When Jax woke up again it was a slow, hazy struggle to get his mind to kick back on. The sensation was like clawing away from a nap after drifting asleep in the sun. It was the kind of grogginess that makes even the thought of opening your eyes painful. For a fleeting moment, he was tempted to sink back into the darkness, forgetting everything. But then the memory slammed into him—the nightmare, how vivid and real it had felt. He forced his eyes open, expecting to find himself in familiar surroundings. To be saved from the horror of his death.
But he wasn’t in his bed. His vision was still swallowed by darkness, the kind that feels like it has weight, pressing in from all directions. It was like being lost in a tunnel without even the faintest glimmer of light. Slowly, confusion gave way to alarm. This wasn’t his room; it was a void, and he could feel a presence wrapping around him, ominous and silent. And deep deep in his chest somthing resonated with that darkness, that presence.
Frowning, Jax tried to move, but as he struggled, he realized with mounting horror that he couldn’t. His neck and head responded, but the rest of his body lay lifeless beneath him, like he’d lost all feeling below his collar bone. He tried to speak, to call out, but no sound came. The air left his lungs, but it was like his voice had been stolen, as if he were shouting into a vacuum. He began to panic.
“This is too real,” he thought, his mind grasping for explanations. But he wasn’t ready to accept the thought that he’d died and this was…what? Some afterlife? No. No, that couldn’t be it. He tried to calm himself, thinking back to what his old counselor had taught him: Breathe. Think of something grounding. He focused on his cats, imagining them doing cat things, clawing the couch, knocking over lamps, existing as if nothing was wrong. He counted his breaths, trying to let them come and go until the worst of his fear subsided, but it jsut wouldnt work. He simply couldnt fight it off, this looming terror that was his new reality.
But Jax’s thoughts circled back, grounding him in an undeniable truth: he had died. Or at least he’d been close to it. And he was here, in whatever place this was. There was no easy way out of this. There was no escape, no hope. Jax was a slave to this pain, this thoughtlessness. Jax felt.... a resonance. Yes, the darkness liked that word. Slave. He felt his mind be probed, and ideas leave it as if being sucked out by a vacuum. The silence.
In the oppressive silence, Jax began to take stock. He still couldn’t feel anything below his neck, and with no blood flow issues to blame, he had to accept that it wasn’t going away. Whatever had just invaded him seemed sated. That creeping pull that had been dragging him here was changing too, reversing itself. Instead of feeling like he was being tugged somewhere, he felt the sensation of falling backward, as if he were dropping from a great height. And he sensed something else: he was heading toward… something. The thought made his stomach drop, fear mixing with dread.
He looked around, but there was nothing, no shape or shadow, no voices. The void felt vast and oppressively silent. How long have I been here? It was impossible to say. He couldn’t tell if it had been seconds or days, but eventually, he noticed a change. The pitch-black darkness around him began to lighten, shifting to a dim gray. The pressure against him was growing, intensifying with every passing moment, and with it, a growing pain in his chest, like a hot poker pressed directly to his heart. The agony was unimaginable, like every nerve ending in his body had been singled out to suffer. He tried to scream, but only silence answered.
And then, everything went dark again as the void spawn was temporarily separated from its host. Jax lost consciousness just before his soul was ripped in three, and two pieces of him were examined, measured, and then set aside until later.
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At a respectful distance from mortal and his protector a single entity watched and assessed. It had nearly been successful in claiming the soul, but it had been defended. And such strength to do so against it. So it simply watched and assessed, after all it had managed to achieve a small victory already.
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When Jax came to this time, it was abrupt but not harsh. Warmth touched his face—real warmth, like standing too close to a fire. Jax opened his eyes gingerly, expecting the worst, but immediately a flash of pain shot through him, and he flung his arms up to shield his head.
Only… something wasn’t right. One arm responded, but it was faint and almost see-through, barely blocking out the light. The other was simply missing. He blinked, letting his eyes adjust, and when he looked around, he was no longer in a void.
A small campfire crackled before him, pushing back the darkness, casting flickering shadows. And across from him, a man sat, an ancient figure cloaked in fur, calmly smoking a cigar and reading a small book. An axe rested beside him, battered but well-kept, and a steaming bowl sat nearby. The sight of the man filled Jax with a deep, primal dread, but he swallowed his fear and stayed silent, watching.
Time stretched on in tense quiet. Jax felt the weight of the silence pressing on him as he sat in the flickering firelight. The man occasionally grunted, turned a page, or repositioned himself. Jax remained still, feeling like he was before some kind of judge. Only when the man finally closed his book and looked directly at him did Jax let himself breathe again.
“Hmmm,” the man hummed, pulling a large leaf from a pouch at his side. He leaned forward, rolling it into another cigar with practiced movements. “You’re hardly a boy,” he mused, “and yet here you are.” The man’s hands never stopped their work, kneading the leaf with care. “Generally, I’d simply arbitrate and be done with it. But your case… it’s peculiar.”
Jax felt the words strike him deeply. Arbitrate? The word itself was daunting, and he could feel his throat tighten. He didn’t dare speak, but after a moment, he raised his remaining hand, hoping the man might be receptive.
The man only grinned, gesturing to the ghostly limb Jax had lifted. “Exactly my point,” he said, chuckling. “Usually, I’d read your record and send you off, but nothing in here quite matches what I’m seeing.” He tapped the book with a calloused finger.
Jax hesitated but then found his voice, though he was cautious. “Sir… if you’re here to judge me, may I at least ask why? Or… who you are?” He paused, gesturing to his own semi-transparent arm. “And what exactly is going on here? Where am I?”
The man fixed Jax with a stare, seeming to weigh his words. “Who I am doesn’t matter much,” he replied finally, his hands still working on the cigar. “Like you, my time passed. In my day, I did my share of wrong, and when I was called upon to justify my actions, I could. So here I am, presiding over others who need the same guidance.”
Jax’s breath caught as he tried to understand, but the old man continued.
“When you passed, your record called out, and the universe listened, boy. That’s why you’re here.” The man’s gaze seemed to bore through him. “According to this,” he tapped the book again, “you were a warrior, one who led to the destruction of souls beyond counting. Hundreds of thousands. Not just killed, mind you—but sent out into the void.”
Jax gaped, his thoughts racing. Destroyed souls? He’d been in the military, sure, but he’d never seen combat, never even fired a shot in anger. How could this be true?
“Uh… sir, I think there’s a mistake,” he stammered, his mind grasping for some explanation. “I served, yes, but I didn’t kill anyone. The most violent thing I’ve done is gut a fish.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed, then softened slightly as he shook his head. “The book doesn’t lie, son,” he said gravely. “It says you served in two armies. The Corps, five years. Inactive, yet still written here and far more recently the Tree Cutters Union.”
The weight of the realization crashed down on Jax like a tidal wave. God was a tree hugger.