest his hand on Iseult’s face. Thumbing her cheek, he started to say something, eventually trailing his palm down to the hill of her shoulder where he concluded whatever point with a couple taps.

It’s different… Normal even…

With a quick tug, he fixed a wrinkle in her sleeve and smoothed his hand down her arm to her elbow. Releasing her suddenly, he lightly wagged his finger before her nose, putting on an expression Martha could only interpret as vaguely stern. Giggling, Iseult grabbed his fist but he wormed it free with ease and flicked the ball of her nose.

Why? …

The wind picked up his laughter as she covered her face and shrunk away. His wrist curled inward, and from the breast pocket of his odd, olive jacket, he produced a carton of cigarettes and packed it against his palm. He tilted its opening toward Iseult, but looking between the box and the roof, she wove in declination before turning her back to the both of them.

… She’s lying about you…

Martha’s eyes narrowed as he leaned in and pressed his mouth to Iseult’s ear.

Isn’t she?

Iseult shoved him away, but with a shrug, he drew a cigarette with his lips before returning the carton to his pocket. He tossed back his long hair and shielded the lighter with his hand. After taking the first pull, he lifted his head and once more returned Martha’s gaze through the smoke.

Or is this all about something else?

Beckoning him with a nod, Iseult grabbed Whitby’s hand and pulled. As his arm went taut, he relented, though freeing his limb again, he draped it across her shoulders.

Like there’s a greater reason for keeping me away from you…

Because… Martha’s eyes narrowed onto the back of his head as though she were trying to project these thoughts. Every time we do talk…it’s like you’re dancing around something you really want to tell me… but you can’t…

Iseult leaned her head against his collar, stumbling into his side as she tried to match his gate.

Or won’t…

As though bound by an invisible tether, she felt an ache in her chest as the distance grew between them.

But why? … Her fingers curled, peeling up the shingles beneath them.

Why do I feel this way?

The wind reversed course, and the tether snapped, with the air washing over her in refreshingly clean and scentless currents. Closing her eyes, she breathed it in deep, hoping it would bring sobriety to her thoughts.

Why won’t anyone tell me what’s happening to me?

Her brow creased with frustration.

… I’m scared…

Reminded of it, she pulled her phone from her pocket and stared onto its screen. With the goofy photograph of Iseult and herself beaming back at her, she withered. And his wife… She drug her thumb across the glass, pulling up nothing. I haven’t heard from her in a while…

Not since I sent that picture…

She felt nervous watching Iseult stare at the pilot so covetously as he took both of her hands.

… She might already be on her way here…

A thunderous scream bellowed in the distance, startling Martha so badly that she nearly dropped her phone. With light catching the corner of her eye, she looked up in time to see flecks spark off the comet’s tail, falling like missiles somewhere over the mountains.

… There it is again…

Her heart beat hard in her chest and the taste of iron rose in her throat.

… And it gets louder… every time…

The corner of her lip curled as her breath trembled.

…And if I didn’t know any better… I’d… I’d say it was coming from that thing… Like it’s… like it’s getting angry…

Tearing her eyes from the sky, she peered onto Whitby and Iseult again. Twisted almost unnaturally, he appeared to be completely fixated on the comet as well. Iseult tugged on his sleeve, his hood, and finally a lock of his hair, but as he failed to react, she clung onto his arm and stood on her toes to better reach his ear.

… You heard it, too…

With a flinch, he looked to Iseult. Releasing him, she anchored her wrists to her hips and leaned to force herself fully into his view. She waved impatiently and he nodded, nervously collecting his hair to one side of his neck. Attention soon straying however, his head turned just enough to expose the tip of his smoldering cigarette.

Following its ribbons back to the comet, Martha felt sure of it.

Yeah, you heard it, too…

His neck further craned, and once more, they locked eyes across the yard.

I know you did… You heard that, too…

Ferrum Perpetua
You Could Live Forever
Linoa Linette ©2025

-FIN-