Astray: Awakening from near death

Consciousness returned to Daemon like a tide washing over broken glass, slow, painful, and leaving debris in its wake.

The first thing he noticed was the warmth.

After what felt like an eternity of bone-deep cold that had seeped into his very soul, the gentle heat that surrounded him now felt almost foreign.

His red hair, matted with dried sweat and blood, stuck to his forehead as he slowly opened his eyes.

The ceiling above him was low and curved, carved from what appeared to be rough stone.

Flickering light danced across the surface from somewhere he couldn't see, casting shadows that writhed and twisted like living things.

The air smelled of herbs and antiseptic, with an underlying earthiness that spoke of being deep underground. This wasn't a hospital. It was something far more primitive, yet somehow more comforting.

Daemon turned his head, wincing at the protest from muscles that felt like they'd been put through a meat grinder.

The movement sent a spike of pain through his skull, reminding him why his vision was even worse than usual.

Everything blurred at the edges, shapes bleeding into one another like watercolors in the rain.

A low groan drew his attention to the bed beside him.

A man lay there, his torso wrapped in so many bandages that he looked like a mummy from some ancient tomb.

The fabric was stained with seepage, blood, pus, and other fluids that Daemon didn't want to identify.

The man twisted restlessly, his breathing ragged and punctuated by soft whimpers of pain.

Whatever had done that to him, Daemon thought, studying the extent of the injuries visible beneath the bandages, it hadn't been human.

The pattern of wounds, what little he could make out, suggested claws, multiple sets of them, raking across flesh with surgical precision. Or maybe not surgical at all.

Maybe just hungry.

The thought sent a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with temperature.

Daemon pushed himself up on his elbows, testing his body's response.

Everything ached, but it was the sharp, stabbing pain in his left side that made him catch his breath.

He looked down and saw fresh bandaging wrapped around his torso, the white fabric stark against his pale skin. Blood had seeped through in places, creating dark stains that mapped his injuries like some macabre geography.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, gritting his teeth against the wave of dizziness that threatened to topple him.

The stone floor was surprisingly warm beneath his bare feet, and he wondered what kind of heating system could reach this deep underground.

Magic, perhaps.

In a world where the dead could walk and speak, heated floors seemed almost mundane.

The moment he tried to stand, the pain in his side exploded into white-hot agony.

He doubled over, one hand pressed against the bandages, a sharp hiss escaping through clenched teeth.

"What do you think you're doing?"

The voice was young, exasperated, and entirely unimpressed with his attempt at mobility.

Small feet pattered across the stone floor, and suddenly a girl appeared in front of him, hands on her hips and fire in her eyes.

She couldn't have been more than twelve, with dark hair pulled back in a practical braid and clothes that had seen better days. Her face was smudged with what looked like medicinal paste, and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, revealing arms that were surprisingly muscled for someone her age.

"Sit back down before you tear your stitches and create even more work for me," she commanded, pointing imperiously at the bed behind him.

Daemon raised an eyebrow, studying this pint-sized dictator who spoke to him like he was a misbehaving child.

Despite the pain, he found himself almost amused by her attitude. "And who the hell are you supposed to be?"

The girl's eyes flashed with indignation. "My name is Lie The Fuck Down," she said with saccharine sweetness, "and you should be more grateful, considering you were practically dancing with the Reaper when they brought you in here."

The unexpected profanity from someone who looked like she should be playing with dolls caught Daemon off guard.

A laugh bubbled up from his chest before he could stop it, rough and rusty from disuse.

The sound seemed to echo strangely in the stone chamber, bouncing off the walls and coming back changed.

The girl, who was clearly not actually named Lie The Fuck Down stared at him with growing concern. "Did they hit your head harder than I thought?"

Daemon's laughter subsided into a dark chuckle. "Brain damage? No, kid. I just think it's hilarious, the idea of dying when you're already dead."

He looked at her directly, his green eyes sharp despite their failing focus. "Tell me, where exactly do the dead go when they die again?"

The question seemed to sober her immediately.

She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly looking far older than her twelve years. "A human body dies first," she said quietly, her voice losing its earlier bravado. "But the soul can linger. When the soul dies too... that's the second death. There's no coming back from that. No in-between, no lingering, no unfinished business. Just... nothing."

Daemon felt something cold settle in his stomach.

He sank back onto the edge of the bed, the fight going out of him as quickly as it had come. "That's quite a scary thought," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

The girl's expression softened slightly, though she maintained her defensive posture. "It's not something most people have to worry about," she said. "Most people only die once."

"Most people," Daemon repeated, tasting the words. "But not all."

Before she could respond, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from somewhere beyond the chamber.

The girl immediately tensed, her head snapping toward the entrance.

A figure appeared in the doorway, completely encased in blue armor that seemed to absorb the flickering light rather than reflect it.

The metal was unmarked by battle but somehow managed to look deadly anyway, each piece fitted with the precision of a master craftsman.

In one gauntleted hand, the figure carried a lance that was easily seven feet long, its point gleaming like captured starlight.

The helmet turned toward them, and though Daemon couldn't see the face within, he felt the weight of scrutiny like a physical presence.

"Astray," the soldier said, and the voice that emerged from the helmet surprisingly sounded human, male, probably middle-aged, with the careful diction of someone used to giving orders.

The first demon he had encountered, Lilith had this eerie sound to her voice if you listened really hard.

"Where's the injured newbie?"

Astray immediately positioned herself between Daemon and the armored figure, her small frame trembling with either fear or defiance. "He's not ready," she said firmly. "The wounds were deeper than they appeared, and he's lost a lot of blood. Moving him now could..."

She never finished the sentence.

Daemon had risen silently from the bed behind her, moving with a stealth that seemed at odds with his injured state.

The moment she realized he was no longer where she'd left him, Astray jumped forward with a small cry of alarm.

The soldier's reflexes were impressive. One armored arm shot out, catching the girl before she could stumble, steadying her with surprising gentleness for someone encased in metal.

"Easy," the soldier said, his voice carrying a note of what might have been amusement. "No one's going to hurt him."

Daemon studied the armored figure, taking in the way he held himself, the casual competence with which he handled both weapon and girl. This wasn't just a soldier.

This was someone who had seen real combat, someone who had survived things that would break lesser men.

"When are we headed out?" Daemon asked, his voice steady despite the pain that lanced through his side with every breath.

The helmet turned toward him, and Daemon had the unsettling feeling that he was being evaluated, measured against some invisible standard.

The silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft groaning of the bandaged man in the other bed and the gentle hiss of whatever was providing heat to the chamber.

Finally, the soldier spoke. "That depends," he said slowly, "on whether you can walk without bleeding out all over the nice clean floor."

Astray snorted, though whether in amusement or derision, Daemon couldn't tell. "Define 'walk,'" she muttered.

The soldier's helmet tilted slightly, and Daemon caught the impression of a smile he couldn't see. "Let's start with 'stand upright for more than thirty seconds,'" he said. "We'll work our way up from there."

Daemon looked down at his bandaged torso, then at the girl who had apparently saved his life, then at the mysterious soldier who seemed to hold his immediate future in gauntleted hands.

The underground chamber suddenly felt smaller, the warm air heavier with possibility and threat in equal measure.

"I can stand," he gritted his teeth quietly. "The question is, where exactly are we going?"