Some hours passed and Rye was not yet going insane. Waking from the oddest dream just to find herself still unable to move her full body while Elia was peacefully imitating a sawmill had turned from novel to annoying to viscerally terrifying. What if she was going to be stuck like this forever? How would she ever live a normal life, what would she tell her father?
She should write a letter, maybe find out where she actually was and then, then she would need to set off on the way home. A sacrifice or two would have to be given to the gods, just for good luck and safe travels. Yes, she would find a place to give sacrifice, find a map and then head on out, back to Arvale, back home.
After she was done pondering that, the only thing to do was distract herself from the existential horror of being trapped inside her own head.
Two thousand six hundred eighty-three grugs. Two thousand six hundred eighty-four grugs. Two thousand six hundred eighty… six? Oh no, I lost count.
Rye pushed open an eyelid, peeking around the room. Everything was quiet. No undead in sight.
…
Time to start again. One grug, two grug, three grugs…
…
Two hundred three, two hundred four…
…
I sure hope Elia wakes up soon. That was a weird dream.
A shudder spread through her body and for a moment, everything felt the way lightning tasted. The first thing she noticed was the sounds, echoes of murmuring voices filling the temple with much more clarity than before. As she marveled at the feeling of warm bedding hugging her tight, her arm stretched out and she saw that she was still short sighted beyond it.
“Elia! OhMyGosh, you’re finally awake! Elia, I had the weirdest dream ever. There were metal carriages, the ground was made of a dark hot stone, everyone wore such colorful clothes and there was GLASS all over the place and –ack!” Rye massaged her throat, finding it dry and painfully raspy. “Eugh. You should do something about my throat, it feels like sand on paper. Also, what’s a ninja?”
A moment passed.
“I can talk.” Rye sat up, opened her hand, closed it. It obeyed as if it had always belonged to her. “I can move. I’m… I’m me again. I’M ME AGAIN!”
A small happy dance ensued, which is to say Rye happily wiggled in her bed, leapt over the side, and promptly fell into the intimate embrace of the cold stone floor. Head buried in her hands, limbs entangled in her sheets she tried to figure out what just happened. Her arms felt like they had sacks of grain tied to them and she was feverish. When her finger brushed against her temple, it felt cold, clammy.
“Something’s wrong with me. Very, very wrong.”
Could undead become sick? Possibly. Everyone knew that bandages needed to be cooked in hot water before they were applied, everyone except one obvious culprit.
“Elia,” she hissed, “Eliaaa! Answer me, what did you do!?”
Silence.
Was Elia… dead?
With a sniff, she tried to dismiss the thought. Why should she care about the person who misappropriated her life? While she wasn’t a demon, she lied and thieved and killed without blinking twice. But she also ferried the both of them out of that terrible labyrinth. She wasn’t evil, but also not good. She was just uncivilized, from a faraway place, most likely outside of the empire. Provincial. A barbarian.
But then there was that weird dream. A weird dream where nothing fit quite together – and some dreams were just like that – but carried with them a weight of reality. Could an undead dream?
“What is she?” Rye unclasped her overly tight armguards, the skin beneath shriveled and sewn in a rainbow of bruises on purple flesh. “What am I?”
One step back at a time, she set out to the last thing she remembered. A hot day in summer. Wind smelling of sweat, dirt, grass. Disjointed images, like pages from ten different parts of a book glued after another. Home, city, home, road, bed, grug, home, home, home…
She had unclothed herself in the meantime, her body holding its own reins while she was busy pondering when the realization of heavy amnesia truly set in with the fact that she was undead, up and down.
She pinched her skin, barely feeling a thing.
“I… I look like a prune.” Tears were forming in her eyes as she tried very much not to fall into a spiral of abject terror and disgust. It didn’t help how she was still dirty with the ick and grime of a dozen deaths. She had already made a lot of unnecessary work for someone in the future with the her-shaped brownish-red imprint on the ruined bedding.
But she didn’t ruin the bedding. Elia did. But they shared the same body. Every action Elia took reflected on herself and whatever she did on Elia. Elia could have at least taken a bath. Rye took an unladylike sniff under her armpit and recoiled. Elia could have taken two baths. Three. A dozen.
Filthy, filthy barbarians.
