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Goro met the psychopomp at a splintered wreckage along a rocky coast. The ship had been carried by the currents, the helmsmen dazzled by a combination of foul weather, corpse-light and a gentle beguiling song, and now its ruptured carcass was split open for the elements, faint drizzling mist doing nothing to deter circling scavenger birds.
“Good morning,” the psychopomp greeted as Goro sinuously picked his way through the exposed hull, the spirit’s lanky form casually lounging on a broken beam like it was a comfortable divan, “This is your handiwork, I’m guessing?”
The psychopomp was unlike most Goro encountered - then again, all psychopomps were unique, fulfilling certain niches to reflect the many facets of human souls. This one looked like a young man, beautiful and statuesque, with gentle grey eyes and long, dark eyelashes. Such a pretty face could wreck thousands of ships like this.
perhaps that’s the point, Goro mused, politely cramming his everything into an equally beautiful human form for better communication, a pretty face and a pretty voice killed these men, thus a pretty face will guide them on.
“Was there a man named Shido amongst the crew?” Goro asked hoarsely, his voice barely above a whisper, “He was my target.”
“Ah, a scorned lover?” the psychopomp guessed, then laughed when Goro’s human mask slipped with a sharp-edged snarl, the cracked wood groaning as the noise snapped through the air, “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! No, he’s not on this ship.”
“Fuck,” Goro muttered.
The psychopomp swung off the collapsed beam, utterly at ease, “This ship… it underwent a roster change at the last minute. Most likely due to the rumours of a prolific siren haunting the strait. Someone paid a lot of money to switch ships on such short notice.”
Goro’s expression soured, biting his bottom lip with his sharp canine.
“You might want to take that disguise north, to the port a few miles up the coast,” the psychopomp advised, “Try to see which ship your Shido went on.”
“You’re oddly helpful,” Goro rumbled, letting his voice lilt as warm as sweet honey between them. The psychopomp was immune to the allure, “The last psychopomp had nothing but harsh words for me.”
“I have a soft spot for beautiful things,” the psychopomp said simply, “It’s in my nature, so, I can’t help but cater to you.”
“What a shallow existence.”
“Oh, not at all! My existence is, in fact, very fulfilling. Do you know why?” the psychopomp grinned, a roguish one that Goro had seen countless times on overconfident sailors and adventurers, the ones who believed; ‘ many have died to your gutting claws sheathed beneath your charming smile, but not i’.
Inevitably, they died.
Distantly, the sky rumbled, and the drizzling mist transitioned into light rain. As this was his cue, the psychopomp spread out his arms, his gestures theatrical like a street performer’s as he declared in a loud, clear voice: “Because beauty is the moral education of the soul!”
“Beauty drives humans to stupidity and selfishness,” Goro countered promptly.
“Beautiful and sharp-tongued,” the psychopomp purred, channelling the bravado of a swaggering adventurer. Goro couldn’t help but smile, “Beauty drives humans to all virtues and vices. It can inspire, it can corrupt, and it can lead to a pointless death. It’s subjective and unique to each individual, and so are its effects…”
The psychopomp paused and tilted his head with a smile, “It’s fulfilling to glimpse at each and every single one of these instances in the souls I guide. Their desires are like little jewels of treasure, just for me to find.”
Goro couldn’t help but wonder what ‘jewel’ the psychopomp would glimpse in his soul, what interpretation he’d glean from his idea of beauty. For Goro, it was a weapon, toxic and fatal, cloaking his monstrous form in a death shroud - it was a rotten thing, filled with maggots and flies, a horrible, awful thing that Goro clung to by his fingertips, desperately wishing to cast it aside but knowing his beauty was all he possessed.
“I hope you’ll love your beauty one day,” the psychopomp said, as if he could see the barbed writhing of Goro’s thoughts. Perhaps he could, “But, I have souls to tend to. Good luck with your hunt…”
It took Goro a moment to realise the psychopomp was waiting for a name, and thought: why the hell not.
“Crow,” he said, letting his arms unfurl into black wings, the feathers as cutting as the thinnest of blades, capable of slicing through soft meat like butter, “The name’s Crow.”
The psychopomp nodded, “Joker,” he returned, and tipped a hat he did not possess.
Goro said no more. He shook off his human form like an unwanted, too loose skin, and took flight from the wreckage.
They met again on the wind-sheared coast near a half-frozen trading port. Goro had followed his prey’s trail up, up, up into the icy lands of the far north, the distance between them never shrinking, but never widening either, the siren only managing to track the human by being human himself. Socialisation was difficult, at times, so after gleaning the information he required from the harbours and ports, Goro would fly out into the wilderness to find an isolated cove or cliff face to huddle against until the stench of human was washed away by the sea’s spray.
