exsuscita!
(Latin: Awaken!)
Track 1: Beautiful Dreamer
Track 2: 99 Luftballons
Track 3: Poor Old Soldier
Track 4: Turn! Turn! Turn! (to everything there is a season)
Disclaimer: I don’t own the Pendragon Adventure series. That’s DJ McHale’s gig.
Furthermore, I claim no rights over the following songs:
Beautiful Dreamer, by Stephen Foster.
99 Luftballons, by Nena
Poor Old Soldier, a traditional marching tune
Turn! Turn! Turn!, as performed by the Byrds
--
Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,
Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;
Sounds of the rude world heard in the day,
Lull’d by the moonlight have all pass’d away!
--
Bobby Pendragon stood in the middle of the… Well, once it could have been a disused subway station.
Now it was a room of rubble. The only thing living in there, save for himself, were a few rats and spiders scurrying about. Doing what they could to survive.
The flume room itself had looked fine enough on the inside. There hadn’t been any clothes waiting for him to get changed into, but that was okay. Second Earth clothes still looked all right on Third Earth, for the most part.
What had really confused Bobby was the lack of any way to contact Patrick. Third Earth’s traveller had left that button-thing for any other Travellers to find.
It hadn’t been there.
The door to the flume swung shut on creaking hinges behind Bobby. Its thud was ominous in the oppressive silence.
“Hello?”
‘ello… llo… lo.’
“Patrick? Are you there?”
‘there… ere… ere.’
“If you are there, this isn’t funny.”
‘funny… unny… nny.’
Bobby sighed, and started picking his way out of the room, coughing occasionally as his movements stirred up dust. It was as though nobody had been down there in years. Only rats and spiders.
A glimmer of moonlight could be seen through a small hole in the concrete ceiling. It was barely enough to see by, but it was there.
“What’s happened here?” Bobby whispered. “I don’t understand. We stopped First Earth from falling, surely that would have saved Second and Third Earth… That’s the only reason it could look like this…”
“Who’s there?”
That voice was so familiar.
“Patrick? Is that you?”
A head poked around the stairwell.
“Who are you?”
That could only be Patrick. He was the only person Bobby could think of who looked anything like that. But still…
“Patrick… It’s me. Bobby Pendragon.”
“Pendragon.”
The face seemed to consider this statement, then glared at him, revulsion shining through clearly in his eyes.
“The fool who let Halla fall.”
“Huh? No, I didn-”
“Don’t bother to deny it! When one territory falls, so too do all others. It’s merely a matter of time before they catch up. Like that game of Dominoes. Didn’t Tilton explain it to you properly?”
“Patrick, you know me.”
“No, I don’t know you. Because, to me, you’ve never been here before.”
“What? Yes I have!”
Patrick’s head disappeared for a second, then it and the rest of his body reappeared, walking down the crumbling steps with a sureness that Bobby could not begin to emulate.
“No, you haven’t. Another version of Third Earth, maybe, before you messed it up for the rest of the territories. But not this one.
“You let us fall, Pendragon.”
And everything faded to black.
--
Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,
List while I woo thee with soft melody;
Gone are the cares of life’s busy throng
--
Bobby stood in a small circle of light. There was the sound of a spotlight being turned on behind him. He whirled, but saw nothing.
Wait. There was… something… growing brighter, easier to see…
As his eyes adjusted, Bobby could see Vo Spader standing in his own patch of light.
“You let us fall, Pendragon.”
Spader’s light went out, but another took its place.
Gunny stared at Bobby, sadness in his eyes.
“You let us fall, Pendragon.”
Gunny disappeared, but his light was replaced by yet another.
Aja Killian to his left, glaring at him from behind amber glasses.
“You let us fall, Pendragon.”
As Aja’s circle faded, Mark and Courtney’s came into view on Bobby’s right.
“You let us fall, Pendragon,” their words were spoken in perfect unison, and suddenly Bobby could hear hundreds, no, millions of voices, each saying the same thing.
“You let us fall, Pendragon.”
“You let us fall, Pendragon.”
“You let us fall, Pendragon.”
“You let us fall, Pendragon.”
“You let us fall, Pendragon.”
“No~o!”
Bobby clapped both hands over his ears, and closed his eyes.
The sound – he could still hear them saying it, even through his hands - died away.
Blessed silence.
Sensing something behind him, Bobby turned slowly, not yet daring to take his hands from his ears, and opened his eyes.
Press Tilton, his Uncle Press, stood before him now, in the same small patch of light as Bobby. Bobby opened his mouth to speak, but no words would come out.
It wouldn’t have mattered even if he were capable of speech, for the apparition just shook its head, looking deeply disappointed, turned, and walked out of the circle.
“Uncle Press!” Bobby managed to call after him, taking both hands from his ears, and stretching out his right to try and catch the man, his questing fingers finding naught but air.
The light from overhead disappeared. Bobby looked up, blinking in the sudden darkness, before the ground disappeared from under him, and he fell into an abyss.
--
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
--
Ever downwards the young Traveler tumbled. He could hear… laughter? Malevolent laughter. It echoed around Bobby, an almost physical sound, suffocating him.
Saint Dane’s laughter.
“No~o!”
--
Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea,
Mermaids are chanting the wild lorelie;
Over the streamlet vapours are borne,
Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.
--
Bobby sat bolt upright in the small sleeping space Loor had provided for him, shaking with sweat.
“It was… just a dream?” Bobby whispered, staring wildly around him. “It felt so… so real.”
Bobby closed his eyes and fell back down again, listening to the faint crackling as the house expanded slightly with the rising heat.
But it wasn’t nearly enough to drown out the malicious laughter still sounding through his mind.
--
Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,
E’en as the morn on the streamlet and sea;
Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!


