by Ron Glick
Nathaniel's mind caught up with Maribel's earlier words. She had said that her son was barely two months away from his fourteenth year. It had been roughly a month before his fourteenth nameday that he and his mother had come into Oaken Wood...
The grown man's eyes went wide at the realization - his mother was not only “living” through the days before she had died, but she was unaware that she even had died. To her, it was yet a short time from the day she would be stoned to death in front of the Wyrm's Fang Tavern.
If this were indeed the afterlife, what purpose would there be in the dead not being aware that they were dead? He was aware of the calamity that had sent him here - so how was it that his mother was not?
And then there was Two. How did one explain his sword being with him in the afterlife? Which raised an even grander philosophical questions - did these swords actually have souls? Was that how he had his weapon now when he was no longer amongst the living? Had Two also died and journeyed with him to the land of the dead?
Maribel nodded, a sweet smile playing upon her lips as she turned to lead Nathaniel further into town. Thoughts of unanswered questions continued to weave through the young man's mind as he followed in her wake, his eyes taking in the amazing detail that this afterlife simulacrum had managed to replicate. He could smell the light scent that was always present in the early spring, even feel the cold chill of what must have been the early morning frost - though this was not immediately visible now that the sun had risen and likely melted it away. Even the buildings stood in exacting detail, just as he remembered them.
Or as is more likely, Nathaniel thought, as Mother remembers them. It was, after all, her world he had fallen into.
In a short while, Nathaniel saw where Maribel was leading him. She was leading him to the Wyrm's Fang Tavern, Bracken Hillfire's old establishment. Now in the days before it had been ravaged, the edifice still stood as the largest structure in the town, and was by far the most eye-catching for it.
Clearly, Maribel intended to call upon the dwarf's hospitality. This would be the “good friend” to whom she had referred. And yet...
Bracken was not dead. And therefore he could not be within the tavern itself. Was his mother's illusory life so quick to come undone by her friend's absence, or would this afterlife make some kind of reasonable explanation for the dwarf's absense?
“Mar'bel!” called an all too familiar voice from the side of the tavern. Inexplicably, the voice's owner rounded the side of the structure, his broad girth effecting a natural swagger that accompanied the stout man whenever he moved with relaxed ease. Nathaniel was all too well-aware that this swagger vanished if the dwarf were not at ease...
Nathaniel's mind reeled at the sight of Bracken's approach. He had been so certain that a soul not yet deceased could not be represented here. How could it? This was a place for the deceased - if it was possible for imaginary people to exist here, how could one tell who was actually dead in this place? Did that mean Bracken had also died?
Grief gripped Nathaniel's heart. He had not died alone - Bracken had journeyed to the land of the dead at his side. And yet... What would the dwarf be doing in an afterlife of humans? Would he not be in some dwarven hall of the dead? He seemed to recall some legend or another that said this was what the dwarves believed their afterlife to be - a great hall of constant revelry and raucous pleasure, the greatest reward imaginable for a life of work and toil. So why would Bracken have come to this afterlife with him?
Another thought rushed into the man's mind at this. He quickly glanced to his mother, then back again to the dwarf. How is it he knows Mother if he has only come here just now with me?
The dwarf stopped a few feet from the pair and planted his fists upon his hips. “An' who's yer silen' frien', Darlin'?”
Maribel reached out a gentle hand to place on Nathaniel's arm. In his astonishment, he barely felt it. “This is a newcomer to Oaken Wood, who I found suffering from a strange malady 'pon the edge of town. He almost made it here on his own, but he was bested by it before he could. I provided some healing, and he now appears to be much recovered, though he does profess to some confusion as to who he is.”
Bracken screwed up an eye, squinting his other as he pointedly aimed his gaze at Nathaniel. “Yer name?”
“Nathaniel G--” The man stopped, looking to his mother, whom he could see slightly shake her head in sympathy.
“He for some strange reason believes he's my son, Bracken. It is something left over from his affliction, but I am hoping it will pass with some rest.”
