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Chapter 2: Three Choices

Chapter 2: Three Choices

She did not answer him.

Her fingers remained pressed against her chest as the memory settled into place. It was whole now. Horribly clear, stripped of the merciful confusion that had protected her when she first opened her eyes.

She remembered what happened.

She remembered dying.

Yet she could find no heartbeat beneath her palm.

The woman pressed harder, searching for something—anything—that would prove the man wrong. Her chest still rose whenever she dragged in air, but the movement felt learned rather than necessary. She held her breath and waited for her lungs to burn.

Nothing happened.

"No," she whispered.

The Reaper shifted the coffin against his back. "Here it comes."

She looked up at him. "You’re lying."

"Of course."

"I’m unconscious. Or injured. This could be some kind of hallucination."

"A very elaborate one."

"Shut up."

"Gladly."

He turned toward the distant city, apparently satisfied that the conversation had ended. The indifference infuriated her more than an argument would have.

She forced herself back onto her feet. "You expect me to believe I died and somehow appeared here? That creatures are trying to eat my memories, Grim Reapers carry coffins filled with weapons, and screaming for help creates some kind of contract?"

"Yes."

"That is insane."

"You’re arguing with a dead man beneath a sky with no sun."

"That doesn’t prove anything."

"No, you’re right. Perhaps this is all happening inside your head." He glanced at the stains covering his coat. "In which case, you have deeply unpleasant taste."

She marched toward him and shoved both hands against his chest. He barely moved.

"What did you do to me?"

His expression hardened. "Careful."

"Where did you bring me?"

"I didn’t bring you anywhere."

"You were waiting here when I appeared."

"I was walking."

"Outside a city filled with dead people?"

"I like the quiet."

"You watched that thing chase me."

"That was when the quiet ended."

Her hand moved before she properly considered it. She slapped him across the face.

The sound cracked through the barren wasteland.

His head barely turned. Slowly, he looked back at her. The veins along his temple thickened, and for one frightening instant she remembered what he had done to the many-armed creature with his bare hands.

Then he exhaled through his nose.

"I’m going to pretend grief made you stupid."

"I am not dead!"

A howl rose somewhere beyond the broken hills.

It began as a thin cry, almost human, before descending into something wet and guttural. Another answered from farther away. Then came a third, followed by the sound of stone cracking beneath considerable weight.

The Reaper’s anger vanished.

He turned toward the hills.

Dark figures had begun moving along the ridges. One crawled with its stomach dragging between six crooked legs. Another stood tall enough to rise above the ruins, its narrow body swaying as it searched the wasteland. A swollen shape rolled through the black grass, leaving strips of flesh behind it.

More cries joined the first.

The woman stepped back. "Are those—"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Enough."

The Reaper seized her wrist.

She tried to pull away. "Let go of me."

"We need to leave."

"I’m not going anywhere with you."

He looked at her as though she had personally insulted what little remained of his patience. "I can protect you from one of those things. Two if they’re stupid. I cannot protect you from all that shit."

Another howl came from behind them, much closer than the others.

He dragged her toward the city.

She resisted for the first several steps, but the growing chorus behind them made the argument increasingly difficult to defend. Soon she was running beside him, struggling to match his pace while the coffin shifted heavily across his back.

The pale chain between their wrists appeared whenever too much distance separated them. It tightened, became solid for an instant and pulled them back together. The Reaper seemed to feel it every time. His irritation deepened with each pale flicker.

"What happens if that chain breaks?" she asked.

"It doesn’t."

"What happens if I refuse to follow you?"

"I carry you."

"What happens if I run in the opposite direction?"

"I break your legs and carry you."

She stared at him.

He glanced over. "They grow back."

"That doesn’t make it better."

"It does from where I’m standing."

Despite the coffin and the apparent weight of all the weapons inside, he moved easily across the wasteland. He knew which stretches of black grass concealed unstable earth and which ruins housed things best left undisturbed. Whenever one of the distant shapes wandered closer, he changed direction before it noticed them.

