Life After Almost

The sky is deep blue and speckled with smoldering stars. Slender grasses and reeds softly whisper in the summer winds. The burning, blinding warmth of the setting sun, awash with lovey pinks, sweet oranges, and rumbling purples, has faded into the cool grey twilight. Day creatures lay down to rest, but the night stirs and wakes.

A darkly robed figure sweeps quietly through the forest brush, his path lit by a glowing full moon and an effervescent field of blinking fireflies nearby. His movements are quick and sure. He strides off the beaten path, further into a grove of looming pines with their rustling branches. But the sudden appearance of a knife cutting the ground directly in front of his foot forbids one more step. This occurrence would make a usual person start and retreat, but he is no common man. He instead pauses in the wake of the knife, his gaze tracing its path of origin from the canopy above. His search reveals his presumptions were correct. High above, a humanoid shadow has perched itself casually on a sturdy branch, twirling another knife in a gesture that is somehow both blasé and threatening.

“Orion,” the shadow greets, nonchalantly from his perch. Orion’s hood falls from his head, unmasking the fire mage’s conspicuously red hair. Craning his neck back, Orion flashes a crooked, knowing smile at the silhouette. “Sylvian!” he calls, “I figured it was you. You almost took my toe off.” His tone is bemused, scuffing the toe of his boot on the soft ground, not at all disturbed by his near loss of limb. He stoops and grabs the knife from where it is lodged in the firm, rich dirt. As Orion examines its polished wooden handle and fine, curved metal blade, Sylvian drops gracefully down beside him. “Yours,” Orion says as he flips the knife to present its handle to Sylvian. The man wordlessly retrieves it.

A long time ago, in an age before Man had etched out a life on the planet called Earth, there were only spirits. Unlike Man, the spirits never got hungry, never tired, and never aged or grew ill. These beings were safe in their land, under the guidance of an all-knowing and all-powerful Some One who gave them purpose. Suffice to say, these spirits served that Some One rather perfunctorily, and in return wanted for nothing. Almost.

A regiment of guards existed to protect the Some One from dangers. What dangers, I suppose No One could know. The guard existed and worked as commanded, led by a beloved Captain. His men found that they cared for the Captain profoundly, though such behavior was practically criminal. Reverence was typically reserved only for the Some One. It was the only One free to show affection and grace and wrath in this land. It was the only One free to receive such gifts as well. And It, too, seemed particularly fond of the Captain, with no predilection for sharing what It assumed was rightfully owned.

So, the guards that had dared “want” (though, keep in mind, there was no such word in their vernacular) were made to go away. Where to put them, I suppose, No One could know. For what was a place to put things that no longer were anything? Perhaps an empty, forgotten hole in the universe which itself had no name…and so, could that place really exist? The Some One figured not, and that such a thing was right in Its design. So that is where the defective guards (and really, all wrong spirits) were then cast.

However, that place was not empty. It could not be, and here is why: in an instant, what had been No Where was now Some Where. For one cannot “be” where there is nowhere. And that place would later be called Earth.

The two men walked quietly on, rustling the pliant pine needles beneath them as they went, until they arrived at a small clearing. Two strikingly attractive wraiths, named Calum and Tobi, looked up from their work. They had sensed the uncommonly loud aura of their unexpected visitor. Orion somehow smiled even wider upon spotting them as well. Calum’s expression was reserved and appraising, though not hostile. After a pause, he decidedly came to some internal conclusion, which he did not share, and turned back to his work. Tobi, as usual, was of the opposite persuasion. He sat quickly up on his seat, a large flat rock, crossing his legs and leaning forward with bright, eager eyes. “Ah, hey, Orion! Not often we see you around here,” he called amicably. “Can’t imagine why,” Tobi continued, mumbling this time, and scrunching up his features in jest. Though Orion could not hear the exact words, that mischievous glint in Tobi’s eyes was all too familiar.

Orion began to respond but was cut off by Sylvian. “I have Brant covering my shift. I’ll be busy dealing with this,” he punctuated the word by slapping a flat hand squarely onto Orion’s chest with a thud. Orion winced, but it was mostly for show. He was not at all afraid in this company…he had known that Sylvian and the Elves were camped in this area. He had come of his own volition, right into “enemy” lines. They knew that too, so to say he was their prisoner was not quite accurate. He tried to remind himself that he was amongst some of the most powerful wizards on Earth. Though his power rivaled theirs, he had little advantage presently. He felt a twinge of excitement, despite himself. He had always admired the relative wildness and spontaneity of Earth, so unlike the rigid formalities and social castes of Hell.

