Valerios
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Chapter 32: Rest In Peace
🕑 Added 2022-04-13 17:20:05 +0000 UTC“Ohhhhh…” With a drawn-out groan, Jerry’s eyelids fluttered open. He was cold, for a moment, incredibly cold, before the feeling receded and his body started working again.
“Master!” A joyous cry came from the side, followed by a chorus of happy, unintelligible sounds.
Jerry smiled. “Hello, everyone,” he said, turning his head to look. “I gave you a scare, didn’t I?”
“Master!” Boney cried out again.
All of the undead were standing around him, gazing at him with as much warmth as undead could possess; in Jerry’s eyes, they were practically beaming. The necromancer himself was seated against a tree, back resting against its bark.
He did not remember much. There was pain, light, darkness. A brief awareness of his unconsciousness was the only concrete thing he remembered.
But as the seconds passed, more things came back. The assault on the hideout; the creeping revelation about necromancers; Jericho’s immortality, and how it wasn’t really that; then there was nothing, only pain.
“What happened?” he finally asked, and Boney set to explaining.
They’d defeated Jericho, apparently, though the remaining bandits had escaped in the battle. Oops. Hopefully, most of them would change their ways, seeking a peaceful, quiet life. But even if they didn’t, without Jericho’s invincibility, Milaris could deal with them. They would become a drop in the ocean of banditry.
Except for the Sworns, of course, but nobody would stand up to them anyway.
Reymond had died during the fight; he’d sacrificed himself to save Jerry. He could be reanimated, of course, but most of the Captain’s personality would be wiped off, and it would be a long, long time before he could recover himself, if ever.
Axehand had also been heavily injured. He’d played the most important role in the battle—both parts of it—and paid dearly for it; now, the skeleton remained perfectly still, not daring to move a bone in fear of breaking apart. They had no idea how to heal him, but they thought that Jerry might.
That was the first task he set to.
Standing up, Jerry took in the battle-ridden forest. The ground was riddled with holes caused by the spearing roots, while arrows, weapons, and blood lay everywhere. The corpses—and all other fleshy bits—had been moved next to a deep hole, their would-be tomb, waiting for Jerry’s inspection before getting buried. Maybe he’d want some of them.
“None,” he said calmly. “Bury them all.”
He could use some extra bodies, but he wasn’t in the mood. And if Jerry knew to do one thing, that was following his heart.
“Jerry.” Derek approached, with smiling eyes and larger strides than normal. He stopped a pace away from the necromancer. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
“So am I, my friend.” Jerry smiled. “I have discovered I hate war.”
“Everyone does,” replied the hunter, “but nobody gets to choose.”
“I guess so. Come. Let us rescue our injured friend first.”
Axehand’s large body lay still on the ground. Jerry crouched next to him, speaking a few soft words.
“You fought well, Axehand. I am proud of you.”
He could feel the skeleton’s emotions, a complicated ball of pride, joy, and warmth. Jerry rested a hand on Axehand, sending his energy inside. He could feel the damage. It scared him; Axehand was a hair away from destruction.
He was fixable, of course. Jerry could replace the broken bones bit by bit, deconstructing and reconstructing the bonds in such a modular fashion that it wouldn’t break down the entire network. That process would have to happen at a snail’s pace, taking days to complete, but the alternative meant deanimating Axehand, and that would be the same as killing him. Jerry refused to do that.
Fortunately, as he touched Axehand, Jerry realized his soul had expanded tremendously during the battle, and with that came a new ability.
He unhesitatingly pushed in his soul’s energy, bit by bit, watching as Axehand’s fractured, dislocated bones righted themselves. Derek averted his gaze at the squirming bones; it was a mesmerizingly repulsive sight, but one that Jerry didn’t mind. He never did, not when it came to undead. Was it due to being a necromancer, or perhaps the opposite?
These questions kept coming to Jerry’s mind lately. Now that Jericho was gone, he promised to more carefully look into this subject.
Axehand’s recovery wrung Jerry’s soul dry. He could feel it now; Axehand possessed monstrous power, but he carried a respectively great cost, both in repairing and maintaining him. Of his nine current undead, Axehand himself required almost as much mental energy as all the others combined.
The skeleton moved, slowly at first, then as normal. He stood up, showering Jerry with a grateful gaze before falling to one knee. Jerry was startled. “What are you doing, Axehand?” he asked.
The skeleton’s eyes lit up with purple flames. Jerry’s eyes widened.
Purple?
It was the first time he saw this color, but he knew what it signified. Respect. Devotion. A proud warrior’s willing and total submission. Indeed; of his undead, the rest fought because they had to. Only Axehand was a true warrior—though at heart, he still remained a lumberjack.
