Valiant: The Covenant Chronicles

[Covenant #10: The Aftermath of A Happening]

Log Date: 12/10/12763

Data Sources: Raikaron Syntaritov

Event Log: Raikaron Syntaritov

The House of Regret: Raikaron’s Study

10:22pm SGT

Winter is a curious time in Sjelefengsel.

Being as it is hell, it rarely snows in the Hautaholvi region. Don’t get me wrong, there certainly was ice and snow in Sjelefengsel, but it was mostly in places where ice and snow were part and parcel of the punishment environment. Outside of those specific places, it rarely snows in Sjelefengsel. The red, grey, and black ridges of unforgiving wasteland largely remain that way year-round, and without trees or snow to provide changing scenery, I have to admit: it becomes rather boring after a while.

But even if there is no snow, it still grows cold in winter.

It is a bitter cold, a spiteful cold. One that often plunges well below freezing, but without any precipitation to show for it. That has always been the worst sort of cold to me: the cold where you could have snow, if only you had moisture. If the weather was going to be below freezing point, then you may as well have snow to go with it, so that at least your misery was scenic. But here in the Hautaholvi region, the temperature plunged beneath freezing all too often, and without so much as a flake of snow to show for it. It was a stale, dusty, lifeless cold; the soulless frigidity of a desert in the winter.

I am not a fan of Hautaholvi winters, which is largely why the fireplaces in the House are kept going day and night during the fall and winter season.

To that end, I was sitting by the fireplace in my study as I waited for the return of my problem child. Typically I would’ve retired to my room by this time of night, but there was a matter what needed to be addressed, and I was disinclined to let it go unattended, especially since it pertained to my pet project.

“You sure you don’t want to do this tomorrow morning?”

I let my eyes flick away from the fire. Standing in the shadow of the door to my study is Harro, his yellow irises glowing in the dark. Back from whatever task Danya had saddled him with — keeping the sorry bastard busy was harder than expected.

“You may abandon the pretense of concern for my sleep schedule, Harro.” I answer in a measured and curt tone. “Stop skulking in the dark like a feral dog. You know the shadows are not your ally in my presence.”

“Well, I didn’t want to step in without permission.” he offers with false innocence as he steps into the study, crossing into the flickering light cast by the fire. “What did you need, Lord Syntaritov?”

“Your compliance, in all things.” I say, lacing my fingers together. “I thought I’d ordered you to stay away from Jayta Jaskolka.”

“Oh, I thought that was just for the onboarding period.” he says, scratching his chin. “So that I wouldn’t scare her off.”

“My patience runs thin, Harro.” I say softly. “I am not amused by your feigned idiocy. You know full well that was neither the letter nor the spirit of my command.”

“Well, it’s not like you actually prevented me from hanging out around her.” he points out. “So clearly it wasn’t too much of a priority for you. If you actually wanted to keep me away from her, you could’ve done it, o mighty Lord of Regret.”

“There is a difference between apathy and a respect for free agency, Harro. It is unwise to mistake one for the other.” I warn him.

“Yeah, except the result is the same either way you cut it.” Harro says, rolling his eyes. “You sit up here in your throne room, getting bent out of shape that I’m hanging out around your pretty little project, but you never did anything to actually keep her away from me. And what’s the whole deal with that anyway?” He leans forward, smirking. “You’ve brought plenty of girls into the House for years before this. Why’s this one so special? Why is she off-limits? Did you finally find a prospective mistress?”

I stare at him for a long moment. “Remind me, Harro. You were human before you died and were sent to Sjelefengsel, correct?”

He snorts. “You know the answer to that damn well.”

It’s my turn to smirk. “Yes, I suppose I do. How could I forget. Challenger 5286, otherwise known as Shieldwall, the great betrayer of the Citadel.”

“Yeah yeah yeah. We all know what got me sent here.” Harro says, waving it off. “What does this have to do with me being human?”

“Because humans are too often simple creatures.” I muse, studying him carefully. From the bloodstained boots all the way to the mussed hair at the top. “Motivated by simple things. Greed, lust, anger, the usual gamut. Not always, but in your case, I believe I could make a measured argument for your simplicity.”

“Oh, hah. Yes, very amusing, I see.” Harro says flatly. “This is your way of politely insulting me.”

“If you wish to take it as an insult, that is your prerogative.” I say, folding one leg over the other. “I’m simply observing a fact, and reminding myself that despite your insolence, I ought to be pitying you, instead of despising you. You cannot grasp the sublime nuances of certain aspirations; you lack the imagination to suppose that my interest in Jayta has dimensions beyond your admittedly overactive reproductive instinct. You think that I snared Jayta in a contract simply because I wanted a mistress?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you did, even if you don’t want to admit it.” Harro says, folding his arms. “I know you got a dick underneath those pressed pants of yours. It’s probably a small one, but you’ve got the same instincts as the rest of us; don’t act like you’re above it all.”

A smile curls my lips. “Yes yes, of course, we are slave to our instincts and all that… I suppose that sentiment carries certain modicum of logic for creatures that are born trapped in their bodies.” Unlacing my fingers, I set my elbow on the arm of my chair, leaning my head against a curled fist. “Tell me, Harro, have you ever had the pleasure of corrupting someone before?”

He glances at the fire as one of the logs snaps and pops. “Am I supposed to know what you mean by that?”

“If you must ask what it means, then you do not know.” I say, likewise studying the fire. “What is a soul but a persona defined by a collection of unique experiences and memories? Too often mortals think of a soul as something that is static, immutable, unchanging. But a soul is a dynamic, living thing. It can change, evolve, influenced by experiences and feelings. And corrupting a soul — or more correctly, changing it, shaping it to fit your vision for what it could be — is one of the great joys of my family.”