The dwarf walked up to Nathaniel and took in a loud breath through his nostrils. He had appeared to be about to scoff, when his face shifted to an expression of confusion. “Tha's off,” he said. “Ya does 'ave a smell like Nat'anyel. Old'r, fer sure, bu'...” The dwarf turned to Maribel. “'E may no' be yer boy, bu' 'e's from th' same bloo'line. No mistakin' tha'. No' 'is father?”
Dwarves can smell people?! This had never been something that Nathaniel had ever heard of, much less been aware of the skill in his old friend. And yet - even Nathaniel had to admit there was still so much about the dwarf that he did not know. By and by, it had only been last year that Bracken had even told the young man where he even came from...
Maribel studied Nathaniel then herself. “Now that you mention it, I do see something of the man in this one. I am surprised I had not seen it before. He's not Nathan's father, but he does bear a resemblance. It was only the one night, but I do now see the kinship.”
The woman's face brightened. “This must be why you knew of me and Nathan, though it is beyond me how you did. You must have come here looking for your... what?” Her brow knit in confusion. “What would he be to you then? Your nephew? Cousin?”
Nathaniel had been momentarily lost in the conversation, but suddenly he realized that he was expected to answer. He felt his face grow warm as he struggled inwardly for something to even say. “I swear to you,” he said at last. “I am who I say--”
Maribel's finger fell upon his lips again. “Hush, you're right. It is too much to ask of you so soon. It is clear you could not answer, even if you were of a mind to.”
Bracken grunted. “So wha' d'we call this one? Nat'anyel th' secon'?”
“Nate,” the man felt himself say, looking to Bracken sincerely. “You call me 'Nate'.”
Something in how Nathaniel had said the words startled Bracken, as his eyes grew wide a moment. Then the dwarf's stoic personality shoved that aside. “Close 'nough t' know yer no' 'er boy. Works fer me, I s'pose.”
In the back of Nathaniel's mind, he could recall the conversation he had once had with Bracken, about how he would rather have the dwarf call him “Nate”, because the dwarf's sounding out his name always sounded like the short man was calling him a flower. But that was not yet in this timeline, in this afterlife. Set and defined by his mother's memories, this would have been nearly a year before Nathaniel would make the request.
An arm snaked around Nathaniel's waist and the thin woman pulled him to her with a strength that belied her petite frame. “Welcome to Oaken Wood, Nate. You will be well cared for while you recover yourself. Will he not, Bracken?”
Bracken looked the newcomer up and down, his eyes resting quite firmly upon the hilt of the sword rising from behind Nathaniel's shoulder. “I don' know, Mar'bel. I don' much like th' look o' tha' sword...”
Maribel's head buried itself into Nathaniel's arm as her other hand snaked around his bicep. “He is a traveler through the Wildelands, Bracken. Would you have him travel without an armory?”
Bracken raised an eyebrow. “Yew don' 'ave a probl'm wit' a sword? An' a swor' like tha' one, i's more'n jus' a weap'n, I ken tell. Tha's a swor' o' th' gentry, if ever'n I saw one. Which makes this un eit'er a leg'cy 'r a thief who took i' from one.”
Nathaniel felt his face flush. “I am no thief, and if you had your right mind, you would know that. You know me better than I know myself most of the time!”
Bra
cken chuckled. “'Course yew'd no' know if'n yew were eit'er, an' yer words pre'y much prove tha', 'cause I know yew no' a' all. Ne'er knew ya, ne'er e'en saw ya.” Bracken grunted again, drawing it out into a low growl. Finally, he rolled his eyes and threw his arms into the air. “A'right, ya li'l woodsy witch, yew. He c'n stay. I'll go fix a room.”
Bracken turned without another word and began to stomp off to the front entrance, the easy swagger now gone from his walk.
“Thank you, Bracken!” called Maribel, releasing her hold on Nathaniel's arm long enough to wave after him. “You're a better man than you let anyone else see!”
Bracken bellowed a harsh laugh in response, and waved away the compliment brusquely without facing the two. A moment later, he disappeared into the building.
