The afterlife was neither cold nor warm, those sensations long gone to the ghost that wandered the darkened alleys and the creaking basements of London’s underworld. There was so much death there, which was why he had long since become familiar with the grimy walls and splintered staircases. London was a city of death, though few would believe him if he said so. So many people packed this close together, all moving past each other without really seeing or really feelings— they didn’t know how lucky they were. What Oz wouldn’t give to feel the touch of another human, to feel the sun beating down on his face, or the cold nipping at his fingertips. These people moved through life without a true understanding of mortality and how easy it was to lose everything.
They didn’t fear death— they ignored it.
And it appeared tragedy was about to strike again. Oz was floating through one of the city’s older, more abandoned libraries, examining an open book by Leonardo da Vinci, one of Oz’s favorite progressive artists of the renaissance. He was deep in thought when he felt her call. A breeze blew through his body, sending a shiver up his spine and he looked up from his book toward the sound. She wasn’t far away, but too far to float quickly. Duty called. Oz took a breath and allowed himself to drift forwards, his body being sucked inwards as if his heart were a black hole and he transformed into a ball of pulsating, iridescent light, then shot forwards.
Streets, alleys, light posts, automobiles— the world rushed past him in a flurry of echoing sound and washed out color as he sped through London, bending space in his limbo dimension to reach his destination faster. Her call was getting louder, the rasping voice pulling him forward as he became privy to her feeling of pain and fear. Finally, his soul halted in front of a particularly dark alley way, often used as a short cut to get between the two streets instead of going all the way around. He rematerialized, his coat-tails brushing the floor and his wing-tips floating just a hair’s breadth away from the ground.
The girl, the one whose terror had summoned him, was lying on the floor, a mess of wild black hair obscuring her face. He floated closer, listening to the sound her soul inside that shell of flesh and blood. No, she wasn’t dead. No, she wasn’t dying. Or…more correctly, she wasn’t dying at the moment. She was ill, and getting worse. Her cheeks were slightly sunken, a sign that they were once much fuller as if she was perhaps losing weight quickly. And what was this? He peered closer to her wrist, examining the jade-colored jewels in the girl’s bracelet. Medicine? He couldn’t be sure.
Oz looked around. This area was adjacent to one of the Ministry’s old auxiliary safe houses, but it was standard protocol (unless things had changed in the last seventy years) to make these places No Apparating Zones in case of an emergency or attack. Even if he could appear to a doctor on time, getting them here would be tricky. No, his best bet would be to wake her up and see if she could take these potions to save herself. It was a risk, but so was leaving her alone to die.
“Hey,” he called to the girl, nudging her soul with his own. “Are you awake in there? Come on, wake up. This is no place to give up on yourself, yeah? You got plenty more time. Wake up… That's it, my lovely girl. Come on, don't be afraid...”
