Limbo

by Thiago d'Evecque

  “All right,” I said, and I meant it. “I promise we’ll get you out of there.”

  His runes flashed and the tentacles moved up and down.

  Good.

  Despite the mysterious fog, heavy rain was falling. For most people, rain wasn’t nature’s standard. It was just what happened when there was no sun. “Ugly weather,” they cursed as if it foreshadowed the apocalypse. Rain was but a passing figure, a comma in the book always being written about the sun. Thus, it was unusual to rain in the Limbo. Few souls thought about it in the afterlife.

  On this island, for its only inhabitant, however, it always rained. Rain was the perpetual scenario of his death. Mud always plastered the ground, bulky dark clouds always covered the sky, and triumph had never found its way here. It was a land where happiness had been banished and bitterness had been sown to be reaped until the end of time.

  This was Avalon.

  I shuffled through mud puddles and crushed grass as I searched for Arthur. My cuts burned. The open black holes on my ribs and thighs made me lose some heart.

  Who is the depressive one you chose this time?

  “Arthur, the ruler of an ancient kingdom.”

  They are usually called kings.

  “He was not a king. He was the bastard son of the former monarch and couldn’t rise to the throne according to the succession laws. There was a proper king, but Arthur was the real ruler.”

  And you came after a bastard? Bastards know nothing.

  Moving through the mists, hammered by the storm, I squinted as if that would improve my eyesight. And it seemed to for a moment, but then I realized it had nothing to do with my useless tricks.

  The dense white sheet cleared a circle ahead. In its center stood a grimy and sloppy Arthur.

  A faded, torn mantle that might once have been red was pinned on his neck with a brooch. Its underside trailed in the grass. Trickles of blood and mud ran through his soaked hair and his rusty battle armor. No amount of rain could clean that.

  Arthur’s right hand rested on the hilt of his legendary sword, sheathed and fastened at the waist. The visor of his helmet was up, and big blue eyes glowed like neon in contrast to his stubble and the rest of his dark appearance. They were cold eyes like Finn Mac Cumhail’s—but if the Irishman’s showed wit and determination, Arthur’s projected resentment and misery.

  And if Roland wore his armor in all the battle glory of a paladin, Arthur’s weighed heavily on him with the disgrace of a fallen warrior.

  “What do you want here?” he asked. I expected a tired, sad voice, but I was wrong. His voice was furious, thick and authoritative, the voice of a commander who can never bury and part with his military past, even if he wanted to. Which was not the case.

  “To talk.”

  “And after talking, what will you ask of me?”

  “I only want—”

  “The answer is no. I don’t care. Leave and never come back.” He turned on his heels and marched into the mists.

  “Britain needs you. The time has come to wake up.”

  Arthur paused for an instant and turned sharply.

  “Needs me? As my father did?” he shouted, spitting in the rain, baring yellowed teeth. A thick vein leaped from his forehead. “As my sister did for her witchcraft? As Guinevere did until she decided she needed my friend? As my brother did until he stabbed me in the back and condemned me to this damned land?”

  “This land is damned because you make it so.” My invisible blood began to boil. I knew I should be more careful, but anger was taking over me.

  This is not good.

  “Me?” Arthur growled, with bloodshot eyes. “I tried to protect and assist my land. I was paid with treason.”

  “And you intend to be here forever feeling sorry for yourself, cursing Mordred for killing you and Guinevere for leaving you?” I realized I was shouting too, and I lowered my tone. “Camelot will not return. It’s time to move on.”

  Arthur looked down, probably thinking of better times. When he was at the height of his happiness, alongside his wife, when Britain shared his happiness and prospered. When Arthur rode through the battlefields never knowing defeat, for he carried courage, leadership, and strategy within him. He had earned the trust of the people, their support and recognition.

  But Guinevere abandoned him and took with her a fundamental part of Arthur’s spirit. Possibly the best part. The light Arthur projected was swallowed by the darkness around him. Camelot fell along with him.

