Psychopomp

Down here there is only disjointing chaos. Endless people, sounds, and lights clash against each other to conjure a sensory maelstrom. Try to see, hear, smell, or feel it all at once and in a moment, one found themselves petrified. Around and around they would spin until falling on the planks or vomiting onto an unfortunate neighbor. Locals knew to focus on one thing or nothing at all as they gather on walkways or take passage upon a tram or gondola.

From the back of the tram where Ewain sits, he simply focuses on the sultry swing music swooning from the speakers inside. Were it not for the burning dryness tickling the back of his throat, the melody of the brass instruments and tranquil vocalist may have put him to sleep. Somehow, he always forgot how stimulant inhalants dried his throat until the moment he took one, and now it reduces him to frequent sips of water from his metal flask to keep from coughing.

Part of him wants to look out the window to observe all the lights and people, yet his eyes blaze bright now so instead he pulls the brow of his bolero hat low and gaze even lower. For half an hour now, he must have stared at the button of his coyote tan peacoat, making sure it covers the Keresta strapped to his belt.

At the front of the tram, a small wooden food bar draws most of the attention and excitement of those aboard. Not a single barstool is left vacant as their occupants salivate over the confectionary delights before them, caramel apples, custard fudge, glazed pecans, and more. The aroma wafts throughout and even beyond the tram to entice any not already seduced.

He feels the tram bank left and the colorful lights that shine onto his coat reduce to a wan white. The smoothened thump, thump, thump of the tracks grows sharper and hollower, bucking the car with each recitation.

“These damned emigres have ruined the bridges in this district,” a passenger complains. “Why don’t they go someplace where they don’t create such horrid obscenities?”

“Go where?” another gripes, “the whole city has the same problem. They all come and never leave. There’s not enough space.”

“There’s plenty outside the city,” the man offers with a bite of his candy apple.

“The Ostermarks?” Bewilderment punctuates the other’s question. “You must not have been in the city that long if you think anyone that goes into the Ostermarks will stay there. The Levians are out there.”

“I thought there were cities and villages out there?”

“The Osterholds and their subjugates, but there are constant stories of how they’re besieged. It’s made those people barbarous, I’ve heard.”

“Perfect, then. More numbers for their ranks to keep the Levians from getting any closer to the city.”

Peaking just enough to peer out the window next to him, Ewain looks upon the shoddily erected shacks outside. Warped planks of wood and salvaged tin sheets bemoan the buildings’ haphazard construction, with every home condensed into a pile of homes. Over their crests, the corridor the bridge gaps can be seen, and numerous people cram along the sides to avoid the oncoming tram.

Clamor rings among a crowd outside, two men brutally punch, kick, and slam each other on the ground. The head of one is thrown against the ground so forcefully it cracks open.

“If they’re going to be here in the city, the Keep especially, then they should at least act civilized,” the passenger comments as he now tries a handful of glazed pecans.

The man next to him turns to catch the fight before the car moves them beyond view, “Perhaps they’ll kill each other. Population control.”

“Yeah, well, last thing we need is for the Psychopomps to be distracted with this garbage.”

“What difference does it make? In the end they only care that we keep what we have. They will never purify anything beyond the walls.”

“That’s not what I heard. I heard the King will hear the petitions of several patricians who want them to undertake another Purification Campaign.”

An amused laugh is all the response the man gets.

Ahead the spectral illumination reclaims them and the tracks their subdued thumping.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the tram operator summons over the speakers, “we are now approaching Heron and Egret.”

When the tram pulls to its platform upon the bustling walkway and unloads its passengers, Ewain is among them, the last to step off.

His destination is only a minute’s walk forward, its glaring neon sign already calling to him with blocked candy red letters.

RINEHEART

A wide-open veranda juts from the ground floor with enveloped terraces above for three stories, each and every one host to some festive gathering. Wooden mugs slam against beer-soaked wooden tables in hearty revelry, shoes and high heels pound and click against beaten decks to raucous jazzy tunes, and needy, revved patrons vie for the bartender’s service. Static charged alcohol and perfume loiter to build their potency. Barrels branded with their provenance stack against the wall behind the bar on the far side of the ground floor. Banners bearing a black twin-headed eagle against a golden field swim through the saturated air as emerald embers from hearths lodged throughout sail about as fireflies. A small band occupies the stage in the corner and above are the squared rings of many balconies with lofty views of their performance.

