San Francisco, 2010. Yes, you read that right.

Sleep, and a forgetting.

Leander had known that he would die. He had known where he would go after, but that didn't make it any easier. He had known that he did not go to torment when the blade slid straight between his ribs, hit his spinal cord, tore flesh, and shattered one of the most important bones in his body.

He knew, too, that he did not go to the eternal rest of the worthy. No, that would not be his fate either. Even in the sleep of death, his mind was conscious, if buzzing with fatigue. Every muscle weary, his eyes heavy. He could still feel his eyes. Every heartbeat was the struggle he once felt charging a league on foot, and he wanted to stop, to sleep, to lie down in defeat, even if it was forever. But Leander could not. It was time to awaken.

His deathly tired eyes opened. The muscles in his body returned to life, he breathed. He had work to do, and would for all eternity.

His deathly tired eyes opened. Every other muscle felt too heavy to move. He breathed, feeling the air push against his ribcage. Not unlike waking up, his body returned to life, and he tried to turn over in bed — he was in a bed, miraculously, but not his.

It wasn't weakness that stopped him so much as cosmic inertia, he felt. First, breath was needed. In a moment, perhaps, he would be able to wiggle toes, to turn on his side. He needed to get up, he knew. He had work to do, and would for all eternity.

Nothing to do now except breathe and stare at the ceiling. Conical and white, like the inside of a tower in a cloister or castle. Lit by a warm light that did not flicker. Not firelight, but not sunlight either. The angle was wrong, it projected straight up and filled the tower room at an angle the sun could not sneak in at. No, he had never seen light of this quality. It could not be the light of day.

His eyes threatened to close themselves, and Leander let them. Sensation began to come back. Tiredness faded, replaced by resignation now.

Without moving, he felt the firm bed, as if to glean clues about a new world from the slat he had woken up upon. The thin, meager sheets, the rough fabric of the blanket under his heavy, unmoving arms. What could any of it matter? His real life was over. He had struggled to bring peace to his kingdom, fought at the side of his love, and labored for his family. Now he would struggle against the weight of a new world, and there would be no reward. There was no life for him here, only servitude.

Feeling sorry for himself prompted a punishment from the cosmic forces that had brought him here. A pain like fire burned under his skin. The longer he lay immobile, the worse it seared. Punishment. It burned away the pain of ghostly memories. His family, his love, and the world of his home were as dead and lost to him as he was to them. And he had known the fire within would burn at him until he got up and moved, to leave that life behind and start anew.

At first, Leander ignored it. He'd felt worse.

The searing like hot coals inside and over every inch of his skin glowed hotter, and he jolted upright and yelped aloud, swearing. Curse words were the first he spoke in this new world, which seemed a bad portent. Like an instantly trained dog, he put his bare feet down on the floor. Took in the rest of the place. It appeared to be an entire dwelling, perhaps the only room in a single-story home — a white space with high ceilings, the bed in a tower nook in one corner, and a cooking area beyond a high countertop.

He inspected the residence with a serious gaze as if to say, 'alright, alright, I'm going.' The fire would come back if he stopped.

The white walls had no texture, and the dim light continued to preoccupy him. It came from a structure on the bedside table. The first thing he did when his limbs agreed was to inspect the light source — first cautiously probing the base with fingertips, to be sure it wouldn't scorch him too — and then lifting the whole thing up to inspect it.

A sleek black rope tied it to the wall, restricting how far Leander could pull it. Tilting it over, within a cylindrical white covering he found a glaring yellow globular bulb like nothing he had ever seen before. Unsatisfied with his progress in the mystery, he put the light back on the tabletop and stood.

Windows in the wall beyond the tower showed he was high in the air. Beyond a living space where seating faced an expansive black rectangle on the wall, the kitchen wafted smells of braising meat, vegetables, and garlic. On the counter, the shreds of root vegetable peels lay abandoned on a cutting board. Taking tentative baby steps into the home, Leander could see no one else was there, except a small black cat that slid under the long leather divan. The occupant must be beyond the only closed door, in the far corner, leaving the cooking unattended.

At last, it occurred to him to inspect himself.