“Alright, sooooo…” Harrow says slowly. “…why is that important to me?”

“Because that is what I plan on doing with Jayta Jaskolka.” I say, watching the flames curl around one of the charred logs in the fireplace. “She is a challenge I relish. A well-behaved little thing that played by the rules and went with the flow, doing her best to stifle her darker impulses. Bit by bit, I intend to deconstruct her morality, remove the psychological chains that society placed on her, and let her reach her full potential. I will give her experiences and tasks that leave her questioning the black-and-white morality so prevalent within this universe’s cultures; I will show her the variable nature of truth, how it twists and bends when seen through the lens of other perspectives. I will give her new eyes to witness reality.” Looking to Harro, I offer him another quiet smile. “This is the joy of corrupting a person, Harro. Taking a mind, and warping it, twisting it. Until finally, it can see truth untainted by the prism of perspective that is the wretched inheritance of all mortal creatures.”

Harro just stares at me. “You’re insane.” he says after a moment.

“Perhaps.” I admit. “I have my pleasures. They are merely more sophisticated than yours, which may be why you struggle to understand them. But that is not your fault; it is simply a product of who and what you are.”

“Whatever.” Harro says, turning away. “Did you actually need anything, or did you just call me up here to remind me of why I stay the hell away from you?”

“I called you up here to warn you one last time, Harro.” I say, taking my head off my fist. “You know what will happen if you continue sneaking time with Jayta.”

He gives a careless shrug. “Ain’t like I got much choice if I wanna get outta here, is it?”

“There is always a choice, Harro.” I say, taking off my glasses and reaching into my vest to pull out a cleaner cloth. “You don’t have to do what I know you’re planning on doing.”

“Yeah?” he says over his shoulder as he starts leaving. “Well, maybe I want to. Since you’re too snobby to go get her yourself, I’ll enjoy her for the both of us. I’ve been wondering what she tastes like.”

I pause at that remark, then look up. “And I wonder what it would be like if you forgot how to breathe.” I reply softly.

He doesn’t stop right away. His bootsteps slow down, and I see one hand come up to touch at his chest, shortly followed by the other. They rest there for a moment, and then begin pawing at his chest; he turns to look at me, his eyes wide and his mouth open. But without air circulating through his lungs and over his vocal cords, he’s unable to make a sound. As his fingers curl into his shirt and he starts to claw at his chest in mute urgency, I go back to cleaning my glasses, speaking as I do so.

“It is curious to me that even after being placed in the jurisdiction of a Lord known for their general lenience, you go out of your way to make an enemy of me.” I remark mildly. “I have tried to understand it, but I am close to admitting it is simply beyond my ability to comprehend. I’ll confess that I found it intriguing at first, but now that we are several years down the line, the novelty has worn off. Especially since we are reaching the point where you seem to think I will do nothing when you go out of your way to spite me.”

Harro’s struggling has grown as I’ve chided him, going from clawing at his chest to pounding at it, as if by doing so he could get his lungs to start working again. There is, of course, nothing wrong with his lungs; merely that he has forgotten how to use them. As he continues struggling to breathe, I keep cleaning my glasses, watching as he folds to one knee on the floor, clutching at his throat.

“Let me make it perfectly clear: just because I am quiescent does not mean I am without passion.” I continue quietly. “You are free to pursue whatever licentious pastime catches your fancy, and you are free to make Jayta the target of your attentions. But if you think I will simply sit by while you rub that in my face, you are sorely mistaken. My patience has its limits, and my mercy is not infinite.” As I finish cleaning my glasses, I set the cloth to the side, and neatly put my glasses atop it. “Bear it in mind as you go forward, Harro. Know that there will be suffering if you lead Jayta on and use her as a tool for your own purposes, or as a means to sate your appetite. There are many others in the House and beyond it that you could ruin — I will be quite put off if you insist on making my pet project another casualty in your bid to escape Sjelefengsel.”

By this point he’s been rolling on the floor, clawing at the ground and arching his back as he contorts, trying to force his body to start oxygenating again. By the time I finish, he’s making a waving motion that could be interpreted as a concession or plea for mercy; but I merely lace my fingers together, watching him writhe on the floor. There is some small contentment to be had in watching him so helpless, removed from his arrogant attitude and brought low. If anything, the crackling of the fire beside me is a much more soothing than having to listen to his snide comments and sardonic observations.

But my enjoyment of his silent suffering is broken by the clearing of a throat at the door. I look up to see someone standing there in the threshold — and judging by the colors and the trim on their uniform, it’s a servant of one of the sovereigns of the Ninth Circle.

“I apologize for the interruption, Lord of Regret.” the servant says, giving a short, formal bow. “There is an urgent task that requires your attention, as ordered by Lilith.”

“I see.” I say, picking my glasses up and putting them on, then looking to Harro. “You may remember how to breathe now. Remember also that I am slow to anger, and equally slow to forgiveness. If you make a mess of Jayta Jaskolka, I will see to it that your punishment is neither quick nor merciful as a simple dip in magma pit, Harro.”

The gasp he lets out is loud and desperate as the knowledge of how to breathe returns to him. As is the next breath, and the next breath after that; the sound of his wheezing fills the study as he returns from the edge of asphyxiation. After giving him a minute to recover, I make a dismissing motion with my fingers; bit by bit, he starts to drag himself toward the door, and it’s only when he’s dragged himself through it that I return my attention to the servant. “Approach.” I say, granting him permission.

The servant hurries forward, reaching into his jacket as he does so and pulling out a folder. I hold a hand out, taking it as soon as he reaches me; flipping it open, I scan over the contents within, my mouth drawing into a thin line as I skim the details.

