Psychopomp

She was my best friend. The light of my life.

The mother’s sobbing words repeat in Ewain’s mind as he sits alone now in the Mission Armory. Surrounded by racks and shelves of weapons and accessories illuminated by the soft orange glow emitting between the panels of the wall, his thoughts see still the hospital room. The gray-white walls in which she was a terminal captive held no consolation in its color save for the yellow and purple of wilting flowers next to her. I love you, mama, handwritten onto a note that dangled from its side.

The nurse, so nervous she never once looked into his eyes, asked him to leave. Despite his pleas to the mother to tell him of the daughter, how she lived, her last moments with her, her grief and sickly lungs left her with little breath to do more than sob. When he stepped into that room, when her passive eyes beheld his, the hew of reality struck so instantly into her face. A fever dream it all must have been to her until that moment, when his presence, a Psychopomp’s presence, extinguished the sapling ember of hope for the hopeless. Mementos were all she wanted of him, read the nurse from a note written before his entrance. Pictures, dolls, notebooks, journals from her apartment. They are there. They must be.

Now Ewain sits alone, elbows upon knees, fingers interlaced before his lips. His mind desolate within its recess, upon the stones of a dark water’s surface. From one to another and another he cautiously steps, as each stone and the ripples cast from it reflect into his soul. Upon one echoes hope, another ambition. There is love, joy, agony, despair. Memories are all we take to the Beyond, Ewain thinks, and how hard evil tries to turn reminiscence into poison.

Ever closer the moment comes. He must extract Norma now from the Trauma Site, from the evil so attracted to it and now pervades it as a cancer. The entity made manifest so long ago when man discovered malice and treachery. In this deep breath before the plunge, he always pondered upon what this all meant for the world forsaken by the Ichorians over a thousand years ago.

Before the Betrayal, when gods walked with faithful man, this world knew no murder or sin. Every death was blessed, and every soul given passage to paradise Beyond. Yet, when the Great Traitor spilt the ichor and sought its usurpation, the essence of the gods spread like black fertilizer through the land. Spilt ichor merged with sin to conceive scions which fed upon man’s every temptation and chased the fertile suffering into death.

Left to fester, those demons turned tortured souls into their own brood and vessels. The essence of an Ichorian’s child, meant to be reunited with parent in death, now forever lost. Millions gone and warped root deep into this world, and the Psychopomps now can only stem an ever-growing tide one by one.

Honor the body. Soma.

Honor the soul. Psyche.

“Morrius, great lord,” Ewain closes his eyes and whispers, “give to me the strength to excise this site and Deliver to your dominion the soul of one of your children. Witness my actions, judge me Worthy.” He remains still, letting the prayer rest in silence.

“Many apologies, Psychopompos,” a soft voice comes into the room, opening his eyes. The distinct bald head of a frayman peaks through the door and comes in once he sees Ewain raise his head. “I’ve brought you an Ashwood card.” He extends the small wooden piece with two hands and head bowed.

Ewain receives the card with two hands, “Thank you,” and stepping backwards a few steps, the frayman turns and leaves him be. “Ichorians be with you, Psychopompos,” he bids before closing the door.

With a click, he inserts the card into the hilt of the Mermera and stands. No more delays. He must prepare.

By the mahogany grips, he draws the Keresta Hand Cannon Mk. V, removes the hexagonal cylinder from the sleek, squared frame and comes before one of the tables. Dozens of shining, elongated cartridges shaped like batteries of different metallic colors sit atop the table. He ponders on which he needs, how many, what load order to give them. The entities of the site will be corporeal, no doubt numerous and matured by now.

First must be two of the brightest scarlet cartridges: fully charged incendiary projectiles worth five percussions each. Next two platinum cartridges, each worth a single shot of a nail with barbed point and clawed head. Finally, two matte ebony cartridges, packed with one concussive shot of razor pellets each and potent enough to blast a flesh cavity six inches wide.

He takes a deep breath. Should be sufficient. Remember to keep it simple, stupid. Ewain echoed this to himself every time he made the critical choice of a load order. Never leave a chamber empty, but never overcomplicate. The inclination was to take as much as possible, sacrifice capacity for versatility, yet the Chapter Masters and his own experience bemoaned this. A Psychopomp must keep his load order simple and easy to remember. He prepares more black cylinders with the same loadout and snaps each one to the left side of his belt until there are three upon it and one in the Keresta.

“Red, silver, black, red, silver, black,” he repeats, clicking the gold thumb pedal on the side of the Keresta’s frame with each utterance. A thin light on the weapon’s top strap changes hue with each click and rotation of the cylinder. “Red, silver, black, red, silver, black.” He remembered everything better the more he said them aloud.

The Keresta nestles snug into the weathered gun belt around his waist, its dark leather engraved with a vine-wrapped spear in one spot and a flaming eagle in another. Sticks bundled around the shaft of an axe sit upon one end, a blacksmith’s hammer on the other. All were chiseled into the leather by the tanners of other Order Missions, done meticulous and proud, and much space upon the belt still sat empty. Gems of sapphire, ruby, and amethyst, some cracked and scuffed, others sparkling and whole, stud the top and bottom in incomplete lines.

Support devices sit upon the table adjacent. Oils and ordnance, wires and pharmas lie arranged in wait.

The trauma site is in a multi-tiered building, he thinks, recalling what he saw in the Sensory Eval and the Consul’s reports. Narrow corridors, scores of rooms. One tube of concussion disks, he twists a dial on the exterior of the gray metal tube, set to 10 psi trigger and one second fuse delay. He snaps it to his belt.

Cannot create fire in the building…need alternative cremation source. Igni oil. The small metal vial with an engraved flame snaps onto the rear right side of his belt.

On the opposite side he secures a small axe whose ivory shaft contrasts against the jagged obsidian blade that glistens like polished glass with immolation oil he applied to it. He then grabs a solid blue cloth wrap and folds and wraps it around his neck, and a silver cylinder which fastens to the belt.

He sheds his surcoat in favor of just the armored vest and Kevlar-woven pauldrons, bracers, and greaves, a decision that Art protests. What point is a premium quality, steel-fiber coat handcrafted by master tailor-smiths, his partner asked in disbelief, if you do not wear it. Ewain dismisses his concerns and stands now in apprehensive quiet.

Norma’s face, smiling and prepared for the world, assume his thoughts and focus. Her faint cheekbones, her straight, petite nose with its pointed tip. The widows peak hairline. Soft, angular jawline. Attached earlobes, small mole along the left side of the jaw.

Honor the body. Soma.

Honor the soul. Psyche.