--
Hast du etwas Zeit für mich
Dann singe ich ein Lied für dich
Von 99 Luftballons
Auf ihrem Weg zum Horizont
Denkst du vielleicht g'rad an mich
Singe ich ein Lied für dich
Von 99 Luftballons
Und das sowas von sowas kommt
--
Patrick couldn’t breathe. The fire was burning all around him.
‘This is ridiculous! The library’s got a near-perfect fire-prevention system, this shouldn’t be happening at all!’
Blindly, Patrick groped for the emergency backup sprinkler switch under the desk.
It wasn’t there. Neither, now that he was actually looking, was his desk.
There was just a table, but one that he’d never laid eyes on before in his life.
‘Huh?’
A woman’s scream snapped Patrick out of his bemused search. Choking from smoke inhalation, Patrick tried to look in the direction that the sound had come from, but couldn’t see a thing. The smoke was making his eyes water too much.
--
99 Luftballons
Auf ihrem Weg zum Horizont
Hielt man für Ufos aus dem All
Darum schickte ein General
'Ne Fliegerstaffel hinterher
Alarm zu geben wenn's so wär
Dabei war'n dort am Horizont
Nur 99 Luftballons
--
Giving up, Patrick did the only thing that he could possibly think of doing, the only thing that made any sense in a situation such as this, and dove for the ground. Smoke rises, so the closer you were to ground-level, the more oxygen there was, and the less chance you had of dying from smoke inhalation.
That was, if the flames didn’t get to you first.
All around him, people were coughing, desperately trying to get air into their burning lungs, and Patrick realised that the smoke was getting dangerously low to the ground, choking out anything above the eleven-centimetre mark. Far away, the sound of sirens were starting to fill the air, some ambulances, some fire engines, but they were all coming too late to do a thing. Somehow, though he couldn’t explain why, Patrick got the feeling that someone out there was uttering the immortal words of “Oh, the humanity!”
--
99 Düsenflieger
Jeder war ein grosser Krieger
Hielten sich für Captain Kirk
Das gab ein grosses Feuerwerk
Die Nachbarn haben nichts gerafft
Und fühlten sich gleich angemacht
Dabei schoss man am Horizont
Auf 99 Luftballons
--
The sirens were being drowned out now, by the last gasps of those choking to death on the very air around them, by the screams of those being burned alive, even by the deadly, scorching crackle of the flames surrounding them all, as hydrogen gas caught fire and fuelled the destruction.
“I don’t understand it,” a voice to his right said, as if in a state of shock, and Patrick twisted his head to stare at an old man, wearing the uniform of a Zeppelin captain.
There was an explosion and Patrick heard more screams as the Hindenburg was consumed by flames, even as everything around him faded to black.
--
99 Kriegsminister
Streichholz und Benzinkanister
Hielten sich für schlaue Leute
Witterten schon fette Beute
Riefen: Krieg und wollten Macht
Man wer hätte das gedacht
Das es einmal so weit kommt
Wegen 99 Luftballons
--
Patrick woke up, sending his bed sheets flying, chest heaving in fear. Glancing wildly about the room, the tall librarian finally convinced himself that it wasn’t actually Saint Dane sitting in the shadows beside his closet, it was just his jacket that he’d left draped over his chair when he’d fallen asleep, and that all that had just been a dream, no more.
A bad dream.
Shaking his head slowly, Patrick clambered out of bed, and went to wash his face.
Perhaps the cool water would wash away the thoughts too?
--
Wegen 99 Luftballons

