Psychopomp

To the Keep, nothing else of the city stands peer. Where all other wards are starry islands amidst an ashen sea, the Keep champions itself a continental nova. Its lights stretch from the misty Ethereal Mountains in the east to the vast Hellas Sea in the west. Jagged summits of twinkling spires peak over the gargantuan Appian Walls. Dozens of train and carriage lines flow in and out of massive, pointed arched gates, each flanked by tiered towers and roaring Aurelian lions. Unique stained-glass portraits helm each gate, bearing images of an eagle, of fire, lightning, and more.

Clouds of slate smoke coalesce together from the numerous trains which charge to and fro, absorbing the waves of kaleidoscopic lights that radiate from the Keep like murky prisms. With the guiding blue light of the carriage line before him, the pastel palette of white, green, and pink in the clouds, and emerald-gold radiance of brazier-cradled flames at the gates, entrance into the Keep never failed to achieve wondrous awe. What a splendor, Ewain muses as he always does, it must have been when the Ichorians still called it home.

Hail the Keep

Exuberant letters read above the gate he approaches.

The Holy Key

Where Once Divinity Abided

A lavish rose’s likeness traces itself in the stained-glass above this gate. The Iratus gate, he notes.

Building upon paneled building are stacked inside. Expansive lumber walkways anchor around them in an array of vertical tiers and mesmerizing steel trusses. People stir and loiter through every level. They indulge themselves at various food stands boasting exaggerated, improvised displays, at establishments crammed together from all sides as their illuminated mascots vie for luminary supremacy. Gondolas, carriages, and trains flow through the narrow corridors, over and beneath long, cabled bridges where shoddily erected shacks and quarters now tightly congest.

From this travel tier high above the masses, Ewain looks down and sees bustling crowds of people, vessels, and lights streaming by like parts of a hive. Up, between the passing spires, he sees the pristine, walled confines of the Elysian Quarters bathed in the soothing glow of potent gas lamps. From the south, he sees the Dionysian Gardens where flowers and vines drape spacious, squared buildings of white and blue, and vivacious blossoms clothe the cedar bannisters that imitate the curves of seductive, unadorned nymphs. People sit upon broad balconies, dressed fine in dresses of silk and suits of cashmere, their faces lit by bountiful candles as they feast and wine and listen to swooning swing bands.

Reigning above this all, perched upon the Palatine Hill, is the vanilla-shaded dominion of the Palatine Palace. Its dense walls are anchored with endless towers cut with murder holes and crowned with tapered ramparts. Vines that bloom white and indigo petals blanket it all. Mighty banners large enough to wrap the King’s bed undulate across the walls, a shining diamond chalice with mighty white wings and a laurel wreath upon its rim woven into the violet threads. Flying buttresses wing the elegant palace’s steepled vermillion body, propping up its cloud-caressing arches and crests.

While Ewain often sought quiet in the daunting recesses of an active rotation, once he made it through one alive and home beckoned, he told Art, as he does now, to deactivate the carriage’s noise barrier. Hearing the cacophony of the districts they pass through: the bombastic music of trumpets, trombones, and saxophones, the blended, indiscernible mess of conversation, the screeches and careens of gondolas and trains comforts him. All feel like life whispering sweet desire into his ear, asking him to stroll hither into its bed. Its seduction now is solace instead of dissonance, a reminder of what he has instead of what might be lost.

With every return, Art enjoyed offering what he proudly called the Parleys of the Peons, and he amusingly offers them now.

“The blonde spectacled gentleman to the north,” he points out, a particle of the Corsair window flickering to highlight the man in question, “on his knees in front of…Waylon’s Wenches, claims to be a physician and is vehemently trying to offer physicals for…physicals. Hmm.”

“An entrepreneur,” Ewain adds.

Another particle of a different window blinks, “To the northeast, the elderly woman with the puffy white curls is profaning anyone who walks by her stall without so much as browsing her goods.”

“A poet, then.”

Art sporadically continues this as they near Apeiron.

