Reflections Upon the Anniversary of My Descent

Dear Marton,

I hope you get this. I don’t understand how burning a letter in the physical world is supposed to transport the message to a specific person in the afterlife, but after everything I’ve seen, I’m not discounting folklore ever again.

It’s been five years since you died. I assume you’re somewhere nice, like the stories they told us at the temple about the Precursor’s Garden. I hope there’re plenty of books there. You can spend all day studying and no one will give you shit about it. Maybe you’ll be in a library that goes on forever, or a university near a rainforest.

Please, move on. Meet other girls that won’t threaten you with a hockey stick until you take them to the school dance! (Sorry I did that. Hey, I was sixteen.)

Don’t wait for me.

This is going to be a strange letter, Marton. I wanted to write to you the same way I used to scribble postcards to Grandpa. I would throw them on the bonfires at the Autumn Festival, and watch the wind blow the sparks upwards until they became the stars above or parts of the planetary ring.

When I started this, it was a single page. Now, there’s paper everywhere and I’m still going. Thaena said it was alright to write stuff as long as it’s never found by others. (Rule One, don’t make a mess, blah blah blah.) I’ll burn everything, and you’ll have a big rambling offline blog thing to read while you’re walking around the gardens of paradise.

If you’re wondering what I’ve been doing since the Day, I pulled through, trained extra hard, got my degree and qualified for pro hockey, where I’ve made $$$ in endorsements and I’m married to a famous scientist who’s also a great stay-at-home dad and we have a set of boy/girl twins.

The sort of future we talked about.

And while that’s what I want to tell you—it’s all bullshit.

I owe you more than that.

I owe you the truth.

You always asked that from me.

---

I wish there had been more to our last day together.

I wish it had been perfect.

Like my amazing birthday the previous year where you picked me up in your new red sports car and gave me that silver bracelet. You’d booked the Harbor Room at the yacht club. Afterwards, we walked along the piers and ogled the rich boats, and the sunset turned the river to liquid gold, the same color as your eyes.

Or when we drove to the beach in the summer, and the temperature spiked and you were a red lobster for days, shedding skin flakes everywhere like Mom’s stupid hairless cat.

Or even our usual date night, where we’d grab the latest Blitz Burger special, and hit your Dads’ den and watch whatever random movie was on and pretend school never existed.

Instead, our last day was… normal, I guess?

It was the weekend. I went to hockey practice, did my laundry, cleaned my room, and updated all the socials. Oh, and I had (another) fight with Mom. I heard her on the phone talking to one of her friends, and paid little attention, until she said, “Just checking, Inserra. Esha’s going to a High Summer party tonight, at your place and I wanted to confirm that—”

I shot bolt upright and stalked downstairs to where Mom walked slowly on the treadmill, speaking into her headset. “—oh good, that’s great to know—”

I stood in front of the treadmill, glaring.

Mom frowned, but spent a few more minutes on pointless pleasantries until she hung up. “What, Esha?”

“Did you ring Areven’s mom to check that the party tonight was real?” I folded my arms. “Do you think I lied?”

“Honey, I’m just making sure—”

“We had a deal. I have done everything you’ve ever asked of me. My grades are good. I got the hockey award last year. Yet you still don’t trust me enough to believe me when I tell you I’m going to a party at Areven’s house!”

“It’s not you I don’t trust.” Mom stopped the treadmill, dabbing her face with a towel.

“What do you mean?” Then it hit. “This is about Marton? Again? How many times does he have to prove himself to you?”

“He’s a year older than you,” Mom complained. “And he’s always so sly about everything—”

“Huh? Mom, he’s the sweetest, kindest boyfriend in the universe! You don’t like him, you never have!”

I stormed to my room and didn’t speak to Mom for the rest of the day. Didn’t even get her advice on my outfit, something I usually did. Oh, how I wish I’d made more effort to get on with her! To understand what she was saying; that she did this from a position of respect.

Instead, all I wanted was to be with you. The only person who understood me; the one who truly listened.

I met you outside in your red sports car, and we drove away.

