The latch snapped into place as the door closed abruptly, serving as the exclamation point to the chorus of boos that had trailed behind the man who called himself Draeden Darksky as he exited the ringside area of the sports arena. The hatred of The Experts' CEO died down to a dull roar beyond the steel door to his back, drowned out momentarily as the echo of the slamming door faded in the cold, vacant corridor.
Draeden was still now, save for the slow and steady heave of his chest as he sought to manage his heart rate with deep, controlled breaths. His eyes were closed, his mind was focused - focused on the victory he had just achieved moments ago. But that was all over now, though this was almost the case for his stay in the GTT tournament too.
I was foolish. This physique was not developed by lifting weights and running treadmills; it was developed by a lifetime of fighting. Something I've never done before. Not by way of my fists, no. Were I a normal man in a normal body I'd have been knocked to the ground and defeated in seconds, but not like this - not with the machine I've become a part of. With it I am strong, resilient. I am a weapon, deadly. I am a force to be reckoned with. Or, at least, I will be.
Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, Draeden didn't notice the streak of blood that stretched from his wrist to the tip of his ring finger, the worthless donation a courtesy of Josh Marquez and the glancing blow to Draeden's face that threw him off balance and almost cost him the match. Probably the slightest impact he had suffered throughout the fight, but it had been nearly enough to turn the tide away from his favour – and that was absolutely unacceptable. He hadn't flown all the way to Washington D.C. to be knocked out of this tournament in the first round. In fact, he hadn't come to be knocked out at all; the naïvety of the conception that he might actually win the whole thing was lost on Draeden Darksky and his cast-iron will that was unshaken by his near-complete inexperience in such matters.
On the other hand, if I don't get control over this then, well... This may prove to be a little more difficult than I had initially anticipated...
The fighter was so deeply immersed in his own mental monologue that he didn't hear the footsteps approach him from the front, his eyes locked shut tightly, deeply concentrating.
A single foot fall penetrated the subconscious barrier and gave Draeden's dormant perception a rousing slap.
His eyes opened and a triumphant grin replaced the mask of focus that marked his inner reflection.
"I'd wondered why you weren't interested in me seeing your match," came the mocking accusation from the source of the footsteps.
"I didn't think you were interested, Miss Bowman."
The woman gave a wry smile and folded her arms. "Yes, well, I'm here strictly on business matters... Mister Darksky."
"So I see," he mumbled, looking her up and down. The dark blue jeans, heeled boots and white spaghetti vest top said otherwise. "But what I must confess to wondering is whether you came back here to speak to the other wrestlers... or am I just special?"
"Oh, you're special alright!"
Draeden simply scowled, inciting a ditzy giggle from Alice. "I'm just kidding! So what're you doing now?"
"Standing in a corridor How about you?"
A faux frown. "I was thinking about going for drinks after this, but that all depends on how grumpy my boss is!" she joked.
"So that's why you're really here, Miss Bowman?"
"Of course not! I only came to see you take a beating. I've got to say, you really didn't let me down!"
* * *
The nearest bar was exactly that - near; so much so that the pair had chosen to walk there once Draeden had gotten changed. He was not normally inclined to bother with walking when there was a convenient limousine available but since Alice had suggested it, claiming the air would do him good, he had agreed to send his driver away. It was a pleasant evening; the night had not yet set in and they were provided with enough light from the sky alone to navigate the District of Columbia's streets on their short journey.
They had not encountered any wrestling fans so far, which disappointed Draeden as he secretly wished one of them would see him in the street and confront him, initiate a shouting match or a brawl. Wrestling fans took everything so seriously. The lawsuit he'd have on his hands when he punched them senseless would be very expensive for The Experts. Most of the fans would be either in the arena they'd just left, or in their homes hurling abuse at their television screens after his victory tonight. The Experts' CEO was not a popular man these days.
