The Lord of the End of Everything

There were thirty-nine steps leading to the entrance to the City of Judgment, where Kelemvor resided. Moira Delryn knew this because she had done nothing in the three days since arriving on the Fugue Plane except stare up them. Six times, she had managed to climb four steps before turning tail and running away, quivering in fright at the thought of confronting the Lord of the Dead. Which was silly since she was one of the dead he was lord over anyway.

It wasn't in Moira's nature to be so bold and direct, but need drove her forward. Brushing her wispy blonde hair from her gray eyes, she looked up at the citadel from its bottom step. Helm, give me strength, she prayed, again. Give me courage. I need to speak to Kelemvor, so that he might help me right this wrong before it is too late!

She took a deep breath. It hissed out between her clenched teeth. Another breath. She could not move.

"Are you going to stand there gawping until your ride gets here?" The gruff voice behind her made Moira spin around so quickly she lost her balance and fell onto the man in gray robes. His bundle of books, papers and parchment fell to the stone tiles and scattered in the breeze as he caught her. "Ah, I understand now," he said. The hood of the robes cast a shadow over his face, so that all Moira could see were two rheumy eyes. "That's why you've been standing here, you're growing roots so you don't topple over."

"I'm sorry!" Moira cried automatically. It seemed that she had spent most of her life saying those two words. As the man settled her on her feet, she blurted out, "I just ... it was ... I m-mean ... I'm, I'm sorry."

"Of course you are, now apologize," he replied. When Moira began to stammer out yet another apology, he grumpily waved her into silence. "Just a joke. Doesn't anyone down there tell jokes anymore? You'd think a sense of humor would be a well-valued commodity in that angst-ridden place."

When he bent down to gather his scattered papers, Moira immediately fell to her knees to help. "Please forgive me, sir," she said, and this time even she wanted to wince at her meekness. "I just ... I'm out of s-sorts here. I've never been, er, that is, you see-"

"Dead, of course. You're hardly original, you know." He took the haphazardly stacked papers and books from Moira's arms, added them to the ones in his own, then shuffled them into orderliness. "Everyone's that way when they get here. Running about that way and this, as if their heads were cut off. Of course, some of them did have their heads cut off." He snorted at his own joke. When Moira didn't respond, the cross frown appeared again. "What? Not funny? Oh, I suppose you've better things to do than trade quips with an old god, eh? Places to go, things to see. But then, I suppose you do." He shook his head and pulled the largest book free of the stack and opened it. "What's your name?" he asked without looking up.

Old god, Moira realized he said. She was talking to a god, here on the Fugue Plane, which meant he could only be the one she sought. Perhaps Helm was favoring her after all. She swallowed hard and stammered, "You're ... a-are you Kelemvor, my lord?"

The man gave her a withering stare. "Do I look like a god of death to you?" Before Moira could do anything more than blush at her own stupidity, he let out a short bark of a laugh. "Don't answer that, it's a trick question. I am a god of death. I'm not the god of death. At least, not the current one." He looked at Moira expectantly, then frowned before she could reply. "You know, a past one." Silence. "From before Kelemvor, you know."

"Cyric?" Moira whispered.

"Cyric!" the man exploded. He threw his hands up in the hair, retaining his hold on the large book in his hands while the rest of the papers fell again to the tile as he paced energetically before her. Again, Moira stooped to pick them up, her hands still trembling as she gathered up the fallen leaves. "That little runt of a god? That upstart? That complete nincompoop? He doesn't look a thing like me! No, before him! And don't say Myrkul. It was bad enough the first few decades when everyone thought he was me. Don't you know?" He sighed and muttered, "Mortals today and their bardsong excuses for learning. ... " He stopped before her and said clearly, "I am Jergal. You know, Jergal? Scribe of the Doomed and all that?"

Moira nodded, and an expression of satisfaction appeared on his face, which faded when she began to shake her head. "I'm s-sorry," she said, "I'm not, I'm not much of a scholar."

Jergal opened his mouth to reply, making Moira wince before she could help herself. She braced herself for the next snide comment, but it didn't come. "Never mind," he grunted. He took back the papers she had picked up and stacked them under the large book in his hands. "Listen, what's your name?"

"Moira. Um, Moira Delryn."

"Delryn, Delryn. Why does that name sound so familiar?" Jergal muttered as he flipped the pages of the large book so quickly a small breeze ruffled the edge of his cowl. "Is that of the Waterdeep Delryns or of ... never mind, here you are. Ah, one of Helm's. Mmm." From the sudden jerky movement of his head, Moira was certain he just rolled his eyes. "Someone from the House of the Triad should be here for you any minute. Late, as usual. Ao knows we've lectured him enough about that. ... "

"But I don't want to go there!" Moira cried. Her sudden outburst made Jergal fumble with his book and nearly drop it. "That's why I'm trying ... I need to go back home. I-I need Kelemvor to send me, to send me home. C-c-can I see Kelemvor? Please?"

