Limbo

by Thiago d'Evecque

  Before doing my job, I had a question. I decided to risk it. “Xiangu… could you try to heal these wounds?” I showed her my injuries from previous battles. “It would make my next encounters a lot easier.”

  She examined the wounds and wrapped her hand around them, squeezing and analyzing. She pursed her lips and stared at me.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and my invisible heart sank. “The damages from spiritual weapons are beyond my reach.”

  I didn’t hide my disappointment. “I understand. Thanks anyway.”

  I focused on Earth and pierced He Xiangu with Chuck’s black blade. Under a sad flute song, her body shone brightly and faded into lotus flowers.

  The other seven got up. The Elder mounted his backwards white mule.

  “Good luck on the Way, warrior,” said the Former General.

  Like smudged watercolor, they all melted away. Once again, I stood with Chuck inside the bitter mouth of darkness.

  Tell me something. How did you kill the flute nut and he didn’t go to Earth?

  “It depends on my intention. They only come back if I kill them for that purpose. Otherwise, just vanish for a while.”

  Amazing. Everything here is convenient.

  Ignoring Chuck’s whining, as usual, I thought of the next soul and moved on.

  But something was wrong.

  I walked and yet I did not leave the place. The insistent darkness remained, like an unwanted visitor. Only the atmosphere was different. The black turned purple, the air turned greasy and stifled. My movements became slow and painful, as if gravity was motivated and wanted to do a good job. A drumbeat echoed in my ears. A sweet smell like grapes lingered around.

  Chuck’s tentacles whipped.

  What is this? Can you feel it?!

  My spine froze with fear.

  It’s behind us!

  I turned sharply, wide-eyed, clutching the sword’s black hilt, in combat position, ready to strike.

  But it would be useless.

  “Long time. No see.”

  His voice was mechanical, low and scratchy. It sounded like a robot that learned how to talk and was trying to lose its cyber accent. His eyes were two hell-red globes that could see the thread connecting our existence and knew the exact moment it would be severed.

  Because that creature was responsible for severing it.

  His bald, smooth head shone pale as a pearl, as did his skin. His fully opened wings gently swayed. One white and one black, filled with giant, perfect feathers that seemed handcrafted.

  Chuck trembled before that suffocating presence.

  He was the reaper. A conductor of souls, as was I, but he led them from Earth to Limbo, and from Limbo to nonexistence.

  In front of me stood Matraton, the angel of death.

  8

  TURNING OFF THE LIGHTS

  His red eyes showed no kindness. They didn’t show malice, either. They showed no feeling, desire, or expression at all. Matraton simply fulfilled his duty. We had a lot in common.

  I remembered the rebellion. Matraton had participated as spectator. He was a neutral angel, never involved in any kind of dispute—heavenly or earthly. I remember he had led the souls of hundreds of angels to eternal rest, always with the same glassy gaze. Indifferent.

  I staggered and my body became more real, diminishing its brightness. I distinguished the rags of clothing on my legs and arms.

  Matraton smiled. An artificial smile, using only his lips, as if he had learned the theory in a book and kept practicing until he got it right. He was beautiful, perfect like any other angel, but his beauty was that of a cemetery’s florid garden. It was difficult to appreciate the landscape because it didn’t seem to belong.

  “I see that your. Memory gradually. Returns,” he said in a monotone. His voice echoed around, coming from every corner.

  “What you want from me? Has my time come?” I asked, forcing myself to shiver as little as possible.

  The red irises shimmered for a moment, and my nerves tightened.

  “No. It’s not. Your time. Nor your. Friend’s yet.” Chuck shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve heard. That you woke up and. I came. To check. I cannot take long. I have plenty. Of work on Earth.”

  “And I have work here.”

  “What. Happens when. You are done?”

  I swallowed hard. That was a good question, and I had no idea how to answer.

  “You will. Remember everything. And run to him. Or he. Will come to you. But they will not. Allow it.”

  “Who is ‘he’?”