His wandering mind was certainly not helped by the fact that Elves tend to forgo clothing—another symbolic expression of their free-spirited lifestyle. As Orion and Sylvian passed by Tobi, the devilish imp stretched out on his side and cast a meaningful up and down look at Orion. Orion felt a familiar twitch in his gut, and the creep of a blush on his neck. Not to be outdone, he boldly flashed Tobi a new type of grin, before disappearing back into the tree line with his captor.

A long time ago, before Man first sowed seeds into the ground and thought about what it meant to be, the Earth was a place for forgotten things, lost things, or new things. Not like the Old World where, as we were told, Time did not exist. In this frozen realm, Time did not tell anyone where to be and what to do—that was Some One’s job. So, if Some One owned Time, It certainly did not share it. And if It did not share it, we certainly could not know what it was. And if we could not know what it was, we certainly could not “want” for it. Almost.

But Earth was not so. The land was not owned, rather it was overseen by ancient beings tethered to its planes. Those who coexisted within this untamed place, the Elves, communed with Nature and sought to maintain balance amongst all things. This was not like Man, who sought to become a master, bend all things to his will, and progress beyond the limits of mortality. Neither was it like Demons or Angels, who sought to use Earth’s resources as weapons and its surface as the final battle ground of Armageddon. Yet it was here—in this arena where chaos and the natural order were nearly indistinguishable, where a whisper of promise seemed to echo deep within the soul of every being. In this place—where there was no certainty except that of constant and unrelenting transformation— two wizards, two friends, might have lived together peacefully. Almost.

The Captain was not long before he, too, disappointed the Some One and fell from grace. Only this time, the One thought it better in design to set aside a specific place for the defectors to go. After all, It had run out of places which held nothing, and so could not send anyone nowhere. That just would not make any sense. Though that was quite regrettable, One’s nature was not ever to be wrong. It bowed to Its own superior judgement, and Hell was made.

By a languidly flowing stream, disturbing the damp blankets of sand along its bank, two ageless beings prepare for battle. But this was not a battle of might. Instead, it was a battle of stamina…an ongoing conflict which neither could seem to win, though neither would give up. Still, both had valiantly fought for so long, neither could imagine what it would be like to stop now. The meaning of it all was not quite the same as it had been. Their grudges had been gradually dulled with the weight of countless years. No, this battle was not the same one they had started. It had grown to something much bigger than either man. It has gained a miserable semi-consciousness all its own, just out of their reach, out of their control. This was no longer about two ageless beings, but about the two finite realms that they both held dear.

Once away from prying eyes and ears, Sylvian turned abruptly, his mouth snarling. “You don’t call or nothin’ and you think you can just walk right up into camp—like that! You must think you hot shit, don’t you?” he starts off, his brown eyes shining fiercely. Orion’s mouth, with its infallible smile, starts to formulate his response but is not allowed. “Ah, ah, ah! No, I don’t wanna hear it. You always got some excuse, and always smilin’ like you welcome here. Ain’t nobody round here that wanna see your sorry ass. Well, maybe Tobi…but that’s not the point!” Sylvian’s detached façade now receded into an all-to-familiar tirade about the many misgivings between them. Sylvian would particularly linger on the harshest analysis of the fire-wielder: how he had no pride, no sense of self other than what he donned to fit the sensibilities of those around him, and how his artificial confidence was a shabby attempt to hide such offenses.

And Orion tried to listen; he really did. He interjected where he should, in his light-hearted, jabbing way. This was how their dance generally went. They had rehearsed it many times. As Sylvian raved on, though, Orion was getting further away, remembering. It was a deep kind of remembering that maybe only Earth could bring out of him. Sylvian did not notice right away, so he was surprised when Orion stepped brazenly toward him. The space between them closes, as Orion wraps his arms tightly around Sylvian, whose own arms are squeezed tightly down at his sides. Sylvian is slightly stunned, for just a second. The self-conflict is evident in his widened eyes. He was pretty sure he was mad, but his body betrays him and begins to relax. There is simply no malice in Orion, even when Sylvian wants there to be. Even if that would make being enemies easier.

“What do you think you’re doing?” It comes out accusingly, but still too soft, not like the hard edge he had wanted. Orion holds fast, unshaken, oblivious. “I really missed you Syl,” Orion says, low and clear from just behind Sylvian’s ear. Orion’s sincerity burns in Sylvian’s chest. The words melt and linger in the warm summer air.

A long time ago, when Man was still just a thought, a Captain was reunited with one of his lost guardsmen on the pitch-black road to Hell. The light of his fire magic, cutting a path through the inky blackness, was like the sun dawning on their new era. But the happiness of their reunion was not to last, for their lives were now irreparably fractured, having lost the only home they had ever known and, therefore, losing themselves. Hell was, in fact, filled with fractured, lost beings—a beautiful and cruel mosaic of broken stained-glass pieces. And then, sometime after, the pitch-black road yielded the Earth, verdant and abysmal, hazardous yet free.