This was where the psychopomp Joker found him: coiled up in a shallow cove, the high tide flooding it in a foot of ice-cold seawater. Goro didn’t mind the chill. He let the cold seep into the core of him, let it feed the permafrost in his heart so it had no chance to thaw before he caught his prey.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Joker greeted. He was walking atop of the frothing grey water, leaving not even a ripple with each step, “This cave seems too drab for someone like you to occupy it.”
“It’s a temporary home,” Goro said, “Why are you here?”
“There is a treasure hunter not far from here,” Joker said, and he stopped near a jut of stone protruding through the floodwater. He sat down upon it, tucking his feet up high out of range of the seaspray, and smiled.
“You’re very beautiful,” the psychopomp said, his gaze trailing the crimson and white glitter of Goro’s scaled tail, up to where it joined with his humanoid torso tucked behind several layers of black wings, the feathers as sharp as daggers and just as cruel. Joker’s gaze settled on Goro’s face - human for now, the jaws and teeth and hunger hidden away behind the flimsy illusion.
It would take nothing to tear the thin disguise apart if needed - Goro’s jaws could split open to reveal the monster underneath and swallow the psychopomp whole without effort. But devouring spirits was an unsatisfying ordeal, and Goro was cold, and tired and lonely, so he accepted the appreciative staring and tucked his wings closer around him, feathers fluffed to trap what little warmth there was.
“Your idea of beauty is skewed,” Goro told him, “Beneath this face lies a monstrosity.”
“There’s beauty in dangerous creatures,” Joker said easily, and he reached out, breaching the small distance between them to let his fingers touch and trail over the rough scales of Goro’s long, sinuous tail. The contact was warm.
“The treasure hunter?” Goro prompted, because he was uncertain on where this was going.
Joker continued to stroke his tail, his smile gentle and his gaze intense; “There was a ship wrecked along this coast many decades ago. There are stories of its hold filled with beautiful jewels and treasures intended to be delivered to a king of a far off land. He went diving, despite the rough sea, in hopes of finding beautiful treasure, and found a cold death instead.”
“Human stupidity,” Goro summarised, “I told you beauty drove them to reckless suicide.”
“If you live cautiously and don’t pursue your dreams, is it living? I think humans understand this well, despite their fragility,” Joker said, and patted Goro’s tail once, twice, thrice, then pulled away, “How goes your hunt, Crow?”
“It goes,” Crow replied simply, “He’s taken a ship leading back to the Southern Lands.”
“Ah, the deserts,” Joker grinned at him, a twinkle in his eye, “I recommend visiting the ancient tombs there. They’re weathered, and picked clean by grave robbers, but their beauty is something to behold at least once in your life.”
“I’m not going sightseeing,” Goro snapped.
“Why not? Humans are humans. He can only run so far for so long,” Joker rose from his seat, his feet gently touching the frothing sea water as if it was solid ground, “I think you should learn how to admire your surroundings a little. The hunt is meant to be enjoyable, no?”
Goro said nothing.
“Good luck,” Joker said, tipping a hat that was not there, and simply - gone. A blink, and the psychopomp had flittered between realities, as if he had never been.
The cave was colder in his absence.
Goro visited the tombs when he reached the Southern Lands. His prey’s desperate escape went inland, the human knowing that the sea was a poor barrier for a siren. His prey took the land routes into the desert itself, the sun scorching and the sand abrasive. Goro endured the baking heat and thirst, letting the heat drafts buoy his outstretched wings acros miles and miles until he came across the tombs, nestled in the hollow of an oasis that acted as a rest point for weary travellers.
He recalled the psychopomp’s words, and, on a whim, diverted from his single-minded task and dived towards the oasis below.
The humans and wildlife scattered in a panic upon his dramatic arrival. The oasis was small, more of an ambitious pond than anything with any true depth, and could barely accommodate his monstrous form as he splashed into it, his tail lashing up silt and brown water as he wallowed in the shallow oasis.
The mud caked his body by the time he settled, and he was alone, the humans long since fled. Goro crossed his arms on the oasis’s shore, his wings lifted to give him shade as his tail idly sloshed through the thick mud, coating his scales in an effort to fend off the heat drying them out.
In the close distance, the tombs loomed. Sun-bleached stone, the pillars and walls crumbled, warping from the heat rising from the loose sand. The crumbling buildings looked sunkern, like the desert had become something like a sea and started swallowing them whole. He grudgingly accepted that there was something vaguely beautiful about it, in a desolate, sandblasted sort of way.
Why would humans build something in the desert? It was so inhospitable, the only source of water being this muddy, useless oasis. They were such strange, unknowable creatures.