As Draeden slipped out of his train of thought he saw that, around one hundred yards further up the block, there was a collection of tables and chairs on the sidewalk. A few people were sitting at one table while a waiter handed them their drinks from a silver tray, brightly-coloured fruity cocktails with red and white parasols that mirrored those sheltering the tables they sat around. "Is that where we're going?" Draeden asked with a contemptuous sneer.
"Uh, yeah, why?"
He shook his head in dismay. That wasn't what he called a bar. His idea of a good bar was a place where you got soaked with alcohol from the instant you walk through the door because drinks are served by acrobatic bikini models doing cartwheels across the bar. He had yet to find a place like this, but he hadn't had time to look very hard given all of this Experts business. All that could wait. Revenge was the driving force behind Draeden now, the vision to incite a revolution that would bring the business to its knees while he sat at the head of it all upon his throne built from the bones of the wrestling promotions he would leave in tatters while he basked in the glorious aftermath. Such a triumph would be difficult to achieve, but that didn't make him second guess himself. A lesser man would question what he was doing; he would sometimes wish that he'd never amended the contracts he came across in The Experts' warehouse during the Extreme Tournament - the papers that would give him complete control over the entire company. Draeden was not that weaker man. That lone, deceitful act would prove to be the killing blow that wiped out The Experts' chance of further success in the wrestling world, the financial poison injected into corporate veins that would eventually ruin everything, that would spread to the promotions beneath The Experts and take them out of the picture too.
And thus Draeden Darksky's terrible fury would never be forgotten. The Crusader of Sacrifice had risen from a fathomless grave of oblivescence to become the Hand of Fate, whose clawed grip firmly held the blade that would sunder the wrestling world forever; conversely, his place in the history books would be sealed in the process and his enemies would be so very sorry they ever forgot about him in the first place. This had probably been achieved already, he didn't think there was any chance that his deeds so far would be disregarded any time soon but that was no reason to give up now.
It was then that Draeden realised he'd been ranting to himself in his head, deftly ignoring whatever Alice said in response to his contempt for the bar in which they now stood. He caught the tail end of what she said last, which sounded like "So are we staying here or would you rather go elsewhere?"
"We might as well stay, on account of us being here already," he said, his words slick with sarcasm.
Alice didn't bite. "Okay," she beamed, turning to the bar to order her drink.
Draeden scowled.
* * *
Somehow the castaway felt a certain familiarity to his situation, though it was not due to the revelation of the giant's identity, an enigma that had chewed at the edges of his curiosity with the timorousness of a nervous child's tugging of its mother's sleeve. No, this was something more; something from his memories that he hadn't come to understand yet. All in due time, the stabbing pain in his head swiftly reminded him that patience would be a virtue.
Although the light was on, the room was not particularly bright. The dark wooden walls absorbed much of the illumination, the corners and recesses in the walls were still murky and no doubt home to many various many-legged crawling horrors. Scuttling beetles and spiders made the young man's flesh crawl, goosebumps leapt to attention at the very thought of the tiny traffic that likely raced around the floor, walls and ceiling while he was none the wiser.
Disgusting.
Another concern of his had gripped him by the throat and refused to let go – well, two in fact. He had learnt now that his name was Draeden Darksky; he had also learnt that he was in this strange place because he was dead. Being dead struck a chord with him. His mind caught the scent of a familiar odour but was unable to track down the path it had taken. That he had died before was obviously impossible, though considering that option felt like brushing shoulders with understanding before it edged out of his reach, and that frustrated him. Draeden didn't like to be kept in the dark, it seemed. And yet, before him stood a wealth of knowledge that waited to be consulted for the answers and he had not asked Ronan anything, he realised.
With that in mind, Draeden opened his mouth to speak, to enquire and learn. He closed his mouth again and looked awkwardly at his surroundings, reconsidering his question.
As if reading Draeden's thoughts from a book, Ronan spoke first. "There will be much you wish to ask," he mumbled quietly through his beard, not making eye contact with the younger man. "But you must ask me about these things in the presence of the warm fire. I'm getting old, lad."