99 Luftballons
--
Staring at the reflection of his sweat-and-water-dripping face, the Traveler from Third Earth took a slow, deep breath.
‘It was the right choice to make,’ he reminded himself.
So then why did he still feel at least partially responsible to the deaths of twelve innocent passengers, twenty-two crewmembers, one Nazi, and one American collaborator?
--
99 Jahre Krieg
Liessen keinen Platz für Sieger
Kriegsminister gibt's nicht mehr
Und auch keine Düsenflieger
Heute zieh ich meine Runden
Seh' die Welt in Trümmern liegen
Hab' 'nen Luftballon gefunden
Denk' an dich und lass' ihn fliegen


--
I left my home and I left my job
Went and joined the army
If I knew then what I know now
I wouldn't have been so barmy.
Poor old soldier, poor old soldier
If I knew then what I know now
I wouldn't have been so barmy.
--
Vincent stood in the middle of the field.
Once, it might have been a beautiful, tranquil field, with buttercups growing in clumps, scattered across the wild grass.
Of course, now, covered with the bodies of the dead as it was, the concept of this being a tranquil place was far from the African-American’s mind.
What happened to bring me here?
--
Gave me a gun and a big red coat
Gave me lots of drilling
If I knew then what I know now
I wouldn't have took the shilling.
Poor old soldier, poor old soldier
If I knew then what I know now
I wouldn't have took the shilling.
--
“Why can’t you fire that thing?”
A Vincent from a mere few months ago looked directly at his Drill Sergeant.
“Sir, I can’t! I-I just can’t shoot to kill! I just can’t!”
“Bigod private! Well, you’ll just have to learn then, won’t you?”
Vincent was about to protest, but he caught the gleam in the Sergeant’s eye.
“Yes sir.”
“You’re in training for a war, remember that, Private. They call this the Great War. It’ll be the war to end all wars, but you’ve got to live to see the end of it. And to do that, you’ve got to be able to fire a gun.”
“…Yes sir.”
“Hm.”
--
Sent me off on a real old boat
By Christ she was no beauty
Far far across the sea we went
Afore to do my duty
Poor old soldier, poor old soldier
Far far across the sea we went
Afore to do my duty
--
It was dark on the boat. It had to be dark. If the Huns saw their lights, they’d be able to attack them.
So, they travelled in near-darkness.
One of the other Privates nudged him. He’d been through basic training with this one, but for some reason the man’s name escaped him for the moment.
“Yeah?”
“Got something ta show ya.”
Vincent raised an eyebrow, as the man pulled a small, folded piece of paper from his coat. Slowly, almost reverently, the Private – Manilowe, that was his name, Theodore Manilowe – unfolded the paper, and smiled down fondly at it for the briefest of seconds, before passing it to Vincent. Vincent stared down at a dog-eared photograph of a young woman with dark hair and eyes. The image seemed so full of life, smiling up at Vincent as though she could actually see him before her. Her expression was kind.
“This here’s me wife. She’ll be having a baby while I’m gone.”
“Oh,” was all that Vincent could think of to say.
“Yeah. She’s a right angel. I’m a lucky man.”
“So I see.”
Manilowe smiled, and took his photo back.
--
Fought the Russians, or was it the French
Really couldn't tell, sir
All I know is they fought so hard
They sent us all to hell, sir.
Poor old soldier, poor old soldier
All I know is they fought so hard
They sent us all to hell, sir.
--
Vincent staggered a few paces forward. This wasn’t the time for self-pity.
“Vincent.”
The weak voice jolted Vincent out of his reverie.
“…Water…”
Vincent knelt beside the bleeding man, pulling out his drink bottle. Gently, he tipped the bottle up, just enough to quench the poor man’s thirst.
“Thanks, Gunny,” the man managed to smile.
Gunny blinked.
“Gunny… tell me wife… tell my Susan I love her. And our child. I love them both.”
The last request of a man who knew he was dying.
Numbly, Gunny took Manilowe’s hand, and held it.
“Now, don’t go talking like that. You’ll be right as rain in a bit, you’ll see,” Gunny desperately tried to encourage the man, but to no avail. Manilowe tried to shake his head, then gave up.
“Gunny… Tell her. Tell her… for me…” Manilowe managed to whisper, flecks of blood appearing on his lips as he did.
Manilowe’s last breath was drawn out, tortured.
Shaking hands removed Manilowe’s helmet, and took out the photograph. After tucking it into his own helmet, Gunny pulled off one of the two leather tags around Manilowe’s neck, and put it into his pocket.
The body could be identified as his later, should the family want his body for a burial. Manilowe would not be another nameless soldier on another battlefield.
That was, if the scavengers didn’t get to his body first. Human or animal, it didn’t matter.
After a moment’s more reflection, Vincent took the plain gold band off of Manilowe’s wedding finger, and put it with the tag.
--
When we got back home again
To desert was my intent, sir
I sold my cot and I sold my coat
And over the wall I went, sir.
Poor old soldier, poor old soldier
I sold my cot and I sold my coat
And over the wall I went, sir.
--
Vincent didn’t know how long he spent, just walking across that battlefield, looking for anybody else who could possibly still be alive.
Buttercups, stained with blood.
Other flowers. Was their real colour red, or was it just the blood?
Poppies. They were red, weren’t they?
Pushing up Flanders poppies. Wasn’t that one of the British soldier’s sayings?
There weren’t too many bodies around here though. Where was all this fresh blood coming from?
Vincent looked down, saw for the first time his bloodstained pants and sleeves. Found out why his left hand was so sore.
This was war. Injuries were only to be expected, weren’t they?
Why did people make war upon one-another? What was it about humanity that makes it so ready to hate and revile those that are not like the perceived norm, something that differed, and would probably always differ, between each society?
Why had his friend needed to die?
“Hey! Hey, you!”
Vincent turned at the calling voice.
“Yeah?”
“What are you doing out in the open? Get over here, idiot!”
A shrug, and Vincent followed the Sergeant-Major to the waiting van with a Red Cross painted on its side.
--
Went to a tavern and I got drunk
That is where they found me
Back to barracks in chains I was sent
And there they did impound me.
Poor old soldier, poor old soldier
Back to barracks in chains I was sent
And there they did impound me.
--
Gunny didn’t spend that much time in hospital. But it was long enough for him to get off a letter to Susan Manilowe.

