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Death is an abstract thing. It’s not something that can be explained, because it isn’t something that can be experienced. When somebody dies, their soul returns to its original form: everything and nothing at once. Cosmic dust. Air. Stars. Blankness. The soul dissipates, evaporating, into the world again. Back to where it once came, still and silent in the universe. Quirin, at once, was one of these souls, and she was not. A quasi god for punishment for her crimes against the Greater Gods, the almighty rulers of the universe over all the peasants under their thumb.
The concept of oblivion was nothing new to her; It was where her soul originally came from, as much as everyone else. Beyond reality lies an ever lasting void, the likes of which mortals could never understand. A blanket around existence, that exists in itself beyond time and fate. This is where Quirin was made, in the body of Kuzma, God of prophecies, God of time, of destiny. After it emerged from the darkness of creation at the beginning of it all, the left overs of its essence were born into a new being: The Many-Eyed. Omnipresent and forever lasting. Yet there her body was, laying still and dead.
From what she knew, after Kuzma’s death, the underworld had somewhat abstracted. As the God of the afterlife, when the body of it that resided on the mortal plane was killed, it had no connection or true rule in the way it did before. But to something like Gods, death was different that it was to that of mortals.
Gods are those which exist on another plane of life. The part of them that lives in the mortal realm was little more than a reflection of their true self, bended and willed to the humans and animals around them for sake of communication and worship. Once killed, they weren’t truly dead at all. It was only that a part of them was erased. Their jobs, however, that of which they had domain over would not be destroyed. It was unable to be destroyed, it just was.
Think of fungi. With their long spreading, branch-like limbs that extend into the soil beneath, and the way they can switch between forms to best survive in the environment, Gods are much the same. You can destroy the body, but their roots remain. The afterlife, for Quirin, was a desolate place. Cold and wet, completely pitch black. There was not one source of light, not any respite from that hell she was trapped in, chained down into for however hundred of years.
But there was the fire, too. Those bright stars, exploding into her eyes and her body, tearing skin and flesh off with the force of the heat. The remnants of Atesh. The remnants of her soulmate. The remnants of her killer. All of it was a blur of emotions and sensations, forgettable in a way a dream was. You don’t know what’s happening, or how it’s happening: all you know is that something is wrong. Very, very, unequivocally wrong. It felt like some sort of sick torture, twisted and half-real.
And then, there was, for the first time in eos, some sort of reprieve. A hand on her own, ice cold to the point of death, but their freezing embrace felt safe in the burning heat of Quirin’s own personal hell. Something tangible to hold onto, something real, something she could trust. There were many illusions in that cursed place, but none of them felt like this. She didn’t think while she was taken, and she wasn’t able to utter a single word. What if it were to disappear? What if, instead of it being from the realm around her, her mind had fully and entirely turned on her by then?
Then there was air. The afterlife was strange in the way that it was stagnant. Sticky with the residue of souls. Everything there was stale, and harsh. There was no air, no wind, no breeze. There was nothing. So when, for the first time in hundreds of years, Quirin felt true air hitting her skin, she didn’t know what to think. Wherever she was, it felt dense, almost, in the same way the guiding hand was. Just real. Solid.
But that was impossible, surely–she had died. Quirin had died, and her soul was never to be able to return to the mortal realm again. There was no way for her to return. Only greater Gods were truly able to reinimate corpses, to bring back souls, and not only were they in hibernation, but they would never do such a thing for her. And with Kuzma dead as a whole, was reincarnation or reanimation possible at all? How could one form a connection to the underworld like that? Quirin never read up on magic and rituals or anything of the sort. To her, magic was innate. But even still…this shouldn’t be possible.
And then the world spoke.
“Good morning,” they said softly, voice high and gentle. So casually, too, as if everything Quirin had been through was nothing more than a dream. “I’m sure that you’re confused right now, aren’t you? It would most definitely make sense, I couldn’t blame you.”
She stayed quiet.
“But I can’t explain it now,” they laid a hand on her forehead, brushing back strands of hair. For some reason, the action made Quirin calm. “it wouldn’t make sense. And you’re exhausted, aren’t you?”
Quirin opened her mouth to speak, but a palm came over to cover it.
“Don’t speak. Your throat isn’t ready yet. Give it some time.”
She wanted to say something. She didn’t know what it was, she just wanted to do anything at all. Maybe to prove that this wasn’t all some sort of cruel illusion, a new kind of torture. But for some reason, she didn’t. For some reason, for some foolish reason, she trusted whoever it was that saved her. Something in the atmosphere was different here. Entirely different. Instead of speaking, she opened her eyes. Leaning over her was a girl with darker skin, although it leaned somewhat towards grey, almost like a corpse. The stranger had long white braids, cascading down onto Quirin. Her eyes were a pale blue. They seemed to stare directly into her soul–if she still had one at all.