“Hey!” A young waitress waltzes toward him with a charming smile, “I was wondering if we would see you.”

“Well,” Ewain grunts as he pushes his brim up just enough to look at her, “wonder no longer.”

With a tilt of her head, she swings her helix raven black hair aside to expose supple ivory skin and lounge-worthy collarbones that peak just above the ruffles of her sage blouse. “Now I’m wondering what the hell happened to you.”

“I presume you would be used to this visage by now.”

“I wonder it every time I see your face, Ewain. Will you tell me this time? Hmm?”

“Perhaps after I have something to eat and drink. I may be more amenable on a nourished stomach.”

“Then let me nourish you,” she smiles, “know what you would like already?”

“Actually-.”

“Wait,” her finger sits on her lips until a thought formulates words, “let me guess, beef sausage steak, two fried eggs, and some roasted potatoes?”

“I shall make a toast to your astuteness, Victoria.” Ewain offers humbly.

Satisfaction brings a smug smile on her tender face and alights her jade eyes, “And to think I was going to be disappointed had you not shown. Your table and usual guest are upstairs, as always. Oh, any ideas what he might like?”

He ponders for a moment, “Any fresh baklava tonight?”

“Actually, I believe so. I’ll grab some for you.”

“And a toast to your devotion.”

“Three mugs, then? Einwalt stouts?”

“Are those your favorite?”

“They are.” A teeth-bearing smile follows her reply, and her shapely pale leg extends toward him, rippling the white skirt that sweeps just above her knees.

“Then, no,” Ewain cuts sharp, “Just waters. Put a rush on it, too,” he shoos her with a devious grin to her vocal chagrin then proceeds upstairs, pulling his hat back over his eyes.

Flickering hearths and privacy booths line the upper balconies, every occupied one indicated by iron-cast lanterns hung upon jutting hooks. His booth sits upon the second floor at the corner of the balcony with its lantern perched and an unimpeded sight of the performance stage.

A man awaits him, blonde hair immaculately combed and parted and his mustache trimmed with only the utmost care. His thin lips wear the bushy crown with pointed ends with pride. When his dark olive eyes catch Ewain, they turn to his watch with disapproval. “Had you kept me waiting any longer, I would be dead.”

Removing his hat and combing his own messy gilded hair back, Ewain drops into the opposite seat with a chuckle, “I fail to see an issue with that.”

“Of course not with those eyes,” The man stares into them, studying the texture and shade, “I will never get used to them, and yet I cannot even remember what they used to look like.”

“Well, I am stuck with these. What color they were before will never come back, so does it matter now?”

The man plants his elbows on the table, leans forward, “They are part of your heritage, little brother, part of our family. It unequivocally does matter.” He sits back, “and mother would be so disappointed.”

“Furious, more like, Urian,” Ewain corrects.

“She nearly beat me to death because she thought I had ruined your eyes, you remember?”

A broad, nostalgic smile comes across Ewain’s gold-bearded face, “Fondly. You and I had gotten into a fight over…” he knocks on his head, “what the hell was it?”

Urian shares in his brother’s expression, “Over father’s pocket watch, the one that he constantly reminded us had been in the family for generations. Solid gold, timeless, storied, coveted, like our family, he would joke,” he chuckles.

“Yes,” Ewain shakes his head as the memory gains clarity, “we both wanted it so badly. He said whoever was strongest would get it, and I knew that would be you. He watched us fight, and when you won, I was so upset I showed mother the black eye and busted cheek you gave me and told her you struck me across the face, near my eyes, with that pocket watch. I knew she would whip you thoroughly.”

“You were a devilish, foul little imp back then.”

“When she found out, she whipped me senseless like you would a little imp.” The smile holds its place on Ewain’s face.

“And you deserved every lash,” Urian nods, “that woman could take on anyone. Even your Order would stand no chance.”

