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There was a singular goldfinch outside his window.
Raven had been roused by the tapping of its beak against glass, the first rays of dawn entrapping its tan feathers, the blood-red of its head. Of his usual sentinels of ravens, their gloomy trees stood bare. Yet winter continued to freeze his grounds, despite it only being early autumn for the rest of Germany, and its condensed lashing should’ve deterred any interlopers, wildlife and humans alike, from disturbing his peace.
It was a smile that crossed Raven’s face then. Perhaps today would be the day he died.
He dressed leisurely. Fabric trailed on the dusty floors. The spike through his brain glinted at both ends. His needles went round their usual fingers, and indulging, he pricked himself; the clumsy accident of young soldiers and their first experience sewing. But, as expected, he didn't stir. Unnecessary meals neglected, door swinging open at a touch, he crossed the threshold into the snow beyond.
The bird was gone. Instead, there a man stood, cloaked in red, hood lowered. In one hand he held a gnarled wooden staff, plain and raw. He brought his other hand up to his chest and bowed as Raven approached, his rather attractive, if bookishly unkempt face bearing a mask of respect. There was something bulky on his back, under all that red.
“Good day,” he said, peering through his glasses. “My apologies for the intrusion, but I have questions to ask of you, Raven.”
It was unsurprising that someone able to bypass his protections would know his name, and so Raven shrugged that thought off, stopping a little distance away from the man, more presently occupied with the lack of attacks coming his way. Almost disappointing. “You journeyed here, to come face to face with an undying disease, and all you have are polite questions? Not even a challenge? Who are you?”
“I would rather not share my name; it doesn’t concern the matter at hand. Only that, I wish to merely assess your feelings towards humans, the potential of conflict to occur, and to satisfy my own research. Then I shall leave you alone, and see what can be done to further encourage others to do the same.” The man tilted his head, rubbing his shoulder. “I’ve brought gifts. Preserved meats, cheese, local spirits.”
“I’m not some house kobold to be bribed with produce,” Raven stated, though he did not truly mind. He would never starve, and while the taste of food had lost all its joy several centuries back, the dull ache of hunger bored him. “Though if you want my cooperation, I have a request for you myself. One that’s more to my taste.”
“Certainly. Let’s hear it out.”
Extending an arm out, Raven made sure to display his needles, curled like a claw. Laving his tongue across his lips in a leer, the slightest shiver at just the mere thought. More spirited than he had been in years. Decades. "I want you to try and kill me. Then I’ll gladly answer your curiosity.”
Shock was writ large on the man’s face for a second, before he wrestled it back to the wise serenity he had borne all this while. In that moment, despite the dark stubble on his chin, the weariness of his eyes that spoke to a life of experiences hard-earned, that he should be some middle-aged veteran of magical knowledge, Raven understood that he faced a boy forced to become a man. In that echo was a twenty-two-year-old soldier, called to serve by an empire that named itself the holy heirs of Rome. Raven had grown willing eventually, the poison of bloodlust seeping deep, but in the earliest days, there had been the resentment, the pain, of innocence lost, though his hands had remained cleaner than some of his brothers in arms.
But now the man was speaking. “I hadn’t wished for this to end in a fight. It was peace and scholarship that drove me here. Might I have insulted you, Raven? I apologise, it was not my intention to belittle your power by assuming that food would be a suitable offering, only that it might ease the boredom of a conversation with me.”
“No offence was ever taken. That boredom is, however, exactly why I asked you to kill me.” He considered the man’s youth, and added a reminder. “If you’re here, you surely know by now I can’t die. This will be an inconvenience to you, but a potential world of delight to me. For that, I promise you’ll get the answers you so desire.”
