Chapter 36 - The Orpheus Dilemma
The scene that played before them seemed to go on forever, but finally, in a brilliant explosion of light, the conjured vision vanishes, leaving a shower of glowing specks that dance briefly in the air before fizzling out. Returned to her adult state, Alya lies in a crumpled, defeated heap in the centre of the grey square, weeping like the frightened little girl she once was mere moments ago. Curled up in a foetal position, her auburn hair in disarray, the half-elf hugs her shredded monk's robes tightly around herself in a feeble bid to preserve whatever dignity she has left.
"You bastards!" Bishop rages, fully mindful that he is swearing at the God of Death and his doom scribe, but uncaring of the consequences. "You sadistic, degenerate bastards!!"
He continues to wrestle vainly against the vice-like hold of the guards. He wants to rush to her side, to scoop her up in his arms, to protect her from any further harm these beasts may want to inflict on her.
How could they do this to her? To make her live through that again?
And to think that he had been expecting an altogether different memory. With a pang of guilt, he recalls his earlier selfishness; all along, he had been worrying about how he would cope with dredging up the past, when it is her that had to relive all that pain and torture.
His chest tightens at the sight of the once strong and self-assured half-elf, slayer of the King of Shadows, lying helpless and vulnerable in the dirty earth like a lost little kitten. The sound of her convulsive sobbing, like a mournful melody of shattered dreams and stolen innocence, wrenches painfully at his heart.
And then everything becomes clear; that day in the woods, when they had somehow found themselves with their lips locked together. He had been so hungry for her, so needy, he was blind to her anxiety. When she stopped his roving hand from slipping under her trousers, his first reaction was one of anger; he thought she was spurning him, after having toyed with him like a cat played with a mouse. In his all-consuming lust, he had interpreted her hesitation as part of some cruel, manipulative game.
Bishop, you thoughtless fool...
In his selfish eagerness to please himself, he had failed to see the fear in her eyes, and instead of understanding, instead of allaying her worries, he had angrily pushed her away, yelled at her, made her feel worthless.
You are a stupid, stupid man...
Kelemvor is speaking now, his tone neutral, unaffected by the horrors he had just witnessed.
"Few mortals would have been willing to do what you have done," he tells Alya, who still remains in her prone position on the ground. "Your tenacity and your sacrifice is admirable, and I will uphold my end of the bargain. The soul of Dante Fletcher, or Bishop as he prefers to be known, is hereby free to leave the realm of Hades." As if on cue, the guards release their hold on the ranger, but the god's words, despite its promise of freedom, bring little comfort to the man.
All he wants now is to make sure that Alya is all right.
Rushing across the square, he is but a mere yard from the half-elf when Kelemvor halts him in mid-stride.
"Wait," the God of Death says, his hand raised authoritatively. "You will need to be aware of one condition."
Scratch, scratch, scratch...
Jergal's quill scribbles its way across his scroll, as the demigod methodically documents the results of the proceedings.
"Condition?" Bishop growls warily. Why is there always a catch with these immortals? "She's already shed blood and tears for you! What more do you want from her??"
"As long as Bishop's soul remains within my realm," the God of Death continues, oblivious to the ranger's outburst, "There is to be no physical contact between the two of you."
Scratch, scratch, scratch...
As Jergal faithfully makes a note of the clause in his records, the scraping of the doom scribe's quill begins to grate on Bishop's increasingly frayed nerves.
"What?!" the ranger splutters. "What kind of dumb-arse catch is that??" He stares at Alya, so tantalisingly close. All he has to do now is reach out his hand, and...
"The slightest touch will nullify our contract, and his soul will be sent straight back into the Wall of the Faithless."
Bishop laughs in disbelief. "You're kidding...you've got to be kidding...you know what? You call yourself a 'god', but you're no better than the devils and demons that crawl through this blasted kingdom of yours! It's always a game with you guys, isn't it? Everything is always some perverse game!"
Scratch, scratch, scratch...
