Author's Note: Thundercats, the events concerned, and the characters are all copyright of Tobin "Ted" Wolf, Sam Register, Warner Bros. Animation, Studio 4°C, and any other groups/people that deserve the credit. This is a non-profit work of fanfiction.

Chapter Six: Lost in Limbo

Summary: Bringing the dead back to life is no easy task. Step one: find a needle in a haystack.

The Viridian Forest, the Secluded Clearing:

With the activation of the Trance of Innermost Reflection, the spell circle in the middle of the clearing had come to life. The rings and symbols that had been etched into the rain-softened ground now pulsed with light, a subtle golden radiance that joined the flickering torchlight to push back the darkness. By this subdued illumination, the lush foliage of the surrounding forest was rendered in golden-kissed green and brown, rippling patterns of yellow light playing across mossy bark and leafy canopy alike. The air hummed with magic, its steady whisper as subtle and distinct as the evening breeze.

Tygra barely noticed these things as he paced along the edge of the spell circle, arms crossed behind his back. Though he kept his expression neutral, his hands had clenched into quivering fists, and his stride was swift with agitation. For what felt like the fifth time in as many seconds, he glanced towards the center of the innermost ring, hoping for some kind of relief to his agitation. And once again, he was left wanting.

Cheetara sat before the prone bodies of Lion-O and Pumyra, her shapely legs still folded gracefully into lotus form and her head bowed in quiet concentration. She'd brought her hands up in front of herself, fingers steepled together to form a pyramid of sorts. Her body was wrapped in the same energies that pulsed from the spell circle, forming a sunlight-yellow outline around her. Beneath golden bangs, Cheetara's eyes remained shut, her lovely features serene with what was either concentration or a trance; Tygra wasn't sure which, but he knew better to risk interrupting her to find out.

But despite himself, it was Lion-O that his gaze lingered on. His little brother lay motionless next to Pumyra's corpse, the hand that wore the Gauntlet of Omens resting atop hers so that their fingers were entwined. Though his short, spiky red mane was ruffled by the breeze that whispered through the trees, his expression remained blank and unmoving. From this distance, he could have been sleeping.

Or…

Tygra abruptly shook his head, derailing that train of thought before it could reach its destination. Setting his jaw, he started to turn away from the ritual circle to resume his pacing, to put his mind on something else, anything else -

"Whatcha thinking about?"

- And flinched as he suddenly found himself staring at an adolescent boy ThunderCat in a yellow tunic and black slacks. Beneath a swept-back mop of orange hair with silver highlights that tapered into two points, a youthful, tan-furred face looked up at him, pale gold eyes bright with curiosity. Blinking a couple times to compose himself, Tygra gave Wily-Kat a shrug of his tiger-striped shoulders. "What, me?" he remarked with casual nonchalance. "Not much, really."

"We don't have to worry," chirped the girl ThunderCat next to Wily-Kat, a peach-furred youth whose red hair had a long streak of deep purple. "Lion-O's been to the Spirit Realm and back before, right? He'll be fine!"

Tygra bristled a little. "Who said I was worried?" he scoffed at Wily-Kit, adopting a dry smirk. "I'm just wondering how long that layabout brother of mine's going to keep us waiting around." He paused, glancing back to where Cheetara was sitting in her trance, oblivious to all around her. "Don't get me wrong, I'm sure my girl could keep the spell going all night, but the rest of the resistance? They're gonna start asking questions if they don't get orders soon, and I'd rather not be the one telling 'em that the king they just barely trust is off chasing his dead crush in the afterlife."

Wily-Kit's face fell, and the worry that clouded her young features sent a rare pang of guilt through Tygra's chest. Before he could think of a way to soften his prediction, however, the young girl's eyes grew defiant. "Then we'll just have to tell 'em different!" she declared, fists planted on her hips. "That Lion-O's busy doing something to help us, like...like...um…"

Wily-Kit trailed off uncertainly, but Tygra nodded in approval as inspiration suddenly struck. "Like a strategy session with some of his closest advisors," he mused aloud, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Deliberating the next plan of attack, and all that. Yeah, that'll buy some time. In fact…" He looked back to the Thunderkittens, flashing a knowing smirk. "...Why don't you two spread that word around camp? Let's squash any doubts before they can take root."