“Yes…,” The man did not appear any more reassured. In fact, he looked sickened by some horror this brought to the fore. “I understand why you’ve asked me for that ‘gift’, as it is to you. And I won’t deny it; my spells can be used for destructive purposes, so it isn’t an impossibility that stays my hand. Rather, I would like to avoid any more bloodshed and death; I’ve seen enough of its aftermath. Raven, as I name you truly what you’ve adopted as your own, this is not meant to be some arrogant boast, but, do you recognise me?”
No. He did not. But the man was one of words, Raven gave him that. A flower not completely trodden into the dust. Regardless, Raven answered by charging towards him, fully aware that he was no longer a glorious knight on a barded horse. Instead, he was here to sate his personal pleasures, his mercies being that his attack would not be lethal, should it connect, and that Raven was willing to patch the man up and send him on his way after.
But not before Raven lived.
Four needles alight with red, tendons flexed and stretched to breaking, the trees, the skies, a blur. Fabric wings spread behind him, spike pointed straight as a cruel beak. Wide brown eyes stood in his way, staff braced in a block, as useful as a twig from a desiccated desert. Hair gusted through as the man leaned back uselessly. Under clothing, under a lack of armour, a lack of shields, the tremble and thrum of a heart that could not bleed forever.
And then there was light.
He was swallowed by stimuli. Dancing on his skin, a grand ball across the courtyards of his whole body, as it crisped him down to his nerves, burning from their ends down to his central spine like a wick of dynamite, and the tease of its fizzle. Exploding into his head with all the sparkle and flash of gunpowder, one of those new fireworks show privately done. Green, Blue, Red, Gold. Black. Black. Black. The throbbing heat pushed deep within him, settling for an eternal second, then forced its way through, a shooting star rising from the hole where his abdomen had been, to soar and challenge the sun, as his muscles; marrow; the meninges of his mind geysered up from his spent body. Spilling over and river-running as rivulets of crimson and blackened brown shards, washing away both salt and dirt, those tiny cellular discs splashing on the ground, before rising as airy fairies of smoke all around him, even as he was falling, falling, falling into the stained white bed beneath, erect—
In the cold, Raven died.
Warmth was the first thing he awoke to, beyond omnipresent lingering disappointment, but in the next second, the latter had been replaced by gratitude. Come unto the kingdom of heaven, for what was, judging by the diminished sun low in the sky, surely a good plenty of hours; a record.
He sat up and stretched, bare skin scratching against the cleaner-than-usual fabrics of his couch, some now-antique he had bought from a late 19th-century shop, kicking aside the blanket that had been placed upon him, then realised why it was there. Opposite, with his bag on the floor, The man that had killed him sat on its paired chair, face pale and gaze pointedly averted. Raven reconjured his clothing—that was indeed a known downside of his rejuvenation, though at least it preserved his spike and needles—before addressing the man. “I see you moved my remains in. Why?”
The man drew his bloodstain-free cloak tighter about him. “It felt wrong to leave you outside, though you may not have minded. Incidentally, I had to discard the scraps of your prior clothes. They were unsalvageable.”
“That is true. It was unnecessary. But also, thank you. Don’t worry about the clothes either.” Raven paused, considering the prior events, the nature of this man, with the clearer head of release earned. He had demonstrated impressive powers, both to rend Raven so thoroughly on an instinctive whim, and to have made it here. The mountainous slopes of the Eastern Alps already possessed their own natural challenges, and that was without Raven’s own determination, though the threat of foolish tourists had virtually disappeared in recent years. The man had been rather considerate as well. Humble, possibly, though with enough self-confidence to show up in the first place. In light of that….
“You are The Original,” Raven stated mildly, half expecting to be denied. He really seemed too guileless to be the Saviour of modern tales.
“So, you were aware of who I was since the beginning.”
“Only now did I realise that you and he were the same. But, for all my apathy towards this world, I would have to be stripped of all sensations, frozen in the depths of the Black Moor, to have missed your legend completely. The other immortals, much that we don’t speak, sent words heralding you. ‘The world has been made anew, and another Christ has ascended’ to speak of the florid phrase one Nightless used.”
