Fording the River of Death

“In the beginning, before the Life Mother Ælethdyn rested in eternal slumber beneath the firmament, the Great Abyss stretched to every corner of existence. In this void lay the Spirit Mother Fembyl, and from her sprang rivers of ice which wended their way into the seas of brimstone ruled by the Material Father, whose name is lost to time. This clash quickened life, and from the vapors emerged the First Daughter, Ælethdyn, who would later sculpt from clay and her own blood the first of men.” -Excerpt from the Vædr Cycle

Night fell across my hospital bed like a thick blanket, and with it came a two-fold misery. If it had come alone, even uninvited, it would have found a soul resilient enough to withstand the pressure. But no, it came as a pair, and the weight threatened to crush me.

The first part could be seen in the cracked picture frame that loomed like a specter on my side table. My mother’s smiling face made mockery of the news I received only moments prior. If the sorrow of her loss had come alone, I am sure anger would have boiled in my stomach—fury at being left alone in such a dark and cold world. I would be raging in disbelief that a soul so colorful and filled with life could be snuffed out like a flickering candle, not by the masterful stroke of a scheming genius, but the bumbling idiocy of a man too drunk by half to be driving. But again, it came with a twin, and the anger found no purchase in my soul.

The second part could be seen only with careful observation. The freshly crumpled papers on the floor, the thin IV lines that snaked their way towards a hanging bag, the gaunt and hollow set to my eyes. Neither slowly nor painlessly, I was following my mother into death.

My haggard thoughts came with sluggish deliberation. If tonight is to be my last, I shall at least choose the place of my death. And with that, I ripped the IVs from my arms, and lay down to die.

My brain implant flared to life at my beckoning. It was a wonderful piece of technology, designed to provide relief to those with certain debilitating diseases—it washed away the weakness of the body, quenched the fiery tingle of damaged nerve endings, and gave feeling back to phantom limbs. It was also the platform upon which those with the means, or those for whom insurance covered the cost, could play Otherworld.

Otherworld was a game designed for people like myself, people who had no chance at life. I was diagnosed with a rare genetic disorder at the tender age of 18, yet despite advances in medical technology, the best treatment available was escape—flight into a different life.

“Welcome back to Otherworld.”

*****

I was standing in my throne room, alone save for the liveried maid that busied herself sweeping the already pristine floors. Silvery hair, bound in a long braid, hung past her bottom, and a pair of tufted wolf ears perched on her head. She was garbed in a slim royal-blue dress, with a white half-apron around her waist. The corner of the apron was embroidered with a delicate black sigil—a wolf’s head, my royal crest. She was one of my personal projects, a custom NPC designed to be the hidden last line of defense in case I was in danger. Demna was my first creation—and also the one upon whom my wolf motif was based.

“Demna,” I said, climbing the three steps up the dais and to my throne, and sat down. “Please join me.”

The maid set her broom aside, and curtsied. “As you please, Your Excellency,” she said, and came to stand beside me. That was how I always liked to start my days in Otherworld, with my trusted maid at my side at the center of my virtual power. The sense of familiarity calmed me. I was dying, but at least I would die on my own terms.

Five minutes elapsed without incident. Then ten, fifteen, twenty. I was certain my body was failing, certain I was fated to die. And yet, I remained seated on my throne. I sucked in a breath, strangely exasperated by my continued existence, when the world lurched around me. A gasp escaped my lips, and I leaned forward, breath coming in quick, short bursts. What the hell was that?

“My Lord,” Demna asked from beside me. I glanced at her, then stopped and looked closer. “My Lord, what is it? Your gaze feels… heated.” She blushed, and averted her eyes. Something in her countenance felt too real, too much like the flesh and blood Otherworld strove to recreate, but could never perfect.

I reached out a hand and touched the hem of her dress. The thin fabric slid between my fingers, stretching slightly as I pulled. Demna’s face went a brighter shade of red, but she made no move to stop me.