Do you remember what we talked about? I don’t. Why do I remember a fight with Mom, and only fragments of my last proper conversation with you? I think I mentioned hockey, and there was that band you wanted to see. Oh, and I asked how your dad, Tervan, was doing after his heart attack.

“He’s good.” You smiled in that way that lit up your face. “He’s been discharged from hospital.” Then your expression closed off. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Oh, and yeah. I spoke about my history paper.

(Look, I know you know a lot about this. Some of this. But since this is my letter/journal/thing, I’m writing it all out. Mainly, because I want to tell you what happened to me, and how it all felt. Let’s just go with this, okay?)

Anyway, Mr. Crabb had given me a C for the essay. I moaned about it for ages.

You said: “It was fanfiction. I was surprised you didn’t get a D.”

“It’s not fanfiction. It had real events in it. I totally would have been a knight at General Hawkbow’s side, kicking Dark Legion butt. Hmm, maybe historical fiction?”

“You know Crabb hates anything that suggests magic actually happened.”

Anger flashed briefly in your eyes; I wish I’d asked you more about magic in that moment. I really do. “Anyway, there’s no scientific evidence,” you continued. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Fine, what about—” I glanced out the window. “Where are we going? This isn’t the Diamond Ward.” I peered through the darkened window at unfamiliar landmarks. We’d driven to Areven’s house plenty of times and I didn’t recognize the streets outside.

“I’m picking up supplies for the party,” you said.

“Beer? And VodChocs?” They were the best; they tasted exactly like a chocolate milkshake with ice cream, only they were full of vodka. I could manage a couple at a party.

(I haven't had one for years, but remember the flavor.)

“Absolutely. This liquor store has everything and I know the guy on shift.”

You drove to a row of stores in the middle of nowhere. One of them had a glitzy sign: ‘Bear’s Beer & Wine’. You turned into a narrow alleyway where a small parking lot stretched behind the strip. The only light came from distant streetlights on the other side of a chain-link fence that cut us off from a train line.

“I’ll come.” I didn’t want to be alone here.

“Nah, it’ll be easier for me to get the stuff if you’re not there. Wait in the car. You know the drill.”

That was the problem: I was a seventeen-year-old dating an older guy. I held you back at places like nightclubs and liquor stores because I made you look young (or so you said). I got used to waiting in the car.

“This place is so creepy,” I complained.

“Won’t be long.” You gave me a quick peck on the cheek. More like a grandma kiss than a proper last embrace. “Play some music, Esha, and chill. It’ll be fine.” Then your shoulders tightened with tension. “Listen, there’s something important I need to tell you.” You ran a hand through your disheveled hair. “It’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while.”

“About what?”

“Later.” You smiled, closed the door, and sprinted across the concrete to the main street.

That’s where you left me.

I put on the radio, tried not to think I was in a spooky place in the middle of nowhere, and that soon I’d be at the party with Areven and VodChocs. And what were you trying to tell me? Were you going to do something like propose? I daydreamed about a wedding, my eyes half-closed. I mean, it was way too early to get married, of course, but I wouldn’t have said no to a ring. I loved you that much.

---

Question Time.

Why did you take so long?

Why didn’t I complain harder about being abandoned in the creepiest parking lot in the world?

Why didn’t I lock the door?

Instead, I waited, humming along to the radio. Secure in my bubble of reality that everything was fine.

Until someone opened the passenger-side door.

I thought it was you for a second before I realized my mistake.

A man with blonde hair plastered over his face, like he’d come from the shower, loomed over me wearing a t-shirt with a horned skull on it. A skullshirt. I couldn’t believe he was wearing something so blatantly fascist-douchebag.

Yes, I was being terrorized by someone and all I did was stare at his t-shirt. I didn’t move as he grabbed me and dragged me outside.

I could have done several things.

Not fixate on the stupid shirt.

Honk the horn.

Call the police.

I did exactly none of them.

Instead, I froze as he pulled me onto the concrete of the parking lot.

Where two more waited. One watched everything: a man with a receding hairline and a face so pimpled and acne-scarred he resembled a toad.

