Beyond the Darkness

a Ragnarok Online fanfic

by Serenade

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Although it contains references to actual characters, places, or events, their depiction in this story is based solely on the author's imagination, and should not be implied as representing reality in any way.

Dedication: To Lumialle.

"I fed Poru today," Asheroth said. "But he didn't eat much. I think he misses you, Lumi. Every time someone comes into the room, he bounces up and down like he's expecting it to be you. I wish--" His voice cracked. "I wish you would get up and tell him everything's all right."

Lumialle didn't answer.

"Some good news came in today." Asheroth drew his chair closer to the bed and took Lumialle's hand. "You remember how Luna sent that petition to the king a month ago? The reply just came back. Ravenloft is now officially recognised as one of the guilds of Rune-Midgard. We can finally look into setting up a proper base for ourselves." He stroked Lumialle's hand. "A place to call home..."

"Ash?"

He jerked his head up at the voice, but it wasn't Lumialle who had spoken. Lenor stood at Asheroth's shoulder, her face grave. She had entered the room so silently he hadn't even noticed.

"It's been two days," she said, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "It's time."

"No." Asheroth stood, shaking off Lenor's touch. "You're not putting him into the ground."

"There's nothing more we can do. He's gone."

"He is not gone! You're just giving up!"

"If there was anything in my power to do, don't you think I would have done it?" Lenor's voice sounded oddly hoarse and scratchy. "But I can't bring the dead back to life."

"Don't talk about Lumi that way!"

Their raised voices had drawn the others. Asheroth became aware that Sevenne and Leena were standing in the doorway, their eyes huge. Cyrus elbowed his way past, sweeping his concerned gaze across the room. "What's wrong, Lenor?"

She flashed him a reassuring smile. "It's all right, sweetheart. I was just talking to Ash."

Asheroth moved to stand between Lenor and the bed. "If you try to touch him, you'll be sorry."

Cyrus's brows drew down. He started moving forward.

Lenor took a step towards Asheroth, her hands outspread. "Ash, please, be reasonable..."

"I'm warning you!" Asheroth drew his dagger from its sheath. He heard Sevenne's sudden shocked gasp.

Lenor sidestepped him easily. When Asheroth turned to face her, Cyrus grabbed his arms from behind. Asheroth struggled but he couldn't break out of the other man's grip. Cyrus held him while Lenor took the dagger away.

"Think about what you're doing," Lenor said tightly. "Do you imagine you're the only one who's hurting?"

* * * * *

Sunlight fell across the glade in long stripes separated by shadow. Tall birches encircled it. A breeze rippled the grass and made the daisies bob their heads. Asheroth could hear birdsong trilling all around.

It seemed a mockery.

Lunakitty stood in front of the grave, her voice rising and falling as she read out the words of the ritual. To Asheroth, they were only a meaningless blur. He could hear the sound of someone weeping. He wasn't sure who it was, only that it wasn't him.

His eyes were dry, but they burned.

Most of the others had been avoiding him since that display of his last night. Lenor had tried to talk to him again, but he just ignored her.

Lunakitty closed her bible. Her ageless eyes were shadowed with grief. "Lumialle was dearly beloved by us all. May he rest in peace and his soul find its way home."

Sixe laid down the first rose, her eyes glistening wet. The others followed one by one, until the coffin was covered in flowers.

* * * * *

Asheroth lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. He wanted to lose himself in the oblivion of sleep, but sleep would not come.

Lunakitty had requested his presence in her chambers after the service. Asheroth could already guess what she wanted to talk about--his behaviour yesterday, drawing a weapon on a guildmate.

But Asheroth didn't want to talk to her right now. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He had gone straight back to his room and bolted the door.

Lumialle's books and papers were still scattered across the table where they'd been left. Even now, there lingered the scent of the rose candles Lumialle liked to use. It was as though he had just stepped out and would be back any minute.

It wasn't meant to be like this. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right.

It wasn't enough time.

Right now, he'd trade ten years of his life for the chance to see Lumialle one last time.

He'd trade anything in the world to bring Lumialle back.

If there was anything in my power to do, Lenor had said, don't you think I would have done it?

He owed Lenor an apology. He remembered the helpless pain in her voice as she spoke.

I can't bring the dead back to life.

Asheroth sat up, heart beating wildly.

But the legends told of someone who could.

* * * * *

Five days later, Asheroth stood before the gates of Glast Heim.

Even now, when the city lay in ruins, something of its ancient beauty and grandeur remained. It had been the old capital, before its fall, and amid the vines and broken pillars were arches of white marble and fountains carved into the shape of lions.

But long years had passed since living humans walked freely along the wide avenues of Glast Heim. Now it was become the haunt of ghosts, and things worse than ghosts.

No birds sang as Asheroth stepped through the gates and made his way along the overgrown path. Silence hung in the air, thick as fog. Asheroth was seized by the feeling that even though the city looked deserted, it was full of presences, and even if he couldn't see them, they could see him.

