Page 147 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

Grief and relief crashed through The Warrior’s consciousness at once. Confirmation of everything he’d believed collided with fear of the unknown—and worry for his soul family. The souls who always circled back to his immortal strength.

The Being formed the outline of a body—something to put The Warrior at ease—and settled onto a bench as it manifested. The Warrior followed, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees as he so often had in his earthbound form.

“Ask the questions that plague you, Aren of Grayshell.”

Aren didn’t hesitate. “Am I… am I going back?”

“Are you?”

The Warrior gave a disbelieving chuckle, rubbing untarnished palms over his face. Entertaining, this bright soul the Other had watched for a millennium. Just as bold here as in the life he’d lived below.

“Are you saying I can stay?”

“You’ve done well, Aren Evander—or shall I say, Amadeus? If you will it, you may stay and move into peace. Your time has been well served.”

“I—” The Warrior’s soul couldn’t articulate the tidal wave of thoughts crossing through him. “Can I go back?”

This place was everything and nothing at once. Should The Warrior will it, he could move on to the After—reunite with souls long lost, mortal and celestial alike. Never again would he know the pang of hunger, the heat of hatred, the frigid grip of fear. Never again witness the atrocities of the physical world or feel blood slick palms designed to Love.

“You would sacrifice all of this? Have you not at last earned rest, little one?”

The Warrior almost smiled at that. The Being knew it was an endearment he’d rarely, if ever, received. At least not that he remembered.

After all, they’d met more than once: The Warrior and the Being.

The Warrior was one of His favorites. Never passing an opportunity to make someone smile—never passing an opportunity to smile himself, despite the atrocities he endured.

And…the Warrior always went back.

At last, he said the words the Being knew were coming. “They—my family—they need me?”

“They certainly do,” the Being agreed.

“So?”

“You may return.” The Being gestured forward, and Aren lifted his gaze to two doors, both composed of the same luminescent mist, both shining with warm light. One white. One gold. “There is always a choice, Aren. Walk through the door to the right, and you will move on to the afterlife you so ardently earned. The Highest Realm is absent of pain, worry, sacrifice. At last, your soul will know peace. Your concerns for the mortal realm and those still within it will no longer exist, for within that peace, understanding will settle. When your earthly companions join you, no matter how long they wait to choose ascension, it will feel as though no time has lapsed. Sorrow—grief—does not exist beyond the golden door.”

The Warrior let silence settle. The Being was in no hurry to bid farewell to the bright spot.

When The Warrior could no longer stand the suspense, he prompted, “And the left?”

“Pain,” it said simply. “The left holds infinitely more pain.”

“Can I endure it?” Determination edged the words. It was the same determination that had forged this soul into strength and steel—the same force that sent him back time and again.

This would be his last. The Being knew that when they met again, The Warrior would finally choose peace with no duties left unfinished.

“The physical pain of waking? Yes. But just. Should you return, you will endure more excruciating agony in both mind and body than any you’ve ever known. The spiritual warfare is a decision not yet minted. You will lose she who you most loved. You will watch your mortal counterparts suffer unspeakable crimes—watch their world crumble and help to reform it. How you endure that is up to you, Aren of Grayshell. You will bury still more friends—some will return, and some will ascend and choose the door to the right, their peace well earned. It is time for this endless cycle to at last cease. The twins must be severed.”

Another long silence. “What happens to my people if I stay? If I choose peace?” Fear, not hope, drove the question.

“They lose. But they will join you in the After when they fall upon blades. It is done. You’ve loved them to their freedom. As in life, they will follow you into the After.”

Loved them. Not led them. Not disciplined or trained or honed as the weapons he’d been born to craft.

Loved them.

The Being waited for the realization to settle. It did. Slowly. The Warrior’s manifested face broke into a smile more radiant than any he’d worn in the body he used for centuries.