Jergal pushed back the hood of his robe, and Moira saw that his was not a frightening face. It was long, thin and wrinkled, and a crotchety expression seemed to be permanently etched there. Wisps of gray hair on an otherwise bald head peaked out at her from the cowl. He didn't look like he enjoyed hurting people, giving her the courage to say, "I think ... there's been a mistake, you see. I shouldn't be here, and I ... need to go h-home."

"That's not original, either. Every other day someone says that." Jergal looked again at the great book in his hands. "I'm sorry. Now I sound like you, but you'll have to enlighten me. You're here just as scheduled. And it's not like there's anything ambiguous about how you ended up here, either."

No, there certainly wasn't any doubt about her death, that was true. Moira had been glad to die, at least at first. When the pain had faded, when the light claimed her, she had felt such blessed relief and peace and, for the first time, happiness. It was afterward, while wandering about this gray place waiting for her fate, that she began to realize what was wrong. "It's just a mistake," she repeated. When Jergal's brow furrowed, she said, "I didn't realize ... it's not right for me to be here, I know that now. M-m-my brother, he n-needs me. He'll never get along without me, so I ... h-have to go back."

The furrow in Jergal's brow didn't go away. Moira was searching her mind and her courage to find a way to convince this god of death to send her back to her life when he shrugged. "Well, you can't." He said it so matter-of-factly that Moira's breath left her. He leaned close to her to show her something written in a spidery scrawl across the page. "Your father's had your mortal form cremated. Even if someone down there wanted to resurrect you they couldn't. There's nothing left of you. Looks like you're stuck here." After a moment, he added, "Sorry."

Moira burst into tears.

"Oh for Ao's sake," Jergal sighed. He closed the book over one finger and patted her clumsily on the shoulder. "Don't cry. And don't clutch at me like that. Don't clutch. That's better. Listen, you can still get reincarnated. You'd most likely come back as a newt or a bugbear, but you might find that to be an improvement. On being dead, I mean. Stop crying!"

"You're so mean!" Moira sobbed. She felt like a fool for crying in front of him, but she couldn't help herself. And she couldn't stop. "Why do you have to mean?"

"I'm the Lord of the End of Everything," Jergal replied blandly. "That's a title that screams dark humor and satire, not fun and potty jokes. You'd know that if you'd ever read anything other than a romance novel."

"That wasn't me, that was Anomen!" Moira wiped her eyes and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, then realized what she had said. Anomen would be so angry if he knew she had told someone about The Vicar and the Milkmaid. But then, really, how was he going to know? "And ... and he's the reason I need to go back. I didn't think about him when ... I w-wasn't thinking," she said. "He needs me, he does. I'm so afraid of what will h-happen to him w-without me. And oh, he depends so on me."

"Don't clutch me."

Moira released the god's gray robe and gripped her skirts instead. The fabric was as faded here as they were in life. It had been so long since she'd had new clothes it never occurred to her to have them here. "I mean, w-we don't see each other much, but he writes. He always writes and asks me what I think. And I'm s-so afraid of what will, what will h-happen. ... That's why... that's why I need to see Lord Kelemvor. So you see ... if you could ask him ... of it you could, maybe ..."

She was going to finish the sentence, but Jergal put up his hand, and the look on his weathered face softened into something that looked something like kindness. Or pity. "I can't. Or rather, I won't." He paused a moment, and added another belated, "Sorry."

"But ..."

"No buts, girl. What you're about to ask me for would require a miracle, and we don't do those lightly." He flipped open the book and glanced at it. "And it's not vital to the fate of the world for you to be returned to life. Not you, anyway."

"But I need to go back!" Moira's bottom lip began to tremble. "I need to, I can't, I can't leave Anomen alone, I can't! W-what will h-h-happen to him?"

"Don't cry. Don't. Cry. You look like a reasonable person, even if you're one of Helm's. Don't ... oh, Ao." He pronounced the elder god's name "ow." "If you won't cry I'll," he looked over his shoulder, "we can take a peek at your brother and make sure he's all right. I'm not supposed to do this, but I will if you. Don't. Cry."

Moira took a deep breath to still her fluttering heart and nodded. Jergal flipped the pages in the great book again and peered at the pages. "Anomen, was it? Anomen Delryn. Ah, that's why your name sounds familiar. ... hmm. Look, he'll be fine. He's not scheduled to arrive at the House of the Triad for ... well, not there for decades. But it looks like he'll be here in about a month. A judgment of some sorts, but ..."