"And by the gods, MUST YOU WRITE EVERYTHING DOWN??!"
Jergal pauses long enough to fix the ranger with a look of complete indifference, before calmly returning to his task.
Scratch, scratch, scratch...
Equally unaffected by the ranger's rants, Kelemvor again addresses Alya, who has by now regained some semblance of composure, although her eyes are still red-rimmed, her cheeks streaked with a mixture of tears and dirt, and her torn clothes hang haphazardly off one slender shoulder.
"That is the River Slith." The Death God motions towards a line of running water at the base of the shimmering spire. "Also known as the River of Blades, it runs through the City, behind the Crystal Tower, and eventually empties into the Styx."
Tentatively, Bishop steps forward to inspect the river. The water of the Slith is a putrid black sludge, with odd silvery shards floating amidst its inky darkness. On closer scrutiny, the slivers turn out to be razor sharp blades, slicing their way through the oily scum.
Charming...
"Follow the river downstream, and you will reach the Iron Forest," Kelemvor instructs. "At the far end of the forest, I will summon a portal that will transport you safely back to your plane."
"W-why all the way there?" Alya asks, her voice still sounding small and shaky. "Why can't the portal be closer?"
"That would be a logistical nightmare," Kelemvor's scribe interjects in his cold voice, as he continues his busy scribbling. It is the first time Bishop has ever heard the demigod speak up, and Jergal's chilling, reedy voice sends an involuntary shiver down the ranger's spine. "We wouldn't want the petitioners around the City chancing upon an escape route, would we?"
"Jergal is right," the God of Death agrees, "which is also why the portal cannot be kept open for long. The longer it stays open, the greater its chances of being discovered."
"So how long will it stay open?" Bishop asks suspiciously.
"You will have five days to make your journey," Kelemvor dictates. "I will open the portal on the fifth hour of the fifth day. Within an hour, if no one passes through, it will close."
"Woah, woah..." the ranger protests again. "An hour? That's a bit of a narrow time slot, isn't it? Besides, we can hardly tell day from night, much less what the bloody time is, in this infernal place!"
"Unfortunately, leaving the portal open for any longer would carry far too great a risk of discovery by the local inhabitants," explains the Judge. "And if it should venture into your world, a creature of the Outer Planes could cause a lot of problems."
"I take it by that tone that some of the local residents are less than friendly?" Bishop ventures sarcastically.
"Let's just say," Jergal pipes up again, as he finishes his report, and signs off with a flourish, "that you will meet some challenges along the way."
"Great," the ranger huffs, "so let me get this straight: five days to travel gods-know how-far, through gods-know-what-kind of terrain, with the possibility of running into gods-know-what, and in the end we might notevenget to the portal on time??"
"That is the best solution we can offer," says Kelemvor simply.
End of discussion.
Alya straightens up on shaky legs, signalling that she is ready to end this surreal meeting with the God of the Dead.
"Is there an inn where we can rest, and stock up before the journey?" she asks, and once again the ranger notices just how painfully weak and tired the half-elf looks.
"My dear girl," Jergal chides in his humourless tone, "The City of Judgment is hardly a traveller's stopover point. We have no inns here. Besides..." he neatly rolls his vellum scroll up with his gnarled hands. "You have caused quite a stir here as it is. If the other petitioners hear of this, they too might start bartering for their souls. No, the sooner you leave, the better."
"But LOOK AT HER!!" Bishop is livid at the callousness of the two gods. "She's dead on her feet! After what you've put her through, you're not even going to let her stop to catch her breath?"
He is met by the blank stares of the God of Death and his scribe.
"This just keeps getting better..." sighs the ranger, as he throws his hands up in defeat.
This is one argument I'm not going to win.
"Bishop," Alya urges, her tiny voice quivering, "please, let's just go."
Throwing one final look of pure hatred over his shoulder, Bishop follows Alya as they make their way out of the City of Death.
The journey back to the world of the living is going to be a long one indeed.