Death is the end of the adventure, the ultimate destination. We enter stage right, born into a world of summer and winter; we exit stage left, departing our body and fading into oblivion. There's a sort of fear of the unknown inherent to humanity, a lingering terror of no longer being, but there's also comfort, if you look for it.

Dying is what makes life so precious. We know that our lives will one day draw to an end, that there will come a day with no tomorrow. We ought to make the most of the time we have, our days are numbered, our moments matter. There's an existential dread that arises when we think about dying, a lingering terror of no longer being, but there's also an exhilaration, if you look for it.

Life and death are deeply intertwined, all living things die, all things that die must first live. This is not good, this is not bad, this simply is. Life brings joy and connection in tandem with suffering and pain, we grow and strive until we can grow no further and strive no longer, and then we rest, we lay ourselves down to an endless sleep. Death remedies all the pains of our lives; if we no longer exist, we no longer suffer. There's a tragic fatalism that follows the thought of the inevitability of death, but there's also a bittersweet peace, if you look for it.

To die is to have been alive, and I am not afraid of death.

When I was younger, trapped in that dark and turbulent mire between the golden days of childhood and the bemused professionalism of adulthood, I longed for death. I had a morbid fascination with the idea of no longer being, because if I no longer was, then I could escape all the sadness and persistent fatigue.

I don't judge my younger self for her fascination, I understand the allure of death. I am still not immune to the seductive idea of eternal rest, eternal peace. I do not view death as something negative, but rather as an inevitable aspect of being alive.

I am grateful for the fact of death, I know that I could not go on living forever. Immortality sounds like a miserable, awful, exhausting sort of existence. My heart beats and I know that one day it will stop, and that will be the day with no tomorrow, and there's a comfort in that knowledge, the knowledge that one day I can lay down my bag filled with a lifetime of memories, I can stop walking forward, I can sit, I can rest.

When I reach that day, the day with no tomorrow, I hope my death is calm and quiet, I hope I am permitted to slip gently into bed, into an endless sleep. If my death is violent and sudden, so be it, that moment will pass, and so will I.

“I got a granola bar, Twinkies, ugh, crushed up potato chips…” Xan’s riffling through his provisions pack, all sweat and dirt. He lifts his brow and eyes me, a smirk catching his cheek.

“As soon as this is over I am planting a vegetable garden.” I reach over, “hand me a goddamn Twinkie,” I grab the plastic wrapped industrial food item between my thumb and finger, like picking up a strangers dirty sock.

“We’ve got at least six more hours through these woods. The king-all-father himself will be sleeping soundly when we arrive at the camp.” I give Xan a wide-eyed look, “We are going to need some help getting there,” and I pull out two blue powder pills out of my jackets zip pocket.

“Oh no, no, no. That shit?” Xan is a purist. He flaps his hand at me, looks away. The medusa pills.

I blow air in a chuckle, “You want to do everything from your own damn muscle. Take the pill, Xan. Or, am I going to have to save your ass later?”

“Peggi— you, my love, are very convincing,” he reaches out, palm up. I gingerly place one tiny pill onto a smooth patch of skin between his callouses. He flips it up in the air and catches it on his tongue, swallows, “We’ve been resting long enough, let’s fry that authoritarian fuck!”

We start down the ravine, light feet, making use of smooth branches to swing through denser parts of the forest understory. We are on our way to capture and kill the Emperor of Everything, leader of the military coup that drowned international trade and communications, making it possible for the rise of an authoritarian regime.

“Ever since the coup I’ve felt like, like my world has gotten so much smaller, like the continents have spread impossibly apart, went to a different dimension, even.” I glance into Xan’s eyes, “it really feels like they don’t exist anymore.”   Xan watches me back, considering my words. We are taking a break, enjoying a cold foot soak in the river. The water absorbs our fatigue beautifully, rivulets of sensation curl around my body, through vessels and bones, through my tongue and scalp.

“We’ve trained our whole lives for this but I barely remember what it was like before.” I take a breath and look into the sweaty haze enveloping the canopy. A crow is studying us.

Xan ignores my ponderings, “We need to focus on the present. There may still be books out there, people alive who remember what was in the books we lost. This is our chance to reinvent what it means to be human.”

I consider his words as we trail the river, let their weight anchor my mind to the present.

