"Death´s Tears Part 6" by Leigh *Shwin* Erickson

Thirty-two days after Garnor’s transformation, the sun rose red. Alranos fastened his anarla around his neck and watched this is silence, letting his had rest on the tip. A red sun meant it was time. Time to wake Garnor into his full power. Time to teach him the ways of Death. He closed his eyes tightly in anger, cursing fate for its intentions, but turned with slow steps and walked down the long hall towards Garnor’s room, pondering many things. They weren’t new thoughts, he had been agonizing over them since Garnor had arrived. He could revoke Garnor as his heir... but to what avail? He was a well qualified dialos now, there would be no place for him. Would that pain him more? He shook his head. There was little choice now, the sun had risen red, there was nothing he could do to improve Garnor’s situation.

He sighed heavily and knocking once, opened the door into Garnor’s room. He was ready to tell Garnor fate’s choice for him, but he wasn’t prepared for what he saw.

Sunlight flooded the room. Instead of the translucent waves of red Alranos was expecting, it ran in opaque rivulets around the room like blood, covering Garnor’s still sleeping form. This was a grave omen. A bloody sunrise on someone’s waking day foretold many things, and none of them pleasant. He was going to have a hard life. Alranos walked towards the bed to wake Garnor, but stopped, face frozen in shock. The sunlight, after just one step into it he realized it wasn’t made of light, it was blood. He looked around the room again, this time in horror. The blood dripped from the posts of the bed, soaking the shadow and falling with a hiss onto the icy floor. Crimson stained Garnor’s face and hands, darkening his garments and matting in his hair. It snaked along the walls and pooled on the floor covering everything and anything in the room.

Alranos fell to his knees, ignoring the dark staining his robe. This was not good, this was not supposed to be happening. Who was he? Why did fate hate him so much? What had he done to deserve the future being dealt to him? He closed his eyes to the blood. He didn’t want to see it. He wanted no further guilt on his conscience. “What has he done to be deserving of this?” He shouted not noticing that while he had closed his eyes the sun had left the horizon and with that action dispersed its bloody light.

“Alranos?” Garnor’s voice was sleepy, but filled with confusion and concern. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Alranos’s eyes shot open. Had he seen? He breathed a sigh of half relief. The blood was gone, it was as if it had never existed. At least Garnor had been spared that much. Had he seen the blood... had he seen his fate... Alranos didn’t know what would have happened. He knelt still, very shaken, trying to soothe the image burnt into his mind.

“Alranos?”

He jumped, trance broken, and nodding stood and made his way over to the bed, leaning heavily on it. “Garnor...” he began, not quite sure how to finish. His voice was quiet, still laden with an overpowering guilt, quite the opposite of his majestic calm.

Alranos closed his eyes. “It is time to begin...” he faltered, “to begin your training. I- I’m sorry you had to see that. You didn’t need to know. Not yet.” He sighed very heavily and stood, but still did not look up. “Get dressed, I’ll be in the kitchens. I’ll explain there.”

Garnor nodded as he watched Alranos drag himself out of the room. He was very worried now, what had happened to him? Alranos was usually confident and impassive, today he seemed insecure and wracked with pain. He pulled the covers from his bed and dressed quickly, not noticing that the chill beneath his feet was nearly gone, not noticing his eyes were fading from green to grey, not noticing that the scars lining his chin were nearly faded. He left his room and all but ran to the kitchens where he knew Alranos would be. What was happening?

He arrived, finally, worried expression on his face, at the kitchens. As he walked in, he noticed that although food was laid out, Alranos wasn’t at the table. Puzzled, he looked about the room. He was about to call his name when a shadow caught his eye. It was blocking the new sunlight from streaming in its usual patterns through the great round window that was in the western end. He followed the shadow to the window and there found Alranos sitting immobile, a dark cloud seeming to form around him reminding Garnor of the day he died. “Alranos?” His voice was quiet and tinted with confusion.

At his name the dialos turned to face him, his motions majestic once more. He stood in the window and leapt down, dark robes swirling in an angry torrent, trailing shadow behind. As he walked towards Garnor, the cloud dissipated and he became more like the Alranos Garnor had come to know, leaving the majestic aura and entering his calm yet aloof state. “Who you saw up there was not me. It was Death.” was all he said as he passed the young dialos by, walking in a brisk pace to the table.

