Dimensions of Eternity

IF YOU DIDN'T READ PART ONE, THIS INSTALMENT WILL NOT MAKE SENSE. SO, PLEASE, START THERE. :-)

This took longer than expected, but I think those of you who have been following the story will enjoy the directions this next instalment takes. I'm eager to hear your thoughts. As with the previous part, this is novel-length. This will be the trend going forward, which means it takes longer to write, but it also lets me open and close arcs without leaving you hanging.

All characters engaged in sexual activity are 18 or older. Any resemblance to real persons or events is purely coincidental.

Please enjoy!

Prologue

Catch your breath, open your eyes, do everything you can to stay alive. Think about your family, your friends, do everything you can to stay alive. Imagine the taste of your favourite drink and the sun against your skin... Do everything, absolutely everything, you can to stay alive.

There was poison surging through my veins. I could feel it.

I could feel Satan playing tennis with God. They were in my head. They wanted me to wake up.

My work isn't done.

I like the sound of thunder and the taste of metal. I like getting punched in the face and hitting back harder. I like fucking and loving and longing after things I shouldn't want.

I wanted to live. I wanted to live so that I could smell freshly cut grass and melt under cold rain.

But what's my name? You can't go through life without a name.

Oliver Orwell...

It was the Devil's serve. My head began to throb. I caught my breath on Heaven's return, my eyes desperately trying to open.

I had a good name, a clean name, a name that was bound to be dragged through the mud. I had to stay alive so that I could make a sinner of myself. I had to stay alive to seek redemption.

Divine feet slid across the clay: the mushy red-brown surface of my brain. The running stopped, the match was over, and I could see.

I saw a man with history etched into his eyes. He had a black soul, and there was nothing around him except fear.

"You must be the devil," I decided.

"Ha! I've outfoxed the devil and danced my way through the fires of hell. I walked the steppe a few feet ahead of Genghis Khan, outpacing Mongol hordes. I saw through the darkness in Conrad's jungle and broke a million chains. My skin has felt the heat of atomic fire and the warmth of a mother's soft touch. I've been to the edge of the world and sailed every ocean. There's not a road I haven't travelled nor a word I've left unsaid."

My whole body shook as he spoke. I pressed my palms against my ears. It was no use. He couldn't be silenced.

"Oliver Orwell, do everything you can to stay alive."

Chapter 1

Sound came before sight.

Rhythmic thunder: horses hammering the earth with a hoofbeat that mimicked a heartbeat, getting closer until one of them slammed into me from behind. I fell to my knees and tasted the dirt as clouds of dust battered my face.

Looking down, I realised I was wearing a black suit that wouldn't look out of place on a corpse.

The dust settled and with that came a temporary silence. Then, _doof, doof..._

The sound of size 10 footsteps.

The giant looming over me had fashioned his looks after a 20th-century strongman -- a carnival performer, with thin, slick hair and bushy moustache. He was about seven feet tall and made of muscle, but none of that scared me. I was more afraid of the look in his beady black eyes.

"Fight me," he demanded, bouncing on his heels.

"I don't even know you..."

His roar intensified. "Coward," he accused. "You're weak! You've given up!"

"Fuck you--"

"Fight me!"

I got to my feet and wiped the grime from my face. "I'm a boxer, you're a showman. I'll take your head off with one punch."

The man fixed his stance, fists up. My legs were trembling, but I knew the dance well. Squaring up was second nature. I felt good -- I felt tough.

His first blow was a sledgehammer to my gut, knocking the sight from my eyes. I launched a quick reply, firing a right hook at his jaw. He moved like smoke, dodging easily, and lashed out with a counter-punch that shattered my nose.

"Ha! You're crying," the strongman taunted. "Who'd have thought dead men feel pain?"

"Dead?"

"You didn't even put up a fight. When death came, you embraced it, leaving behind the family you claimed to love!"

"No--"

"Yes!"

An ancient anger writhed between my ribs. It was a second heart made of nothing but rage. I rushed my adversary, feeling his bones crack under my knuckles as I delivered a flurry of blows to his ribs. When he lunged to reclaim some space, I ducked and drove my fist into his chin and followed with a knee to his groin. That should have finished him, but he managed to dart backwards. He retaliated with a boot to my chest, sending me sprawling.

"Let me teach you how to win," he offered.