  “I believed, fought, and bled for nothing. There is nowhere to move on to.” Her blue eyes sparkled with water. I believed it was not from the rain.

  “You have a new chance. Your land, the way you knew it, is gone. But your legacy continues. There is still a nation that needs to be led by someone fit.”

  Sadness left him and his face hardened again.

  “I’m not whom you’re looking for.”

  “You are, but you have locked yourself in a little world of hatred and resentment. Let the rain wash away all your accumulated spitefulness and release the true king of Britain. Allow me to show you, Arthur.”

  I limped toward him. Arthur frowned and drew the wide-bladed longsword he carried in life and death. A green jewel flashed on the center of its guard. According to legend, the Lady of the Lake offered that sword to the chosen warrior. Arthur held it with both hands. A greasy, rippling aura surrounded the edge, leaving the sword almost invisible, like colorless smoke around the steel.

  This was Excalibur, the most powerful sword ever created on Earth, Heaven, or Limbo, and all other weapons were mere metal sketches compared to it.

  This is not good at all.

  Arthur pointed Excalibur at me.

  “I said go away.” His grimace was fierce, his dirty teeth scary. “I’m not the one you’re looking for.”

  “There is salvation yet.”

  “Salvation?” Arthur said scornfully. “I will not be involved in political and religious games again. I pleased pagan druids and reached out to Christian priests, but no god saved me. In the end, I was alone. I’ve always been alone.”

  “You’re not anymore!” I shouted, and Chuck’s tentacles coiled. “I am here, and I am giving you a new opportunity. Come back and do it differently. Forgive, trust, and love again.”

  The pouring rain whipped us, sticking my hair to my body, drumming on Arthur’s armor.

  “An opportunity I didn’t ask for,” he mumbled, “and I won’t take it.”

  The bastard will attack at any moment. Your diplomacy has seen better times.

  Chuck was right. My patience was too short.

  Arthur shivered and snarled, about to snap. “This is the last time I ask. Leave me in peace.”

  “Peace? Peace to wallow in your torments and feed your demons? No. I cannot.”

  His gaping mouth let out an animalistic yell. A loud sound that came out of his gut and clawed at his throat. He spun Excalibur in a circle and cut down toward me, too far to reach. Maybe the tip of the sword would scratch my shoulder at that distance. I turned my body aside, bemused by that pointless attack.

  Careful! Chuck shouted, runes twinkling, and tentacles stretched.

  But the warning was too late.

  The legendary sword rippled, and I felt the surrounding atmosphere vibrate. The blade seemed to have grown longer due to that aura of mirage.

  My left shoulder burned as if incinerated. The pain was so great that I pinned Chuck to the ground and leaned against him.

  I looked at the black hole where my shoulder should be. My severed arm lay on the floor, crooked in such a morbid position that it made me sick. I widened my eyes and struggled not to lose sanity and conscience.

  The dead arm darkened as if rotting until it vanished.

  I opened my mouth, but there were no words. Only pain.

  Defend yourself!

  Arthur was preparing another attack. Stunned, I placed Chuck horizontally anyway I could to block that mirage strike.


  Our swords met and thunder boomed, a deafening noise that resonated throughout the Limbo. I flew several feet backward with the force of the impact, landing on my back. The thunder echoed insistently, making my chest vibrate. Excalibur was on a different league, and now I had one less member to fight.

  All the souls of that dead plane interrupted their wailing to pay attention to our clash.

  I stood, gasping not for breath, but out of anxiety. Arthur ran at me, splashing water, tracing the mud, kicking back the grass.

  The frustrated king cut downward. I ground my feet and lifted Chuck to deflect, being careful to avoid the deadly aura the sword cast, extending its range. Excalibur slipped down on Chuck’s edge. My arm shook like jelly with the effort and my feet sank into the muddy grass. My vision blurred. I moved on reflexes and instincts.

  Arthur turned his sword, yelling, and attempted a side slash, projecting uncontrollable fury with each move. I lifted Chuck to block it.

