Somber. At least the nobles had the face to appear the smallest bit aggrieved in the sanctity of court. Women wept, and men howled dramatically in some attempt to convince all around them that they felt the loss more keenly than any other. Many hadn't known him, but a primus was a primus. A loss felt by all. A 'primus' in name only, if not ability. No primus had ever died at the hands of men. Ever. That's what the priests would tell you. As for them, they didn't look upset at all, and everything else was just posturing in an attempt to... Impress? Impress the primus. It was odd.

They wondered where this dark turn of events would take them, but the wise and cunning were slow to feel anxiety. The bolder of these men turned to Varia and the other kingdoms. Get out while you still can. At least it revealed the vipers in the rats nest, snakes in the grass. Jartor, contrary to expectation, turned a blind eye to much of their activity. He could not blame them. There was hopelessness in what had just happened. He had failed. Really and truly, despite all the lessons of his father.

He had watched it happen. So sure that his son would awaken in that moment that he paused just long enough to see the blade sink into Tyr's heart. A true death, for any man – even himself should the steel be sharp enough. Many had tried. Thousands of them, no... Hundreds of thousands of them. Maybe millions, he didn't know – as he'd never gave much face to keeping count. His sin, his miscalculation, was believing the gods had a plan for his wayward son and it would eventually reveal itself. Perhaps the trial had been his, and his alone.

Three weeks. That's how long it had been, and still he kept the marble coffin of his son at the center of the throne room, a macabre display to the whole of court. Staring at it with eyes more haunted than the lifeless battlefields he'd left behind in his past. A testament to his greatest failing of all. He'd always thought his greatest failing was as a primus, but it was as a father. Jartor had done what he thought was right. After so many years, over two centuries. Only one who had lived so long would understand the bitterness, defeat... The iron tang on his tongue. Like cold copper. Like blood.

“My primus...”

My primus, my primus, my primus. He hated these fat, pompous, arrogant nobles. Felt the itch just as his son did. Had been proud of him for that, at least. They were a disgusting lot in both thought, appearance, and action. No purity or conviction to them beyond their insane lusts and greed. He could feel that lust, their complete disregard for the true kingdom he had built in a long anticipation of a son. A son that she had given him.

Despite his best efforts, he had never found her killer. Never. Another failing, and against all odds Tyr had done this. Found the man, a man who had foolishly remained in the capital and acted as if none were the wiser of his misdeeds. Jartor let him remain that way, he didn't know why – but it felt... Right to do so. There would be a moment.

“My primus...”

Primus? What did that word even mean? Perhaps humanity no longer needed them. A primus. A sacred charge that one was born to, not one that was earned through merit. An immortal, like the dragons of legend, eternal until the call grew too loud to bear on the spirit. That's what his father had said.

'You'll know it when you hear it.'

And he did. A song. The song calling him toward... Jartor didn't know, and neither had his father. Not to death, for their kind could never truly die, never know rest. Somewhere, though. Ragnar said he heard it too, his northern brother, uncle, mentor. Loud, near to the splitting of the ear, maddening him – Jartor had known it when he'd heard it. His own father, the primus of wisdom – and what an apt name it was in retrospect. He had never been wrong, never once. He and Ragnar had been old friends, akin to Octavian and Jartor now. Ragnar remained, but Lugh had not.

Tyr was young, though. Too young to leave him alone just yet, not when things were like this. Only seventeen winters. Jartor refused to answer the call and suffered for ignoring it. On and on and on it sang to him. Ever present, scraping at every square inch of his skull like the siren. Not just the discomfort, it was the instinct too. He wanted it. More than that, he needed it. It was a hunger. Hunger will bring a man to insanity surer than the knife, and that was the truth of things. It's a painful way to die. Jartor knew. He knew dying and death, and living and life. They let him feel, but they'd never let him rest.

He wanted to sleep. Hadn't in... Two years, at least. A long time to remain conscious, his body might be godly but his mind was not without its little quirks and flaws.

“My primus...”

He looked up, impassive as always. A dour man, was Jartor – but they forgave him for it. Nay, they love him for it. They were forced to. A primus was a primus. His strength a legend made real and all the gold and steel in all of Haran could not forge a blade that could harm him. Made him question what difference there was between the primus of strength and primus of endurance. Two signs of the earth, equity in their abilities. They weren't gods, even though some people treated them like it, Jartor was not omniscient and they rarely answered questions.

