Old Promises

The thing he liked most about A Spot Of Pleasantness was the peace it promised. When he walked in, he could be sure that the tea would be hot, the shopkeep friendly (she kept prattling on about how excellent this new shipment from Jidai was), and the room would be still. There wasn’t activity in here, despite the speed at which the rest of the Spindle turned. Here, he could just rest.

Rest was not something he’d experienced in quite a while. When he was young, he’d made a poor decision, and ended up being saddled with responsibility that kept him busy for several centuries. And even once he freed himself from those shackles of obligation, more work had found him. Old scores that he’d neglected to settle and family matters that were thoroughly caked in dust by the time he arrived. When your lifespan was functionally infinite, it was very easy to lose track of time, for years to blur together until it all seemed to slip through your fingers like sand.

He was tired. And he was getting old. His reflection stared back at him from the untouched tea, and he tilted his head from one side to the other, taking in all the details. Most people wouldn’t recognize the signs of age on his features, as they hadn’t likely met anything like him before, but he could. The bright red of his skin had darkened until it looked like wine. His horns, which he’d long managed to keep at a presentable length, had grown to the point where they were unmaskable. His eyes had lost all semblance of humanity, and had taken on a golden hue that caught on the windows as he looked around the tea shop.

He hated it. All of this. Every time he began to think of anything, whether it was his age, or his former duties, or how he’d mismanaged all of his time, or the face of Alexadros, or the crypts, or—

It just spiraled. Everything led into everything and he was burdened anew. He sighed, lifted the cup, and took a deep drink. Closing his eyes, he focused on the physical sensations of it. The slight chip in the rim of the cup. The perfectly warm tea. The soft crinkling noise the leaves made as they were forced around the cup by the liquid’s motion. The smell of it, of blossoms in an untouched autumn. The shop promised him peace.

“Hieronymus?”

He almost spit out the liquid. The shop had failed to deliver. He turned towards the door, trying to keep a friendly face, but inside he was seething. He hadn’t given out that name while he was on the Spindle, which meant that anyone who knew that name knew him from another life. But as he looked at the girl who stood there, in the doorway, he realized that wherever she knew him from, the feeling was not mutual.

“Some have called me that,” he answered, tactfully. “If you’re interested in talking, you’re welcome to come over here, but I’d like to finish my tea first.” He wondered how long he could nurse this tea, putting off whatever call to action was being asked of him now.

“I...I was starting to suspect you had died. I’ve been trying to find you for months, and there have been so many rumors—”

“Well, yes, there often are when it comes to me.” He rolled his eyes. The quip hadn’t been one he could resist. There was something about the girl’s accent that was familiar to him, one last piece of the puzzle his mind was trying to finish.

“I’m glad to see you. Eltensia needs you.”

Hieronymus closed his eyes. He bit his tongue. He tried everything he could to ground himself, to embrace the peace that the tea shop had offered him, had promised him. But he couldn’t help himself, and the teacup cracked within his hands, a fracture neatly splitting it in two, the leaves inside rapidly rotting and spoiling the hot water. He could feel it creeping away from him, seeping into the table in front of him and the chair beneath him.

“No.” The voice brought him back to reality, as he glanced up at the shopkeep, staring him down from across the room. “There will be no fighting in my tea house. Am I understood?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said. He debated defending himself, saying that he wasn’t going to fight, that he’d just lost control for a moment, but he doubted that would help. “I can pay for any repairs?” The offer fell on deaf ears as she moved quickly away to do something in the backroom. Now Hieronymus was alone with the Eltensian. “I thought I recognized your accent,” he began, “but I’ll admit that I was hoping that this wasn’t going to be what it is.”

“I...I’m not sure what you mean by that. But we need our Warden.” She stumbled over her own words, and Heironymus rolled his eyes.

“I left you a host of angels and one of the most robust afterlives in the multiverse. You don’t need me to defend you from....imaginary zombie hordes or what have you,” he said, waving his hand.

“You...” She stared at him with a stupefied look.

“Listen, girl, I served my sentence as your plane’s warden. And I’m sure that you can now see that this multiverse has so much to offer that isn’t a dismal, backwater, endlessly dark and perpetually sickening hole in the ground. Eltensia will be fine, without me. I made sure of it before my departure. After all, that’s what I agreed to.”

The other planeswalker blinked, and slowly the face of confusion twisted into rage. “You stupid coward, nothing is fine!” Her voice filled the entire tea house as she slapped her hands on the table. “Your angels were overrun within months, your afterlife is a waiting room not a prison, and Eltensia is ruled by liches!” She reached across the table and grabbed him by his collar, and Hieronymus was so stunned he let her. “I have seen violence you couldn’t fathom, innocent lives stolen with a casual whim. I’ve seen elaborate rituals designed to shatter the doors that bind the dead under the world, and the sky darken into perpetual night. I have seen blood like rivers pour from the tops of the tallest towers of castles that once protected us. My name is Manira of Bulvem and I’m returning to my plane with you, even if I have to drag you there myself.”

He reached up, and noticed her briefly flinch as his hands passed hers. Under that poise, that righteous rage, she was nothing more than a scared mortal. He pressed both index fingers hard against his temples, and slowly massaged them. “Arcet?”

“Him, and many like him. And he’s planning something, although I can’t say for certain what it is. But he’s been parlaying with the other Lichlords, as well as the Rose Court and—”

“Lichlords? Courts?” He cursed, and then winced slightly as a hairline fracture appeared along the table. “I suppose you’ll need to explain things on the way. I’ll come with you, clean up this mess, and then I can finally get some rest.”

She let go of him, her arms trembling with what he had to guess was a mixture of rage and fear. “Warden....do you know how long you’ve been gone?” He shook his head. “The best of our records suggest that Arcet made his claim to this world over eight centuries ago.”

He felt himself go pale. “That’s not possible.” It wasn’t. It didn’t make any sense. He knew he’d been wandering, but he also knew that his other stops had taken him....a few years at most. And then all of it clicked. The centuries he’d spent defending Eltensia’s afterlife, sitting in that throne. When he finally left, his family estate was still intact when he returned to Vigaros. It was dusty, and empty, but the world still held it in a similar shape. “Thrice damn you, Alexadros,” he muttered, “Why would you leave that detail out?”

Time didn’t work the same way on Eltensia. Hieronymus Scratch was so, so, so tired. But at this point all he could hope was that one day, he would find time to rest. But for now, he had a promise to keep.

Characters

 * Hieronymus Scratch
 * Lady Mari
 * Manira