  His lips were still petrified pointing up.

  “I won’t meddle. More than I already am. You have your role. And it is going. Well.” Matraton didn’t blink once. “But. The moment your role is. Completed. You will have. No use here. What. Happens then?”

  I lowered my head, feeling lost. Weak. Useless.

  “Let me tell you. What happens. If you manage. To complete your mission. Gabriel. Will put you to sleep. Again, until your. Awakening proves. Urgent. The eternal cycle. Will be repeated again. And again. And again.”

  His eyes were fixed on me. The smile grew a little more.

  “If you manage,” he repeated. “Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.”

  So that was it. There was no hope for me. I was merely an uncomfortable and necessary tool whose existence depended on the will of others.

  This is horseshit.

  For the first time, Matraton’s red eyes no longer pierced mine. His posture remained unchanged, and his head didn’t move either. Only his eyes lowered to Chuck.

  “What did you say. Creature?”

  This is absolute horseshit.

  The angel’s frozen smile grew frightening. “Would you care. To expand on that?”

  No.

  He kept staring at my sword. “If that—”

  You see, Chuck interrupted, it makes no sense. You’re not an angel, he talked to me. You don’t have to obey. You have a choice. Why do they still keep you alive? Or dead, whatever. You don’t seem to me the greatest warrior ever, or the only one who can do this task.

  Matraton watched impassively. The blade runes twinkled.

  There is something weird there. You will be controlled if you allow yourself to be controlled. That I know. Freedom is bitter like that. Available when we ignore it, gone when we want it. I know it, I want it now. But you… you’ll stop being that disgusting shadow of self-pity and resignation while you’re carrying me. If you want to accept your future, then set me free to pursue mine, because I intend to build it with my own tentacles, over tears of hate. I may have a black heart, but my blood runs hot. I’m not an insect, neither are you. I am a god! Show a little dignity and respect for yourself.

  The shame burned like acid inside me. My legs flinched, but I remained firm. He was right, of course. Until that moment, I was content to complete my work and be at the mercy of greater powers. My throat locked and tears of anger and embarrassment welled up in my eyes. I wanted to run, to hide in the darkness.

  Do you like humans and want to save them? Great. I couldn’t care less. But don’t tell me that in the end you’re going to wag your tail, get a pat on the head, and bark. I have seen slaves. I have had slaves. I don’t know what happened to you to accept this penance, but you are not cut from the same cloth. If the choice is between slavery and death, then there is no choice.

  And as for you, bald widow, he addressed Matraton, there is no ‘if’ There is no possibility of we not succeeding.

  “You can. Predict the. Future?”

  Yes. For instance, I predict you will have to pick shit out of your teeth after I bury that smile deep in your ass.

  The angel didn’t move a muscle, but started to manifest his energy. A menacing field spreading ever larger, ruffling the skin, crushing and immobilizing, like a cold coffin. The air grew heavy, the purple hue snaking through every corner of the darkness. Nightmare shapes flickered, tricking the senses.

  Then Chuck released his energy as well. For the first
time he released his aura with intent, an imposition of expanding fear and insanity, screaming, grunting, like a swarm of buzzing flies bringing plague and destruction.

  But there was a different tone now, unlike the first time he imposed himself on me. It was not pure horror, madness, and absurdity. There was…

  Heroism. The drive to win, the iron resolve that knows no surrender, the courage of the small before the giant. If I was cornered before, now Chuck’s willpower renewed my spirit. It took up space without asking, inflating until it clashed against Matraton’s. When they met, thunder boomed, deafening, and a strong gust of wind exploded, giving life to lightning that scattered and waned. The conflicting auras would not break, one pushing the other, gaining advantage and retreating. The air was electric now, tense, with small shockwaves crackling around us.

  I gritted my teeth and squinted at the strong wind.

  I thought I glimpsed Matraton surprised for a moment. Maybe it was just his uncertain smile twitching. It looked like the angel would move, but if that was his intention, he gave up.

