The days.
The weeks.
The months.
The seasons.
The years...
They all pass mockingly over his grave.
Nothing gets in.
Nothing gets out.
The earth gurgles quietly, gasping out its breaths.
But no breath comes from the young man lying on the igneous bed below.
The warmth swirls its deadly tendrils around his limbs.
Hoping to bind him.
To bring him down.
…
…
…
He doesn't feel them at first.
He doesn't even know they're there.
But the chains begin to pull.
Hard.
No response.
They violently demand recognition.
The rusted metal bites into his skin.
And suddenly...
The young man breaks free from his body like a snake shedding its old scales.
He falls forward, coated in a clear, primordial ooze.
He catches himself on his forearms and groans.
He's still half-contained in the shell of his corpse.
He shakes his head slowly, trying to recover.
But there is no mercy.
The chains pull again.
He gasps.
His head breaks the surface for the first time in a long time.
He flies through the air and lands hard on a slab of rock jutting out from the ground.
Groaning again, he places his hands onto the sandpaper surface, trying to support himself.
Panting.
Wheezing.
Naked.
His still-damp hair clings to his exposed back.
The primitive slime drips in gossamer strands off his trembling body.
His muscles twitch, born anew only to fail again.
The rock digs into his palms.
He coughs out a glob of ooze and wipes his mouth.
He looks around.
The sky is red.
The air is warm.
It is the pulsing heart of Soltime, with stifling humidity and the suffocating warmth.
The land is barren.
Dry.
Lonely.
Not even one blade of grass breaks the desolate monotony.
He sighs and hugs himself.
His skin is moist with slime and sweat.
A raspy caw splits the air.
The young man looks to the sky.
A raven circles over him, beating its wings.
It alights some distance away from him, claws scratching the cracked ground.
It seems to beckon to him with a single ebony eye.
He attempts to stand up.
But the rock under his feet is greasy with slime.
And he slips.
With a cry, he slides down the serrated slopes.
He lands on the dusty earth, wincing.
He reaches behind him and rubs his back.
There are wounds...but no blood.
Only a tepid sort of hollowness.
A moderate Soltime breeze hisses through.
He shudders.
The over-baked dirt burns itself into his skin.
The air wavers around him like an unstable illusion.
The young man suddenly feels a weight on his hands.
He looks down.
Miniature shackles encircle each of his fingers.
He blinks and lifts a hand up.
His cold eyes scrutinize the chains dangling from the rusted cuffs.
He shakes them uncertainly.
The links rattle off a laughing requiem.
His eyes narrow.
The chains twitch.
...his eyes widen.
The chains jerk.
And he's dragged across the dead landscape.
As bloodless as his own form.
No blood.
Only pain...and the warmth.
…
…
…
The chains pull him to a dilapidated town.
They unceremoniously dump him atop what used to be a fountain.
The marble shards embed themselves into his limbs.
He grits his teeth and sits up.
Still wet.
Still warm.
But now dust hugs his body like a second skin.
The stringy robe of an angel that never was.
He pushes back his sopping bangs and lies down.
Waiting.
…
…
…
And then...
Two scarred feet glistening with ooze pad their way into his line of vision.
The young man sits up.
And the Eidolon meets his gaze.
The Eidolon is a tired old man.
Pale, naked, and wet.
He stands tall but hunched, laden with coils upon coils of large, rusty chains.
His hair gleams white as death, lightly stained by the scarlet sky.
His remaining eye holds a glass-hard stare of aquamarine.
His face is as chiseled and emotionless as carved stone.
The young man regards him curiously.
The Eidolon shuffles forward once.
His own chains shriek and screech with every move he makes.
He speaks a damned name.
"Alex."
The young man's fists curls up.
His whole being grimaces.
He opens his mouth to say something...
...but his words float away.
The Eidolon continues to gaze at him.
"I have come to kill you," he utters.
The young man blinks unbelievingly.
"How long did it take for me to get here?" he asks.
The Eidolon shakes his head.
"That is of no importance now. What little there is here cannot be measured. It all blends together...and it is all soon forgotten."
The young man looks around him.
Decimated homes.
Charcoal trees.
And the crimson sky.
His eyes return to the spectre in front of him.
"Is this Tartarus?" he asks.
"We would desire it so," is the Eidolon's reply.
The young man takes a deep breath...and lets it out.
He closes his eyes.
Knowing he can't sleep.
