Death Is Only The Beginning

A WWE wrestling fanfiction
By: Jay 2K Winger

Disclaimer Stuff: The characters herein are the property of World Wrestling Entertainment (and don't get me started on how much I dislike the fact that they Got The "F" Out), and are not used with the intention of making a profit. This story is written to explore a few little concepts I thought up in regards to the storyline in question, as well as to explore some other aspects of their characters.

Teaser: The Dead Man will not rest in peace after being buried alive by his brother. A fictionalized version of the current Taker/Kane storyline, with a look back at their histories.

PART SEVEN: GUARDIAN OF THE GATES OF THE REALMS

Kane slept fitfully in his hotel room on Sunday night. The burial nightmares had returned, along with the eerie radio transmissions that startled him while driving. He'd taken to listening to tapes or CDs in the car, but even those were starting to become corrupted by whatever sicko that was tormenting him. His frustration and fear were starting to get too much to bear, causing him to lash out at anyone who was foolish enough to come close to him. More than one backstage worker at the house shows had been injured by his random attacks. It was getting bad enough that Eric Bischoff had made noise about sending Kane to a psychiatric institution until he could be controlled. That was before Kane had started to set parts of Bischoff's office on fire in warning.

Kane shot out of bed at another nightmare's end, sweating through his bed sheets. He took several deep breaths, walking into the bathroom to splash some cool water on his face to calm himself down. The mirror was clear of ominous messages, and he'd turned the TV to the wall, as even those had been hijacked by the strange videos that had been haunting him at the arenas. He sighed with some sort of relief, drying his face and going back to bed. He was on the verge of falling asleep again when the phone rang. Feeling his ever-present anger starting to boil, he picked it up. "What?!" he demanded.

There was a faint hissing noise on the other end, and then a strange voice spoke. Only it wasn't really a voice, more like a mixture of voices, all forming one single voice. It seemed like there were three young voices, plus a deep familiar one. And the thing the voice(s) said was, "Seven days." Then the line clicked and went dead.

Kane stared at the receiver, then threw the phone across the room as the fear returned. "Just a trick, just a joke. It's not real..."

Raw, 6 Days to Wrestlemania...

Part of him felt silly for doing something so cliché as that, but he was turning the screws into his brother's sanity now. Besides, fans were calling the whole affair, starting with his message at the Rumble and since then, as being like something out of that movie. Might as well go along with it. At least for now. He stood in the back room of Paul's funeral parlor, in the middle of the eight-pointed star, surrounded by the druids and with Paul nearby, clutching the Urn protectively.

Paul carried the Urn with him, dutifully following him wherever he went in the mortal realm. Out of deference to Paul's mortal abilities, he did not instantaneously transport himself anywhere. Not that he could do so, at any rate. Given the fact that the gathering forces in the Void were still waiting for him there, he was unable to traverse distances in the mortal realm by jumping from realm to realm, as he did in the past. At his current level of power, he could also have traversed distances by jumping into one of the other realms, but doing so carried its own risks. Traveling via the spirit realm disturbed the guardians of that realm, and there were spirits who resided there who also sought his destruction, but lacked the power to leave that realm to do so. In addition, the three girls had told him that the forces that had gathered against him had power in the spirit realm as well as the Void, and that made going there risky.

The realms of chaos and order both disliked and distrusted him, and while they did not actively seek his demise, going into their realms would leave him exposed to their mercies, of which there were little. Likewise the realms of Heaven and Hell despised him, Heaven because of his ties to the Dark Side, and Hell because he'd rejected them. And because Purgatory fell under Heaven's authority, that realm was also barred to his access while he remained disincarnate. Once he incarnated and claimed his powers in full, reclaiming his mantle as guardian of the gates of the realms, then he would be grudgingly be granted access. That was part of his curse. While he was acknowledged to be one of the most skilled guardians the realms had had in ages, some of the Powers That Be sought to remove him and put someone more in tune with their own perspectives.

That was how it worked with the guardians. Some had favored some realms over others, like he had when he'd aligned himself with Hell and chaos to become the Lord of Darkness. There hadn't been a guardian since he'd given up the mantle to reclaim his humanity. He suspected that the powers that had gathered against him were seeking to claim the mantle of guardian for themselves, but they, like he, had to wait for the alignment of the realms. By then, he would have reclaimed the mantle.

