dougable:

This song has lost none of its value over the years. Five years on and I can’t think of any other song that has had that same value.

Anyway this is art rock I guess, but it’s so seriously good just agh you gotta give it a listen. If that quarreling guitar melody doesn’t suck you in I don’t know what will. Also this is one of those songs you gotta listen to while not doing anything. Vocals are pretty quiet, and one of the best bits of the song.

I guess it’s the best combination of prose and song I’ve come across.

i’m trying to find my way home
i’m sorry
and i miss you 

“I understand,” the nurse says, “That this may come as something of a shock. It might seem an unfortunate thing to awaken to.” He grabs your hand and clasps it, perhaps imagining it offers support. “I would suggest you head to Tannerton as soon as possible, perhaps making a stop at Bull’s Bend to collect anything you find absolutely necessary to bring.”

“Ok,” you say. Although you cannot remember your father, you still feel the urge to fight back tears. Surely, you reason, this is the accepted reaction.

“Talk to Lieutenant Hanson outside. He should be standing by the stables. He can get you on a train headed east before the sun is up. I would offer you a place to rest, but as I said, as you are not a soldier and claim health, I cannot offer you a bed here. Perhaps the Lieutenant might have a better idea, if you do not wish to leave until sunup.”

[What do you do?]

“You’re Daekainan?” You ask.

“Yes,” he said. “Does that surprise?”

You suppose it doesn’t, if he’s asking what you think he’s asking. Daekanian soldiers commonly wear black and white stripes as part of their uniform, in some form or another. This man likely had on an overcoat with a similar pattern. You shake your head, to avoid betraying the maelstrom of recognition that just passed through your thoughts.

“Looks like you suffered some kind of nasty head whipping. The priests didn’t think you were going to make it,” he said. He broke down into a coughing fit.

And then silence descended.

“You hear that?” He asked. “Someone just won.”

The nurse returned a little later, looking relieved. “Adela? How are you doing?” His white clothes were spattered with the spray of blood.

“Fine,” you say, although your head has begun to pound again.

“We’re going to need your bed,” the nurse said, “See if you can stand.”

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and get to your feet, surprising even yourself. You realize that your arms and legs are bony, and then quickly notice the hunger growing in your stomach.

“Outside is an officer who can get you heading back home,” the nurse said. “The battlefield is no place for a business woman.”

You involuntarily give him a confused look.

“I requisitioned some records before the battle begun; your home is in Tannerton, a Manor called Eventide. Your father has just recently passed away, and your family lawyer, an Alan Maywinter, has sent out a letter to your apartments in Bull’s Bend asking for you to come and hear your father’s will.”

[What do you do?]

He is awake, although he seems nonplussed as to how you got there. “How long have I been here for?” He asks.

You don’t have a capable response, so you do your best to shrug. “I’m not sure. I could ask you the same question.”

He shakes his head again, “How long have I been here for?”

It seems he is delirious with fever, and so you do your best to ignore his continued attempts at conversation. You won’t be getting any sort of understanding of the “going ons” from him, you reckon.

You attempt to fall back asleep, but the sounds of battle continue unabated outside, seemingly drifting closer. You try to recall some of the landmarks the nurse mentioned; you try to remember where Bull’s Bend might be, or how Winter Valley fits into it, but you can’t remember much outside of the name of your hometown, someplace called Tannerton.

“Sorry,” the bandaged man says suddenly, snapping you from your reverie, “As far as I can tell, you have been here for a shorter time than I.” His speech is thick with another accent. “Out there, your men are probably fighting mine, but in here, I don’t think it really matters.”

You can almost remember the name of the country your own is at war with, where his accent comes from… It’s…

[The name of the country is?]

“That is good. Stay with me, can you remember anything else?”

But you could not, and shook your head.

“We found you in a ditch, in the village square.” The nurse explained, pulling out a pen and a piece of paper from his pocket. He began to write against the table next to your bed. “I don’t know what you were doing so close to the fighting, but it would seem it’s gotten you here, and what’s important is that you aren’t dead.”

You can’t think of anything to say.

“I’ll go see if anyone can find out who you are, now that we have a name. A first and a last name, that’s good,” he said, walking away.

You wanted to ask if you could get up and stretch your legs, but now that he’s gone, you’re not entirely sure about it. You can see that he’s left the paper on the table, along with the pen. He’s scribbled down your name, and wrote “Complete amnesia, does not remember any of what occurred.”

Your head begins to pound and you lay your head back down.

When you next awake, it is from a dreamless sleep, and it is dark. Oil lanterns light the room, and most of the other beds are now unoccupied. Your head feels better than when you were last awake.

Down two beds on your left, an old woman is fast asleep, and to the bed on your immediate right, is a man dressed in black and white striped breeches with swathes of bandages covering his chest.

You can hear the faint sound of artillery being fired in the far distance, and below it, the roar of rifle fire and men screaming.

[What do you do?]

Your eyes open slowly, and painfully. There is a tightness about your head, and you reach your hand up to feel, discovering a bandage there. You’re in a field hospital, you realize, a green tent around you with four beds to your right, and two beds to your left. Your white undershirt is torn, soot colored, and bloodstained, but you don’t feel any immediate pains. Your vest seems to be in a similarly poor condition.

A nurse, standing two beds down on your left, looks up and notices that you are stirring. “Hello?” He asks, walking over to your bed.

You attempt to rise but he sets a hand on your shoulder.

“Take care,” he says. “You’ve suffered a grave injury, and have just now awoken after sleeping for two days.” He fetches a canteen of sweet tasting wine, and a loaf of hard, stale bread.

“Where am I?” You ask.

“We’re in Winter Valley, just north of Bull’s Bend. How much do you remember?”

Your mind races, trying to pull thoughts to the surface, but it feels as though a pale white shroud has been placed over your mind. You can see that you have memories, but they all seem impossibly archived. “Not much,” you reply.

“How about your name? Do you remember your name?”