Maribel hugged herself to Nathaniel's side once more before letting him go. She looked up into his eyes, visibly trying to take in all that he was with her stare. “I don't know what it is about you, Nate,” she said, “but somehow, it seems the more I am close to you, the more I do not wish to let you go.”
Maribel blushed at this and took a step back. “Oh my, now that was not forward at all! Please, forgive me. I did not intend it as it sounded.”
The man smiled himself. “I would not have taken it for anything more than what I would always hope,” he said, reaching out and taking hold of her arms in his hands. “You see in me who I truly am to you, and I can only hope that you will come to see the truth of it.” He felt tears welling in his eyes again, but made no effort to hide them. “You have no idea how special this moment is to me, to have you here. And I want to share this time with you more than I even want to breathe right now.”
Maribel visibly blushed, and Nathaniel felt his own self-consciousness rise. “Not as it sounds. I'm not--”
“I understand,” said Maribel, bowing her head to hide her reddening cheeks. “It is not lust I feel, either. I cannot explain it. It just... overwhelms.”
The woman pulled back, folding her hands modestly in front of her. “I must go to meditate on this, seek guidance. Whatever this is, it is beyond my humble understandings and I would seek some clarity from the Gods, if I may.”
“Please, say a prayer to Dariel over Lendus or Charith, for I feel only he could bring truth to your heart over this.” The words shocked Nathaniel himself. He had never ascribed to any genuine faith in the Old Gods, even though he had been raised to believe in them. He had even scorned the Pantheon for their invasion of his peaceful life in order to drag him into their divine war with the New Order. Yet his words to his mother this day were as sincere and genuine as he had ever been. In this moment, at least, he had absolute faith that Dariel would share the truth with his mother's soul.
Maribel's eyes darted to Nathaniel's once more, but this time there was a registered look of alarm in them. “As comforting as it is that you would offer respect to the Old Gods,” she said, “why would you even suggest that I would offer prayer to the Master and Mistress of Mortality for this kind of dilemma? What is it you know, strange Nate, that would inspire you to even mention Charith?”
Nathaniel cursed at himself inwardly. His mother did know she was dead, and so she would not know that her spirit dwelled within Charith's domain. To mention the God and Goddess of Life and Death would only upset someone who was a devoutly faithful person, live or dead. But to suggest to a druidess of Lendus, God and Goddess of Bounty and Famine, who was the deity who oversaw the natural order within the realm of the living, that she would have even considered praying to the deity of life and death was near blasphemous.
“This...” Nathaniel let go of Maribel and swept his left arm out across the whole of Oaken Wood. “This... world. It's not all it appears. I don't know how else to say it. But I thought... with what I know... well, I thought perhaps you would pray to Charith under the circumstances. It was a foolish thought.”
Concern flashed in Maribel's eyes. “You know something, Nate. You know something dreadful, don't you?”
The man could not form the words. Yes, he knew something dreadful - he knew his mother would die in a mere handful of days. He knew that though she had no memory of her death, he knew she walked the path which would lead her there and she was likely to live through the terror of dying once again so very, very soon.
Nathaniel's need to speak was taken from him however by a hand that fell upon his shoulder. He shrugged it away instinctively, not wishing to look away from the woman he cherished more than life itself. The hand fell again on him, this time more firmly, though still not with enough force to be a threat.
Nathaniel turned on the new arrival, ready to scream, to drive away the intruder so that he could have this one last moment with his mother before he would be forced to tell her what he knew. For how did one refuse the wish of one's deceased mother?
But what Nathaniel saw froze him in place instead. He knew this man standing before him. The other man was certainly not someone who was dead - for this man could not possibly have died. He was a man who could not possibly be dead - for he did not live as normal men did, he lived in reverse. Which meant whatever death awaited him... Nathaniel's head began to hurt trying to imagine how death would affect such a man.
“You are not dead,” whispered the man Nathaniel knew only as the Eternal, leaning in close enough that only the other man himself could hear. “But we must speak. If we do not, everyone you have ever known may well be very soon.”
