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The Psychopomp
I do not remember the time of my beginning. It is something that I have found to have in common with all of my wards. They don’t remember their entry into their life either, or quite a number of their years after their birth unto life. I always considered this to be a tragedy. Mothers and fathers I have escorted have talked to me about their children while on our journey, describing to me their progeny’s first words, their first steps. To have these joyful years remembered only by one of the two parties involved rang with a foul din to my ears. It is how it has always been though. They cannot remember how it began and neither can I, but this is where the similarities end. For I can remember everything else.
I remember names and faces. I remember tales of woe, the glistening sparkle of tears in the sunlight and the moonlight as they raced for the ground. I remember crazed laughter, each enunciated bark of disbelief unique to my mind and ears. I remember the thud of knees hitting the ground, the stunned silence, the quiet acceptance. I remember them all. When everyone else forgets, I remember.
A small rock tumbles down the cliffside, approaching me rapidly, dislocated by a hastily placed heel. I lazily twirl aside, dodging it. The second rock that I didn’t notice, lost in thought as I was, comes my way and passes through me.It comes and goes, and I give it no regard anymore, but as I’ve already mentioned, I’ll always remember. Even this little event.
There was a hero once. Proud and tall, radiant in glory and confidence. Over the ages there had been supernatural powers assigned to him, but I knew him. I met him. There was nothing supernatural about him, except his unwavering conviction, his faith in himself. He accrued a list of amazing feats, but the one where we met was considered to be one of impossibility. He proved otherwise. Improbable for certain. Difficult beyond doubt. Not impossible though, not any longer, even if no one else had ever replicated his triumph again.
The wind pick ups. The cold becomes stronger, powerful, and is allowed to permeat my ragged robe. I jump further ahead, my arms and legs changing shape mid-air. The black fur protects me better than the previous black cloth, and the form stands better on the snow. I would have chosen a white coloring if it was my choice, but my ward needs to see me clearly. He needs to know I am always here. I abide by his choice.
There is nothing protecting him from the cold and the snow. He stands naked and shivering, exposed to the elements. The fierce wind blows his short hair wildly, and the snowflakes lash him, each one a burning kiss upon his skin. I feel the cold only as much as I choose, but he does not possess that option. He takes the full brunt of it for this is what he chose. He keeps walking, hoping perhaps for another change of the fickle environment, for the cold to turn back and retreat.
Only a minute ago he was traversing a barren mountain under the burning glare of the unforgiving sun. Perhaps he will be luckier in the next. Perhaps not. I cannot know. I can only guide.
The hero is fresh in my mind, having dragged him up from a well containing millennia of memories. I cannot help but impose his image over my current ward. I see the hero standing unbowed, a figure sculpted in muscle, graceful and powerful as if given form by a divine hand. He is wearing a beast’s skin, a weapon forged with metal and tested in battle at his side. He walked through the snow and it did not give him pause.
My ward bends double before the onslaught of nature. He stumbles and slips. Blood has started freezing on his unprotected skin. His limbs slowly darken, and his breathing is a labor like none he had ever known before. He picks himself up slowly, and I see on his eyelashes the snow crystals left by shedded tears.
I walked in front of the hero. I guided the way from the forefront, his steps echoing behind me. I held a lantern then. It was what was expected of me and the image pushed into my being. I accepted the form. I always do. I do not like to stagger them. I am the guide, and my job is easier when they are calm and collected, even if that is only because of a familiar form, no matter how terrifying or serene it is.
It is my ward that takes the front this time. He turns back to me and I can see his breath as he exhales. I watch it fascinated. He stammers as he talks. “H-how much fu-further?”
I cross my forwards paws as I lie down on the snow. My jaw lowers, revealing sharpened teeth, but a calm, collected voice comes out of my feline throat. “The road is long. Keep going straight.”
He turns back to his previous bearing, each step a visible torture. “It- it’s wh-what you al-always say.”
“The road is long,” I repeat. “You chose this path, and it is up to you to follow it. I can guide you back if you wish. The road is long.”
“N-no thanks.”
The change in language, in mannerisms, it is hard to believe, even if as I witnessed it. I remember the ancient times, the respect and fear. I remember the titles and the reverence as I was barely understood. They understand me only a little more than they used to, but how they changed. It is such a wonder.
“I seek to reach the destination of us all,” the hero says.
“Why do you hurry so?” I ask, genuinely perplexed. “You shall reach it in the fullness of time. You are strong and full of vigor. It is a long time yet before the mists unfold for you and I guide you through them. Why walk a traitorous shortcut?”
A candle of fragrance burns low and the hero’s eyes spot it. His hands are quick to reach for it and replace it with a fresh one. The spread before me is rich, the selection expensive and beautifully prepared. A meal to make the mouth water and the stomach ache with longing. I daintily reach over and caress the skin of a plum with a white finger. I bring it to my mouth, savoring the trace of taste. The finger travels over the drinks and selects a cup of water. I skim the surface briefly, and wet my tongue with a drop of it. The hero bows his head, thankful for my acceptance of his offerings.
“I do not plan to cut my time short, guide. I intend to walk the path and return.”