Why his partner does this, why he started doing it, Ewain did not know, and he never knew if his partner expected a reply or simply enjoyed hearing himself talk as he was apt to do. So, the young Psychopomp adds a few more accompanying barbs then listens quietly, tuning his partner out to focus on what else they pass by.

“If you do not possess Stygian insurance, do not permit yourself to go one night further without it!” Yells a well-manicured man in his plaid suit and bowler hat in front of his store, “For yourself and your families, guarantee Deliverance! So, you may pass knowing you will all meet across the sandy shore!”

Please do not travel alone! Advises the voice of a nearby radio. If you must go out, do so with another. If anyone has any information about a Vanished person, please contact your local constabulary!

Gunshots crack from the congested shacks of a nearby bridge, with panicked screams following. Sirens will no doubt ring soon, and a Psychopomp to arrive shortly after.

“We’re home, Psychopompos,” Art informs.

Modest stone walls partition it from the surrounding blocks of buildings and homes who sacrifice their vertical majesty for proximity to the enigmatic Stygian River. Nestling upon a promontory on the river’s banks, the expansive grounds accommodate many structures with rich, green grass carpeted between each. He sees the golden dome of the Vigil, the triangular, obsidian stones that precede the vaulted Antemora and Sancta Morrium.

Breathtaking Ashwood trees shield most areas from any potential prying eyes with their heraldic canopies. Not even a new moon’s night could suppress the trees’ white trunks and azure plumes from shimmering as wake and sea.

Nearest the river sit the shaved stone walls of the villas, a vast and tall arrangement of polygonal units in stepped, crescent formations that convex toward the waters in tapered tiers. From afar they always reminded Ewain of halved beehives, and in sheer size they are without comparison in the Order’s hallowed grounds.

A solitary rail branches from the city’s web of transit lines to guide them to what he and his brothers called the Harbor. From its steel-braced wooden gates every Psychopomp embarks into the sea of uncertainty, and to here, the graced and fortunate return.

The gates creak bone-rattlingly deep for their entrance, permitting them through the dark tunnel to the craggy bay inside, seven levels tall with carriages sporadically docked throughout. Spheres of dingy orange light envelop each dock and its maintenance area, radiating from hanging glass lanterns.

Up and up the carriage goes, metal crunching and echoing with every floor ascended. Level six, dock fourteen, and upon its jetty stands a young man half Ewain’s twenty-five years, his head shaved clean. Dutiful as always, Ewain grins. The lad never fails to punctually greet him on his returns, any time of day or night. He wears the blue mantle of the Scutarii, squires to the Psychopomps, and not a single wrinkle or frayed thread sullies it.

“The young one never slacks on his appearance,” Art notes almost sadly, “and he’s your squire.”

“You are right. I shall enlighten him soon enough,” Ewain remarks as he grabs the Ashwood chest from the center console. Blue bolts of light chase each other across its surface.

“Lovely,” Art hesitates as Ewain reaches for the glass panel for his card, “Shall I see you in the next rotation?”

Ewain’s hand stops shy of pulling the card, “Maybe. I have not decided yet if I like you or not.”

“Then I will insist you assess how sharp your judgment is. If you find you do not like me, then I will argue your judgment is poor.”

A short-lived smile cracks through Ewain’s demeanor, “Perhaps.”

“Next rotation, then,” his partner continues.

“Only time will tell,” and so he pulls the card and places it into the slot behind his right ear. He feels the gentle click of it locking in but stops shy of full insertion.

Subtle whirs of cogs and hydraulics resonate in the Harbor, easy on the ears and entrancing as a lullaby on the mind.

“Psychopompos,” the boy futilely tries to muffle his enthusiasm as he bows his head, “I’m glad to see you returned alive.”

“Scutarius,” Ewain rubs the boy’s pale bald head, finger picking at one prickling spot, “what is this?”

The young man straightens himself, rubbing and searching for the infraction on his shiny scalp. “I shave thoroughly every night, Psychopompos. Every night.”

“Apparently we must go over the definition of ‘thorough.’” Ewain shakes his head, “If you speak truthfully, then you are slipping, boy. Do we need to review the basic of basics or have Master Dougall scalp you?”

