Arrival
Even in death, Lord Wyldon of Cavall was a difficult man. It wasn't a matter of his behavior or expectations: Wyldon was as polite as any mortal the Black God had met, and the prospect of crossing into the sacred realm was met with relief and happiness, for his life had been a hard one, and his faith had been rewarded.
No, his death was difficult because of his timing.
Of all the days to fall ill, he had succumbed on the first day of Midwinter, and passed into shadow on the longest night of the year. He was met, in his passing, by the Black God.
"You look cross," he told the dark figure in a matter-of-fact tone. "Do you not choose when we go?"
The Great God scowledor so it felt to Wyldon. And whether he spoke in voice or mind, he somehow conveyed a message back to the dead knight: Contrary to mortal belief, your body's failing is what summoned me. My brother warned me that you would be most difficult in your timing.
Wyldon bowed graciously, moving with ease he had not felt since before the Immortals War.
My brother has duties this night, so your judgement will waitbut do not grow impatient. Time in my realm moves differently from yours.
"It was my belief that the Black God did the judging," Wyldon said in a low voice, his eyebrows knit in confusion.
The god shook his head. Mortals believe a great many false ideas. Mithros deals with the judgement of his warriors.
He seemed to vanish, and Wyldon saw that he was no longer in his bedchamber, but in a strange room with stone walls and floor. Looking up he saw blackness that seemed darker than the night sky. It felt cold and impersonal, and reminded him of the Chamber of the Ordeal he'd experienced nearly sixty years earlier.
"You must be wondering where you are," said a cool voice. Something in the tone was familiar to Wyldon. He turned to see a youthful and handsome man leaning against the grey wall.
"Stone Mountain?" he whispered. He hadn't seen the pretty boy in years, save for in his nightmares.
"The holy days are busy times for the Greater Gods. People are constantly invoking them, and of course, the Black God must deal with those fools who set themselves aflame while creating bonfires." He smirked. "I had to wait a very long time for my judgement."
Wyldon's eyes widened in surprise for the briefest of moments. "Of course," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "You also passed at Midwinter."
Joren nodded. "It's been nearly twenty-five mortal years, but I am surprised it slipped your mind."
"Why are you here?" The question was not rude or demanding, but perplexed.
Joren leaned close to Wyldon's ear, and his words were laced with smug satisfaction: "I am to be your sponsor."