Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Michael opened his eyes and all about him was darkness. Upon shadow he stood. Over shadow he gazed. And of shadow he was made. The Dim-sider existed in a realm of pure and shifting blackness, and although through fresh eyes he saw it all, the land was not shocking or concerning. Rather, it was almost expected as though some unknown time before, someone had whispered it into a dream of his, and he’d be waiting for it ever since.
The dead boy frowned over the unending horizon of void and turned to see a young noble stood politely with their hands folded. Their face was round and androgynous with a short pixie-cut of silver hair flowing in the shade, twinkling like starlight. Their skin was ebony and flawless, and their eyes were set with irises of pale sunshine.
“Michael,” they spoke, though their words held an unearned base, moving through the very shadows of the void like a gentle distant thunder.
Michael looked the beautiful figure over, watching as they walked barefoot toward him dressed in a dark, obsidian skirt and a jet-black, moderately buttoned dress-shirt. “Khasm.”
Michael didn’t know why he knew but he did.
The Creator bowed gracefully.
They were no taller than him, but Michael knew, much like he understood the place around him, that this was not truly them. It was a representation of something he couldn’t look upon even if he wanted to.
“This is the afterlife. The Dark Lands,” Michael spoke below a whisper but his words couldn’t have carried clearer. He then frowned and looked up to the Creator. “No, it’s not…”
Khasm made an amused face and sighed. “You’ve got some of it. Essentially, this is the first step to the afterlife. You know it as the Dark Lands because it’s what your people call it.” The Gargan combed through their thick hair and a gentle chuckle came about them. “It’s funny actually. About a thousand cycles ago a young attempted-Necromancer named Fillian fumbled her Arcancy in quite an impressive way. Instead of bringing someone back to life, she brought herself here. She was the first and only person ever to come here and leave without dying. When she returned, Fillian told the Legacy community what she saw and the name Dark Lands was her descriptor. You could say it rather stuck.”
Khasm gestured for him to follow, and the two began strolling through the infinite shadow together.
“So, I am dead.”
“Yes.”
Michael felt he ought to be distressed about that, but there was more pressing questions.
“What is the purpose of this place? Don’t get me wrong, I find it oddly comforting despite the fact that I’m usually afraid of the dark.”
Khasm stuck their hands in the pockets of their dark skirt and gave the question some thought. “Well, I suppose you could say this is a plane of understanding. If you have a question in this place you will know the answer. And once you know all that you wish to know, you may move on to the next.”
Michael looked down to his hands, knowing what his friends would’ve said if they were around to hear that. As a lingering sorrow touched his heart, the boy quickly found himself distracted as he looked to his fingers. Each digit, every speck of flesh and bone was made impossibly of pale shade. It was then that he realised the arrow was gone from his breast. He thoughtfully ran a hand through his hair and felt it was silkier than it had ever been in life. Part of him was idly amused realising Khasm must’ve thought that haircare was at least a small part of immortal contentment.
Upon the thought entering his mind Michael found himself confused. “Wait, if this isn’t the afterlife, why don’t I know about what comes next? You said any questions I had would be answered upon thinking about them.”
Khasm pursed their lips and sighed as they brought themselves to a seated position, crossing their legs and tucking their skirt carefully.
Michael sat himself down too and realised the Creator’s fingertips were painted a metallic black, but the pinkie-nails on either hand were slightly chipped.
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“I have something to confess, Michael...”
Michael, for the first time in his afterlife became rather nervous. The Dim-sider let his anxiety ease and he joked, “Let me guess, I’m not really dead.”
Khasm, Father to the Void, Mother to the Light, and Guardian-Creator of All, snorted and said, “No, you’re very dead. The problem is your Blood Magic.”
“What about my Blood Magic?” Michael said, rather defensively.
“Well, that’s just it. It’s not. Its Creation Magic. Like mine.”
Michael blinked quite a few times.
Khasm looked around in confusion before narrowing their gaze on him again. “You okay? I didn’t break your mind, did I? Draendicans are really...” Khasm made a twisting gesture with both hands, “delicate? No. What word is it?”
The Dim-sider sat there staring at the Creator fumble for a word, and felt himself having a migraine in the afterlife. “What do you mean, we have the same power?”