Ahead of him loomed a huge marble edifice topped with turrets. Broad steps led up to a set of double doors wrought in iron. One of the doors stood slightly ajar.

Asheroth pushed his way inside.

He stood at one end of a long hall lined with many pillars. A faint grey radiance illuminated everything, but he could not perceive its source. At the far end of the hall, three steps led up to a dais, and upon the dais stood an empty throne. Above the throne, a mouldering tapestry hung, torn in two.

Asheroth swallowed. This had been the seat of kings in the old days. The last king of Glast Heim had died right there, at the foot of the steps.

Lumi. I'm doing this for Lumi.

Asheroth began walking up the long hall. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see shapes flickering between the pillars, wavy and indistinct. He knew better than to try looking at them directly. He kept his gaze locked on the throne.

The air grew chill. A wind rose from nowhere. Between one breath and the next, he was there.

The Dark Lord of Glast Heim.

He towered over Asheroth like a vast shadow. His armour was black as obsidian, veined with white lightning that flared and crackled. His helm was fashioned from a great horned skull. Only his eyes remained visible, and they were flame.

Bolts of fire struck the ground on either side of Asheroth; molten stone sprayed upwards, singeing his clothes and skin. All he could hear was the roar of the inferno that surrounded him.

He dropped to his knees and bowed his head in supplication. "Have mercy on me, Dark Lord!" he shouted. "I have come to seek audience!"

Pillars of flame ringed him, heating the air to unbearable temperatures. Sweat dripped from him like rain. But the ring of fire stayed its distance, as though awaiting its master's command.

The Dark Lord spoke, and his voice was like the voice of the storm. "What do you seek with me if not your death?"

"You have the power to grant or withhold death," Asheroth said. He did not dare raise his head. "I beg of you, restore my friend to life."

"Why should I do this thing?"

"Because if you do, I will swear eternal service to you."

There was no answer from the Dark Lord. After several moments, Asheroth lifted his face. No expression could be discerned by looking at the skull helm. But after several moments more, the Dark Lord raised a hand and the flames subsided into a low flicker.

"I will consider your request. But you must first prove your loyalty. I will set you a task. If you complete it to my satisfaction, then I will accept your offer of service."

"And my friend?" Asheroth said, hardly daring to believe his ears.

"When you have fulfilled your task," the Dark Lord said. "Only then."

Asheroth bowed his head once more. "What must I do, my lord?"

* * * * *

The last light of the day was fading from the sky by the time Asheroth found the doorway.

In the hills to the east, the Dark Lord had said, there is a hidden temple. No creature of darkness may pass its threshold, but a living human may enter unhindered. Upon the altar lies a sceptre of black iron. Bring it to me.

It had taken some searching, along the ghosts of ancient trails, before Asheroth found the one that led him to this place. He stood now before a grey cliff face, where clusters of ivy almost hid the door set into the rock.

The door itself was a marvel of metalwork: wrought iron inlaid with threads of silver, which wove together to form words in a language he could not read. In the centre of the door was a single shining crystal, white as the stars that were beginning to appear overhead.

When Asheroth pushed against the door, it did not move. But a brilliant light flared from the crystal, so intense he almost expected it to sear his flesh. But the light simply washed around him, warm as summer sunlight. Lifting one hand to shield his eyes, Asheroth drew his dagger and raised it, reversed, above the crystal.

For a moment he hesitated. Beyond this, there was no going back. But what was there for him to go back to? Only the silence of an empty room, where he could wait out the long years and yet never again hear the voice he most wanted to hear.

Asheroth brought his arm down with all his strength. The hilt of the dagger smashed against the crystal. A shattering sound, and then the tinkle of glass falling on stone. The light faltered, faded, died.

The door swung open. Asheroth stepped across the threshold, into darkness.

* * * * *

"You have done well," the Dark Lord said, his voice reverberating against the walls of the throne room. "Come closer and deliver your prize to me."

Asheroth stepped forward and fell to one knee, lifting the sceptre in both hands. It was cold as ice against his skin and heavier than he could have imagined. Five feet long and wrought from black iron, it possessed strange symbols swirling all along its length. One end came to a sharp spearlike point; the other was a three-pronged claw clasping a bright red bloodstone.

The Dark Lord curled his fingers around the sceptre and raised it in one mailed fist. In his grasp, the sceptre seemed to grow longer and heavier. A crimson light began to pulse deep within the bloodstone, as though it were alive and starting to awaken.

"Too long have I dwelt penned within these walls," the Dark Lord said, "with only ghosts to serve me. Now there shall be a reckoning." He strode forward to the double doors and thrust them open. He held the sceptre aloft and cried, "Arise!"

