Death is Not the End

A large, imposing arch made of chiseled sandstone towers above me. Each side rises above the centre, thick rectangular stone carved with depictions of strange figures and symbols.

Golden sands fill the landscape as far as the eye can see, rolling dunes rising and falling like the waves of the ocean. The air does not stir, not a single grain of sand straying from its position in the stillness.

There is no sun above, no moon, no stars. Just endless black, eating up the skies.

What a strange place.

I turn in a circle, taking in the lack of sights around me.

Just me, the desert, and the grand arch.

How did I get here? And what is this place?

I wait for the panic to set in, for my heart to race and the short breath to leave me gasping, but it doesn’t come.

In fact, no breath comes at all.

My hand shakes as I slowly raise it, pressing two fingers against my neck and waiting. When I feel nothing, I press the fingers in further. But the stillness is not merely around me, it’s reflected in my pulse too.

So that’s conclusive.

I’m dreaming.

Looking down at myself, I find my favourite white summer dress adorning my form. It hugs my waist, flowing loosely around my hips and legs. The plunging neckline shows the turquoise necklace I put on this morning, but I’m certain this is not the outfit I chose.

It’s not even summer—although the air surrounding me is surprisingly tolerable, not at all dry or stuffy like you’d expect in a desert.

If I’m dreaming, what is this place? I thought dreams were constructed of places you’ve seen or know.

Wandering closer to inspect the arch, I trace my fingers along the carvings within the sandstone. Some symbols look alien in nature—things I’ve never seen before—while others hold an air of familiarity.

My gaze follows the images up, the symbols becoming something else. Humanoid figures with animal features, the sun and the moon, and at the precipice of it all, a sentence.

I squint, the height of the arch making the sentence difficult to see. It’s not in English, nor any language I might recognise. Yet the words apparently do not require reading to understand.

“Death is not the end,” I whisper, frowning as the words fall from my lips.

The sands around me begin to stir just beneath the arch, swirling in a tight circle as they rise up above my head, the shadow of a figure appearing amidst the grains.

My feet leave imprints as I put distance between the dust devil and I, sand being tossed at me from the winds. There’s no pain as it makes contact with my skin; not even the slightest sting.

As fast as the winds blow in, they suddenly vanish. The scattered sand freezes midair, hanging suspended in time as the figure becomes clear.

He’s tall, towering above me with inhuman height. His flawless skin is a reflection of the dark sky above, his eyes sparkling like stars the colour of lapis lazuli. Every inch of his body is packed with hard muscles, as if sculpted from marble. I might believe he is a statue, with the intense slope of his eyebrows, jaw cut from stone, and thick, delectable lips, if not for the slight rise and fall of his chest.

He lacks clothes on most of his body, my eyes drinking in the beauty unabashed, lingering on the beige loincloth tied around his hips. Gold lines follow the edges of him, tracing across his collar bones, ribcage, and swirling down his appendages in a shimmering pattern.

“You have summoned I, the Lord of the Sacred Lands, to be your guide on this journey. What is your name, deceased one?” His voice is gritty, like that of the sands hanging in the air that plummet as he speaks, and as deep as a trench along the bottom of the ocean. His voice isn’t merely heard—it’s felt within my bones, wrapping my skin in a layer of warmth and comfort I didn’t know I needed.

“Deceased one?” I parrot. “I’m dead? This isn’t some fever dream?”

The ‘Lord of the Sacred Lands’, as he called himself, nods. “Indeed. You have reached the afterlife.” There is no sense of lie in his voice, and something deep within me simply understands what I’m hearing to be true. What I’m seeing to be true. I just know, with something other than logic, that this is not simply a dream.

The panic finally hits, a weight crashing into my chest like a mountain.

Dead. Actually dead. No longer alive.

What about my snake? My books? My job? My life? None of that matters anymore?

Did it ever?

When you have no heart to beat frantically, no lungs to seize, panic feels odd. It’s a cold drip down my spine, a numbness in my legs. My eyes fail to focus, and before I know it, my hands are shoved deep into the sands, desperately clinging to a life that has already slipped through my fingers.

I can’t recall dying—the last thing I remember is going to work, it was a busy shift—the new food runner had made a grievous mistake with tables early in the shift. A shiver runs down my spine as I recall dealing with the table in question, the leering eyes and less than polite remarks.

It was a poor sign for the way the Friday night would go.

But that’s it. Did I die at work? Slip and fall while rushing around on the floor? Or did a chef finally snap, and drive the knife he often threatened me with through my chest?

“How did I die?” My words come out breathy—how that’s possible when I don’t need air is beyond me.

“The dead do not recall how they died,” the stranger explains. “Death is the single most traumatic thing you can experience. For the sake of your journey through these trying lands, you will not be able to recall how you died.”

A blessing, perhaps.

If only I couldn’t remember everything I failed to achieve in life. If only I was spared the disappointment humming in my chest, my aching heart a reminder of everything I’ve lost.

