Toren Daen
I numbly walked the streets of Fiachra, slowly weaving towards the more mercantile parts of the city I had passed the previous day. The implications of my current appearance were being very deliberately ignored.
I really didn’t want to consider parallel realities, multiverse theory, doppelgangers, and cosmic flukes. I was a stranger to all of those things, and contemplating my current situation would only drive me down a path of mad futility.
That didn’t mean I wasn’t unnerved every time I spotted my reflection.
At least I had been able to brush my teeth. Alacrya didn’t quite have 21st-century amenities, but they were pretty damn close.
People were up and about now, trailing the streets in steady droves. Mages were remarkably common, easily identified by their open-spine clothing to flaunt their runes and various mana-enhanced artifacts on their bodies. But what really drew my attention was the city of Fiachra itself.
The closest thing I could equate it to would be Venice, with its canals and pole boats carrying people about an entire city of interconnected islands over a lagoon. But Fiachra seemed even more complex. The city was naturally hilly, and the channels were designed to compensate. I saw several tunnels cut into steep slopes, the artificial waterways snaking through and allowing passage. The streets and canals of Fiachra were also far more ordered than in Venice. Instead of building to suit the natural landscape and islands of the Venetian Lagoon, the mages of Fiachra bent the elements to their will, carving and scraping routes into the earth.
The architecture of the buildings was a strange collage of medieval, Victorian, and modern styles, merging together to create something truly unique. There were no market stalls lining the streets: instead, storefronts and cafes were more common. And finally, I had found somewhere that would feed me.
The sign above read ‘Halidar’s Bakery,’ which was a rather bland name for a shop in my opinion. I had passed back into the more well-to-do parts of the city, so the bakery was clean and tidy. The similarities to stores from my previous life were uncanny.
I managed to buy a loaf of bread from the shopkeeper, unsurprisingly named Halidar, for two of the copper marks I had in my pouch, leaving only another two remaining. I assumed the marks were named after the runic spellform rather than the old German currency. Stepping back outside into the sun, I spied a nearby bench, perfect for a relaxed meal.
I hungrily devoured nearly half the loaf of bread before something occurred to me. Now that my hunger had slightly abated and left me more clearheaded, I looked back at the sign for the bakery.
‘Halidar’s Bakery.’ The letters weren’t exactly the English alphabet. They were slightly altered in places: an extra long stroke of the brush here, or maybe a wider loop there. In some places, there were gaps where a long, continuous line would be. It wasn’t Ye Olde English: that was backward, in a way. Instead, this language felt more like a step to the side of common English script.
Another weird similarity to my previous world. It felt wrong to me that cultures a world apart could resemble each other in such common ways.
I banished the thoughts from my mind, finishing the rest of my bread. Very shortly after seeing my own reflection, I resolved to ignore multiversal mumbo-jumbo. So what if I looked like my past self? So what if everyone in an entirely different world somehow spoke a dialect of familiar English? So what if humans somehow evolved the exact same way on two different planets?
That was absolutely not my problem.
Coming back to the current situation, I considered my options forward. I would need to find a way to make more money. My first thought would be to sell the beast core I had obtained from the whip-lizard-thing. What was it the guard at the gate had said? A barkskin grohd? That was probably what I fought, just from inference. But there was something I believed took precedence.
I stood slowly, reaching into my pouch and retrieving a piece of crumpled paper. Stretching it out, it revealed the message that had driven the previous owner of this body into the depths of that forest in the first place.
It was a letter informing me–Toren Daen–about the passing of my relative. Norgan, his name was. The letter was sent by the East Fiachra Healer’s Guild, and was marked by a stamp depicting two winged serpents–basilisks, if I was right–twined around a staff. It wasn’t quite a caduceus, but the resemblance was once again uncanny.
I shoved that resemblance into the little box reserved for parallel-world bullshit.
I was going to the Healer’s Guild for several reasons. First and foremost, I wanted to pay some respect to Toren’s sibling. I felt an odd sort of debt to the former owner of this body, and from what I could infer he had fallen into a pit of despair after the death of his sibling. If there was something I could do to make things right, I wanted to try.
