Chapter Text
Coming to think about it, most people tended to mediate more on what-happened-after as they got older, and since he was in his late fifties, he qualified in that regard. Several of his last poems and at least one ballad (seemed like he wouldn’t be able to finish it) approached that question.
“You look like someone is dying”, he said.
There was faith. Of course there was faith. (And a veritable deluge of eternal life after death is real books).) But faith was, by its very definition, belief without proof.
“Gods”, he muttered flatly under his breath, ironically not believing in any gods at all. “Gods, what is happening? Is this the end of the world? Sigismund Dijkstra actually cares about someone other than himself.”
When one boiled it down, there were only two choices; either there was something, or there was nothing. If it was the latter, case closed. If it was the former, there a tons of possibilities with eternal afterlife, purgatory and reincarnation being the most popular.
“I know you think of yourself as funny, but see me smiling? Get your shit together, Pankratz.”
His big-boned fellow — who, besides sharing his preference for richly ornamented, brightly coloured garb, was nearly as tall as a door frame — towered over him like the unsavoury meat mountain that bastard was. Sighing, Dijkstra got down on his good leg and pushed his shacking hands away to take a look at the gaping stab wound between his ribs, rough bugger.
“Stop fidgeting, you retarded—”
Dijkstra cursed as flowerily as most of his poems were.
“That bad?” He wanted to laugh, but his punctured lungs would thank him, if he not.
“...want me to be honest? You’re not going to make it.”
He had assumed as much as he could feel how life slowly trickled out of him. In the truest sense of the word; he was sitting against his desk, unable to move a muscle, and waited for his hectic-beating heart to push the last bit of consciousness out of his body. He was dying, succumbing to the severity of his injuries — he was delighted to find that he didn’t feel the pain.
“You have to admit, it was kind of fun. Did you see his face? That expression was...it was divine.”
He chuckled and ended up coughing out a mouthful of blood, his head hitting the desk with a thump.
“Didn’t think that poor fool would stab me”, he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Rather rude, isn’t it?”
“That’s why I have done the thinking”, Dijkstra retorted, which, in fact, was not true. They both had done their fair share of thinking, it was just that he hadn’t been the one who’d gotten paid for it.
“How…how much are they giving for my head nowadays, anyway?”
Dijkstra huffed. “Last time I looked, one thousand four hundred crowns.”
He whistled the scale up and down; it should be worrying from several points of view, that Dijkstra had looked at all, but it was his job to look and that hefty amount really was flattering.
“Should have stabbed you myself”, the tactless bastard added.
“Well, I’m quite honored you considered me alive more worth than dead, dear, but I'm sure you have one way or another to claim my decease as your merit. How about the jealousy-act? People love the jealousy-act.”
Perhaps, he was right and one would get what they always believed they would get — like he had written in his poem, a rather famous one.
“Pankratz, I like you. I really am. But I don’t like you enough to go through this fucking pageant.”
What he would really like — he thought — was a chance to go through it all again, as a kind of immersive theatre, so he could relish the good times. Of course, he would also have to rue the bad ones (he had made his share, by gods, he had), but who wouldn’t like to reexperience that first good kiss, that first goblet of finest wine, or the nervous, sweet blur of falling in love the first time?
“Consider it my final favour, Dijkstra. Moreover, get my latest work printed. And the biography. Don’t forget the biography. Did you know that biographies of the dead always outsell those of the living?”
He didn’t wait for an answer, because there was no way Dijkstra wouldn’t know.
“It has been a pleasure to work with you, my friend.” He felt blood pouring out from corner of his mouth, running down his chin and drenching his collar, as he smiled.
“Give my best regards to your wife.”
Dijkstra’s lips were moving, but he didn't understand what he was saying through the rumbling rush of blood in his ears. A white hole appeared in the centre of his vision and spread, erasing Dijkstra’s somewhat sleepy, wrinkled face, erasing the world he had lived in.
And there he was, assuming all the time that wild talk about the white light was utter nonsense.
