A Deep Discussion

Coal-black panels of shadow and ruby-red stripes of firelight flickered against the planes of The Scholar’s gaunt face, pale as a result of many years spent hunched in dusty, sun-sheltered libraries, flipping through thick, heavy tomes and scouring pages upon pages of ancient texts. A golden spark popped and sizzled as it jumped from the crumbling, blackened logs and skittered across the floor. With the toe of his boot, The Scholar ground the spark into the floor, leaving only a small starburst of charred powder upon the pristine marble. 

The Pacifist watched with grim, gray eyes. Porcelain cups, a pot of steaming tea, and fresh scones lay forgotten on the silver tray on the table. When only silence spoke between them, The Pacifist gracefully stood from his chair and let the sound of his footfalls fill the space of the study as he crossed over to the window. Only the baking heat from the fire kept him keenly in the present without falling into the magic of the outside world. 

Balmy summer winds fluttered across the estate with the barest touch of early evening, as thick and moist as hot breath. Beyond the glaring pulse of ripe summer rested a blazing, hot-white sun brushing the top of the purple and gold horizon, which flamed too bright for a mortal eye to gaze upon for long. Shadows whispered along the growing, ragged edges of darkness that shrouded the deep backwoods of the country beyond the estate grounds, seething with unfathomable darkness that threatened to swallow the luxurious and well-appointed mansion in eternal night. 

“And?” The Pacifist asked, speaking as he turned to regard his visitor once more. 

The Scholar folded thin arms cloaked in gray philosopher’s robes over his chest, spectacles alight with illusory flame. On a midsummer’s day such as this, it was a foolish idea to bolster a fireplace, but no matter the rising temperatures, the estate remained as cold as in the dead of winter. “And?” he repeated with the patient air of a man well accustomed to taking what he wanted. 

“Why?” The Pacifist said in a quiet voice, reluctant to disturb the outside peace. The crackling of the fire both warmed and soothed him with its rhythmic pops and hisses.

“You’ll see.” The Scholar turned his bespectacled eyes upon the flames once more, and the Pacifist threw himself into a squashy chair, resigned to the prospect of more silence, anticipation, and frustration at what was being kept from him.

Barely a moment had passed before footsteps fell on the floors, and the door was pushed open by a sly-faced woman, her hair as red as the smoldering kindling. There was a certain charm about her foxy features, no doubt, but it belied undeniable satisfaction for one’s position in life, as well as a deep-set rage at being summoned like a pet hound. 

The Conwoman lowered herself into an armchair and with a flick of her fingertips, one of the scones was firmly clutched within her pale fingers. “Explain.”

“No,” The Scholar said flatly.

She took this in stride and popped the scone in her mouth. With every bob of her throat and jerk of her jaws chewing away at the sweet pastry, her pale pupils traveled over the study in close detail, glowing anew at the sight of golden matchsticks, antique furniture, silver-framed mirrors, lamp wicks burning with the unmistakable scent of anointed midnight oil, and paintings encrusted with gold and precious jewels hung across the walls, portraits of family ancestors watching solemnly. 

The room did not dwell in its oppressive intermission for long before three more quiet figures entered, each shrouded in garments meant to hide rather than reveal despite the sweltering blaze that had driven them inside, all with varying degrees of interest and apprehension. 

“Welcome,” The Pacifist pronounced in weary tones, already through with The Scholar’s elaborate game of few words. “It…has been a long time.”

One by one, the newcomers slowly seated themselves, and only then did they cast off their hoods, revealing faces that The Pacifist had not seen in years. The circle of chairs, thus complete, favored the setting perfectly: a blazing fire, drained but inquisitive hearts, and among them, a cunning man prepared to begin his story. 

The Scholar took his cue and stood, smoothing his robes with great theatricality. “My friends,” he uttered loudly. “Welcome to a haven where only the truth exists.”

The fire glowed across the shining bronze cross that hung from The Catholic’s neck, the leather cord hidden within the folds of his leathery neck. When he spoke, his voice rang as true as his faith: “We want answers, not riddles.”