“I hope your silence is an admission of guilt,” she mumbled as she sorted her clothes and armor into neat piles for washing.
The only piece of clothing she had that was worth mentioning was a simple brown tunic reaching from shoulder to above her knee. It was of quite poor quality, rough, frayed, cut up and inundated with icky liquids to such a degree that it felt more like cracked leather than cloth. And the smell, ugh.
This was a lost cause and so was much of the rest. Forget armor, she had to find something to protect her decency. Her loincloth and wrappings that were meant as the last line of defense wouldn’t have looked out of place on a mummy!
“We’re burning these later. I’M burning these later. No we. Just me.”
As for armor, at least her helmet was nice, a solid piece of metal that protected her entire head besides the eyes and mouth. It was quite banged up, well-worn so to say but still able to be put to the good use of keeping her head in one piece. But the chainmail. The chainmail that she had worn under her now destroyed chest plate was torn to absolute shreds by the giant. She could trace the line where Elia had been bisected from hip to shoulder, chest to chest, head to groin…
Rye threw it to the side. No piece could be salvaged and it wasn’t worth the bad memories.
Her vambraces and greaves were still in one piece at least. The curved pieces of metal around her forearms and shins – while hard and reliable – didn’t cover her most important bits.
The wooden shield looked usable if one ignored the sizable rent that split down a third of it. As for weapons, well… Da’ had always said that to keep away people with bad intentions, you didn’t need the sharpest sword, just one that was sharp enough. Rye had half a sword and nothing to trade for a real one. She was coinless, possibly lost in a foreign land with people she didn’t know, and to top it all off everyone was undead. This was a disaster.
Where would she get food? What about clothes? How would she pay for a night in an inn, how could she even begin to fathom planning the way home?
Home…
Rye swallowed the encroaching anxiety and pushed her focus onto immediately necessary tasks. The roads were dangerous and therefore she needed a new weapon. Armor wouldn’t be as necessary unless the entire world somehow devolved into madness.
‘It’s the end of the world, the medieval post apocalypse, baby’ Elia’s voice echoed in her mind. Distractions, oh distractions, what else was there to think about–
Boots! Sandals! Shoes!
Wherever this place was, it was hopefully not too far away from Arvale. If she could get to the largest city near her family’s farmstead, she could navigate home from there by memory. It would take a lot of walking, which put boots at the top of the list. But first she had to find a way to get out of her room without flashing the entire temple.
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
After rummaging around under the bed, she found a second pair of cleaner bedsheets. They would have to do. She folded them this way and that around her body in a practiced ritual. The improvised toga was too tight around certain places and much too loose around others, but it would do.
“Now all I need is red rope and I’d be set for penance day,” she mumbled, but while her hands folded and fastened cloth along her chest, hips, and legs, it became harder to hold back hoarse sobs. “I look so ugly. Oh gods, why me, why me?”
She kicked the helmet and immediately regretted it. After a short impromptu one-foot-dance, ending once again with a sudden meeting with the floor, she sat back on the bed. Worries and what-ifs were pulling her mind apart, she needed to center herself or else nothing would get done.
“I’m not afraid. I am an ocean. And oceans are… calm. Clear. Focused.” Rye shot to a wobbly stand and brushed aside the dividing cloth. “I’m in control. If Elia comes back, I’ll just… tell her that it’s my turn. My body. Yes, in fact it should always be my turn. Sit back and see how you like being stuck in the nowhere box–”
Boo!
“ACK!” Rye jumped in her place. “Please don’t hurt me!”
Sheesh, calm down.
“Y-you’re back.”
Regrettably. I see the turns have tabled. Woah, I can see through your eyes and hear things while stuck in headspace. It’s like watching a movie in an open-air theatre. Lots of empty space is what I’m trying to sa– heyyy, do you have popcorn in here? Holy shit, you do.
As Rye’s head was filled with crunching noises, some part of her would have preferred if Elia had just disappeared. “Rude. You can be insane and all in your own corner. Meanwhile, I am going to get things done.”
Implying I didn’t literally save our collective butts by martyring myself against a ten-foot dude with snakes for arms.