Asheroth, still kneeling, felt a tremor run through the ground beneath him. Beyond the doors, a sudden wind shivered the grass of the courtyard, keening like a thousand voices.

"Arise!" the Dark Lord said again. "Arise!"

The earth shuddered and split. Withered hands burst through the soil, clawing at the air. Asheroth watched in disbelief as emaciated bodies dragged themselves from the ground, lurching back and forth like marionettes. The stench of decay rolled through the air.

Soldiers in rusted armour, lords in tattered finery, ladies in mouldering silk and lace--the citizens of Glast Heim before its fall, walking the earth again after untold years. Scabs covered their skin, and pale glimpses of bone showed through where flesh had rotted away. Their eyes were empty sockets.

Asheroth must have made a sound, because the Dark Lord turned back to him, eyes of flame burning like windows into hell.

"Our bargain," Asheroth said. His voice sounded hollow in his own ears.

"I have not forgotten," the Dark Lord said. "You have served me, and you will receive your reward. What you desire shall be done."

Asheroth nodded, afraid to ask the questions writhing in his mind, for fear of what the answers might be.

And still the dead came crawling from their graves.

* * * * *

The moon was high in the heavens by the time Asheroth arrived in the forest glade. He was not alone, but he could pretend he was, for a little while longer at least. A fresh breeze ruffled his hair; he could hear the whine of the last of the summer cicadas.

"Stay here," he said over his shoulder, and went forward.

A number of graves lay within the forest glade, but Lumialle's stood out among them. No grass grew over it; the earth was still bare and barren. A stone marker stood at its head. Too dark now to read the inscription, but Asheroth didn't need to. He knew what it said.

Something small and white rested against the gravestone. Asheroth knelt to examine it, setting down the shovel he was carrying. It was a bouquet of wild lilies--Lumialle's favourite flowers. Their sweet fragrance drifted through the night air. Asheroth felt his heart squeeze tight at that familiar scent.

A beam of light sliced through the trees. Asheroth froze as it cut across his face. "Who's there?" a voice called. The light came closer.

Asheroth rose to his feet. He couldn't see anything beyond the brightness. But the voice said, "Ash? Ash!"

Seconds later, he found himself enveloped in a fierce hug.

"I can't believe it's you!" Sevenne said. The lantern in her hand swung wildly, making the shadows jump. "We were so worried when you disappeared! Where have you been all this time?"

Awkwardly, Asheroth disengaged from Sevenne's embrace. "Didn't you find my note? I told you not to look for me."

"We're your friends, Ash," Sevenne said, clasping his hands in her own. "We care about what happens to you. Lenor was worried you were going to do something drastic. I thought maybe you just needed some time alone. But you didn't come back, and I started to think--it doesn't matter now, I'm just happy you've come back to us!"

Asheroth shook his head. "What are you doing out here at this time of night?"

Sevenne looked away. "You'll think it's silly. But sometimes when I can't sleep, I come here. I don't know if Lumialle can hear me, but it makes me feel better to talk to him. It's almost like--" She broke off suddenly, her whole body going still.

Asheroth followed her gaze. Sevenne was looking at the shovel that leaned against Lumialle's gravestone.

"Ash," she said in a strange voice. "What are you doing?"

Asheroth closed his eyes briefly. "You'll understand later. I'm sorry, Sevenne." He pulled away from her and turned towards the gravestone. "Don't try to stop me."

Sevenne grabbed at his arm. "This isn't the way, Ash! I miss him too. But you can't bring him back. Life doesn't work like that."

"We'll see, won't we?" Asheroth said. He shook Sevenne off and bent to pick up the shovel. When he turned around again, he saw that Sevenne was standing between him and Lumialle's grave.

"I can't let you do this, Ash. You don't know what you're doing."

"I know exactly what I'm doing. Get out of my way, Sevenne."

Sevenne dropped the lantern and raised her hands. Words of power rolled from her tongue; a glowing pillar of light coalesced around Asheroth. He tried to move and couldn't.

"Sevenne!" he shouted.

"We've already lost Lumialle," she said, her eyes unrelenting. "I don't want to lose you too!"

She was entirely focused on him, and she did not see the shadows moving out from between the trees. Only Asheroth saw them. "Stay back!" he cried. "I gave no order!"

Trapped inside the pillar of light, Asheroth could only watch as Sevenne turned around in bewilderment, could only watch as she saw the dead soldiers looming up behind her, could only watch as one of them struck her with the butt of his spear. Sevenne spun sideways, tumbling to the ground like a rag doll.

"No!" Asheroth screamed.

The pillar of light dissolved as soon as Sevenne hit the ground. Asheroth ran forward, swinging the shovel in a wide arc to drive the dead back. "Get away from her!"

They retreated, hovering a short distance away. Asheroth threw down the shovel and dropped to his knees beside Sevenne, cradling her head in his lap. "Sevenne! Sevenne!" He fumbled for a pulse, found it. She was alive. She was all right. He wanted to weep with relief.