•⊱━━━━━━━━⋅•⋅━━━━━━━━⊰•
Julian Alfred Pankratz, Count de Lettenhove, died on the floor of his study, lying in a puddle of his own blood. It was an unexpected death; he didn’t die alone, though, without any comfort or affection, how he had always feared he would.
•⊱━━━━━━━━⋅•⋅━━━━━━━━⊰•
Julian expected no welcoming committee. Actually, what he expected was for the light to fade into blackness, but well, that didn’t happen. When the shining dimed, he wasn’t in some promised afterworld. He was in the corridor of what seemed to be the construction of a half-finished church that ended five or six steps down at a door with a placard on it reading There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self. He was stunned to realize that the words weren’t written in common speech or in any other of the four languages he was fluent in.
Julian stood where he was, inventorying himself. He was wearing the doublet he had died in (at least he assumed he had died), but there was no sign of blood. He felt his side; the stab wound was gone. Quite nice. He took a deep breath and exhaled without coughing and ruining his doublet. Even nicer.
He walked a little way down the corridor. On his right was a series of stained glass windows which illuminated the corridor. On his left were further placards, also written in that foreign language he had never learned, but understood perfectly well: Death must be beautiful and above Tell me, father, which to ask forgiveness for; what I am or what I’m not? Tell me, father, which should I regret; what I became or what I didn’t? accompanied by a drawing of praying hands.
What made him chuckle softly was: Staying alive and living are two different things.
Where — exactly — was he?
His euphoria at being whole again was fading, replaced by a sense of dislocation and well, truth be told, unease. Being able to read the placards didn’t make any sense and the fact that this phrases (apart from Death must be beautiful) expressed exactly what he felt more often than not, offered no comfort.
He looked behind him and saw stairs leading up, but the way was blocked by stones and timber. That left only the door. Without any further hesitation — what could he possibly fear, he was already dead — Julian walked down there and knocked.
“It’s open.”
Julian stepped in. Besides a cluttered desk stood a man in a washed-out doublet and high-waisted pants. His hair was plastered against his skull, gathered into a ponytail deep in his neck and secured by a red ribbon. He wore spectacles.
To Julian’s right was a door. To his left another. One part of the room was filled with building materials, the other with bookshelves, and there was a small window in the wall behind the man.
“Julien Alfons Pankratz, Duke de Lettenhove?” The man went behind the desk and sat down. There was no offer to shake hands or acknowledgement of his (fake) peerage, which, honestly, he really didn’t mind.
“Julian Alfred and Count de Lettenhove.”
“Right. I’m Luis Beladanar. It's been a long time since they sent me a first-timer, always thought they run out”, Beladanar said and lifted a piece of paper to look on the one beneath. “Fairly young the world you are from, Lord Lettenhove. No wonder there are still first-timers. Is that how you say it in your world? Lord Lettenhoven? Or the whole Count-de-Lettenhove-thing? Or is a simple my lord enough?”
“I prefer Pankratz”, he replied, Beladanar’s previous words running through his head. A first time implied a second time.
“So…reincarnation? That’s the big secret?”
Luis Beladanar sighed. “People always ask that and I always give the same bloody answer: no, not really.”
Julian hummed. “What about gods?”
“As far as I know, there aren’t any.”
“Believers truly must get disappointed, the poor souls.”
“Indeed. There are some who even throw a fit.”
“Can’t blame them”, he said, then remembering. “Who’s they?”
“No clue. All communications come via letter.” Beladanar tapped the envelope. “Had to improve my handwriting for it.”
Julian looked around, picked up the papers on the chair opposite of Beladanar and glanced at the man behind the desk, left eyebrow raised.
“Apologies. I have a quite a bunch of visitors and paperwork accordingly. Just put them on the floor, that’ll do it for now, thank you. I meant to hold some kind of order, but…that’s really a secretarial sort of work and they have never provided me with one…efficiency doesn’t seem to be part of the business policy here”, Beladanar said and yawned.
Nonchalantly, Julian sat down and crossed his legs, straightening his back.
“If it isn’t reincarnation…well, what is it then? Why we are here?”