"I know how to win," I spat. "Put your fists up."

The strongman laughed. "Your confidence is impressive... For a dead man."

My mouth tasted of copper. "Dead men don't bleed."

His moustache twitched from side to side, settling on a decision. Easing out of his fighter's stance, he shrugged. "Good point."

For a moment, we stared each other down until the hatred seeped from our bodies, replaced by laughter. We were old friends who'd had a tiff -- he was Hercelus, I was...

"Chronos," he said.

"What?"

"You are Chronos. For now. One day, you'll be more."

That was news to me. "My mother calls me Oliver."

"Men are not defined by their friends, but by their enemies. They fear you so much that they've made you a god."

"Or a demon."

"Ay, or that."

I looked at the formless world that surrounded us. "Is this purgatory?"

"No."

"No?"

"We're inside your mind."

"Pretty empty..."

"Not usually," he grinned. "Now, let me teach you how to win."

"I already know how to win: you keep trying."

He nodded. "You never surrender."

"You never back down."

"Hm... Yes, maybe you know how to win."

Before I could reply, a woman's voice drifted across the strange landscape like honey dissolved in starlight: "But does he know how to love?"

The strongman groaned. "That's my cue," he said, vanishing like the last flicker of a candle and leaving behind nothing but the faint scent of sweetened smoke.

I felt heat coming from my inside pocket. It was a soft burn coming from a carefully folded piece of paper. I didn't need to open it to know who it was from or what it said -- I could feel every word reverberate from the slight indentations left by my sister's pen.

Tecla had always tried to imitate her twin sister's fine handwriting, but she never got the consonants quite right. They had much more flourish, much more fever, especially when she was writing with all her heart. She'd put down the first five paragraphs. Elle, ever more restrained but no less passionate, penned a sixth.

There was no doubt. "I know how to love. My sisters taught me love's form and substance; they showered me with enough goodness to wash away all the darkness in the world."

The woman's voice became a whisper. "Love is humble--"

"Ha!" I barked, hurting like hell from the battering I'd received. "Love is anything but humble. Love thumps its chest and screams its name. Anything less isn't love, it's lukewarm, and I don't want to live a life filled with subtle emotion."

That shut her up.

I set off with no destination in mind. The funeral tie was strangling me, so I yanked it off and let the wind take it.

The world shifted in response to my newfound determination, settling into a familiar scene.

I stopped, watching an old man in tweeds test a deep pond surrounded by tranquil nature. Every now and then, a ripple disturbed the water, and he shifted his stance. I rested my back against a nearby tree and regarded him. His line was still as he rolled his shoulders and enjoyed the mild sun. "You're awake," he said.

Nothing was biting, so he set down what he was doing and turned to me. I'm at a loss to describe his face -- it was neither remarkable nor unremarkable. It lacked features, yet it had character. It carried the signs of age, though he was seemingly eternal.

"There's always been someone like me," he explained, "looking for someone like you."

"Always is a very long time," I contested.

He laughed. "It's nothing compared to forever."

"Ugh, what do you want from me?"

The fisherman folded his hands and thought it over. "Not much. Win a few wars, break a curse or two, snag a fortune, conquer every nation... That sort of thing."

"Yeah, not much."

"Men are formidable," he continued. "You are meant to be an emperor. There is only one question that matters: will you cross the threshold and claim what was always yours for the taking?"

"And what's that?"

"The whole world, if you're willing to earn it. It won't give itself up without a fight, but if you stand for something, others will stand with you. At first, you will have to struggle."

"I've lost my mind," I whispered.

The fisherman laughed. He never stopped laughing; it just faded and faded, slowly losing volume before evaporating completely. The earth became a sponge. Light bled from the sky, colour drained from the world, and darkness swallowed everything.

Chapter 2

I opened my eyes, and -- just like that -- I was back from the dead.

There was a little teddy bear on the pillow next to me. The little buttons on its orange-brown face seemed familiar.

An old ceiling fan was wobbling above my head, recirculating stale air. It smelled of polished wood, offset by whispers of salt water. The curtains were heavy, drawn shut. It was warm but not humid, though there were tiny drops of sweat on the forehead of the doctor examining me.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

My brain reached for a couple of words, no more than a dozen syllables all in all, but my mouth didn't follow through.

It seemed my resurrection was still in progress.