It was a boast I had heard often enough, but never exactly worded like this. Something did not fit the pattern. “While the thrum of life still pumps in your veins?” I inquire, making sure I understood correctly.
“Yes.” He kneels before me, the hero who would kneel to no king or god. “I need you to show me the way as you surely will one day, oh guide. Lead me there and back.”
“I can only guide,” I tell him. “It is you who will travel the road. It is not a road meant for you yet. You will not make it. It is impossible.”
“I wish to try, guide. If you would have me.”
I sigh. It seems to help them, it doesn’t hurt to try it for myself. “I am the guide. If you ask for me, I shall be there to show you the way.” I pick up my lantern and my staff. “We should be on our way. The road is long.”
“I want to go back,” my current ward said.
I stopped in my tracks and turned around to face him, gathering the hem of the tattered robe in my bony hand. “Your path is up ahead, not behind us. There is nothing behind.”
“That’s a fucking lie. Everything I had is back there,” he said. He did not look at me, preferring to stare at the ground. It is my visage, I know. In a strange way, this is his comfort.
“It is infinity that lies ahead. Behind lies the finite, and for you it has run its course.”
“Not all of it.” He looked at me finally, eyes burning with determination, anger and fear. “I’m going back, and you can’t stop me.”
I walked up to him, the grass dying and blackening around my feet. I did not love this form. Too much negativity associated with it, too many false ideas.
My ward growled at me like a trapped animal. A leg briefly stepped back before it snapped back forward, striking the ground in a show of strength. “Just try and stop me you bastard. You won’t stop me!” He screamed the last sentence, fear and anger mixing in equal parts.
“You are correct,” I told him. These three words were enough to stun him to silence. I pointed back the way we came with the farmer’s implement. Such a strange combination to assign to me. “There lies the path you seek. But it is one against your nature, and the road will try to stop you.”
“It will try,” he spat out with contempt.
“And it may yet succeed. It is hard, but not impossible, and you shall have but a brief moment.”
“It’s all I need.”
“You have chosen your path, and I shall guide you. You should start walking. The road is long.”
I feel proud for my ward. I feel proud for all my wards, but now I burst with emotion I cannot show. Mere weather and hard paths did not deter him. The road has changed, getting harder, getting longer.
He still walks.
Dust and sand whirls around us. It is not a subtle dance, but a fierce storm. Grains of rock and tiny particles of glass are mixed within. I spread a thousand wings and fly over my ward, unaffected by the road’s challenge.
The hero came this way. He was clothed in past victories and memories of the dead, and escaped the sandstorm virtually unscathed. Head bowed low, protected amidst his prizes, weapon held in front to shield him from the worst. The hero was not one to retreat before such a challenge.
My ward has no lion skin to protect his own. He is nude and his only option is the same one when facing the heat and cold. He can only endure. He has a destination in mind, and he has a goal. His skin flakes off and flies in the wind, fat musculature and veins are slowly, viciously, revealed.
I see the tendons of his right hand glisten in flowing blood. The palm of his right hand and his lips are safe, each protecting the other from the worst. He tried to protect his eyes the same way, but he needed to see the path. As long as he had eyes to see there were limits to how much I could do.
The eyes are gone now. I only see empty ruins filled with sand, over a tortured grimace. I caw with five hundred beaks, pointing the way. He stumbles on skinless legs, continuing his journey. My pride is almost unbearable to hold in silence. He carries on. I am proud, and I guide him further on the long road.
The landscape is as beautiful as it is terrifying. I am divided on whether I should wish my ward had his eyes or not. Everything shines and everything glimmers. The light reflects and refracts, a million rainbows and spectrums of color project around us, over us. A polygonal artistry, a mimicry of nature that the greatest glassblowers would dream of and weep for.
The road is getting longer.
The hero wielded iron and might to traverse this part of the road. His feet protected by the same deeds that protected his torso, he made his way like a god of war, an engine of destruction. He ended beauty and made progress. The road could not hold him back.
My ward. My poor ward. I would weep for him if I could. I cannot. He feels the bones of my hand as it clutches his torn shoulder, as soft a touch as bone is able. He can hear the swirl of the tattered black robes, and my raspy voice, filled with cobwebs as I speak into his ear.
“The road is long, but you are getting near. This could prove to be too much. We can go back. Infinity waits for you.”
“I- I kn-know,” he stammers, lost in a haze of pain. “B-but fin-finite can o-only w-wait so much.” He takes a step forward.
His naked leg is sliced and he falls down screaming. The road cuts him more, shredding him with the slightest movement. He manages to control the thrashing after a while, learning that movement equals pain. He has managed to safeguard his lips and his palm, the same way he did before. I hope for his sake that he manages to continue keeping them safe for I know no other part of his body will escape the coming torment if he continues.
He whispers, fear untold in his voice. He knows the answer, but he asks nevertheless. “Ho-how much fur-further? How l-long is this p-part?”
“The road is long.”
“I- I can d-do it.”
“If you believe so then I will guide you. The path lies ahead as you face. You should get going.”
He does. Most of our journey was quiet. It is now filled with sound. It echoes with the sound of razors slicing flesh, and the splattering of blood upon glass. Cries of pain and agory roar around us, reflected back by canyons and cliffs of glass and crystal.
