I don't believe in the afterlife. Or rather I do; I've seen people taken by Reapers and I've seen the immortality they offer, and it holds no appeal to me.
Given all that, oblivion must surely be a blessing in comparison.
Those of us who come here to the guild house know that. We've all seen people taken; most of us have seen the faces of our lost in the same Reapers that we fight, their wings blotting out the sky and filling our noses with the stench of frankincense and myrrh and blood.
It doesn't matter. Soldiers still light candles for fallen comrades at the Wall of the Dead, because we light them for ourselves, not for them. And it's understood by all, and spoken of by none. Part of the Artificer's creed.
Of course, given my long and turbulent history with the clerical keepers of the Wall and masters they serve, I've found something else to mark her death anniversary with.
I put the flowerpot on the ground under the column where her marker is and spread my coat down in front of it. I lay down my walking stick on the black marble floor, a dark mirror reflecting the world above in pinpoint light and sharp shadows. I reach into the bag again under the disapproving glare of the Keeper on duty, hot and actinic as caesium fire, and lift out the incense.
I kneel and thrust the wooden end of the incense into the soil, the cheap red dye staining my palm and fingers. They will resist washing later.
I spin the flint on my gunmetal lighter, an old present from her, and light the other end of the incense in a reek of light hydrocarbon fractions.
I can feel the Keeper's disapproval; surely, in this place patterned on Old World traditions, I should follow Old World habits?
Obviously he doesn't know me very well.
The celebrants are chanting off to one side; sonorous prayers rising up to uncaring heavens for the safekeeping of souls, whether taken by the Reapers or not.
I don't believe a word.
But the celebrants' song is soothing, weaving a web of Affinity around the guild hall, enforcing peace and calm in the bodies and minds within.
And maybe it's hypocritical for an unbeliever to lean into the comfort offered by the chants of the faithful, but I served my time and, believer or not, this is owed. That, too. is part of the creed.
And eventually, when the stick is burnt down to its last quarter, I feel a presence.
"Angelo."
"Redgrave." His hand lands on my shoulder. "Do you have a minute?"
"When the stick is done, maybe."
"I'm in a hurry, Redgrave."
"Then maybe you should have found me yesterday. Do not disturb me at the wall, Angelo. This day of all days."
He lifts his hand; I imagine him, eyes glittering in the depths of his hood like those of an intelligent and malicious snapper turtle, waiting with chelonian patience for his prey to come to him.
"You will want this, Redgrave. Trust me."
I feel his footsteps transmitted to me through the marble flooring; sibilant taps of hobnailed jackboots hidden under the monastic habit.
And he's right. I'll want this. Angelo knows what I'm after, and he knows how he can use it, and we both benefit. One day he'll push it too far.
But not today.
The incense burns down, my attention focused onto the burning tip of the cheap sandalwood, its glow that of a demon in the night keeping worse shadows at bay.
And when the last ember turns to gray ash and falls off into the flowerpot below, I pack everything back into the bag, pick up my walking stick, and limp after Angelo.
For Dom, who asked.
Time taken: 35 minutes
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