“Urgent indeed.” I murmur, flipping it closed after a moment and standing up. “I suppose I best get going.” Giving a nod to the servant, I start for the door, hearing him follow along behind me.

Even the high and mighty ones had to get their hands dirty every now and then.

Raikaron’s Notes

I hope, that in observing me, you will not judge me too harshly.

I make no pretense of being a person of virtue. I am sure that an observer is much more comfortable by far with Jayta; she is someone in whom there is still some modicum of common morality. She is moved by mortal passions, afflicted with mortal sorrows — things which observers empathize with, even if they have never experienced her circumstances. She is refreshingly mortal; flawed, certainly, but earnest, and largely without guile.

And I am simply not that.

To some extent, I understand and experience the things that mortals do. But they are to me as distant echoes in most situations. In a way I crave the intensity and passion with which mortals experience their most raw emotions, because I once felt as they do — but forgot how to feel that way. And in that forgetting, I have become… I would say inhuman, but humans no longer have a monopoly on the qualities that the term humanity once described. Perhaps what I’ve become is better described as…

Ineffable.

Unspeakable, indescribable, incomprehensible. No longer sharing the qualities or the valuing the same things that most sapient mortals do. I would not say it’s a goal that one should strive to reach, and yet I have found myself there, not entirely sure of how I arrived to that point to begin with. And it is something from which I am trying to find my way back, even if I cannot find the path I took to get here.

So do not judge me too harshly. I know I am lost.

And I am trying to find my way back.

Event Log: Raikaron Syntaritov

Kasvei: Snow Canyon Parkway

10:34pm SGT

When I step through the portal and out onto the sidewalk, the first thing I notice is the weather. It’s cold, much like it is in Sjelefengsel this time of year, but unlike Sjelefengsel…

It’s snowing.

It’s a simple thing, but I’m enchanted by the sight of the dancing, swirling flakes filling the street and the air around me. It feels like it’s been a day and an age since the last time I saw snow, and I’d forgotten how whimsical and wild it was. It wasn’t like rain, or hail, which fell straight down like they had somewhere to be. Snow floated. It dallied, it loitered, spun about, took its time, and eventually reached the ground — but it never took the fast route to get there. Snow always went the scenic route.

It’s that fascination that delays me from fully processing my surroundings. When I finally manage to get past the sight of the snow, I realize that I’m standing on the sidewalk bordering a wide street, four lanes, separated by a median in the middle of the road. The street is on a hill, a thoroughfare through what appears to be a residential area, with neighborhoods on either side. Snow has accumulated on the sidewalks, gleams wetly on the road — and it takes me a moment to realize that the gleams are patches of ice, reflecting the streetlights illuminating the night.

Further down the hill from those patches is an overturned car, the frame compromised, windows shattered, battery sparking and about to catch fire. Within the car, the driver is hanging loose, slumped against the upside-down ceiling of the car. From the set of the shoulders and the head, I’d expect the neck is likely broken. And sitting on a ledge beside the sidewalk, just across from the car, is what appears to be a transparent imitation of the person within the overturned vehicle.

After a moment to take this all in, I tuck my hands in my pockets and start to make my way down the hill to the site of the crash.

The snow beneath my shined shoes is soft and pliant, easily leaving behind prints as I tread down the sidewalk to where the ghost is sitting. Upon hearing me, he turns his head; he’s a young man, bookish and unremarkable. I motion to the ledge beside him. “May I?”

He gives a fleeting shrug. “I don’t own the ledge, and I can’t really stop you.”

Reaching down, I brush the snow off the stone and sit down, folding my hands on my knees as I watch the car start to catch fire. “Rather unfortunate.” I remark, broaching the subject in as mild a manner as I can.

“Yeah.” he replies softly. “You do everything right, and you still die. Go to church, don’t drink and drive, try to be kind to those you meet, be understanding of those that suffer, and still… a patch of black ice, and it’s over. It’s a real kicker, isn’t it.”

“It is.” I agree, looking to see his expression. “Are you upset about it?”

He doesn’t answer right away. “…no. No, I don’t think I am. Just… disappointed, I suppose. I know life’s not fair, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less when it’s unfair to you. Accidents happen, people die. You ask yourself if it was your fault, if there was anything you could’ve done, but…” He gestures to the car. “I kept the tires topped off and checked them last week, there was plenty of tread left on them. The oil’s good, coolant was fine, had an alignment a month ago. Headlights are okay, windshield wipers are good. It just doesn’t usually get this cold around here, in this way, where it rains and then the temperature plummets. I come down this road twice a week, every week, on my way back from my parents’ place. You think you know the road like the back of your hand, even when the weather’s unusual, and then you hit that patch of ice where there’s never been ice before…”

He takes a deep breath in, then shakes his head, and looks at me with a smile.

“No use in crying over something I can’t change, I suppose.”

I nod wordlessly. I suppose what strikes me the most about him is how calm he is about all of it, as if he’s already accepted the outcome. Based on how the car’s laying in the road and the fire is only just now starting, he’s not been dead more than a minute or two, and yet he seems like he’s already come to terms with his passing. It’s not quite normal, especially for those that die young.

“Honestly, this was one of the big things I was scared of.” he eventually admits.

I look to the car, then back to him. “Dying in a car crash?”

“Well — no, not that, but dying suddenly.” he explains. “I’ve always been scared of dying both suddenly and slowly. I didn’t want to die slowly because that means there’d probably be suffering, but I didn’t want to die suddenly because I wanted to make sure I had everything in order before I went. I suppose you can’t have it both ways, but… now I’m kind of wishing I died slowly.”