Wily-Kit perked up at once, pale gold eyes brightening. "We can do that!" She declared eagerly. "C'mon, Kat!"

A second later, she was off like a shot, with her brother sprinting to keep up with her. Tygra watched the Thunderkittens disappear into the woods, shaking his head with a light-hearted sort of amusement. Then he turned back to the spell circle, and realized with a start that Panthro had walked over to join him. The soft glow from the nearby runes played across the alloy of the Thundercat general's cybernetic arms, even as his soot-hued fur seemed to blend into the midnight gloom. Bare-chested save for a spiked crimson battle harness and baggy black trousers, he gave Tygra a brief nod.

"That'll help with morale," Panthro observed in his gruff baritone. Then he arched a knowing brow at Tygra. "Though our allies might be more convinced if it were you telling them."

The second prince of Thundera shrugged, adopting his earlier air of nonchalance. "Hey, the Thunderkittens have a way with the other clans," he remarked breezily. "I'm sure they can handle it." He paused, his gaze straying back to the figures in the middle of the ritual circle. "Besides…"

Panthro's eyes rolled upward in a trajectory that carried the distinct air of exasperation. "She'll be fine, lover-boy," he grunted, indicating Cheetara with a curt nod. "And it wouldn't be the first time your brother did something crazy and ended up landing on his feet. Somehow. The point being, pacing around and worrying -" He paused, cutting off Tygra's objection with a raised finger "-And yes, that's exactly what you're doing - isn't helping. Keep watch, or help reassure our allies. Lion-O made his call; by this point, we've got to have a little faith in him."

Tygra started to open his mouth, but the protest died on his lips. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he knew Panthro had a point. "Fine," he sighed. "I'll go talk to the other clans."

The burly general gave a nod, shifting his posture so he was standing at parade rest in front of the ritual circle. "I'll keep watch here," he replied, a hint of sympathy on his stern features. "But I wouldn't worry. One way or another, Lion-O'll find his way back."

Tygra gave a nonchalant shrug as he turned away, adopting an air of cool indifference. Inwardly, though, he was far from assured, and he had a sneaking suspicion that Panthro – and for that matter, Snarf, who was perched at the edge of the spell circle – didn't buy it as much as he would have liked. Setting his jaw, Tygra set off in the direction that the Thunderkittens had headed.

"You'd better find your way back, brother," he muttered under his breath.

The River of Limbo, the Afterlife:

Lion-O cursed as he flailed for balance, his insides lurching as his feet skidded for purchase on the mossy stepping stone he just landed on. Managing to right himself just in time, the Lord of the Thundercats took a moment to glance around, taking in the mist that had engulfed him on all sides, and found himself wondering if he'd ever find Pumyra at this rate, let alone his way back.

The Spirit Stone in his gauntlet had continued to guide him, its glow dimming and brightening depending on the direction he aimed it. Problem was, the rocks that jutted up from the river's rippling depths had little pattern in their arrangement, forcing Lion-O to detour more than once. The resulting path he'd had to take was a winding, serpentine thing that he could swear had doubled back on itself more than once, leaving him wondering if he'd really made any progress at all. To make matters worse, several of the stepping stones had been rendered slick and slippery by water or pale moss; Lion-O had lost count of how many times he'd almost fallen into the river. The current seemed smooth enough, but he wasn't sure if the dark water of the afterlife would be friendly to a living being, and he wasn't curious enough to find out if he could help it.

And the voices of the dead weren't helping.

At first, Lion-O had thought it was the wind - a subtle, not-quite-there whisper that he'd associate with a mild breeze. Only there wasn't any breeze; the air hung still and clammy against his tawny fur. It'd been a little unnerving, but he'd been too busy making his way across the river to really care. At least, up till the first time he'd almost fallen in, and taken a moment afterwards to regain his composure. As he'd hunched over on the rock, hands on his knees as his heart rate returned to normal, wondering what would have happened if he'd plunged into the dark waters of purgatory...that's when he'd heard it properly.

It hadn't been the wind.

And now, as Lion-O stood here, pausing to catch his breath, he couldn't help but tune into it again – the whispers of separate voices, overlapping over one another to form a disembodied cacophony. Only fragments of sentences were anything close to being coherent, rising above the rest just long enough to be heard before being overwhelmed by a tide of other voices.