The colors change in the narrow strip of land we cross. The rainbows become a solid haze of crimson red. A sea of wonder surrounding a line of torture. My ward walks, crawls, and drags himself. I walk right beside him, the road slipping harmlessly against my frame, unable to harm the form given to me, even if I allowed it to.
He screams, begs, and curses me, but he doesn’t stop to tread the path, not even for a moment. I wish I could carry him. I wish I could bear him upon my back and spare him the pain. I wish I could offer some kind of comfort apart from the only one I was allowed to. I wish I could be kind.
“You are going the right way. Keep moving. The road is long.”
“What is this?” the hero asks. “Where have you taken me?”
“Where you asked me to,” I answer.
Before us lies a door. It is dark, and a storm rages within the steel it is made of. There are no walls or columns supporting it. It lies alone in the middle of a field of roses, leading nowhere and everywhere. It is the door, every door. It is the road that leads to the destination.
“And if I go through it? If I open it?”
“You will find infinity.”
“Where do we go after this door?”
“Nowhere,” I answer. “Everywhere. I cannot guide you any further. This is as far as I can take you. The rest is up to you.”
The hero walks around the door, examining it. His gaze is critical, seeking to relieve the door of its mysteries. There is no need for that. There are no mysteries to the door. It is, it opens, and it leads to somewhere else. It is a door. No more, no less. It is simple and it is infinite.
“Has anyone else reached this far while still sipping from the wine of life?”
“None.” I lean upon the staff. “You are the first, and you might be the last.”
“Where are we?”
I turn my ward to his right, even though he has no eyes to see. I describe the scene to him. A road on a dark night, skid marks of tires that tried to break too late. A small piece of metal that was failed to be collected. A single yellow tape reading “Police Line - Do Not Cross” that flaps in the night breeze.
“So close,” he whispers. He does not speak to me, I know. “We aren't’ far at all, are we?”
“No. We’re almost there.”
“Do you know what lies beyond the door, guide?” the hero asks, touching the surface of the subject of his examination.
“Infinity.”
“But what does that mean?”
“Everything.”
The hero pulls back. He looks back the way he came. He deflates briefly, but his confidence returns. He smiles at me, his chest rising up in pride.
“I have done the impossible. There is no question of it. I don’t need to take it all in one go. I have more tasks to complete before I tackle this one, don’t you agree?”
I stay silent. I cannot guide him in this.
“I’ll go back now. I’ll go back. That’s- that’s the right decision.”
My ward stands before the door. It is made of wood, and it is frail. A piece of paper marks the door, naming the owner of the room before it in crayon colors. My ward cannot see it, but stands before it trembling nevertheless, his courage wavering.
“The door is in front of you. You may open it.”
“In there? That’s where…”
“This is the destination you were seeking. I have guided you here.”
“But- but what do I do? What do I… I- I don’t know.”
I stay silent. I cannot guide him in this.
He takes the knob in his untarnished palm, his hand reaching unerringly for it, guided by muscle memory, not sight. The door makes no sound as it opens. My ward walks inside, leaving bloody footprints behind him.
There, on a small bed, finite lies sleeping. A gentle snoring guides my ward, and he walks towards it. He sits on the edge of the bed.
His fingers reach for the source of the noise. They find the small nose, and touch the soft cheeks. He feels the moisture still on them and chokes back a sob. He leans forward and kisses the small forehead, while his palm caresses the top of the head.
I step next to my ward. He has reached his destination. The road holds no sway over him now. My hand touches him briefly and I restore to him what the road took. He sees with new eyes that are his old ones. He lays down on the bed and hugs the small figure.
“Hey, princess,” he whispers in the tiny ear. “I’m home. Happy birthday.”
His time is up. The road calls. “We must go. The road is long and infinity awaits.”
He rises, but leans back down for one last kiss. “Daddy will always love you princess. Never forget that,” he whispers into the ear of the finite. The road calls. We obey.
I cannot remember my beginning. My earlier memory is guiding one of my wards on the road, already old when I was young. I remember the hero, the sole breathing mortal to gaze upon the door to infinity. I remember him as I remember everyone. I remember his pride, I remember his drive. His wish to reach infinity and be known, remembered forever.
I remember my ward. He walked the road, unheeding of the pain to reach the finite. Driven by the sole desire to say a goodbye that would not be remembered, aside from the briefest moments, a small comfort that would arise from the deepest recesses of a memory made when death and love stood over a bed.
I remember the hero who dared the road for the sake of a glimpse of infinity.
But I mostly remember my ward who dared the road for one last glimpse of the finite. I remember all of them, in all their numbers, their thousands upon thousands. So many heroes that braved the road. A torrent of souls, each of them unique and valorous. A miracle of faith and love that had been repeated so many times down the ages, their achievement untarnished by the weight of their numbers, only shining brighter, reaching higher.
I guided them all.
I remember them all.
I remember names and faces. I remember tales of woe, the glistening sparkle of tears in the sunlight and the moonlight as they raced for the ground. I remember crazed laughter, each enunciated bark of disbelief unique to my mind and ears. I remember the thud of knees hitting the ground, the stunned silence, the quiet acceptance. I remember them all. When everyone else forgets, I remember.