“And why is that?” I ask, reaching into my pocket and slowly fishing out my pocketwatch as I wait for the response.

“Because when you die suddenly, there’s no time to get anything in order.” he says, staring at the burning car. “You don’t get to say goodbye to anyone. You don’t get to set your affairs in order, and make sure the cleanup is nice and easy. Dying suddenly is hard for the people you leave behind. They have to clean out your things, decide what to keep and throw away, they have to close out your financial affairs and figure out what to do with your property…” He puffs out a sigh. “Really, I suppose I just wanted the chance to say goodbye to my friends. I want to be able to tell them it’s fine, and what happened to me. Let them know I didn’t just drop out of existence.”

I blink at that. “Would your parents not tell your friends that you had died?”

He looks back at me. “Most of my friends — in fact, almost all of them — are online. My parents don’t know them, wouldn’t know how to get in touch with them, and even if they could… most of them are in systems halfway across the galaxy.” He reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Nobody’s going to be there to tell them I died. I chat with them every day, so they’ll probably realize something’s wrong when I’m silent for a few days, but they’ll still never know. From their side, it’ll just look like I… stopped logging in one day. Like I just went silent and never came back.”

“Oh.” I say simply, trying to wrap my head around that.

“I know that doesn’t mean a lot to someone that doesn’t live in a digital ecosystem.” he says. “But half my life — the social half of my life, at any rate — is on the galaxynet. And when you die suddenly, without time to prepare and figure out what to do with all your online accounts, you just kind of… disappear. No closure for your friends. All they can do is guess about what happened to you. But they’ll never really have answers, unless they’ve got connections to people that live within the physical circles near you. And that’s rarely the case.” He looks down. “I didn’t want to do that to them. It happened to someone I knew, an online friend that committed suicide. They just… disappeared one day. I didn’t know what happened to them for weeks. I only found out when someone I knew actually went to the region where they lived and found out for themselves what happened.”

“I see.” I say, even though I don’t really see. Grief, regret, sadness over one’s death — these are all things I understand, but described in the context of a life lived nearly wholly online? I struggle to comprehend it. I try to put myself in the mindset of missing someone that I’d never met in person, but I simply can’t. It was hard to imagine forming a relationship, a friendship with someone solely through the lens of text. Perhaps an audio chat, but even then, something like that lacked all the visual cues that lent themselves to a person’s physical presence and personality.

Compared to this young man, empathizing with Jayta was a piece of cake.

“It seems like you have a lot of unfinished business.” I say, trying to find my footing in the conversation once more. This was unusual for me; typically I was easily in control of conversations like these and could guide them to where I wanted to go at my leisure, but I didn’t know where to go with this conversation. 

“I suppose I do, but I think that’s the case for everyone when they die.” he replies. “It’s not like most of us get to choose when we go out; it just happens one day, and most times someone else ends up picking up the pieces.” He looks back towards the car. “I wish it hadn’t happened so close to Krysmis. It’s going to be hard on my parents.”

I cup my hands around my pocketwatch. I know what I’m here to do, what I should be doing: seeing if I could tempt this young many into signing a contract that would give Sjelefengsel a claim on his soul, in exchange for saving him from his fatal wreck and giving him a second chance at life. But I can’t bring myself to follow the steps that I usually do. It’s not like this would be hard; he’s given me plenty to work with. He has regrets aplenty, which provides ample leverage for convincing him to take the deal. And it would be easy to ignore whatever passed for ‘conscience’ in me; I’d never had any problem taking advantage of these sorts of situations before. Death had no sanctity to me; it was simply another transition, one that happened all over the galaxy, all across the universe, every second of every day for countless individuals.

But I hesitated to interfere in this death, if only because I wanted to observe it in its natural progression. To watch it run its course, so I had a sense of how deaths were actually supposed to go when left to their own devices.

“I just don’t want to go yet.” he sighs, his feet swinging a little as he watches the car burn, the sirens starting to wail in the distance. “It’s not like I was destined for something great, I suppose, but… I enjoyed some parts of it. I really enjoyed the parts where I got to spend time with my friends. The jokes we shared, the fun we had, the stories we created together… even if I was never famous or rich or changed the world, being able to spend time with them and have fun was enough. If I never did anything important but still got to spend time with them, I think that would be enough for me.” He folds his arms, though it seems almost more like he’s hugging himself. “They helped make my life worth living. I just wish I’d had the chance to let them know that before I had to go.”

“You never wanted fame, or recognition, or money?” I ask. “You just wanted… friends?”

“Oh no, don’t get me wrong.” he says quickly. “I wanted all those things. I think most people do. But you can’t take the money with you, fame comes and goes, and recognition eventually disappears as history gets older and becomes tattered and lost. But your friends appreciate you for who you are, not how much money you have, or how famous you were, or how you changed the world. Your friends see value in you beyond simply those things. And to be valued simply for who you are, instead of what you have and what you’ve done… I think that’s more valuable than the fame, recognition, or money.”

For a moment, it’s right there on the tip of my tongue. An offer that he could have more time with his friends, if only he would just sell his soul in a contract. I tell myself that I should at least give him the option to see if he wants it, though mere microseconds later I realize how cruel it would be. Sell your soul to spend more time with the friends you love… or accept your death and the fact that your time with your friends is over, and in such a way that it’s abrupt and leaves no opportunity for proper goodbyes.

What a terrible, awful, agonizing choice.

I press my lips tight, and say nothing. To present him with such a choice would be cruel, and though I am no stranger to cruelty, there are conditions to my cruelty. I’ve been cruel to a great many people I offered contracts to; the greedy, the lustful, the ambitious, the grieving, the vengeful. I was cruel to Jayta in manipulating her into acting on her pain and betrayal. But this young man has done no harm, has no axe to grind, no outstanding ambition or vice.