Draeden contemplated the senselessness of the remark as he followed Ronan to the living room. The floorboards groaned in protest against the weight of the men combined, creating an eerie cacophony of complaining carpentry that trailed them to the other end of the old farmhouse. The wooden floor was partially covered by a well-worn green rug that looked like it probably had never seen better days, as if it had been old forever. The fire was already blazing, Ronan gestured for Draeden to sit in a scruffy armchair beside it, which he did, while he himself slumped into the sofa opposite with an almighty groan from both man and furniture alike. This was the only sound to escape the burly farmer for quite some time as the two men simply sat in silence, avoiding each others' gaze as if to make eye contact would be to cause the ceiling to fall in.
Finally Ronan spoke, yet to avert his eyes from the tattered edge of his old rug. "What were you going to ask me before?" he asked.
"I hadn't decided," was Draeden's instant response. Instant, because it was true. "But I will ask this: who are you? Are you my father?"
"I am your father's brother."
"What can you tell me of him?"
Ronan's cheek bulged where a smile bunched the muscles. The smile itself was hidden behind the thick brown, greying beard that covered most of his face. "He was... a proud man. Smart, honest," he said, absently clawing his facial hair with broad fingers. "Short-tempered, too. And really stubborn. If he didn't believe in somethin' then there was no chance of gettin' him to do it."
"'Was'?"
"Yeah, well. Him and your mother, they died when their car spun off the road in the winter, couple months after your second birthday. Then you came to stay with me cause there were nobody else to look after you."
Although he said as much as he felt, which was basically nothing, Draeden instantly questioned his own reaction to the news that his parents were dead. He knew he was meant to care, but since he knew nothing about them he couldn't put their names to faces, therefore he couldn't miss them. This was his logic, but he still knew he was meant to feel... something. He was also aware that he should say something at this point, but what? "Oh," he managed, knowing he'd already failed to say something suitable.
Instead of taking offence or being upset, Ronan threw him an unexpected explanation for his thoughts. "I don't suppose you remember them, really. You were just a kid. Only a touch over two years old, you were; I'd be surprised if you even remembered what they looked like. Didn't have any pictures of 'em here, your father and I didn't always see eye to eye and I'm not much one for havin' photos cluttering up the place anyhow," muttered Draeden's uncle, still pawing at his beard.
"Why not?"
"Oh, I've never liked clutter. Don't like stuff on the walls, that's what the wallpaper's for."
"I meant why didn't you see eye to eye with my father," Draeden corrected, a half-smile creeping across his face. He was already developing a fondness for his uncle.
"Aye, of course. Sorry. Your grandma wasn't well and I couldn't afford to fly over to see her cause of the crops. If I'd left 'em alone I'd have lost everything, this place included. I had no money to fly back neither. Everything rode on that season's crop, and if she'd lasted long enough I'd have gone back to see her, gone to say goodbye. But she just couldn't hang on no more," he whispered, his voice had grown quieter as he went on, his eyes still fixed firmly on the floor. He cleared his throat, his voice returning to normal volume. "Your dad wasn't happy about that. I wasn't neither, in truth, but there was nothing I could do about it. Damn well broke my heart. He didn't see it that way; I had put my farm before my own mother in his eyes, and that was that."
Draeden nodded slowly as the two drifted into silence once more. They had yet to make eye contact until Ronan looked up and did exactly that, though he was not first to speak. "You never spoke afterwards?"
"Nah," grunted Ronan. "Stubborn, like I said."
"Are they... are they here?" Draeden asked, tentatively.
A long, sorrowful sigh from Ronan answered Draeden's question without words, though he continued anyway. "Not that I've been able to find. This isn't like the other side. It's smaller. I've searched. I'm pretty much alone here. There are... others, but for the most part they don't want to talk. I think they've gone mad."
"Mad?"
"Aye, obsessed like. It's why I answer the door with my gun y'see, they're dangerous. One of 'em nearly had my eye out with a knife, Hector nearly ripped the bastard's arms off," he growled, clenching his fists. "Had the gun at the door for a long time now. Long time."
