“Mfh,” he said as little pinpricks dug into his chest.

“Calm down, little one, I’m not going to hurt him.” The voice sliced through his dying mind with grace, like a shark’s fin through a calm ocean, exposing him to the stark light of… day? Night? He had no idea. He blinked his eyes open, which took a minute, his eyes were seemingly glued shut with something. The metallic taste in his mouth reminded him why that was. Mal looked up. The woman, Tore, was kneeling over him, an expression of mild concern on her face. She was holding the kitten -- who was trying to viciously murder her scarf -- in one hand, and seemed to be holding a small stone over his chest. It glowed softly, pulsing almost like a heartbeat. 

“Good,” she said. “You are finally awake.” Mal looked at her without understanding. Now that she was closer, he could see her more clearly. Tore was tall. Taller than him, certainly, and even at her age, she was distinctly muscular, the muscles in her forearms rippling underneath soft skin. She had a very angular face, a strong jawline and high cheekbones, a face that had been hardened by hardship and time. But her eyes were bright and sharp. Razor sharp. Her white hair was collected in a braid at least two feet long and it rested on her shoulder. Mal tried to move. Big mistake. Everything hurt in a way that told him that, whether or not he’d ever thought ‘Everything hurts’ before in his life, it hadn’t been fully accurate. He could feel his spine. 

There was also a hole in his chest where he distinctly remembered there not being one when he got up that morning. All he could manage was a groan. “Yeah,” Tore said. “Try not to move. I have got a cab on the way.” She had a very slight accent, Mal noticed now. She rolled her r’s ever so slightly.

“You… saved me?” he managed. His lips were caked with his own blood, and he tried not to think about it too much. The taste of it made him more than a little uncomfortable. The woman barked a small laugh. The lines on her face deepened as she smiled. Mal considered briefly that some people got very lucky when it came to aging gracefully. 

“Pfah! No, no I did not. You are dead as shit,” she said, matter of factly. “Bu-ut,” she showed him the little stone, “I got the Heptapod’s Deadstone. He is not going to need it where he is going. Subscription ran out, anyway.” Mal blinked a couple more times. He had no idea what was going on. Tore’s expression softened. “Look, you saved my hide back there. So I am going to pay you back. A life for a life, because I do not see a Deadstone on you and you look like shit.” She paused. “You do not know what this even is, do you?” Mal shook his head slightly, trying not to panic. “Fucking tourists.” She put the stone on his chest and stood up. 

“Try not to panic. It hurts like a bitch the first time, but it is best not to get used to it.” He was about to ask what she meant, when he felt like his brain was being gently extracted through his nose and someone was ever so carefully renegotiating his spine into a ball and squeezing it through his solar plexus. His entire being hurt like it was on fire, or possibly being crushed under heavy weights, or being torn apart, and all of it seemed to curve towards the little stone on his chest. The only reason Mal wasn’t screaming was because both of his lungs had been externally ventilated.

He looked down, terrified of what he’d see, of what had been done to his body. Nothing, it seemed. It was in the exact same state it had been in before, which wasn’t all that great. Still, the pain seemed to have left no real marks on him. 

“What is your name?” Tore asked as she leaned against the planter, crossing her arms. The kitten had fallen asleep in a little hammock she’d made for it in her scarf. Little traitor. Mal groaned again. Breathing was so hard. 

“Ma-- Malcolm,” he finally managed, breathlessly. He was so weak, even moving his head, his lips, was a titanic effort. Mal started to realize that she’d been speaking the truth. He really was dying. It was like trying to stay afloat while your limbs were being weighed down, the infinite dark beckoning him down.

