I look at him and he looks at me, and I guess I don’t do such a great job of hiding my suspicion because his expression goes a little shifty.

  “Hey, don’t misunderstand. I’m not a bad guy, I just-“ he cuts himself off and sighs, bowing his head as if gathering his thoughts before running a hand through his hair and returning his attention to me. “You know what? Why am I even bothering to explain this?”

  His hand shoots out faster than I can see, clamping onto my jaw and tilting my head back while he thumbs off the cork of the vial. I don’t struggle because fuck is he strong, and because I feel like I can’t. I might have a “body”, but I am just a soul right now and he, someone vastly stronger than me, is imposing his will on me in a way that goes beyond the physical. “You don’t have a clue about any of this. Odds are you won’t remember a thing.”

  His words make me realize that, while I’ve reacted to his presence I haven’t actually spoken to him. From what he was mumbling to himself earlier there seems to be a distinct difference between the two, and because I haven’t talked he’s drawn the conclusion that I can’t. That I might not be altogether there, mentally speaking. The more I think about it, the more I’m fine with that.

  Done with his self-justifications he tips the vial, emptying it into my mouth. I get an initial, tantalizingly sweet smell before it touches me that promises only good things. Then it makes contact and slides down my throat like molten metal, burning a charred path through my being. My mind blanks at the sudden, all-consuming pain. It’s so intense I should be convulsing on the ground by right, yet I can’t move at all as the golden liquid, with an apparent mind of its own, begins spreading out like a spider’s web to every part of my body.

  When I manage to scrape together some semblance coherence together I just happen to meet the gaze of the asshole who did this to me, and I know my eyes are full of complaint and accusation. He, at least, has the decency to avoid my gaze, struck by late onset guilt before he banishes it and grumbles at me. “Come on, don’t look at me like that. It’s not really going to hurt you. Long term, anyway.”

  He grabs me under my arms and pulls me to my feet. Still unable to control my body, instead of supporting me my limbs go soft and I fall face first against the deity. He doesn’t smell like anything at all. Or maybe I can’t smell anything because I’m still super dead. I don’t know. Just having a “body” that’s in pain right now is already confusing the crap out of me. I mean, I’m dead, how is this fair?

  “I just want to meet with someone.” The black haired god starts belatedly explaining to me, even though he said he didn’t need to. I find my “grievance” eyes have that effect on people. Apparently they work on gods too. “But she won’t talk with me unless it’s under very specific circumstances. Specific circumstances like, little lost souls in distress. Which is where you come in, lil’ bud.”

  A black hole in space opens before us, surrounded by wisps of smoky shadow. It’s big enough for the both of us to walk through and despite having never seen one myself before it only takes me a few foggy, pain filled seconds to realize this is a portal. “I’m sure Gwen will fix you right up, long before you have to start worrying about any… complications.”

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  Whoever this guy is I’m willing to bet, based solely on the entire minute I’ve known him, that he and this Gwen person are not on great terms. So, if they don’t want to see him in spite of my condition then doesn’t that mean I’m basically screwed? If this guy is the Lord of Dreams I was supposed to meet, than I would like to file a complaint. I don’t want this dream.

  My new captor lifts me into his arms like a fainting princess so my head rests against his shoulder. This at least allows me to see where we’re going when he steps through the portal, though I suspect it has to do more with him trying to make a good impression on this Gwen person rather than any consideration for me.

  For a moment that feels endless we’re surrounded by blackness. The kind I had expected to encounter upon death, but with less awareness. Unfortunately, my body is still raging with pain, the golden liquid having turned in tiny rivers of lava that etch themselves into my being. I have coherently get the impression that it’s doing something, but whether it’s creating new pathways or just destroying what was already there, I can’t say. But I do know it’s changing me in a way I won’t be able to come back from.

  My feelings on that are complex. I don’t want to be hurt or crippled in some way, but my thoughts on the matter are more clinical than anything else. I’m not self-destructive but I’m not exactly a champion of self-care either. I do wonder if this guy doesn’t consider what’s currently happening to me to be real damage, or if he just figures I’ll get help before things go too far. It’s plain he’s treating my well being with a disturbing level disregard. I’m sure if I don’t get help he’ll shrug off my plight without a shred of guilt for his hand in it. I should probably be upset about that. I certainly don’t feel positively toward him. I’m not sure I feel much of anything at all other than pain and a faint interest to see where this goes.

  We come out of the portal and step into a rustic style great hall roughly the size of a football field and full of natural light. There’s an artistic wooden hammerbeam ceiling above us and stone paved floors below. The majority of the walls are made up of large windows overlooking a stunning snowy mountain scape sweeping out below us. There are open bonfires set at intervals down the middle of the hall on raised stone circles. Nearby the fires are animal skins and comfortable looking chairs, while between the windows there are weapons and shields hung on the walls. It looks exactly like what I would expect a Valkyries’ ski lodge would look like.

  We walk swiftly through the hall until we reach the very end, where it opens up onto an expansive balcony. There’s another bonfire out there with chairs set next to it, and in one of them sits a woman sipping a cup of something hot while she watches gentle flakes of snow drift down.

  Or, she had been until we, her unwanted guests arrived. As we approach I see the moment she notices us, how she stiffens, puts down her cup and straightens in her seat to half turn and glare at us. Because she is not happy to see us. Or, more like, see him. Because her eyes zero in on the guy holding me so fast that I’m not even sure she notices I’m here.

  She’s a stunning beauty with a lithe, athletic form covered by a loose, short, almost Grecian style tunic and sandals, matching well with her bright golden eyes framed by gentle waves of chestnut hair. Her appearance gives me a slight suspicion about why Mr. Crazy is going so far for an excuse to meet her.

  “Artos.” She says the black eyed god’s name like a curse word. In a moment she’s on her feet, a brilliant white spear appearing in her hands as she settles into an aggressive stance that makes it look like she’s ready to come over here and give him a few more holes. “You dare come to my home like this? Are you looking for a fight?”

  What slim confidence I had in getting help immediately trickles away and evaporates into thin air.