He turned to his followers. He told them it was time to go, to go to Raw and send one last message to his brother.

Paul pointed out that they were a long way from where Raw was broadcasting tonight. There was no way to travel that far in a night.

He said that was true, but he had abilities at his disposal even now. He explained what he had planned, and told them to prepare what was needed. It was time to bring things to the end game.

Sara awoke to thunder outside. The baby was wailing, the noise and flashes of lightning having woken her. Sara scooped her up and rocked her quietly as she went to the window. Rain was pounding on the roof and the sky was lit with flickering bolts and sundered by the explosions of thunder. Somewhere in the house, the dogs were howling. She wasn't too bothered. They got like this sometimes when the weather was bad. And this was Texas, after all. Nothing was small in Texas, least of all the storms.

But something bothered her. She walked into her husband's trophy room, looking for a moment at the charred Taker Cross still adorning the wall. A particularly loud crash of thunder caused her to jump and made the baby wail again. She shushed her and bounced her a bit in her arms, rocking her and calming her down before she went to the window.

The rise where she'd seen the specter of her husband two weeks ago was a short distance from where he'd been buried after that horrible match against McMahon. It was lit by the lightning flashes, and she was shocked to see several robed figures working busily. Parked on the rise was a big van, and standing in front of it was a corpulent figure that she knew on sight. The fact that it carried a golden urn confirmed it. What was he doing here, and what did he think he was doing?

After putting the baby down in her crib, she hurriedly pulled on her raincoat and ran out into the driving rain. There were eight robed figures all busily digging behind the rise, in front of the cross-shaped headstone. The fat man, who stood under a large black umbrella, turned to look at her. "Ah, Sara!" he cried in his thin voice. "Good evening to you!"

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she demanded. "Get the hell off our property!"

"Sara, please," Paul Bearer said patiently, "we mean no harm. Once we have what we came for, we will leave. We will not touch a hair on you or your daughter's heads."

"What are you doing here?" Sara hissed. "Leave my husband in peace, damn you!"

"He's the one who sent us here, Sara," the fat man replied. He held up the Urn as if to emphasize this.

She blinked a bit. She hadn't been expecting that answer. She did not know everything that her husband had been through, though he had told her some about his darker days, the time when he was more otherworldly than mortal. She knew that he'd had powers beyond those of mortal men, but he had not told her all of those. She'd put the vision of her husband from two weeks ago down to a dream, though she did not know how to explain the burned symbol on the wall. She was about to tell Paul off, when the words she remembered from her "dream" came back to her.

Take care of her. I'm sorry.

Sara looked at the Urn, then up at Paul's face. "Is he coming back?" she asked quietly.

He nodded sadly. "Yes, but he won't be able to come back to you. There are Rules that prevent him from coming back to you." Paul turned and looked over at the robed men, druids by the look of them. "He needs his body in order to incarnate himself again."

Sara looked into the muddy pit the druids had dug. There at the bottom was the boxy shape of her husband's coffin. The druids were now trying to lift it out of the sucking mud. She looked over at the rise. "Did I," she asked finally, "really see him there?"

"Yes, he came to say goodbye," Paul told her.

"Is he here now?" Sara looked around the rise and the open grave.

Paul shook his head. "The Rules do not allow him to be here when you are present." He sighed. "Sara, when he has incarnated again, he will not be the man you married. He will have to drive his humanity out of himself." He looked to the druids. "Only those who have given themselves over to his cause can remain with him." He turned back quickly. "Please, Sara, go back to your daughter. Raise her well. Leave your husband to the path he has chosen. Perhaps in time he will be allowed to return, but now he can't."

Sara watched from under the umbrella as the druids hefted the muddy casket onto their shoulders and carried it wordlessly to the van, loading it into the back. Paul turned and gave her a solemn nod. "Goodbye, Sara. He knows that you love him, but I shall let him know that he is never far from your thoughts."

Through the numbness she felt, she gave a small laugh. She felt she had to laugh to keep from crying. "He never is."

Paul nodded again, then climbed into the back of the van, which trundled off through the mud, leaving Sara as she fell to her knees in front of the opened grave of her husband, looking into the empty mud and crying. She'd lost him once already. Being told she was losing him again, that was too much to bear.

