Sanguine Prince | Chapter 03: The Highest (Second Draft)

Arcturus shot bolt upright, panting, hands running over his naked body in panic.

He remembered everything: the alarm, the phone message, the kiss with Amélie—panic surged through him again, balanced with adrenaline and anger. The shooter was still at large.

Amélie! If that blue-eyed bitch had hurt his... what? His friend? Girlfriend?

No, the details didn’t matter. Amélie was in danger. All of his friends were, and he had to get to them. First, though, he had to figure out where he was and how he was alive.

Almost as if summoned by that desire, the area around him manifested.

Clean white walls and flooring, with warm lighting and a faint scent of vanilla in the air. Relaxing music played from... somewhere as he stepped forwards, opening his mouth to call out a tentative “Hello?” to the empty room. Silence greeted him, and he looked for an exit, only to find himself standing immediately in front of an inviting door the moment he thought of it. Arcturus glanced back behind him, then to the door again.

Had he moved without thinking?

Shrugging it off, he grasped the handle and turned.

Arcturus found himself in a spacious corridor, utterly alone, an eyeblink later—still with the same, strange sense of overwhelming calm.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself. “I think I’ll just go back to my—” nothing was behind him but a smooth wall “—door?”

Blinking in confusion, he was distantly aware that some part of his mind was gibbering in terror, but his consciousness seemed immune to that babbling panic. A sense of perfect calm presided over all else as he turned back to the corridor, only to be faced with another door.

A golden name plate was placed on the white paint of the door itself, though no matter how hard he tried, the letters just didn’t make sense.

A sense of rightness pervaded his being, and Arcturus placed his hand on the smooth silver handle, turning it and stepping inside.

“Huh,” he breathed out in surprise. He was in what looked like the Dean’s office at Yale, with the smiling face of Henry Othsman, the Dean of Admissions, peering at him with interest.

“Hello, Professor. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Not at all, young Arcturus,” the wizened Dean replied cheerfully, peering at Arcturus with his blazing, golden-white eyes. “Please, have a seat.”

“Oh, thank you,” Arcturus said, settling himself down in front of the Dean. “Sorry for my clothes, I didn’t have time to... uh… to change...”

His words trailed off as he glanced down, noting the dried blood and holes marking the front of his white tee. He’d been wearing it the whole time that he could remember, hadn’t he? He distantly recalled being naked, but that couldn’t have been right. He momentarily remembered something ephemeral about a problem or danger, but he couldn’t seem to grasp it, no matter how hard he tried.

“That’s quite all right, my dear boy,” the Dean said with calming amicability. “Tell me, how are you liking it so far?”

“What’s that, Professor?” Arcturus asked, taking note of the sky outside the windows. The blinding white light seemed particularly bright today. That was normal. Absolutely.

“Why, being dead, of course.”

“I’m not sure I understand, sir,” Arcturus said with a nervous laugh, not quite getting the joke. “I know I’ve been a little behind on some of my coursework, but I filed the extensions... with...” He trailed off, blinking as he started to shake. “Filed the extensions with...” His head began to spin, and his breathing turned erratic. “W-With... w-with...!”

Arcturus abruptly inhaled sharply and suddenly found himself on his feet; the chair smashed into the wall, and tears of rage staining his face. “P-! P-!”

He suddenly couldn’t breathe and turned desperately back to the Professor, only to find a clean white room, a clean white desk, and a presence that in his mind’s eye held the form of Henry Othsman.

“I’m dead,” Arcturus said in a stunned whisper. “I’m dead. That bitch fucking killed me.”

“Quite right,” Henry replied, gesturing to a clean white chair next to Arcturus. “With that so eloquently established, my boy, shall we talk about what happens next?”

Arcturus found himself seated a moment later, without remembering how he had sat down, and staring at his hands in disbelief. He could see, feel, think, smell, hear, taste—yet he couldn’t. Even as he pondered that oddity, his hands turned transparent, and he stared through them at the blood, bone, sinew, and marrow within. It was as if his very will, and each errant thought that affected it, dictated the laws that controlled his existence.

“Yes, it’s a bit jarring, isn’t it? Mortal minds often struggle to reconcile the understanding of a realm that is both a construct of their own will and a predetermined design. It’s hard to fathom being the absolute master of one’s own existence in a place like this.”

Arcturus snapped out of his examination of his hand and stared at what his mind perceived to be the warm face of Henry Othsman while blinking fiercely.

“You’re…” he swallowed. “Are… are you God?”