A small rock tumbles down the cliffside, approaching me rapidly, dislocated by a hastily placed heel. I lazily twirl aside, dodging it. The second rock that I didn’t notice, lost in thought as I was, comes my way and passes through me.It comes and goes, and I give it no regard anymore, but as I’ve already mentioned, I’ll always remember. Even this little event.
There was a hero once. Proud and tall, radiant in glory and confidence. Over the ages there had been supernatural powers assigned to him, but I knew him. I met him. There was nothing supernatural about him, except his unwavering conviction, his faith in himself. He accrued a list of amazing feats, but the one where we met was considered to be one of impossibility. He proved otherwise. Improbable for certain. Difficult beyond doubt. Not impossible though, not any longer, even if no one else had ever replicated his triumph again.
The wind pick ups. The cold becomes stronger, powerful, and is allowed to permeat my ragged robe. I jump further ahead, my arms and legs changing shape mid-air. The black fur protects me better than the previous black cloth, and the form stands better on the snow. I would have chosen a white coloring if it was my choice, but my ward needs to see me clearly. He needs to know I am always here. I abide by his choice.
There is nothing protecting him from the cold and the snow. He stands naked and shivering, exposed to the elements. The fierce wind blows his short hair wildly, and the snowflakes lash him, each one a burning kiss upon his skin. I feel the cold only as much as I choose, but he does not possess that option. He takes the full brunt of it for this is what he chose. He keeps walking, hoping perhaps for another change of the fickle environment, for the cold to turn back and retreat.
Only a minute ago he was traversing a barren mountain under the burning glare of the unforgiving sun. Perhaps he will be luckier in the next. Perhaps not. I cannot know. I can only guide.
The hero is fresh in my mind, having dragged him up from a well containing millennia of memories. I cannot help but impose his image over my current ward. I see the hero standing unbowed, a figure sculpted in muscle, graceful and powerful as if given form by a divine hand. He is wearing a beast’s skin, a weapon forged with metal and tested in battle at his side. He walked through the snow and it did not give him pause.
My ward bends double before the onslaught of nature. He stumbles and slips. Blood has started freezing on his unprotected skin. His limbs slowly darken, and his breathing is a labor like none he had ever known before. He picks himself up slowly, and I see on his eyelashes the snow crystals left by shedded tears.
I walked in front of the hero. I guided the way from the forefront, his steps echoing behind me. I held a lantern then. It was what was expected of me and the image pushed into my being. I accepted the form. I always do. I do not like to stagger them. I am the guide, and my job is easier when they are calm and collected, even if that is only because of a familiar form, no matter how terrifying or serene it is.
It is my ward that takes the front this time. He turns back to me and I can see his breath as he exhales. I watch it fascinated. He stammers as he talks. “H-how much fu-further?”
I cross my forwards paws as I lie down on the snow. My jaw lowers, revealing sharpened teeth, but a calm, collected voice comes out of my feline throat. “The road is long. Keep going straight.”
He turns back to his previous bearing, each step a visible torture. “It- it’s wh-what you al-always say.”
“The road is long,” I repeat. “You chose this path, and it is up to you to follow it. I can guide you back if you wish. The road is long.”
“N-no thanks.”
The change in language, in mannerisms, it is hard to believe, even if as I witnessed it. I remember the ancient times, the respect and fear. I remember the titles and the reverence as I was barely understood. They understand me only a little more than they used to, but how they changed. It is such a wonder.
“I seek to reach the destination of us all,” the hero says.
“Why do you hurry so?” I ask, genuinely perplexed. “You shall reach it in the fullness of time. You are strong and full of vigor. It is a long time yet before the mists unfold for you and I guide you through them. Why walk a traitorous shortcut?”
A candle of fragrance burns low and the hero’s eyes spot it. His hands are quick to reach for it and replace it with a fresh one. The spread before me is rich, the selection expensive and beautifully prepared. A meal to make the mouth water and the stomach ache with longing. I daintily reach over and caress the skin of a plum with a white finger. I bring it to my mouth, savoring the trace of taste. The finger travels over the drinks and selects a cup of water. I skim the surface briefly, and wet my tongue with a drop of it. The hero bows his head, thankful for my acceptance of his offerings.
“I do not plan to cut my time short, guide. I intend to walk the path and return.”
It was a boast I had heard often enough, but never exactly worded like this. Something did not fit the pattern. “While the thrum of life still pumps in your veins?” I inquire, making sure I understood correctly.
“Yes.” He kneels before me, the hero who would kneel to no king or god. “I need you to show me the way as you surely will one day, oh guide. Lead me there and back.”
“I can only guide,” I tell him. “It is you who will travel the road. It is not a road meant for you yet. You will not make it. It is impossible.”
“I wish to try, guide. If you would have me.”
I sigh. It seems to help them, it doesn’t hurt to try it for myself. “I am the guide. If you ask for me, I shall be there to show you the way.” I pick up my lantern and my staff. “We should be on our way. The road is long.”
“I want to go back,” my current ward said.
I stopped in my tracks and turned around to face him, gathering the hem of the tattered robe in my bony hand. “Your path is up ahead, not behind us. There is nothing behind.”