No one noticed them as they arrived at the arena. They came in a big van, and looked like local workers that had been called in to help work the show tonight. Paul Bearer was in the back of the van holding the Urn. He sat in front of the dirty casket they were going to use to tweak Kane's paranoia. The druids, wearing their street clothes and not their robes, did their duties backstage, while secretly making their plans. According to the schedule for tonight, Kane was going to get a segment at the top of the show to address his issues at WrestleMania.

We will do it then.

Paul glanced up as he heard the Undertaker's disembodied voice in his mind. He was still manifested in the mortal realm, but would incarnate later. He was not invisible when he manifested, and being seen would ruin his plans. However, he was not without powers to mask or disguise or hide his presence. Yes, it was possible to hide the specter of a six-foot-ten ghost, and that was precisely what they were doing. If word got out that the Undertaker had been seen backstage at Raw, then things would get very, very complicated for all of them.

The disguised druids returned, and quickly heaved the coffin out of the van and ferried it into the arena and down into the basement. Paul followed them, secure in the knowledge that the illusions crafted by the Undertaker's spirit would cloak him as they did his specter. In the basement, the eight-pointed star had been inscribed on the floor again. The druids put their robes on and took up their positions wordlessly. Paul looked around, and then understood as he heard the Dead Man speak in his mind again.

Now. Now is the time I shall incarnate.

"But, it is too soon! The realms are not in alignment!"

It must be now. The gathering powers are getting too close. If we delay, I will be unable to become the guardian of the gates of the realms again.

The fat man frowned. This was moving too quickly, in his opinion, but he had pledged his loyalty again, and he could not renege on that. He nodded. "So be it, then."

He began the ritual to incarnate the Undertaker in his physical form once again. The coffin sat in the middle of the star. Strangely, despite the fact that it and its occupant had been interred for months, there was no rank odor usually associated with decay. The druids chanted their portion of the rite, while Paul Bearer intoned the main incantation. None of them were worried about being heard. They were deep in the basement, and the illusions cloaking them muffled the noise. The ritual was conducted in an old, all-but-forgotten tongue, the secret language of a now-deceased sect of an old religion that had also faded into obscurity. There was no real translation for the words being spoken, because to translate the ritual would have destroyed the power it held. The words being spoken were far more than words. They were more like ideas, concepts, vocalized and given form and power.

Just prior to the opening of the doors to the public, the ritual was completed. Eldritch energy swirled about the star and the coffin. Paul Bearer had to step back as a fell wind suddenly arose in the basement, blowing the candles lighting the circle out. The room was plunged into darkness. Paul could hear the rustle of the druids' robes as they milled about, trying to see or relight the candles.

Then came the sound of a creak. The movement of clothing stopped as the druids and Paul heard the sound of two very heavy feet stepping onto the floor. There was another creak, and the thud of something heavy slamming back into place. The wind was still blowing, and they heard...

I will return. Make the preparations.

All at once, the wind died, and the candles flared back to life. As their eyes adjusted, Bearer and the druids saw that the dirt atop and around the coffin had been disturbed, and beside the coffin was a pair of footprints. A quick check of the inside of the coffin revealed that it was empty.

He had it. The power was his again. He had incarnated, and now was the time to reclaim his mantle as guardian of the gates of the realms. He returned to the Void, where the girls awaited him. As guardians of the threshold, they would be the first to acknowledge or refuse his status. They looked up at him, with pale hair and pale countenance, and nodded solemnly, curtseying. He nodded back, telling them that when he had completed his business with his brother, he would resume his duties.

They told him they understood.

He left, for the guardian of the Void was absent, as he nearly always was. He had seen the guardian of the Void in months, for the guardian of the Void had incarnated in the mortal realm, where they worked to stir up trouble and break things down and destroy them, as the Void itself invariably did to anything that remained within it for too long. He would track down the guardian of the Void later.

He went from the Void to the spirit realm. A tall, dark form, bare-chested and wearing a top hat awaited him. The top-hat man adjusted the tailed coat he wore over his bare chest and looked him up and down. He bid a greeting to Papa Legba, guardian of the spirit realm, and told him he was once again the guardian of the gates of the realms.

Papa Legba looked him in the eye, weighing his soul, then doffed his top hat and bowed deeply, bidding him welcome back to his previous office.

He went from the spirit realm to the realm of chaos. From out of the maddening swirls of non-reality came a monstrous, hideous form, like something out of H.P. Lovecraft's nightmares. The form blinked a series of eyes and glared at him sternly. He bid a greeting to Leviathan, guardian of the realm of chaos, and told it he was once again the guardian of the gates of the realms.