Standing, I meandered toward a certain landmark that stood a few stories above anything else in the area. I asked Halidar for directions towards the East Fiachra Healer’s Guild, and he had indicated that the tall domed building a bit to the east was the administrative center of East Fiachra.
From the subtext, it was easy to gather that East Fiachra was some sort of sub-district or borough to the city at large, akin to Manhattan in New York City. They would have maps for most of the important parts of the district.
It was easy to note the transition between the middle class to the lower-class districts. A metal sign I had missed earlier marked the transition on the street, and avenues suddenly became far narrower. Where before a couple of carriages could be pulled along the same road with room to spare, now a single cart would have a tight squeeze getting through some of these streets. The buildings were cramped together like huddled children fearing the dark.
The people I saw about were noticeably weary, barely sparing me a second glance. The atmosphere felt alien and unwelcoming, but not because of the people: it was as if the architecture itself didn’t want people to thrive.
Following some barebones directions from passersby, I gradually reached the administrative building. My brief interactions with the people out and about cemented my assumptions: they seemed more tired and worn rather than outright hostile. At least that was a plus.
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The few streets nearest the regulatory center of the district were mostly dedicated to smaller businesses: selling food, tools, and the like. The administrative building, however, was easily the most well-kept building I had seen so far in this district. It was a solid structure of gray brick and dark tiled roofing, with accents of red here and there across the masonry. On an engraved dark metal plate over the double doors was a sign that read ‘East Fiachra Supervisory Hall.’ It seemed I was at the right place.
Two guards stood on either side of the doors, dressed in the same plate armor I had seen on the guards outside the city. I noticed a detail I had likely missed on the past guards in my delirium, too: a crest depicting an antelope-like horn with a backdrop of water was emblazoned across their chestplates. Considering that symbol was also stamped near the metal plate over the doors, I was willing to bet that was the city’s flag.
The guards waved me in without preamble. It wasn’t too difficult to find a map inside: in fact, an extremely bored-looking woman at the information desk was handing out pamphlets with a map of the district. Luckily for me, the East Fiachra Healer’s Guild was close by; only a few blocks out of the way.
The Healer’s Guild was noticeably worn down compared to the ‘Supervisory Hall,’ but still in better shape than most of the surrounding buildings. It was decorated with lighter tones than most of its surroundings, too.
I walked up to the single door and walked inside, surveying my surroundings. I was obviously in some sort of waiting room. At a nearby desk, a middle-aged woman with mousy brown hair pulled back in a bun was signing off a few documents.
I approached the desk, waiting patiently for the woman to finish her work. From the stack of paper she was working through, I suspected it would be a while.
I coughed into my fist, causing the woman to jump in her seat. She looked up at me, a flash of recognition in her eyes, and if I was right, pity.
“Ah, Toren. You’re back,” she said with a somewhat subdued tone. “We hoped you would return after you left in a rush last time,” she said, looking me up and down with a furrowed brow. “I’m sorry about what happened. You seem to be coping better,” she half-asked, not unkindly.
I shuffled awkwardly in place. The woman clearly knew Toren, at least partially. He had apparently been to the Healer’s Guild at least once before. I felt a lot like when somebody recognized you in the grocery store, even recalling past events they remembered you from, but you didn’t recognize them.
“I… had to settle myself,” I replied. “I was not in a good place.” That much was certainly true.
The woman nodded in understanding. “It’s no easy thing, dealing with the death of those we care about. Are you here to visit Norgan’s body?” she asked.
I swallowed, then nodded. “Yeah.”
The woman put a hand on a nearby sphere, focusing mana within. In a few moments, a voice echoed from the ornament. “Yes, Greahd?” a man asked over the proto-phone.
“We’ve got a visitor for the mortuary. It’s Toren,” she said.
“I’ll be there shortly,” the voice responded curtly, before cutting off.
Several minutes passed in awkward silence. The woman, who I now knew as Greahd, watched me earnestly, seemingly struggling to say something.