And it was under these conditions that the two powerful wizards were yet again torn from each other. What force divided them, No One could certainly know. To create new life…to be removed from the will of their maker…to leave their obligatory home, in favor of the rugged terrain of the Earth…that was the path chosen by one. To preserve what remained of life…to craft Hell into a place worth living…to prepare for the prophesied war to end all wars…that was the path of the other.

Many times, after the development of Man, their paths would cross. For one had sworn to protect life in Earth, and the other had sworn to protect life in Hell, but Man soon was in both places. Man would come to dominate Earth, but suffer in Hell, to be recycled but not saved. And the Angels took great pleasure in watching such tragedy unfold…to know that Man strained in vain towards a salvation owned by the Angels…to revel in Man’s pain when such graces were objectively denied time and again. Such was the right of Angels, by design. For it was generally agreed that the spirits who had not been cast away onto the pitch-black road were surely superior. This comforted the Angels. Almost.

So, there were sometimes when it was easy for the Demon and the Traitor to fight alongside each other for common goals. Neither truly hated the other—in fact, both quietly loved the other and the worlds they now called Home. But looming over each interaction was the knowledge that, one day, Angels would grow tired of Hell and move to destroy it. And lurking beneath each tender touch was the fear that Earth’s life would be devastated during the final stand, in a flurry of blood and chaos in which it would be impossible to tell friend from foe. With no choice, both worlds they loved would die at the very moment they fought to live.

Sylvian musters his will and shoves out of the embrace. “Lay off. What is it you want?” he pressures stoically. His eyes are skeptical, prying. Orion pauses and looks away, strangely reluctant all the sudden. “…Nothing, actually. It doesn’t matter. Not important.” “Bullshit.”

Well, Orion had come for something, of course. But it suddenly felt very silly, compared to the way Sylvian looked right now. Beneath his cool and lonely exterior was a man of quiet passion. Rough and tender hands that sculpted wood and extended friendly pats to animals. Sturdy knees for jumping, calloused bare feet for climbing tall trees, and keen eyes that saw the world from above, like a bird. The lithe features of a gymnast who made the Earth his tumbling ground. Looking ethereal in the moonlight, austerely surveying Orion like a wolf—capable of running or attacking…or showing affection…but instead staring, sensing the things that were usually imperceptible, with a knowing gaze. A powerful determination and graciousness that Orion felt in the pit of his stomach.

“I…did come for something else. But I don’t want to talk about that. I just want to be here with you now.” Orion admitted a little sheepishly. Sylvian again faltered for a millisecond. He was glad the dusky evening hid his small, involuntary twitch, and that Orion was no longer close enough to feel the rising of his body temperature. He tried to stay business-like, though that mood was clearly fading fast. He tried to ignore the humming of the atmosphere that was shared between them. “I don’t have time for your games. Some of us have work to be doing,” Sylvian chided. Orion did not miss a beat. “Well, call me ‘work’ then,” his voice twinkled with naughtiness.

Now it was Sylvian’s turn to crack a smile. He couldn’t help that. But he could perhaps beat Orion at his own game. “I could call you a lotta things,” he muttered playfully.

“Want to? I’ll give you my phone number.”

“Huh. Not like you get cell service down there, stuck in the medieval period.”

“Maybe I’ll stay awhile on Earth then. Care if I bunk with you?”

“Yeah, right. My people will sooner see you sleep’n with the fishes.”

Orion pretended to shudder at the threat. “Hmm…On second thought, maybe I’ll just lay here in this niiiiiice sand instead,” he drawled while plopping down onto the bank, leaning back with his hands behind his head to gaze up at the night sky.

Sylvian bit his lip as Orion’s cape opened in front, revealing an undershirt which had hiked up when Orion lifted his arms. A peek of tanned skin, smooth and firm, and a bit of unruly red hair just above his beltline. He averted his eyes but walked over to the lounging man and peered down at his face. “So, what? You just gonna lay there? You done runnin’ your mouth already?” and other such jabs flowed from Sylvian’s wonderfully mean lips. Orion flashed him another bright white smile, laughing steadily now. Sylvian internally questioned why he was still antagonizing Orion; he should just let the fool act a fool, he thought to himself. Maybe he was caught up in how good the laughter felt, resonating off the rocks and trees and filling the carefully guarded space between them.