Garnor stared after him. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t question it. You’ll learn soon enough.” The words were harsh and the voice pained. Garnor was truly concerned now.

“Alranos? What’s happening?” When Alranos didn’t respond or even look up. Garnor walked over to him. He had never been this secretive or distant before. “Alranos! What’s wrong?” He still didn’t respond, it seemed that all of whatever Death called life had been drained from him. “Alranos??” He grabbed the man by the wrist.

Alranos jumped at the touch, shaken from whatever trance he had been in, and looked up. As always his eyes were hidden in shadow, but Garnor could see their dim outlines now and with that glance immediately released his wrist.

“I’m sorry, Garnor. Sit down.”

He sat, eyes wide, speechless.

Alranos looked at him with an unreadable expression, eyes completely lost in shadow. “There is much to explain.” He unbound his anarla from his neck and placed it on the table thoughtfully. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

Garnor found his voice, but it was barely a whisper. “What was that?”

“You mean my eyes?”

Garnor nodded dumbly.

“I cannot show you what they truly are until I have explained everything else. They are the bane of our race, a curse from long ago when Death first felt the sadness it inflicted on the earth. The black eyes of the dialos, binding all the hatred, pain, sorrow and grief felt by Death into two very inadequate pools. As you can guess, they are very potent and are the very way to see into Death’s being. What you felt was some of the guilt I bear. If you had been anything but what you are, Death’s heir, you might not have your mind right now. I’m sorry you had to see that.” He shifted uncomfortably. “We should move on from here where I can truly explain to you just what is happening.” He stood and Garnor with him.

Garnor was silent as he watched Alranos pick up his anarla. His was black, like his eyes, like his hair, like his clothes. Garnor’s was silver, contrasting sharply with the black and glittering as the only reflective thing on his being. He put a hand to his eye, shivering in remembrance at the torrent of hurt that had invaded his being when he had caught but a glimpse of Alranos’s. He was afraid.

“Come.” Alranos’s voice was calm, but still the pain was evident. He felt no need to put so much energy into fully concealing it now that Garnor knew it was there. To continue in a guise after it had been discovered was stupid, Alranos knew this, and thus he didn’t fight to keep the pain from his voice.

He walked out of the kitchens, anarla still in hand, and turned the opposite direction from Garnor’s rooms. It was a short corridor that quickly turned through a concealed corner to a long hallway. Unlike the rest of the palace, this hall was dark; it seemed that shadow composed the very air. At the end was an unremarkable door. Alranos looked at it steadily, his pace slow and measured as if he was loath to reach it.

Garnor had never seen this hall before and wondered how it could have escaped his notice. It reminded him of how this world had looked when he was entering it, not dead, but not living either. When he shared this with Alranos, asking how it could be, he received the same answer as before; that it would all be explained and not to question it now. He sighed and continued following.

When at last they reached the door, Garnor felt a strange force behind it, beckoning to him in an almost irresistible way yet repulsing him beyond words. His face must have shown this because Alranos quickly explained.

“This, Garnor, is the weaving room, it is where all the threads that bind the souls of all things living to their physical bodies are. What draws you to this room are all the weakening threads, those that are dying and soon will require Death’s service. You will soon feel it wherever you are once you are fully trained and won’t need to be in this room to complete the process. What pushes you away from this room,” he sighed, “Are all the living threads. As Death, life is to you now what death was to you in your life. An end. An enemy. Unless you chose to befriend it as some have befriended the idea of death in their lives... but I don’t recommend it. It will make your pain even greater and your suffering near unbearable.” He placed one hand gently on the handle. “I think you’ll spend much time in this room. Viewing life itself can be rather... captivating.” He nearly smiled, thinking some secret thought but then shook his head and asked, “Are you ready?”

Garnor looked behind him at the hall of shadows. It was his past, a dark and foggy place. He had no desire to return. The room drew him to it, he could feel his body shaking with effort trying not to bolt both into and away from this room. He looked up at Alranos and nodded. “Yes. Show me.”

“So be it.”

As the door was opened a brilliant light filled the hall. Garnor squinted against it, feeling he was going to go blind before he took one step further. He felt Alranos’s hand between his shoulders, pushing him into the room. “Stay there.” The hand was removed from his back and he heard the door shut. “Don’t open your eyes or you will be blinded.” The hand was back, guiding him forward.