I wanted to move my legs, but they weren't used to it. I wanted to stretch my arms, but they refused to move. My heart sputtered like the engine of a third-hand car.

The doctor helped me upright before walking to a small antique desk in the corner of the room. She poured a glass of water, considering it for a second before pushing it away. Then, she opened the drawer, retrieved a dusty brown bottle, and poured a notch of rum.

"Welcome back," she offered, handing me the drink. "My name is Dr. Clara Aguilar. I have been your physician for the past two weeks."

Dr. Aguilar's eyes were blue, except for their colour, which was brown. They were the kind of eyes that could pull ships into shallow water.

"Are you wearing contact lenses?"

She laughed. "Those are your first words?"

"Well?"

She produced a pair of large tortoiseshell glasses from her pocket and perched them on her nose. They magnified her blue-brown eyes, going well with her coffee-coloured lipstick and olive skin.

"Are you a friend or foe?"

She had to think about it. "A reluctant friend, I suppose."

"You have a Harvard accent, but you weren't born in America."

"Astute. How did you know?"

"I'm feeling clever."

She nodded slowly. "Anything else you've noticed?"

I could hear birds chirping in the distance, smell earth and grapes, and imagine a world beyond the four walls of the doctor's room. It was all a little too vivid.

"I miss my sisters," I said.

"That's not what I meant..."

"We're somewhere rural," I decided. "They make wine nearby. We're surrounded by rocks, ridges, mountains, and men with guns walking up and down. There are angels playing hide and seek nearby. They're just trying to kill time."

She nodded again, even more slowly this time. "Are you spiritual?"

"Isn't everyone who comes back from the dead?"

Dr. Aguilar moved to the windows and yanked the curtains open, flooding the room with sunlight. She took a moment to take in the outside world before turning back to me.

"You're aware you killed your father?"

It was the last thing on my mind. "Are my family nearby?"

"Your mother and sisters, yes. I sent them away for the afternoon. Your aunt and cousin are still in London."

"They're safe?" I asked.

"They couldn't be safer."

"Are you sure?"

She seemed affronted. "I wouldn't lie about something like that."

"How did you wake me?"

"We can talk about that later," she said, dismissing me with the careless charm of someone who doesn't have many regrets.

Everything was moving too fast. Nothing hurt. Something should've hurt.

"What have you given me?" I asked. "Cocaine?"

"Have you ever done cocaine?"

"I've never even smoked a joint."

She reminded me of my drink. The sting of the rum was oddly refreshing. It woke me up enough to realise I was naked. For some reason, I didn't mind it.

I pulled back as I registered the warmth of Dr. Aguilar's breath against my skin. She responded by leaning forward, her fingertips leaving a trail of goosebumps as they brushed against my arm and came to rest on my pulse.

All the beating was in my chest. The rest of me was dead quiet.

"You're nervous," she observed.

"And you're a little too close for comfort."

"Do you say everything that comes to mind?"

"Not typically."

"The medication, then."

Dr. Aguilar released my wrist and straightened the creases of her lab coat. She wore perfume, but only a little. Her hair was pulled back not because it was practical, but because she had a lovely neck. And she knew it was lovely. I imagined she took great pride in staying fit -- I imagined it for no reason at all other than I was feeling clever.

Dangerously clever.

She went back to the small desk and picked up a vial of opaque liquid. "Each dose costs ten thousand dollars," she explained. "I expect extreme side effects. You need daily injections just to stay awake."

She let the implications simmer before handing me a set of clean clothes: a linen tracksuit, underwear, socks, and sneakers. All rather stylish, albeit a bit bland for a resurrection.

"You could have given me a shave," I said, catching my reflection in the mirror she offered.

"I like the beard," she countered.

The meds were humming in my veins, making me feel... Confident. "I like it too."

Dr. Aguilar took a seat on the corner of the desk, stretching her legs out in front of her. I'd noticed the risqué cut of her brick-coloured pencil skirt earlier, though I didn't think much of it until that moment.

I hadn't noticed the matching high heels.

"Do you not find me attractive?" she asked.

"What?"

"I expected the drugs to incite hyper-sexuality, yet you haven't pushed me against a wall."

"Not yet."

"It's also supposed to spark aggression," she remarked. "Lust and wrath."

"A dangerous combination."

"But you haven't molested me."

She seemed almost disappointed.