Looking past Beladanar at a marble plaque with the inscription Nobility is gone: there is only peerage, he added: “And what’s the matter with these phrases?”
Beladanar gave the plaque a quick glance.
“Everyone sees something different”, he said. “It is supposed to help visitors to make the right choice.”
He shrugged. “Whatever they mean by that. And why we’re here—”
Beladanar leaned back, looking up at the ceiling. A few moments of silence passed and he shacked his head, chuckling — not in an amused way.
“You don’t know how wearisome someone get, if you met them for the fifth and sixth time. I’m here, because I made some choices which led to people dying and, as luck would have it, they had an job opining when I kicked the bucket. This” — Beladanar spread his arms — “…is my afterlife. Here’s no bedroom, because I don’t sleep. I no longer have to sleep. Here’s no bathroom, because I don’t need to take a shit. All I do is sitting around and wait for the same visitors to ask the same questions, over and over again.”
“Doesn't sound like much fun.”
“Believe me, Pankratz, it isn’t. As for you, you’ll use one of those doors and most likely start to parade in and out, like the others do. “
Beladanar looked down at his papers.
“No wife, one or two bastards and enough broken hearts to pave the ground under you. Aren’t you nobles keen on having a heir, are you? Feels like there’s indeed a reason for you to prefer Pankratz, my lord.”
“An old friend once told me: If you love your children, save them from the world that is waiting for them.”
“Quite wise, that friend. What happened to him?”
“He married and got twins.”
“The irony of life.” Beladanar bent forward. “You see, Pankratz, the only question I have is how long I’ll be staying. I liked to think I go mad if I can’t move on, but I can do that anymore than eating or pissing.”
“I guess, that’s what they call purgatory, dear. How many died?”
“Sixty-six. I was still an apprentice as my master was commissioned to build St. Mary. I wanted to save construction material, because the funds were nearly exhausted. My assessments were…incorrect. Three after St. Mary’s completion the feud between Richard III, Landgrave of Turingia and Archbishop Frankus of Ainz intensified to the point that the emperor, Henrold VI at that time, was forced to intervene while he was traveling through the region during a military campaign against how-know-which-country, there were so many. Good old Henrold decided to call a diet in St. Mary. Nobles from across the Empire were invited to the meeting. Just as the assembly was about to begin, the wooden floor of the provost of St. Mary, on which the nobles were sitting, broke under the stress and the unlucky people fell through the first floor down into the latrine in the cellar. The people that didn’t lose their lives from the impact or the debris falling on them, drowned. Dozens of nobles drowned in shit — that must've been a sight to behold.”
Beladanar leaned back again and Julian couldn’t help but wonder if that man had some really bad experiences with nobles.
“I keep asking myself how many men and women are sitting around like this. There are women. I’m sure there are women”, he said with great emphasis. “It’s a shitty job.”
Shitty job, indeed.
“Maybe you’ll get out of here faster if you start to regret, Beladanar. Sixty-six people losing their lives in such a dishonourable manner…should be a weight upon the shoulders.”
Beladanar hammered his desk. “Nonsense. How should I know that the emperor would stuff St. Mary with over hundred nobles?” He picked up one paper and shook it at Julian. “Pot calling the kettle black! Fraud, backstabbing, manipulation! Sabotage! Affairs with married women! How many people lost their positions, their jobs, their properties or even got jailed thanks to your plotting? How many of them were driven to suicide? Has it ever occurred to you, in that pretty, noble head of yours, that fucking up people isn’t always the best of solutions?”
Naturally, it had. But all that…deception — it had been (well…most times) the best of chocies. He certainly had thought about the better way, but every time he had played in his mind he or people related to him — innocent people — were the ones getting fucked. Or backstabbed. Or manipulated. Or sabotaged. After all, the upper class was a dog-eat-dog world and there was never not enough dog to go around; so if he was to be honest, he really did prefer to live and henceforth, he had to do the fucking.
He was tempted to say there was a difference between fucking up people who wanted to fuck up you first and indirectly drowning people in shit. Literally. But why rubbing salt in the wound? Besides, it would probably sound self-righteous.