She finally spoke. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Toren,” she said. “Just…” she glanced at the wrapping on my forearm, a small splotch of red seeping through the white cloth. “Please don’t do anything rash. Enough promising youths have made their way here because of the Joans,” she said, lowering her voice. “You’ve done so much good. I don’t want to see another light vanishing.”
I furrowed my brow in confusion, opening my mouth to reply. Before I could respond, however, a door opened nearby. A tall man strode over, walking near mechanically. He was dressed in a white surgeon’s coat with not a hair on his head. His face seemed set in a perpetual scowl.
“Toren Daen,” he said in greeting, recognizing me as well. I nodded, raising a hand for him to shake.
He didn’t take it.
“Follow me,” he said shortly, before turning on his heel and moving back towards the door. Sparing a glance at the visibly worried Greahd, I hurried to catch up to the man.
He led me through twisting hallways and past haggard-looking doctors. The sterile smell of hospitals and clinics was heavy in the air, causing a stark contrast to the tired looks of the caretakers. Even the mana-powered lighting artifacts could not lift the perpetual gloom that permeated this place.
The man strode on in silence, not sparing me a word or glance. I had to fast-walk to keep up with his long stride.
After descending a set of stairs, we finally entered what I could recognize as a mortuary. The atmosphere seemed darker here, with a lower ceiling and fewer sources of light. A few more mana-powered devices spotted the area, performing some sort of function I couldn’t discern.
We stopped in front of a door near the end of the stone hallway. The man turned to me, finally allowing me to catch a glance at a nametag on his coat. ‘Trelza,’ it read.
“He is in here,” the doctor said, the same near-emotionless expression plastered across his face. Between that, his tall, lanky build, and bald head, the man was far more intimidating than I wanted to admit. He pointed toward a small device on the side of the door which looked like a primitive touchscreen. “Sound inside is muted by this artifact,” he said, tapping a passcode in and activating the device.
I nodded. “Thank you,” I said, before opening the door. The room inside was darker than outside, with a single chair and end table the only furniture. A lamp glowed softly, casting warm orange light across the stones. Where before the building smelt of cleaning products and strange sterility, now I could smell nothing at all.
And at the center of the room was a casket. I approached it slowly, noting the glass top.
The emotions in my body built, the echo of Toren growing a shade of grief and despair. My breath hitched, halting my steps at the unexpected torrent of emotions. The feedback I got from this body, emotion-wise, had never been so strong. I fell unsteadily, landing on my hands and knees. The movement jostled my ribs once again, causing me to gasp. I fought back tears, not from the pain, but from the overwhelming grief.
The mana about me rippled slightly, unconsciously affected by my emotion. I felt it press back into me, a surprisingly sobering feeling.
The emotions passed after a minute, allowing me to pull myself unsteadily to my feet. I was breathing heavily, tears at the edges of my eyes. The worst part of it all was that these emotions weren’t even my own, and I felt them in full force. If these feelings were my own, I would have a way to address them. To work over the cause.
I took a hesitant step toward the casket. It beckoned for me like the hand of some sort of demon; promising me knowledge and understanding at the price of myself. Steeling myself, I finally peered into the casket.
My breath hitched once more. Instead of grief, though, disbelief and denial welled up in my throat.
“No,” I said, taking a step back, still staring a the face in the coffin. Their eyes were closed in peaceful rest, hands crossed over their chest. Short brown hair framed a familiar face. Familiar to me, not to Toren. A face that shouldn’t be here.
No, it was impossible. Couldn’t be.
My breathing picked up; questions and demands rolled about in my head. Why were they here? What connection did Toren and I have? What did this mean for my previous world? I clutched my hands to the side of my head, pulling at my hair in a maddened frenzy.
Because lying in that casket, still as the corpse they were, was a boy with the face of my brother.
Questions I had sequestered into that box in the depths of my psyche burst forth once more, tearing at the edges of my mind.
I stumbled backward, falling into the nearby chair with a crash. Darkness began to creep into the edges of my vision, forcing out anything else. I stumbled back, confusion and terror taking the place of disbelief. I hadn’t the time to even steady myself before everything went black.