“That’s a fucking lie. Everything I had is back there,” he said. He did not look at me, preferring to stare at the ground. It is my visage, I know. In a strange way, this is his comfort.
“It is infinity that lies ahead. Behind lies the finite, and for you it has run its course.”
“Not all of it.” He looked at me finally, eyes burning with determination, anger and fear. “I’m going back, and you can’t stop me.”
I walked up to him, the grass dying and blackening around my feet. I did not love this form. Too much negativity associated with it, too many false ideas.
My ward growled at me like a trapped animal. A leg briefly stepped back before it snapped back forward, striking the ground in a show of strength. “Just try and stop me you bastard. You won’t stop me!” He screamed the last sentence, fear and anger mixing in equal parts.
“You are correct,” I told him. These three words were enough to stun him to silence. I pointed back the way we came with the farmer’s implement. Such a strange combination to assign to me. “There lies the path you seek. But it is one against your nature, and the road will try to stop you.”
“It will try,” he spat out with contempt.
“And it may yet succeed. It is hard, but not impossible, and you shall have but a brief moment.”
“It’s all I need.”
“You have chosen your path, and I shall guide you. You should start walking. The road is long.”
I feel proud for my ward. I feel proud for all my wards, but now I burst with emotion I cannot show. Mere weather and hard paths did not deter him. The road has changed, getting harder, getting longer.
He still walks.
Dust and sand whirls around us. It is not a subtle dance, but a fierce storm. Grains of rock and tiny particles of glass are mixed within. I spread a thousand wings and fly over my ward, unaffected by the road’s challenge.
The hero came this way. He was clothed in past victories and memories of the dead, and escaped the sandstorm virtually unscathed. Head bowed low, protected amidst his prizes, weapon held in front to shield him from the worst. The hero was not one to retreat before such a challenge.
My ward has no lion skin to protect his own. He is nude and his only option is the same one when facing the heat and cold. He can only endure. He has a destination in mind, and he has a goal. His skin flakes off and flies in the wind, fat musculature and veins are slowly, viciously, revealed.
I see the tendons of his right hand glisten in flowing blood. The palm of his right hand and his lips are safe, each protecting the other from the worst. He tried to protect his eyes the same way, but he needed to see the path. As long as he had eyes to see there were limits to how much I could do.
The eyes are gone now. I only see empty ruins filled with sand, over a tortured grimace. I caw with five hundred beaks, pointing the way. He stumbles on skinless legs, continuing his journey. My pride is almost unbearable to hold in silence. He carries on. I am proud, and I guide him further on the long road.
The landscape is as beautiful as it is terrifying. I am divided on whether I should wish my ward had his eyes or not. Everything shines and everything glimmers. The light reflects and refracts, a million rainbows and spectrums of color project around us, over us. A polygonal artistry, a mimicry of nature that the greatest glassblowers would dream of and weep for.
The road is getting longer.
The hero wielded iron and might to traverse this part of the road. His feet protected by the same deeds that protected his torso, he made his way like a god of war, an engine of destruction. He ended beauty and made progress. The road could not hold him back.
My ward. My poor ward. I would weep for him if I could. I cannot. He feels the bones of my hand as it clutches his torn shoulder, as soft a touch as bone is able. He can hear the swirl of the tattered black robes, and my raspy voice, filled with cobwebs as I speak into his ear.
“The road is long, but you are getting near. This could prove to be too much. We can go back. Infinity waits for you.”
“I- I kn-know,” he stammers, lost in a haze of pain. “B-but fin-finite can o-only w-wait so much.” He takes a step forward.
His naked leg is sliced and he falls down screaming. The road cuts him more, shredding him with the slightest movement. He manages to control the thrashing after a while, learning that movement equals pain. He has managed to safeguard his lips and his palm, the same way he did before. I hope for his sake that he manages to continue keeping them safe for I know no other part of his body will escape the coming torment if he continues.
He whispers, fear untold in his voice. He knows the answer, but he asks nevertheless. “Ho-how much fur-further? How l-long is this p-part?”
“The road is long.”
“I- I can d-do it.”
“If you believe so then I will guide you. The path lies ahead as you face. You should get going.”
He does. Most of our journey was quiet. It is now filled with sound. It echoes with the sound of razors slicing flesh, and the splattering of blood upon glass. Cries of pain and agory roar around us, reflected back by canyons and cliffs of glass and crystal.
The colors change in the narrow strip of land we cross. The rainbows become a solid haze of crimson red. A sea of wonder surrounding a line of torture. My ward walks, crawls, and drags himself. I walk right beside him, the road slipping harmlessly against my frame, unable to harm the form given to me, even if I allowed it to.
He screams, begs, and curses me, but he doesn’t stop to tread the path, not even for a moment. I wish I could carry him. I wish I could bear him upon my back and spare him the pain. I wish I could offer some kind of comfort apart from the only one I was allowed to. I wish I could be kind.
“You are going the right way. Keep moving. The road is long.”
“What is this?” the hero asks. “Where have you taken me?”
“Where you asked me to,” I answer.
Before us lies a door. It is dark, and a storm rages within the steel it is made of. There are no walls or columns supporting it. It lies alone in the middle of a field of roses, leading nowhere and everywhere. It is the door, every door. It is the road that leads to the destination.