"What is this place?"
"I've been here years and I still don't know. Heaven? Nah. Hell? Could be. Maybe it's purgatory, the last chance to prove yourself before you go to wherever you're gonna stay, if you believe such places exist. Even so, I wonder what you did to end up here. You were a good kid." He thoughtfully resumed the religious habit of combing his beard with his hands.
"I was?" was Draeden's next question. He scratched his stubbly chin, subconsciously mirroring his uncle's idle actions.
"Aye. Y'know - polite an' helpful. That sort of thing. You used to help me around the farm an' that. Collect fallen fruit. I remember when a tangerine fell on your head from the orchard, you were convinced I'd chucked it at you," he chucked. "You wouldn't believe me like; you were just as stubborn as your dad was."
"I think I remember. Hector ran off with it in the end, didn't he?" Draeden ventured, the wolf-like dog looking up attentively.
"Aye, he did. So what do you remember? Before here, I mean."
"Nothing much. Apart from what you've told me, I know next to nothing." He hesitated, then said, "Did we ever go to the beach? Was there ever an accident where I nearly drowned when I was little?"
"Nah, we never really got away from the farm. Why?"
"I just seem to remember something similar happening to me at some point when I woke up on the shore before I got here."
"Maybe that's how, y'know, you, um--"
"Died?"
"Aye," Ronan sighed, shifting awkwardly in his seat. "That. Along with the rest of the Darksky boys."
"You might be right." Despite his uncle's obvious discomfort, Draeden didn't remember anything about his life to make him sorrowful for losing it. As far as he knew he had lost nothing. Whatever life he'd had before was gone from his mind, all he was able do now was to learn as much as possible about this world he'd entered and discover why he was there. If Ronan was right and Draeden had woken up in Purgatory, where he'd have his last chance to prove himself worthy of ascension, then he'd have to find out what was required of him.
It was then that Draeden accepted his death; and with it the challenge to come, whatever that may be. Just as, unbeknownst to him, he always would.
* * *
Although the document-packed leather-bound journal turned no heads in the busy bar when Alice Bowman inadvertently slammed it down on the small round table, Draeden still flinched at the noise despite watching it happen over the rim of his glass. He swore under his breath as he resumed his interrupted sip of Jack Daniels on the rocks. When he put the glass down he kept his hand around the thick bottom of the glass and eyed the black journal critically. "What's that?" he grunted.
Smiling brightly, Alice sat down in the chair opposite him and opened the journal in front of her, turning it round for Draeden to see. "This," she began in a grand tone, "is everything we have on the author."
There was a pause while he examined the two pages' worth of notes, pictures and references to larger documents and video footage with descriptions of what relevant details they contained. "Is that it?" he asked sarcastically.
Digging into her bag, Alice continued to smile. "Almost," she said, producing a sheaf of papers stapled together. "And since finding this document, that information in there is now completely worthless. I had this sent over from the office; it's the contract between the author and Nihilus Ravion Publishing, the company that printed Shadow Crusade. The document is signed by Valerie Magnus on behalf of NRP and by a man named Israel Kali Arkadie on behalf of the author."
"Arkadie... who's he?"
"He's the man who may well lead you to the author."
"Where is he?"
"If our sources are correct then should be at a conference in Chesapeake."
Draeden sighed and cupped his hands over his face in frustration, covering his eyes, nose and mouth. "Where the fuck is Chesapeake?" came his muffled voice from behind the veil of fingers.
"It's about 200 kilometres south of here," Alice answered sweetly, ignoring Draeden's impudence.
The Experts' CEO simply nodded while a grin formed beneath his hands. Things were finally falling into place; a hard-earned yet no less glorious victory tonight and now a lead on the author that he could follow up almost immediately.
Almost too good to be true...