We divert from the river and skirt to higher ground on the other side of the road. We do this a mile out to avoid detection from their scent hounds. From this vantage we can get a good look at the camp layout and see where the guards are posted. We can even track the scouts in the forest from their torch light.

“Remember, we have folks on the inside so don’t kill anyone.” He gives me his side eye, winks. “I know Charles is in that camp.”

“I don’t care about Charles being there!” I shake me head and laugh at the jab, “Im not an amateur, Xan. I can deal with that meat head another day.” I take a deep breath, pushing aside the thought that there may not be another day. If we make a mistake.

What if it doesn’t work?

We planned the assassination on a new moon; with help from the medusa pills our night vision will be able to adjust quickly. We can see them, but they can’t see us.

I tighten my boots, double check each weapon hold, finally, I reach into my satchel and bring out the ultimate weapon. I unfurl the necklace from its velvet nest, six pouches of dreaming powder dangle from the leather braiding. I look up to Xan; the soft look of his eyes reminds me that this might be our last moment together. I gently hook a stray strand of hair back behind his ear, move to my knees and bring the necklace over his head to rest the pouches along his chest. I place a hand on his heart and lean in; a deep and beautiful kiss sends fire through our bodies, and for a moment we forget everything that happened, and let go of everything that will.

—————

“Let’s go.”

Xan drops first, his arms perfectly tuned for the descent, clasping rock holds and ginger steps, he silently clears the ridge and moves towards the gap between the guards. He will take care of the front line, my mission waits within the golden tent.

Xan has already snuffed out the torches here, I easily avoid detection. I have about 90 seconds before someone comes to investigate.

The Emperors tent is woven in gold, silk, beautiful wools, fine materials mined from the catacombs of department stores below the seas of rubble.

I stop myself from marveling at the rich and impossible textures, the beautiful glint of gold, like stars against the shadows. I steady my heart again.

My knife is drawn, I cut a slit, peek through a moment first before stepping inside.

I hear a deep snore send a rumble through the air. I am crouched, liquid, I glide towards the head of the bed, a cot of suspended canvas over a sturdy bamboo frame. Lush blankets and fluffy pillows envelope the beast. His face is tilted upwards, his crown sitting heavily on his brow, a manicured beard lines his chiseled jaw.

His last wife would have been here too, had he not publicly executed her. What was it this time? Oh yes, she didn’t fully appreciate his genius, evidenced by her suggestion that perhaps he could spare some of the books on medicine and science. He was as brilliant as Einstein, she was made to confess. Her acting skills were not as astute as some of his other yes men.

I bring my hands to his temples, focus. My hands grow warm, then a faint red glow, now palms illuminating his cheeks; i take a deep breath.

A soft white ribbon of light spontaneously connects between my hands, surrounding the emperors head— he awakes. His eyes widen in terror as he realizes what is happening.

A chocking voice, “Witches! Greselda, where are you?”

I whisper back, “You killed her. Remember?” I send a surge into the folds of his mind, showing him the pain she felt when he betrayed her.

He shudders, calls out again, managing only a whisper, “No. No! Doona?”

“Doona is not here, scum.”

“You can’t steal my mind, witch. I am Emperor of Everything, Sole Genius of the land,” he coughs, “the sire of all children…” I send another surge, the fear and disgust that was felt when he took his childrens’ mothers.

“Your echo chamber of grandeur is over. You will know what you really are.” My eyes fall back as the energy in my hands pulses again.

A cyclone of grief, the stabbing pain of betrayal, bloody fear, and the heavy despair of every orphan he created, every widow, each forlorn parent holding the limp bodies of children, the collective pain of each families he broke channelled through my heart into his.

A final surge.

His body spasms and contorts, his gasps desperately before going limp, helpless against the new feeling of loss. Finally, his robust furious ego has drowned.

I lay my hand on his heart- his glassy eyes look at me, ghostly now. “You’re welcome.” I say as I leave his bedside.

I peek through the slit I had made, first just a slight crack, then when I see a pile of sleeping guards and the bemused smiling face of Xan standing by I pull it wide and step through.

The light from my hands fading, we sneak out of the camp, into the woods, past more dozing guards and across the river.  Finding a mossy nook a few miles in we bed down together, exhausted but our spirits replete.

shift noun

a slight change in position, direction, or tendency

.