He simply cares about his friends, and misses them.

“I think you are right.” I say softly. “Being valued simply for who you are is a great deal more important than many other things. It gives a life value, even if it’s value that’s not recognized by the public or even by the world around you. That value exists, regardless of whether or not it is seen.”

He smiles. “Thanks. Hearing someone else say that… it makes it a little easier. I still don’t want to go, but…”

“It’s okay to go.” I say gently. “You can wait for your friends on the other side. I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you once they’ve rounded out their journeys as well.”

“You think so?” he asks as I notice a black car coming down the street.

“They will be different.” I say with candor as the car starts to slow down as it approaches us. “Most of them will have had decades to live after your departure. Experiences that have changed them and who they were. But that doesn’t mean who they were when you knew them will be gone — there’ll simply be more experiences built on top of that. And if you dig down far enough, you can always find the person you once knew. If they are real friends, you will know them, even if they are different. There will always be a bit of that person you once knew in there.” As the car comes to a stop in front of us, I smile to him. “And even decades later, I think they will appreciate the closure.”

He nods, then looks to the car as someone in a porter’s uniform gets out of it and comes around to the passenger side, opening the door. “Is that for me?”

“I believe so.” I say, watching as the porter stands neatly to the side. “This is Death. Or rather, one of many Deaths.” I give the young man a knowing, sidelong look. “It’s a big universe. We can’t really expect one Death to be everywhere at once.”

“I suppose I was expecting… something a little different.” he says, slowly sliding off the ledge and getting to his feet. “I’d never really thought of Death as a taxi driver.”

“A taxi driver, a bus driver, a coachman, a starship attendant, a ferryman, a train conductor…” I say as the porter motions kindly to the open door, their cap pulled down to hide their eyes. This Death is really quite ambiguous; it is hard to tell if it is male or female, or even what species it is — it seems generally humanoid, but it could be an elf, a human, a wereckanan in human form. “Death is many things, but really only one thing: an escort, a guide. Merely there to see you from one point to the next. They have no more hold on your soul than anyone else does, and indeed, it is merely their job to escort it from one point to the next.”

“That’s a lot friendlier than the versions I’ve seen in mythologies… but not unwelcome, I suppose.” the young man says, moving toward the car. Reaching it, he sets a hand on the roof, and looks towards his burning, overturned car once more, his body now little more than a silhouette within it. After a moment, he looks back to me. “I still wish I had more time. Is that wrong?”

“No, it’s not.” I say softly. “But if you choose, this life is but one of many that could be. The universe still has many aeons left in it, and there will be plenty of time in the future. You will miss this life right now because it is all you know, but there may be something better yet to come. And I believe in time, you will look back on this life and appreciate what it gave to you, even if the time you spent in it was short.”

He nods. “It’s scary. I just don’t know what comes next.”

I smile a little at that. “It is. But that’s also what makes it fun. If we knew what was going to happen next, it would be boring, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose so.” he admits. “Thank you for keeping me company.”

“Don’t mention it.” I say, folding my hands over my pocketwatch in my lap. “Go on, get along now. You’ve got places to be, and better things to do than chatting with me.”

He nods again, and the last I see of him is a fleeting smile towards me as he ducks down into the passenger’s seat. Death takes the door and closes it, then respectfully tips their cap to me before moving back around and getting into the driver’s side. Within seconds, the car is pulling away down the street, fading out of existence as it gets further and further away. Taking in a deep breath, I let it out in a long sigh.

“Did you know him?”

The voice comes from behind me, and I look over my shoulder. Stepping around one of the ornamental trees lining the sidewalk is a dark-skinned man dressed in business formal — white slacks, button-down, and dress jacket, with a clementine tie that really pops. The typical attire of the angels of Kolob.

“No, I didn’t know him.” I rubbing my thumb over the cover of my pocketwatch. “I had not expected to see you here, Gratitude.”

“Good to see you as well, Regret.” Gratitude says, coming to the ledge and carefully sitting down beside me after he brushes the snow off it. “I was dispatched to this world because I was told there was a soul that needed saving.”

“I imagine there are a great many souls that need saving on this world.” I say, looking up and studying the city’s glittering skyline down in the valley. “Was there a specific soul that you were supposed to save?”

“Well, it was supposed to be the one you sent off just now.” Gratitude says, nodding down the hill where Death’s car has faded away. “But it doesn’t seem to me like he was in much of any danger in the first place.”

“Pity.” I remark mildly. “I guess Kolob sent you all the way here for nothing.”

“Not quite.” he says, neatly tucking his hands in his lap like I’ve done with mine. “It’s a lovely night. Beautiful snow. I wouldn’t mind staying and watching it for a while.”

“I had noticed that, yes.” I say, watching as the flakes continue to swirl down. “Granted, I would prefer to watch it from the warmth of my House, preferably while sitting in one of my armchairs by the window with a mug of hot cocoa in hand and a blanket around my shoulders. Perhaps a good book in my lap, and a cat as well.”

“But then you don’t get to witness its beauty firsthand.” Gratitude points out.

“I would prefer to witness its beauty without freezing my fingers off.”

“The cold is part of the experience, Regret.” Gratitude chuckles. “Can you really appreciate the beauty of snow if you haven’t stood outside in the chill that makes it possible? It’s that cold nip that makes you feel alive, the shivers that run up your skin. Haven’t you ever taken a walk through a winter wonderland, or kissed someone in the snow?”

My eyes stay fixed on the flakes drifting down. “No.” I say faintly. “I can’t say that I ever have.”