The other reeked of thick, choking musk: an orc, with foam coating his snout. A string of shark teeth hung around his neck.

That was the three of them: Skullshirt. Toadface. Fangs.

“Let go of me!” The ice holding me broke. I screamed and struggled. Liquid fear poured through my veins. I was going to run and—

Fangs hit me. My head cracked against the concrete.

Skullshirt bent over me with a knife, blade glinting in the distant light. He stabbed me. Again and again. His glazed eyes resembled frosted marbles.

I howled. The shock of seeing myself stabbed was worse; I didn’t feel any pain. Except I couldn’t move, I couldn’t move my arms.

Had to get up, had to run, get help—

I fell back, dizzy. Couldn’t move.

You ran into view, hands waving. My hero. You’d save me and everything would be alright—

Except, I watched you die.

Toadface ran forward and hit your head with a stout piece of wood. He said something, only I couldn’t hear it. Skullshirt left me on the blacktop, blood pooling everywhere, and ran over to you. Fangs joined them. They surrounded you and kicked.

I couldn’t lift my hands above the ground. All I could think was this shouldn’t be happening. How could it be happening?

I screamed for help. Except my shouts never left the bounds of my head. I was powerless. Alone.

And worse, I couldn’t do anything.

These guys had taken everything from me, and it had only been a few minutes.

My vision faded. My head spun. It wasn’t fair. The last thing I saw was the three of them surrounding you, kicking and clubbing and beating you. Why? Why?

Even as my consciousness faded, I raged. I’d give anything to be able to do something.

Then I heard the deep, headmaster-ish voice bouncing off the inside of my skull: Do you want to live? To gain vengeance on all your foes?

“Fuck yes! Let me kill them all!”

Accept this vestige of myself and make it part of you.

Who was the voice? What was a vestige?

I didn’t have time to worry about that.

Everything hurt. Like being impaled by a thousand spikes. I screamed as liquid agony burned through me; my blood turned to hot lead. Something heavy sprouted from my skull, my skin burned, shifted, hardened.

Everything clicked over from darkness into clarity. It wasn’t as though lights snapped on. More like every scrap of illumination—the blur of stars, moon and ring behind the clouds—intensified. I stood as the tides of agony subsided.

I saw your head: the side crushed in, raw and bloody.

And my hands, now covered in crimson, serpentine red scales. My stomach, no longer bleeding—the red scales sealed the wound over.

Pain faded from my limbs. I flexed my hands. Huge, black-dagger claws erupted from the ends of my fingers.

“What?” Toadface screamed, backing away. Fangs growled, drool running down his snout.

Rather than panicking and going oh no I’ve turned into a monster WTF! or woe is me,anger boiled in my gut, and I leaned into it.

These claws? Time to use them.

I ripped into Fang’s shoulder, tearing through layers of cloth, bristly orc skin and muscle.

He tried to stab me. I head-butted him. The heavy things on my head shattered his skull. I bit down on the exposed raw meat and ate chunks of his brain, not thinking, simply exulting in being free to do something, to make them suffer. Whatever I was now, I was strong, tough. I could hurt them, just like they’d hurt me.

Fangs dropped to the concrete: smashed, cut-up, dead. I seized the blood-covered necklace of shark teeth and yanked it free, holding it aloft.

His internal essence—his soul—was flushed away like shit in a toilet, screaming as he went someplace bad. My body burned with the pain of a thousand barbs.

Normality snapped in. Darkness replaced my super night vision. My skin returned to its normal brown, and my claws vanished.

The blood covering me turned to powder and drifted away. The world itself wanted to hide the monster within me.

Human again. My exposed stomach was crusted with dried blood, but no open wounds.

I was ready to chase Skullshirt and Toadface. Only you were lying before me on the ground.

According to the movies, I would have been able to cradle you in my lap and hear your last inspirational words.

I didn’t get that.

The left side of your head was a bloody mush. Your golden eyes were bulging, bloodshot, and staring at the sky. Unblinking.

I wrapped the shark-fang necklace I’d won around my arm, sat in your blood and begged you to wake.

