by D. D. Miers
"There was no God or Devil in the true story," Aethon said. "Only Death. The poor man, my father, had some natural magic in him. Enough that when his wife died giving birth to a stillborn, he saw Death come to take them. It wasn't the first time Death had been seen. Or the first time someone had begged to be taken in their loved one's place. I can't say why Death listened this time. Maybe it's like the genocidal warlord who spares a child every once in a while, in order to convince himself that he's still a good person. Death brought the stillborn back to life and called itself his Godfather.
“You know how the story goes from there. The boy grew up with Death an inch behind him, teaching him the ways of controlling life and death, of speaking with the dead and the unborn. The final lesson, True Resurrection, would only work when Death himself deemed it acceptable. Eventually he comes to the attention of royalty and becomes doctor and magician to the court. He falls in love with the princess, though they can never marry. Does this all sound familiar?"
"More or less," I said, afraid to contradict him. Around us, the memories kept changing. I saw the village he grew up in, his siblings and friends, the castle, court, nobles, and radiant princess.
"Then you know the next part as well," Aethon said. "The king falls ill. Death's godson is sent for. The princess begs him to save her father, and he can't refuse her. But it won't work. Death has declared the king must die. So the godson sneaks into the Hall of Death, and finds the king's life in the shape of a candle, burning low. He recklessly blows out another tall, fresh candle and puts the flame of the king's life to the fresh wick. The king lives and the princess dies.
“The king begs Death's godson to save her. But Death assures his godson that if he tries such a thing a second time, he will die because Death is fair. Death's godson does nothing. He tells the king she was the price paid for the king's life. At first, the king accepts this and marries Death's godson to his second daughter in gratitude.
“Death's godson lives a life of comfort, wealth, and respect, empty of the woman he loved, and tells himself he feels no regret. But he fears Death, and the memory of the candle that was his life burning away in the hall haunts him. He extends his life by a thousand different means, but none forever. Until the day he finds another way back into the Hall of Death and steals his own candle and carries it out into the world."
The memories rolled past, showing me his life, and then suddenly stopped, silent and immense. Aethon stood in the center of a city, holding the candle, and all around him the streets are full of bodies. They lay thick as a carpet on the ground. The city was absolutely silent. Every living thing within it lay dead.
"Not just every man, woman, child, and insect in the city," Aethon said, his voice distant and touched by regret. "But their descendants as well. Every child, grandchild, etc. for a thousand generations . . . the potential life of millions wiped out in an instant."
"How could you?" I asked, breathless.
He shrugged. "I didn't know. I thought one person might die. A few even. I'd had worse blood on my hands by that point. I had no concept of the consequences. If you believe nothing else I tell you here, believe this. I will regret that choice every day of eternity."
"What good does your regret do them?" I asked, almost as angry as I was horrified.
"None at all," Aethon replied. "But I could not undo what I'd done. I could not make amends. And thanks to the banishment imposed by my family, I could not even take the throne and use my immortality to make a difference in the world."
"So, what, you just got over it?" I asked. "Over murdering an entire city?"
"Would you have had me wallow in useless grief forever?" Aethon replied. "I certainly did so for a century or more. But life continues."
"Are you getting to a point here?" I asked, scowling. "Because I'm really tired and I don't really feel like listening to your life story here."
"You invaded my memories," Aethon snapped, darkness rushing around me and reminding me I was not in control. "The least you can do is learn something."
I was sick and tired of learning things, but he could tear my soul apart, so I didn't say anything.
"I went back into the world," Aethon said. "I saw death everywhere. I saw wars, plagues, and destroying storms. None of this dying affected me the way the city had. I thought, ‘This is natural. This is fair.’ I fell in love, I raised families, I watched them wither and I thought, ‘This is fair.’ Over and over I watched disease, murder, starvation, and stupid carelessness kill everyone around me. I told myself it was fair."
"So?" I asked, pushing him.
