Stars Rise

Stars Rise: The First Rebirth of Leander Prince

San Francisco, 2010. Yes, you read that right.

Sleep, and a forgetting.

Leander had known that he would die. He had known where he would go after, but that didn't make it any easier. He had known that he did not go to torment when the blade slid straight between his ribs, hit his spinal cord, tore flesh, and shattered one of the most important bones in his body.

He knew, too, that he did not go to the eternal rest of the worthy. No, that would not be his fate either. Even in the sleep of death, his mind was conscious, if buzzing with fatigue. Every muscle weary, his eyes heavy. He could still feel his eyes. Every heartbeat was the struggle he once felt charging a league on foot, and he wanted to stop, to sleep, to lie down in defeat, even if it was forever. But Leander could not. It was time to awaken.

His deathly tired eyes opened. The muscles in his body returned to life, he breathed. He had work to do, and would for all eternity.

His deathly tired eyes opened. Every other muscle felt too heavy to move. He breathed, feeling the air push against his ribcage. Not unlike waking up, his body returned to life, and he tried to turn over in bed — he was in a bed, miraculously, but not his.

It wasn't weakness that stopped him so much as cosmic inertia, he felt. First, breath was needed. In a moment, perhaps, he would be able to wiggle toes, to turn on his side. He needed to get up, he knew. He had work to do, and would for all eternity.

Nothing to do now except breathe and stare at the ceiling. Conical and white, like the inside of a tower in a cloister or castle. Lit by a warm light that did not flicker. Not firelight, but not sunlight either. The angle was wrong, it projected straight up and filled the tower room at an angle the sun could not sneak in at. No, he had never seen light of this quality. It could not be the light of day.

His eyes threatened to close themselves, and Leander let them. Sensation began to come back. Tiredness faded, replaced by resignation now.

Without moving, he felt the firm bed, as if to glean clues about a new world from the slat he had woken up upon. The thin, meager sheets, the rough fabric of the blanket under his heavy, unmoving arms. What could any of it matter? His real life was over. He had struggled to bring peace to his kingdom, fought at the side of his love, and labored for his family. Now he would struggle against the weight of a new world, and there would be no reward. There was no life for him here, only servitude.

Feeling sorry for himself prompted a punishment from the cosmic forces that had brought him here. A pain like fire burned under his skin. The longer he lay immobile, the worse it seared. Punishment. It burned away the pain of ghostly memories. His family, his love, and the world of his home were as dead and lost to him as he was to them. And he had known the fire within would burn at him until he got up and moved, to leave that life behind and start anew.

At first, Leander ignored it. He'd felt worse.

The searing like hot coals inside and over every inch of his skin glowed hotter, and he jolted upright and yelped aloud, swearing. Curse words were the first he spoke in this new world, which seemed a bad portent. Like an instantly trained dog, he put his bare feet down on the floor. Took in the rest of the place. It appeared to be an entire dwelling, perhaps the only room in a single-story home — a white space with high ceilings, the bed in a tower nook in one corner, and a cooking area beyond a high countertop.

He inspected the residence with a serious gaze as if to say, 'alright, alright, I'm going.' The fire would come back if he stopped.

The white walls had no texture, and the dim light continued to preoccupy him. It came from a structure on the bedside table. The first thing he did when his limbs agreed was to inspect the light source — first cautiously probing the base with fingertips, to be sure it wouldn't scorch him too — and then lifting the whole thing up to inspect it.