“Very well.” The Scholar’s jaw twitched, but he seemed to be in a position of great repose. At last, among their small group of university friends, he had come into the role of responsibility. “One of us has posed a philosophical question whose musings cannot wait any longer. We have all been invited here today, it seems, for discussion.”

“Discussion of what?” The Scientist’s owlish eyes glared fiercely on them all, and heads were turned, eyes averted, and mouths tightened. Only a bringer of fact such as she could manage such a feat. 

“You first, my friend.” The Scholar clapped his hand upon The Pacifist’s shoulder, an unspoken warning shining on his face.

Warily, The Pacifist stood once more, and his vow from years before echoed through the chambers of his memories: Throughout the ancient histories, I swear…

He cleared his throat of excess debris and faced them all. The Scholar, waiting with inscrutable judgment, gray robes gathered around him. The Conwoman, a little smile raking her lips like an iron against coals. The Money, dressed sumptuously in a liquid-black suit that flowed perfectly over his broad form, meaty fingers clutched around a moonstone pin as ovular as a human eye. The Scientist, so small in her oversized coat. The Catholic, whose fervent ways caused him to tremble and shake with the passing seconds filled only with the crackling flames. 

“What…is…death?” The Pacifist whispered. 

The reaction from his assembled audience was instantaneous. Recoils, sharp gasps, uttered oaths muttered and spat into the fire, which hissed and flickered dangerously before recovering its bright suffusion of warmth and comfort. But the shadows they cast along the gilded edges of the fireplace and the study suddenly seemed ominous, forming sharp claws that could rake apart the walls and foundations of the estate. 

Only the Conwoman spoke, full of glee, “You play a dangerous game.”

“On the contrary,” The Scholar said smoothly, “he is but a humble man searching for answers. Is he not?” The Pacifist glanced into the former’s eyes and saw only orbs made of pure cunning. 

“Consequences!” The Catholic shouted. “Revenge!” He sat bolt upright in his chair, wisps of dead hair pasted to his forehead with sweat. “Death!”

“My friends, if I may,” The Scholar cut in once again. “Many, many years ago, when death was still an accepted…practice among the people of the old times, a philosopher well-versed in the arts of science and alchemy, Sloan Ryker, also known as The Architect of Death, swore that he would unlock the secret of eternal life for all of humanity.” A dramatic pause, a hushed breath, then: “He was successful. We stand here today as living proof of his achievements. But while the Gray Rider has been banished in faraway lands, he is not forgotten. So, I believe The Pacifist is naturally curious, which is not a crime. Is it?” He directed the bulk of the inquiry to The Scientist, who slowly shook her head.

“What do you wish to know?” she asked quietly, so faint that the fire almost obscured her.

“This is blasphemy!” The Catholic spat, waving a hand scarred by years of blood sacrifice through the air. 

“For once in our very long lifetimes, I agree,” The Money rumbled. “You must not question the order within our society.”

“What is death?” The Pacifist repeated. 

The Conwoman laughed, high and sharp enough to make one bleed. “The end. Is it not?”

“Is there more beyond a blade, bullet, poison, or natural cause?” The Pacifist pressed. In that moment, surrounded by wary people and shrouded in the light and smoke of a fire that was beginning to sputter, he felt charged, through every bone, muscle, vein, and drop of blood in his body. “Heaven or hell? Eternity spent in the dark? Worlds beyond our unique comprehension?”

“We are immortal,” The Catholic cried. “Put your mind at ease! There is no breaking the scientific formula for human life.”

All eyes again turned to The Scientist, whose finger was running along the edge of a teacup. She seemed to be in a pensive state of mind, so The Pacifist gestured with his hands, redirecting their attention. “Please. I only wish…”

“Do not tell him,” The Money said sharply. “Immortality is our gift. You would squander that for a dream of the past?”

“I believed,” The Conwoman said slyly, “that our dear friend truly possessed a pacifistic soul, so the rumors say. In all these years, you never once lifted a finger.” She grinned, and razor-white canines poked from her smiling red lips like shards of bone in the flickering light coming from the embers of the fire, which was beginning to die as true twilight prevailed the smudge of colors on the horizon, setting deep purples and blues across the world from the study. “Have you had a change of heart?”