Leviathan bellowed at him in the infernal language of chaos, redressing him for his betrayal and abandoning the realms of reality to reclaim something as pitiful as humanity. He merely weathered its outrage, and told it he was not going to be bullied or intimidated. He was the guardian of the gates of the realms, and he was not going to be favoring any realm over another.

Leviathan bellowed in further outrage, but grudgingly bent its form in a mockery of a bow, acknowledging his office.

He went from the realm of chaos to the realm of order. From out of the blank, serene grayness materialized a gray-hooded form, possibly humanoid, possibly not. The hood was empty, and there was no hint of gender or detail or distinction. Even without eyes, it looked him up and down, projecting the sensation of frowning without having the face to do so. He bid the guardian of order a greeting, declaring he was reclaiming his mantle as guardian of the gates of the realms.

The guardian of order spoke in flat tones, throwing his earlier allegiance with the realm of chaos in his face.

He told the guardian of order that he was no longer favoring any realm over any other, and that he was going to make good on prior mistakes.

The guardian of order then bowed, acknowledging and welcoming him to his office.

He went from the realm of chaos to the realm of Hell. A tall, dark, demonic figure emerged from the brimstone and loomed over him. Horns curled from the demon's forehead back over his hairless scalp. Burning red eyes bored into his, as huge black wings eclipsed the baleful light of the lake of fire. Talons glinted on hands the size of dinner plates, cloven hooves crunched on bones. He bid a greeting to Azrael, guardian of Hell, proclaiming his status as guardian of the gates of the realms again, and as he had with Leviathan, renounced any alliance he'd had with Hell.

Azrael told him that the Morningstar was furious, and demanding retribution be exacted on his family for his betrayal.

He told Azrael that doing such a thing would violate the laws of reality, and would bring enormous consequence. As guardian of the gates of the realms again, his loved ones in the mortal realm were under protection. Interference in the mortal realm was strictly forbidden in that regard. He told Azrael that he would be keeping a strict eye on Hell's forces, as he would with all the eight realms.

Azrael hissed in annoyance, but grudgingly caped his wings and bowed, glaring into his eyes as he did so. Hell had acknowledged his status.

He went from the realm of Hell to the realm of Purgatory. Immediately, a bright, robed figure swooped before him. An angel, a messenger of the Lord of Heaven, fair haired and skinned, a being of light. The angel spread his wings and demanded him to stop. He bid a greeting to Rafael, guardian of Purgatory, and announced his reclamation of the mantle of guardian of the gates of the realms.

Rafael, as the guardian of order had done, denounced him as a pawn of Hell and chaos. He told the angel that he was no longer in allegiance with those realms, that from this moment hence, he would be impartial, favoring no realm over any other, keeping watch over all realms equally.

Rafael bristled, then stiffened as instructions were received from the Lord of Heaven, and folded his wings before coldly acknowledging his status.

One realm left. He went from the realm of Purgatory to the realm of Heaven, and as in the previous realm, he was immediately halted by an angel, taller and brighter, more beautiful than anything in Creation. He bid a greeting to Gabriel, guardian of Heaven, left hand to the Lord of Heaven, and informed him that he was once more the guardian of the gates of the realms.

Gabriel, as expected, did not trust him, mentioning once more his past affiliation with chaos and Hell. He told the seraph that which he'd told the other guardians as well, that he was no longer allied with any realm, but now and henceforth an impartial guardian.

The seraph fumed, but then stiffened as he received instruction from the Lord of Heaven. Then, as Rafael had done before, the left hand of the Lord of Heaven coldly acknowledged his status and bid him to be gone from the realm of Heaven until his duties brought him back.

He returned to the Void for now. The guardian of the mortal realm was going to be trickier to locate, as that particular guardian often had to disguise themselves to avoid problems. The eight realms were not the only realms in existence, but they comprised the eight principle realms of reality. All other realms were either sub-realms under the jurisdiction of one of the eight, or they were realms of unreality, and therefore dangerous and outside his power. Forces from the sub-realms and unreality realms were always on the lookout for ways to infiltrate the eight realms, especially the mortal realm.

