July 6th, 2025

James Mohigan thought himself a good man. Not a great man, that moniker was reserved for truly outstanding individuals. But he was a good man, he often thought. A great husband to his wife Laura, a great father to his two boys- he had a panoply of mugs and paraphernalia to back his claim-, and the "bestest" grand papi to his little Anna. He knew he was great at some things, but never dared call himself a great man.

He hadn't changed the world, after all, he smiled, finding humor in the fleeting thought. Albert Einstein, Marie Curie, Isaac Newton; as a young boy growing up in the seventies, he had always hoped to have his name with the greats, immortalized in the stars. Sadly, he didn't manage that. He was successful, of course. His family would be well cared for, he was a decorated University professor and business owner. He even tried his hand at MMA through his mid-thirties and mid-forties, in a vain attempt at relieving his high school wrestling glory days

Some called him proud, others arrogant. He would gladly admit guilt to both counts, though his dear Laura managed to beat the living crap out of his arrogance until he could live around other people and not get stoned for inadvertently belittling them. For that he was grateful.

He had lived a good life, he thought, looking at his wife of 30 years, looking as beautiful as she did that day when she barreled into him on campus (best-bruised rib ever). he just wished he had more time with her, with his sons, with his friends. He didn't fancy dying, the thing sounded as dreary as a wet autumn night, but pancreatic cancer was a bitch to fight.

With a reassuring smile, a small tear escaping his eye, James Mohigan cast one last look at his wife and sons, proud of the life he lived with them, his only regrets not having spent more time with them, and not finishing One Piece. He made something of himself, found love, got to see his grandchild.

He had lived a good life, he thought, feeling the cold spreading through, his vision blurring, his breath getting shallower until it was too hard to even move his chest. With one last effort, he wheezed "Thank you for being there with me, it was fun. We should do that again sometimes." The last thing he heard was the sad chuckles marred with the sobs of his family before the darkness embrace him.

James Mohigan was not afraid of death, he decided. "Dying does sound boring, though", he thought mirthlessly. One tended to be quite morbid when dead, after all. He didn't quite know what to expect from death, honestly. He had been a lifelong atheist, having considered things like religion little more than silly stories. But now that he was dead, he didn't quite know what to make of it.

He was just here. Not particularly anywhere, but just here, since there wasn't anywhere else to be if that made any sense. Until he wasn't. The next thing he knew, he was being stretched, squished, and wrung for what felt like an eternity. Then he could feel again. Cool air touched his wet skin. he felt heavy and tired as if he had run a marathon. It was hard to breathe, his lungs not expanding the way he was used to, making him take shallower, faster breaths. He felt himself move, then wrapped in cloth- at least what he thought was cloth- before hearing what sounded like the voice of an old man. He heard more voices, though it was too unfocused to make out what was being said.

Blearily, he opened his eyes, letting them adjust to the darkroom. His vision was still blurry, seeing shapes vaguely resembling humans. "Peculiar", he heard an older voice say. The maybe mid-fifties? he thought, hazarding a guess.

" Am I not dead, after all?" he thought to himself, too weak to do much more than wriggling around. "Maybe I've been in a coma. I wonder what year it is?" he said to himself, happy and relieved that he hadn't quite kicked the bucket yet. "Oh, how much I want to see my Laura, she'd die to learn what I saw on the other side, I know it."

Oh, he was moving again, he realized, hearing rustling and more muffled words. "What kind of tech they have developed while I was under? To cure cancer so advanced, this is amazing. I am so bloody weak, though", he thought, annoyed at his situation, but he quickly discarded the emotion. " Nothing a little PT can't fix, I'm sure."

Hurried steps took him out of his musings, however. His eyes had adjusted to the dim, room, James had an easier time seeing his environment. Instead of the sterile and clinical look, he expected from a hospital, he was confronted with what seemed like a medieval era room. baldaquin bed, rugs, and tapestries on the wall, what looked like fur on the floor. He could see a younger man, maybe in his early thirties looking down at him, smiling. He wouldn't win any pageant trophy with that shaggy beard and barely tamed hair, but James assumed he had a rugged look to him, with a fierce gleam in his eyes, eyes that were locked on him, almost making him self-conscious. "Wow, nice beard, screw you, pal," he thought, dismissively at the rude man staring at him like he was a child.

That one thought stopped him in his tracks. "What is this? he thought, looking at his small stubby arms, which looked deceptively like a newborn's. "What sick joke is this? Am I dead, after all? Is this some illusion from a dying brain? The man's laughter brought him out of his thoughts, just in time to hear someone name the baby- himself, he thought with dread- Beor. He looked at the lady that was now holding him, the look in her eyes one he's seen in the eyes of his wife all those years ago. The look of a proud mother.

" Fit for a bear of Bear Island, my husband." he heard her say, clear humor in her voice. Slowly but surely, the weight of his circumstances dawned on him. He wasn't dead, he wasn't in the afterlife. He wasn't hell even. No, no. This, this was much worse. Much much worse.

James Mohigan wasn't scared of dying, he had decided a long time ago. He wasn't scared of much, to be honest. Now, however, he felt a new fear blooming in his newborn heart. He was scared shitless of living.

He couldn't stop himself, even if he tried. With no hint of shame to be found, he cried himself hoarse, like the baby he was.