“I believe I know who that is,” The Original exhaled, “but it’s true that I am, for better or worse, the one who opened wide the vault of magic to public consciousness. I suppose that may irk you still?”
“Not if it results in stronger warriors.” Raven pointed at The Original’s bag, then remembered that he needed to remove his needles. “Come, let us dine then,” he said as he did so. “Since you’ve fulfilled your end of the bargain most wonderfully. Speak your piece as well, if you are ready.”
The bag was passed wordlessly along, Raven conjuring platters, knives and forks, as he retrieved the tribute. Wedges and miniature wheels of cheese, a mix of harder pale yellows, semi-soft whites, some with smoky brown rinds. Pumpernickel, a dark loaf of sweet and sour. Hams and smoked sausages, with their silvers of fat mixed with pinkish meat, the aroma of various spices. Mustard and pickle relish. A herbal liqueur in its greenish glass bottle, to be drunk neat. My, my, the man had prepared for a feast indeed. Displaying it across the largest of the platters, carving them up where needed, Raven dropped onto a smaller plate some choice cuts, offering it to The Original, who stared at the serving as though food was unfamiliar to him.
“I had meant for you to receive everything,” he muttered after several moments, taking the plate at last. “It’d be improper for me to claim your gifts.”
Raven cocked his head, grabbing his own meal and slurping up a slice of ham. Delicious enough, if he cared for the sensation of taste. Made from what objectively could be called quality pork; not overly salty. “Interpret it as me choosing to share it with you, such that it’s not wasted.”
“It could’ve been kept for another day,” The Original nibbled at the corner of a slice of bread, before setting it back down mostly untouched. “Thank you for this kindness but, apologies, I rarely eat.”
“How is that so? You're still a living human. Unless…you’ve managed to divest yourself of the need for sustenance? That would be, I believe the term is, game-changing.”
“After a fashion,” The Original took another bite. “But it’s not a true replacement yet. And while you don’t starve, or undergo atrophy—at least for a few months—it also does nothing to stop the body from signalling hunger. As such, much of its usefulness is restricted by mental limits.”
“I see. Are you not hungry at present then?” Raven eyed the more wiry frame of the man, or what was revealed of it beyond the cloak. While it might’ve been presumptuous for him to judge, given that he was not stockily built either, Raven suspected a more unsettling truth. There was also, unrelated to that, a likely hornful of his own culpability, which had just snuck up and stabbed him guilty in the heart. Perhaps it should have occurred to him earlier. The Original flushed.
“Not entirely…but….”
“Was it the blood and gore?” Through the window, the pure snow reflected gold, pines and bowers swaying. Little shudders rippled through The Original, but he shook his head.
“Only partially. I’ve seen enough that I should be used to it. It’s more so that food does not bring me much joy. Neither does starvation, truly; I do eat where I can to sustain myself. From what I’ve observed, I now suspect you can relate to that. This gift might have been a poor choice indeed.”
Raven pointed a fork at him. “Discard those thoughts. By itself, would the feast before you be of acceptable taste?”
“Yes.”.
“Then here is your challenge. Eat. I’ll answer your questions once you have had a proper meal. Or the beginnings of one.”
The Original sighed, but it was almost grateful, as he picked up a slice of bread and added ham and a little mustard, settling in. He finished it in three bites, and took up another, consuming it just the same. Satisfied, Raven busied himself with cracking open the liquor, pouring them into tiny glasses that he physically retrieved from a cupboard, bartered by a poor couple in exchange for his help with some labour or another during the 1960s. It mattered not now. He set a glass in front of The Original, who had been licking his fingers, though he immediately stopped when Raven came close. Taking up the drink in hand, the other man’s nose wrinkled. Any fumes were, however, lost on Raven,
“Well done with that. Cheers, as they say these days,” he drawled, lifting his own glass, clinking it against The Original’s unmoving one, and downing the lot. Yes, rather weak, 86% proof according to the label, but he supposed most people did not fancy flavoured paint thinner. He would have to make do with the barest hint of burning, though that bitter edge suited his palate. Following Raven’s lead with a sip, there was a thunk of glass being carefully but forcefully set down on the table as The Original coughed in fits, covering his mouth, arm around his stomach.