"Lust and wrath," she repeated. "Then there's greed. In your case, it's a necessity rather than a side-effect."

"Three out of seven, and I've only just woken up. Tell me, Doctor, areyouspiritual?"

"That's none of your business."

Some people bite their nails, others chew cigarettes. I like to know things I shouldn't know. "You'll tell me some other time," I decided, realising I must've been too young when I learned to read.

"Stand up," Dr. Aguilar instructed. "Let's see how effective these injections really are..."

It seemed impossible to walk so soon after exiting a coma, but the chemicals sloshing through my veins vibrated with anticipation as I pressed down on my feet. One step became two, then another. Each movement inspired more, like a train without brakes.

I wanted to devour the world.

I wanted to bury myself in six feet of sensation.

Every object seemed to hum. I raised a hand, and the sounds made a symphony. I lurched towards the window, but the outside world was a blur.

"I can't see..."

"Maybe there's nothing worth looking at," Dr. Aguilar remarked, unconcerned.

When I turned around, things became clearer. She was the focal point. Everything else was a smear against the canvas.

Push her against the wall?

God, yes.

My tongue slid over my lips as I imagined doing a million terrible things to her.

The medication?

She was a beautiful woman... Why shouldn't I want her? Why shouldn't I have her too?

No. No, no, no.

I stumbled backwards and fumbled for the little teddy bear that had been my bunkmate. My fingers found the place underneath its arm where my mother had once performed emergency surgery. It was exactly as I remembered it: the left eye drooping, the nose flat, crooked lips, and soft ears.

The desire to inflict myself on the world faded, but it didn't disappear.

"It'll only get worse," Dr. Aguilar promised. "The dosage will increase. The side effects will compound."

I couldn't look at her. "Then what?"

She answered in Spanish: "You will die."

Chapter 3

The treatment had jump-started certain long-dead synapses, bending my thoughts in odd directions and leaving me warm, irritable, and vaguely claustrophobic.

"It's a miracle you can walk," Dr. Aguilar murmured.

It didn't feel very miraculous. "It's like I took a nice nap."

"Don't let the medication fool you. Your body is weak."

I wondered if she could sense how much I wanted her. The look on her face could be read either way -- sterile scientific intrigue, or lust? Two emotions I had not previously regarded as being similar, but which are ultimately indistinguishable from one another.

Or maybe it was her blue-brown eyes.

Maybe she simply can't be deciphered.

"I have a fever."

She shrugged. "It's to be expected."

The knock hit the door and my chest at once. I closed my eyes and let the maddening longing that had its arms draped around my neck take control. My mind painted the scene: my sisters bursting through the door, alive and safe, rushing into my arms.

The need for them was so complete it scared me.

Instead, we were joined by a vision plucked from teenage fantasies. She was a slender, busty blonde with a sun-kissed complexion. She had the kind of steel-blue eyes that require a union membership before you're allowed to look at them. Her short blonde hair was sculpted into a gravity-defying swoop, showcasing a beautiful, gamine face. Her lips were tinted a glossy shade of electric pink, bright enough to draw attention but not nearly as bright as her smile.

It was the kind of smile you can use as bail money.

The blonde wore white sneakers and very little else -- just a black bikini engineered to fit her body exactly. Two pendants -- one cross, one platinum starfish -- glinted at her collarbone.

She must buy her swimsuits on Savile Row.

Everything about her made an impact, including the pistol hugging her thigh.

"Skylar Kelly," she announced, her Australian accent slipping in through the 'k' sounds.

Dr. Aguilar added, "Skylar was contracted to guard your sisters. She refused to leave when the rest of their detail took payoffs to abandon their posts."

The blonde's cheeks turned the same shade as her lips. "I--I couldn't leave them."

"That means everything to me," I said, gripping her hand.

Skylar relaxed. "Sorry for the outfit," she winked. "It's scorching outside, and I'm a bit of a mermaid. You can't keep me from water for too long before I get angsty."

The naughty glint in her eyes told me she wasn't sorry at all.

"You saved my sisters' lives," I replied. "You can wear whatever you want. Though I should probably tell you that I never learned to swim."

She loved that. "Lucky for you, I used to be a lifeguard!"

Dr. Aguilar left the room and returned with a reheated farmhouse breakfast. My body was grateful for the fuel, and the medication made me even hungrier than I would have been otherwise.