She gradually understood that he had not survived outside the walls through strength alone. He knew this place.

At the edge of a dried riverbed, he finally released her wrist. He removed a cracked clay container from his coat and scattered grey powder across her shoulders.

She recoiled. "What is that?"

"Corpse ash."

Her hands froze halfway toward brushing it off.

"The things out here can smell how recently you died," he continued. "That makes you smell older."

"Whose Corpse?"

"Someone who died Permanently."

She stared at the ash clinging to her clothes.

He returned the container to his coat and resumed walking.

She followed because the sounds behind them had grown closer, though she refused to admit that was the only reason. Ahead, the distant walls became clearer. They were constructed from enormous blocks of dark stone, with towers rising at uneven intervals. Buildings crowded behind them in numbers she could not comprehend. Some leaned against the walls while others had been built directly into them, their windows glowing with cold blue light.

Above everything stood the pale column she had seen upon awakening.

It no longer resembled fire. Thousands of thin white strands rose from somewhere within the city and twisted together as they climbed into the sky. Several had snapped during the earthquake. Their broken ends flickered uselessly above the rooftops.

The sight should have been impossible.

Some part of her still searched for a rational explanation, but that part had become much quieter.

She looked at the Reaper walking ahead of her. Blood had dried across his wounded shoulder, yet the flesh underneath had already begun pulling itself together. He had not complained about the injury once.

"Aren’t you going to ask?" she said.

He continued walking. "Ask what?"

"How I died."

"No."

His answer came so quickly that she stopped.

The pale chain immediately tightened, dragging him half a step backward. He cursed and turned toward her. "Why did you stop?"

"You really don’t want to know?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because everyone here died."

"That doesn’t make it meaningless."

"I didn’t say it was meaningless."

"You said it wasn’t worth asking about."

"It isn’t."

The words struck harder than the answer should have. "My death isn’t some piece of gossip."

"To you, it’s the worst thing that ever happened. To the city ahead of us, it’s an introduction." He adjusted the chain holding his coffin. "I’ve heard people describe every way a body can stop working. Burned, drowned, crushed, butchered, starved, poisoned. After the first few thousand, it stops being worth the drama."

"My death isn’t drama."

"To you, no."

She clenched her hands. "You’re an asshole."

"I’ve been called worse by better people."

He turned away again.

She followed in silence, more furious than before. She had not wanted to tell him. She still did not. Yet his refusal to ask felt like an insult she could not explain.

The city gates opened as they approached.

Three armoured figures stood beneath the archway. They carried hooked polearms and wore strips of grey cloth across their faces. Each possessed a mark around one forearm, although none approached the absolute blackness covering the man beside her.

One guard lowered his weapon.

"Rook?"

The Reaper grunted.

The guard looked at the pale chain joining him to the woman. His eyes widened before amusement crept across his face. "You picked up another one?"

"I didn’t pick up anything."

"She call for you?"

"Beacon failed."

The other guards exchanged glances.

One of them laughed. "You were wandering outside during an Arrival Failure?"

"I was outside because nobody was supposed to arrive there."

"And yet."

Rook stepped close enough that the guard’s laughter weakened. "Finish that thought."

The guard tightened his grip on the polearm but did not answer.

The woman looked between them. "His name is Rook?"

"No," Rook said.

The first guard shrugged. "It’s what everyone calls him."

"What is his actual name?"

"Nobody knows."

Rook shoved past them. The pale chain forced her to hurry after him.

Beyond the walls, the city of the dead unfolded before her.

The streets were packed.

People moved between towering buildings assembled from mismatched eras. Stone houses stood beneath metal bridges. Lanterns floated beside electrical signs that flickered without wires. Horse-drawn carts fought for room beside vehicles built from bone, iron and things she could not identify.

Several people did, however, notice Rook.

Their eyes moved from the coffin to his blackened forearms and then toward the woman bound to him. Some appeared amused. Others looked genuinely sorry for her.

She disliked the pity more than the laughter.

Rook led her toward the white strands twisting above the city. They originated from a broad circular building surrounded by narrower administrative towers. A cracked stone plaque stood above its entrance.