"Death has never been fair," Aethon declared, like a clap of thunder. "Not from the first moment one man raised his hand against another. The very first time some proto-human had more food than they could eat and let another starve rather than share, death ceased to be fair. Where is the fairness in starvation when there is food rotting all around you, and you are denied it? Where is the fairness in dying of exposure surrounded by empty homes? Where is the fairness in dying of treatable diseases? Where is the fairness in war? Death is the tool of the powerful and always has been. I realized it here at this hospital in this moment.
The memory of the hospital rushed back all at once.
"I loved Edmond," Aethon said softly. "More than I've ever loved anyone. But I knew he would die when I fell in love with him. It was not that he was dying that was unfair. It's that he was dying of a plague in the middle of the most powerful and prosperous nation on the planet. He and thousands like him, dying slow and painful deaths, while people with the power to stop it did nothing. While they watched, hoping it would kill every man like him, while they called it judgment from God. Where was the fairness in that? Where was even-handed Death, while wealthy men lived long and healthy lives and wielded death as a punishment against the people beneath them?"
I didn't have an answer, especially not as Aethon's memories rolled past, of watching everyone they knew waste away slowly while the people who could help pretended nothing happened.
"Mankind will never make progress while Death exists," Aethon said. "As long as the powerful can kill to stay in power, there can be no real change. I will make a world where man can never withhold the necessities of life from man. Food, water, air, shelter—they won't need it. The powerful will have nothing to dangle over them. With no more fear of death, they can finally, truly live."
I stared at him, not sure what to say. It sounded admirable on the surface but . . .
"I think you might be crazy," I said. "I think I get where you're coming from but the conclusion you've ended up at is . . . bonkers, man. Just nuts."
Aethon sighed. "Give it a couple centuries," he said. "You'll come around. And if you don't, well, I'll be happy to debate it with you for eternity. We will both have plenty of time."
"Except that we're going to stop you," I pointed out. "We have the candle, remember?"
"For the moment," Aethon said mildly. "But I am on my way to retrieve it right now. Thank you, by the way, for opening the door for me."
I inhaled sharply, fear washing through me, trying to figure out what I'd done to let him into Julius's bar.
"And just so we're clear," Aethon walked toward me and I was frozen in place with fear, "I won't be killing you. I prefer to avoid killing family. But more importantly, when you or one of yours took that candle, you almost killed Edmond. And for that, I am going to kill every person any of you has ever cared about. Do let them know to expect me."
He reached out, and at the lightest touch of his hand on my chest, I flew backward, darkness howling around me and fear beating like a drum in my heart.
Chapter 14
I crashed down like a cannonball back in my own mind. The ejection had been fast and brutal.
I lay on the "ground" groaning, while Mort whined and snuffled at my hair in concern.
"I'm all right," I lied. "I'm fine. Fuck. I don't matter. We have to tell someone. Jesus. Shit. What do I do?"
Mort whined again, apparently out
of ideas. I scrambled to my feet for something . . . anything . . . I could do to get a message across to the others.
"Julius!" I shouted as loudly as I could. "Cole! Anybody!"
I held my throbbing head, distraught. I'd been trying to get out of this place since I ended up in here! How was I supposed to get out now in time to warn anyone?
I took a deep breath, putting my hands at my sides.
"Okay," I said. "Julius said this place is the space behind the walls, right? And it joins up to Aethon's somehow because . . ." I fumbled for an answer, then hit myself in the forehead as I realized it was obvious. "Because of the candle. It's his candle. And I'm soul bound to it or whatever. So we're connected. Doesn't explain the fucking door but one step at a time, I guess. Cole said Julius connected our minds so that he could get in here to see me, right? He could only do it to Cole because our magic already gave us a connection. Maybe I can get into his mind the same way I got into Aethon's?"
Mort barked and I jumped.
"What?" I asked, startled. "Does that mean you think I'm onto something?"
Mort barked again and took off. Hoping that meant what I thought it did, I ran after him.