A look, but not a word. He'd never needed to speak much to communicate intent. Ten thousand words might pass for a dialogue in court and one word from their primus and a thing was law. Not that the nobles listened overmuch, most simply feared him. Few of their number had any loyalty toward anything but their coin purse. He knew them, and would remember. When such a day came as his departure, if that was the day Haran's decline began, he'd take them with him. Reap them like wheat.

If his father had been wrong about anything – and he was, it was in the refusal to do such a thing. These were not men, they were worse than monsters. Lugh Faeron had said that there were no evil men, no good men either, only men with choices. That a primus' duty was to watch and shepherd, not to control and force their destiny. That man's great strength was in their agency, the progress they built on their own backs. Jartor kept to this creed, even espoused it to his son, though he wasn't quite convinced even after all this time. Man had been strong once, even in his own youth they'd been stronger. Living long enough to watch their decline into profligacy gave him clarity.

A look.

“We thank you for your attendance to court, your eminence. You must be very tired, in mourning as you have been.”

A look.

“As we were saying. Three weeks have passed, and I wish to speak on the death of your son. We wish to speak on it. Of course, only with your primus' leave...?”

A look. Except this time, they misunderstood. If Jartor had it the right way, if he had the energy to ignore the clawing – he'd have done more. That call was like the pounding migraine of too much drink. But on the other end of it was a sort of salvation from the pain. All primus were akin to men in a desert of bones, and the call was an oasis for them. A salve for dried mouths and burnt skin. An answer to all of their hopes and prayers, food for an empty stomach. Like a drug he was ferociously addicted to, something he could never ween off. He didn't know how Ragnar managed.

“Lady Charlotte is a fine match, much better than--”

A look.

“Eh-hem, excuse me. She is a fine match, regardless. Have you given thought to the bearing of a new son? Surely, the gods will forgive the... No, surely another son will come. Yes?”

A look.

“With Queen Charlotte, it is our opinion that you will beget a far more worthy heir. One of true Harani stock who will--”

Calling.Calling.Calling.Calling.Calling.Calling.Calling.Calling.Calling.Calling.Calling.Calling.Calling.Calling.Calling.Calling.Calling.LISTEN TO US.LISTEN TO US.LISTEN TO US.LISTEN TO US.LISTEN TO US.LISTEN TO US.LISTEN TO US.LISTEN TO US.LISTEN TO US.LISTEN TO US. LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN! OBEY!

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Gods, it was maddening. Really and truly. The single worst experience Jartor had ever been encountered in his long life, and it had been long. Most of it spent on the road, he well remembered the weakness before he'd awakened. Not much better than the average man, just stronger. All of that pain condensed into a single moment couldn't possibly drive him as made as that tapping.

Before the man could finish speaking, Jartor was on his feet. A grimace plastered on this face, there was a ripple of surprise at the sudden movement from the galleries. These weak men viewed their primus as a puppet, some of them. He knew it, but this was the way. The way of the primus. Not to command men, in whole, but to guide them when and where necessary. His kingdom under his father had been smaller. Was it his obsession with action that had cursed the line of his blood? Jartor had conquered five independent kingdoms in his time, and had reaped a fearsome toll throughout. The sin of pride, perhaps, certainly wrath.

He was on his feet, duty was eternal. One needed to remember this and act appropriately.

–

Milky white and dark at the same time. A contradiction. It hurt both eyes and mind to consider the impossibility. Light and dark in a same exact position – but not overlapping. Light wasn't supposed to... Blend like that... Was it? An impossible thing. Even the darkness had a light of it's own, enough to scratch at the eye.

“Hello?”

He spoke, but he only heard his own voice in response, repeating, echoing. Another strange thing, considering the immensity of the place, there should be no echoes for there were no walls or canyons to allow the sound to... Infinity is what it felt like. Another thing to hurt the brain, a mind not made to understand the concept. Not a mortal mind, at least. Maybe a dragons mind, but dragons didn't exist, just a myth his father had said. His father... Who? Every time he, whoever he was, tried to focus on these concepts he was struck with a wave of confusion.

“Where am I?”