DEPARTMENT OF ARRIVAL, CONTINUANCE AND REINCARNATION

Beneath it, someone had scratched:

COMPLAINTS ACCEPTED. SOLUTIONS UNLIKELY.

The interior resembled a courthouse overwhelmed by a disaster.

Hundreds of newly dead souls filled rows of benches while clerks shouted numbers from behind stone counters. Some arrivals cried openly. Others demanded to speak with kings, gods or living relatives. One man repeatedly insisted that he had an important meeting in the morning.

Fragments of the damaged Beacon drifted beneath the ceiling, producing weak sparks whenever clerks attempted to reconnect them.

Rook ignored the lines and marched directly toward a counter.

The elderly woman behind it looked up from a stack of thin metal sheets. A black quill moved between her fingers without touching the page.

"No," she said.

Rook planted both hands on the counter. "I haven’t asked anything yet."

"You want the contract annulled."

"The Beacon dropped her beyond the outer wards."

"I am aware that the Beacon malfunctioned."

"She arrived within smelling distance of an Abomination nest."

"I am also aware of where she arrived."

"She should never have been there."

The clerk’s quill stopped moving. "There was an earthquake. Three Beacon channels fractured, nineteen arrivals were misplaced inside the city, six appeared within the defensive ring, and one exceptionally unfortunate soul was thrown beyond the walls."

The clerk looked at the woman.

"You would be the exceptionally unfortunate one."

She folded her arms. "I gathered that."

"At least she learns quickly," the clerk said.

"Take the contract off."

"No."

"Move it to someone else."

"No."

"Pretend it never happened."

"I would, but the Brand is considerably less flexible than our paperwork."

Rook leaned farther over the counter. "Hessa."

"Rook."

"I was outside specifically to avoid this."

"And yet the Underworld continues refusing to arrange itself around your preferences."

He struck the counter hard enough to crack it.

Nobody in the hall reacted. Apparently, this was expected.

Hessa reached beneath the desk and retrieved a narrow strip of silver. "Both of you, wrists."

The woman hesitated. Rook slapped his forearm against the counter. She eventually placed hers beside it.

Hessa laid the silver across the pale markings.

The chain became visible between them. Words crawled along its length, passing from the woman’s wrist into the blackness covering Rook’s arm. Hessa watched them for several seconds before sighing.

"Valid plea. Imminent threat. Newly arrived soul. Condemned Reaper within range. The contract is complete and properly witnessed by the Brand."

"I did not agree to it," the woman said.

"You requested protection."

"I screamed for help while a monster was eating me."

"Yes. That is usually when people request protection."

"And now I’m chained to him?"

"Until your reincarnation."

Rook’s fist tightened against the counter.

Hessa gave the woman a more sympathetic look. "The contract places no obligation upon you beyond remaining alive. He cannot command you, restrain your choices or demand payment. The burden belongs entirely to him."

"He threatened to break my legs."

Hessa turned toward Rook.

"They grow back," he muttered.

"I strongly recommend that you avoid testing how the contract interprets unnecessary dismemberment."

The woman withdrew her wrist. "What happens now?"

"Now you register your arrival and select your continuation."

"My what?"

Hessa drew three metal sheets from beneath the counter and placed them beside one another.

"The dead are offered three paths. The first is immediate reincarnation. You retain nothing from your former existence and possess no control over the life awaiting you. You may be born to wealth and live peacefully for a century. You may also be born sick, abandoned, or directly into another war."

"So I could die again immediately."

"It happens."

The woman looked at the second sheet.

"You may remain in the Underworld," Hessa continued. "You may work, establish a residence and continue existing for as long as you can preserve your memories. You may request reincarnation later."

"And the third?"

"You may enter voluntary Reaper service. Grim Reapers earn consideration toward their eventual reincarnation. Sufficient service grants control over certain circumstances of the next life. Birthplace, physical health, aptitude, social standing and similar advantages."

"Complete control is Nirvana," Rook added. "Almost nobody gets it."

