Exeunt Eternal

He was aware he was. There was nothing else besides his awareness. It was free of any corporeal concern. No heartbeat. No breathing. No rubbing or tickling from fabrics or air. All sense of space and time were absent. It wasn't nearly as horrifying as he imagined, but neither was it very stimulating.

"Does time exist here?" he thought.

"Yes," came an answer from nowhere. That was unexpected. It seemed a single voice and a harmonious chorus in the same breath.

A sense of light, then form, and, finally, corporeality followed. He seemed to be standing on a disk suspended in midair, surrounded by indiscernible beings. "Do you know who you are?" the voice asked.

"Yes, I am Michael Anthony Wallace."

"Is your true name not Thusias?"

Michael had forgotten about that. "That was my scafir name. I never used it."

"Why did you not? You are Scafir?"

"I was the Principal of the scafir, yes. I would not think of myself as Thusias. I have always been Michael."

"Then, we shall call you Michael."

"Thank you."

"Are you are aware of your current status?"

Michael considered the question. "I am unsure what you mean."

"You are no longer alive in vivi."

A flood of sensations rolled over Michael after that announcement. He remembered pain, distress, love. Then, he remembered looking into Morgan's eyes and seeing them crying silent tears. He died so others could live. "Re'libras."

“Yes,” Michael responded to himself, “I did.”

“Your station as the spiritual apex of your people gives you the right to choose the disposition of your soul.”

Michael hardly considered himself a 'spiritual apex' but he knew to what they were referring.

“I choose reincarnation.”

“Your choice is acknowledged.”

“Do you wish to return as a full-blooded member of your race and would you like full cognizance of your previous life?”

“Yes, and no.”

“You will be reborn a Scafir.”

“No.”

“You did state...”

“I am two races. I choose human.”

“Michael, the human's time is ending.”

“No, it's returned to the nadir of the wheel. All the races, and I imagine the Ascended, too, have been there, and we survived hitting that bottom stroke. I believe once it is over, the humans will still be there, better than the previous turns. They are tough, resourceful, creative, and hardy. They can survive an absence of ley energy far better than the 'advanced' races.”

“They are to us like ants to them. An interesting specie to watch, nothing more.”

“I was taught each turn of the wheel was a refinement. Their lack of magic is not a weakness; it's a strength. It forced them to be intelligent and inventive.”

“As a human, you were wealthy, powerful, privileged. Your personal drive as a member of their society was to alleviate them of their problems.”

Michael sighed. “It's called generosity. I gave of my money, time, and influence as best I could to help others, yes. Is it such a strange concept?”

“We have been benevolent.”

Michael shook his head. “You know the word. You probably know it in every human language and dialect. And yet, I get the feeling its meaning eludes you.”

“Thusias, do not support the human's existence.”

“Why? Did you high and mighty make a mistake in creating them? Do not appeal to my power. The fey blood in me never brought me happiness. I think it twisted and distorted everything I loved. Everything.”

“The harbinger will ride soon. You shall ride with the harbinger. You will be Horseman Famine. You shall be returned to your mortal shell for the purpose. Your brother will ride with you, as will one of your mates and a dear friend. You have advocated so passionately that you will be a hand in their destruction. Enjoy your rebirth.”

Michael went from a sense of nothingness to being forcefully shunted back into his own body. Unfortunately, his newly alive state was accompanied by the realization he was laying in a casket. He felt an odd seepage of liquid leaving his body. The liquid formed a small pool along the bottom of the box soaking into the casket cushion. It was formaldehyde. His revisceration introduced blood back into his veins and pushed out the embalming fluid.

'Wonderful,' he thought, 'they left me in a position that the only way out is through the use of magic.' He started chanting only to find he could feel no power behind the words. The smell and the closeness should have brought panic, but he was too weak to manage an excited state. He found himself too weak to even move his arms. His blood was still refilling. He passively lay there wondering how long it would be before he passed out from the fumes or ran out of oxygen. When it felt like he was about to be overtaken by asphyxiation, the coffin lid rattled. He had just enough blood pressure to manage a small amount of surprise. The lid lifted and he beheld the face of the one being he did not ever want to see again, his mother.