Though recently deceased, he was no worse for wear. No gash remained from the stroke that had released him from his first life, not so much as a scar had been left on his chest — and this he could ascertain quickly, due to the strangeness of his attire. Yes, he was clothed. One might expect that a person traveling between worlds after death would find himself, on the return to life, in a new body, and in the nude. Yet destiny had spared him that discomfort by sheathing him in an entire ensemble that was not his own — so light the cotton fabric of his tan shirt, the whole front of which could be undone by buttons, a slimmer fit than any tunic he had worn — and so heavy were the pants, blue so dark it was almost black in color, and so loose in the legs. And yet they were his clothes — philosophically speaking, he deduced — because these were the clothes he had died in. Torn, coated in blood and his own gore, a mess of cartilage and flesh.

The carnage had begun to dry while he lay in the ellipsis in between. A stench remained.

And through the slashed hole, he felt at his chest. Stunned fingertips found smooth skin. All his scars wiped clean. Even the old ones were gone. Had he looked in the mirror he would have found even his wrinkles washed away, a pristine youth restored in rebirth.

Alone for the present, the smell of stew drew him to the kitchen area. Letting go of caution, he filled a bowl from a cabinet with a door of glass with the contents of a heated tagine of sorts. The herby scent enthralled him and made his stomach mewl. Melting fatty meat, carrots, and pearl onions. As if it had been stewing for moons, it melded together.

It was steaming, too hot to eat.

His recent experience in full-body incineration did not prepare him to enjoy the sensation of a burnt tongue, and so he chose patience. As hunger chewed at his belly, he distracted himself. Opened a few drawers and closed them — basic cooking utensils, napkins, cups for measuring and bowls for mixing. As he did the same with a large door to a pantry box standing upright out of the wall, it abruptly released a wash of cold in his face. Unexpected, and magnificent. The foods within were chilled to a temperature that would preserve them, he understood.

Turning his attention back to the vessel keeping the stew hot, he could not discern a heat source. No fire, no coals, no heating element of any kind beneath it. Like the lighting structure, a long cable bound it to the wall.

He dared not investigate any further unsupervised, there was too much that he did not know. 

After that observation, he looked up, and on a desk between the counter and the tower corner, he caught sight of real sorcery.

On a kind of platter that extended upright, a picture of sorts slowly but certainly moved as if alive. Though not large — perhaps a foot across — the upright platter displayed a wide vista that captured the eye, as if the viewer were looking out of a window: a sun setting gradually over an endless purple plain, the long violet grasses slow-dancing in an occasional breeze, under a green sky. The unexpected colors created a sublime feeling to look at. The sun itself was fire, an orange explosion.

Then it disappeared. The plain vanished, replaced after a blink by a waterfall in a grotto, the waters rushing toward the room at lifelike speed, but not spilling out onto the tabletop.

Glancing down at his bowl, Leander put it down and pushed it along the counter. What seemed familiar and safe, he no longer felt certain about.

He would trust nothing. There was too much he did not know about this place. Where was his guide? Through her mortal daughter, the goddess Nieva herself had told him that upon rebirth, a fellow world-walker would find him and provide mentorship.

A door opened. The one that had been closed in the corner. It slammed closed again in seconds after admitting a petite woman, slim and pale, with incredible fire-colored hair, dressed in clothes like Leander's new ones and a hat with a wide rim. She clasped an unfamiliar black object defensively to her chest in her right hand, which bore a shiny black glove.

Then she saw him. And with two hands grasping the thing, she pointed it at him, her back hard to the wall. Voices and banging came from outside, yelling that penetrated the windows, accompanied by — oddly — bells ringing within and outside the dwelling. The bells sounded wrong. Muted, as if the sound came through a sea-shell.

The woman stared, and she must have examined Leander's appearance, seen the tears in the fabric and the flood of viscera drying on him, because she lowered the thing she and pointed at him and said, "Ah, merde. I'm dead, aren't I?"

Bwahaha. Thanks for reading. If you took my advice and read this chapter without checking out the rest of the novel first, please be assured that you don't need to know anything outside of the information presented in this chapter to enjoy the scene to come. Feel free to ask questions!!

To anyone who has read Stars Rise: You may be wondering when this takes place, in story time, relative to when Leander wakes up in Soliara. The truth is, this scene takes place before Leander travels worlds to Soliara. It takes place before the events of Stars Rise. It also takes place before the events of my other novel, Detective Fog. It kind of connects the two, explaining how Leander got from one world to another.

Please leave a star for me. It really helps propel my stories into the universe, fueling my dreams. I appreciate all of you. Peace and love.

Without any further ado, please enjoy PART TWO of the scene!