No, the more important question would've been 'What am I?'. For him, there was nothing. An endlessness in his identity as deep and infinite as the environs he found himself it. Like his mortal flesh had been a cage and now he was set free and made real. Not lonely though, he felt surrounded by an infinite number of other... Entities? Beings? He didn't know. Couldn't see them, but could feel their eyes, watching him. A gentle, cool sensation, a subtle one, like bathing in moonlight.

“Hello?” He repeated himself, but no answer came. Not just one, but a million times it felt. An eon passed and no answer came. Nothing. He was nothing, and if he was nothing then who were they? Why were they watching him? He felt... Kinship with those eyes. They couldn't answer him though, something was keeping them apart. Why?

“I'm speaking aloud. I've gone mad.”

Mad. Mad. Mad. Mad. Mad.

Maybe not. The mad don't consider themselves mad. That was the rule, wasn't it?

“This is a place for stillness and quiet. Your voice is not welcome here.” Another voice. Not his own. After an eon of waiting, it was a shocking thing. Almost a triumph to it. He stated. He? It. They. Every soul that had ever passed hung in the intonation. Not one, but the many, in perfect solidarity to create a melody or what might be termed a dirge in the haunting lilt it raised. Awkward prose aside, the voice than came was overlapped with others, androgynous, and he knew instinctively that it spoke with every language that had ever existed. Ever.

Tyr turned, flinching at the sight of it. Not a monster. Perhaps it was, in all reality. Perhaps if it had been, he'd be less uncomfortable. He hadn't known what to expect, but never in his wildest dreams would he have thought to be staring back at himself. His likeness in the mirror, white hair and blue eyes and an ugly twist to the face. A sour look.

“Not afraid. Interesting.” Just a flinch, no screaming or dancing or scratching at the eyes. Both men seemed equally surprised though for very different reasons. One was amused, the other confused. Men, though it was clear beyond daylight that this thing was no human. An aura about it that stung skin that didn't exist here. Indistinctness in the flesh that composed a body, like smoke condensed into the form of a man.

“Why should I fear my own face?” Tyr asked, observing the thing. At the very least, it was dressed better than he was. A bit larger, older maybe, it was hard to tell. It's face rippled and twisted with minute vibrations that made a poor approximation of a living thing. It felt unnatural.

“No idea. I don't choose my form, you do. As all mortals do. Your greatest fear, though I'd call it a rare thing to find your deepest nightmare to be that of the self. I am thankful that you have not turned me into a loaf of bread, this time. That was most unpleasant, and the madman tried to cut me up and eat me. I'd make for a poor breaking of fast, believe me. Far too little meat on my bones, you see?”

“Am I dead?” Tyr asked, little interest in continuing a riddling dialog with the strange creature. Monsters were common, even those who could steal into the mind or take the form of a man. It was the place that made him uncomfortable, not the thing he spoke with. Not cold and lifeless as one would expect purgatory to be. It was just nothing, not the smallest ripple or the gentlest breeze. Sensory deprivation they called it, and if Tyr had skin rather than this incorporeal equivalent of a body, it'd be crawling. He'd claim he liked the quiet, but too much of a good thing was... Well...

“That tends to happen when a thing finds it's head separated from its body. Except for ants, and chickens I suppose... I always found it so strange how these tiny insignificant lifeforms manage to squirm with such tenacity to live days or weeks after the brain is removed. Too dumb to die. Are you too dumb to die?”

Tyr shrugged. “That would seem very in character for me. I have a lot more I'd like to accomplish before I pass on.”

Replacing that question with many more. Was Jartor not his father? Tyr was unaware of any precedent of a primus giving birth to a non-primus. Furthermore, this being – the one facing him... Claimed to take one's greatest fear as a guise, like the leshen or the hurbolg, one real – the other just a legend. Tyr was unaware of any being that did that.

“Acceptance is the first step. Less effort that way.” The figure was no longer Tyr, but another man. A familiar face that any child visiting the various temples would have etched in their memory. “Many visit the shepherd with their petty excuses and refusal to accept their demise. And it is my job to sit there and hear their yapping for as long as it takes for reality to set in. It's exhausting, and you have my thanks.”

“Thanatos...?” Tyr breathed. He felt no fear in the true sense of the word, but he was cowed at the revelation. All of his life he had fancied himself an atheist, refusing to believe this idea that there were gods above and below that governed the reality of man. Now, he was standing in front of one, speaking directly to 'him'. Gods didn't have genders, but Thanatos was typically depicted as male.

