Azrael didn’t, no… rather couldn’t, believe that the time had come. A full moon cycle, a month, had passed since he’d entered the World Memory and met Mors. It had been a full month of strenuous training, bruises and also a time of inner reconciliation.

Azrael would be lying if he said that he fully understood everything that Mors had taught him. He would also be lying if he said he was a better person. He had a better idea of who he wanted to be though – a way forward. He would not be lying if he said he would miss the tranquillity of the mountain and the old man who lived on it.

In the last few days he had dueled Mors more than half a dozen more times, finding new and inventive ways to keep the old man in his toes. Still, he’d never won once against Mors, even when his opponent limited his strength to Azrael’s level. As Mors had said ‘Power, Mastery and Control’. Mors’ mastery was simply far higher than Azrael’s and his control certainly was.

Last night had been the closest he’d gotten to a win. It had been a tie… sort of.

In a desperate final manoeuvre, he’d managed to place the edge of a blunted dagger against Mors’ throat at the same time as the old man had touched his chest, above his heart, with his stick. Though Mors would have undeniably won if he was using a sword, with its longer reach. It was a still a victory nonetheless.

Now it was time for him to leave, to return to the game, because that was what it was – a game to have fun, not an escape from reality. Azrael realised that though he was no longer one of the strongest , the fastest, or the most powerful players in the game it didn’t matter. He didn’t have to be. He just had to be strong enough to do whatever he wanted – whether that was protect the village, troll an army, or take revenge on a certain god.

Looking to his right Azrael saw the sun slowly slipping behind the ever-present sea of clouds, painting them and the sky awash in a blaze of fiery reds, oranges, pinks and golds. On his other side the colours were darker and more subdued, the blazing colours giving way to deep purple and finally a dark navy blue adorned with pricks of silver. Amongst them the pale full moon lifted its head to peer above the clouds and take its watch on the endless sky.

It was beautiful, but it was still a prison. Azrael had spent a month here. Mors had spent countless years, unageing, in a repeated cycle of day and night upon this mountain top.

Footsteps in the dirt caused Azrael to turn his head and he looked to see Mors approaching him.

“A beautiful night” Mors said.

Azrael could only agree and they lapsed into silence. Neither needed to say anything, they both knew what would happen. Azrael would leave, Mors would stay.

Eventually Azrael spoke, breaking the silence.

“If I told you that you could leave this mountain, would you?”

There was no reply and Azrael thought that he’d only thought the words, instead of spoken them.

Eventually though Mors replied.

“No.”

It was only a single word, but the word carried an immense weight to it, ladened with age and experience.

“I don’t think I would.”

Azrael turned to the man slightly surprised. Though he thought that might be the answer he ould receive it was still a surprise.

“Why?” he asked.

If he tried hard enough and put his mind to it he was sure that he could find a way to let Mors pass through and exit the World Memory. Anything was possible through the void and he had access to that place and to its unpredictable energies. He knew that it could shape physical matter and he’d seen it warp the concepts of time and space. It was as possible as anything else in this world. Mors broke him out of his train of thought.

“…had my time. I’ve lived my life, made my choices and accepted the consequences, both good and bad. From what you’ve told me my world is gone, everything that I knew is gone and everyone that I knew along with it. It’s no longer my world, but a world for you Chosen and the people who live there now. I live in the world of yesterday. You live in the world of tomorrow. It was only today that the two of our worlds could meet.”

Azrael listened solemnly, before giving the old man an impish smile.

“Generally, when a disciple leaves the master, the master gives him a present, right?”

Mors cocked an eyebrow.

“And?”

Azrael held out a hand towards the old man.

“Well… I’ve passed your training and I’m leaving, so shouldn’t I get a parting gift?”

Mors let out a short bark of laughter, the ever-hated stick swinging round to land on Azrael’s wrist.

“HA! You? Passed? You’ve barely even gotten a grasp on the basics. Come back when you can defeat me and I’ll give you a present.”

Azrael rubbed his wrist and glared at the old man balefully.

“I’ll be back old man” he promised, the tears in the corner of his eyes weren’t just from the pain.

Azrael would be back, and he would snap that hated stick!

Azrael’s voice softened and he raised an arm in farewell. He started walking without looking back.

“Take care”

The last thing he heard before the clouds swallowed him was Mors’ voice.

“Don’t get lost”

He let out a strained smile and set his eyes forward, into the rolling swirls of moisture before him. He wouldn’t get lost. Not now once he’d found his path again.

Then, it was just him again - the lonely sound of his breathing and the crunching of stones underfoot. On and on it went, while Azrael followed the slope downhill. Down and down he went, the full moon above painting everything in a ghostly light.

Occasionally Azrael summoned dancing golden flames to keep him company, or let sudden gusts of wind momentarily drive away the thick fog surrounding him. Once, for a short while he thought he saw his shadow twist upon itself, to walk beside him in a dark canine form. When he checked again all he saw was his normal shadow and swirling streamers of silver mist.

It was only when he tripped over a tuft of grass that he noticed that something had changed. The heavy fog that he’d been walking through had given way to a light silvery mist, while the downward slope had levelled out. Even the footing had changed, broken stones giving way to grass.

Like emerging from a dream Azrael left the silver curtain of mist. Before him, a large lake reflected the moon’s face back up to the heavens. He looked around, finally finding the stony outcrop that he’d taken shelter behind a month ago. For a moment he furrowed his brow as he felt that something was missing. It took him a moment to realise what it was. Bucky, his horse and companion, was gone.

He was unsurprised though. He wouldn’t have waited either if his travelling companion had vanished for a month. He just hoped that the game returned Bucky to one of the nice warm barns somewhere, though he suspected Bucky was more likely to find someone else to take for a rodeo ride.

Without a companion Azrael decided to continue his journey, enjoying the world as it was painted in mystic silver by the moon. On the lake, the fog was slowly rolling across the still water, while also laying claim on the lake’s shore.

Finding the track he’d arrived on Azrael turned to the west and began walking. Above him the full moon was his guide, illuminating the way home.