“Nice to meet you, Malcolm,” Tore said. “That little stone on your chest is going to save your life. You are welcome.” Mal looked at it again, and then at her. She smiled softly. “I can explain, but, if I am honest, I am tired, and you will find out soon enough. Hold on.” She lifted a finger to her ear and looked ahead with that vacant expression universal to receiving phone calls. “Speaking.” Tore listened for a moment. “Yes. No, but I got a recycle. Yes, the conversion seems to have taken. Quite well, actually.” Another pause, while Tore frowned and looked down at Mal, and then back at an indistinct spot on the wall. “Yes, I am sure. Life for a life, Charon. I owe it to hi-- because it is the right thing to do, asshole.” She raised her voice ever so slightly, and then shot Mal a reassuring smile, who was too busy dying to be reassured. “M-hm. Yes. He will just have to deal with it. It is better than nothing.” Tore looked at him one more time. “No, he is almost dead,” she said, which was more than a little disconcerting. She seemed so unbothered. “I will see you later, greedy bastard. Yes. Love you too.” She hung up the phone, and kneeled down next to Mal again. “Try to relax, Malcolm. You will be dead soon, but it will not be the end of the road, do you understand?” 

“Yes,” he whispered, like a liar. She seemed to be able to tell, but gracefully said nothing.

“Relax. You did me a favour and got me a living bounty. Nobody will say Tore Ingensdottir does not pay her debts.” Something in the way she said that gave Mal the creeps, but she quickly distracted him. “I cannot do much,” she said, “but this may help.” Tore put her hand on his chest, on top of the stone, and a warmth spread throughout his body, washing the pain away like footprints on the beach. It was nice. The darkness underneath him didn’t seem so cold and scary anymore. It was warm and inviting. Like crawling in bed after a long, cold day. 

Mal closed his eyes, and died.

Mal opened his eyes, and immediately regretted it. They stung, and he shut them again. He hadn’t been able to see much anyway, only a blue-greenish light. There had been a soft pressure against his eyes, like he was… submerged. He slowly became more aware of his situation. He was… weightless. Floating. Moving was incredibly difficult. There was a sensation he’d felt once before, when he’d had an appendectomy as a child. It was the feeling of intrusion he’d felt back then, from the IV. But this time it was all over. Every small movement seemed to cause lines to pull taut, slightly painful. 

He risked opening his eyes again. Blue-green. And behind that… a soft white light, like the sun through the clouds. He took a deep breath, and his lungs filled without effort. No stabbing pain in his lungs. He licked his lips, which, surprisingly, worked. He realized that the soft pressure on his face was probably an oxygen mask of some kind. He took another deep breath and moved, slowly. Some movements caused the lines he strained against to pull tight, but he was able to stretch his legs a bit, at least. Open and close his hands. His nails dug into his palms softly. He tried to look at his limbs, but he couldn’t see an inch in front of his face. Whether that was his vision being impaired or the water he was in obstructing it was unclear to him, but it didn’t make him feel any better..

Mal was startled when he heard a loud clank, muffled by the liquid he was floating in. The water around him seemed to vibrate with a low rumbling, and then he felt a sensation pulling down. The water was starting to drain, and the tugging in his limbs suddenly fell away as he realized that whatever had kept him suspended had been released. He was slowly lowered and touched what seemed to be a metallic surface, and found he did not have the strength to even stay kneeling, and slumped over. He fell against a glass barrier, too weak to even hold his head up. 

The liquid began to recede and once the water level was below his face, the mask released with a pop and a hiss, and it retracted into the ceiling. He blinked the liquid out of his eyes, but everything stayed blurry. Raising his head was hard, like he had weights strapped to his head. Now exposed to the air, he felt distinctly naked. With a loud sliding noise, a part of the glass container he was in lifted upwards and subjected him to a harsh white light. It stung his eyes and he squinted to avoid it. A figure stepped in front of it. It was tall, lanky, almost unnaturally so. 

“Well,” the figure said, the voice like someone dragging a cinderblock over a hardwood floor, “at least, uh, he is alive.” Mal didn’t care much for the weird way the figure enunciated their words, but he could barely move enough to look at them, let alone say something. “But I’m not picking that up,” the voice continued. “I don’t know how you lug something like that around.” Then, Mal heard Tore’s familiar voice coming from behind the figure.

