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Death is supposed to be the end, the dark finish, breathing away quietly on the edge of life, waiting to cover all in the quiet gray ash of oblivion. Oh, yes, this is the way it is supposed to be and he has counted on this belief throughout his short life, counted on it as the one truth of existence, the reason to fear nothing, for all becomes nothing. So what is this place in which he finds himself? He peers about, unable to distinguish any landmarks in the gray mist that surrounds him in lazy swirls. He feels the ghostly touch of the tendrils as they coil about his face and flow into his nose and mouth, but you're not supposed to feel anything when you're dead—are you? Nothing at all. And he knows he is dead, oh, yes, he is dead. He was already dead, long before he arrived here, has been for months, dead man walking and talking and hearing and grieving for a life that is no longer his to enjoy, although he did...enjoy it. He has been cheating the grim reaper these many days, cheating him and enjoying it. He isn't sure how he knows this is different—real death as opposed to...what...pretend death?
Maybe if he closes his eyes and just stands still things will sort themselves out, the mist will clear and he'll know what he is to do. How long is long when there is no time? Has he just arrived or has he been here for days, months, years? He lifts his hand to his face, feels...or thinks he feels...the skin and nose and mouth and eyes, but his eyes are blind to all but the mist. Is this nothingness death's reality? Is this the eternity to which he has been assigned? Is there never to be another touch, another smile, another voice to break apart the gray that surrounds him?
"You there!"
He whirls at the sharp voice, peering desperately into the mist. Yes! A man, just there. He opens his mouth to speak, but finds he cannot utter a sound. Fear clamps a tight fist around his throat. Is this real or just a figment conjured out of his desperation? But the man moves closer, the gray mist parting around him, retreating as if afraid. Dressed in unrelieved black, which echoes the fathomless depths of his eyes, the man is the stuff of nightmares and horror...a burning emptiness that searches.
"Have you been here long?"
The question is harshly spoken, unfriendly and accusatory. He feels like the mist—afraid. "I...I don't know," he answers, surprised that he can hear his voice.
"Oh, an idiot, I see. Why am I always surrounded by idiots?"
"I'm not—" he begins, but stops and wonders if perhaps he is. Surrounded...so there are others, idiots or not. "Where is this place?" he asks, but hopes for little. The black eyes pierce him through, sharp knives which draw no blood but leave him wounded.
"The afterlife, I presume, though there's not much life that I can find."
The eyes free him as they gaze about, hunting for...prey? They sear his soul once more as they return to him.
"Perhaps you can help me, however. Have you seen anyone else?" Threat is implicit in the tone.
"No, no one. I didn't think there was anyone, not until you appeared. How long have you been here?"
"It makes no difference."
He walks away and the mist begins to close in again. "Can I go with you?" he asks, suddenly desperate not to be left alone. "I'll help you look for...whoever you're looking for." He hurries after the black-clad man, still frightened of this stranger, but more frightened of the looming gray mist. There is no acknowledgement from the man, but neither is he rebuffed.
How far they walk or where they are walking to is not clear, but he stays in step with the other. There are no more words. He hesitates to initiate conversation, fearing that those dead and burning eyes will blaze through him again. But the mist does not encroach and for that he is grateful.
"When did you die?"
The sudden question startles him and he breaks stride. "I'm not sure...I think it must have been recently, but I—"
"No. The date, you fool. When?"
"Oh...2008."
"Old Calendar—a long time ago."
The words are quiet but express a kind of satisfaction, as if the answer proves some hypothesis. A long time ago...old calendar...how long? He catches up his stride and asks, "When did you...die?"
There is no response, but he is not surprised. "Do you know what we are supposed to do? Has anyone told you anything?" He hears the pleading in his voice, the need for some direction, some reason to be here.
"It doesn't matter. I doubt if anything here matters very much."
Hours pass in silence as they continue on their endless quest for...someone. Does he hunt for one that mattered or is he seeking revenge for one that mattered? Those eyes tell him that it is one or the other...or maybe both.