“Right. Of course you haven’t.” Gratitude says, running a finger through some of the accumulated snow on the ledge. “Well, I would recommend it. A kiss is like hot cocoa; warm and sweet, and you appreciate it more when the weather’s cold.”

“Like hot cocoa, you say?” I repeat, looking at him.

He grins. “That got your attention, didn’t it.” He brushes the snow off his fingers. “Are you still using Miqo’s recipe? She makes the best hot cocoa this side of the universe. It’s been a century now but I can still remember how it tastes.”

“I use her recipe, but it’s not the same as when she makes it.” I say, looking down at my pocketwatch. “It’s still better than anything the kitchen produces, but when Miqo makes it, there’s just something… different about it.”

He elbows me. “It’s love. She puts love into it. That’s the ingredient you’re missing.”

I give him a flat look. “Spare me your saccharine sensibilities, Gratitude. Hot cocoa does not require ‘love’.”

He shrugs. “Never know until you try.” He falls silent for a bit as the fire truck and the ambulance finally arrive, and soon after, a couple of police cruisers to block off the street and redirect traffic. “I know you are not here simply on a whimsy, Regret. Sjelefengsel sent you here to tempt this soul, and Kolob sent me to prevent that.” After giving that second to sink in, he looks at me with eyes that are almost as blue as the midday sky. “But you didn’t tempt him.”

“No, I suppose I didn’t.” I say, popping the cover on my pocketwatch and checking the time, the six arms spinning around the clockface within.

“Was there a reason?” Gratitude inquires. “He seemed vulnerable to me. From what I overhead, he had many regrets, of which you could’ve easily taken advantage of in offering him a contract. Yet you let him go his way — that was most unlike you.”

My answer to this is to give a shrug. “I suppose I’ve always been so successful in tempting people that it had grown almost… boring. I could almost be assured of the outcome before the talking began. There are challenges, here and there, but this one would’ve been easy. And knowing that I most likely could’ve tempted him into a contract, I already knew what the outcome was if I went one way. I’ve gone that way so very many times before, and this time… I decided to go the other way. Just to see how things would play out.”

“So you didn’t do it out of the kindness of your heart?” Gratitude asks, looking a little disappointed. “You simply went the other way for the sake of curiosity?”

“Curiosity, yes, but also… mercy and pity as well.” I say, watching as the fire truck starts to hose down the burning car. “Can you imagine only having twenty-eight years to live? It’s such a small amount of time. You barely have time to get anything done, it’s so brutally short. I can’t think of anything I could get done in twenty-eight years, especially considering that twenty-five of those are spent maturing and growing up.”

“It only seems that way to you because you were never bound to such lifespans, Regret.” Gratitude points out. “The species you were born to can live for thousands, millions of years if they want. Time is fundamentally different for your kind because they so rarely die of old age; time, to you, isn’t quite as precious as it is for mortals. They enter this living world with a limited amount of time, and once they use it up, they have to return back to the great in-between. So they make the most they can of it. To you, to us, twenty-eight years may be nothing, but to them? Twenty-eight years is enough. Most of them can do quite a bit with twenty-eight years.”

“I suppose.” I say, looking back down at my pocketwatch. “But I pity it nonetheless. He told me he still wished he had more time, and that… I think I could understand that. I could pity that.”

“Well, I certainly don’t disapprove.” Gratitude says. “But what will your masters say?”

“My masters needn’t know.” I say, closing the lid on my pocketwatch. “I will write the report and simply state that I was unable to convince the subject to accept an offer, which is technically true. Try as you might, you simply can’t win them all.”

“They will be suspicious.” Gratitude points out, watching as a couple of firefighting drones lift off from the firetruck so they can fly over the burning wreck and deploy chemical suppressant for the battery fire. “You are one of their most persuasive Lords.”

“And you are one of the most compelling Archangels.” I counter. “Your presence here would’ve provided a reasonably compelling justification for why I wasn’t able to lock the subject into a contract.”

“Oh, so you’re going to blame me for something you actually did?” Gratitude asks, raising an eyebrow.

“It will be to your credit if you write the same on your report.” I point out.

“It certainly would, but it would not be honest.”

“I agree, but do you really want to credit a demon Lord for your success?”

“Ohhhh, I see what you’re doing here. Very sneaky. Appealing to my pride to try and get me to provide false report so you don’t get in trouble when Kolob and Sjelefengsel go to compare notes on this case.”

“I never said you had to provide false report.” I say innocently. “You merely need to be circumspect in how you write your report. No lies need to be told so long as you arrange the fragments of the truth in such a way that it only provides the picture you wish it to convey.”

“That is what we call lies of omission, Regret.”

“Is that what you all call it in Kolob? Funny. In Sjelefengsel, we prefer to call it ‘selective dispensation of the truth’.”

“You are incorrigible.”

“Well, I am a demon Lord.”

We both fall silent at that, though our mutual amusement is palpable. The snow continues to drift down around us as the warm orange light from the car fire slowly starts to dim away, though the flashing lights from the emergency vehicles continue to paint the street. There is the distinct feeling of sitting in the aftermath of a happening, and now that the happening has passed by, I am at a loss for what to do. Though it may be a stretch, I would hazard a guess that Gratitude may feel the same way.

“So.” Gratitude says after a time. “How are the preparations for Krysmis going in Sjelefengsel?”

I have a distinct feeling he’s digging for something to talk about. “Are you trying to keep me from leaving, Gratitude?” I ask.

“I never get to see you anymore. I like talking to my counterparts on the other side.” he says, giving a shrug. “It has been months since we last spoke, and I enjoy our encounters.”

“Really.” I say, faintly amused. “Your superiors don’t worry that exposure to a Lord of Sjelefengsel will end up corrupting you?”