“I’d much prefer to avoid Master Dougall’s blade if possible, sir.”

Ewain loosens his posture and even shows a grin, “Tend the carriage proper and rectify that obscenity on your head, then we shall forget this grievous error.”

His young squire bows his head in dutiful acknowledgment, “I shall be better, sir,” before stepping to look inside the carriage. Not a word comes from him, just complete stillness as he stares inside.

“Something on your mind, Scutarius?” Ewain asks as he peers over the boy’s shoulder into the cabin. Scarce a surface did not bear the blood of someone or something. Equipment lies scattered throughout the seats and floorboards. Stained and crusted clothing and surcoat are strewn about. Rarely did he make anything easier for the boy, as his own mentor never did for him.

“No, Psychopompos,” the boy replies.

“Do not lie or omit your thoughts to myself or anyone else,” Ewain emphasizes, “Look me in the eyes, speak your mind.”

“I do not want to complain, sir. There’s no dignity in it.” His squire’s big blue eyes always disarmed with the naiveté they radiate, truly reflecting the shining youth of his face.

“Nor is there in being afraid to express your opinions.”

“Your carriages always have some….” he sifts through words in his head.

“Filth? Call it as you see it, Scutarius,” Ewain amps up the intensity in his voice, curious to see how the young boy will react. Do not overthink this, he urges.

“…’Filth,’ yes, sir. More than the other Psychopomps by what I gather from my peers. This,” he looks back to the rot-lined cabin, “is more than every time prior, but I will get it done, sir, and done proper.”

“Do you detest having to work harder than your peers? Getting less sleep? More duties?”

With straight posture and a concentrated effort to not shy away from the prying gaze of Ewain’s solar eyes, the young squire answers, “No, Psychopompos. You do more cases than the others, go deeper into your rotation, return with many more wounds…. I feel as your Scutarius it would be unbecoming to complain when you do not.”

The lad meant his words, Ewain can tell, he always did. A slight glinting catches his attention, that of a nearby glass bottle upon the nearby workbench where maintenance equipment and supplies are stored. Honeyed white liquid filled it to the neck. Sweet milk. The lad never failed to bring a bottle with him. “Have you been keeping to your training? Like we discussed?”

“Yes, Psychopompos,” the squire answers confidently, “physical conditioning with Master Clymenes after my daily duties and instruction, then combat training with Master Aneides in the afternoons to dusk.”

“Where are your bruises?” Ewain’s eyes scrutinize the boy’s face, finding none. “Certainly made sure to get none on your pretty face,” he veils his jest with faux solemnity, “Who are you trying to impress? An Asclepia? One of the Kores?”

“None but the Psychopomps, sir,” the young boy swiftly shows the bruises on his arms and legs.

“That is all?”

“There are some also on my chest, sir,” he gingerly taps a spot over his pectoral.

Ewain taps the spot with just enough force to yield a grimace from the boy. “There?”

Stifling a grunt, the boy nods, “Yes, Psychopompos.”

Tough young lad, Ewain thinks with a charmed grin he hides under a stoic demeanor, “We will resume our training on the morrow, understood?”

“Yes, Psychopompos.”

“We will not go easy just because you have some scratches.”

“Of course not, Psychopompos. I rather enjoy the pain.”

It will unfortunately be something the young boy will have to grow accustomed to. Tenderly, Ewain lifts the Ashwood Box before himself with two hands and closes his eyes, “Death closes all,” he mutters, “Though much is taken, much yet abides. Depart this world for one of felicity Beyond.” He opens his eyes and extends the box to his squire, “To Morr.”

Lowering himself to bent knee, head bowed, and arms raised with reverence, the young boy repeats the words, enunciating each word sharp and sincerely. “To Morr,” he concludes, then prudently receives the box, slowing his breathing, tightening his fingers.

“Scutarius,” Ewain says before the boy turns to leave, “there is a box in the carriage, carved with flowers and birds. Have it transported and secured in my quarters.”