He remembers those he has left behind—Jack and Ianto, Gwen and Tosh—he wonders what they think of his dying. Do they mourn him or do they think it best, since he was already dead, appearing to live only by the fluke of some alien technology? But that death had been nothing like this, not really death at all, not really. When your mind is still engaged, you are still alive, aren't you? But then, isn't his mind engaged now? Is he not then still alive? Alive but walking in a different garden. Who had said that about the garden? He can't remember—probably some teacher, or maybe Tosh; it sounds like a Japanese-type thing. He'd been too stupid to realize the value of Tosh, and now it is too late to change anything. He'd wasted time where it wasn't needed, realizing too late that Gwen only loved reflections of herself and Jack's love was only a reflection of wishful thinking—maybe when you can't die you can't love except as an idea. He wonders if there is such a thing as eternal love and if he has ever loved someone that much.
"Stop."
The harsh command jerks him from his thoughts, and he halts, looking at his companion. Those eyes strip his mind bare as they pin him in place.
"This serves no purpose. He obviously does not wish to be found, and I refuse to play his game again."
"Game?' he repeats.
Without another word, the man seats himself on the barren ground, leaning back against the gray mist as though supported by a solid wall. His stillness is its own declaration of permanence.
Is this to be the end? Does eternity begin here? To what purpose? He sits down across from the other and tries out the wall of mist support, finding it comfortable. He's never been able to wait easily, but it doesn't seem to matter, now. Eventually he asks, "Why do you think we're here?" He doesn't expect an answer and is surprised when one comes.
"Punishment, I should imagine."
Punishment...for what? The man feels dangerous, but not bad. The bleak eyes are closed and he studies the stranger's face. Yes, the deep lines speak of pain and loss and anger and a kind of fatalistic acceptance of such things as the meaning of life. What has twisted this once handsome face in such patterns of despair? He knows his questions would be ignored, so he doesn't ask them, but he wonders. Was he ever as unknowing and clueless as he had been himself? No, he thinks not—intensity is not something learned.
He has passed his own life in a fog of shallow liaisons, knowing there should be something more, but unwilling to pursue it. Once, though, he almost...he thought.... His mind drifts back to that short time he'd known her, reliving the days and nights and wonder.
"Avon."
The soft, deep voice wakes him from his reverie and he focuses on another stranger, a large solid man who stands at the edge of the mist, gaze fixed on the dark one. In wonder, he watches as he approaches and extends his hands down to bring the other to his feet and into his arms. There is no hesitation, and when they separate to stare deeply into one another's eyes, he sees the transformation that has come upon the one called Avon. His face has been wiped smooth of the harsh lines, his eyes filled with another fire—a man reanimated. He doubts he is visible to either.
"Where have you been?"
"I might ask the same."
"Where I have always been—waiting for you."
A smile of understanding crosses the now relaxed face. "Not always the best place to be, it would seem."
An answering smile and a slight shake of the curly head are offered. "We'll look for a better one, shall we?"
Without a backward glance, they turn away and walk off together, arms entwined. He knows that there is no room for him in their world—it is complete.
He watches the two men disappear in the distance and waits for the mist the swallow him once more, but surprisingly it does not, although nothing else has changed. He wonders again at the purpose of this place. It isn't like any heaven he has heard about, but neither is it hell. Perhaps it is a place to figure out what ones life has meant and what is important to remember of that life. And so he begins his journey of discovery, his own quest. Maybe he will find what or who makes his life his own. He stands and walks the way of the others. They seem to have solved the puzzle, so what better lead to follow? He wonders if Jack has ever been here, those times he has passed before waking from the dead, and what he would have to say about it all. Would he have known what questions to ask, or who to ask them of? Or maybe this was something you had to figure out for yourself by yourself. In any case, there wasn't anything else...not yet, anyway, not yet.