"I really hope I don't have to do the blue door thing again for this."
But no door appeared. Mort just kept running with me running behind him. At some point, things got fuzzy and indistinct, and then Mort was gone and I wasn't in my mind anymore. It happened so gradually, I barely noticed until I saw the river of wisps. But I didn't want to look at any memories. I turned instead, following the wisps upstream toward their source.
"Cole!" I shouted as I ran, not sure how this worked and hoping I could get his attention somehow. If Aethon had noticed, Cole would to, right? I'd start poking memories if I had to but I was hoping I could avoid it.
The source of the wisps was light, incandescent as a firework, leaving afterimages on my eyes. I slowed down as I approached it, curious. I didn't want to disturb anything in here that I didn't have to. But I also didn't know what anything was or how to get Cole's attention. I just kind of needed to try things until something worked.
So, with minimal waffling, I put a hand on the light.
"Cole?" I asked. The light was warm under my fingers, and somehow reminded me strongly of Cole in a way I couldn't quite pinpoint.
"Cole? Can you hear me?"
"Vexa?"
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Holy shit, it worked!" I said, practically jumping up and down. "Can you hear me?"
"How the hell are you doing this?"
"Don't ask, it's weird. Listen, this is important. Aethon is coming. He's on his way right now. And he seems to think he can get into Julius's bar. He said I opened the door for him."
"You talked to Aethon?"
"Yeah, it's complicated. Just tell Julius, now! Maybe he can close whatever hole in his security I made."
"All right, hang on."
He went silent and I fought the urge to keep talking to him. I hated I couldn't do more. I needed to be out there, making sure everyone was safe!
Instead I sat down next to the light thing and waited. I was learning to be patient in here, if nothing else.
It was far too long, in subjective non-time, before anything happened. But finally, the light shifted, and resolved into the shape of Cole, which caught me off guard.
"You're here!" I said excitedly, standing up.
"Uh, where is here, exactly?" Cole asked, looking at the river of wisps. "This isn't your mind, is it?"
"It's yours, actually," I said. "I think. But that doesn't matter. What's going on? Has Aethon attacked yet?"
"Not yet," Cole said, shaking his head. "Julius can't find any holes in the security."
"Did he check if Aethon could get in through me?" I asked, worried. "Our minds are connected because of the candle."
"Yeah, he mentioned that specifically," Cole said. "There's no way. He must have been bluffing."
"I really don't think he was," I said, worried.
"Well, Julius is shoring up all the defenses anyway," Cole said. "Full lockdown. Aethon's not getting in, so you can relax."
I sighed and tried to let go of some of my anxiety, but it lingered.
"How did you find out he was coming anyway?" Cole asked. "You're not just seeing things from being stuck in here too long, are you?"
"No," I said, putting a firm end to that line of worries before it started. "No, I definitely saw him. I talked to him. Remember the memories I told you about seeing before? They were his. I was getting into his head, the way I'm in yours right now. And he noticed."
I gave him a run-down of everything I'd learned from Aethon. We sat down together, the memory wisps flowing around us, while I described Aethon's story and the logic behind what he was trying to do.
Cole sat frowning as I finished, looking down at his lap.
"And we're still trying to stop him?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said, surprised by the question. "He's completely batshit. His plan isn't going to work."
"But, I mean, he is right," Cole argued. "You haven't lived the way I have, where the threat of death is constantly hanging over your head, where you can't even think about trying to get out of your situation because you're too busy trying to stay alive. But Jesus, even you must have gone hungry more than once near the end of the month, or come close to losing your apartment, or ignored a health problem because you couldn't afford it with no way of knowing how serious it might be or whether ignoring it might kill you. "
I stared at him, not sure I understood.
"But that's just living," I said. "Paying the bills."