They continued their banter as the night slid stealthily by. They swapped stories, updating each other on where they had been and what they had been doing since their last encounter. The stories were always told in present tense; they silently agreed to steer clear of the lost past. But as pleasant as this was, neither could shake the feeling that something else needed to happen. Fireflies danced around the pair as they sat together. The chilled wind from the creek ruffled and refreshed them. When a firefly landed on Sylvian’s upturned palm, Orion observed it with slight awe. “How do you get things like that to happen?” Orion asked. Sylvian smirked, feeling a surge of pride. “For starters, I don’t go bumbling around, makin’ out to be somethin’ bigger than I really am,” Sylvian teased as he gave Orion a shrewd side-eyed glance.

Sylvian turned his hand over, and over, following the path of the firefly adoringly. After a brief pause, he more softly continued, “I just…I understand the way they feel. They wanna know it’s safe. And sometimes they angry, and I get that too. See, it’s not always quick. Ain’t always simple. So, I just wait…patiently. Let them come to me when they ready.” As the last of his words slipped away on the breeze, Sylvian’s gaze suddenly became very meaningful. He could feel a change in the ether as realization sank into both men. In a way, he had meant to say those words, and in the same way, he hadn’t intended for their implications to hang so heavily. But it was too late now. The men locked eyes, waiting. Aching to see if this would be a repeat of their last encounter, or if it would be something, somehow, more.

A long time ago, in an attempt to mend the bonds broken by avarice, conceit, and fear, two enemy wizards agreed to attend a strange party. Members of both Hell and Earth would be present at this event, in a symbolic expression of good will and the hope of collaboration against shared enemies. Because No One had personally invited her, Fate took it upon herself to appear in her most grand attire and, as she reliably does, make a scene. You must know, Fate is an unforgiving, unrelenting mistress. And as Fate would have it, the odd pair would be forced to confront their lingering insecurities this very night.

As part of a devious game designed by the Game Master, while the earth-wizard was under the influence of a truth serum, Fate took her vengeance. She demanded that he admit his affection for the one at the table whose spirit burns like a steady crackling flame. The brown-eyed druid, under such a potent hex, had no choice but to lay bare the tempest brewing in his soul. His story rang out to the crowd…a wretched and joyful ballad of love and lost innocence, glory and misery, and the feelings that we immortals selfishly deny ourselves of. The crowd grew reverently silent, in solidarity. They recognized the song, for they too rehearsed its verses daily, under the cover of darkness, straining toward a future No One could know. The druid’s words filtered through their consciousness. For some, the wounds he struck were raw and festering, and for others, it was as if being prodded from a profound, deathly slumber.

Fearing and relishing that these ancient truths would continue to pour out, the afflicted wizard fled, only to be pursued by the fire that both lit his path and burned him. To his dismay and elation, the Captain (his Captain) had followed. And now, the man with the sparking ember eyes grabbed his hand. The two stood at a cliffside and, looking back, found their path blocked by what could not be unspoken, could not be unheard. They danced along the cliff’s edge; one critical misstep, and they might plummet toward a place of no return. There, their bodies broken amongst the jagged rocks and violently crashing tide, they would cease to be who they were. They wanted it. They did not want it. The dance never ended.

But if it meant they could finally be together, wouldn’t they do it? Wouldn’t they face gravity willingly? Wouldn’t they allow themselves to shed their disguises, pledge allegiance only to themselves, for just a fraction of time, and step unflinchingly into that oblivion, hand-in hand?

They almost did. Almost.

What had been a buzzing summer night, filled with the symphonic energy of animals and insects, was now suspensefully silent. Silently lingering like the men whose faces are no more than a foot apart—bodies like mossy stone statues, but eyes that flickered with life and revived thousands of years of memories in a fraction of a second. Neither could really say how long they stayed, perched like that. Such a state of being…or rather, not being, is quite difficult to describe. There is nothing to weigh one to reality in those moments, except the endless pools of possibility that you stare into, and that stare back at you. And strangely enough, for once, neither one flinched from it. Not even for a second.

It was later strange to them how fast it all happened. To an onlooker, it would seem as if the event was completely spontaneous—some act of magnificent cosmic chaos. The roguish men suddenly, without warning, were sunk down in the silty sand, hands roaming and gripping feverishly, lavishing kisses and soft praises, calling out commands of plaintive desire. To the men, however, there was a shared sense that all the time in the universe was at their disposal. These actions were just the physical extension of things promised, with no need to be spoken, even if words could succeed. It was just the truth taking a different form. It was just right. This is how they both really were, and everything other than this was the lie they had tried to live.

Unlike last time, they had decided to accept these truths on their own, without duress. They claimed it with primal urgency and with eternal serenity. Clasped tightly to each other, one smelling of flames and charcoal ash, the other of cool cave springs and freshly fallen leaves, they left their old worlds behind and crafted a new world just for them. They carried it with them, and nourished it with kind words, steady embraces, loving caresses, and (of course) plenty of laughter.

And they no longer thought about Almost.