“For which I am endlessly grateful.” Rye took one deep breath and mustered all her courage. The ocean was not enough, not the right mindset. She needed something harder, something unyielding like stone. Channel the disapproving Da’. Channel the discipline, the stoic poise, the voice like hardened steel. “Setting aside how you even got us into that ridiculous situation, I am happy to inform you that we will be doing things my way now. The civilized way. That means making friends, being polite and no, I repeat, no wanton killing.”
Sure. I’ll take that as a thank you. Guess I can watch you fuck up from the comfy back seat for a change. Should make for a good vacation. The sound of chewing was briefly interrupted by a derisive snort. I give you three days tops before your ideals bend and break like a wet cracker.
“No. Never,” Rye said through gritted teeth. “I am not a murderer.”
So, the bet’s on?
It would give Elia the greatest vindication if she accepted. No doubt she was the kind to gloat about her victory at every opportunity. Not that she’d get the chance, because Rye was civilized, Rye had standards to live up to and Rye knew how to spell the word ‘empathy’.
“I’m going to make you eat those words.” She fasted the last bit of bedding around her shoulder. “For breakfast.”
Cool. Winner gets to front for a day.
“Front? As in…” Rye walked out of her room, arms full with armor and clothes ready for a wash. “Oh no, we are not setting a precedent for who gets to ‘front’ my body as you so nicely put it.”
What, afraid to lose? I think I hear a chicken. Bugawk, cluck cluck, bugaaawk! Buga– I hope this somehow penetrates the cultural barrier, but in case it doesn’t: I’m implying you’re a coward.
“I know what a chicken is. Scales, bipedal, breathes fire. But just to prove a point, I accept. You’ll see who’s better at being me by the end of the day for sure.”
And with that declaration ringing true, she missed a stair and sailed down the entire flight.
----------------------------------------
So, the first step of doing business the not-me way is taking a bath? I think I should feel offended, but I won’t. Consider this graciousness a gift, o’ my zealous pacifist.
Rye stepped out of the bathing room draped in her bedsheets and with a thousand-yard stare.
“I’m undead,” she muttered. “Even the important bits.”
Hey, there are perks to being undead. Mainly the not-dying part. Though I think our little time loop business is a bit separate from that issue. Still, what’s an immortal life without getting to live the life, if you get what I’m saying?
“I look like a shriveled prune! A pickled pickle! A slab of meat someone left in a hole in the ground and unburied a year later!”
Sounds about right.
“It is not right!” She rushed over to the checkpoint bowl in the middle, disregarding the stares her tantrum was drawing. “My skin, my beautiful bronze skin. Look at my face! I’m a monster. No one will ever love me like this!”
The gaunt skull-like visage with drawn back cheeks and muddled blue eyes was a face to frighten children and scare away dogs with. The allure of her blue eyes, her pride and the jealousy of so many was now a thing to frighten children with. Now… now everyone would laugh at the girl with a face like a shriveled fruit, if she ever found a way back home. She had no idea where this temple was, how to get home or how to get that damn deathly face off of her, well, face.
“Why am I like this?” She stared daggers at her reflection. “What did you do, Elia?”
No comprendo, signorita.
She wanted to scream, to rail against her ugly fate, to cry. Someone cleared their throat right next to her and she didn’t even have the energy to jump. The dark woman in mail and faded blue looked at her with the warmest, most understanding smile ever.
“Thou’rt undead. Thou’rt forlorn. It is blessing and curse. Thou’rt among the last of a great score of champions returned at the end of our age, called to take on a great pilgrimage.” She spread an arm, gesturing across the assorted undead touting clothes from tattered rags to wildly outlandish. “I arrived long ago with my flock, yet those too feeble or too afraid to carry are now but dregs. They are gentle, and I ask that you do not plunder them. Their souls are worth a pittance.”
Rye looked like someone had slapped her in the face “I would never! They can keep their souls and I don’t want their shards either. I mean, I ought not to take any, I ought to leave them all and keep only my own.”
She knew she had said the right thing as the woman smiled thinly, as warm as apple pie. “All undead crave souls, for it has always been that life seeks death and death seeks life. It is not a crime to be undead. Not a man or woman may tell thee as much, not a lord, not a god.”
A familiar mania spilled over from her cranial companion, making Rye feel ill at ease.