At that moment, Asheroth realised something: his dream of returning to Ravenloft, a resurrected Lumialle beside him, was only a fantasy. He had bound himself to a dark road, and if any of his guildmates were to follow, it would only lead them into peril. He had chosen his path; he had to walk it alone to its end.

And the dead, silent and motionless, were waiting for his command.

Without looking at them, Asheroth said, "Let's get what we came for."

* * * * *

Lumialle's coffin lay in the centre of a circle of flames.

The Dark Lord stood just outside the circle, the black iron sceptre thrust in front of him. He was speaking the syllables of an ancient tongue, and the flames rose and fell with the rise and fall of his voice.

Asheroth watched from the shadow of a pillar, dread and anticipation warring within him. His heart was hammering wildly. The air seemed charged, as though a storm were about to break.

The Dark Lord's voice rose to a crescendo; the flames leapt high, so that Asheroth could only glimpse the coffin in brief flashes. He thought he could see a wraithlike shape twisting slowly within the circle, but he could not be sure it was not smoke.

Without warning, the Dark Lord struck the sceptre against the ground with a monstrous crack. Lightning flashed, illuminating for a split second the thing within the circle of flames. Then the flames died, fading away to nothing.

"It is done," the Dark Lord said.

Asheroth took several shaky steps towards the coffin. It looked no different from before. Only the smell of sulphur lingered in the air.

Then into the silence, the tiniest scrape of wood on wood.

The lid of the coffin flew across the hall, striking a pillar before spinning onto the floor. There it skidded to a stop, splintered right down the middle.

A pale hand curled around the edge of the coffin, its nails as white as chalk.

* * * * *

Asheroth bounded up the spiral staircase two steps at a time, the tray he carried tilting dangerously back and forth. When he reached the door at the top of the stairs, he balanced the tray in one hand and knocked with the other. No answer. He turned the handle and pushed his way inside.

The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, as usual, and in the dim light Asheroth could only make out the faint outlines of objects--the arch of the window, the curve of a table, the solid lines of a bed. But he could see Lumialle sitting up, the sheets rumpled around him. He smiled when he saw Asheroth, but he still looked tired and wan.

"I brought you some food," Asheroth said, crossing over to the bed. He set the tray down on Lumialle's lap. "There's bread, and cheese, and some wild apples I found in an abandoned orchard." He sank down on the edge of the bed and smiled expectantly. "Eat. It will make you feel better."

Lumialle picked up the loaf of bread, squeezed it in his fingers. "Thank you, Ash. But I told you before, I don't feel very hungry."

"You haven't had anything all day. A bite of food will restore your appetite. Or maybe some fresh air? We could go for a walk."

Lumialle shook his head. "I don't want to go outside. The light hurts my eyes."

"Then eat something at least. Please. For me?"

Lumialle gave a tired smile and shrugged. "All right, if it will make you happy." He pulled a small piece from the bread and put it in his mouth and chewed. Asheroth watched Lumialle's face as he ate. He was still pale, but it was amazing to see him moving, talking, breathing.

Asheroth felt a moist prickling in his eyes and turned his head away. He stood and strode across to the window, tugging the curtain aside a fraction. Looking down from the tower, he could see numerous signs of activity. The dead were everywhere now--standing guard on the walls, patrolling the avenues, defending the gates. Glast Heim was a city once more. And the streets of the city were--not alive again, but moving.

"Ash. The light."

"Sorry." Asheroth pulled the curtain back into place again and turned around. The bread was gone, only crumbs left on the plate. "Finished already? I knew you had to be hungry."

He took the tray from Lumialle, their fingers touching. Asheroth nearly dropped it. "Your hands are like ice!"

"I'm cold," Lumialle said. "So cold..."

"I'll find more blankets." Asheroth stood, setting the tray on the table, but Lumialle tugged him back.

"Don't go. All I need is you."

* * * * *

Something was wrong when Asheroth woke, he knew that immediately. It was only a few moments later that he realised what it was. It was too quiet. The only sound he could hear was his own breathing.

The space beside him in bed was empty. He ran his palm over it--cold, completely cold, as though Lumialle had never been there. As though Asheroth had only dreamed him into life.

No.

Asheroth pulled on his tunic, didn't bother with boots, pelted down the spiral staircase barefoot. He ran along endless corridors until he reached the long hall where he had first summoned the Dark Lord.

Dead soldiers lined the walls, silent and impassive as the pillars. The black iron sceptre lay upon the throne, crimson light glowing from the bloodstone.

"Dark Lord!" Asheroth shouted. "Dark Lord!"

Lightning speared the flagstones in front of him, showering him with fragments of rock. A cloud of darkness rose and coalesced into the huge, armoured form of the Dark Lord.

The great horned helm turned towards Asheroth. "You disturb my repose at your peril."