* * *
A light tapping on the hotel room door alerted Israel to the presence of a visitor, a rare occurrence for a man such as he. Israel was not, by any means, a popular man. In fact, most of the people he knew disliked him greatly; being a lawyer did nothing to improve matters. He was the perfect character to be a lawyer of course, hence his success. He was cunning and ruthless, an incredibly believable adjuster of truths and a master manipulator with no moral compass. So adept at persuasion was he that he had convinced himself long ago that the people that hated him, loved him; that his miserable and solitary existence was entirely satisfying when, in truth, it was not; and that he was something of a deity amongst men despite his unimpressive physique and his non-existent fighting skills. He was also a firm believer in that what he did on a day to day basis – bending the facts to keep men with more blood on their hands than blind butchers out of jail – was for the greater good. He was giving these men a chance to try and turn their lives around, to make things right!
It was probably just room service checking to see if he was in so the cleaners could come. Well he'd have to tell them to leave him alone, he was much too busy with his work (surfing the web) to be interrupted by some vacuum cleaner-wielding harpy now. Rising from the desk beside the bed, Israel Kali Arkadie folded the lid of his laptop shut, lest the lowly cleaners see his sensitive documents (pornography) and moved towards the door, his bare feet padding making no sound as they cross the soft crème carpet. A tip he'd picked up from Die Hard – take off your shoes and claw at the carpet with your toes, worked a charm. Israel hated flying, he reflected upon hearing another knock at the door, almost as much as he hated dealing with annoying cleaners.
Adjusting his expression from "frustrated scowl" to "inconvenienced but mild-mannered and polite", he turned the handle of the door and pulled the wooden gateway aside.
"Oh," he said, surprised. "Hello there."
Silence.
"Um, can I help you? Are you here to clean the room?"
The man that stared back at him clearly was not, yet the question rolled out of his mouth before he could stop it. Still, the stranger did not answer.
"Uh, okay then... Well I-I'll j-just be, uh, going inside now," Israel babbled nervously as he backed away from the peculiar man who was grinning at him now. He slowly pushed the door shut again but it seemed to be jammed on something. Looking down, Israel realised that the man's foot was in the way of the door. The stranger's eyes followed Israel's own as he looked from the polished black cowboy boot, up the black denim-clad leg to the leather-belted waist where a black shirt was neatly tucked into the pants. Poking out from inside the long leather coat the man wore was what looked like the handle of a sword.
His eyes flew to meet the stranger's own, and staring back at him was a cold gaze that froze him to the very core; the abject terror that gripped him made movement impossible and his throat was drier than a nun's--
"Are you Israel Kali Arcadie?" the shorter man suddenly asked.
Israel opened his mouth to speak but the aforementioned dryness prevented such action. He resorted to a simple nod which the stranger accepted as his answer.
"Then it is time for you to die."
There had been a soft whisper of a draught through the room while the door was open, a sound that carried with it the voice of the birds and the cars outside, but even they had fallen silent just in time for the utterance of those words; fallen silent so that the words would reach Israel untouched, untainted and thus completely unmistakable. Even so, Israel couldn't believe what he had heard. "Wh-what?" he stammered.
The time for words had passed. The swordsman reached for his blade and Israel reacted by attempting to slam the door shut, though this failed as the stranger put his arm in the way and forced the door open again, the sword flashing free from its scabbard and slashing across Israel's thorax, a spatter of blood was cast into the air and soiled the expensive carpet upon landing; the blade whirling in the air and cutting downwards to tear another crimson score across its victim, carving a neat "X" shape in Israel's chest.
Superficial, the wounds did little to Israel other than cause him to stagger backwards and fall down; shock gripped his body in an iron vice that allowed no sound to escape his mouth, the option of screaming for help had been taken from him by the sly monster that was intimidation. He managed to haphazardly push himself backwards along the carpet towards the bed where his luggage was. Beneath the bed was his suitcase and his golfing bag. He rolled into a prone position to reach for it as the stranger closed the door behind him, pain racking his chest from the sword tracks. Israel withdrew his trusty 7 iron, his salvation, and rolled onto his back. He was ready now for the fight, or so he convinced himself. In reality he never stood a chance. The golf club was sliced in half when Israel raised it to parry; if the chop had been intended to kill then he'd have been slain where he lay.
