Abrahim

The whimpering eventually ceases as the junior Worker begins to calm from the last experiment. Luckily, the walls of the chamber we are in have been soundproofed, not exactly due to the current use of the chamber, however, it benefits me regardless. The walls are bare save for the sigils, which prevent the cries of the junior Worker from being heard by anyone else in the large building. Well, this isn’t working at all. I turn my attention back to the junior Worker who is strapped to the chair in the middle of the chamber. The chamber is lit only by three torches nestled in sconces on the walls. Despite the dim light in the chamber, I see pain and fear swimming in the junior Worker’s eyes. Fresh tears mix with and rehydrate the stale streaks of tears on her face. I lean down and whisper a command in her ear. A command in a language lost to all but the most senior of Workers. She is to forget what happened today, return to her sleeping quarters, and should anyone ask what she had been doing, she is to inform them that we were training.

Once her tears have stopped, I confirm that the command has taken hold. I undo the straps and she is able to stand up. She extends her arms and stretches. As if noticing me for the first time, she gives me an admiring look and says a greeting.

“Worker, what did you do today?” I ask. One last test to ensure the command has set.

Almost immediately, “Worker Abrahim, surely you know. We trained all day. We began to study the best methods of helping those move on who died from tragic accidents. Don’t you remember?”

“Of course. Consider it a small test, Worker. Go on.” I wave dismissively towards the door to the chamber.

The young Worker gives a small nod of her head and departs from the chamber. As the door opens, I see the dark wood of my walnut desk. The large window behind the desk provides ambient light from the eternal sunset of the Wandering Plane.

“Well, did you find out how to break the curse?” A strong voice shatters the brief silence that had invaded the room.

“Not today, but it was more promising. She was able to endure much longer than the Worker last week. He was nearly broken within the first hour of experiments. She tolerated experimentation for just over two hours. It seems progress is being made.” I respond in an analytical tone.

“At least there is that, I suppose,” he says, but the doubt in his voice is apparent.

“I have to figure it out. For me and for you,” almost pleading with him to understand.

“Abe, you have the opportunity move on. Do not end up like me. You do not have to save me.”

“You know that I cannot and will not stop. If there is a way to break the chains that bind us, then I will find it. You have my word.”

I finally look in the direction of the voice. Almost as if he were standing in the chamber with me, I see Zeke. Yet, I know that he cannot physically be here. His physical body is under lock and key. Despite being broken physically, Zeke has become more adept at sending his spirit to speak with me.

“Do not expend too much energy to be here speaking with me. You need to save your strength.”

“Calm, Abe. I will be fine. Just as I would be fine if you decided to pass your position on.” He looks at me with rueful eyes. “You can move on.”

“No, I will not. That is the end of it.” With that, I stride out of the chamber and leave Zeke behind. I could not let him see me upset about this situation. That would only cause him to lose more hope. I walk over to the desk and place my hands upon it. My head is hanging low. I remain as such, until I hear a knock at the door to the library.

“Yes?”

A meek administrator opens the door and pops her head in. “Worker Abrahim, you have a new case. Frances would like your immediate attention.”

“Of course she does. Thank you, I will be right out.” With the assurance that my attention would be promptly given, the administrator closes the door and retreats. I run a hand through my dark black hair. I realize that I have been holding my breath for a few seconds. I exhale. Until I am able to sever the binds on Zeke and myself, I will have to play the dutiful servant. What is a few more days or weeks after a millennia of service?

I stand up and take a few seconds to compose myself. I walk towards the door. Before exiting, I grab the hideous coat befitting Workers, an olive green jacket with bright red accents, from the coat stand to the right of the door. I open the door and exit my library, my refuge. I enter the antechamber that leads to the large room where the crowd of the lost would be waiting. I take the trip slowly, trying to delay the inevitable. Other Workers loaf around in the hallway, which only fuels my desire to avoid my responsibilities. After a minute or so of walking, I come to the dark black door. I stand in front of it, then I take my last opportunity to ready myself. After a few more seconds, I decide that I can no longer delay. I open the door and walk through.

As I walk through the door to the holding pen, as I affectionately call it, the large crowd that is perpetually there assaults me. Every fiber of my being yearns to be back in my library—to be back in my own dominion. Despite this, I have to keep moving forward as it is my duty. I pledged myself to this duty all those years ago for better or for worse. My mind lingers on this thought only a moment longer. No use regretting past mistakes.

I draw out the simple notecard with my subjects name on it. “Mason Behlke, 23 years old, murdered.” Not much to it, but the notecard includes a small picture of the subject. Familiarizing myself, I note that there’s nothing too remarkable about this subject. I have had the pleasure of helping some of the living world’s most famous move on in the past. After a few hundred years, with very few exceptions, my work became extremely monotonous. Every once in a while, an anomalous case comes before me, but I would not wager that happens too often. Save for being murdered, nothing about this case screams to me that it will be one of the outliers. Often those who have been murdered do not want to take too much time investigating it; rather, they usually wish to move on the fastest.

With my thumb, I rub the notecard to activate the thread connecting it to its sister, which should be in the hand of my subject. The thread appears and weaves in and out of the crowd. I begin to follow it. As I pass through crowds of those seeking to rest, I utter pleasantries and excuse myself. After I have crossed a better half of the large room, I see the thread taking a much more direct route. What is likely 50 feet in front of me, the subject sits. Perhaps, I was wrong about this one because not only is the subject there, but with him is Officer Greer. If she is here, it must mean my subject could not find the will to move on. It has been far too long since I have administered a Retracing. My mood immediately improves and is almost giddy.

Now, with a very slight skip to my step, I close the remaining distance between us. As I close in, Officer Greer sees me first. Upon seeing me, her face pales and a mask constituting both anger and fear shields what is normally a beautiful and easy-going facade. Now that I’m within earshot, I can hear her mumble something to him and his response.

With a smile and before Officer Greer can say anything else to him, “Mr. Behlke, I am glad you found your way here, presumably thanks to Officer Greer. I am Worker Abrahim and I will be assisting you today.”