Psychopomp

Snivels echo here, taunting their creator. With the vanguard of morning light invading through the portholes of the unsettling cells, the snivels grow heavier. At the far end, to the left, the Krypteian told him Miss Petrus would be. Frightening cold dampness lingers, and Ewain feels it as soon as he descends into the collection of holding cells split to two sides.

To his right, the sniveling intensifies as he walks down, revealing its source in a man in tattered rags balled on the floor.

When Ewain walks by, the man’s eyes spy him. “Psy-,” he squints and then springs up to the bars of his cage, “Psychopompos! PSYCHOPOMPOS!” he screams to the shattering of his voice, “PLEASE! H-H-HELP ME! I-I B-BEG YOU! I HAVE A FAMILY!”

Please. Please. The begging screams follow him as he continues to the far end, resigning to sobs once Ewain is out of sight. On the end, to the left, he sees her, in tattered rags much like the man yet clutched quiet in the corner.

Her eyes open wide when she sees him, “Psychopompos? I thought the man finally broke when he started screaming. What…what are you doing here?” Cornelia tugs at the fringes of her clothes to cover as much of her pale skin as possible.

He leans against the bars, exhaustion creeping through his body, “Norma heard the waterfalls.”

Light glitters in Cornelia’s chestnut eyes, “She did? So, she’s Beyond?”

“All that remains is for her mother to Deliver her ashes.”

A profound smile curves through the lamentation in her face, “Thank you for telling me, Psychopompos.” Nascent cacophony of rousing people and budding crowds rides through the portholes with the increasing light. “That gives me some happiness. I…I don’t know if I will be hearing them.”

Kneeling to the gravity of the impending moment, Ewain descends to the ground, “Do you regret your decision?”

Hands wrapped around her knees, her eyes stare into her mind before returning to him, “No. Telling you the truth would’ve meant breaking a promise I made to my friend. I didn’t know what you would do with her journals…what you will do with them now.”

“I have not decided yet. Her mother wants them.”

“Norma wanted them to be burned. She told me if anything happened to her, to burn them.” Cornelia scoffs at herself, “I suppose I didn’t keep my promise after all.”

“You honored your friend to your end; you did not break your vow. The Ichorians will know this. Trust broken demands penance but not damnation as broken oaths do.”

She looks at him with tightening eyes, “What are you telling me, Psychopompos?”

Ewain looks back at her, “You must face your fate with dignity. Do not whimper or beg for mercy. Confront it, and the Ichorians may absolve you. This is the best way for you to reach the Beyond.”

Puzzlement twists her face, pushing her thin brows down on her eyes, “Who will remember me? Who will even take me to the Stygian? How will I even get a Death Box? I have no more friends. No family. What good will confronting my death with dignity do if there is no one who will Deliver me?”

“I will.”

“What?” the question alone takes the last of her shocked breath.

Outside the crowds grow to undeniable size and their clamor drips with anticipation. A heavy door groans from where Ewain entered earlier.

“Before six years elapses, I will find your resting spot, carry you to the Stygian myself, place you in a Funerary Box, and give you Deliverance.”

Cornelia comes to the bars, her face now so close to his he can see the shivering deep in her eyes, hear the tremble in her breath, feel the explosions of her heart. “You promise this?” Please don’t give me false hope, her face pleads. Please don’t say this just to alleviate whatever guilt you feel, her tears beg.

“Face your coming death with courage, fight for Worthiness, and I will do right by you, Miss Petrus. I promise.”

All come to see this theater of death. From every window, every rooftop, balcony, and tier they wait to witness its fruition. In numbers enough to leave not a space wanting for occupancy, people of the Haas Ward arrive once more to this square where lives in the thousands now have been snuffed. Yet this morning, tense with enigma and excitement, they all gather eager to see what they have never before. Already the platform appears different, with only two executioners and the others replaced by a long wooden table and four pulleys placed at the platform’s corners.

Did you hear? They caught the killer. They finally caught him.

I heard. It took them long enough.

What do you think they’ll do to him?