“No,” the fake Dean responded with a shake of his head, “I’m afraid not.”

“Then who, or what are you?”

“I am Order,” the being answered as if it were a perfectly logical conclusion.

“Why do you look like my Dean?”

“Because that is the authority figure you feel most comfortable with, naturally.”

Arcturus blinked again. “So everything I’m seeing is because of me?”

“That is correct. This is all a result of your subconscious projections.”

“So is all of this real?” Arcturus pressed.

“Yes. It is very much real,” Order answered patiently.

It was enough. Down to his core, Arcturus knew it was true.

“Okay…” Arcturus said slowly. “So what are you? What is Order?”

“In a word? Necessary. All things require Order, my dear boy. Without Order, there would be nothing, only directionless potential—utter chaos and an absence of all things.”

“So you are God, then, if you created everything,” Arcturus replied, furrowing his brow. “You’re just calling yourself God without saying you’re God. The only being with that sort of power would have to be God, and if you made everything, then you are God.”

“If the definition of ‘God’ is a being that creates from nothing, then no, I am not God,” Order clarified for all the world as if he were giving a private lesson. “I take potential and shape it, Arcturus. I am the birth of a star, the formation of stellar debris into planets, and the evolution of cells. I am capable of many things, my boy, but I cannot create something from nothing. Think of me as a facilitator, or a guide, or perhaps an architect.”

“Then what creates the materials for existence?”

“I do,” Order answered cheerfully.

“Then you are God?” Arcturus clarified in bewilderment.

“I never said I created the materials from nothing, Arcturus. Like anything, I have my antithesis. Chaos is the boundless potential of all things. Though its demesne is nonexistence, its power is the fabric from which I shape the threads of reality.”

“So Chaos is, what, the Bad Guy?”

“Chaos simply is,” Order clarified patiently. “Good and Evil as you perceive them are a mortal invention. Chaos is as much as I am. If you are asking the greater question of theological truth, then I fear I must disappoint you. I am not Jehovah, Allah, Yahweh, or Jesus Christ. I am, simply, Order.”

“Right,” Arcturus said in a drawn-out tone of disbelief and stirring discomfort. “I’m… I’m just going to call you God, if that’s okay.”

“Given what I see as your current understanding, yes, I suppose that is acceptable.”

Arcturus sat back in his chair in bewilderment, staring at the immensely patient face of the faceless entity before him, knowing he was breathing because his mind told him he should, and knowing he had form because his brain insisted he needed it. Knowing he was dead. Knowing he was talking to God, or Order—a being at least as close to the level of God as he’d probably ever come.

That confusion was only compounded further by knowing he was in the afterlife—knowing it all had to be fake, and yet inarguably aware that it was very real.

“Yes,” Order said in a kindly voice. “I know it’s quite a shock to the mortal psyche when the Soul ends up in The Highest.”

“The Highest?” Arcturus asked, still processing the information in a state of beleaguered disbelief.

“Heaven, Valhalla, Aru, The Afterlife, whatever you wish to call it,” Order explained with an idle gesture of one blazing palm. “My realm, my demesne, the place where all who pass beyond life must eventually go.”

“What about my friends?” Arcturus asked abruptly, almost scared to hear the answer, but needing to at the same time.

“Very much alive, actually,” Order said with a warm smile.

“Like... ‘alive’,” Arcturus clarified carefully, “or alive?”

Order turned to the right, and Arcturus followed his gaze to a large window that showed his friends racing down a corridor. A moment later, the window vanished. Alarmed, Arcturus turned back to Order plaintively. “Why’d you stop? Help them! They’re going to die!”

“Very likely,” Order replied calmly.

“You’re God! Or Order—it doesn’t matter! You’re supposed to be all-powerful!” Arcturus said desperately, and with an edge of anger. The ‘perfect calm’ was definitely eroding.

“Yes, in as much capacity as you can comprehend, I am.”

“So, save them!”

“I cannot,” Order responded patiently.

“But you just said—!”

“The natural course of events cannot be interceded with for flights of fancy.”

“You’re fucking GOD!” Arcturus roared in outrage. The spell that had controlled his emotions seemed to have been broken in that moment, as well. “You are the damned Natural Order! Your name is literally Order!”

“I suppose,” Order allowed, showing no sign of reaction to his umbrage.

“So you can, but you won’t, is that it?”

“Yes, and no. As I said, I am all-powerful in as much capacity as you can comprehend. That does not mean I am all-powerful in the capacity of true endless capability,” Order clarified with infuriating patience. “If I interceded every time someone asked, even if I could intercede, that would violate the balance with Chaos.”