Asheroth did not flinch. "What have you done with Lumialle? We had a bargain!"

"That is so. And I have kept it."

"Then where is he?"

"Your ignorance is not my obligation to remedy. Seek him yourself. He will not have strayed far. Dawn is close at hand."

Black mist wreathed the Dark Lord and he vanished. Asheroth was left alone with the rows of silent dead, washed in crimson light.

* * * * *

By night, Glast Heim was a city of illusion. Moonlight softened its edges, shadows masked its decay. And now its streets flowed with people again. Dead ladies promenaded along the avenues, escorted by their dead gentlemen.

Asheroth sought for a familiar face amid the crowd, looked for a figure clad all in mourning white. But there was no sign anywhere of Lumialle, only the restless dead.

I can't do this again, I can't lose him a second time.

It was near dawn by the time he returned, exhausted, to the north tower room. He climbed the spiral staircase, weary and heartsick, and pulled open the door.

Lumialle lay in bed sleeping, his hair spread around him like an aureole.

Asheroth stood frozen, not daring to believe the evidence of his eyes. Then he fell upon Lumialle with a glad cry. "Lumi!" He shook the sleeping man. "Where have you been?"

Lumialle stirred. "Mmm? Couldn't sleep. Went for a walk."

"You should have told me," Asheroth said, his racing heart beginning to calm. "It's not safe to be wandering around by yourself."

"Nothing here can harm me. I'm sorry I made you worry."

He reached up to stroke Asheroth's cheek, and his hand was warm.

* * * * *

Lumialle spent most of the next day resting, so Asheroth brought him his meals in bed again.

"You look better today, Lumi," Asheroth told him. "More colour in your face. See, you just needed to get some food into you."

Lumialle only smiled.

Asheroth woke again in the middle of the night, but it was to the sense of someone slipping into bed beside him, and a whispered, "It's all right, go back to sleep."

The next day, Asheroth went hunting, to replenish their food supplies. No chance of obtaining more bread or cheese this far from civilisation, but he snared a brace of rabbits in the woods around Glast Heim. He hoped that Lumialle was recovered enough to begin eating meat again.

The afternoon was still bright and warm when he returned, earlier than he had initially planned. As he approached the tower, he startled a flock of doves into flight. Feathers swirled down in a loose flurry. Curious. Few animals dared enter Glast Heim.

Something odd at the foot of the tower caught his eye. He bent down for a closer look. Tiny pieces of torn up bread lay scattered on the ground.

Asheroth straightened up slowly, rolling a piece of bread between his fingers. Then he looked up at the window, high above, where a velvet curtain hung.

* * * * *

That night, when Asheroth went to bed, he closed his eyes but did not sleep. He allowed his breathing to settle into a slow, even rhythm, allowed his entire body to relax. Eventually, he sensed Lumialle shift beside him, throw the covers off and slide out of bed. He could hear bare feet pad across the floor, and the creak of the door.

After a brief interval, Asheroth rose. He did not light a lamp, but allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness. And then he followed Lumialle down the spiral staircase and through the city.

Through the city and, as it turned out, past the gates. Past the gates and beyond the woods and onto the ancient road that had once been the king's highway.

Lumialle walked out into the centre of the road and stood there. Asheroth watched him from the shadows of a tree. He couldn't tell what Lumialle was doing out there. Was he waiting for something?

The answer soon came. Hoofbeats signalled the approach of riders, half a dozen of them, thundering down the road. They reined to a halt when they saw Lumialle, who had not moved.

These men were armed, unshaven, dressed in mismatched finery. Asheroth knew their kind: bandits, or near enough, extorting protection money from travellers unfortunate enough to cross their path. He nocked an arrow to his bow and sighted along it, ready for trouble. But he did not shoot. Not yet.

"Well, well," the leader of the group said, grinning down at Lumialle from his mount. "Where do you think you're going, at this time of night? Don't you know these roads are dangerous?"

"Boss," one of the others said, "that's him! The man from last night. The one who got Marco!"

"Is it? Then he's pretty stupid to show up again, when he must have known we'd be back too." The leader kicked his horse forward, drawing his sword. "And this time there's more of--"

Lumialle gestured with one hand, and a wall of fire shot up between them. The horses reared in panic, sending their riders to the ground, before bolting into the night. Most of the bandits followed--all save the leader, who stood his ground.

"Come back, you fools! There's only one of him!" He brandished the sword menacingly, but Lumialle gestured again, and a firebolt flashed down the length of the blade. The man dropped his weapon with a howl, stumbling backwards.

Lumialle gestured a third time, and the wall of fire sank to a low flicker. He stepped over the dying flames and grabbed the bandit leader by the collar, wrenching him upright.

"What are you?" the man cried out.

Asheroth couldn't hear Lumialle's answer. But he saw Lumialle's eyes, cold as ice, as he bent towards the man's throat.