The Pacifist stood firm to the uneasiness of his peers. Quick, darting glances were exchanged, guilty lashes fluttered against pale skin, hands twitched, and silence was shared. Silence but for the crackling of the flames. 

“Long ago,” whispered a hoarse voice, and all turned as The Catholic stood in a scented blur of dust and incense, hands wrapped as tight as a noose around the cross that seemed to protrude from his chest, “Civilization was an age of barbaric acts, foul deeds, and committed atrocities. Evil was everywhere. Trust was gone. Hope was fleeting. What we call death was known simply as…” The tip of a dry tongue moistened his plump lips, and he swallowed before muttering, “Murder.”

Darkness rustled into the room as if borne by unseen, ragged wings, an eager listener. 

“Yes, murder,” The Scholar drawled, seemingly uninterested in the show of edgy apprehension. “Our ancestors, dear Pacifist, chose to heed the philosophy that ‘life is short.’ Thousands of generations passed as a result of death and what it meant for the human cycle. Lives begin, ripen, age, then end.”

“This is irrelevant,” The Scientist finally snapped, hands hovering before her in a wordless plea. “You truly brought us here to speak about the past? And why now?”

“Death,” The Pacifist repeated in anguished tones. “They say…”

“We are immortal!” roared The Money, standing abruptly and slamming his fists upon the table. The teacups rattled in their saucers, and the milk jug overflowed, white droplets peppering the smooth surface of the tray. 

A loud pop, a threatening crackle, and the fire feebly guttered upon the ashy logs before succumbing into thin air. 

In the emptiness that followed, The Pacifist spoke so softly that almost none could hear: “They say that death has returned to our world again.”

The Scientist, too, stood and began to trace many steps back and forth, to and fro, nibbling on a finger. “But the formula…” she started.

The Money planted himself back in his chair, a nasty pallor beginning to overtake his broad features. The Catholic said nothing, but the feverish glint in his eyes betrayed that he was on the tipping point of blasphemy. The Conwoman seemed unruffled, while The Scholar was licking his lips like a satisfied cat. This disturbed The Pacifist, pushing him to speak. 

“You already knew, did you not?” he asked. 

The Scholar shrugged. “I am a man of knowledge and deep intellect. This piece of the puzzle was mine to catch.”

“I-”

The Scientist screamed and leaped away from the table toward the window, foot catching and sending her flying into the ground. She scrambled away, sweat beading on her forehead, and the party did not have long to figure out why: The Money had collapsed, forehead connecting with the lip of the table. A dull crunch echoed through the study; his complexion now resembled that of a corpse’s.

Chairs were overturned, loud exclamations and soft screams heard, and throughout it all, only The Scholar watched curiously, as if attempting to divine a secret.

The Pacifist recovered quickly, flinging himself to his knees and scrambling over The Money, turning him over with great effort. Glassy eyes, white froth spilling from the corners of his mouth, no pulse. The Pacifist had never seen death before, and the reality was terrible to behold. 

“Traitors!” The Catholic brayed as The Pacifist closed his eyes. “Zealots! Murderers!”

“This should not have happened,” The Scientist said, and her eyes were wide. 

“That, my friends,” The Scholar observed, “is an example of death. More specifically, murder.”

The Pacifist turned and saw The Scholar draw from his robes a shining blade, gilded with gold along the razor edge, begging to draw forth weeping tears of blood. Ceremonial - and dangerous.

The Scholar smiled a true smile. And his eyes…Orbs made of pure cunning, The Pacifist thought.

The Conwoman uttered a cry akin to a cat’s, and The Pacifist froze. “Scholar?” he whispered, voice shaking. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Yes, I am a scholar,” The Scholar said in a gentle voice as he advanced, blade held high. “I am The Scholar, a servant of the universe’s secrets.”

Then he seemed to undergo a terrible transformation in which the dead fire’s shadow still loomed tall over him, and the summer twilight outside of the window deepened and darkened in response. The planes of his face seemed to jut outward sharply, giving him a skull-like appearance. “But I am also a servant of the Gray Rider, long may he reign.”

The Pacifist opened his mouth to speak, to shout, to plead.

The Scholar leaned closer to him, the blade mere inches from his chest. “The past may simply know me as the Architect of Death.”