"...Why can't I see? Why can't I hear? Why can't I...?"

"...So cold. So cold. So cold…"

"...Was, and now I'm not. Was, but now not. How am I not, anymore…?"

"...About the others? They lived, right? My sacrifice meant something, right? Please, please tell me it meant something…"

"...Just want to sleep…"

"...Not sick anymore, Mom. Mom? Where are you…?"

With a shiver, Lion-O lifted his arm to consult the Gauntlet of Omens. From the way the Spirit Stone pulsed like a heartbeat, its rose-pink light splashing against the surrounding mist, it looked like he was on the right track. Taking a deep breath, the young king swept his gaze back and forth, looking for the nearest stepping stone. A few seconds later, he picked one out through the mist and set forth again, doing his best to ignore the murmurs of the dead.

Except the further Lion-O went, the louder those whispers became. Even as he noticed a series of rocks that offered a straighter path across the vast river, the voices became all the clearer, all the harder to ignore. More than once, Lion-O could have sworn he saw the surrounding fog twist and contort, congealing into distinct shapes. He made a point of not looking at them directly, focusing on making his way across the crooked path of rocks that pushed up from the murky depths. But even so, he caught brief glimpses, in passing. Silhouettes that seemed to turn his way. Misty hands stretching out towards him. Pale faces, spun from the fog, moving their lips almost soundlessly…

"...Is that you…?"

"...So lonely…"

"...Help…"

Squeezing his hands into fists, Lion-O pushed forward. Just keep going, he told himself as he sprang from one stone to the next. Whether they're benign or not, there's nothing you can do for them. Just focus on finding Pumyra, so you can – whiskers!

Lion-O's train of thought jumped the rails as he landed wrong, his feet skidding on the water-slick surface of the rock he'd just landed on. For one horrible moment, he almost plunged forward, the black water of the river rushing up to meet him. Only his feline reflexes saved him, his spine arching and his arms flashing out at the last second to regain his equilibrium. His heartbeat thundering in his ears, Lion-O managed to straighten his posture atop the rock, cursing himself for his own carelessness.

Idiot! You were going too fast! Don't let the voices distract you. Block them out, and keep an eye on where you're…

That's when he looked ahead, his thoughts trailing off as he saw what now lay in front of him.

…Going…?

For a moment, Lion-O thought he'd reached the far side of the river, given the size of the land mass that loomed in front of him. But no; though the mist made them both a vague outline in the distance, he could make out the opposite banks of the river on either side as he turned his head. What sat before him now was more of an islet than anything else, pushing up from the river amidst the smaller rocks. Apart from its size, it would have been rather unremarkable – slate gray earth that had been turned to muddy sand, a scattering of water-smoothed stones, and not much else.

Except for the crashed fighter craft.

It had been one of Avista's defense squadron; Lion-O recognized the bird-like aesthetic from his visit to the airborne/ sky-bound city. Had been being the key term, here– half of the fighter's falcon-beaked nose had caved in, the starboard wing (split into three sections, like an actual bird's feathered wings) had been blasted into useless scrap, and fragments of scorched metal lay scattered around the crater that served as the downed aircraft's resting place. It lay on its side so that its one good set of wings pushed up at an angle, its hull smoldering with small fires that licked at its raven-black paint job along with the blue and gold trim. Even at a glance, it was clear that the fighter's days in the air were over.

As he perched on the rock adjacent to the islet, surveying the crash site, Lion-O's first, bewildered thought was, Wait, so machines get an afterlife, too?

Then he noticed the figure in the shadow of the downed aircraft, crouching by its smoldering hull. Judging from their lanky frame, avian talons, and broad wings, the stranger was a member of the Bird Clan – the Raven Guard, in particular, if the crimson armor and silver helmet were anything to go by. Though their back was turned to Lion-O, the black-feathered soldier seemed to be hunched over something they'd pulled from the cockpit, muttering incoherently…but even from this distance, the tone of frantic frustration was unmistakable.

Another living person? Lion-O wondered. Here? How did that happen?

His curiosity piqued, he tensed the muscles in his legs and sprang from his rocky perch, leaping over to the islet's shoreline and landing in a feline crouch. Wincing at the moist, gritty pressure of blighted gray sand between his toes, he rose to his feet and approached the crashed fighter. As he drew closer, Lion-O noticed that the Raven Guard – a male, judging by his build – was fiddling with a portable radio. Even as Lion-O's shadow fell over him, the sable bird didn't seem to notice, still muttering to himself with a manic sort of purpose as he whirled knobs and stabbed at buttons with his talons.