“Step aside then, you old ghoul. I will get him.” The thin figure stepped aside, and the unmistakable silhouette of Tore, giant hammer and all, stepped into frame and leaned over. As she got closer, he was able to see her more clearly, his eyes ever so slowly beginning to focus. She wrapped him in what appeared to be a large towel, and then, with a strained grunt, picked him up. “Damnation,” she grunted, “I am getting old.” Mal felt distinctly silly, being carried bridal style by the older woman, but the feeling of safety more than made up for it. Besides, there wasn’t much he could do about it. She put him down in what appeared to be a sofa of some kind and covered him up with the towel, and turned to the figure. “Charon, get me another towel, please.”

“I am not y--” Tore shot them a withering glance, and tossed something small and coin-like at them. “Right away, Tore. Anything else?”

“Less lip.”

“I’m afraid the lip is complimentary,” Charon said, and Mal heard a grin in their voice. It was distinctly unpleasant. “But I’ll see what we can do.” They scuttled off. Tore looked back at Mal and wiped some hair out of his face, and did what she could to keep him somewhat modest and covered up. 

“Nether bells,” she mumbled. “Never thought I’d see it from here.” She looked Mal in the eyes. “Can you see?” Mal nodded yes. “That will come. Charon is an old and greedful bastard, but they know their business. Can you speak?” Mal shook his head no, and then hesitated. 

“Wh-where…” he began, and then stopped. His voice was high and rasping, and something about it was off. In fact, there was a little niggle in the back of his head that seemed to be desperately trying to get his attention. “What,” he managed, “the fuck?” Tore grinned, the leylines in her face drawing a map of uncharted regions. 

“Good,” she said. “Try not to strain yourself.” Charon came in with another towel, which they handed to Tore, and then left again, giving them privacy. The room they were in was small, not much bigger than a large changing room. The only real furniture in the room were the tube he’d come out of, a small table, and the bench he was sitting on. There was also a rack with what appeared to be clothes off to the side. “You do not know what happened?” Mal shook his head. “Well,” Tore said, and nudged the little glowing stone around Mal’s neck, “this here let me transfer you.” Mal looked down as she continued. “I have a bronze subscription with the resurrectors. You’re welcome.”

“Um,” Mal said, interrupting her. “Why do I have breasts?” 

“I mean, like I said, bronze. No time for a custom job,” she said, and picked up a small mirror from the table and handed it to him. 

Mal looked in the little mirror. He blinked a few times to make sure he wasn’t seeing things wrong because of his still-slightly-foggy vision. The face in the mirror was most definitely not his. It was, however, very familiar. It was a very angular face, with a strong jawline and high cheekbones, not yet hardened by hardship and time. But the eyes, despite now being a soft green, were nonetheless his, without Tore’s sharpness. When he opened and closed his mouth, the woman in the glass did too. She was beautiful, terrifying. He tried to breathe, and felt his chest, which had a different weight to it than he’d ever experienced, rise and fall. He pushed his legs together, and his heart hammered in his throat.

“Oh,” he said, and dropped the mirror.

Elamimax

Strange new world. Strange new life! 

If you like this story, there are 34 chapters already up on my patreon. Subscribers will get access to every single chapter right now. Other than that, I will be posting a chapter (maybe even two) every other day. If you're in the mood to catch up on my other stories, feel free to check them out. Additionally, Horns in the Library 1 is now available as an ebook! 

I also want to point people at the discord server of the ever-prolific QuietValerie (right here) where you can find her wonderful stories, like Ryn of Avonside, Falling Over and The Trouble With Horns, as well as other authors' works, and talk about them with fellow fans, and even the authors themselves! I heartily recommend joining it and reading their works! (Also check out Walls of Anamoor. It's rad as heck.) 

Thanks again for reading, and I'll see you all in the next one. 

<3