Time had no meaning in the Akashic records, but as far as he could tell, Eravisté had been walking a long, long time. Hours. Days. Weeks, perhaps. Not that it made any difference; as far as he knew, he and Death were the only things that ever existed.
And it was then, in that moment outside of time, that he saw it.
Before him was a wall; this in itself was unusual. There were only four walls, and he had only ever seen one once. He’d had to fight The Questions for days afterwards.
But it was not the wall that had stunned him into disbelief; it was what hung upon it.
Before him was an object he lacked the proper words to describe. The main part of it was long, thin, and made of wood, like a chair leg, but it was bound in leather in the middle and topped by an extraordinary gem. Sticking out of the side of it at the very top was a crescent of silver metal that reflected his face.
My face.
He had never seen it; not properly, anyway. He had seen shadowy reflections in the teas he would drink or a glint off his glasses in his silverware, but never his face. His long, angular face, framed by pale blonde hair and accented by golden half-moon glasses. His eyes…
They’re not right.
Suddenly, his instinct was at odds with his perception. His eyes, reflected in the metal, were white-gold. But that’s not right, he thought. A new emotion stirred within him: panic.
The Questions were boiling within him. Fighting him. Clawing their way through his will. And still he refused to let them be asked, to let them be heard.
Maybe, he thought, I just need to look closer. He reached up, grabbing the wood-metal-thing. Pulling it off the hook.
Becoming unbalanced at its sudden weight.
Feeling a searing, crippling sensation in his neck as the metal slashed his skin.
Pain.
He did not realize, even as blood poured into his white robes and a hellish scream ripped apart his throat, that his candle had just flickered back into flame.
Death felt, rather than heard, Eravisté’s scream. It ached within his ancient bones, made him feel almost mortal. It disturbed the endless peace of his realm. No life was ever meant to be here, he realized. Nothing that was ever alive could ever thrive here.
He felt what could pass for fury at himself.
“Death.” Eravisté looked helplessly up into the empty sockets of the Reaper’s eyes. “Oh, Death, I have so many things to ask you.”
“It was only a matter of time, then. I see that now.” Death stood calmly over the young man that was bleeding to death in the realm where nothing could die.
“What do… why… it hurts…”
“I’m afraid I have no answers for you,” he said. “Regrettably, I will only provide more questions.”
“Please… make the pain go away.”
“You mortals always look for the hidden meanings in things. You try to comprehend the incomprehensible.” He knelt beside his all-too-mortal companion, his voice far away and as calm as an overcast day. “It has always struck me as a puzzling habit.”
“What are you—?”
“One such saying has quite a bit of truth to it, as you’re probably well aware of at the moment: ‘To be alive is to know pain.’”
Eravisté moaned softly. His vision was clouded. He nearly lacked the strength to close his eyes.
“I have never known pain,” Death continued. “I thought I might learn it from you.”
Make it stop, thought Eravisté, Make it stop.
“I see now that it is not something I will ever truly comprehend.”
In his mind’s eye, he pretended that his neck wasn’t bleeding anymore. He pictured it sealing up, solidifying, soft and smooth and uncut once again.
“I did enjoy your company. It made me content.” At this, the Reaper stood up. “But you are unable to die here, and that is a courtesy I believe you are owed.”
My neck feels a little better, thought the fading human. His other hand had never stopped gripping Death’s scythe.
Wheat tickled his nose.
Eravisté remained still, gently twitching his face to offset the itch. When this failed to help, he tried to lift his hand to his face, only to find his fingers wouldn’t separate. Confused, he at last opened his eyes.
For a moment, the world was a gold-and-blue blur, too bright for him to make out. He quickly shut his eyes again as they watered uncontrollably. A few minutes later, he was able to open them fully, and he beheld the sky.
He could do nothing but stare.
Wind rustled the grain around him, the brilliant gold of the field unlike anything he had ever imagined. A cloud lazily floated into view, and he marveled at its appearance. He was not afraid of The Questions anymore. He was now only afraid of not getting The Answers.
He began to remember his stuck hand, and he allowed curiosity to guide his eyes. His left hand, the one he had used to cover his bleeding neck, was covered in a dark brown crust that reeked of copper. He tried to move a finger, straining and breaking the crust. Black flecks fluttered onto his similarly-stained robes.
“I suppose I should wash up,” he said aloud. His voice was clogged and hoarse, and he coughed a putrid-tasting lump out of his throat. He spit the wad out onto the ground, noting that it was the same color as the crust on his hand. It blended into the dirt.
Getting to his feet was no easy matter. Sitting up alone took several minutes of gently pushing himself up with his free elbow, and he paused for breath every so often. He finally managed to brace himself on his knees and force himself to stand up – another long, strenuous ordeal. But once he was standing, his eyes finally above the grain, the view alone was worth it.
Eravisté removed his glasses, his far-sighted eyes drinking in the horizon. It was a perfect day in the golden field as the wind teased the wheat beneath the summer sky. Far in the distance, he saw the edge of a forest. The brilliant colors and scent of the straw were a feast for his senses.
I feel weak. Those were not the only senses he had suddenly become aware of. His body was aching for rest and his stomach was groaning with hunger. And yet his neck, which before had burned with an agony he could never have imagined possible, felt right as rain. How long have I been away from Death? he wondered. Looking around, he felt the stirrings of panic begin to set in again. He was in a strange place, and he had no idea how to get back to the only home he knew.
“I suppose I could die,” he thought aloud, “but then again, I never saw any dead people in the company of Death.” Lacking any other option, he began to stumble towards the forest when his right foot hit something heavy on the ground. He looked down to see that he had brought Death’s scythe with him. Curiously, though, the blade was missing, leaving only an ebony staff topped by a jewel.
“Ah… now I really must get home,” he said, “Death will want this back.” With some difficulty, he picked it up and began to use it as a third leg. “Hopefully he won’t mind me borrowing it for a while.”
When we get to the living realm, I think you should hold off on telling us what Era is seeing. Describe them more along the way you described the scythe: if he's returning from a place where he knew nothing but death-things, it should take him awhile to recognize the stuff of nature--and if he doesn't know, the narration shouldn't define it for him, at least not right off the bat. For example, his stunned "WOAH COLORS" reaction when he opens his eyes is good; I'd progress from that to "golden stalks" to "grain/wheat". But telling us that it's wheat first thing takes a bit of the punch out of the sudden setting change.
ReplyDeleteAnd if his neck starting to feel better via willpower is the foreshadowing of magical healing powers, which it appears to be--nice. That's a good spot for it.