‘Mrs. Manilowe,
It is with deep regret that I write to inform you of your husband’s death in battle-’

No, that wouldn’t work.

‘Susan,
You may not know me, but-’

Nope.

‘Susan Manilowe,
By this time, you may or may not be aware that your husband tragically lost his life in battle. I’d like to tell you that he didn’t die in vain.
Your husband fought bravely, so that others in his company, myself included, did not have to die. There are no words to truly describe the courage he showed that day, and on numerous other occasions.
He was a friend of mine, and I was the last person to see him before he died. I was just a cook, but he was still my friend.
He asked me to tell you that he loved you, and his child. It was his last request.
He spoke about you often, calling you his angel.
In Theodore Manilowe, we all lost a good friend, and a valued member of our company. You lost a devoted husband, and for that, I am truly sorry.
You will find enclosed his identity tag, his wedding ring, and the photo of you, which he carried with him everywhere.
Yours, in remembrance,
Vincent “Gunny” Van Dyke’

Yeah. That just about did it.
--
Fifty I got for selling me coat
Fifty for me blankets
If ever I 'list for a soldier again
The devil shall be me sergeant.
Poor old soldier, poor old soldier
If ever I 'list for a soldier again
The devil shall be me sergeant.


--
To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)
There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn)
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven
--
Mark Dimond twisted in his bed, sweat pouring down his face.
Trapped in a nightmare.
-
“We don’t need you around here anymore, Dimond.”
“Yeah. You’re not even fit enough to lick his boots.”
The rest of the members of Sci-Clops stood around him.
When had he gotten two feet tall?
Or had everyone else just gotten WAY taller?
“Hey! You heard us! Get out!”
Geez, for people whose hands were so used to doing nothing more strenuous than typing, they sure could punch hard.
“Out, freak!”
“You were never our friend!”
For someone who’d had so few friends in his life, the words came as a blow.
Bobby was his friend, certainly, but the most communication they had these days was when Bobby sent himself and Courtney the journals.
Courtney… Courtney was Bobby’s friend. Not his. Not really his.
Bobby’s friend. Not his. Not Mark’s friend. Bobby’s. Even after all they’d been through, all they’d read about from Bobby, all they’d seen and been through on Cloral and Eelong, they still weren’t true friends in the way that he and Bobby were.
Mark felt the pain in his stomach as he was kicked out of the room, landing in a snowdrift?
‘A snowdrift? Huh?’
--
A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep
--
Raising himself up to the window, he watched as a scene rather like Christmas dinner unfolded before him, in the half-frosted windows of the log cabin.
‘But it’s nowhere near winter. And since when does Sci-Clops meet in a log cabin?’
Glancing down as a sudden burst of icy air hit him, Mark found that he was dressed in rags.
‘No, not rags. Like the stuff the gars wore…’
--
To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)
There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn)
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven
--
Everyone was sitting around a long table, ready to dig in, but waiting… waiting for something.
Ah. The turkey hadn’t been cut yet.
A figure, with long shadows streaking out behind it, kept its face turned from Mark’s sight as it rose from its seat and began sharpening the carving knife.
“No! Look out!”
--
A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together
--
Without even the barest hint of remorse, the figure stabbed the knife into the person next to him.
Mark suddenly felt numb from more than just the cold.
He stayed there, frozen, watching, as the faceless being mercilessly killed all of them. Strangely, even though they had each watched their fellows killed before them, none of them made any move to escape. Indeed, when the creature struck them down, the last expression on each of their faces was one of surprise.
