the Misfortune of the Fraught

Written by gaydryad

Millennia past to present day, legend tells of those who try to commune with the dead; the grief-stricken lover too unbearable in their pain to heal, and whether by board, psychic, or divine request, hoped to see their lost once more.
In ages past, the deities walked among humanity, and were un-presumptuous in their stance; they demanded no great sacrifice or offering from those who sought them out. The Fraught was no one who could provide such payment, lonesome then and in middling years, not yet so old that they would accept their own mortality as a solution, and yet no longer so young that they could grieve and grow. They were no great saintly person, neither of highest virtue of the church nor of lowest impiety of the under-establishments. They were no great thinker or creator or supporter; the Fraught had passed through life with other people as their only attachments to society, and it was with this self-aware humility that the Fraught approached Death.
'There are no pious leaders who will serve the undedicated,' they said, 'but I must know that he did not suffer, and that he is not suffering.'
'Give me the name of whom you desire, and I will ask him,' Death said. 'You will have your answer within the day.'
This could not satisfy the Fraught: they were too anxious that if they did not hear it with their own ears, that the answer they received would not be true. 'I must see them myself,' they insisted. 'How can I trust a being that I do not know?'
Death was insulted by this, but it was not so much that he would kill them, so instead, he offered: 'If he has suffered, would it please you to hear that pain was his final memory?'
But they could not be assuaged; for a while they debated, and with each question, they grew more fraught with worry and disbelief. They would have no alternative. 'I must hear his voice. Only that will give me peace.' Finally, Death agreed; they could come into contact with the dead, but it would be their responsibility to find their lover, and to commune. With a sharp blade, Death cut free the blood from his arm: the Fraught offered their hand, and immediately a ribbon of blood encircled it, hovering and rapidly followed up their arm and around their head. Their eyes closed, they could hear the voices of the dead; yet dimmed, until the ribbon of blood circled back, and with the same blade, Death made a matching cut on their arm.
Already silver-shaded and running dark, the ribbon connected with their exposed arm, and drained into a deep red. The Fraught barely saw this, however, as the world dropped away around them; the dead immediately visible, souls bombarded their vision and hearing, ghastly hands chilling their skin, ghostly cries echoing in their ears. The Fraught saw the faces of dozens; they heard the voices of hundreds; cascading, they could not make out their lover; they collapsed to the ground, clawing at where their arm burned from the exposure.
The Fraught fell to the ground, dirt and rocks reappearing, and the ribbon fractured and retracted. Yet still voices whispered and accused, yelled and questioned, screamed and cried. Yet still faces swarmed, and their body shook: first their hands clawing each other and their face, then their torso jittering, and then their legs wobbling when they attempted to stand. Thoughts unfamiliar and memories unknown distorted their world; emotions unfelt wracked their heart. The Fraught cried out, and yet could not utter a sound, their voice already hoarse from wretched screaming.
'What have you done to me?' they demanded, and yet they could not hear their own words over unheard voices. 'What have you forced upon me?' they cried, falling again to the ground, and yet they did not feel tears or the hard earth against their hands and knees. 'Take them back!' they begged, and yet, they could no longer focus on Death above them.
'I warned you of the consequences. Is this not as you required? To once again hear the dead?'
But the Fraught did not hear him: they instead clutched to whatever they could, to grasp onto reality. 'Let this suffering be over.' Their hands slipped, hard-gripped onto the fabric of their own wear. 'This is not what I wanted.' They hunched over. 'This is not what I desired.' More voices choked their chest; scrambled syllables scattering from their mouth onto the ground.
Then, Death considered leaving them: from where they had latched onto the body of the Fraught, though, he saw the broken shards of the dead, and found pity in those who had in a split second been ripped away from their fellow deceased. 'This is not your punishment,' he said, and so with his exposed arm, passed a hand along the cut on the Fraught. 'Return,' Death ordered. 'Return, and be whole again.'
The fractures of dead souls seeped out of the cut; once they had all oozed and returned to Death's own arm, the cut healed again, and Death brought forth again his knife. 'As you have so insisted on your gift, come forth and find your lover where they reside.' This time, Death passed the blade into the palm of the Fraught, and when it pulled forth again, their soul followed and they finally died.