  Suddenly the clash ended. The two auras dissipated, swallowed by their respective owners, like the rewinding image of a bubble being created. The air became greasy again, with black and purple taking turns in the coloring.

  “My. Prediction is that. In the end of. It all. I will personally come to. Take your hand. And turn off the lights one. Last time.”

  In the end of it all, even you will be kicked out of the party.

  Matraton no longer smiled. “This journey’s. Conclusion will be. Interesting. I will be there. Watching.”

  His wings rustled. The shadows devoured the angel of death and he disappeared.

  My body broke free again, without the weight limiting my movements. The dark surroundings had lost their greasy and stifled sensation. There were no more echoes or shades of purple. There was no more of anything.

  Just Chuck and me.

  We walked again through the Limbo’s nothingness. The symphony of the dead restarted.

  Chuck’s sudden release of energy made me see him in another light. How much power had he still held?

  My confidence surged, too. Chuck opposed Matraton as if they were equals. If the confrontation had gone to the last consequences, I didn’t know what would happen.

  “Thanks,” I said. It was the least I could do.

  Shut your mouth, he replied, surprising me. Shut your gods-damned mouth. I didn’t do it for you. Nothing I said was for you, understand?

  I kept quiet and moved on.

  Like you said, I’m only in this Limbo because I was forgotten. A forgotten god is a god of nothing and no one. I have failed once; I do not intend to fail here. Not again. So, don’t even think about surrendering. We get to the end of this even if it’s the last thing I do. And after that… well, we’ll deal with that later.

  Dealing with that later was what I had in mind too. With this philosophy we march forward.

  My next soul would be someone to spread culture and wisdom on Earth. A wise, eloquent messenger who’s not short of bravery and strength, but would rather leave them in the background to make room for logic and prudence. A soul who mustered these characteristics effortlessly, that was a fundamental part of it.

  I chose one of Odin’s twelve sons, the most beloved by his father; the handsome, happy, and wise god of light, goodness, and peace, yet also a master warrior and combatant.

  I chose Baldur, the Norse god.

  9

  EVIL RESIDENT

  Normally I would go to Asgard, the Norse gods’ dwelling in their heyday. A glorious place, full of gold and silver palaces—the most beautiful and famous of which is Valhalla, where Odin’s chosen, after dying in battle, were led by the Valkyries to drink, eat, feast, and fight until Ragnarök, the twilight of gods, the last day of all things.

  These two locations, of course, are part of the Limbo. The gods’ dwelling place does not exist on a separate plane, like the angelic cities. Gods are man-made creatures and often descend to Earth, like Chuck.

  But their power is always tied to what their creators believe. And when they stop believing, their power withers. At least on Earth.

  Asgard and Valhalla were but a dust of their previous majesty. Many of their gods had been relegated to eternal sleep. Not all those who fell into the Limbo found eternity here.

  Some deities still roamed there. Odin, Thor, Loki, and the Norns were some of those left. But there were also many warriors, kings, and heroes spending death in Valhalla. Because these people died with sword in hand, and they believed that the home of the gods was theirs too. And for humans, the Limbo is nothing but the spiritual representation of where they think they should go to on another life.

  However, Baldur was not in Asgard.

  According to legend, terrible nightmares plagued Odin’s son, showing his life in danger. Frigga, his mother, feared for Baldur, and asked fire, water, stone, trees, plants, all metals, and all animals to vow never to harm his son. Frigga, however, did not take the mistletoe’s oath, considering him too young and harmless.

  Happy for Baldur’s protection, the other gods came to honor him by throwing stones, swords, darts, and spears against him, celebrating his invulnerability.

  This inflamed Loki’s anger and envy. Outraged, the god took the form of an old woman and talked to Frigga, finding out about the mistletoe’s abstention. He set out to harvest the plant and make an arrow with it.

