Psychopomp

Quiet loneliness shrouds the inside of Ewain’s home, the utter silence and darkness when he opens the door promises both vacancy and unknown. Velvety light lingers ahead, across the shadowy chasm of the room, beyond the thick panes of broad glass doors, calling him hither. To the balcony, it beckons, laden with a white rocking chair, simple round table, small hearth, and all framed by solid glass rails. A string of elegant white lights shaped like fireflies hangs from the canopy while vertical arrangements of various plants sit upon the sides.

Twisting a glowing valve next to the door, darkness fades to banishment by the soft white glow of lantern lamps attached to metal pipes and cords of bulbs hung throughout. A modest timber and metal abode greets him, clean cedar floors, distressed white tables, a small brick fireplace against the wall with a bearskin rug and deep leather couch before it, with a dark figure seated in it. The bedroom doorway is to his left and the kitchen tucked to the corner to his right.

He sheds himself of his coat, not saying a word or shooting a glance at the figure on the couch. Instead Ewain proceeds to his room, twisting another valve that brightens the lamp inside. A simple quilt-covered bed sits centered against the wall, a plaque of a raven hung above, and adjacent to the bed a stack of books upon the nightstand with the bathroom door nearby.

So blindingly bright his eyes burn when he looks in the mirror at himself, like blazing neutron stars dispensing light through the universe. There was validity in people’s talk of the stupefying effects of a Psychopomp’s eyes, how just a peer led to being caught in the undertow of their depths, the things they have seen.

Behind him the scorched husk emerges and stares. Ewain reflects its gaze in the mirror, into the sockets, showing no unsettlement at all as a freezing tingle tickles his spine. Opening the medicine cabinet, he grabs a small plastic bottle no bigger than his thumb and applies two drops to each eye. In the mirror, he witnesses the glow of his eyes subdue to near timidity and with every blink the specter behind him diminishes more and more until all that remains is air.

The chill dissipates save for an infinitesimal remnant, a faint…throb which slightly rattles the hairs of the neck. For a moment, he stares where the husk was a moment ago…expecting it to rematerialize but sees only veiled emptiness.

Grabbing the top book from the stack next to his bed and a fountain pen, he sees a golden pocket watch among them, scorched and scratched. He touches it briefly before heading to the balcony. Above the fireplace are two urns of golden glass crowned with a twin-headed black eagle and on the table is the box his Scutarius delivered much earlier.

Please burn me, reads a note written by a feminine hand familiar to him.

He takes it onto the balcony with him.

Warm, welcoming radiance emanates ahead, like the bask of a fire’s shimmer against the dark. A constant acoustic plays, that of a flowing river never to be challenged in its babble and song. Upon the round table sits a brass radio, and when he flips it on, soft keys of a piano sing their final notes.

He places the box next to the hearth then retires to the rocking chair with pen and book.

Good evening to you nightwalkers in the Keep, a thoroughly gentle and distinguished tenor voice speaks from the radio, I hope you aren’t getting into any trouble out there.

The Stygian River cuts through the city, not a single building even daring proximity to its wondrous banks of white sand and shining stones. All content themselves to settle behind white stone walls that guard both sides and stretch the length of the river.

You all know the story by now, and while I cannot see you or know your names, please don’t let me read them as updates to the Vanished or newly deceased.

People crowd through the arched gates spaced every few hundred meters along the walls, and clutch so tearfully in their hands little wooden boxes, each one different from the other in some manner. Some bear carvings of sentiment, are pinned with flowers and letters, are painted with a spectrum of colors and portraits, with nary a one left plain. All encase urns of different sizes.

I forbid you to be alone out there. Find someone, I don’t care if it’s some questionable tramp who may rob you in your sleep or a sleazy merchant whose product don’t match his pitch.

At the river’s rushes, all make sure to be careful, never putting themselves in a position to fall in or be splashed. They offer final words, last farewells, bittersweet tears to the boxed remains, then ignite the fabric balloons tethered by twine, so when they take flight, they remain affixed to their box. Be with the Ichorians, Beyond, they all say and will say, as the boxes are given to the river’s currents and float toward the mighty, towering chasm ahead.

Ewain opens his book to blank pages and begins to write.

Um, this just in, folks…. The voice through the radio drops to a dreadful pitch. Wow…uh…so we’ve just learned that Meredith Trachtenberg, the famous dancer you all surely know, has been found murdered. We’re awaiting more details, but numerous reports are confirming that she has been killed. The site has already been secured by a local Consul, and now we just await a Psychopomp to attend before anymore will be disseminated. Ichorians be with her and her family. Um, the man clearly searches for words, it seems even the patricians are being afflicted by the murderous plague sweeping the city. Until we learn more, however, let’s descend into the night with a soft crooner, this one from a rising star here in the Keep, Miss Davi Taea.

A beautiful, bittersweet lullaby introduces itself with an angelic feminine voice, riding upon the notes of piano and saxophone in entrancing harmony.

Thousands of lights float upon the Stygian, disappearing into the misty dark of the chasm of the Ethereal Mountains. The tears of the living faithfully feed the waters of the dead, for every day and night, thousands gather upon the banks to Deliver thousands more to the currents. To bid them blessing on their journey to the Eye and Beyond, and deep inside they all wonder when they may see them again.

For all die.

Every birth is a condemnation to an end.

Ichor Invicta.