The mortal realm was at the same time the most insignificant and the most important realm of the eight. It was smaller than the other seven, but it was there that the power plays between the seven unfolded. It was there that destiny played out, it was there where the most power and magic and energy could be accumulated. As a result, the guardian of the mortal realm was the target of much of those forces seeking to subjugate the mortal realm. The current guardian often took steps to hide their power and avoid detection. He knew that he would encounter them one day, and did not anticipate any problems in acknowledging each other's station.

He returned to the mortal realm, to the basement. Paul was there, the druids were preparing to move the coffin for his final message to his brother before the time of reckoning.

Bischoff was called out to the gorilla position by a stagehand in a panic. They'd just cleared the ring after the last Heat taping for their international audiences, when this had turned up in the ring. This had turned out to be... a coffin. Dirt sat atop it and around it. The techies were in a panic as well, because the lights and sound boards weren't under their control, either. Purple lights lit the ring, and Gregorian chanting resounded in the arena. Even unplugging everything hadn't stopped it.

"Dammit, we go live in five minutes!" Bischoff snapped. "Send somebody out there to get that stuff out of my ring!"

"We've tried that, Mr. Bischoff. No one'll go near it. It's creeping everyone out..."

Bischoff sighed. "How'd it get there?"

"No one knows, Mr. Bischoff. We'd just cleared it, when it just... showed up!"

"I'll take care of it," came a growl from behind Bischoff. He turned and jumped as he saw Kane standing there. The monster glared at the monitors. "I'll get that crap out of the ring..."

Bischoff glanced at the stagehand, then smiled and nodded. "All right, Kane, you do that." He turned to the stagehand. "We can use this. You go to the production booth, tell them to get a shot of this and run it before the opening credits." He smiled to himself. "If the Undertaker wants to take over my show, well, I'm still going to make money off it." He chuckled, then croaked as Kane grabbed him by the throat and lifted him up to glare him in the eye.

"It's not the Undertaker. He's dead."

"Right, right! I knew that!" Bischoff assured him.

The Gregorian chants were continuing as the show went live, before they were interrupted by the explosion of Kane's pyro. As he stalked down the ramp, however, the lights remained purple, instead of turning to the usual fiery colors associated with him. When he reached the bottom of the ramp, however, his music died and the chants returned in full force. He paused, swallowing a bit. This was all someone's idea of an elaborate, sick joke. So why was he suddenly feeling nervous? And was it his imagination, or was the air getting a bit colder?

The chanting was droning into his brain, setting his nerves on edge. He was already jumpy enough from all the tricks people kept playing with his radios and TVs and rental cars. He didn't need that damned chanting adding to his nerves. It didn't help that there was a miasma of fetid air around the ring and casket within it. It smelled horrible. His brain treacherously told him that this was probably what a man smelled like after months in the grave after being buried alive... but that was as far as it got before Kane squashed that portion of his psyche.

He started to climb into the ring before the less civilized part of his brain panicked and made him back off. Something was not right here, and not just in the 'someone's playing a dirty trick on me' way. This felt increasingly like something that should not happen in reality. Like something had slipped through the cracks in the world and crawled into the house, where it festered and rotted...

Kane shook himself and snarled, climbing into the ring at last. The stench was overpowering. He glowered at the worms writhing in the dirt shrouding the coffin, then grabbed the whole setting and flipped it over. This – wasn't – funny! The lights returned to normal. He stormed around the upset casket, expecting to see some sort of rotting meat or half-decayed corpse... but what he saw was...

A golden urn.

Kane frowned, the chill he felt intensifying. The not right feeling was getting worse too. This was starting to feel less and less like an elaborate joke and more and more like something that should not happen. This sort of thing did not happen in the real world. This could not be happening! This was ... it had to be ... a trick! A big, intricate hoax all designed to drive him crazy. Well it hadn't worked, had it?! He was just angrier now, and when he got angry, he was going to hurt people...

As the reality (it had to be the reality) of the situation sunk in, Kane started to laugh, because this just cemented that -- on the off-chance that the Undertaker was somehow coming back from the dead -- his brother was afraid of him. But he, Kane, the Big Red Monster, was not afraid of the Undertaker. He'd buried him alive, because his brother was only mortal. He regarded the urn, sneered and set it down in the corner. His never-ending rage took over as he grabbed the casket and the collapsible stand it had been laying upon and hurled them from the ring.