They won’t just take his head. We’ll get a show today.

Look! Look! There comes the Warden!

As water against rock, the crowd parts for the Warden and his guards, silence cascading throughout the square, with only the flapping of a bird’s wings daring to speak. Ewain stands amongst the crowd, near the platform that the Warden now ascends to, coming to stand next to the Consul who awaits him. Moments before, the Consul approached Ewain, pulled him to the side of the holding compound for words still fresh in the Psychopomp’s mind.

“Psychopompos,” the Consul had said with a tone that bespoke an acceptance of fate, “this case, your arrival, has made me realize much, see the reality of myself now. It’s clear I am no longer fit to fulfill my duty. At this day’s end, I wish to submit a request to the Order for a replacement and for myself to enter the Morrian Guard.”

The Morrian Guard…Ewain thinks now and had repeated then. “You will face ritual death, Consul.”

“I know,” his older counterpart said tranquilly, “and I ask for your testament to ensure it happens. It will be how I continue to serve and how I regain any honor I’ve lost during my tenure here.”

His honor…Ewain could not deny him the request. “I will see to it,” he told him, “that you receive an honorable death, Consul.”

“It would honor me if you were the one to discharge me,” the statement shocked him, still does.

“As you wish, Consul.” And now as the Psychopomp observes him, he sees an agitating calm, as water spinning beneath glass. Morrius guide you, Consul, he wishes.

Anticipation rises with the Warden’s hands, “Citizens and residents of the Haas Ward!” he calls, lowering his hands, “We have endured together an ordeal wholly new to us all! One that I will commit the entirety of my being to ensure never poisons our home again! Murder was the impetus for the downfall of this world! It was the first sin, cast upon us by our cursed kinship with the Great Traitor, and one shamefully still practiced by many other of our kin to this day! But not here! Not in the Haas Ward! Not ever again! Together we shall punish the man who sought our ruination!”

Applause punctuates his statement, a grand consensus of approval resounding in myriads of claps and howls. Down with this beast, they prod, make suffer this worshipper of the greatest sin.

“But first,” the Warden quiets their fervor, “we must end the lives of a man and woman. Two guilty of crimes before the Ichorians. Bring them out!”

Another rift opens in this vibrant sea of flesh and bone. Mr. Swann and Cornelia are brought forth and rained upon with verbal fury as they pass through, leaving in their wake a trail of tears. Ewain pushes people aside, ignoring their exasperation, trying to see Cornelia’s face, meet her eyes, yet she keeps them down to her feet.

Before their executioners, both are brought. Swollen and red from endless hours of ceaseless, despairing sobs, the Boatman’s face is barely recognizable to Ewain while next to him Cornelia’s hold on the reins of her own tears loosens with every encroaching second. Her face twists more and more, each fight against a raging sob cracking through.

Please. Please. Mr. Swann’s lips dispel over and over, his voice withered. With the nod of the Warden, guards push them both to their knees and place their necks on the blocks of their executioners.

So hard Ewain stares at her, hoping and hoping she will meet his gaze, yet her eyes keep ever down, and her lips quiver uncontrollably. Look up, he thinks and hopes she somehow hears.

The Consul steps forward, places his hands on the frames of their guillotines, and bellows with ominous thunder, “Be not afraid nor in anguish for the Ichorians are the true and final judges! Leave this world as you should when you greet them, absent beg and whimper, with strength and courage! They may yet show mercy!” He then pauses. Mr. Swann drops more tears onto the platform and Cornelia strains to raise her eyes. “Mighty Ichorians, this man, Phineas Swann, and this woman, Cornelia Petrus, have been found guilty of crimes in your sight. In the name of Detia the Judge and Mykar the Executioner, they have been condemned to death. May you judge them fairly.”

Higher those petrified brown eyes try to look, and Ewain searches, waits to meet them one final time. Then death snaps its fingers, and just as her eyes were on the cusp of connection, they hollow and fall into the barrel below.

Thunderous applause roars all around Ewain, thrashing him in a bloodthirsty maw. He rubs his face and finds upon his finger a red drop.