His own chains clatter around him...a constant reminder.
He lifts his lids again.
The Eidolon stands behind him, looking around.
"You ask how long it took for you to get here," the Eidolon says. "But the question should be, how long will it take for you to get there?"
And a wrinkled, bony hand gestures out at the desert nothingness before them.
Dead and blank.
"See the futility of such inquiries," the Eidolon says. "Here in this bloodless land, the past disappears like dust in the wind. There is a fleeting moment of the present, and the future—whatever is left of it—looms forever over our heads. But it is hard to tell even those two apart, for every moment passes the same. There is no point in keeping track of Time." He looks at the young man. "I have asked myself the very same question you asked, many times over. How long has it taken me to get here, I wonder. But I have not been able to figure it out, and I no longer desire to now. Instead, I ask...how long will it take for me to reach the end?"
The young man's head snaps up, wondering at the meaning of the words.
The Eidolon's eyes are worn now.
"I must finish this," he mumbles, shaking his head. "I must finish what I came here to do...what I was summoned to do. I must reach the end."
"You must kill me."
"Yes."
A lonely wind whistles.
The young man heaves a sigh.
But it sounds more like a laugh.
"There is no reason to wait any longer, then," he says breathlessly. "What do I have to cling to? Nothing! I killed my own past and my future was taken from me! And in this present, I only see stagnation. I cannot escape. There is...nothing...anymore..."
He looks almost pleadingly at the Eidolon.
"Do your job. Give me the oblivion that you hold. Give me...the silence."
The Eidolon stares at him.
"I cannot."
The young man's eyes fly open.
His lips tighten in bewilderment and anger.
He gets to his feet, hands ready to weave a familiar spell—
"There is something you must do as well, Alex. We are linked by Fate; I cannot do my job unless you do yours."
The young man falters.
His hands freeze in their magical dance.
"Something...I must do?"
"Yes. You are a Reaper."
The young man blinks.
He lets his hands fall.
The Eidolon looks at him seriously. "When you were...alive...you strove for nothing but power. Pure, raw power, at any cost and at any pain. You knew what you wanted, and you knew how to get it.
"The world was your chessboard, and you played it easily, effortlessly. Pawns, bishops, kings, knights...all fell equally to your hands. Even more, most weren't aware of their fall. Your machinations were subtle, nigh-invisible, and yet they spoke volumes about your skills and cunning.
"Here...if you can think to call this 'here'...you still possess that power. Silent death. Seamless destruction. And at the last...oblivion. You can use it, wield it...like you always have."
The young man listens.
The dust continues to cake around his ankles.
"Do you understand, Alex? Your legacy follows you. This is a checkmate not fully declared. You must follow through. You must finish the game."
"Finish the game?"
"You knew your goals as you played in the world of the living. Your very life was the individual moves to triumph. Why suddenly stop when you are one tiny word away from victory?"
The young man mulls this over.
The Eidolon watches him.
"...what must I do?"
"You are a Reaper. There are souls you must harvest. The souls of those that drag you down, and thus keep you from your goal."
"Pah." The young man spits to the side. "I have no such obstacles. I am a man alone."
"If that were true, we would not be here right now." A stern glance. "You have connections, Alex. They vary greatly in their nature, but nevertheless, they drag you down. You must sever those connections and free yourself to taste true power. Is that not what you've wanted?"
The young man regards the Eidolon silently, his face expressionless.
The Eidolon continues.
"If you do your job, then I can do mine. And then...we can both rest."
A pause.
"Rest," the young man whispers. A corner of his mouth curls in a sardonic smile. "I've forgotten what that word means."
The Eidolon peels off a number of his chains and offers them to his companion.
The young man takes them into his hands.
The links are warm.
Very warm.
But not with life.
The sky bleeds.
The earth wheezes.
"You will take these to your reapings," the Eidolon commands. "Each and every one of them."
"And who, exactly, are my reapings?"
"You need not worry. The chains will take you where you need to go. You must concern yourself with only one thing, and that is with your job." The Eidolon gestures. "Go."
The air is still.
The young man gathers the chains to his bare chest.
He plants a bare, still-damp sole to the dusty earth.
One in front of the other.
The Eidolon vanishes.
The young man blinks, startled at the sudden disappearance.
But he trudges on.
The chains trails behind him like strangling ribbons.
His eyes are fixed on the scarlet horizon.
It is the last hope he will ever receive.