Goro stayed until the sun sunk towards the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of pink, gold and crimson. The first few stars began to peer down at him, and Goro roused from his half-doze, spreading his wings and shaking off the clinging silt and water.
He rose to the sky and continued his pursuit.
The next time Goro met Joker, it was amongst the howling winds of the mountain pass. The Southern Land’s desert gave way to coarse vegetation and dark, rocky grounds, sloping up until the ground yawned upwards like jagged, black teeth. The humans had carved a path, narrow and winding, but Goro had wings and thus fought against the gale-force winds with single-minded determination.
But even he had his limits, and it was when one powerful gust threw him against the mountainside, crushing one wing and sending him scrambling against the rock face with his claws, that he slithered into the first crevice he found. It was just large enough to accommodate him, coiled into a tight little ball like a lowly snake.
His broken wing throbbed, aching with each beat of his heart. It would be healed in a few hours, but until then he had to endure the misery.
It was in this state that Joker appeared, peeking through the crevice’s entrance, standing seemingly on thin air and unaffected by the screaming, furious winds.
“Crow?” the psychopomp said, “Oh, your poor wing…”
“Why are you here?” Goro asked, not in the mood for pity.
“A human wished to see if these mountains really did touch the sky, so he could take a star from the heavens,” Joker replied, easing himself into the crevice. The psychopomp ended up sitting on Goro’s tail, a warm, comfortable weight, his hand resting on one of Goro’s black wings. The razor sharp feathers did not cut him.
“Then the winds plucked him off the mountainside and threw him to his death?” Goro guessed acidly, “Stupid human.”
“No, actually,” Joker grinned, “He froze.”
Goro gave him a flat look, “My statement still stands: stupid human.”
“Did you visit the tombs?” Joker asked, and his fingers lightly followed the delicate bend of Goro’s wing, up to where it sloped into his shoulder.
“I did,” Goro murmured, watching the psychopomp uncertainly as those questing fingers stroked over his shoulder and over his bare chest. They pressed against his sternum, where the powerful throb of his heartbeat could be felt. For a brief moment, it felt like the psychopomp was touching the very core of him, and his breathing stuttered, warmth flooding through him and making his feathers shiver with the metallic rattle of a trembling armour.
“You have a human heart,” Joker observed, “What a heavy burden.”
Goro pushed his hand away.
“Not for long,” Goro whispered, “Once I find Shido, it will be crushed once and for all.”
Joker considered him.
“Oh, I see,” the psychopomp said, “I wondered why you were pursuing him so relentlessly.”
“He cursed me with this,” Goro hissed, “His damned blood cursed me with this human heart, but with his death-”
“It won’t change anything,” Joker said simply, “Your heart will still be human after you kill him.”
“But it will be damaged,” Goro said, “It’ll break and gift me with emptiness.”
Joker’s expression was impassive, neutral, bereft of any pity or sadness. Yet, still, Goro felt sorrow from him all the same, and couldn’t hold his gaze. He looked away, drawing his wings closer to him, trying to hide, but Joker was so close he merely pushed the feathers aside and cupped his jaw.
“There’s a human custom,” Joker said, “Where they repair broken pottery by filling the cracks with gold. I promise, if you shatter your heart, I’ll mend the pieces until it returns even more beautiful.”
Goro remained silent.
“The human heart is a heavy burden for creatures like us,” the psychopomp said, and he rubbed his thumb against the corner of Goro’s mouth, where the human disguise could split and reveal the monstrous jaws underneath, “But enduring the pain is worth it, sometimes.”
“It isn’t,” Goro said dully.
“I’ll prove you wrong,” Joker purred, “How about it? A bet?”
“A bet?” Goro stirred from his apathy at that, “What are the stakes?”
“Your heart,” Joker’s fingers dropped from his jaw and tapped his sternum. Again, that flood of warmth, the psychopomp touching the very core of his spirit. His soul rang like metal gently tapping clear glass, “If I can show you that a human heart can grant you true happiness, you will have to accept it. If I can’t, I’ll steal your human heart and grant you the emptiness you desire.”
Psychopomps had that power, Goro knew. He stared at Joker, trying to gauge his honesty. The psychopomp’s expression was impassive, his grey eyes as hypnotising as watching the starry skies above. Yet, they exuded a gentle warmth, and Goro found himself slowly nodding.
“It’s a deal,” Goro said.
Joker grinned, and rapped his knuckles against his chest, like he was knocking the door to his heart, “It’s a deal.”
With that, the psychopomp melted away into the gloom, leaving Goro along in the cramped crevice with nothing but howling winds, a bone-biting chill, and a warmth kindling in his chest.