Thanatos grinned. Not as morose as depicted on the statues and mosaics that would display his countenance to the masses. There was an emotion and a liveliness to him that one would not expect from the god of death. “Yes, yes. Thanatos, the god of... Of what, I wonder? Your kind has always sought to label and define us, spending your lives illuminating dusting scrolls until your fingers bleed. Every age it seems to change, and you never seem to grow bored with the task of trying to solve the eternal puzzle.”

“In my homeland we call you the god of death.”

“Hmm... No, not death. I am the god and shepherd of the dead, the warden of souls be they good or ill. I am certainly not death, as that is a concept that is beyond me. Count yourself lucky that it's not Her face that found you, though she rarely rises from slumber.” Thanatos shivered. Maybe gods had their own fears and phobias, as seemed to be the case.

Tyr didn't reply. How could he? Even lacking a biological form, as he was a ghost with phantasmal limbs and an indistinct drowsiness in his head – he still possessed most of his faculties now. The arrival of the Shepherd had pieced his frayed consciousness back together. A god, one of the existences he had denied for so long. Tyr wanted to sit down and rest his weary mind, but he had no legs by which to do so.

“Yes, yes. Gods, or whatever you deign to call us – we do indeed exist. However, you asked a question and I will answer it in good faith since you seem to be stuck here...” Thanatos, with his slicked hair and raucously colored formal garb, a sharp and well manicured goatee. He look perturbed, almost. Surely, though Tyr knew not the capabilities of a god, he didn't spent his time greeting every soul that passed through purgatory. That would be a busy life, if gods had life at all. Maybe there were many shepherds, or they could be many places at once.

“To put it simply... You have an immortal soul, but a mortal body. A living contradiction. And that, my friend, is where the challenge arises from. I've not conversed with a worldly creature so directly as this in some time. For you, many lifetimes by the way your kind count their own.”

What does that even mean...?

Among Thanatos' many abilities, for surely a god must have countless capabilities – reading of the mind must've been one, because he answered the question without it being spoken. “There are secrets. Forbidden things that I am not permitted to share with living things. We have rules of our own. Nothing is truly free. Suffice it to say that you have been and will continue to be reborn. Again and again, until you...” He seemed puzzled in the articulation of the next part. “I don't know. I'm not exactly the god of knowledge, though I do possess the capacity to know everything that anyone who has ever died knows. Which is a lot, but even I do not know not what she wants from you.”

“She?” Tyr asked.

“Death.” Thanatos replied. “A contract older than the race your form belongs to now. Older than myself, even. It's strange, technically speaking I wouldn't tell you even if I did know, it's dangerous to speak these things aloud. But I don't know, and that vexes me greatly.”

“So...” The exhaustion began to worm its way into Tyr's ghostly brain. Now, there was a sensation, he could feel his limbs burning with the weight of his life. A life, even a short one, of experiences and exertions all of which could be felt at the same time. “What happens now? I don't really care about this mystical bullshit, or gods.”

“What do you want to happen? I simply do not know what to do with you, for I cannot claim your soul. Therefore, this is not my job. I could leave you here forever, and uphold my end of the bargain, such as it is. Your soul is not one that I can... Move, if I had to phrase it in a way you'd understand.” Thanatos was sitting now, on a chair made of the same gloom that pervaded the place, only harder and with some distinction to its curves and edges. “But... You interest me. So I'll offer you a bargain. Do not look so anxious at the thought. I'm not the devil from your nightmares, and gods of death never lie. In fact, your presence here disrupts my order so I very much want you gone, and this is the only way to facilitate that.”

That was true. A 'bargain' with a creature of magic, or even a god. Never trust something that possesses the power necessary to refrain from their holding of the other end. That was just common sense, whether it be in trade or anything else. Things that could claim your soul were perhaps the most dangerous, the old tales of mages diving into forbidden magic and finding only damnation waiting for them. Tyr wasn't a pious man, but he'd been tutored by the clergy of various religions in his youth. He remembered the tales, he knew their names and their faces. Dogma varied based on region, but there was nuance in the consistency by which some divines were measured.

“Thanatos does not lie.” Thanatos spoke calmly, no offense at the implication. “Death is natural. A part of life as equally as important, maybe more so in the grander scheme of things. My words are words you can always trust. I don't want your soul, I have no need for it. Even if I could lay hand on it, and I cannot.”