And then he saw Lumialle's smile.

* * * * *

"I saw you," Lumialle said. "Last night. You followed me."

Asheroth looked up from restringing his bow. "You knew?"

Lumialle nodded. "I've been waiting all day for you to say something. Why haven't you said something?"

"What do you want me to say?" Asheroth stood, letting his bow fall to the floor unheeded. "You should have told me."

"Told you want? That I'm a killer now? A monster?"

"That you need--to do what you do--to survive."

"Say it, Ash." Lumialle's eyes flashed. "Blood. I need to drink blood to live."

"The Dark Lord betrayed us--"

"No. He brought me back to life. It's my body that's betraying me." Lumialle raised one arm, the sleeve sliding back to reveal skin pale as marble, veins flowing only with stolen blood, borrowed life.

"It's not your fault. It's mine. I did this to you." Asheroth took a breath. "But you don't have to go hunting. I'm here. If you need."

It took a moment for Lumialle to realise what Asheroth meant. His eyes went bleak. He stood.

"I can't listen to this," Lumialle said. "I need to get some air."

Asheroth pulled at Lumialle's sleeve. "I'm offering to help you, dammit! You don't have to be a killer anymore!"

Lumialle whirled around, sparks in his eyes. "Listen to yourself! Do you know what you're saying? What's wrong with you, Ash?" He tore himself free and headed through the door. It slammed behind him.

Asheroth sank to the floor, his head in his hands.

* * * * *

Moonlight fell in long bars through the windows of the hall, draping Lumialle's coffin in silver. Asheroth sat beside it, running his hand along the grooves in the lid. His fingers found a withered rose petal still stuck to it. Unbidden, the image came to him of the hole in the ground where Lumialle's coffin had been buried. And he thought of dead things crawling from their graves.

It's not the same.

A cold breeze lifted the hairs on the back of his neck, and he knew even before he turned who he would find.

"There are trespassers at the gates," the Dark Lord said. "Deal with them."

Asheroth rose and bowed. "Yes, my lord."

The dead watched him go. The whole city was full of dead now. Except for him.

And perhaps now others. From his vantage point atop a crumbling staircase, he could see two specks of colour in the distance, a bright contrast to the gloom of Glast Heim. Other specks milled around them.

He approached them carefully, leaping from roof to roof. He could see a knight in blue, and a priestess robed in indigo. They were surrounded by a horde of the dead. The knight slashed through them with his sword; the priestess crumbled them to dust with her holy light. Still, the two were outnumbered, and Asheroth could see blood mixed with the sweat on the knight's brow.

Asheroth didn't know if the dead would obey him, but he cried out, "Stop!"

The dead hesitated, milling about. The knight and the priestess looked up at him.

"Leave this place," Asheroth said. "You don't belong here! This is a city of the dead."

The knight laughed. "Then what are you doing here?"

"We've come to retrieve something that should never have been lost," the priestess said. "You know what it is of which we speak, don't you?"

Asheroth did not answer her. Instead, he drew his bow and shot an arrow that landed at their feet. "Unless you leave now, the Dark Lord will find you. And he won't give you a chance to leave."

"Who the hell are you anyway?" the knight said.

"I know who he is," the priestess said, meeting Asheroth's eyes. Her gaze seemed to pierce right into his heart, and Asheroth was afraid of what she might say.

"Leave now," he said, loosing another arrow. It touched her sleeve. The knight swore and strode towards Asheroth. The dead closed ranks before him.

"Not this way," the priestess said to the knight. "We will be back."

Asheroth watched as they left through the gates.

"They are gone," he reported to the Dark Lord, who dismissed him with a glance.

Asheroth retreated between the pillars to where Lumialle's coffin was. He sat down next to it, trying not to remember the way they had looked at him.

* * * * *

Asheroth encountered several more incursions during the day. Word had spread that the Dark Lord had arisen, and more and more people were coming to Glast Heim to fight the dead.

Near sunset, Asheroth ran into Lenor. He froze at the sight of her. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"That should be obvious," Lenor said. "The question is, what are you doing here?"

"It's the only way I can be with Lumi."

"And for that, you would sacrifice everything else? Everything you believe in? Everything he believed in?"

"It's too late now, isn't it?" Asheroth pointed towards the gates. "Just go! Or the next time we meet, it won't be as friends."

"Are we still friends, Ash? Or are they your friends?" She gestured at the dead.

Asheroth said nothing. Lenor shook her head as she slipped away into the shadows.

Later, Asheroth watched from a deserted rooftop as Ravenloft launched their assault against the Dark Lord. A host rode behind them, and the dead came out to meet them. He had never felt so helpless in his life.

He watched as the dead were hammered by swords and by spells, and he watched as they regenerated under the power of the sceptre.

He watched as Lenor tried to get the sceptre from the Dark Lord by stealth, and he watched as the Dark Lord turned, somehow detecting her.