"Come on, come on, this has to work," the raven was growling in a raspy voice, his words spilling out with desperate swiftness. "There has to be a signal; someone has to be monitoring…!"

Feeling strangely unsettled, Lion-O reached out cautiously to tap him on the shoulder. "Uh…hello?"

The black-feathered soldier flinched as if he'd been scalded, his wings flaring out in alarm as he whirled around with a harsh squawk. Recoiling instinctively, the Lord of the Thundercats lifted his hands placatingly, about to apologize…except that turning exposed the raven's face, and the sight caused Lion-O's words to die on his lips, his voice becoming a strangled yelp of shock as he took a couple more steps back. Even then, it took a few seconds to process what he was seeing, as if some part of his mind was shielding him from the horror. From the back, the member of the Raven Guard had seemed relatively normal, but from the front…

Oh, whiskers.

In the back of his mind, some small part of Lion-O wondered what had caused such grievous damage. Maybe the fighter's instrument panel had exploded, launching hot shrapnel into the raven's face and chest. Or maybe it had been the impact from the crash. Whatever the cause, all it took was one look at the raven pilot's head – or rather, what was left of it – for Lion-O to recognize that the poor bird-man was dead beyond question.

Of course he's dead, idiot, he chided himself as his thoughts finally caught up to him. You're in the afterlife. But why does he look like that, instead of…well…. Reflexively, Lion-O glanced around, his wide blue eyes seeking out the ghostly faces in the surrounding mist. Then he looked back at the dead Raven, and it suddenly occurred to him that the latter's colors were strangely muted and pale – his black feathers were a mottled gray, and the crimson paint of his armor had been reduced to a dull rust-red. Even his one remaining eye was glassy and faded, even as it regarded him with keen appraisal.

It was as if the dead Raven had become one with the gloom of their surrounding environment, with the vibrancy of their hues – their very life – gradually being sapped away to leave them as pale and monochrome as the rest of this eerie limbo.

"I know you."

That voice – surprisingly coherent, considering the cracked ruin that was the raven's beak – snapped Lion-O back to reality as he realized that the Raven was talking to him. "Uh…ah…you do?" he asked numbly, trying not to stare at the grisly wreckage of the fighter pilot's face even as he tried to recognize his features.

The dead Raven didn't seem to notice Lion-O's discomfort. "Corvax Poe," he introduced himself, tapping his shredded chest with taloned fingertips before throwing off a military salute. "Second Lieutenant of the Raven Guard's Air Defense Squadron. I was there when you Thundercats first landed on Avista."

Lion-O blinked at the raven's – Corvax's – words, part of him flashing back to the Thundercats' arrival at the hidden flying capital of the Bird Clan. "Oh…right. Were you one of the guys pointing spears at us?" he guessed, still wrapping his head around the fact that he was talking to a corpse-like ghost.

Corvax cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. "Ahem. Yes, well, your people's reputation preceded you," he said defensively. "Mark my feathers, if we'd known that you'd stand with us against Mumm-Ra's attack, we would have greeted you rather differen…" Then the raven trailed off, his remaining eye glazing over as if lost in thought. Then, without warning, that one eye went wide with alarm. "Kraakh!" he screeched. "The attack! There's no time!"

Lion-O flinched at the sudden outburst, lifting his hands placatingly. "Whoa, there, it's all right…"

But Corvax had already hunkered back down over the radio. "Must've been knocked out when the control panel exploded," he muttered rapidly, his clawed fingers almost a blur as he fiddled with the controls. "Stroke of luck that I crash-landed. The fighter's totaled, but never mind that, right now. If I could just find a working frequency…the squadron should still be in range…damn it, don't tell me that the distress beacon's broken…?"

Lion-O blinked. "W–wait, hold on a minute, here," he said slowly, doing a double-take. "You mean to tell me you think that…"

Corvax looked up at him, and the alarm on the dead raven's ravaged features made Lion-O pause. If he thinks he's still alive, telling him otherwise might be a bad idea, he thought quickly, reconsidering what he'd been about to say. Especially if he still thinks that…

"...Avista's still under attack?" Lion-O finished after a moment. "You've been, uh…you've been out of commission for longer than you think. That was a while ago."

