Some people thought that the transmission of a soul through life into their afterlife was instant, or nearly so.
Those people were wrong.
There was a gathering place, a centralized point where the dead went after they were cleansed, stripped of their memories completely, to wait for judgement. And though judgement didn't really determine whether a person spent their eternity in a paradise or a hell, well actually it did.
The choices, the beliefs a person had in their living life determined where they'd go in their afterlife. Whichever diety or Power they'd held most dear claiming them from the instant their hearts stopped and the light left their eyes.
From their home world their essence travelled, snapped up like a rat in the mouth of a hungry terrier, to the Astral. And from there, they'd be scrubbed clean as they sifted through filters into a place that was, and wasn't really a plane. There they waited, sometimes an eternity, sometimes a moment, it all depended on the dead.
There, stretching from horizon horizon, and back around behind it to, in a world of misty grey with nothing in the way of landmarks but for the podiums where the Recorders were, the dead waited. Waited for their time on the mark, waited for their time to pass on and begin their promised reward for service and belief.
Movement here for the living wasn't common, the esssence of life had no need for landmarks or gravity or beaten tracks. Willing herself to move, the redneck floated from the Portal she'd activated. In memory and thanks a thumb ran the edge of the key ring tenderly before she slipped it back into a pocket of her jeans.
With the memory of a man's face held firmly, stubbornly in her mind, the woman began to drift. Single mindedly she bore down, fought the image to hold and clarify, squeezed her eyes shut against the washed out blur of once-life around her until she'd bumped up against one of the podiums. Thorn felt the beginnings of a dread laden relief then. It was highly likely he'd already passed on and through then. Gone on to where ever he'd been drawn to in life.
Bribery worked no matter the Plane, no matter the Purpose. When suitable payment had been accepted, (the dying breath of a unicorn for one, the feel of sunlight on the skin of an elf child for another, the squeal of a rabbit in a trap for yet another), she'd been allowed to read the appropriate pages in the Books.
The Dead Books held the names of those who'd died. All of those who'd died in the Multiverse. From its beginning to its ending. All of the dead's names were recorded there.
Except one.
With her heart breaking once again, the redneck keyed the Portal home. Squared her shoulders and went to keep the promise to her brother.
Those people were wrong.
There was a gathering place, a centralized point where the dead went after they were cleansed, stripped of their memories completely, to wait for judgement. And though judgement didn't really determine whether a person spent their eternity in a paradise or a hell, well actually it did.
The choices, the beliefs a person had in their living life determined where they'd go in their afterlife. Whichever diety or Power they'd held most dear claiming them from the instant their hearts stopped and the light left their eyes.
From their home world their essence travelled, snapped up like a rat in the mouth of a hungry terrier, to the Astral. And from there, they'd be scrubbed clean as they sifted through filters into a place that was, and wasn't really a plane. There they waited, sometimes an eternity, sometimes a moment, it all depended on the dead.
There, stretching from horizon horizon, and back around behind it to, in a world of misty grey with nothing in the way of landmarks but for the podiums where the Recorders were, the dead waited. Waited for their time on the mark, waited for their time to pass on and begin their promised reward for service and belief.
Movement here for the living wasn't common, the esssence of life had no need for landmarks or gravity or beaten tracks. Willing herself to move, the redneck floated from the Portal she'd activated. In memory and thanks a thumb ran the edge of the key ring tenderly before she slipped it back into a pocket of her jeans.
With the memory of a man's face held firmly, stubbornly in her mind, the woman began to drift. Single mindedly she bore down, fought the image to hold and clarify, squeezed her eyes shut against the washed out blur of once-life around her until she'd bumped up against one of the podiums. Thorn felt the beginnings of a dread laden relief then. It was highly likely he'd already passed on and through then. Gone on to where ever he'd been drawn to in life.
Bribery worked no matter the Plane, no matter the Purpose. When suitable payment had been accepted, (the dying breath of a unicorn for one, the feel of sunlight on the skin of an elf child for another, the squeal of a rabbit in a trap for yet another), she'd been allowed to read the appropriate pages in the Books.
The Dead Books held the names of those who'd died. All of those who'd died in the Multiverse. From its beginning to its ending. All of the dead's names were recorded there.
Except one.
With her heart breaking once again, the redneck keyed the Portal home. Squared her shoulders and went to keep the promise to her brother.