Suddenly three wooden mugs are placed on the table between them. Dark, frothing liquid laps at the brims, runs down their sides.

“What is this?” Ewain points at the mugs as he scrutinizes the liquid, “This damn well better not be the water.” He then looks at Victoria, her body squared to him with her delicate hands planted on her shapely hips.

“They’re not,” she smugly replies, mocking Ewain’s serious tone and baritone voice.

“They are not what I ordered.”

“They are what you’re getting.” She moves her hands to the edge of the table and leans toward him, “When an order is punctuated with a ‘shooing,’” she recreates his action with her hand, “as though you’re speaking to some shitting pigeon, I take it as a joke.”

“Oh, I was being deadly serious,” Ewain attempts to keep a straight face, but a corner of his lips betrays him.

“And so am I. Come on, I so admirably contend with your shit every week, and you’ve never had trouble getting this table, have you? Name me one instance, and I’ll get you waters.”

“She has a point, little brother,” Urian comments, looking at the mugs in disgust.

“Even the dreaded Psychopomps are not forbidden from one drink,” Victoria grabs one and holds it toward Ewain, “One will not kill or condemn you.” Those eyes dive into his, an emerald comet through his cosmos.

“The problem is that,” Ewain takes the drink but places it on the table, “I have a strict exchange rate I cannot compromise. For the right amount of begging, I might do what you ask.”

Victoria playfully scoffs, lowers herself onto her elbows, “Oh, just ‘might,’ huh? You really are an ass.”

“Should you be so surprised?” Urian asks, “He looks like one.”

She laughs as she stands upright, crossing one arm beneath her bosom across her chest while the other taps her chin, “Just do it, damn it.”

Relenting, Ewain takes the mug and looks to his brother.

“This does not involve me. I want nothing to do with this peasant swill.” He sits back to distance himself.

“To Victoria,” Ewain pronounces as their mugs knock together.

“To me and a patience to rival mighty Jara herself,” and they both drink, streams of the stout dripping down their faces as though in a race to the bottom, Ewain’s beard and Victoria’s bosom catching whatever escapes their lips.

Contortions of disgust twist Ewain’s face and reveals its work when he pulls his emptied mug away.

Victoria coughs, failing to restrain the laughter from choking her with stout still in her throat, “Don’t-,” she tries to say between coughs and taps of her chest, “Don’t tell me a big, bad Psychopomp can’t handle some homebrew. I thought Einwalts were from Rhymar? Your homeland. It’s what our Rhymish patrons always ask for.”

“They are probably plebeians all,” Urian derides.

“They are,” Ewain replies to Victoria’s remark, “but the taste has always been too bitter for me.”

“Then what does Ewain Gregor like?”

Urian scoffs and turns to look at the musicians on the stage below. Their sultry brass melody permeates thoroughly into the background.

“If your establishment possesses some Galatian wine, I will gladly share that with you,” Ewain says seriously.

Yet Victoria laughs as though he jests, “I know you Psychopomps possess mysterious wealth, but Galatian wine? Has the stout impaired you already? Does this seem a palace to you, Ewain?”

“I suppose not.”

“Let me get you your food and some humble water,” she taps the table then struts away.

Ewain looks to his brother, “Care to explain your theatrics?”

“’Gregor,’” Urian smites with disapproval, “I still cringe when I hear it. You could not at least select a patrician name? Staufen? Ottonia? Lorraine?”

“The priest recommended this one,” Ewain answers, “A lowborn name to draw no attention nor distract from our goal.”

“So long as your relinquishment of any identity ties does not render you amnesiac. How difficult was it for him to convince you?”

“Grueling,” Ewain answers sternly.

Urian glares at him in silence, “Your eyes, your name, even your appearance now, do you seek to forsake all familial ties in this new life, brother?”

“Never,” Ewain leans forward and taps his finger on the table, “I do this all for our family, for every person that bore our name, to reunite us all again. The Order,” he looks down, sees the grooves and prints in the table, “The Order is the only way for me to do that.”

“I know, little brother,” Urian tries to temper the heat in his voice, “but…but time is running out for some of us. How close are you to securing another Funerary Box?”

“A few more rotations, Urian, and I should have enough Contrition with the Order to request one.”