  Loki returned to the celebration and asked Hodur the Blind why he didn’t participate in the tribute to Baldur, and the answer was obvious: Hodur couldn’t hit the target. Loki, in an act of goodwill and selflessness, told Hodur that he would help the poor blind god.

  With a mistletoe arrow stuck in his chest, Baldur fell lifeless.

  The atrocity overwhelmed the gods, but in respect to the body, they postponed revenge. After the lamentation, Frigga declared that anyone who went to Hel’s home and brought her son back to Asgard would win all her love and favor.

  Hormud, another son of Odin, volunteered. He rode the winds for nine days and nine nights on Sleipnir, Odin’s eight-legged horse, to the dead’s domain.

  And he bargained with Death. Hel, goddess of the underworld, established a condition to give Baldur back: all creatures, living or otherwise, should shed at least one tear for him. If a word were spoken against, or something or someone didn’t mourn, Baldur would stay with her until the Ragnarök.

  Messengers sped across Asgard. All things cried and mourned, eager for their god’s return.

  Except for one. A withered, sneaky old woman who refused to accept the divine plea. The old woman was none other than Loki in disguise, perpetually reviling the pantheon.

  So, Baldur still awaits the Ragnarök under Hel’s watchfulness.

  Will a god want to come back as a human? Chuck asked, setting aside some of his previous—and uncharacteristic—gravity.

  “We won’t give him much choice, will we?”

  True. But if this Hel didn’t let him out before, why would she now?

  “Maybe she will negotiate. Maybe I won’t accept her terms.”

  Hel was a proud goddess who still retained much of her power. She was banished from Asgard by Odin and made the underworld her new kingdom, also known as Niflheim. Loki’s daughter, the Machiavellian goddess, took a lot after her father.

  The darkness gained a new color. Small pieces rose and fell in an embrace, forming the surroundings. All I could see beyond the dense fog around me was a faded, ancient ice, freezing my spirit. It wasn’t just the ice—the morbidity of the place sent chills up my neck.

  Moisture made the floor slippery. I treaded with small, unsure steps. Apathetic souls floated crying, lamenting their deaths, unaware that their torment was a literal self-fulfilling prophecy.

  This wasn’t just the realm of the dead. It was the realm of melancholy, depression. The edge of the deepest human misery, expressed by moans, screams, and pain. The suffering of those who couldn’t retur
n, the despair of the doomed, the ruin of oblivion.

  I like it here. It has that sweet taste of home.

  I meandered through the sea of wandering souls until the mist thinned and a large structure made of human bones loomed ahead. Painted black, they fit so well that, when viewed from afar, resembled walls. Skulls decorated the building and the front door lintel. Yellow and decayed lined up the door posts.

  Everything reeked of death and rotten flesh. A sickening stench that tested sanity and stomach.

  I must enlist this decorator as one of my minions.

  Reluctant and, honestly, a little annoyed by Chuck’s humor, I entered that damned place.

  A few torches lit a large hall. There wasn’t much to see except for two large gray thrones next to each other.

  The right one was empty.

  On the left one, sat Baldur. Well, half sat, half lied down. His right elbow leaned on the throne and his head rested on that hand. His other hand lazily drummed the left armrest.

  My feet stuck to the floor and squished. Thin layers glued to the foot, peeling away. I leaned in to inspect it.

  The floor was made of human skin pasted with blood. My hands shook. I grasped Chuck until it hurt. What went into someone’s head, dead or alive, human or not, to wish for this execration? Then I remembered that it was from this kind of feeling that Chuck fed. And so did Hel. That wasn’t just her home, her dwelling, it was also her battlefield, meant to intimidate both visitors and captives.

  I removed a chunk of that repugnant slime from my luminous foot. I brought the blend of skin and blood to my mouth, chewed and swallowed angrily. It was, without a doubt, the most disgusting thing I’ve ever had to do in my entire existence. The fight with the Beggar was a bath of roses compared to this.

  But if Hel were watching me, as I believed, she would know that her spirit, her agony, wouldn’t work on me. I was imposing my presence over her animosity.