“And if I go through it? If I open it?”
“You will find infinity.”
“Where do we go after this door?”
“Nowhere,” I answer. “Everywhere. I cannot guide you any further. This is as far as I can take you. The rest is up to you.”
The hero walks around the door, examining it. His gaze is critical, seeking to relieve the door of its mysteries. There is no need for that. There are no mysteries to the door. It is, it opens, and it leads to somewhere else. It is a door. No more, no less. It is simple and it is infinite.
“Has anyone else reached this far while still sipping from the wine of life?”
“None.” I lean upon the staff. “You are the first, and you might be the last.”
“Where are we?”
I turn my ward to his right, even though he has no eyes to see. I describe the scene to him. A road on a dark night, skid marks of tires that tried to break too late. A small piece of metal that was failed to be collected. A single yellow tape reading “Police Line - Do Not Cross” that flaps in the night breeze.
“So close,” he whispers. He does not speak to me, I know. “We aren't’ far at all, are we?”
“No. We’re almost there.”
“Do you know what lies beyond the door, guide?” the hero asks, touching the surface of the subject of his examination.
“Infinity.”
“But what does that mean?”
“Everything.”
The hero pulls back. He looks back the way he came. He deflates briefly, but his confidence returns. He smiles at me, his chest rising up in pride.
“I have done the impossible. There is no question of it. I don’t need to take it all in one go. I have more tasks to complete before I tackle this one, don’t you agree?”
I stay silent. I cannot guide him in this.
“I’ll go back now. I’ll go back. That’s- that’s the right decision.”
My ward stands before the door. It is made of wood, and it is frail. A piece of paper marks the door, naming the owner of the room before it in crayon colors. My ward cannot see it, but stands before it trembling nevertheless, his courage wavering.
“The door is in front of you. You may open it.”
“In there? That’s where…”
“This is the destination you were seeking. I have guided you here.”
“But- but what do I do? What do I… I- I don’t know.”
I stay silent. I cannot guide him in this.
He takes the knob in his untarnished palm, his hand reaching unerringly for it, guided by muscle memory, not sight. The door makes no sound as it opens. My ward walks inside, leaving bloody footprints behind him.
There, on a small bed, finite lies sleeping. A gentle snoring guides my ward, and he walks towards it. He sits on the edge of the bed.
His fingers reach for the source of the noise. They find the small nose, and touch the soft cheeks. He feels the moisture still on them and chokes back a sob. He leans forward and kisses the small forehead, while his palm caresses the top of the head.
I step next to my ward. He has reached his destination. The road holds no sway over him now. My hand touches him briefly and I restore to him what the road took. He sees with new eyes that are his old ones. He lays down on the bed and hugs the small figure.
“Hey, princess,” he whispers in the tiny ear. “I’m home. Happy birthday.”
His time is up. The road calls. “We must go. The road is long and infinity awaits.”
He rises, but leans back down for one last kiss. “Daddy will always love you princess. Never forget that,” he whispers into the ear of the finite. The road calls. We obey.
I cannot remember my beginning. My earlier memory is guiding one of my wards on the road, already old when I was young. I remember the hero, the sole breathing mortal to gaze upon the door to infinity. I remember him as I remember everyone. I remember his pride, I remember his drive. His wish to reach infinity and be known, remembered forever.
I remember my ward. He walked the road, unheeding of the pain to reach the finite. Driven by the sole desire to say a goodbye that would not be remembered, aside from the briefest moments, a small comfort that would arise from the deepest recesses of a memory made when death and love stood over a bed.
I remember the hero who dared the road for the sake of a glimpse of infinity.
But I mostly remember my ward who dared the road for one last glimpse of the finite. I remember all of them, in all their numbers, their thousands upon thousands. So many heroes that braved the road. A torrent of souls, each of them unique and valorous. A miracle of faith and love that had been repeated so many times down the ages, their achievement untarnished by the weight of their numbers, only shining brighter, reaching higher.
I guided them all.
I remember them all.
The Psychopomp
This is a fair beginning, but by the end of the second scene I feel it's dragging a little. The voice isn't perfectly consistent – My jaw lowers, revealing sharpened teeth, but a calm, collected voice comes out of my feline throat. feels like a third-person description with first person stuff added at the end.
I'm not put off immediately, but the story so far hasn't done much to grab, in terms of drama, setting or idea.
Ah. Now it's getting interesting. (I can't help but wonder, though, why more people here haven't at least tried to turn back.)
And the ending … Structurally I can't fault it. It inverts the drama, it weaves the two threads of the story together into a nice, consistent them. But emotionally? Blech. Too sentimental. Emotionally, it did nothing for me.
This is a fair beginning, but by the end of the second scene I feel it's dragging a little. The voice isn't perfectly consistent – My jaw lowers, revealing sharpened teeth, but a calm, collected voice comes out of my feline throat. feels like a third-person description with first person stuff added at the end.
I'm not put off immediately, but the story so far hasn't done much to grab, in terms of drama, setting or idea.
Ah. Now it's getting interesting. (I can't help but wonder, though, why more people here haven't at least tried to turn back.)
And the ending … Structurally I can't fault it. It inverts the drama, it weaves the two threads of the story together into a nice, consistent them. But emotionally? Blech. Too sentimental. Emotionally, it did nothing for me.