Khasm abandoned their search for the word and faced themself toward Michael. They then upturned their palm and a pure white orb of light appeared effortlessly. “Look familiar?”
The dead boy took it from them and held the magic in his own hands. It was identical to the Starfire he’d made in his lifetime. “This feels like a big deal but I’ll be honest I’m out of my element.”
The Creator scooted themself backward awkwardly holding their skirt down as they created a wide space between themselves and him, and said, “Look, Creation Magic, or Pure Arcancy, is something I have. Just me. My children -you know the Creators of your world- even they didn’t really have it. Not in the same way. But you do, somehow, or a fragment of it, at least, which explains your All-Seeing.”
Michael looked at Khasm and felt a cold realisation wash over him. He looked out over the vast nothingness and then down to the space before them. Still clutching the orb of perfect sunlight, he placed it on the shadow serving as a floor and it bore a subtle reflection, like a pane of glass. Michael peered into it.
He saw flickers of the faces of his friends. He saw Oliver smiling with Sarah. He saw Carter and his bright grin, James laughing and cheering at something unseen. He saw Nichole and Aroha wrapping Rose in an excited hug. He saw-
“Is Jack getting a tattoo?”
Khasm stared at Michael, extremely unimpressed, until the archer looked back up to see them.
“You don’t seem happy,” Michael said shyly, stealing glances at the orb.
“Michael. Dispel the Creation Magic,” Khasm said sternly.
The Dim-sider frowned, not particularly enjoying the tone of their voice. “No.”
“No? Yes!” Khasm reached for the orb and Michael swiped it up, and suddenly the small, marble-sized sphere of sorcery flashed to the size of a room, and the two beings of the Dark Lands found themselves standing in the tattoo parlour with Michael’s company as they cheered-on the wincing Javen under the bite of the artist’s needle.
Michael looked to his friends in complete bewilderment, still able to see the shadows outside of the small vision, and ran up to James shouting, “Guys!”
But James continued chuckling as Jack talked through the pain of his marking, unaware of the boy’s presence.
Khasm stepped to his side, looking nervously around the depiction. “They can’t hear you.”
Michael shook his head and tried to tap James’ on the shoulder, but his hands turned to pale smoke until he brought them away. “Why not?”
“Because the dead have no power in the land of the living. I am Gargan but I recused myself aeons ago. I stripped away much of my power to interfere. You are an anomaly, Michael.”
The Dim-sider grew glassy-eyed, and as his power became less focused the sound of the moment became muted, and the cheering shouts of his friends fell away. He wandered over to an empty waiting-chair and sat down, looking over the mortal world dejectedly. Next to his arm was a small, wooden side table with a painted, ceramic vase sitting on it.
“You are All-Seeing, but you do not have the ability to interfere.”
“Why not?” Michael asked angrily and as he turned to face Khasm, his elbow smacked into the vase and sent it crashing to the floor of the mortal world.
Jack, Nichole, Aroha, Carter, James, Sarah, Oliver, and Rose, all turned at once, staring rather disconcertedly at the empty side of the room, now littered with shards of orange pottery. The tattoo-artist managed not to flinch but even so, she eventually glanced up and mumbled, “What on Enthall?”
Khasm stared at Michael with their mouth hanging open. They snapped their fingers and the scene vanished but their completely aghast expression stayed.
Michael stood in the realm of darkness with his hands covering his mouth.
Khasm said nothing, still stuck in their utterly bewildered stance. They stared at Michael with a look of such horror that it simultaneously said about twelve-million different things, and not one of them was without cursing.
“You just- you just... Oh, I’m going to be sick.” Khasm sat down and tucked their head between their legs, continuing to rant, muffled, “You just enacted your will on the Living World from the Dark Lands. You just... went and did that, like it was nothin’.” Khasm pulled their hair down, covering their eyes.
Michael stared at the elbow which had broken Natural Laws of Reality, and then asked hesitantly, “Would it be bad to summon up that scene again? I think the tattoo was for me and I didn’t get a good look...”
The Creator began to dry-heave and Michael awkwardly swayed on the spot before kneeling down and patting them on the back. “Never mind, it’s alright.”
THE END