You didn’t move.

Before, something had answered me—the thing within that hurt like a rusty iron hook.

The vestige. Maybe it could bring you back.

When I poked at it, a shiver of pain ran through me, and I stood in another world.

---

It was in Birth Dad’s old office. One of those big ones with an architect’s desk, rows of bookcases and a fancy computer. The room was how I remembered it before he’d run off with that lawyer.

There was a man sitting on a tall chair. He resembled Birth Dad—thick, horn-rimmed glasses, kinky hair buzzed into a military cut, open-necked shirt, jeans—but not quite. More like a famous actor was playing the part. Close, not perfect. An aura of coldness and yet familiarity surrounded him.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“We spoke earlier. I’m your Father now.” He leaned into his chair. “We don’t have long—these connections are fleeting. I will answer your questions.”

“You gave me these powers.” Claws slipped briefly from my fingertips—sharp, painful. “And that vestige thing.” The bit of me that was also part of him arced between us like electricity. That wasn’t important at the moment. “How do I save Marton?”

“You cannot,” ‘Father’ said in a crisp, commanding voice. “Nothing in the world can return the dead to life, as they were.”

Raw, hot pain flooded me. Anger simmered from my gut. “What are you?” I demanded.

He sighed and removed his glasses, polishing them on a shirttail. “A prisoner of the Netherworld, sentenced by ancient, unjust laws.” He donned his glasses again. “A demon.”

“Really?” I scoffed. “That’s just folklore!”

“You used my gifts to defeat your foes. Were you saved by folklore?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Well, okay.” I suppose I should have been more panicky, more questioning. Instead, there was just calm acceptance. “What happens now?” I figured he wouldn’t kill or eat me straightaway—that vestige he’d given was part of him. It felt like an enormous investment.

“I gave you power. Do with it as you see fit.”

“Come on!” I snapped. “No one gives away things for free. Especially not demons.” All I knew from folklore, festivals, and religious ceremonies was that they were sinister spirits; the creatures that answer cries of vengeance for offerings. And that was the key bit—they wanted something first.

Father nodded. “The Netherworld of Thargul is a vast prison for souls that fall afoul of the ancient laws. It’s a barrier between your world and the horrors outside reality that seek to invade. Thargul is brilliantly designed.” He tapped at the drawing on his architect’s plan, which was a convoluted labyrinth that made my head hurt. “It’s a self-perpetuating system where the prisoners are also the jailers and there is brief respite. In short, to stave off my own torments and to keep the horrors sealed, I require souls.”

When I’d ripped away Fang’s life, he’d gone somewhere. And how I’d changed into a crimson-scaled murder machine. “You want me to go around slaughtering people for you?” I folded my arms.

“Nothing so crude.” His lips curled in distaste. “The Netherworld is a prison that craves particular souls—those who transgress its ancient laws. A good deal of its rules are irrelevant rubbish; however, there are still acts that were crimes in my age, and remain in yours. Murder, rape, treachery, the defilement of the innocent, and so forth. You’ve already had your first taste of worthy prey.”

I licked Fangs’ blood from my teeth.

Thought of you, Marton, and how you were gone.

And because I’d lost control on that cusp of transformation, Toadface and Skullshirt were free. “I can get them. The bad guys.”

“Excellent.” Father sipped coffee from a finger-painted mug I had given Birth Dad when I was seven. “You have the idea already. You will wake shortly. Speak to me again on resonant ground. Otherwise, ask your sister.”

“Sister? I don’t have a sister.”

He gave a knowing look and glanced at his watch.

Everything froze and shuddered. Our psychic internet connection was dropping. More questions came to mind. “Hey? How do I find those—”

Too late.

I woke up.

---

I know Mrs. Carter said never to end a story with ‘I woke up’, but that’s really what happened after I spoke to Father that time. Seems a good place to end this for now; my hand is cramping from getting this all on paper.

You’re probably thinking I’m going to tell you about how I avenged you, like a slick cambion vigilante. Except that’s not what happened. Not exactly.

More next time.