Chapter 9
Chaos. That was the only word that came to Avery's mind. Utter and pure chaos.
Goodsmith was gone, obliterated along with Two. The girl who had been his murderer was gone as well, vanished as though she had never been. That should have been enough - but then the dwarf had gone insane, swinging at the crowd with his great axe. Avery had stepped in between the stout demi-human with his own sword, but it had done little but slow the enraged dwarf. It had not been until Brea - the priestess-who-was-not-a-priestess - had stepped forward with her own magic that Bracken had finally been overcome. But even with the threats gone, the people of Oaken Wood had gone into panic.
Surprisingly, the swordplay had not been what had set everyone off. One would think that if anything would send the crowds screaming in fear, it would have been three swords and a great cleaving axe swinging about in their midst. Avery was sure that in his former life, he would have been leading the charge to get away from it all.
The crowd mingling here however had only stood around gawking at the display of power. They had not run - at best, they had just stepped back a little to make room. One would think they saw these kinds of fights every day.
No, it was not the death-by-steel flinging about madly that had set them off - it was Brea's magic. Once the woman had demonstrated she could still wield it, the crowd had flown into a panic. All about his head, Avery could hear the caterwauling of fearfully small minds rushing all about. One flex of magical muscle, and the people had been reduced to mewling babes, fearful that the bottle they had been nursing from had inexplicably run dry.
Everyone knew that Brea was a former priestess of Imery, a woman made powerless by her Goddess abandoning her and all of her fellow clerics. Brea's downfall had become incorporated into the myths that had begun to spring up around the so-called divine woman, the one whose body was spared by the Old Gods. Brea's lack of magic had become a symbol that the various versions of the tale were held up against for truth - if Imery were not overcome by the Old Gods, the people would say, why then is her servant made powerless and forced to live among them?
Of course, none of these false prophets even considered that the former priestess' reasons for being here in Oaken Wood had nothing to do with the divine woman. Well, at least not directly. Avery may not have been the all-knowing person he would have others believe him to be, but he was not blind to love when he saw it. Brea loved Nathaniel Goodsmith, and whether he returned her affections of not, she intended to stay wherever he might be. And for the moment, that place was Oaken Wood.<
br />
Well, it had been Oaken Wood, Avery amended.
Yet here - in the presence of everyone - Brea had wielded magic. Magic powerful enough to fell a berserk dwarf at the height of his rage. To the masses of people milling about, these people who made up their own versions of events to satisfy their own self-serving whims, this could really only mean one thing.
It just took one person in the crowd to shout, “Imery has returned!” That was all it took to send the crowd rushing about in panic. It seemed every person had drawn the same conclusion: If Imery were back from her self-imposed exile, she would not be happy with anyone who had taken advantage of her absence. In effect, woe be it to anyone who had reveled in the Goddess' absence!
Avery was fairly certain that was not what was going on. He had not had a great deal of associations with priests in general, but he had seen a fair amount of clerical magic. Especially in the last several months as he attempted to move about the countryside unnoticed, he had made a point of seeking out healers and other worldly messengers of the New Order who practiced their magic openly. And there was one critical element missing from this display of power: Brea had not used any arcane words.
To a man, each and every individual Avery had ever witnessed using magic in their Gods' name had used some kind of cantation before their magic had effect. Whether it was the laying on of hands to heal, or a fireworks display to prove a preacher's connection to the divine, each and every one of them had spoken some form of indecipherable language before they used their magic. Most masked this by claiming it to be a form of prayer to the Gods, but Avery sensed there was more to it.
Since Avery had become an instrument of the Nine, he had an affinity for magic that went beyond his simple mortal understanding. Somehow, he could now feel when magic potential existed. It had always been a point of curiosity for him that he could never feel potential for magic before these mysterious words, but afterwards it would be akin to lightning crackling through the air. The words provided access to the magic - of that much, Avery was certain. Whatever they were, they were how these mortals accessed divine power. Without those words, the power simply did not reside within the mortals wielding it.