He wrapped his hands around my wrists, and automatically I strained, moving forward, ready for the pounce, for action. But then he did something unexpected. His thumbs rubbing the insides of my wrists... I stopped immediately, my focus disrupted, my breathing forgotten, body frozen in place.

What are you doing?

I asked confused, not ready for such an action from him.

I’m calming you down, so you don’t rip my head off.

Well then, you’re doing a great job. It’s all but forgotten, darlin.

My voice was still a bit unsteady as I tried to understand the situation. My fierce and at the same time logical brain, failing to fully comprehend the soft subtleties in between.

And what do you want to do in return?

He asked, slowly lifting a thick eyebrow at me.

I’m fine. Right, where I am.

I responded without thinking, and he smiled in a heavy way, the kind that presses you deep down to the ground. And for the first time, I didn’t seem to mind.

Then I’m better at this than I thought. Do you want me to let go?

No.

I said with certainty that I was sure I didn’t have just 24 hours ago.

How did you know what to do, how to stop me? I was this close to...

I did to you - he interrupts my words - the exact thing I would want you, to do to me.

To touch you?

I asked unconvinced.

No, to care.

But I don’t care.

Well honey, neither do I.

We looked at each other, battling gazes and hard stares, the tension suffocating the remaining air around us. It was like looking at two sets of explosives, ready to blow up at any moment, and yet, I could feel something slowly changing.

I could almost see the tiny elements moving inside of me, a complicated machine that was my heart. The very core of my being that I haven’t used it properly in a while, for the right reasons anyway. And now, I could feel something steer in me, change, shift. It felt good, sort of. I looked at him and could sense it, somehow not worried about everything that was moving inside of me. Reconstructing me like a new program that I did not yet understand but was ready to give it a chance. Hmm, it wasn't any romantic kind of thing - no, it was something even stranger.

It was surrender.

And for the first time in a very long while. It didn't feel like a bad thing, like a failure.

So I smiled at him, openly grinning. This was just the start, and things weren't going to magically change just like that. We still had a massive amount of troubles to face. Yes, it was definitely going to be a bumpy ride. But for now, I just let myself surrender to him. Because even though we’re two ticking life bombs, I still trusted him with my life.

Well then, now that you calmed the beast, what do we do next?

I asked, making it my turn to raise an eyebrow this time.

We’re going to take a couple of deep breaths and execute some professional ass-kicking.

He smiled lazily like this was just any other kind of day. As if this couldn’t end badly for everyone, and as if we could get out of this unharmed, in one piece.

Oh, I just love it when you talk so sweetly. Apocalypse never sounded this good. Shall we?

He nodded, and we swiftly jumped down from multiple rooftops until our silhouettes were nothing more than shadows in the ally that we disappeared into.

Preparing for battle, preparing for war.

_____

Posts related to this story:

https://theprose.com/post/193791/strange-occurrence

https://theprose.com/post/203055/additional-benefits

A laugh sweeter than strawberries, I began to watch amazed. At first, I only noticed the mossy curling of their hair, completely fluffed atop their head. It was simple, my longing was younger.

Then, a horrible blossoming began at my stomach, I felt it inch within me when I looked in their eyes. I was completely sick with love.

"You're an idiot!" Their voice softened to a fondness I had not heard much. It was gentle and friendly. "You're welcome." I snarked back. To my satisfaction, a laugh followed.

One horrible night, deep sobs heaved from me. I indulged in being close to them, asking wordlessly and desperately to be loved.

"Do you want me to read to you?" The ache in my chest softened. I would die a thousand deaths to live a lifetime with them.

I am from (wands of unimaginable power) unsharpened pencils,

from Beanie Boos and Island of the Blue Dolphins.

I am from the broken alarm clock and beige walls cool to the touch

in a room that wasn’t mine,

doors that locked from the outside,

and a silence I filled with hour-long ballads about anything and everything.

I am from the trees I would lie under as after-school traffic died down,

letting the branches protect me as I grew familiar with love and fear

from my usual spot in their dancing shade, settled next to friends on the sidewalk.

I’m from “Band! Ten-hut!” group dismissals

and the exhausted, victorious atmosphere

after every run of the show at every marching contest.