Hessa gave him a cool glance. "I generally soften that portion."

"Why? They find out eventually."

The woman looked at his arms. "You said voluntary service. He didn’t volunteer."

"No," Hessa said. "Those responsible for taking human life are conscripted. Their Brands record the burden they brought with them."

"And killing those creatures makes the Brand lighter."

"Correct."

She remembered the younger Reaper’s sword entering the exposed core. She remembered ash flowing into his arm and the darkness receding.

Then she remembered Rook cutting the creature apart.

"He did everything," she said. "The other one only arrived at the end."

Rook looked at her.

Hessa appeared less surprised. "That is often how it happens."

"He protected me while that thing kept rebuilding itself. He used every weapon inside that coffin."

"And how many Abominations did he kill?"

The woman’s answer caught behind her teeth.

Hessa looked toward Rook’s pitch-black arms. "Skill and capability are not always measured by the same standard here."

"He was capable."

A strange silence followed.

Rook broke it with a dismissive sound. "Pick something."

She looked down at the three sheets.

Remaining in this world meant accepting that everything around her was real. The city, the creatures, the absence of her heartbeat and the memory she refused to discuss. Becoming a Reaper meant hunting those creatures and risking the gradual destruction of everything she remembered.

She wanted none of it.

"I choose reincarnation."

Rook straightened immediately. Some of the tension left his shoulders for the first time since meeting her. "Excellent."

Hessa did not touch the selected sheet. "You should understand that choosing reincarnation does not immediately place you into the Wheel."

"Why not?"

"Only Yama possesses the authority to open the Gate of Reincarnation. You must appear before him."

"Where is he?"

"At the Gate."

"And where is the Gate?"

"Some distance from this city."

Rook’s relief disappeared.

The woman noticed. "How far?"

"Depends on the road," he said.

Hessa slid the reincarnation sheet closer. "Once your selection is registered, your contracted Reaper becomes responsible for escorting you to the Gate."

Rook’s hand descended onto the sheet before she could touch it. "Put her on a caravan."

"The next sanctioned caravan leaves in eight months."

"Then she waits eight months."

"I’m not waiting eight months," the woman said.

He turned on her. "Nobody asked you."

"It is my reincarnation."

"And my contract."

Hessa removed the sheet from beneath his hand. "The decision remains hers. You may accompany a caravan, hire additional protection or attempt the journey alone. The contract cannot be transferred. Only Yama could annul it, and reaching him would render annulment rather pointless."

The woman looked at Rook. "You know the way?"

"Yes."

"You’ve been to the Gate?"

"No."

The answer made her pause. "How long have you been a Reaper?"

"Long enough."

Hessa examined one of the metal records. "Three hundred and twelve years."

The woman stared at him. "You have been here for three hundred years and never reached it?"

"I had no reason to go."

"You had two previous contracts," Hessa said.

Rook’s eyes narrowed. "Stop helping."

The pity returned to the clerk’s expression.

The woman saw it and felt something cold settle in her stomach. "What happened to them?"

Rook lifted the coffin from the floor and secured its chains across his chest.

"The first lasted three days."

She waited.

When he said nothing more, she looked toward Hessa.

"The second survived five," the clerk told her.

The sounds of the crowded hall seemed to recede. She remembered the creatures moving across the distant hills and how desperately the many-armed Abomination had tried to pull the memories from her body.

"Were they reincarnated?" she asked.

Rook walked toward the exit.

Hessa’s silence answered first.

"They were consumed," Rook said without looking back. "Nothing left to recover. Nothing left to remember."

The pale chain tightened as he moved farther away, pulling against her wrist.

She looked down at the reincarnation sheet, then toward the broad back of the Reaper who had never successfully completed a contract.

Everyone in the hall seemed to be waiting for her to understand how unfortunate she was. They expected fear, regret or perhaps a desperate attempt to choose another path.

Instead, she snatched the sheet from the counter.

Rook glanced back.

"The third reaches the Gate," she said.

His expression did not change.

"That," he replied, "is exactly what the second one said."