He watched as Cyrus intervened, charging at the Dark Lord in an attempt to distract him. He watched as the Dark Lord smashed him to the ground with a bolt of lightning.

He watched as Lunakitty shouted for them to fall back, and he watched as Ravenloft retreated, carrying Cyrus with them.

He felt sick to the stomach.

"They're not going to give up, are they?" Lumialle said, standing at his shoulder. It was full dusk now, Asheroth realised, in a distant corner of his mind.

"You saw?" he said.

"Everything," Lumialle answered.

* * * * *

They sat in silence in the tower room, as the long hours of the night swam past. Ravenloft had withdrawn for now, but they were bound to resume the attack tomorrow. No matter what it cost them. Because the Dark Lord had to be stopped.

"You did it all for me, Ash," Lumialle said at last. "I understand that."

Asheroth shook his head. "No. I did it for myself. And now everyone's paying the price." He hunched his shoulders in misery. "I don't know what to do."

Lumialle touched his hand gently. "You already know what you have to do." When Asheroth looked up at him, he said, "I don't want a world where the dead feed on the living. And neither do you."

"But what can I do? The Dark Lord holds your life in his hands--"

"No, he doesn't." Lumialle stood. He walked over to the window, where the first faint glimmers of dawn were bleeding around the edge of the curtains. The distant cry of a lark broke through the air, welcoming the day.

Asheroth rocketed to his feet. "No. You can't."

"Hush. It's all right." Lumialle put his hands on Asheroth's shoulders. "This is the last thing I can do for you. For all of you."

Asheroth swallowed. It took all his willpower to stand there and nod, to resist the urge to drag Lumialle away from the window, to take him somewhere far away, where they were beyond the reach of the Dark Lord, where the war between the living and the dead did not intrude. But Lumialle was not someone who could abandon his friends, and if he had been, he would not be the man Asheroth loved.

"You just have to be the hero, don't you?" Asheroth said, trying to smile. His voice shook.

Lumialle smiled back. "Well. Can't let you have all the glory." He glanced over at the window. "It's time."

He kissed Asheroth on the forehead. Then he flung back the curtains and stepped forward into the sun.

It lit him like fire, like he was crowned in gold.

"Tell the others goodbye," Lumialle said, as the light blazed around him, turning from gold to white. "I never had the chance to say goodbye before."

"I'll tell them," Asheroth said. "I promise." The morning sun blinded him, so that he couldn't see past its brightness, couldn't see past the tears standing in his eyes, could only feel the wind rushing past him, scattering ashes against his face.

* * * * *

Legions of the dead swarmed about the hall of the Dark Lord, awaiting his command. But Asheroth walked through their midst, ignoring them, like a dead man himself. The ghostly sensation of the kiss burned on his forehead like a brand.

The Dark Lord stood by his throne, giving orders to his forces, emphasising his words with a wave of his sceptre. When he noticed Asheroth, his eyes flared. "What are you doing here? Stay out of my way, lest I change my mind about your friend."

"Lumialle is dead."

"Is that all?" the Dark Lord said impatiently. "I can bring him back. Later."

"No. You can't."

Asheroth leapt forward and snatched the sceptre from the Dark Lord, backing away against the throne.

The Dark Lord looked at him impassively. "And what do you plan to do with that?"

"Stop you," Asheroth said. And he swung the sceptre against the throne.

There was a sound like the ringing of a huge gong, and the marble throne cracked and split. Asheroth stared at the sceptre. The bloodstone had fractured into a shattered starburst, but even as he watched, the cracks began to seal themselves, until it was once more whole and unbroken.

Black laughter echoed through the hall. "You fool," the Dark Lord said. "Did you really think an object of such power could be destroyed so easily?"

With one gauntleted hand, he seized Asheroth by the collar and slammed him against the wall. The other hand wrested the sceptre away. "I spared you before. But there is only one fitting punishment for traitors."

He drove the sceptre through Asheroth's chest.

* * * * *

Asheroth lay in the middle of a barren plain, fiery chasms running throughout the landscape. Sulphurous fumes choked the air. The sky was red with an unholy light.

I have fallen into hell.

But what else could he have expected, after making a pact with the forces of darkness? It had been a price he had been willing to pay, if that was the cost of Lumialle's life.

But apparently there was another price he hadn't been willing to pay.

I'm sorry, Lumialle.

So he betrayed everyone, in the end.

Asheroth pushed himself to his feet. He'd thought the dead didn't feel pain, but the wound in his chest throbbed. Was this his destiny then? Eternal torment?

A rumbling sound came to his ears. In the distance, a chasm collapsed on itself, its walls falling into the gap. The void rippled towards him. Asheroth stood, watching it. There was nowhere to run. The ground beneath his feet crumbled, and he fell.

A hand caught his wrist.

