The one who didn't stay

This one was certainly a fighter.

From what they could tell, that was not any kind of change; this man had hardly gone a day without fighting in life. Sometimes it was battles of will, sometimes thrown punches, but always fighting in some way.

Not that any of that mattered now. None of it did at the end. All that mattered was the current moment, the second the fight ended and the man was pulled into the darkness, where they waited to meet him.

He had fought to the last, the echoes of his cursing not yet faded when the man stumbled back. There were a few moments -- however long a moment was in this space, the odd slice of the universe in between everything -- where the man panted, a leftover instinct that wasn’t even necessary here.

The banner pole made a sharp crack as it hit what could pass as a floor, and he whirled around. The silence was heavy, but then his eyes flicked up to the banner, down to the messenger holding it, and quickly around both of them.

“No.”

That wasn’t an unusual response. The messenger let their head tilt just a little to one side.

“No,” the man repeated, and there was a touch of desperation in his voice. “Those bastards don’t get to win. They don’t get to beat me.”

Another crack of the pole.

The messenger gave the impressions of battles well fought, of pride in struggle, but also pride in defeat.

Of rest.

It didn’t do much. The man still looked defiant, and the messenger began to move forward. There were plenty of souls they needed to beckon a little more firmly. It was difficult to suddenly move on from fights like those.

That’s what the messengers were for, after all.

The sudden shift in the man’s form made them both pause. A choked cough, one hand scrabbling at his chest --

and he was gone.

That happened. Not all that infrequently, either. Sometimes there was someone on the other side who wasn’t done fighting, either, and sometimes they could just manage to tug people back.

Seemed a little strange given what this man had said, but it happened.

The banner flickered blank, and with a rustle of what some might call feathers, they moved on.

“I am not done with them.”

The defiance was the same. The words made it seem like the situation was the same.

Had it been long? There was no clear way of telling.

The messenger cracked the banner pole. They had seen plenty of unusual entrances into death. This was nothing that special.

Until the man disappeared again.

Their head tilted a little.

Less common. But it happened.

A rustle of feathers. They moved on.

The man did not come back to them right away, but to one of the others.

He had not fought that time. He had taken his defiance and used it in a different way. He had taken his fate into his own hands.

He seemed ready then, unsurprised, and obviously weary. He saw the messenger and the look of recognition by itself was a little unusual. There was no banner that time -- just understanding, comfort, guidance.

The man was tired. He moved toward the messenger without prompting, pausing half a beat to look back over his shoulder, as if there were something to see.

And then his form shifted.

There was recognition there, too. The messenger’s head tilted.

The recognition turned to dread. In that split second, his emotions flared -- the knowledge of what was happening, fear of returning, and the sudden flash of anger.

Then he was gone.

It was certainly strange, the two messengers decided. But many things were strange. Souls were strange, and the circumstances they found themselves in could be even moreso. And it wasn’t the business of those who were set only to be guides.

“I can’t go back,” the man said. His voice broke. “I can’t do it, please --” One hand clutched at his chest as he shifted. His eyes locked on the messenger. “Don’t let them --”

They were not strangers to pity, but this was new.

The man disappeared, and the messenger felt pity for one dragged back into life.

Unusual.

They were not meant to interfere. In truth, there wasn’t much opportunity to. They were just messengers, guides, made to show the way to souls who might not know how to find it themselves. Changing things for the living was not something they did.

But for what may have been the first time -- or possibly the thousandth, it was difficult to keep track of -- the messenger wished to interfere.

The man was not always met with the same guide. That he crossed over often enough to see more than one was strange. Concerning, even. Humans were meant to die, and to die once. Sometimes they might be pulled back.

But most of those times, they were relieved.

Whether this man fought it or never saw it coming, he always begged to not go back. Tried to push forward into death. Fought just as hard as he had in life to stay in death.

And every time, he was pulled back.

He appeared with a sharp gasp, stumbling, and turned immediately. The crack of the banner pole was sharp. It almost echoed. If there were anything for it to echo off.

There was a light in the man’s eyes again. One that had faded since his first appearance. A hint of the same defiance, and even more of cold fury.

The messenger knew this encounter would not last. They had very little to do with the living world, but even now, now that they looked for it, they could feel the beginnings of the tug that would pull the man back again.

They could give impressions and feelings. Wordless messages, meant to ease their journey further.

But this case was different.

“fight”

The man looked surprised. That made sense. Messengers did not often speak. But this warranted it.

The messenger’s beak clacked and its feathers rustled.

“use that power. the fury you harness to resist my pull. use it against them. you do not belong here yet. so fight.”

A beat of silence. The man made no sound as he began to shift, but the light in his eyes grew brighter.

It was difficult to judge time in this place, the strange area in between, but the messenger felt certain a good amount of it had passed before the man returned.

His soul felt older now. Worn by years rather than trauma, though there had been enough of that as well.

Really, another messenger should have taken him. There was peace this time around, quiet acceptance.

But they were allowed exceptions, and this felt like some kind of symmetry.

This man was certainly a fighter. As quiet as this death may have been, after everything else, there was a sense of victory in that, too.

He blinked a few times, breathing deep. The messenger could see confusion for a few moments before recognition flickered in his eyes.

“Been a while,” the man said, and his grin was crooked. “Guess you finally get me after all, huh?”

The banner pole cracked, and he looked up at the symbol glowing on it. The grin grew.

“Yeah, we did good. Few rough patches, but that's life, right?”

Feathers rustled as the messenger extended a wing, and the man huffed a quick laugh. He glanced over his shoulder like there was something there to see, the touch of sadness fond.

And he finally stepped forward, finally settled under the dark expanse of the wing as the messenger turned to lead him on.

“you fought well.”