Why?
Then, coolly, calmly, it – rather delicately – cut a slice of the turkey, impaling the meat with the knife to eat, the human blood still on the blade drying slowly.
--
To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)
There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn)
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven
--
The figure turned to the window, its face hidden in the shadows cast by the firelight-glow within the room.
Mark started scrambling, fear finally losing its grip on him as he struggled to get away…
He couldn’t take his eyes away though, and the cabin faded away as the figure approached him, walking with swift, measured strides, until he caught up to the Acolyte, and picked the teenager up by his collar.
Mark struggled, trying to kick out at the monster, but to no avail.
“Why should it matter to you, Mark Dimond. After all, they had just hurt you. They had just cast you aside. Should not you be happy that the ones who hurt you so are dead?”
“They were still people, you monster! They were people, and you killed them! Fiend!” Mark snarled, baring his teeth but getting no reaction.
The shadows started to pull away from the face, leaving only a skull, with jagged red marks on the sides, almost like lightning bolts. Slowly, the skull started to fill out with flesh, layers of muscles and tendons, cartilage and ligaments, and finally greasy skin and hair, covering up the gruesome sight. Mark couldn’t look aside, though the sight made him want to throw up.
Andy Mitchell laughed at him, laughed at the expression of horror on his face.
A dark, sinister laugh.
“You fool,” Andy finally said, still holding him dangling in midair, helpless as a kitten in the other’s grip. “You still haven’t figured it out, have you? I felt for sure that you would have at least gotten it by now.”
Mark stared as the face melted back to the scarred skull again – save for the eyes.
Brilliant blue eyes, staring at him.
‘No, it couldn’t be…’
They laughed down at him, as the hand finally let go, and Mark tumbled to a ground that, for some reason, he couldn’t even see anymore.
--
A time of love, a time of hate
A time of war, a time of peace
A time you may embrace, a time to refrain from embracing
--
Mark whirled in the sudden darkness, looking around, desperate for something…
Wait.
It wasn’t dark.
He just couldn’t see.
He didn’t know how he knew it, but he did.
Slowly, carefully, Mark sat down on soft grass-
‘Grass? But there was snow there a moment ago…’
-that he couldn’t see, but he knew was there anyway.
Without warning, a child’s voice rang out, the notes pure, yet cold in the still air, etching themselves across Mark’s mind in patterns of ice.
It was singing a little song, a song with a tune that Mark found oddly familiar, but the words were so strange!
“tres mures, tres mures
ecce currunt, ecce currunt,
sequuntur agricolae feminam
caudasea desciut cultro
mirabile spectaculam visu
tres mures”
--
To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)
There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn)
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven
--
The child’s voice followed him back into reality, and Mark woke, the little song still running around in his head.
‘Nonsense words…’
Pulling the bedclothes off the floor and back up around him, Mark drifted back off to sleep and gave the dream no further thought.
It had only been a dream, after all.
When he woke up the next morning, he didn’t even remember having it, didn’t remember waking up earlier that night, and couldn’t for the life of him think why he had the tune to ‘Hickory-Dickory-Dock’ stuck though his head.
--
A time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time for love, a time for hate
A time for peace, I swear it's not too late


Right. That's one. Are you scared yet?
This series has previously been posted here under the name JK, and here under the name KnightAmemait. Yes, they're both me.