A study in contrasts, huh?
Overall, I found this evocative. However, I was left a bit... I dunno. I wish I had a better idea of what remembering means to the psychopomp. He uses words like 'heroic' and what in the end there, but he then applies them universally, and that... leaves me wondering if it really means anything at all.
I think I would have preferred drilling down into the contrasts, instead of smoothing them over. The two travelers are intensely different, and I think I'd have rather seen what that meant.
Still, I guess death is the great leveler. Perhaps the point is that when everyone's special, no-one is. Is courage as pointless as cowardice, if they both die forgotten and unnoticed?
Overall, I found this evocative. However, I was left a bit... I dunno. I wish I had a better idea of what remembering means to the psychopomp. He uses words like 'heroic' and what in the end there, but he then applies them universally, and that... leaves me wondering if it really means anything at all.
I think I would have preferred drilling down into the contrasts, instead of smoothing them over. The two travelers are intensely different, and I think I'd have rather seen what that meant.
Still, I guess death is the great leveler. Perhaps the point is that when everyone's special, no-one is. Is courage as pointless as cowardice, if they both die forgotten and unnoticed?
The concept of this story is an interesting study on the perspective we take towards death, but I think fails to fully come into its own in exploring that perspective. The idea of a long road conjoining the afterlife (or in this case, the infinite) to the real world (or the finite) is ripe grounds for making visceral imagery and extended metaphors, but The Psychopomp doesn't explore much beyond its premise. The contrasts of the hero "going towards the infinite" (i.e. death, and the glory associated with it) and the father trying to return for one last moment with his daughter are understood, but the weight of their struggles is somewhat subdued by the manner of presentation and tone of the story via the main character, who henceforth I will refer to as "Psychopomp."
The enigmatic and mostly deadpan Psychopomp provides more questions than answers with how to regard the events that are unfolding in the story, and the ambiguity in his narration typically results in a mixed message. We are not really given the information to sufficiently understand when he "feels" something or why he feels a certain way, and it's difficult to understand the Psychopomp's overall place in this story other than as a device to connect the two separate plot threads of the hero and the father together. Essentially what I am saying is that it's difficult to get a read on what appears to be some sort of ancient, stone-faced deity's perspective and why he feels the way he does. By extension, it is difficult to get a read on the significance of the two men's actions (i.e. what are the stakes, the personal costs of "going to infinity to soon" or refusing the call outside of the purely physical torture, their personal emotions and motivations) when it seen through a character that clearly doesn't understand them well. Perhaps if there more hints within the narrative or dialogue indicating to these emotions would make the piece feel less cold.
Which is why the ending doesn't quite work for me. The subdued emotional tone of the entire story can't support something as blatantly storybook emotional as a "last words goodbye" and unfortunately comes across as unnecessarily maudlin. I think perhaps adding some more humanizing elements to the story as a whole would be helpful even if this ending were not be retained on a redraft, but were it to remain the same, the addition of more humanizing elements for both the men and The Psychopomp would be a necessity to avoid tonal whiplash.
At the end of the day, this story had a lot of interesting internal mechanics to it that kept me interested, but ultimately I wish that the statements it tried to make were a bit more substantial, or in lieu of that, a more humanistic, and detailed exploration of its two human characters.
The enigmatic and mostly deadpan Psychopomp provides more questions than answers with how to regard the events that are unfolding in the story, and the ambiguity in his narration typically results in a mixed message. We are not really given the information to sufficiently understand when he "feels" something or why he feels a certain way, and it's difficult to understand the Psychopomp's overall place in this story other than as a device to connect the two separate plot threads of the hero and the father together. Essentially what I am saying is that it's difficult to get a read on what appears to be some sort of ancient, stone-faced deity's perspective and why he feels the way he does. By extension, it is difficult to get a read on the significance of the two men's actions (i.e. what are the stakes, the personal costs of "going to infinity to soon" or refusing the call outside of the purely physical torture, their personal emotions and motivations) when it seen through a character that clearly doesn't understand them well. Perhaps if there more hints within the narrative or dialogue indicating to these emotions would make the piece feel less cold.
Which is why the ending doesn't quite work for me. The subdued emotional tone of the entire story can't support something as blatantly storybook emotional as a "last words goodbye" and unfortunately comes across as unnecessarily maudlin. I think perhaps adding some more humanizing elements to the story as a whole would be helpful even if this ending were not be retained on a redraft, but were it to remain the same, the addition of more humanizing elements for both the men and The Psychopomp would be a necessity to avoid tonal whiplash.
At the end of the day, this story had a lot of interesting internal mechanics to it that kept me interested, but ultimately I wish that the statements it tried to make were a bit more substantial, or in lieu of that, a more humanistic, and detailed exploration of its two human characters.
The writing here is ethereal and evocative (the snowflakes lashing against the ward being one particularly strong example), and I found myself quickly lost in the prose. I didn't quite know who was whom some of the time (as I was lost), but it certainly made the time differences between the ward and the hero feel inconsequential, so kudos if that was an intended effect. Whimsical isn't quite how I would describe the overall feeling of this (the tone is far too somber), but it's certainly... dreamy? Otherworldly?