Corvax stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending shock stamped on what was left of his avian face. Lion-O opened his mouth to say more, but his words were lost to a startled yelp as the dead raven suddenly lunged at him, the radio tumbling from his talons as they flashed out to seize him by the shoulders. "How long ago?!" the dead raven demanded in a panic. "What happened?! Did we drive off the enemy?! Is Avista still standing?!" He shook Lion-O fiercely, the words spilling out even faster as his voice rose into a frantic screech. "What about the Tech Stone?! Our people?! Sky's end, I had family up there…!"

Lion-O winced as the bird-man's sharp talons dug into his fur, his own hands rising to grab the latter's wrists. "Whoa! Hey, calm down!" he protested. "It's okay! Avista's safe!"

Corvax's grip loosened. "...What?"

Lion-O took a step back, pulling himself free from the dead raven's clutches as gently as he could. "Things got…well, they got pretty dire at Avista, before it was over," he explained, deciding to gloss over certain details like Avista's grounding, or who had been to blame. "But in the end, we pulled through. Mumm-Ra's forces withdrew. Avista wasn't taken over, and the Bird Clan remains a free people."

Corvax stared at him. "And…and my family?" he asked, his voice shaky with uncertainty. "There was my sister…and my husband…a-and we'd adopted a couple hatchlings…"

Lion-O gave the dead pilot what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Don't worry," he said gently. "They're fine. I'm sure of it."

There was silence as Corvax stared at him for a moment, clearly torn between disbelief and desperate hope. Then he shivered and slumped back against the hull of his crashed fighter, the tension melting out of him. "Sky be praised," he sighed, his voice heavy with relief. "They're safe."

Lion-O nodded quietly, giving the dead raven time to compose himself. "Listen," he said at last, "I'm looking for someone. A female Thundercat, brown-haired and about my age; she was probably wielding a gauntlet-mounted crossbow. I don't suppose you've seen…?"

A sudden chill swept up his spine, robbing him of his voice. Before he'd even processed what was happening, Lion-O found himself turning on his heel, spurred by some instinct he couldn't quite explain. Now facing the far bank of the islet, he found himself staring as a figure appeared in the mist, approaching the island with a measured slowness. The thick mist made a silhouette of the figure; nondescript as they were, they seemed to be standing atop a simple wooden raft, pushing themselves forward across the river by way of a sleek pole. As the raft drew closer, Lion-O squinted to get a better look, transfixed by curiosity and an inexplicable unease. A subtle shifting at the corner of his eye told him that Corvax was staring as well, gripped by that same morbid fascination.

Then the mist parted as the raft slid up against the edge of the islet, its occupant emerging into view as they stepped ashore.

Lion-O's first impression was of a gaunt figure wrapped in a hooded gray cloak, frayed at its hem and devoid of embellishment or decoration. They might have been a man or a woman, young or old – their hunched posture, low hood, and all-encompassing mantle made gleaning any further details impossible. And yet, as frail as they seemed, something in the figure's presence seemed to radiate power, as impersonal and inevitable as the tide. Whoever – or whatever – they were, it was clear that they were nothing to take lightly.

Lion-O wanted to say something, but his throat had suddenly locked up. He could only watch as the cloaked figure approached; despite their hunched posture, their stride was steady and unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world. All the while, that icy unease grew sharper in Lion-O's gut, but his legs seemed almost rooted to the ground even as his instincts screamed at him to just run, already!

Biting back his fear, the young king managed a cautious step backwards, one hand straying to his gauntlet where the Sword of Omens was sheathed. "Careful," he muttered as he glanced over to his side. "I'm not sure who that is, or what they want, but…"

But Corvax didn't seem to hear him. The dead raven seemed entirely transfixed by the approaching phantasm, staring in motionless silence. But there was no fear in the dead Raven's ravaged features; if anything, his expression was calm, even relieved. Bewildered, Lion-O could only watch as the cloaked figure drew closer…and seemed to ignore him entirely, stopping before Corvax instead. The two regarded one another in silence for a moment, the air heavy with a sort of unspoken understanding between the hunched, hooded figure and the strong, once-alive Raven soldier.