“Then what do you want?” Tyr asked. He had nothing to offer a god who would have no need for gold or steel. No need for trade contacts or political gain. There was a greed in Thanatos' eyes though, eyes that held no kindness whatsoever, only a hunger and a longing that transcended mortal urges.

“I want to be entertained. This duty isn't exactly fun, as you might imagine. Thus, if you entertain me, I will repair your biological body with no promise that you'll actually return. After all, I cannot lay hand on your soul. Where it chooses to go after I lower the veil is far beyond my influence.”

“...To entertain you? That's a bit indistinct, don't you think?”

“Perhaps.” Thanatos shrugged. “If I knew how to entertain myself, I'd have never asked. Unfortunately, I'm the only celestial that can see you, and only because you've come here. The others are blind to your steps, and while I know of your story by way of the dead surrounding the path you've taken – I cannot watch you. In essence, we will forge a contract that will allow me to see you, to watch you at all times. But before you accept, consider the fact that there may very well be a reason for this shrouding. She is not one to do things she finds unnecessary, and She is more ancient and wise than I will ever be.”

“You want to watch me? Is there a lesson in this, because you speak in riddles and your tongue seems silver to me. What's the catch?”

“The catch?” Thanatos pondered on it. “First, the lesson. A good question and a wise one. You see us as gods, but you know that not all gods are inherently good. There are all kinds. I am not good – not truly. As a companion to an immutable force of nature, I am about as neutral as it gets. You – on the other hand, are a chaotic one. Caught up in your own arrogance, selfishness, and the lust for vengeance that fuels your every step. In essence, we are incompatible. However, in my case – this is a good thing.”

“And with that being said, we can move onto the 'lesson' as you phrase it. The lesson here is that a contract with a god is no small thing. Priests can live their whole lives without every seeing the true face of their deity. My advice is to be careful who you bargain with. Even a nephilim is not immune to bondage in service to the divine. You will be offered things, tempting things, and you should refuse each and every one of them. My contracts are simple but the same can not be said of my kin, I just want to watch. Ultimately this gives us no obligation to one another, I will not be leaping down to save your life, nor will I grant you otherworldly powers.”

I doubt I'll ever accept servitude to a god. Again, Tyr forgot that Thanatos had access to his thoughts, no matter how close to his heart he kept them. As the master of this place, whatever this place was, he could see and hear all. There was no privacy here, a concept as terrifying as the fact that gods existed in the first place.

“You say that, but take heed regardless. Always, those who wish to see you dancing on their strings will come only when you need it most. As I am, in a way.”

“I see.” Tyr replied. It seemed easy. He could feel the oath, visceral in his mind. There was no promise on his end other than granting Thanatos access to watch him at all times. If this were a treaty of trade, he would be far and away the winner in context. The greatest trade deal of all time, perhaps. A second chance at life for nothing more than to have some divine voyeur track him? “I accept.”

“Good.” Thanatos nodded with a smile, though he knew the boy would accept to begin with. In truth, he had no need to accept the bargain at all. Above, or below, in the mortal plane – things were already moving apace. Thanatos could only hasten the process. Technically doing what he promised, though he had no need to. “A bargain struck. And now, I bid you farewell.”

“Wait! I have more ques--”

He'd not get a chance to ask them. Not here, gone from that place and soaring through a sea of radiant stars. Catching the words in his throat before he'd even realized that he'd been expelled from the land of the dead in waiting.

Stars on stars on stars. Tyr wondered what stars even were. Some madman had proposed that their sun was only one of many and perhaps each and every star was a sun of its own. Perhaps with many worlds surrounding them just like Hjemland. The idea was preposterous, but there was a scale to it. Some blinked out of existence even as he stared at them. Not so infinite after all.

But the amount of them was enough to chill the soul. Giving him a consideration of his own insignificance when facing the raw scale of the cosmos. Here, where there was no light or cloud or mountain to block ones sight – everything seemed... Endless.

He was certain that there was no word for the number of lights twinkling in the midnight void stretching from horizon to horizon. Tyr wouldn't be given long to watch them blinking and blurring past his eyes. His mind became as black as that void, feeling the exhaustion press down on him in a wave that would send him spiraling into something akin to sleep.