“Something is not right,” I whispered, and let go of her clothing. “Demna, please bring your face closer.”

She bit her lower lip, and anxiety flashed across her face, but she bent at the waist in front of me. I took a loose strand of her hair, reveling in the silky texture. I caressed her cheek, frowned, and leaned in to smell the top of her head. It had a warm, pleasantly earthy scent. “What in the world?” I whispered.

“My Lord?” Demna asked. Her expression had returned to an impassive mask, but I could feel the tension in her bearing.

“None of this should be possible,” I said, mind racing.

I stood abruptly, startling Demna, and stalked toward the double doors that led out of the throne room. My soul should have long since passed beyond the gates of death, and with it my implant should have ceased its functions. “We are going out. I need to find out what is happening.”

“My Lord?” She asked, confusion plain in her tone, and scurried to follow.

Before I could make it a dozen steps, alarm bells rang out across my demesne. Their clanging felt too real, and a visceral fear knotted my stomach. The huge doors groaned, then parted as they swung open.

“Your Excellency!” Gerard said as he stepped into the throne room. Behind him, a group of men dressed in similar livery marched in formation, each one careful to keep their eyes downcast. “Your Excellency, I have a report…”

*****

“Kneel before your exalted King, bearer of the Lupine Crown, His Excellency Theodor Gran.”

The words rang out across the Grand Hall, echoing in the empty space between the marble pillars, and reverberating against the vaulted ceilings. The speaker, a gallant knight plated in gleaming armor, turned with mechanical precision to face the mahogany dais—and the ornate golden throne that stood, implacable, upon it. With catlike grace he flourished his navy blue shoulder cape, and bent to one knee, head bowed low. The thirty knights behind him, arrayed in flawless formation, did the same, moving with an effortless coordination that belied the numerous hours they spent practicing.

Silence took the throne room in her grasp. Sunlight, filtered in shades of red and blue by stained glass, pooled on the polished stone floors at the foot of the dais, and only dust swirling in the rays broke the motionless tension.

I sat upon my throne, resting my chin on one knuckle as I observed my warriors humble themselves before me. My other hand rested in my lap, fingers drumming out a staccato rhythm as I pondered my next move. I scanned the room around me, my eyes drawn inexorably down the long azure carpet that ran the length of the Grand Hall, and to the open double doors at the far end. Though I was confused by my predicament, I showed no signs of it on my face, nor in my bearing. A King ought never reveal his unease to his vassals, that was the staunch prerogative of nobility.

“You may lift your heads,” I said, and stood. My body was huge, ropes of lithe muscle flexing with each motion. A dark blue cloak hung from my shoulders, obfuscating the layers of plate and mail that protected my personage. All of it was a new experience for me, though not an unwelcome one.

I stroked my black beard as I walked through the formation of knights, inspecting each as I went. They were well equipped, with matching armor and weapons, and though their helmets rested on the floor at their feet, the distinct wolf-faced visors were clear to see. These were the Lupine Paladins, a squadron of elite NPCs I had created during the heyday of Otherworld.

I reached the end of the formation, and turned aboutface, staring at the backs of their heads. Light refracted off their armor, shimmering in iridescent waves each time they took a breath. I observed them for the length of three heartbeats, and found no fault in their discipline.

“Knight-Captain Gerard, report,” I said, breaking the silence. With relaxed patience I did not feel, I strolled back toward my throne. As I went, I covertly pinched the webbing between my thumb and forefinger. A sharp pain raced up my arm. This is real. My death was long overdue, and yet I persisted. What now?

The knight at the front of the formation slapped his left fist against his chest, and spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “We have early reports in, Your Excellency. We find ourselves at a loss—the surrounding territory has been altered beyond recognition.”

I climbed the three steps to the plateau of the dias, and sat once more upon my throne. I tapped my index finger against the armrest, lost in contemplation. How did this happen?