“Are you fine? Is it truly that bad?”
Another burst of coughing, The Original’s free hand raised in the seemingly universal sign for ‘stop’. Raven conjured an earthenware cup filled with water and nudged it forward. Then waited.
Eventually, The Original recovered enough to take him up on the offer. “Apologies, I very rarely drink,” he explained, inhaling between gulps. “I’ve never been one to enjoy alcohol’s taste or after-effects. Much of my drinking is socially so, at official gatherings where it would be rude to reject the host’s hospitality, should they jump to conclusions before I am able to clarify. Restricted to champagnes and wines. The Kräuterlikör of your homeland is…stronger.”
“That does not escape me.” Picking up the bottle, Raven chugged it freely, a former soldier in their natural element. It hit the table as a drained clear green. There was a little gasp from The Original. “Come then, let us see to your questions.”
“That’s all?” Raven said, sprawled over the couch as if he was being harangued by Dr Freud himself. However, The Original pleasant enough interviewer, both quick to push on any intriguing cracks he saw, yet simultaneously intuiting when to leave some skeletons back in the mire. Raven had not quite intended on confessing his apathy towards humanity, but it seems The Original had gleaned it regardless from his careless disdain about the nearest town, should they come knocking, answering Raven’s surprise with:
“That is all. Your wards are remarkable, so I doubt there'll be much threat of ordinary folk stumbling onto this clearing, neither do you actively seek out humans nor the world at large. And from what I’ve observed, you are weighed with a certain ennui, your mind so accommodated to the tune of living, that only the crescendos of death leave any impression. Such as it is, my only fear is that you would seek to challenge others, inadvertently resulting in butchery, for the sake of that thrill. For an end. But, as you’re…content, no, drifting in this eternal existence, within this bubble, much of my worries on that front are minimised.”
He raised a shimmering stylus of light and peered over his glasses at Raven. “Though it’s a lonely state of being, I believe.”
“It matters not. I shall wait for someone to bring me death, or for the sun’s implosion to leave me careening and thinking through endless space. I’ve long walked the purposeless path, and its vistas, if boring, do, as you note, result in an unaffected world for those I used to care about.”
Opposite of him, The Original flinched. Raven continued on. “What do you think my condition arises from, in any case? Genuinely, I’ve no insight into my state.”
“I lack any concrete theories as well,” The Original confessed. “But your description of that mirrored cylindrical space….Well, on the concave surface of a reflective cylinder, a stretched image around such a pillar can be made sensible using certain vantage points, down to the impression of depth. They name this effect anamorphosis. Though a reflection only occupies a two-dimensional space in this world, despite its three-dimensional appearance, taken at face value, with an inversion of the logical reasoning, a three-dimensional object can thus be distorted by its visage passing through a convex reflective surface. Now, imagine if that object was your Backyard data, and that it was spread across the web of time, such that it remained you, but permeating all possible universes….”
Raven held up both his hands. “I believe I may have grasped your suggestion, but I've just come to realise that the intricate theoretical implications of it, though praiseworthy for the conceptualisation demonstrated, does not interest me unless it provides a permanent solution. I am sorry.”
“Certainly. I understand. If one’s whole life has been nothing but a journey to nowhere, having a destination at last takes precedence over another detour.” The Original leaned back into his seat, adding more notes. Raven turned fully supine. Above, the wooden beams propping up the second story were age-blackened, though mold-free. There was a small cobweb as well. How boring, or perhaps, relaxing. Raven decided not to rush The Original; from what he had seen, the man deserved a little break.