His brother’s golden eyebrows release their tension, “Just ensure you survive them all, Ewain. There is only so much I can do.”

Ewain nods understandingly slow and takes a glance at the new vocalist upon the stage below. Her feminine register introduces lyrics spun and stretched. “I must survive for quite a while longer, brother, to be Worthy.”

“This level of Worthiness you seek, Ewain, I hope it is worth it.”

“It is,” Ewain insists, “Any mortal child who demonstrates Demichorian feats…they can ask anything of the Ichorians in the Beyond. Our family can be like it was before.” His hand begins to tremble ever-so-slightly.

“Are you all right?” Urian asks, watching.

“I am,” Ewain assures with confusion. “I…I do not know why it is doing this.” Something calls to him in his mind, yet he cannot focus on it, like a drop in the sea.

A platter of beef sausage steak, fried eggs, and roasted potatoes lands on the table with two glasses of water and a tray of golden honeyed baklava.

“Enjoy, gentlemen,” Victoria serves with a wink, placing their trays before them. “Everything going okay?”

“Great,” Ewain smiles back at her best he can, “Thank you, Victoria.”

“Great! I’ll leave you gentlemen to it, then.”

“Hey,” he catches her before her before she completely turns to walk away, “you have an escort home tonight, yes?”

“I get many offers each night. Worried I’ll Vanish?” She seems to revel in his question.

“Someone has to save our table.”

“One of the other girls here lives in the same building as me. We always come and go together.”

“Good,” Ewain nods satisfied, “Make sure to be safe.”

She charms with a broad grin, “Always, sir,” then tends to another table which calls her.

“Is this supposed to be for me?” Urian asks the question he was biding, pointing at the baklava.

“She put it before you, did she not?”

“This drivel is too sweet for me, you know that.”

“I know, but not for me,” Ewain slides the plate toward him and begins to devour it all. Not a crumb is left on a single plate as he sits back into his seat with a rarely full stomach, “You know, I…I thought of her today…Freya.”

Concerned surprise furrows his brother’s brows, “What precipitated that?”

“I cannot remember…but she has preoccupied my mind as of late. I thought of that night I first met her, you remember?” Though he asks with a soft smile, it hides a cavernous pain. A faint hope of the future clashes with memories like fronts of a storm, a tranquility in the pummels of the rain and howls of the wind.

The same expression shows on his brother’s face, “I do.”

They tenderly recall together the moment they share against the background of summoning music.

Something catches Ewain’s attention.

Skin so charred it splits and cracks to reveal obscene boiling crimson beneath. Eyes that burst from their sockets to drip down cut and crisped cheeks, leaving sunken black holes beneath bubbling brows. It sits at a booth of the balcony perpendicular to his, next to guffawing men who seem completely unaware of its proximity. It is utterly fixated on him alone.

“Something wrong?” Urian inquires as he investigates the ire of his brother’s gaze.

“Nothing,” Ewain answers evenly.

The figure rises, pushing itself from the table with melting hands, the movement alone tearing and dripping more flesh from its body before it disappears. When it sits next to Urian, he does not react at all.

This close…he can see ghastly seared tissue bursting through charcoal skin, the reflection of the lantern lights off the ocular fluid upon the cheeks. It says not a word, its chest does not rhythmically go back and forth, it sits motionless and stares with its hollow sockets.

A tingling chill burrows into Ewain’s skin, pricks his spine, bursts at the base of his neck. When he rose to leave, bid his brother farewell, “I will keep my promise,” the charred husk follows him. Sliding his hat back on, Ewain keeps the brim just above his eyes and beholds all around ethereal remnants of bodies once vessels of life. Pallid husks that watch all the living with envy as they dance, drink, and revel so naively. Not a person notices, not even as decaying husks nestle alongside them just to see if they can experience a miniscule sense of energy. Even here, a beacon of lively energy and sensory indulgence, he knows not a one feels a thing. To see but never be seen, to hear but never be heard, to never feel a touch or sensation, never taste or smell again…it is agony.

Here and beyond, as Ewain returns home, they were all around, wandering lost or clinging to someone like a shadow.