  Another thunder exploded in Avalon. I skidded to the side after the shock. Our swords kept colliding under the rain, hidden by the mists. The thunder rumbled with each clash, mending in one another. Chuck’s runes shimmered, illuminating raindrops. His tentacles flailed. The battle was also taking its toll on my companion.

  This is it. There is no way out. This mad bastard is too powerful.

  No. No! It couldn’t be. I clenched my teeth, avoiding Arthur’s superhuman onrush, blocking and parrying the deadly blows. This was the end, then? I had come so far only to be halted by an ungrateful ruler, so blinded by his own disappointments that he could never find forgiveness inside himself.

  At that moment I didn’t realize it, but Arthur and I had a lot in common. I too had expelled all forgiveness from my heart and let anger suffocate me.

  We were postponing the inevitable. I no longer had the energy to prolong that unequal fight.

  Arthur stepped forward, bellowed, and brandished Excalibur down once more. I closed my eyes, set my jaw, and raised Chuck.

  The blow was so violent that the swords clashed and stuck together, and we pushed against each other. Arthur put his whole soul into that act. I felt all his overwhelming strength in Excalibur, all the frustration of a bastard, robbed of his royalty, the fury of a betrayed brother, the bitterness of a forsaken husband. Sometimes the legend becomes bigger than the man himself. Arthur’s legend certainly grew larger than him. And I received its power down the Excalibur.

  Arthur and I growled, but I could only use one arm, and he forced the sword down with both hands. His blade shortened the space and mine recoiled.

  A crack. Chuck’s runes flared.

  No!

  The sound of breaking glass reverberated, and Chuck’s presence dwindled.

  My black sword had broken in half.

  Arthur jammed Excalibur into my spiritual body, tearing me from trapeze to thorax. My eyes went dull, out of focus. Thunder broke for the last time, then everything went dark.

  There was no pain. There was no rain. There was nothing.

  I felt time stop. Not in the figurative sense. Time had really stopped. It was a case of death after death, an extra-spiritual experience.

  In the darkness, a shadow stood out, darker still, defying the concept of the black color, or of the lack of color. The apparition shuffled like smoke and took a round shape where eight tentacles hung. It floated, translucent, like an illusion.

  It’s over.

  That was Chuck.

  “No,” I said in a weak, distant voice. I didn’t know if he had heard me. “No,” I repeated.

  I am slipping into nothingness. My prison was destroyed, and it was what protected me in this captured and forgotten state. Pay close attention now…

  “No…”

  The Greek phantasm was right.

  “Eleos?”

  We are injecting our emotions into each other. Your hatred is straw and mine is fire. We would continue to feed this ember until it engulfed us and we would never be free. And I want to be free.

  “We can still…”

  But I will not be forgotten again.

  “Please…” I started to cry, sobbing.

  I’ll use my last energy to get you through this whoreson and send him back. I will not be forgotten.

  I wanted to talk, but only uttered a meow.

  You probably won’t survive. No matter. That gods-damned cuckold is coming back.

  Tears came down uncontrollably.

  They will have to make do with eleven.

  There was so much I wanted to say to him, but I couldn’t. Lethargy dominated me.

  I can’t even say it has been interesting or amusing. You are a terrible company.

  Two small spheres sparkled in the middle of what I thought was Chuck’s head. He hesitated a moment, as if to say something else, but gave up.

  Farewell, ghost woman.

  With burning and itching eyes, I noticed his shadow morphing into a vertical shape.

  And thank you.

  “NO!” I shouted with all my remaining energy, emptying my lungs, balling up my fists, and my voice supplanted Avalon’s thunder. I felt my body again, freed from that comatose state.

  Arthur’s eyebrows arched in amazement. The storm resumed. I was back to the moment of defeat. Tears streamed down my cheeks.

  Excalibur was buried in my torso and the pain was inhuman. Pain from my injuries, pain from losing my companion.