“I take it you are yet another who has summoned me purely by mistake?” He muses, remaining unbothered as I fall apart in the sands.

“How on earth did I summon you?” I question, slowly picking myself up and off the ground. The weight of the world still weighs heavy on my chest, but somehow I doubt groveling to the ground will make any difference.

“You spoke the summoning spell—something I presume is no longer common knowledge.” His head tilts in a curious way, regarding me like a foreign object.

Potentially a mirror of how I’m looking at this god of a man.

“‘Death is not the end’ is the summoning spell for you?” I query.

He presses his stunning blue eyes firmly closed, a shiver shaking his entire form. “Yes,” he grounds out. “A pity you did not utter another spell instead.”

“There is no need to be rude.” I protest, folding my arms across my chest. “I didn’t mean to. Just tell me how to un-summon you, if it’s such a bother.”

His eyes narrow. “Such a thing is not possible.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Please tell me I am not to spend the entirety of my afterlife with a grumpy Lord of something?”

“Thankfully not,” he huffs. “And it is ‘Lord of the Sacred Lands’, guide of souls. Now, should I explain the coming journey? Or did you need more time to beg the sands?”

“I do not beg.” I snap, surging forward a step. “I was merely… collecting my thoughts.”

A thick brow climbs his forehead. “And your thoughts are scattered somewhere in the sands, apparently?”

I narrow my eyes. “You said something about a journey?” I redirect, hands clenching into fists.

He opens his arms wide, gesturing with his hands to the arch he stands in. “There are seven pairs of gates within these lands. Each contains a different trial within its boundaries. To reach eternal life, you must pass every trial.”

A frustrated noise escapes me. “You’re telling me that not only am I dead, but now I have to face trials or what, die again?”

“Or the final death, oblivion.” He corrects through clenched teeth.

“Great, so what do I need to do in order to avoid that?” I demand, desperately trying to keep my eyes on his face, and not the bulging biceps of his spread arms.

Gods, put them down so I can focus again.

“Did I not just mention passing every trial?” He throws back, finally lowering his arms from their outstretched position.

I rub my temples. “You speak to me as though I am the frustrating one,” I mutter. “I caught that—obviously—what I mean is how do I pass the trials? You’re a guide, right? So guide me.”

He sighs through his nose, chin tipping upwards as he regards the heavens. “We are at the first gate, and you have already begun the trial for this one,” he begins.

“But I am still on this side of it.” I argue. “And if it’s a gate, where’s the, y’know, gate part? I merely see an arch.”

“As I was saying,” he says at a volume that’s simply unnecessary. “You have already begun the first trial. It is the acceptance of death, and the opportunity to recite a spell for protection or summon a guide.” He gives me a pointed look. “Accident or not.”

I beam, disregarding his final words. “Excellent, one down, six to go.”

“Not quite, you must still find your way across the sands and to the other side of the gate, and face the challenges you meet.”

“Again,” I drawl, gesturing to the arch. “I fail to see the gate part.”

He raises his hands, and just behind him, large, black mental gates fill the arch way. There appears to be no handles, no way to open them. The metal twists into intricate patterns, the line between sandstone and doors seamless.

I take a step forward to investigate it, when a thick arm blocks my path.

“Before you enter,” Lord of the Sacred Lands interrupts. “We ought to discuss the extent of this trial.”

“Did you not already?” I demand, growing tired of the man’s company already.

“You have summoned a guide,” he reminds me yet again. “But coming to terms with death is not as simple as laying in the sands.”

“This again?”

“The desert is formidable,” he continues. “You must pass by all the things that tie you to your life before. You must make it to the other gate without losing yourself in what was. As your guide, I may inform you of what the trial is, but the specifics of the challenges you are to face you must do by your own means. Once you step beyond this gate, I will exist only in my other form, and I will not be able to help you.”

“Other form?” I wonder.

“You shall see. Are you quite ready? And before we begin, might you feel like sharing your name?”

“Neith.” I tell him. “And please tell me you have a name? A proper one, I don’t wish to say your mouthful of a title every time I must curse you out.”

His lips twitch, whether fighting a scowl or smile, I can’t be certain. “Sazriel.” He steps to the side, sweeping a hand towards the gates. “At your readiness, Neith.”

Stepping up to the wrought iron gates, I reach a hand out to push them open. But the moment my hand makes contact, the gate lights up, humming with something electric and, for lack of better word, magical.

They peel open slowly, the desert beyond shifting. The sands grow restless, a soft glow spreading across the dunes despite the lack of sun above, or source below.

The air shifts as I pass over the threshold, the heavy clang of the gates slamming shut behind me as final as anything.

The weight returns to my chest, the reality that is death a burden seeping beneath my skin once more.

Here I thought that after life, things would be non-exist, or easy. But I suppose if life is nothing but more challenges and trials, why wouldn’t the afterlife be the same?

And so, my first trial of the afterlife begins. The first step to achieving eternal life, or falling to oblivion.

No pressure.