Garnor kept his eyes tightly shut.

He was guided through what felt like an endless maze of twists and turns, occasionally being told to duck or step over something. It was hard. He felt pulled towards some places and pushed from others. It was the strangest sensation. He heard millions of voices, millions of memories, the actions of the earth. He was sure he could sense them all. Finally there was what felt like another door. Alranos lead him through it into a dimmer place, and as he heard the door close he was told he could open his eyes.

The room was full of threads, mostly brown but some black, all barely emitting light. They fell over one another in an endlessly complex wave that to Garnor’s untrained eye looked like an impossible knot. Here, the voices were weaker, barely discernible. The memories and actions dim and faded. In the far right corner was a loom, half of a black cloth woven on it’s dark frame. “What is this place?” Garnor asked, intrigued.

“This is the Weaving Room really, at least it’s more of a weaving room than that mess out there.” Alranos gestured to the door with his head.

“What was that place?”

“That was where all the living threads are, all the healthy, well spun threads. It is full of Life, that’s what that blinding light you saw was.”

“Life?”

Alranos sighed, “Yes... Life itself.”

There was silence as Garnor tried to take this in. Alranos, having been in this position before, allowed him to think, waiting for the right time to continue. At last Garnor looked around the room once more. His eyes settled on the loom. Before he could ask, Alranos answered.

“Remember when I told you that shadow was nearly the finest fabric that existed in this world?”

Garnor nodded.

“That cloth is the finest. It’s woven from threads once full of Life, now lost in Death. It’s the only thing that can shield you from an anarla’s bite.”

“Who weaves it?”

“The Artist.”

“The Artist? Who’s the Artist?”

“Death is the Artist.”

“Wouldn’t that make you the Artist?”

“No.”

Garnor was confused. Alranos was Death, who was the Artist, but Alranos wasn’t the Artist? How could that be?

Alranos turned to him. “Look at me, Garnor, do I look like the man that brought you here?”

Garnor looked at Alranos carefully. He looked the same, just less majestic. The face and the body looked right. He furrowed his brow.

Alranos sighed. “Take this.” He held out his anarla.

Garnor nearly raised an eyebrow in question but the look on Alranos’ face told him otherwise. With a shaking hand he accepted the anarla. “Why?”

“Watch.”

Before his eyes Alranos was transformed. Although his face and shape remained the same, the colour of his hair paled to a near white and his skin flushed with life, no longer pale, but tanned. His eyes came out of shadow, a deep grey, still pained, but bearable. He looked alive. “This is who I am.” his eyes became distant, “or rather who I was. The anarla was forged by the Artist and designed to contain its essence, the essence of Death. When you first recieved your anarla, beginning with when you first felt its bite,” he indicated to the fading scars under Garnor’s jaw, “Death’s essence was transferred into you. Now that you have absorbed it, you will die if you are too long without it. When the anarla is held by another who is Death; Death for the heir and the heir for Death; its essence is absorbed into them. This frees the one who had the anarla from the hold of Death, it allows what they are in Life to come through.” He reached for his anarla once more. “You never truly died, Garnor. You were simply transformed into Death.” As his hand clasped the blade it paled instantly, the colour draining from his skin, his hair fading to black, his eyes... “Don’t look at them.” Alranos cautioned seeing where Garnor’s eyes rested, “at least not until you have used your anarla.”

Garnor closed his eyes and shook his head. Alranos was himself again. “I am so confused. You’re Death, but not the Artist, and we’re still alive? I don’t get it, I really don’t understand.”

Alranos nodded to the loom. “Let’s go over there and you can ask me exactly what’s confusing you and I’ll explain as best I can. Some of these things are best experienced, however, which is why you are here.” They walked over to the bench in from of the wide loom and sat. Garnor’s eyes kept flicking up at Alranos’s. It was so hard not to look now that he knew what was there. Seeing this, Alranos drew his veil from his side and covered his eyes. “Enjoy your innocence while you can.” was all he said about it. Settling himself comfortably on the bench he asked Garnor, “Where should I begin?”

“Will you answer any question I ask?” Garnor had accumulated quite a few questions since his arrival, but was unsure of Alranos’s willingness to answer them.

Alranos nodded. “I will answer whatever questions you have. You just have to ask them.”