From Tobias Soriano and Alexis Palacio.

I’m from the blunt, nerdy humor of Parker Boyd

and the hours of deep conversation and beautiful,

well-spoken honesty of Lauren Cram.

From “you can’t be trusted” and “you’re the most real person I’ve ever met.”

I’m from delivering Lemonades and finding a community;

from Panama City Beach, where God showed me

that there’s always enough hope to keep existing.

I’m from Level of Concern by twenty øne piløts,

expired Earl Grey,

leaning against trees whose roots grew over the empty sidewalk and writing a song about it.

From the rocky creek I jumped into with Parker,

where I simultaneously got my first kiss

and a cool scar on the bottom of my right foot.

The stickers on someone’s guitar whose sound I thrive on after school,

the voices and laughter of people I’ve just met but couldn’t bear to lose.

Scattered throughout my room, tucked away in desk drawers and on bookshelves,

are folded letters and useless objects

I somehow manage to keep finding places for.

I am from the pink scars and salty tears

of everything I have ever experienced,

unhindered and separate from the realm of blood and descent.

At first

I used that one line

As a reminder

To never forgive them.

Every time they hurt me

I redrew it

And reopened it.

I wanted a permanent scar,

A tattoo of my home

So I would never speak to them

Too cordially,

Or trust them

With my future children,

Or sit by them

At family gatherings.

And then I drew more.

One for every time

They took away my hope

And my freedom

And my confidence.

I kept a tally of the days

They wouldn't let me breathe;

The days I couldn't let myself breathe.

I justified it in my head

With a projector

That displayed little white lies

Behind my eyes at all times

Constantly playing on repeat

At school,

At home,

At work,

In the shower.

I'm not hurting myself.

This is a physical representation

Of what they are already doing to me.

A little reminder I like to write

In red pen on my arm,

To remind me

That I'm not

A problem child

Who throws temper tantrums,

Who can't be trusted with

Shower water

Or a door

Or food

Or a school-provided computer

Or decision-making

Without supervision

And reprimanding

And punishment;

Who can't receive encouragement

Or praise

Or grace

Or happiness

Without taking advantage of it.

And I liked writing that reminder

A lot.

Maybe a little too much.

Because I began to write and rewrite it

All over my body.

It gave me peace

Knowing I could just look down at myself

And see those words

And automatically know

What my life consisted of at the moment.

And what it always would consist of.

I loved the familiar burst

Of dopamine

Running through my brain

Through my cheeks

Across my shoulders

And into my chest

Where it radiated

Throughout the rest of my body;

Specifically the sweet spots

On hidden areas of my left limbs

Where I sometimes wrote and rewrote,

traced and retraced it

In layers.

It was calming,

A cure-all

For cancers,

Fevers,

Depression,

Anxiety,

Sleep issues...

It was like CBD

But less advertised.

I couldn't stop

To save my life.

But I did.

Eventually.

I can't wash the ink off,

Though.

I've tried.

I always just end up

Rubbing my arms and legs

Raw with a washcloth,

And I sigh

At the things

I would rather have left

Undone

And probably forgotten

By my ever-distracted,

Scattered mind.

I don’t know you.

I’d never seen you before

Until a week ago,

When you decided

To start complimenting more people

Because of something you read on the internet.

Except you did it wrong,

Because it kind of sounded

Like a catcall.

Then you shook my hand,

Asked for my name,

Told me yours,

And walked away.

It was awkward and unexpected

And made me uncomfortable.

My least favorite kind of interaction.

And for the next several days

At around the same time

I found myself looking around

At all the heads bobbing

Through the high school hallways

For a very specific,

But apparently very popular shade

Of bleached blonde.

You washed up, unremarkably,

Just like everything else does,

Onto my overgrown, littered private beach

That is in desperate need of maintenance.

Its fences are falling down

So badly, and in so many places,

That I can’t remember where the property line is,

And trespassers don’t get prosecuted anymore

Because the sign fell down ages ago

And I honestly don’t blame them

For not realizing that somebody is responsible

For this place.

So how did you

Of all people,

Prosaic and illustrous,

Manage to glint through the sheets of rain

And spark my curiosity enough

To make me want to go outside

And investigate you

In the middle of a tropical storm?