“And yours don’t worry that time spent around one of Kolob’s Archangels will soften you up?” Gratitude counters just as easily.

“You know what they say about playing with fire, Gratitude.” I warn him softly. “You know that I am a Syntaritov.”

“One that let a soul slip through his fingers instead of seizing on it and consigning it to hell.” Gratitude points out. “There is good within you, Regret, even if you do not want to admit it.”

“It would be unwise to mistake curiosity for mercy, Gratitude.” I reply, tucking my pocketwatch back in the pocket of my buttoned vest. “But if you insist on assigning charitable intent to my actions, of lack thereof, I will not object to that characterization if it earns me a favor in turn.”

“Mmm, I’d not go that far.” Gratitude says, leaning back as I stand off the ledge.

“It is to your credit, is it not?” I remind him as I pull the file out of my vest. “Unless you insist on being forthright in your report. I wonder what the other Archangels would say to discovering that I’d done your job for you.”

Gratitude glares at me. “You let that soul go of your own accord. I did not ask it of you.”

“A mistake, clearly. I’ll be sure to drag the next one down to Sjelefengsel.” I say, giving a last glance to the crash scene. “If there’s no favors to be had, I must be going. I was torturing one of my hounds prior to this, and I was quite enjoying it until I was interrupted. Is there anything further you required from me, Gratitude?”

“It is a beautiful night out. You don’t want to stay and enjoy the snow?” he asks, motioning to the snow coming down around us.

I hold a hand up, watching the flakes swirl through my fingers. “I want to. But duty requires me elsewhere.” Letting my hand drop, I start walking back up the sidewalk, heading back to the spot where my portal awaits me. “Until we meet again, Gratitude.”

“You could stand to learn a thing or two from Sloth!” he calls after me.

“I’ll let him know you hold him in high regard.” I reply over my shoulder. Tucking the file under my arm, I pick up the pace until I’m at a brisk walk, snowflakes perching on my shoulders as I go.

I’ve got a report to write, and some drinks to mix.

Event Log: Raikaron Syntaritov

The House of Regret: Raikaron’s Study

11:58pm SGT

“…and I simply let him drive off.” I say, flicking the stirring rod around the beaker I’ve got on the desk I pulled out from the side of my study. “Off into the night, and to whatever afterlife awaited him. And I’m still not sure why I did it. Mercy, I suppose, but I’ve not often made a habit of showing mercy to strangers.” Tapping the rod on the rim of the beaker, I take a cloth and wipe it off, then set it on the tray along with the rest of my mixing tools. “Do you think I’m going soft, Danya?”

“I’m told that women do have that effect on men.” Danya says drily. She’s sitting in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, arrayed in her nightclothes and a shawl thrown over her shoulders, with her hair let down out of the bun she keeps it in during the day. A mug is in one hand, which she sips from every now and then.

My brow furrows at her response. “But I’ve known you for decades, and I’ve never been predisposed to such mercy.” I say, picking up the beaker so I can pour it into a waiting bottle now that the mixture’s complete.

“I wasn’t referring to myself.” is her flat reply. The tone that indicates I’ve missed a reference that she thinks should’ve been obvious.

I finish pouring the beaker into the bottle, then set it down. “…you mean Jayta?” I ask after a moment of thinking on who else she could be referring to.

“Such as she is, yes.” Danya says, sipping from her mug. “I jest, of course. I think you worry overmuch about your mercy. The only reason you reflected on it was because Gratitude witnessed you being merciful, and made a point of interrogating you over it, which in turn prompted some self-reflection on your part. But I believe you’ve always had a more generous disposition than other Lords. You’ve simply never thought about it, because others are often not around to remark on your more clement acts.”

“I can’t help but wonder if my ancestor would’ve done the same.” I say, taking a hose and gassing the bottle with a light squeeze of the trigger.

“Is that the stick by which you measure yourself? Whether or not it’s something that Solebarr Syntaritov would’ve done?” Danya asks. “Why should it matter if it’s something your ancestor would’ve done? You are not him.”

“Yes, but I strive to be like him. He’s the great paragon of my lineage.” I say, picking a cork out of another tray and carefully working it into the neck of the bottle. “He’s the original Syntaritov, the one that gave the family name the weight and meaning that it has now. The Dealmaker, the Metamaker of Stories, the King of Villains, the Spirit of Truth, the Precursor of the Dragine. He is all of those things, and more. I grew up with numberless stories of his adventures and pursuits, and I always wanted to be like that: a keeper of truth, a maker of stories, a creator of heroes. There was such purpose in what he did, and such incredible paradox in how he did it.”

“I can understand that, but the Syntaritov name is made of more than just your first ancestor, is it not?” Danya points out. “It also represents the reputations and acclaim of other Syntaritovs to follow, and all their accomplishments as well. The name of Syntaritov is synonymous with a harbinger of chaos and change, something that’s been reinforced by generations of Syntaritovs to follow your ancestor. But they did so in their own way, and not by copying their first ancestor.”

“Actually, those that follow in his footsteps all copy him to some extent or another.” I say, placing the bottle in the corking machine, and pulling the lever. The stamping arm shoves downward, stuffing the cork the rest of the way into the bottle. “It’s impossible not to, because he pioneered the field of paradox villainy. He discovered many of the basic principles that form the foundation of the field.”

“Yes, but other Syntaritovs built upon those basics with their own unique flairs and flourishes, did they not?” Danya points out. “Just like the Syntaritov name. Your ancestor forms the foundation, but his progeny built on it. It is possible to acknowledge the contributions of the innovators without dismissing the centrality of the founder.”