Asheroth dangled in midair, a bottomless pit beneath him. The hand did not let go.

It pulled him up over the edge of the cliff.

Asheroth lay gasping on the ground, adrenalin still pumping through his body. Only after a little while did he notice that it was not rough stone he was resting on, but a soft blanket of grass. The air smelled fresh and sweet. And someone was standing in front of him.

Asheroth's heart pounded faster. He didn't dare look up. He was afraid of what he might see. Or not see.

A slender hand touched his cheek.

"You don't want to look me in the eye? Oh, Ash. Have you fallen for somebody else since I was gone?"

"Never," Asheroth whispered, and looked up.

Lumialle stood there, real and whole. His long hair waved in the breeze. There was a gentle smile on his face, tolerant and amused. They were in a garden full of trees and flowers. There was no sun that Asheroth could see, but the light shone warm and golden.

Asheroth had dreamed--had agonised--over a thousand things he would say to Lumialle if he had the chance. Now, all his carefully planned speeches fled from him. He had never been the one good with words.

"I missed you," Asheroth said.

"I know," Lumialle said. His expression grew serious. "But you shouldn't be here. It's not your time. There are many things you still have to do."

"It doesn't matter anymore. I want to stay here with you."

"I've moved on, Ash. But there are others who need you now. Your friends. Your guildmates. You have to be strong for them."

"I don't want to go back without you!" Asheroth said desperately.

Lumialle smiled. "I will always be with you." He ran his fingers over Asheroth's face gently. "We will meet again. Until that day, live. Live the life that I could not. Live the life you were meant to live."

* * * * *

Asheroth woke to find Sevenne kneeling beside him, white as paper. "Thank the gods! I thought I was too late. It was like Lumi all over again..."

"Sevenne? Where did you come from?" Asheroth said, sitting up. He touched his chest; his shirt was torn, but his flesh was whole and unmarked. "You healed me? What happened?"

"The Dark Lord lost control of the dead when his sceptre broke. They're running wild now. We're laying them all to rest, before he can regain control. When we're done, we'll seal the gates."

"I've screwed up," Asheroth said. "Badly. Luna must be very angry with me."

Sevenne shook her head. "Now's not the time to talk about these things. We have other problems to deal with first."

A wall of ice surrounded them. Asheroth could feel chill air roll towards them. Alby stood in front of it, a look of concentration on his face.

On the other side of the wall, he could hear the sounds of battle.

"Sevenne," Alby said. Only the faintest crease of his forehead betrayed the intensity of his effort. "It won't hold much longer."

"It's all right, we're good to go." She turned to Asheroth. "Where's Lumi?"

He looked away. "Lumi is gone. At rest."

"Oh." She fell silent. There wasn't much else to say.

"I'm sorry I've been such a fool," Asheroth said. "And after all that, you come back and save my life."

"Well, it's what I do, isn't it?" Sevenne clasped his hand and gave him a serious look. "I'm glad you're not dead."

After a moment, Asheroth said, "Me too."

They rejoined Lunakitty and the other Ravens, fighting their way through the ranks of the dead. Along the way, Asheroth learned that the sceptre could not be destroyed, which was why it had been kept in the hidden temple. But it would not matter that the Dark Lord had the sceptre, if there were no dead for him to command. Once their bodies were returned to the ground, only their restless spirits would remain. And the Dark Lord would be sealed in Glast Heim once more.

When they arrived, Asheroth knelt in front of Lunakitty. "I'm sorry. I don't know if you can ever forgive me."

Lunakitty stood there, looking at him, for long moments. Then she sighed. "Get up, Ash. We have a lot to talk about, but not here. We have a job to finish. And then we can go home."

* * * * *

"I brought Poru today," Asheroth said. "I think he likes it out here in the open air. He got all excited when I told him we were coming to visit you."

Asheroth laid the wild lilies down against Lumialle's gravestone. Grass was already springing up around it, dotted with tiny flowers. He knelt down next to it, tracing his fingers over the words carved there. They were still sharp and crisp, not yet worn down by time. But time would, eventually, fade them.

"I miss you," Asheroth said.

He still ached inside. But it was an ache he could carry. And one day, perhaps, it would hurt a little less, and maybe one day a little further down the track, he would find himself able to smile again. He still loved Lumialle--would always love Lumialle--but he didn't have to bury himself in the same grave, nor tear Lumialle from his. He had witnessed a city where the dead walked, and what they had was not life. He would not wish for Lumialle to share that fate. He was elsewhere now, and Asheroth had to hope it was a better place.

"We'll meet again," Asheroth said, tracing his fingers along the sunwarmed surface of the stone. "And when we do, I'll have so many new things to tell you, Lumi."

- fin -

Life is eternal;
and love is immortal;
and death is only a horizon;
and a horizon is nothing
save the limit of our sight.

~ Rossiter Worthington Raymond