Ten of Swords (Draft Only)

Chapter 43

The gentle sloshing of a paddle through water was the first thing Dimas became aware of. It was not cold in the water. Nor was it warm. On the surface he floated, unafraid of sinking but knowing he wasn't yet ready to go under.

"You look like you need someone to talk to," came the ferryman's voice.

Dimas climbed into the boat, which didn't so much as rock as he pulled himself up and sat across from the half-rotted figure. "Somehow, I always knew this was the version of you that I would see when I passed," Dimas commented.

The ferryman nodded. "You have a life full of violence and bloodshed. I am not surprised either. You see yourself as a sinner, always trying and failing to do the right thing. You feel as though you need to be punished, but you will find no eternal damnation here. We will sit and talk. For as long as you need."

The dead man out his hands together and tried to feel the texture of his own palms. It wasn't until he noticed that he couldn't make out the details of his own skin that he realised that he had only imagined still having a body. The boat had not moved when he entered not because it was eternally stable, but because he had no mass. "Do you answer questions?"

"Some."

"What killed me? Was that a god in mortal flesh?"

"Not quite. The gods cannot fully inhabit a body. It is against the universal laws and therefore impossible. Miellena did pull the strings, however. It was possible because Elise agreed to be her champion."

Dimas started to notice some things about the rotting ferryman. He had long, slender fingers. A face that was also long, and the eye that was not missing was very squirrel-like. The ferryman was an elf. Not one of the modern elves, but more like the ones in old drawings. Ancient. Though, Dimas could not tell if the ferryman himself was young or old.

"Gods," Dimas murmured. Without any lingering ties to the land of the living, it was much easier to think clearly. Each god could only have one champion, and they never took another soon after their previous died. In the stories, champions were only made at critical turning points in history. That meant his battle with Elise had been so important to her patron, that Miellena was willing to make her champion for it. "I was wrong, wasn't I?

"Right and wrong are purely subjective. Whichever you chose to describe your actions is correct. Perhaps it would be better to consider if it even matters. You did what you did. The consequence is that you can do no more, and history will make of you what it will. Eventually, you will have to make peace with that."

There would be no one left to mourn him. Everyone he had cared about had died long before him, and he had been cursed to live without them. Each and every second he continued to decay, unable to keep on living, unable to die. Until he found a cause he could kill himself with.

Time did not pass in the dark sea. They could talk for eternity. No pressure. No deadlines. All the space and time that Dimas needed to finally rest. It was not easy. He had a lifetime of same and regrets to untangle, and he needed to come to terms with all of them before he could finally fade away into the ocean of souls.

When he had left his homeland for Stotten, he hadn't said goodbye to his parents. After becoming a father himself, he realised how cruel that had been. He had never truly been thankful for what he had. Always the idealist. Always incapable of seeing the good in things. Happiness had been short in his life. It was only in the time between meeting Queen Regula and his wife and children falling ill that he was ever happy. Perhaps he projected that unhappiness onto the things around him. Made it everyone else's problem.

As Dimas spoke of his troubles, the ferryman did not judge him. He always thought that the ferryman was supposed to be some final jury, one that would decide his fate based on the weight of his sins. He had been wrong. Slowly the rancid flesh peeled from the ferryman's bones, just as Dimas slowly let go of each of the things that weighed heavy on his soul. There was no mess in the boat. Just less decay.