“How about we drop the matter, friend? I believe there is still the one or other information you have and I need, so why not give it to me and I’ll get out of your sight?”
“I wasn’t the one steal from the funds”, Beladanar hissed. “You got orders and had to deal with the rest yourself. What else was I supposed to do? Somehow magically summon timber?”
Perhaps, purgatory was somewhat harsh on the man.
“Beladanar?”
“Fine, all right.” Beladanar made a lip-flapping sound, not quite a raspberry. “You see the right door? Leave through it and you get to live your life over again. Take the left and you wipe out of existence. Like forever.”
Julian said nothing to this. Sounded rather like reincarnation, too good to be true. Besides…he had manged a court for decades, and he smelled ruses and mischief hundreds of steps upwind.
“What’s the catch, Beladanar?”
The man was smiling and the smile wasn’t a bit pleasant.
“How observant of you, Pankratz. Usually, visitors get all their hopes up. I am sure there are decision you regret, my lord.” Beladanar point at the paper. “The thing with girl under the musician’s podium, for example.”
“I was a kid.”
“Her father didn’t seemed to care about that as he beat the hell out of her. In public.”
No, Julian was tempted to say. But at least I drowned nobody in shit. Indirectly.
He remembered the father. A drunkard, who regularly had taken out his frustration and rage on his wife. He had him locked up, when he had heard about it, but...that hadn’t granted any satisfaction and hadn’t brought back the girl’s eye.
“Beladanar, the catch.”
“Right, right, the catch. Given the chance, you would change things, wouldn’t you? Of course you would, who wouldn’t? Sorry to disappoint you, but there are no second chances.”
Beladanar didn’t looked sorry.
“The catch — you’ll remember nothing. If you leave through the right door, you’ll live your live over, get stabbed, die, come back. And we’ll have the same discussion a second time. And then, a third, fourth and fifth”, Beladanar said. “My advice would be to use the other door and be done with it.”
“I’ll remember nothing at all?”
“Who knows. Some visitors have a sense of déjà vu, a sense that they have lived it all before. Which, of course, they have. But that passes.”
Julian rubbed his eyes with his fingers and huffed out a laugh.
“Seriously”, he said, “…what is this all about? If there is no possibility of improvement? Why are we even have this talk, instead of simply…blink out right away? Why making things complicated?”
“I could offer you to write a letter and ask.” Beladanar folded his hands on his desk. “But I don’t want to. You wouldn’t get an answer out of them anyway. Let’s assume afterlife has no long-term goals and consider the case closed. So please, go ahead and pick a door.”
No memories, no changes. Was Beladanar telling the truth? Yes. Well, whatever he considered the truth.
It is supposed to help visitors to make the right choice, Beladanar had said.
There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self, the placard on the door had said.
Staying alive and living are two different things.
“Did someone ever choose the left door?”
“Not here with me, which’s truly a shame. They keep coming back, keep asking the same questions, keep getting up their hope, before I crush it. Which makes this all a bit more bearable. So…what'll it be, Pankratz?”
I have nothing to lose, he thought as he opened the door that led back into life. It couldn't hurt to try out.
“See you later, Beladanar.”
“Funny.”
White light enveloped him.
•⊱━━━━━━━━⋅•⋅━━━━━━━━⊰•
The healer, who had his eye on Countess de Lettenhove for years (something the Count and his own wife had to never know), bent forward and came up holding a naked baby by the heels. He gave it a sharp smack and the squealing began.
“A healthy baby boy”, he said. “Congratulations, my lady.”
The Countess, oblivious to the healer’s advances, took her child and kissed his damp cheeks. They would name him Julian. Julian Alfred, Alfred after her husband’s grandfather. In her arms she held not just a new life, not just a heir to the county, but a future, her little son.
Nothing, she thought, could be more beautiful.
Lying quite contently in his mother’s embrace, Julian Alfred Pankratz, Alfred after his great-grandfather, Viscount de Lettenhove, thought: Lecherous fucker. What a rude way to handle babies.