Instead, he lived still; blade hovering menacingly over his throat. "What is it you want!?" he cried, his throat burned with agony and fear.
"Who wrote Shadow Crusade?" the swordsman demanded simply.
"Wh-what?"
"The book, Shadow Crusade – who wrote it?"
"I don't know! S-speak to Benedict Ravion from Nihilus Ravion! He should know, he's met the writer! I-I had nothing to do with it! Please..!"
The grin never moved from his attacker's face. "I see. Thanks for your time," he said calmly, before pushing the sword tip into Israel's throat. The stabbed man tried to scream but his voice choked on blood and steel, instead he let loose a sickening gargle that changed to a gurgling cough when he tried to inhale again. The blade was removed and the stranger turned and walked away, leaving Israel gripping his throat with both hands, desperately attempting to stop the his life force from flowing out through the hole in his neck.
Draeden Darksky was right, he mused as he wiped his blade on Israel Kali Arkadie's jacket. This was too good to be true.
But unfortunately for Israel, no-one is too good to die.
* * *
Waking abruptly, Draeden jolted in bed at the door suddenly opening. The source of the disturbance, his uncle Ronan, grinned happily at the doorway.
"There's someone here I'd like you to meet," he bellowed in excitement.
Draeden blinked sleepily. "I just had the strangest dream."
"You can tell me about it later, lad. C'mon, get up! Plenty of time to sleep later, Daroth is waiting."
"Daroth?"
"Come on; best not keep him waiting!"
And, with that, he was gone. The sound of the big man bounding along the creaky corridor was not something Draeden could ignore, it shook the rickety old farmhouse from the foundations to the roof; Draeden worried that the ceiling would come down on his head one of these days.
He had slept in his clothes; he was too tired and the bed was too cold to bother removing them. Besides, not having to get dressed always saved time. Looking at the tattered clothes, Draeden wondered where they'd come from. The pants were tied at the waist by a cord and were a murky brown colour, as was the shirt. The shirt had a wide v-neck and was fastened by a frayed string. Both had tears and patches missing. Ronan had given him an old pair of suede shoes that were far too big for him, but kept his feet warm regardless. He slipped his feet into them and walked out of the room, scratching an itch on his head as he walked and tangling his fingers in hair.
Subconsciously stepping on the quieter floorboards as he walked, Draeden fought to unpick a knot of browny-blonde hair as he made his way to Ronan's living room. As he entered he saw Ronan first, but what he saw next shocked him.
Daroth.
The skeletal apparition turned away from the blazing fireplace to face Draeden, the gasp that escaped his lips must have caught the creature's attention. Draeden instinctively scanned his surroundings for the nearest weapon, but saw nothing. He looked back at the grinning figure by the fire. His clothes were completely ruined, much like the young man's own; yellowed, leathery flesh hung from the bones beneath the tears in the formerly fine apparel. A bony hand reached up to the skinless face and itched at the bottom of a nose that was no longer there.
"Ah, Draeden," Ronan proudly announced, "meet Daroth. He says he may be able to help you, find out what you're doing here."
Awkwardly, the figure bowed to Draeden. "A pleasure," he hissed.
Draeden's eyes turned to meet his uncle's. The giant was smiling at him. "Don't you see that..?"
"See what, lad?"
"He's dead."
Ronan burst out laughing, his booming voice echoing in the tiny living room. Neither Draeden nor Daroth looked amused, though it was difficult to read the expression of one who does not have any skin or muscles on his face. "And? In case you hadn't noticed, so are we!"
"No, I mean he looks dead. Where's his skin?"
"What are you talking about?" Ronan asked, looking quizzically at Daroth. "What do you mean 'where's his skin'? I mean, he's a bit pale, sure. But he has skin, Draeden. Look at him."