Regardless, this was an interesting take on the prompt, and the imagery is certainly inspired in places. I liked the mood of the piece.
Regardless, this was an interesting take on the prompt, and the imagery is certainly inspired in places. I liked the mood of the piece.
There are a lot of people in the world who suffer as much for noble purposes as any hero ever did, and no one notices. It’s nice to think that someone, somewhere, sees and remembers. Thank you for this story, Author.
The Psychopomp
This one here was my first foray into writing something original. Unfortunately, I was horribly hampered by lack of time. I had no more than three hours to come up with and write the story, and it resulted in going to work sleep-deprived that day.
Coming up with the story was... easy. More than that, I came up with a lot more that I had time for or even words if I did have the time. The Psychopomp, as a character, was indeed supposed to be distant. He is, for all intents and purposes, death, though his role is limited to guiding souls that pass on. He is an amalgamation of the Grim Reaper, Hermes, and Charon, a character who doesn't judge but is more similar to a tombstone. He is the eternal tombstone of everything that has died, never forgetting a single soul or what they say to him as they walk the road to infinity. He doesn't have a certain form, taking the shape that his wards are going to be more comfortable with, although he does show a preference. There were supposed to be a few more humanizing elements to him, a small desire for him to understand and experience further, but there simply wasn't enough time to portray this enough. I managed to insert a few, his tasting of the hero's feast for example or the sense of pride he feels for the father that keeps going.
The father and the hero were two of the three characters I wanted to insert. There was supposed to be a third one but I had to cut him out of the whole process. Again, time. There was a mirroring an opposite between the father and the hero, the hero marching through the roads challenges almost unhampered, while the father struggled and was mutilated. The hero did it for his own personal gain, the father only to say one last goodbye and hopefully somehow make his daughter know he was there. The hero doubted and turned back before claiming his prize, but the father went on. The last one, that was SUPPOSED to be there but I simply forgot to type down the defining line, was that the hero was the only one who managed this feat. The father was only the most recent of a multitude of souls who dared that journey and succeeded. Every tale of someone thinking he heard one last whisper, a dream after a loss, a feather touch while alone, they were all supposed to be the result of a lost loved one who went through all that for that brief, fading moment.
The ending was indeed an over-emotional mess. I had another one in mind, perhaps as over-emotional as that, but one that kind of merged the concept of infinity with the finite through the father's words to his child. He was supposed to say his goodbyes and become ready to depart, but the guide would always point him towards his child. There was going to be some interaction with the Psychopomp and at the end the father would simply reiterate his goodbyes, adding that he will always love his child. Then the road to the infinite would open and take him back, instantly taking him to the door.
I really wish I had the time to give everything its proper attention, or at least edit the damn thing. I didn't even manage a read over, and the experience has left me with the taste that I failed a good idea in the worst way possible.
This one here was my first foray into writing something original. Unfortunately, I was horribly hampered by lack of time. I had no more than three hours to come up with and write the story, and it resulted in going to work sleep-deprived that day.
Coming up with the story was... easy. More than that, I came up with a lot more that I had time for or even words if I did have the time. The Psychopomp, as a character, was indeed supposed to be distant. He is, for all intents and purposes, death, though his role is limited to guiding souls that pass on. He is an amalgamation of the Grim Reaper, Hermes, and Charon, a character who doesn't judge but is more similar to a tombstone. He is the eternal tombstone of everything that has died, never forgetting a single soul or what they say to him as they walk the road to infinity. He doesn't have a certain form, taking the shape that his wards are going to be more comfortable with, although he does show a preference. There were supposed to be a few more humanizing elements to him, a small desire for him to understand and experience further, but there simply wasn't enough time to portray this enough. I managed to insert a few, his tasting of the hero's feast for example or the sense of pride he feels for the father that keeps going.
The father and the hero were two of the three characters I wanted to insert. There was supposed to be a third one but I had to cut him out of the whole process. Again, time. There was a mirroring an opposite between the father and the hero, the hero marching through the roads challenges almost unhampered, while the father struggled and was mutilated. The hero did it for his own personal gain, the father only to say one last goodbye and hopefully somehow make his daughter know he was there. The hero doubted and turned back before claiming his prize, but the father went on. The last one, that was SUPPOSED to be there but I simply forgot to type down the defining line, was that the hero was the only one who managed this feat. The father was only the most recent of a multitude of souls who dared that journey and succeeded. Every tale of someone thinking he heard one last whisper, a dream after a loss, a feather touch while alone, they were all supposed to be the result of a lost loved one who went through all that for that brief, fading moment.
The ending was indeed an over-emotional mess. I had another one in mind, perhaps as over-emotional as that, but one that kind of merged the concept of infinity with the finite through the father's words to his child. He was supposed to say his goodbyes and become ready to depart, but the guide would always point him towards his child. There was going to be some interaction with the Psychopomp and at the end the father would simply reiterate his goodbyes, adding that he will always love his child. Then the road to the infinite would open and take him back, instantly taking him to the door.
I really wish I had the time to give everything its proper attention, or at least edit the damn thing. I didn't even manage a read over, and the experience has left me with the taste that I failed a good idea in the worst way possible.