Ours! Ours!
Stabbing winds tore at his face and back and limbs, slicing through to his skin and making it bleed.
Ours! Ours!
The man who would be god stared with furious defiance. He would end like
this? Surrounded by a wall of invisible murderers who wielded wind like blades. Behind them, the shapeshifters leered, eyes glittering at the prospect of a fresh soul.
Ours! Ours!
He made a last effort to bash a path out. He failed. Somehow the ground was coming closer, the winds still shooting through armor and flesh with equal ease. The next blow stabbed through his cloak and through his throat. He lay like that, blood spurting out, his face covered with the hair of long-dead virgins.
Something pricked his eyelid, too lightly to be one of his assailants. With his other, he could see it: something small, round, and black, thorns biting into his flesh. He barely felt it amid the pains of death, but as his life seeped out, he seemed to see the strange seed melting, feel something cold and invigorating slam into his eye.
It couldn't stop the cold and draining feeling creeping toward his heart.
* * *
He awoke in a grey place. He was vaguely conscious that he was the only object with any color here, and even the dyes of his robe seemed to be fading as he stood, swallowed up by a greater gloom. Presently a man's form coalesced in the darkness, swathed in grey cloth, only his eyes visible. Inky black tendrils seemed to swim around his arms, like shadows given form. He said nothing, simply stared at the Sufferer. It was not a friendly gaze. Finally, he seemed to find what he was looking for. "Let us be off, then."
Waves of dread swam at the Sufferer at the thought of following this strange man. "No, be off with you," he said, wondering at the unfamiliar lilt in his own voice. "Dead I am, and no traffic with the living may I have."
Where did that phrasing come from? She--no, he--shook his head, puzzled.
The man chuckled. "Then the Seer's last gift has closed death's gates to us both. Arise, Sufferer."
He found himself standing. "You know my name. What is yours?" he asked.
The man's eyes glinted. Was he grinning, beneath his cloth? "A name is a cloak of letters thrown upon a man. It offers him not even the warmth a lie would give. It has no meaning."
"Mine has meaning," the Sufferer said quietly.
Again the unseen grin. "Calling what you do meaningful demeans meaning, wretch."
"What do
you do, then?"
"The weak suffer. I
endure." He gestured into the gloom. "Come. We have a very long way to go."
* * *
This was not like any afterlife he had heard of. His wounds still ached--until he remembered he had magic to regenerate them, and used it--and his body still felt exactly as it did in life; indeed, he carried on him all the clothes and gear he had in life. He found his companion very distasteful to speak to, but he needed to know. "Am I dead?"
"You had a cause. Did you think it weak enough to be stopped by something as small as death?"
"I thought myself too powerful to die. The evidence dictates that I reconsider," the Sufferer replied coolly.
"Ah, your power," the dark man said, with another faceless grin. "The power that the shapechangers took from you with their weak magicks." He turned to regard the Sufferer head on, and his grin was gone. "Power is not so easily stolen. If your power can be snatched away by any lay priest's cantrips, that means you never truly had it. It was another cloak, this one made from lies that you were more than what you were. It was borrowed from forces greater than yourself. It gave you great strength, but it could be stripped from you at their pleasure."
"I did not intend to borrow forever. I sought to align myself with the forces of experience and war, and in so aligning become one."
"Whatever you sought, you dedicated yourself to the cause of conflict and the finality of the consequences conflict brings. It is by those consequences that you will now be judged, and so shall the worthiness of your struggle be weighed. I find it wanting."
"What even are you? Some unusually rude psychopomp?" The Sufferer suddenly swiped at his companion's face, pulling back his cloths. He was not tremendously surprised to see the man's face a mirror of his own, albeit half-covered in the same shadow-stuff that swirled over his arms. "Typical," he muttered. "You are me? Explain yourself."
His companion was amused. "The Gloomfrost Seer. Do you remember her? She was more than what seemed. She was the nearest face of an ancient power, one tangled across dozens of worlds. And one of the cloaks you hid yourself in was hers." He gestured at the virgin-haired wrappings around the Sufferer.
"How does that explain you?"
"The seer, she is a surgeon of concepts, severing them and reattaching them as she pleases. She slices open the world and plants dark seeds in it, then stitches it up. Then she watches them grow. And, it seems, her cloak can do the same." He touched the hem of his own cloak, a shadowy mirror of the Sufferer's. "Her magic sliced off a piece of you. A piece that was weak, a piece that had to beg for power, a piece that died." He bowed mockingly. "I am what remained."
"And those shadows are?"
"Darkness that filled the missing piece's place," he said, still grinning.
"This seems like a rather incompetent way to handle a resurrection contingency to me. At least you didn't have to possess a dead barbarian chief, eh?"
"Dead barbarian chiefs are the worst," the Endurer agreed. The Sufferer raised his knuckles for a brofist, then thought better of it.
"Now," his twin continued, "We have fallen through a hole in time. We are looking for a way through time, a way back to the point when our fate may be changed. Once we find it, we will go through again . . . together." The Endurer gestured ahead. "Shall we go on?"
* * *
The Sufferer blinked. What was he doing here? They'd finally found the rift, the portal; they could clearly see the castle in the desert on the other side. Why was he here, wherever here was? He blinked again, peering through the dim light. He was in a cellar, four giant beetles around him. He made to raise his flail, only to find it gone and a crude stick in his hand. Very well, he could conjure a Black Blade--except, he realized, he couldn't. Indeed, his body and mind felt as weak as a child's; somehow, he had been stripped to a shadow of his former self.
And then a shadow struck him.
The blow smashed at the Sufferer's head, cracking his skull, knocking him to the ground. From the floor, he could see his companion standing above him. "The Seer's magicks were flawed. We live again, but as weaklings," he growled. "We will still go forward together, but we must be as one to survive. I am sorry, self," he said, looking into the Sufferer's clouding eyes. "We must be a united will, an undivided mind. We will face our enemies under the same sky." The shadows in his flesh filled up his eyes, and the Sufferer felt himself being swallowed into them, his spirit beginning to detach from his body again.
The Sufferer said something.
The Endurer leaned forward to hear. "There cannot be two skies," the Sufferer said again. Instead of struggling against his twin's efforts to absorb him, he pressed
with them, tumbling into the other's mind and swinging on the other's will. His vision blurred--
The Sufferer started, the pain in his head gone. He was holding a staff high, above the weakling cleric bleeding out on the floor. It was trying to say something. With a mental shrug, he slammed down the butt of his staff and killed his former self.
"The weak suffer. I endure," he murmured. Stretching, he took stock of a new form, and an old life . . .