"Except it's not," Cole said. "You're used to it, so you don't realize how fucked up it is. We aren't hunter gatherers anymore. This isn't, ‘You didn't hunt enough mammoths so you're going to starve.' This is fucking Tantalus. This is living under the constant threat that your access to food, shelter, and medical care will just be taken away at any moment because you didn't jump through the right hoops. The food and the house and the medicine are all still there, but a human being somewhere decided you aren't allowed to survive anymore. This country and the systems we've built, they will absolutely murder you in cold blood if you can't or won't live the way they want you to. And if they can't just shoot you in the fucking street, then they'll poison your water, jack up the rent, or systematically block you from getting a job, building credit, or saving money- Did you know people on disability can't have more than $2000 in savings or they lose their benefits? We literally won't let them improve their situations. Because the people in power don't want people like me to get better or move up in the world. They want us to die."
I paled, processing this. I wanted to argue against it, if only because he was supporting Aethon, but I couldn't find any argument that could justify not giving food to starving people when we had plenty.
"I'm sorry," I said instead, quiet and guilty. "But he's still wrong. This won't solve any of that. It'll probably make it worse. People won't be able to starve to death, but they'll still starve. Do you think the companies that make their employees work in unsafe conditions or dump toxic waste all over the place will stop once there's no risk of killing anyone? And it won't just be humans that can't die. Cancer cells won't die, either. Toxic cyanobacteria and algal blooms in the waterways won't die. The bacteria in our bodies that make our digestives systems operate won't die. You want to know what happens when those things overpopulate? It isn't pretty."
Cole looked away, shaking his head.
"I'm just saying," he said at last. "I can see where he's coming from. Is it really a bad thing to wish for a world without death?"
"When you treat it like a shortcut for fixing all society's ills without considering the full consequences?" I asked. "Yeah. It's bad. You're right. He's right. Mankind is stupid greedy assholes and there's so much suffering and death that doesn't need to happen. But it's not just one problem and none of those problems have easy answ
ers. Nothing is that simple."
Cole said nothing. I leaned back on my hands, wondering how we'd ended up here.
"I guess that's where I fucked up too," I said quietly. "I wanted it to be simple. I wanted Aethon to just be a bad guy and us to just be bad guys. But I think it's more complicated than that."
"It usually is," Cole admitted.
I could feel flickers of his emotion. Little glimpses of memory.
"Cole," I asked quietly. "What did you want the candle for?"
I saw him tense and instantly felt guilty.
"You don't need to tell me. It doesn't matter. Forget it."
"No," Cole said, his voice a little strained. "I . . . I want to tell you. It's just—"
He trailed off, biting his tongue, struggling with a complicated tangle of emotion, mostly guilt, washing off of him in waves. "Do you remember how I told you about what I paid Gaap for teaching me?"
"The seven moments of intemperance?" I said, remembering the conversation well.
He took a deep breath, started to speak, hesitated, tried again, gave up.
"Can I just show you?" he asked at last, holding out his hand.
I bit my lip, worried about invading his privacy, seeing too much.
"I want you to see this," he said, acknowledging my hesitance. "I want you to understand. I just can't say the words."
I reached for his hand. "But you don't need to show me anything you don't want to."
He took my hand and I felt the surge of his uncertainty, his fear of vulnerability, and equal or greater, his longing to just be close to someone. He'd been alone so long.
It was as natural as breathing when he pulled me closer and kissed me, the fizzing electricity of contact more intense than ever.
The closer the contact, the clearer and stronger the memories seemed to be, and as he pulled me against him as desperately as that kiss in the Undercity, as though he thought this might be the last time, his memories washed over me.
Seven moments of intemperance. They were not what I had thought they would be. They were so small at first. Going out when he knew he should stay home. Having one more drink than was smart. Sharing something personal about a friend with someone he shouldn't have. But the effect was like dominoes falling. His grades fell. He started drinking too often. His friends distanced themselves. It only took a little push. He'd already been angry, rebellious, and isolating. He might have made those choices on his own. But the ability to choose was taken from him.