Then Corvax gave a nod, his expression one of solemn acceptance. "I understand now," he said simply. "I'm ready."

As if they'd been waiting to hear this, the eerie stranger stepped forward, their tattered cloak sliding open with a whisper of fabric. What lay beneath was hidden in deep shadow, obscuring any trace of a body…except for the skeletal arm that had emerged from beneath the cloak, reaching for Corvax with fingers that ended in bird-like talons. There was the faintest glimpse of pale, curved ribs beneath the cloak. And the hood had slipped back just a few inches, but it was enough to reveal the long beak of an avian skull.

Lion-O recoiled instinctively, too stunned to gasp or yell. But even as the implications of what he was seeing dawned on him, the vaguely avian specter was laying its skeletal palm on Corvax's shoulder as if offering comfort. The dead Raven shivered as his body relaxed, any hint of tension or fear disappearing as if he'd been waiting for this. The remaining color in his body likewise drained away, leaving a monochrome figure that was rapidly losing its substance. Even as his body began to fade, Corvax looked back to Lion-O…and much to the latter's surprise, his expression was completely at peace.

"Thank you."

With those words, Corvax vanished, his body spontaneously erupting into a cloud of pearlescent mist. Numb with shock, Lion-O could only stare as that glittering vapor swirled and danced through the air, flowing towards the cloaked specter's outstretched hand. Within seconds, the misty essence – Corvax's soul, Lion-O realized – had coalesced into a perfect sphere, roughly the size of a large marble and pulsing faintly with silvery light. With a fluid swiftness that belied their hunched posture, the cloaked figure's hand flashed out and snatched up the transmuted spirit, trapping its misty presence between a bony thumb and two skeletal fingers. Unheeding (or, perhaps, uncaring) of Lion-O's presence, the specter held Corvax's soul aloft and turned it about, looking for all the world as though they happened to be appraising a rare pearl. Then, as if satisfied with whatever they'd seen, they flicked their wrist just so, and the glowing sphere was tossed deftly into the air before taking off of its own accord. Darting and weaving, Corvax's soul soared off into the distance, quickly becoming a speck amidst the foggy gloom before fading entirely.

By this point, Lion-O's subconscious had caught up with him, connecting the dots faster than his rational mind could put them to words. Instinct warred with logic as strength seemed to flow back into his legs; part of him wanted to bolt while another part of him wondered if he'd get far at all. Cautiously, Lion-O edged backwards, even as the cloaked specter stood there gazing off into the distance as if somehow still watching the departure of Corvax's soul…

Except there was a whisper of movement, and suddenly that specter was looking at him.

Lion-O's heart launched itself into his throat as he took another step back, the muscles in his legs going taut as he made ready to bolt. If the figure in the cloak noticed or took exception to this, they didn't show it; the way they turned to confront him was as calm and unhurried as though they were casual acquaintances. What really threw Lion-O, however, was the way the specter's few visible features seemed to ripple and flow like water as they turned; the beak shrank back beneath the hood, the talons on their skeletal fingers retracted into sleeker claws…

…Until, finally, it was no longer some sinister bird-like phantom that now regarded him in silence, but the cloaked remnants of a Thundercat. Still hunched over, they lifted their head to meet Lion-O's gaze…and while the deep shadow of their hood hid almost everything, he could make out the eerie, emotionless grin of an exposed skull.

Abruptly, despite himself, Lion-O's tongue unglued itself from the roof of his mouth. "You're the Warden of Souls," he said aloud, his voice coming out much steadier than he'd hoped. "The one who guides the dead to where they belong."

The Warden of Souls said nothing in reply, other than to look him over in quiet assessment…and even with the hood shrouding their features, the intensity of their eyeless gaze was so piercing that Lion-O could swear he felt it raking over him like a pair of invisible lasers. The air itself seemed to go still with the Warden's silence, the very mist around them hanging heavy with judgment. Once again, part of Lion-O wondered if he should make a break for it. The other part of him, the warrior, wondered if the Sword of Omens would be of any use, broken as it was.

Then the Warden paused, tilting their head to one side. It was hard to tell, but something in their demeanor had changed – not necessarily friendly, but not hostile, either. If anything, the specter seemed mildly bemused, as if questioning the nature of Lion-O's presence.