“What are you trying to get at, Danya?” I ask, moving over to the pot of hot sealing wax on the other end of my mixing table. “You seem very intent on this.”

“I’m trying to tell you that you should strive to be your own person, instead of attempting to imitate your ancestor.” Danya says, cupping her hands around her mug. “Your life should not constantly revolve around asking yourself if what you’re doing is something your ancestor would’ve done. As a self-reflection every now and then, I think it would be appropriate, but you will never be Solebarr Syntaritov. You are Raikaron Syntaritov, and you deserve a life that is more than just aspiring to be a pale copy of your ancestor.”

“I suppose there is a certain sense to that.” I say, dipping the neck of the bottle in the wax, then carefully twisting it as I pull it back upright again. Setting it down, I rest my fists on the edge of the table and lean on them, watching as the liquid wax slowly drips down the neck of the bottle while it cools. “One down, several more to go.”

“Which one is that?” she asks, studying the bottle.

“Unicorn Vomit.”

She makes a face. “Oh. Charming. That’s the rainbow-colored one, I take it?”

“The one with sparkles and glitter, yes.”

“How nauseatingly cheerful.” Lifting her mug, she takes a sip from it before going on. “You know you could just buy them from Miqo, right? This entire…” She motions to my mixing table. “…process seems very time-consuming.”

“I could, but I prefer to mix the draughts myself.” I say, running a finger over some of the mixing equipment. “It’s an art, one you don’t fully appreciate if you buy the drinks from someone else. I enjoy doing it, and besides, I don’t believe my first ancestor ever mixed drinks, and you did just tell me I should aspire to be my own person.”

“I didn’t think you’d take my advice so quickly.” Danya says, squinting into her mug. “Your hot cocoa is impeccable, as always. Miqo’s recipe?”

“It could never be anything but.” I say, pushing the bottle to the back of the table, then reaching to my recipe book where it’s set up on a stand. I start leafing through the pages, musing over what I’ll make next. “I can’t make it quite like Miqo does; hers is still better than mine. Gratitude says it’s because she puts love into it.”

“How disgustingly saccharine.” she remarks.

“That’s what I said.” I agree, settling on one of the recipes, then looking over to my tray of vials. “Did you know that young man just wanted to let his friends know he died? That’s all he wanted. He accepted that he died, and he accepted that his time was up, and all he wanted to do before he went is let his friends know. So they could have closure.”

“You said as much earlier.” Danya says, raising an eyebrow.

“That continues to boggle me.” I say, shaking my head. “That’s all he wanted. Others usually want so much more. They feel they have been cheated, robbed of time they should’ve had. Especially the young ones. But not him. He merely wanted his friends to be at peace. To not have questions about what happened to him.”

“Does that bother you?” Danya asks.

“It confounds me. That someone should be so willing to accept their death, especially someone so young.” I say, starting to read through the ingredient list on the page. “And when he did die, his concern was about how his passing would affect others, not himself. I cannot fathom it.”

“Perhaps it is because you do not see people like that often.” Danya ventures. “Down here in Sjelefengsel, we are surrounded by the rot of the mortal plane. The gutterscum that have earned their punishment and never had a kind thought in their mortal lives. We sometimes forget that there are good people out there, because we are constantly surrounded by bad people. And we ourselves are often bad people. But there are good people out there, who do good things not for fear of hell or hope for heaven, but merely because it is the right thing to do. Who do it out of a love for the people that matter to them.”

“Taking no thought for their own welfare or personal gain?” I ask as I begin pouring the base for the next drink into the mixing beaker. “I suppose I find the concept fascinating. That there are people that would act with such selflessness.”

“Are you really so surprised?” Danya asks gently. “You have always been one of those people, deep down. And moreso recently.”

I take my eyes off the beaker to glance at her. “Pardon?” I ask sharply.

“You have always made a habit of seeking out those cast aside by society, rejected and lost, and giving them a place and a purpose.” Danya points out, motioning with her mug. “You did it with me, you did it with the girls, and you did it for Mek. We are all beneficiaries of your compassion, such as it is. You took us under your wing, gave us purpose and clarity, and let us feel like we belonged somewhere. And Jayta is just the most recent evolution of that compassion — you have been kind to her beyond even the standard expected of you.”

My brow furrows as I return my attention to the mixing beaker. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Perhaps you don’t even realize you’re doing it. But you are.” Danya says, draining her mug as she stands up. Walking over, she sets it down on the table. “That said, I am ill-disposed to wrestle with your obliviousness tonight, my Lord. Tomorrow promises to be another long day, so I will retire for the night. Thank you for the hot cocoa.”

She gives me a slight bow with that, and I incline my head in turn. Wrapping her shawl around herself once more, she heads for the door, which shortly clicks closed behind her. Returning my attention to the mixing table, I reach for the vials organized in boxes along the back of the table, then pause when I notice some of the gaps in the rows. After a moment, I glance to Danya’s empty mug, then pick it up, running my fingers over the warm sides. Walking over to my chair beside the fireplace, I sit down in it, studying the mug as I mull over the happenings of the past few hours.

But there are good people out there, who do good things not for fear of hell or hope for heaven, but merely because it is the right thing to do. Who do it out of a love for the people that matter to them.

I use her recipe, but it’s not the same as when she makes it… when Miqo makes it, there’s just something… different about it.

It’s love. She puts love into it. That’s the ingredient you’re missing.

Letting the mug rest in my lap, I look over to my mixing table, where the vials sit in their boxes. A multitude of captured emotions, waiting to be mixed into the the drinks I made. There’s a noticeable gap in the row that holds soft, fuzzy emotions, which are hard to come by down here in Sjelefengsel.

Perhaps a closer study of the kindness of mortals would not be remiss.