“There you are,” she said, a smile finding its way onto her face. “My name is Hysteria.”
Hysteria, she thought. She wanted to say it. To know what it felt like on her tongue. Instead, she continued to obey what she was told to do. She didn’t speak.
“Do you remember what your name is?” asked Hysteria, a hand threading into Quirin’s black hair, playing with the strands. Quirin nodded carefully, feeling an ache grow in her head at the movement. “I’m glad to hear that, Quirin.”
She wanted to ask, how do you know that? And she wanted to ask, why am I here?
But she didn’t.
They remained this way for what must have been a few hours, with two of them laying together in the peaceful quiet. Quirin didn’t do much, just staring aimlessly at the sky, breathing in the air. Everything felt lighter there. Everything felt more secure. More real.
“When I was young,” began Hysteria, sitting up and looking down at Quirin, “there was this tree near our village. The only pine tree around for miles. All the kids were terrified of it, they hated it. I always thought it was funny, you know? It was just a tree. But they hated it because it would never wilt like the plants are supposed to, as it would keep its leaves in the winter. But still, all the other trees would shed when it got cold. The pine trees never did, so which trees really won? Does it matter if they were holy?” she paused, looking down at something in the grass. “Of course, it would die eventually, so it wasn’t like it was immortal. And anyway, I don’t know where it came from. There was only one of those evergreens for miles.”
Hysteria stayed quiet for a few moments after finishing. And then those piercing blue eyes of hers were looking back at Quirin. “You should be able to speak now. Say anything you’d like.”
“...It seems a little ironic, sometimes. That they all cared so much but then…it didn’t lead anywhere.” Her voice felt hoarse from disuse, scratchy in her throat. But it wasn’t terrible. She could easily withstand it.
“That’s true,” said Hysteria with a sharp laugh. “Then again, they always look for something to control them. Something to believe in. I suppose it’s only human nature.”
“Maybe it is. I can understand it, though. The need to put everything you have into one person, one thing. To want to believe in the idea that if you care enough about something, it can save you.”
“Mhm. It feels easier that way. Like everything will work out.”
Something in her chest tugged at their conversation, but oddly enough, she felt at peace. She was calm, at least. It was something that she hadn’t felt in a long time. It took a few moments for her to reply again.
“But nothing did, even with all their faith.”
“I find it always quite unfair,” Hysteria’s hand found Quirin’s tangled hair again. “The gods can do whatever they want, and no one can ever hold them accountable.”
Quirin didn’t know exactly what to say, content to lay still under her hand petting her head.
“Even so, they can still die.”
Quirin looked up at her, unable to see Hysteria’s face, who was looking away from her, at that moment. The silence, however, wasn’t unnerving. Whatever had happened, whatever that she didn’t know, she at least believed in something herself. That she could trust her.
“Do you ever think that fate is unfair, Quirin?” asked Hysteria, still facing away.
She nodded. “Very much so, it is.”
Hysteria turned, the blue of her eyes looking almost poisonous. “What would you do if you could change it? Fate, I mean. Would you take the offer?”
“I would,” answered Quirin. “In a heartbeat, I would.”
“I’m happy to hear that,” she answered, smiling, teeth glinting in the sun seeping through the leaves. Her hand continued to stroke Quirin’s head. “Do you think that others would say the same?”
She hummed, considering. “I’m not sure. But they might at least like the chance to choose whether they can or not, if nothing else.”
“If I were to tell you that you could do that, what would you say?”
“...What would I say if I could change fate?”
“Yes,” Hysteria nodded. “If you could change destiny for yourself and everyone else, what would you say? Would you want to?’
Something was happening. Something. Quirin couldn’t know for certain what, or even why she felt this way, but there was something in her chest. Something akin to dread, or nausea was twisting inside of her. Yet she couldn’t find it in herself to even be swayed. Not when she looked at the figure above her, who surely must have been an angel. Who was her reprieve from that terrible, terrible place.
When she had died, there had been a feeling of finality. Almost a sort of bitter acceptance, or a feeling of relief at everything coming loose. Like a long set plan finally coming to fruition.
It had never been her goal to die, though. She just couldn’t stop herself from feeling that way. It was as if it was innate. Her visions that she would get before death foretold the same thing. She was struck in the head, and she collapsed to the ground, that was always her very last vision.
Was that her fate? To die and be stuck in the underworld forever, was that her destiny? Had she no say in what would happen to her? Had it been that way since the beginning?
Was that fate?
“I would,” said Quirin. “If I could change fate, then I would.”
The hand playing with her long strands of now tangled black hair moved to her scalp, scratchy gently, and at the gesture she couldn’t help but close her eyes and feel herself melt. “You’re a dream, Quirin. What a beauty.”