“So, what? You’re scared of Chaos?” Arcturus demanded, looking back to where the window had been as if he could still see his friends racing for their lives.

“I have no reason to fear Chaos, any more than Chaos need fear me. We simply are.” 

“Then saving them has no risk, right?” Arcturus asked while turning back to the not-Dean. “Come on, save them. Please! Please!”

Order simply smiled at him, that same calm and paternal smile, and Arcturus knew it was hopeless in that moment. “Fine,” he said with a scowl. “Fine! Fuck it, send me back instead.”

“Oh?”

“Yes! Send me back, I’ll kill those psychopaths and save them. Send me back, and you can kill me after, just let me save them!”

“I cannot,” Order repeated mildly.

“You mean you won’t!” Arcturus shouted before throwing his hands up and shifting from sitting to pacing angrily while he felt Order’s eyes on him. “So, what now? I wander around Neverland for the next eternity-and-one years, waiting for everyone I love to die?!”

“No, you simply move on,” Order answered without a hint of concern for his outburst. “The first stage of your journey has concluded. A prologue, in a way, to a greater story. Now the real body of your adventure begins.”

“No, I refuse,” Arcturus said, caution ignored as he turned and slammed his hands on the desk. “Send me back. Let me save them, and I’ll happily spend forever wandering around wherever this is instead of ‘moving on’.”

“I already told you that is not an option.”

“So I don’t have a choice?” he demanded.

“Of course you have a choice, my dear boy.”

“Then I’m choosing to go back!”

“I’m afraid not even one such as I could help you there,” Order said gently.

“So I don’t have a choice!”

“Everyone has a choice.”

“Agh!” Arcturus raged, slamming his fists against the desk and turning to resume his angry pacing while his mind raced.

His friends were in trouble, but Order wanted him to move on. Oh, he knew what his friends themselves would say: they’d tell him to stop being bone-headed and take the very generous offer to go to a better place from the extremely patient deity he was currently shouting at.

That, however, never really struck him as an option.

He needed to speak to someone, needed to hear a voice that wasn’t just his own. It was like he was playing chess, but all the moves were predetermined, and there was no way to escape the checkmate; to escape the fact he was dead, and that was never going to change.

Break the board.

The thought struck him like a sledgehammer, originating from the little voice in his head that had been uncharacteristically silent until that moment. He froze in place, the words racing through his mind as a thought struck him. Something Order had said earlier; everything in The Highest was defined by will. Personal intent. The power of the individual and their actualisation of desire. He controlled his existence, not Order. The deity had stated it outright. He was the ultimate architect of his own fate, his own choices, his own place in reality.

Break the board.

He didn’t need to be told again.

Whirling, Arcturus smiled triumphantly at Order, ignoring the ever-calm smile on the there-but-not-there entity’s fake features. “We’re the masters of our own existence here, right? Anything that we will into being becomes reality?”

His heart was hammering as he spoke, acutely aware that he was acting more wilful and more aggressive than he ever had before. Something about dying had snipped away a piece of him, shattering his anxiety in the face of the sheer immensity of what had occurred.

“Correct,” Order answered once more.

“Anything at all?” Arcturus pressed, holding a breath he didn’t need.

“The Highest is the conjunction above and outside of all lower planes. What is done here is transcendent of the laws and rules of all realities, from The Source to its infinite lesser reflections.”

“Then I choose option C,” Arcturus declared savagely, and without waiting for an answer, poured all of his intent into a single thought: Send me home!

Order vanished.

The room vanished.

The Highest vanished.

Reality in all its existential, material, and immaterial conceptualisations vanished.

Arcturus had but a moment to realise what he’d done, to understand the immense and crushing horror of exactly what his intent had created: he had been desperate to leave The Highest, to vacate Order’s realm and return to his friends. Yet in his desperation, in his driving need to move, he had not considered what going home actually meant. He had simply assumed it would take him back to Earth.

Fate was not so kind.

His last thoughts were his desire to see his parents, see his friends, to hold Amélie in his arms just once as his girlfriend, to meet the relatives he’d never bothered to know, to live the life he’d taken for granted. Above all, he thought to make sure the people who’d relied on him in those last desperate moments, who had followed his lead and become his responsibility, were safe.

Regret warred with obligation, and as Oblivion claimed him, it was obligation that persisted as the last desperate embers of a dissolving existence.

And then, something beyond darkness; the absence of even nothingness itself.