Say something, damn it!

Swallowing hard, the Lord of the Thundercats lifted his left arm cautiously, showing off the Gauntlet of Omens. "I'm, uh…I'm not actually dead," he explained warily, tapping the Spirit Stone for emphasis. "I know it's not exactly the way things usually work around here, but…" He paused, his voice trailing off awkwardly. Whiskers, how do I explain this to the keeper of the dead?

Still no answer. The Warden's gaze did seem to shift to the Spirit Stone, though, their tattered cloak brushing the sandy ground as they leaned forward to get a better look. Then they looked back up at Lion-O, tilting their head again as if undecided on what to do.

Still, they're not trying to kill me, Lion-O thought. That's a start. "I'm not here to cause trouble," he said aloud. "I'm just looking for someone. Another Thundercat. Her name's…"

But the Warden was abruptly turning away, as if Lion-O suddenly wasn't there anymore. The rest of his words dying on his lips, the Lord of the Thundercats was left staring blankly as the spectral dead-keeper shuffled away from him. The Warden's tattered cloak swept across the pale gray sand of the islet as they made their way back towards the shore, heading for the raft that had brought them here.

Blinking twice, Lion-O took a few steps after the Warden. "H…hey, did you hear me?" He called out. "I said…"

By this point, the Warden had boarded their raft, unheeding of Lion-O as they stooped to retrieve their rowing pole. With a firm shove, they pushed the simple watercraft away from the islet, rowing away into the thick fog with surprising swiftness. In moments, the Warden had become a mere silhouette in the mist; and soon enough it swallowed them up completely. For several long minutes, Lion-O stared into the mist where the Warden had disappeared, torn between indignation, bewilderment, and relief.

That's probably the best I could have hoped for, he decided at last. I'll just have to find Pumyra on my own.

Shaking his head, Lion-O lifted his left arm to consult the Gauntlet of Omens. Judging from the rhythm of its pulsing brightness, the Spirit Stone seemed to be guiding him to turn left by about sixty degrees…now back by about fifteen…okay, there. Looking up, he found himself looking at the far shoreline, and spotted another trail of stones pushing up out of the river, leading away from the islet. Squaring his shoulders, Lion-O sprang forward to land on the nearest one. Pausing to steady himself, he glanced over his shoulder at the islet he was leaving behind…

…And did a double-take. The crashed fighter, the one that Corvax had been crouching by, was nowhere to be found. It was as if it had vanished when its owner had, the final remnants of a departed life that no longer had any reason to linger.

Shaking his head, trying his best to ignore the profound chill that raced up his spine, Lion-O pressed on. A few minutes later, he was carefully bounding from one stone to the next, once more surrounded by the dark, rushing waters of the river of purgatory and the misty essence of the departed. Just him, the water, and the stepping stones.

And, shrouded by the mist, the silhouettes of other islets, and the blurry shadows of their spectral inhabitants.

Is this what's waiting for us all after death? Lion-O wondered. An eternity of being adrift in ghost fog? Or being marooned on some bleak island, unaware that you're actually dead until you come to terms with it? Until the Warden shows up and silently flings you off to…to whatever comes next?

A sudden quiver from the Gauntlet of Omens snapped Lion-O back to reality. Looking down at the Spirit Stone, he saw that the magenta crystal was pulsing brighter than ever, its hum rising to a fevered pitch. His own pulse quickening at the implications, the Lord of the Thundercats lifted his left arm and swept it about, aiming the Gauntlet of Omens at each of the nearby islets like a dowsing rod. This is it, he thought excitedly. Pumyra's close, she's got to be. Come on, come on; where…?

There. Lowering his gauntlet-clad arm, Lion-O found himself facing an islet that seemed larger than the others, with the silhouette of a jagged rock dominating its center. And from the way the Spirit Stone was glowing like a small star, it had to be his destination. A surge of triumph rippled through him, warm and sweet…but then, at the edges, sudden doubt came creeping in as Jaga's words came back to him.

What if Pumyra didn't want to come back? What could he say to change her mind? Should he try to change her mind, if death was her release? And why hadn't he thought about this sooner?

Whiskers. Well, one thing at a time.