"What? Why, w-why would Anomen be judged here?" Moira stood on her toes to look upon the book's pages, and her eyes widened in surprise. On the page was a sketched picture of Anomen, sitting before the small altar to Helm by the pool on her family's estate. The picture was drawn so cunningly well it was as if he were living on the page. The look of grief on his face made Moira want to weep again, and she had to close her eyes and will the tears away before she irritated Jergal again. When she opened her eyes, she saw that the scene on the page had changed: Anomen now stood with a dark-haired half-elven woman, who was looking up at him familiarly. "Who is, who's that?" Moira asked.

Jergal peered at the picture. "That? Ah, don't worry about her, she's just a Child of Bhaal."

"Child of ..." Moira's heart leaped into her throat as she looked again at the page. Now the woman was leaning her head against Anomen's shoulder. A fierce protectiveness swept over her, making Moira itch to push the vile creature away from her brother. "W-what do you mean, don't w-worry! An evil B-bhaalspawn ... she, is she the reason he c-comes here?"

"Well, yes," Jergal admitted, and Moira trembled. "But it's not what you're thinking. This one's not one of the evil ones. She's actually good for him. And you'd might as well get used to the idea of Bhaalchildren, he's fated to marry one. That's a rock-solid destiny."

Now Moira despaired more than ever. If only she hadn't died, she would be there to counsel her brother to stay away from that woman! She looked at the changing sketch again and saw Anomen now in the house, talking with her father. In the background, she saw the Bhaalspawn slipping out the dining room door and heading toward the stairs. Quickly scanning the text around the picture, Moira read, "21 Eleint, DR1369. While investigating the death of his sister, Anomen Delryn slays Saerk and Surrayah Farrhad, thus delaying his advancement to knighthood in Helm's service."

Moira looked up from the text at Jergal. "He's going to kill the Farrhads? Why would he do that! He wasn't re-responsible for ... for ..." Moira felt bile rising in her throat. "It, it's her, isn't it? She's m-making him do it."

"Context, girl. You must read everything in context if you want a full picture of a man's life." Jergal took the book back from Moira and clucked his tongue as he skimmed the page. "It seems your father is the one who sets your brother upon Saerk Farrhad. It serves his interests if they're removed, and your brother is just dum ... er, well let's just say he's sold your brother quite a tale. The Bhaalchild has been trying to talk him out of it, but, again, it's destiny."

"No!" Moira shook her head. Never in her worst anxieties had she dreamed it would be this bad. She didn't mean for any of this to happen. All she had wanted was for the pain to end.

The book shut with a loud snap. "It'll be hard on him now, but it'll help him. It'll make him grow up, and he needs to, badly. Trust an old god on this, won't you? Let this one go. He has much worse things ahead of him, and he'll face them better if he's a man and not a boy."

"Then let me at least, at least warn him. C-can't I even do that?"

"No."

Don't cry, don't cry, Moira told herself sternly even as she felt the tears slip down her cheeks. All she had ever done in life was cry; why did she think that death would make her a different person? She had never felt so defeated. "What have I done?" she whispered. "And what's to become of me now? I-I'm as useless n-now as I was in life. And A-anomen will still suffer. Because of me."

Again, Jergal shrugged but said nothing. Moira lifted her head and looked up at him. "T-thank you. You've been ... most kind to me. I ... I'll leave you now." She looked at the stairs leading into the City and swallowed hard. "I just w-wish I could see him, one more time. Just to, just to tell him I'm sorry." She quickly turned away, to run away from the scene of her failure as much to flee Jergal's piercing stare.

She had not gone far when she heard him ask, "Can you write?"

Moira turned back to him. "Er, yes."

"Can you write neatly, because I can't abide sloppy penmanship."

"Y-yes, I think I can. If I m-may ask ... "

"Listen," Jergal sighed, then rolled his eyes, "maybe you could come work for me for a bit. Until your brother gets here, so you can talk to him. We always need help in the City. We just don't get as many worshippers as we used to." When Moira did not answer, he said hastily, "It's not like I make this offer to everyone, girl! Do you want to be of use to someone, or would you rather reside in Helm's house? I don't know what you'd do there. You'd make a nice statue, I suppose, if you could keep from falling over."

"I ... I could come work for you, to be here?" she asked. Jergal gave her an irritated look, but there was a kind glint in his eye and a smile hidden on his face. "I would like that, I think. I mean, I know. I'd ... I'd like to be of, be of use."

"Good. You can start by carrying these." Jergal dumped his load of papers and books into her arms. Beckoning at her to follow, he turned to the stairs leading into the City and began to climb. "And we'll have to work on that stammer of yours. You'll find you have a lot more confidence if you can say what you mean and mean what you say." He turned and looked at Moira, who was standing again at the bottom of the steps. "Are you coming, Moira?"

Moira took a firm grip on the papers. A scribe for the Scribe of the Doomed. Not exactly what she was expecting from the afterlife. But she would see Anomen. And she would be useful. "Y-yes," she began, then took a deep breath. "Yes," she replied firmly, "I'm coming." And she hurried up the steps behind him.