"Interesting..." the skeleton chimed in, pre-empting Draeden's protest. "The Crusader sees differently to you, Ronan."
"'Crusader'?" both Draeden and Ronan ask simultaneously.
"Ah... of course, the memory loss. Ronan, may I speak with your nephew privately? I must... refresh his memory."
The young Darksky was worried. He couldn't read Daroth's eyes for he had none – and thus he gave no hint as to his intentions. Whether his intentions were good or bad, he had to know either way. With a frustrated frown, Draeden nodded to Ronan, who in turn nodded to Daroth and marched to the kitchen. Daroth's empty sockets turned to face Draeden, who remained standing while the skeletal character leant comfortably on the fireplace.
"What are you?" Draeden asked, not wasting any time.
Bony fingers stroked a non-existent beard while Daroth contemplated the answer to such a broad question. "Perhaps, Crusader, it is easier for me to explain to you what I am not. I am neither mortal, nor strictly human. My presence is not completely synchronised with this world, which is probably why one such as yourself can see me for what I really am," he explained. "I, in the simplest terms, am an ancient ghost. I command great power. There are many of us and we... need you."
"You need me? Why?"
"Because, unlike most humans, you have the uncanny ability to defy destiny. That is a very helpful ability. A lot of human beings we enlist into our service end up being run over by cars or mauled by wild animals," Daroth went on, waving his arms dramatically, "or suffer other such trivial deaths. We already suspected as much, based on your... extraordinary survival during your young adulthood."
A grimace momentarily crossed Draeden's face. "What was so extraordinary about it?"
"Oh, let me see... could it be the fact that you killed four Chinese gangsters with a kitchen knife to defend an unarmed old man, who just happened to be a regular in the restaurant you worked in? Maybe. Or perhaps it was the countless fights to the death you survived on a daily basis? People tried to murder you every day, Crusader. And you remember none of this?"
"It all sounds... familiar," Draeden admitted. "But I don't see it. How could I survive that?"
Daroth cackled softly to himself, habitually clearing his throat afterwards. "That is exactly what we thought. You continued to... live, despite being fated to die so many times. You have been at war all your life and inexplicably you have continued to survive. That's how you caught our attention. And even after you fought what should have been your final battle... well, we may have had something to do with you getting through that one. Stabbed through the heart – does that sound familiar?"
"Yeah, it does. Did I... I did it to myself?"
"Ah, it's all coming back to you, then," the apparition said, turning his back on Draeden to face the fire. "There is much for you to remember. There will be much that you wish you had never known, that you'd never done. Things you will miss. You will remember someone saying these things to you before. In Connecticut."
"Connecticut? No, I don't remember that," Draeden muttered.
The skeleton shrugged. "You will. Most of it, anyway."
"Uncle Ronan said you could help me."
"Ah, yes. It will be a beautiful arrangement, actually. We help you... and you help us."
A scowl crossed Draeden's face. Somehow he'd seen this coming. "Well, that depends.
"Upon what, Crusader?"
"Well, it all depends on what you are offering me and what you want in return. It sounds like I've been playing your games for a long time. I hope the exchange is acceptable, otherwise I'll not be helping you."
There was anger behind Daroth's formerly emotionless voice. "Oh, I think you will."
"Really? Because to me it sounds like my 'life' was a shitty series of near-death experiences, a miserable existence littered with tragedy and torture. And best of all, I don't recall any of it, except for what you've reminded me about. If what you're saying is true then I'm not surprised I'm dead. Did you know I woke up here washed up on the beach? Uncle Ronan thinks I may have died at sea. Sounds like I had a damn good reason to throw myself overboard," Draeden snarled.
That wicked chuckle from Daroth instantly filled the young man with dread. "Oh, Crusader, no... You most certainly did not kill yourself. There was no drowning either..."
Draeden glared at Daroth in silence while he waited for him to finish.
"After I tell you all about it, you will wish to help us. I guarantee it."