Garnor was silent for a moment, trying to decide where to begin. “It’s hard to decide what to ask. I have so many questions, there are too many things here that are strange to me. Too many things that frighten and intrigue me. Where should I start?”

Alranos smiled. “The beginning is often a good place. What’s the first question that comes to mind?”

Garnor thought about this. “Why am I here? I know I’m your heir, Death’s heir, but I have yet to see a clear reason for my being here.”

“It depends on what you define as ‘here’.”

“Here? Here is this place, this world. Where else would it be?”

Alranos closed his eyes beneath his veil and nodded. “A good question, and one I can only partially answer. You could have meant this room or this ‘world’ as you call it. It is not a separate world, you have not left the earth, Garnor, but are merely in a place that exists in a tear in its fabric. It is all but invisible to those who pass it by. People fall into it by accident purely because they didn’t see it. This dimension is where we, the dialos, reside, outside of earth, heaven, or hell. It is here that the threads of life are kept and here that Death is carried out.

“Had you ‘died’ a natural death you wouldn’t have ended up here. You would have ended up in the afterlife- heaven, hell, or elsewhere should the need arise. I intercepted your soul en route to bring you here as my heir. The reason I did this is because you were chosen long ago to be the one to follow me, to be Death’s heir. You are here, in this ‘world’ because I brought you into it. You are here to learn and to perform the duties of Death that will be passed on to you.”

“I see. I asked this before, but I must ask it again, who is Death?”

Alranos smiled. “Death? I am Death and you are Death. It is not a matter of ‘who’ though as much as a matter of ‘what’ and ‘why’. You were chosen to be Death before the creation of the world as I was, as is your heir, should the need arise for you to have one. But what is Death? Think about it, Garnor. Think about what you know of me and of this room. Think.”

Garnor was puzzled, and yet it made some sense. The Artist wasn’t a separate person, but a title for Death. The one who wove the threads of the dead into cloth that could shield the anarla’s bite. Yet he was Death, and therefore must also be the Artist, as was Alranos. “I don’t think I can ask much more, Alranos, there’s so much to take in already.”

“It will take some time to fully understand. I think you’ve learned enough for now though, think on it. Let me know what you’ve deciphered tomorrow.” he stood and Garnor with him. “I must be about my job now, however; if you want to stay you can, but it might be best if you didn’t until you understand further. It’s up to you though.”

“I’ll go. I trust your judgement. I have too much to think about as it is. Being alive and dead is a strange sensation. I, I really have to think this all out.” Garnor sputtered, still absorbing all he had heard.

“Go then. Think on it. We have plenty of time for you to learn what you must. There is no rush.”

Garnor nodded.

Alranos jumped remembering something and pulled a veil from his belt. “Since you’ll be going back through there,” he indicated towards the door that contained the blinding light of Life, “Wear this, you’ll be able to see. Eventually you won’t need it, your eyes will adjust. It just takes time.” he faltered, “Well, be on your way then.”

Garnor accepted the veil, tying it around his eyes as he had seen Alranos do. The veil looked dark, yet he could see fairly well through it. Another trick of this world, no, he corrected himself, of this dimension? He shook his head. There was so much to learn and by Alranos’ words it sounded like he had only barely scratched the surface. “Avelu, Alranos,” he murmured, “Go well.”

As he walked from the room and into the blinding light, Alranos looked up. “It’s too early.” he whispered softly so Garnor wouldn’t hear, “I can’t take you past the point of no return just yet, I won’t. You’ve never had the chance to live... I couldn’t... I just couldn’t.”

“Avelu?” Garnor’s face was puzzled as he closed the door. Where had that come from? “Avelu.” he said softly, feeling every aspect of the word in his mouth. The language of Death had become so natural to him, however, that the word felt foreign as if his birth tongue and Death’s tongue’s roles had been switched. He began to carefully pick his way through the shining threads. There were so many! They were everywhere, filling every corner of the room in seemingly random patterns.

“Oww.” he groaned, picking himself up from where he had fallen, sprawled gracelessly on his face. He hadn’t noticed the clump of threads lying across the floor and they had promptly tripped him. “You.” he half growled at them and then cried out for a different reason. The threads burned his hands and his shins where they touched them. He quickly stood, anxious to leave. It was unsettling, being burned by Life and he felt sick inside. Who was Death? he pondered. What did it mean to be Death that Life burnt your skin?

What had he become?