Quest? Oh no. Rye, don’t listen to this, this… quest-dispenser, this is a classic setup! First, she’ll ask you to bring her ten boar pelts, then after that thirty crimson nirnroots and before you know it, you’re fighting a massive personification of all evil in the world, god himself, or environmental pollution.
Rye toned the insanity out as far as she was able. A champion? Her? Impossible. She was Rye, an undead with two minds and so many holes in her memory she wasn’t even sure she did grow up on a farm anymore. But one thing was true no matter how she turned it.
“I… it’s true. This is me now. Undead Rye. Unalive. Not dead.” She felt a little better. “Thank you, miss…?”
“Attendant. That is my purpose, to attend to all undead. I require no name, for I am but a humble servant. If thy journey turns hard, pray, allow me to give thee comfort. I can offer thee many a service if thou but speaks the word.”
The woman was from far away. It showed in her accent, but it did the opposite of chafe against Rye’s ingrained need for propriety. It was nice. Where she came from or what she did didn’t matter. Rye was just glad to see a friendly face.
And a pretty one.
“I, too, am undead,” the attendant said, plucking the next question from her mind. “Even ‘neath the mail.”
… Rye was not planning on asking that, but she did think it. A blush rose to her head.
“Does that mean there’s a cure? A cure to this?” She waved a gangly arm. How the heck did Elia beat a giant while looking like this? She must have cheated. Definitely.
“There is a saying as old as the ages: All paths must end in Loften, our holy capital and city of the gods. And all undead march towards it, seeking glory, seeking the past, seeking their fate or simply following rumors of a cure to our eternal curse.”
Curse? As in a magic curse, or a we-don’t-understand-biology curse?
“Oh, I know that! Undeath is a curse, and every creature can become undead when they die. It just… happens, you know, and there’s no way to stop or cure it. There are signs, of course: Cats cannot stand your presence, your bones cannot be burned, you start smelling like gone off milk and old leather, you wake up in odd places, you have a black or white birthmark you can’t remember…” Rye trailed off as she realized it looked as if she was talking to empty air.
Damn. Wait, you knew all this and didn’t tell me? I shall never forgive thee, treacherous cur.
“I am not a cur!” Rye hissed, shooting a glare at her reflection in the water. The attendant probably thought she was crazy now.
“S-sorry, I, um… have a boon of invisible friends.” Rye’s smile looked the opposite of convincing. She was a terrible liar. “A-anyways, do you know a place where I can find some clothes? And armor? And a weapon for self-defense?”
The woman nodded gently. “There was a man among my flock who has made his home among the pillows. He will sell thee what thou requires for a modest exchange in souls.”
“I’m sorry.” Rye cleared some water out of her ear. “Did you say souls?”
“Souls. The energy of life. All undead crave souls and thou must have collected quite a few. Perhaps thou would offer some for my humble services?”
Oh. Neat. Should’ve guessed souls are money.
Rye guiltily summoned her Handy Haze, trying not to think about what kind of services she was implying.
Soul count: x11176
They weren’t even technically her souls, Elia stole them from the other undead. Souls were holy and part of a cycle. Everyone was supposed to have a single one not… eleven-thousand-one-hundred-seventy-six.
Maybe she could donate them, return them to the cycle of life and death, back on their journey to the mountain of gods. It was better than having them caged inside herself, doing nothing. But on the other hand, she really wanted some boots.
Shopping spree! shopping spree!
And there was the anti-conscience. It made the answer clear, because it was always the opposite of what Elia was pushing towards: Over her dead body would she barter in souls, in lives.
“T-thanks, misses attendant. But I think I’ll just… stitch something out of this bedsheet.” She twirled in place and immediately felt her improvised dress loosen dangerously in three places.
The attendant kept on smiling. What did she offer in exchange for souls? The more she thought about it, the more her lidded stare became unbearable.
“Ummm… I forgot to bathe my toad, so… Thank You Very Much Bye!”
Rye wanted nothing to do with souls, or undead curses or anything. She really just wanted to go home. Her family would accept her, even hideous as she was. Hopefully, she could say the same when she was on their doorstep, but one thing after another. First, she had to find out where the heck this place even was. And then, it would be time to plan out her journey.