Still.
“What about your life?”
The stylus stopped moving. “Pardon?”
“Are there any stories about yourself that you are willing to share? A fair trade, now that you know more about me. Surely there is some tale that you have been eagerly awaiting a willing pair of ears for. From your journeys across the world, being the Saviour humanity wanted.”
“None of my deeds are worth boasting about, and those have been done to death regardless. Although, if you wish to hear about someone else….”
Pushing himself back up, cross-legged, Raven gestured at The Original. “Oh? Who do you have in mind?”
“Asuka. Who is, well, I suppose what you might call a disciple of mine. He possesses great potential, and it’s my belief he will supersede me in time, in both expertise and power. Principled as well, which, admittedly, is rarely in fashion in those called to lead but…our purpose is of more subtle make. Even if he chooses not to play a role amongst world leaders, he’ll ensure that humanity reaches the potential that was stolen from it by the Universal Will and others. Since you seek further goals to occupy yourself with—”
“Has he done anything of note yet?”
The Original stared him down. “Depends on your definition of such things. He has done much more than most people his age, playing a role in the rescue efforts of 1999, advancing magical science with his own research and spells. Few humans in their early twenties can claim that or any equivalent.”
“One of them,” Raven noted, “being yourself.”
“I don’t deny that. But Asuka is less tarnished by guilt. This gives him an unbridled sight of possibilities, rather than circling around the past, potential checked by fear.” A weariness had settled on The Original, face pained and shoulders drooping. Once again, wholly a youth forced to grow old with blood-sickness. Raven wondered what had caused that guilt. Did he consider every life lost during the Revival a stain on his honour? It was unreasonable, but that was always the alluring sin of being a Messiah, once familiar to Raven, until he had shed those white feathers to lurk shunned.
“I will remember him,” Raven promised, and that The Original lightened a touch was proof enough the lie was worth it.
“Thank you.” He added another couple of scribbles to his notes, then stretched, hands raised and head turning. And startled. “Oh, I should leave soon. I have overstayed my welcome.”
Behind The Original, the window shone with darkness like the wings of his ravens, which had returned as well, slowly materialising during the sun’s descent. Raven had vaguely watched them do so during lulls in his talk with The Original. Perhaps he should have alerted his guest of growing lateness. But….
“My welcome continues to be extended. Are there matters that need to be settled in the world?”
“Not exactly. The Conclave, the other quartet of my disciples, should be able to manage admirably. There is a lesser need now for a singular Messiah, in truth, for much of my work has been delegated out to other apostles. I mostly am left to contend with my own research, teaching Asuka, and appearing at certain formal events. In a way, it’s not an unpleasant life.”
“Yet not a pleasant one either?”
The Original’s eyes were pained, for all he laughed gaily. “I don’t wish to sound ungrateful for our recovery, and the present peace, but the work of 1999 brings with it exhaustion, and that is a useful catalyst for dreamless sleep that draws close to death. It also leaves you surrounded by life; sharing a room, or a bed, with disciples, to maximise the space available. I daresay there is sometimes more comfort to be with Asuka in a cot under a patchwork tent, than there is to be in a pure marble room with a gilded king-sized.”
How familiar.
“You could stay the night. While sleep is not a necessity for me, I do still possess a bed.” Seconds later, Raven added on, seeing a look of both consideration and doubt on The Original’s face. “While my spike does make it challenging if we were to sleep in tandem, I suppose being in a seat close by may be enough of a presence to satisfy you. If you were to forgive my ramblings, I could even share with you some tales accumulated through several hundred years of living. Detritus they are to me, but, as I believe the modern saying goes, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”
It was a deathlike pulse of excitement that beat through Raven, if not for that his heart continued to resound in turn long after it should have ceased, feelings fluttering like a goldfinch between blooming apple trees in spring, when The Original replied, smiling: “I will take you up on that offer, storyteller.”