She Was Never Known As Veya Strife

- Four -

At the beginning of this eclectic collection of events, I mentioned a visibility - or lack thereof - to the mortal realms.

I have come to the realisation that this may have caused some confusion when the conflicting idea of being imprisoned in this luxury cage.

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A confession must be made: I purposefully omitted information from my prior account. Indeed, for a punishment, you would be correct in deciding that never leaving a palace where any reasonably conceivable affair is possible is really not that much of, well, a punishment. However, that isn't the whole story.

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When you arrive in the Afterlife, there is no one to explain the rules for you. No helpful leaflet posted through the door of your accommodation, no government agent sitting you down and informing you of what is what.

So, when I awoke in my palace, I did not immediately realise my punishment. Surprisingly to you, I was expecting to pay for some of my life's deeds for eternity. You can imagine my bewilderment at the apparent reward.

As it happened, I did have someone to explain this peculiar... Existence. Multiple someones, in truth.

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Earlier, I mentioned my friend who was a maid. What I didn't mention was that she sacrificed herself for me in my rathe days of uncovering the rebellion.

As high profile as I was - although, at the time, not for politics or any other valid reason, simply because of my high status - it was unthinkable for me to be allowed to display such willfulness. For, as it happened, I absconded rather abruptly, leaving scandal in my wake; a high price was soon put upon my safe return.

I did not want to return.

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Multiple other friends from my rebellion life, as well as two from my reigning life, greeted me soon upon leaving my rooms. They were expecting me, and, too my surprise, told me that this was my palace.

My former maid told me it had been built the day I burned my father's mansion to the ground; from that day, my glory was inevitable, but my hamartia was undecided. Ephemeral, to a point.

What my hamartia was, I shan't tell you. I can't say I know for sure, but I am certain of my flaws.

Brick by brick I built that terrible, beautiful palace throughout the years; I only thank the Fates that the good and gilded far outnumbers the dark and gloom.

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On the last day of every month, I am summoned to a sequestered room, entrance to which could only be obtained by myself and The Lord Death. He assigns me a mission I must - emphasis on the must - complete. It is largely running interference, attempting to dissuade people from the current course their lives are attempting to drag them down. A road of desolation, destruction.

Not all my wards have the ability to see spirits, to see ghosts, forcing me to get creative; sometimes I communicate through dreams, but that only works if they are receptive to that type of conveyance.

Another method - running interference. Whether that be a letter with good or bad news (that can't be confirmed, naturally, yet is undoubtable), or an email that never arrives in an inbox, depending on the realm... These things are generally believed. By almost any person.

They are also harder to feign, of course, but I do what I must. And if that happens to be a deathly version of community service, then at least it isn't anything worse.

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The esoteric gathering who occupy my palace have learnt never to query my mysterious, clandestine exploits on the last day of every month. None of them know what I have to do.

But interfering in the fate of others leaves me in a mood blacker than Ardent's soul.

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Memories are an interesting affliction.

On the one hand, Memory Lane has the most beautiful gloamings, the prettiest trees standing resolute at the edges of the cracked, paved road. There is something delicate, mystical, about Memory Lane under those conditions. When the light dapples the ground golden.

But, sometimes, Memory Lane is also lethally vicious. The wind rips at anyone who dares venture into it, and sleet, as sharp as needles, slices down from above. The cracked, paved road gapes into impassable chasms, swallowing its victims without warning. The tree roots grasp ankles with gnarled tendrils, ensnaring them.

And still the storm rages.