Taking a deep breath, Lion-O set forth. As he began his approach, carefully navigating the zig-zagging pattern of rocks that jutted upward from the river, the mist started to gradually peel away from his destination, giving form and definition to what had once been a shadowy blur. What Lion-O had taken for a rock was a pile of rubble – the remains of a building, if the sculpted masonry was any indication. There were a group of figures huddled around the ruins, but he couldn't make them out clearly from this distance. He could hear them talking, though; strangely muffled as it was, the sound of voices was unmistakable as it floated to him across the foggy air.

Frowning, Lion-O slowed his pace, cocking his head to the side. It wasn't that the voices had become any more distinct, or that he'd gotten close enough to see the silhouetted figures huddling amidst the ruins properly, or anything he could quantify logically. Rather, it was something he felt instinctively, a gut feeling that something was very, exceedingly wrong…

A sudden breeze whipped through the air, ruffling Lion-O's scarlet hair and tawny fur with a wintery sort of chill. For a fleeting moment, the young king wondered where the wind had come from; the air had been oppressively still since he'd stepped into this dreary limbo. Before he could pursue the line of thought further, the mist around the islet began to recede; the wind was pushing the opaque silver shroud away. The eerie muffling of sound fled with the fog; the islet lay fully exposed before Lion-O, and…

…And he was close enough by now to see what was going on. To hear.

Suddenly, the origin of the wind was a much smaller issue.

For a moment, Lion-O stood numbly on the rock he was using as a perch, struck silent with horrified shock. Then he was moving before he could even think, his earlier caution abandoned as feline instinct took over and launched him forward. Bounding from one stepping stone to the other, heedless of the slick rock and seething waters lapping at his feet, Lion-O made for the islet's shore, yanking the Sword of Omens from its scabbard in his gauntlet. Some small part of his mind reminded him that his blade was still damaged, still trapped in dagger form, but it didn't matter.

The only thing that mattered to Lion-O was that he could now properly see the ruins of what had once been Thunderan barracks on the islet. He could see the gaunt, grisly figures near the wreckage, and the vicious implements that they clutched in their bony hands. He could see the lone figure that they prowled around, kneeling with her arms bound behind her back.

He could see what they were doing to her.

And, even from this distance, above the rasping snarls of the dead, Lion-O could hear their victim crying out, her familiar voice wracked with agony.

Devoid of hope.

TO BE CONTINUED

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

And there you have it. The rivers of Limbo aren't as vacant as last chapter suggested…and all too often, those who ended up in this part of the afterlife are still haunted by the traumas of a life they haven't quite gotten over, or even think they're still alive because they're not ready to let go. Purgatory's a bitch like that.

As for why Limbo appeared empty and devoid of habitation in the last chapter? Among other reasons, Lion-O had just gotten there, and was still closer to the land of the living than he was in the afterlife. The further he went across the river, the further his spirit delved into the realm of the dead, and the easier it was for him to start noticing the departed – first as voices on the wind, then as fleeting apparitions in the mist, and then as physical manifestations.

The encounter with Corvax and the Warden of Souls changed a little bit from when I first envisioned the scene. At first, I'd intended for Corvax to be trying to repair his damaged fighter plane and get back to Avista (not realizing that he was dead, and nowhere near Avista), but the damage was too extensive for that to be believable, so I changed it to him trying to use a portable radio to call for help. Meanwhile, the Warden of Souls was originally meant to talk to Lion-O, asking what business a living soul had in this limbo of the dead and departed…but as I leaned more towards the idea of the Warden being closer to a force of nature, I decided that it'd be more fitting – and intimidating – if they remained a silent, imposing presence

Also, apart from showing what's going on while Lion-O's tracking down Pumyra's spirit, I switched back to the perspective of the other Thundercats to show how they're passing the time while they wait. It also gave me the chance to hint at how the alliance with the rest of Third Earth's free peoples is going, practice writing the personality of someone else as the third-person narrator of a given situation, and provide another glimpse of Tygra caring more than he lets on. And hey, more ThunderKittens! That's always fun, right?

Well, anyway, I know I'm leaving you all on a bit of a cliffhanger, so to tide you over before the next chapter, I'll leave you with this: Lion-O and Pumyra will see each other in the next chapter, and have a chance to talk. And if Lion-O's lucky, he might not have his appeals dismissed within the next five minutes.

Comment, provide critique, spread word, and whatever else you deem appropriate! Till next time, dear readers!