  Arthur’s clenched his teeth, forcing the blade to cut me in half. But if he was the uncontrollable fire of fury, I was a raging inferno.

  I stopped crying, thinking there were no more tears in me. Which was a mistake, because there were always more tears, there was always more suffering, there was always pain in store. But at that moment sadness gave way to indignation and hatred. Hatred for Arthur being ungrateful and blind, hatred for losing Chuck, hatred for the archangels, hatred for having forgot everything, hatred for wanting to remember. For being weak and lost here on this cursed island, for having this task, for humans being so imperfect. It was all hate. And as long as we wanted to feel it, it embraced and welcomed us.

  A shadow materialized on my right hand. All of Chuck’s energy and remaining presence were in that sword, made of darkness and emotion. The final act of a dying spirit.

  The last breath of a forgotten god.

  I roared with ferocity, shoving that spiritual weapon into the neck of a startled, wide-eyed Arthur. And only then did he understand everything. That there was no turning back, that he was in a cycle of endless hatred, that a new chance was all he could ever want and all he had left.

  For the first time, the rain ceased in Avalon.

  The surrounding mists faded. I assume Arthur tried to apologize, but there was no time. His body gleamed, lightening the battlefield, and then disappeared, returning to Earth once more. Excalibur was gone as well, leaving me half-torn in the darkness.

  The shadow sword on my hand slowly crumbled away. Chuck’s energy dissipated until his presence died out.

  Black spots filled my vision. My consciousness leaked to the end of all things. I kneeled, waiting for oblivion and thinking of Chuck. My last thought would be his, the god who sacrificed himself to not be forgotten again.

  The island of Avalon fell apart in thousands of pieces and the nothingness of Limbo returned to serve as my grave.

  In the darkness I noticed a clenched fist, not sure if I was delirious or if the vision was true: a giant closed fist, tall as a building, just ahead of me.

  The fist opened, finger by finger.

  From inside came an angel. It was not only the most beautiful angel ever—it was the most perfect being ever created or imagined on any plane, whether existential or metaphysical. Its immaculate white wings spread in a gust of wind. They were twice as large as the angel. It emitted the glow of a restrained sun, a divine aura, pure and mystical.

  From far away, his honey-colored eyes met mine. A sad smile crossed his face.

  Memories tumbled in my mind, me
mories of ancient and forbidden times that became taboo in the celestial cities. Memories of a life that seemed too far away to be real, more like a naive dream than a true memory.

  I felt the bittersweet taste of losing my companion and a small, pointless victory. I remembered! I wanted to shout it to everyone.

  I remember everything, Chuck!

  But I couldn’t. There was nothing left in me. I cried again and closed my eyes.

  Before everything went out, I watched the first angel of Creation lift his wings and fly toward me.

  14

  THE FIRST LAW

  “Lilith…”

  I heard his soft, reassuring voice calling me. I opened my eyes.

  “Samael?”

  He held me in a firm embrace. My honey-eyed angel, my forbidden love. Samael the Firstborn, Lucifer, the Morning Star.

  “It’s all right, now,” he whispered.

  Samael kneeled beside me. My head rested on his lap. I put my arms on the floor and tried to sit up. Two arms on the floor. I raised my hands and opened and closed them. Only the archangels could heal a spirit. I was with the first archangel of all Creation.

  “You…” I started.

  “I felt your energy fading and came as soon as possible.”

  “Did you know I was awake?”

  “Of course.” He smiled. His eyes smiled too, but never completely. Samael had in them all the knowledge of existence, the eyes of those who beheld the very Creation of time and space. It made him look wise and even gentle, but also weary.

  “Thanks.” I fought back tears. “But you shouldn’t have come.”

  “I’ve already lost you once. I can’t go on if I know you no longer exist.”

  Yes, we had lost each other, for the first and last time. Because an angel should never get involved with humans. Just guide them, teach them, and advise them. Never fall in love. And I was almost a human.

  “How did you know I had woken up?”

  “My energy will be forever linked with yours. Have you remembered everything?”