He grabbed a microphone and picked the urn back up, laughing. "This," he said of the urn, "is what you have sent for me?" He chuckled. "This is your message from beyond the grave?" Sneering, he threw the urn out of the ring onto the casket. "It's over, Dead Man!" He pointed at the TitanTron screen, where so much of his recent worries had originated. "I am not afraid of you!" Veins stood out on his forehead as he shouted it, as though trying to sunder the barriers of reality and get the message to his brother. "Do you hear me, Dead Man?! I AM NOT AFRAID OF YOU!!"

BONG.

Kane threw the mic down in disgust as the lights turned purple again. "This is still all just a trick! You can't prove you still exist!"

I DO still exist, brother. I am more than you could ever imagine.

"Then why aren't you here right now?! An empty casket? Is this supposed to scare me?!"

Just because I'm not in the ring, brother, doesn't mean I'm not here.

"You're all talk! Just tricks with the video feed and pyro set-up! PARLOR tricks!"

Then explain this, brother.

Kane staggered as the ring moved. He looked around as he saw one corner of the ring was higher than the others. He whirled about as the ring shook again as another corner lifted off the ground, then another, then the last. The ring was levitating. That was impossible. No one could levitate something the size of a wrestling ring. As if that wasn't bad enough, the ring started to shake, almost toppling him.

This is a mere fraction of my power, brother. And this is all I shall do to you tonight. But, Kane?

"WHAT?!" the monster roared, trying to keep his balance in the shaking ring.

The words the voice in his head spoke were echoed on the screen. This Sunday... it all begins again.

And then, as one final twist to Kane's simmering rage:

Rest in peace.

Kane screamed his fury as the screen squawked and blared with the multicolored static-snow.

Kane was knocking anything and everything in his way over as he exploded through the curtain and headed for his dressing room. It was his week off, he should have to deal with this shit. More than one stagehand or indie wrestler was knocked aside with a stiff arm shot. He turned the corner to his hallway, then stopped.

The floor was caked with footprints. Muddy footprints.

Kane glared and stalked them, tracking them to, as he suspected, his dressing room. The door was locked, and he had the only key, as he hadn't wanted anyone to plant any idiotic tricks to further annoy him. The door, however, was also caked with mud, of handprints and streaks, as though fingers had clawed at the door. The knob was encrusted with it. Kane scowled, grabbing the knob and grinding his palm into it, to rub the mud off...

And the door opened. Kane blinked, and narrowed his eyes. He'd gotten every single key for the door from the building supervisors and watchmen. He'd seen to it that not even Bischoff or any of the stagehands had any keys. There shouldn't have been any way this door was unlocked. He supposed it could've been picked, but someone would have seen that, wouldn't they?

He kicked the door open, knocking it off one of its hinges and glared about the room, as if daring any tricks to show themselves instantly. Nothing happened. Kane growled and grabbed his gear. There was no point in staying here tonight. Wrestlemania was less than a week away. Even though he wasn't going to be fighting anyone -- since of course this was all a trick, and the Undertaker was dead dead DEAD -- he intended to make an impact nonetheless. Teach Triple H and Michaels and Benoit to ignore him, shut him out of a World Title picture, would they...?

As he shouldered his bags, he blinked and staggered back. Nothing had seemed amiss in the room as he'd come in, because nothing adorned the walls or floor. But the back of the door he'd kicked in did have something on it. It was a Taker Cross, a Dark Side Crucifix, seemingly made of a combination of blood and mud, and the hardened mixture started to smoke in front of him. Kane screamed in fear and rage, threw the door out of his way and barreled out of the arena to his car. This was getting out of control...

He started to reach for the radio, thought better of it, and decided to just drive in silence back to the hotel. He needed to sleep... yes, rest, to prepare for his big night in six days.

Wrestlemania XX.

Where it wasn't going to begin again. No, it was all going to end there.

He walked back down to the basement. Paul and the druids awaited him. The shattered remains of the casket sat in the middle of the floor. One of the druids asked what to do with it.

He told them to just dispose of them, but keep as much of the dirt as possible.

Paul asked what they were going to do now. He'd been incarnated almost a week earlier than they expected.

He thought about this. He had plenty to do in the intervening six days, and not all of it in the mortal realm. He told the druids to search for the guardians of the Void and the mortal realm. He had to meet with them, so they could acknowledge his status as guardian of the gates of the realms, and be informed of his new impartiality. The druids nodded in understanding and quietly left.

Paul asked what he was going to do for him. He told him quite simply:

Protect the Urn.