The mental energy required to maintain Axehand dropped, reaching what felt like a minimum limit. Jerry smiled.
“You can rise, Axehand. In the future, if we need to fight, everyone will rely on you.”
The skeleton stood, nodding to Jerry before turning to the rest of the undead. All of them, from Foxy to Boney, lowered their gazes in acknowledgment. It was respect borne of gratitude; Axehand could protect their master better than they could.
Not wanting to interrupt the gentle scene between his undead, Jerry walked off towards Reymond’s fallen body, Derek following by his side. They reached it, and Jerry sent his magic inside, intending to raise it.
Then he paused. His eyes grew deeper for a moment, gentler, bittersweet. He turned to the Billies, who had already arrived.
Even though they hadn’t been related in life, Jerry considered these eight to be brothers. Now, only four were left, with the others having fallen in the battle, unable to be raised again, as had once happened to Shorty.
“I will not raise Reymond,” he said slowly, watching their heads turn to him in surprise. They were zombies, making their emotions more vivid than the skeletons’. Jerry sighed inwardly, but there was nothing he could do.
“He was a brave man, your Captain,” he explained. “An open-minded, admirable man. Even when we fought side by side, I never realized how much he detested undead… I am sorry, Billies. He was able to accept you and me, but his soul is not willing to be raised. I truly am sorry.”
The zombies froze, looking at him, then at each other. Half of them were gone, as was their Captain. The Billy squad had been annihilated. Who were they, then?
“The Billy squad has run its course,” said Jerry, understanding their feelings, “but you are still the Billies. What do you say? Do you want to keep following me, or join your Captain in death?”
The four zombies looked at each other again. In truth, as newly-raised zombies, their mental faculties were extremely limited. Their emotions were nothing but flashes of instinct somewhere deep down.
Together, the four bowed their heads to Jerry. They would follow him.
“So be it, then.” He smiled. “As for Reymond… Perhaps this is for the best. He had long been looking to die in battle, to become a hero. His life was already over before he met you… which was why he felt such guilt at your deaths. He wanted to die, but you didn’t. He shouldn’t have taken you along.”
The Billies looked up, unable to comprehend the depth of emotions Jerry described. All they knew was that their Captain was satisfied now—and to them, that was enough.
“I never knew Reymond was such a deeply sad man…” Derek sighed. “He hid it well.”
“It wasn’t sadness,” said Jerry, looking at the sky. “His soul holds no words, but I can understand a few things. He used to have a very important person in his life, once upon a time, but failed to protect them. They died, and he was devastated, and too old to build a new life. He had nothing to live for, except his duties. For him, death was a release, one that I will not deprive him of.”
“Right.” Derek’s eyes were sad. “So much death… Sometimes, I wonder if there is something wrong with the world, or whether we could change anything.”
“We could,” replied Jerry, “and we should. People shouldn’t die needlessly. But in the end, death is, and always will be, a part of life. It is simply a step some take sooner than others. There is nothing wrong about death, nor is it sad, except for those still living.”
Derek stood in silence for a few moments, and Jerry waited, until the hunter finally sighed.
“Your words are true, my friend… but we living dearly miss the dead. You do not feel that, but you must not forget it either.”
Jerry blinked, then smiled. “I won’t.”
“Good.”
***
Jerry sat on a fallen log by himself, away from everyone else, pondering. Jericho’s words still rang clear in his mind.
“You are dead, necromancer, dead… You have been for a long time.”
Can it be true? he thought. Could I possibly be dead?
His mind flew back to his times in the forest, seeing everything under new light.
He could walk for as long as he wanted without getting tired. His sense of time was fuzzy, days and weeks passing in the blink of an eye. Sometimes, he wouldn’t sleep for three, four days in a row, too busy experimenting, and even when he did sleep, it wasn’t by need, but mostly out of habit. He was rarely hungry or thirsty.
It wasn’t just the forest. Jerry thought back to his life, the fifteen years he’d spent suppressing his magic and living through hell.
Ever since he could remember, his emotions had always been muted compared to other people. He’d assumed it was natural, given the constant headache he lived with; had he been wrong?
Moreover, his body didn’t mind the frigid cold, and come to think of it, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an erection—or any time, for that matter. Suddenly, Jerry realized he could use his magical perception to look inside himself; this thought had never occurred to him before. He did, and…
Would you look at that.
The bonds that tied body and soul were unique. They were deeply complex and complete beyond imagination, and they were as natural as life itself.
But inside Jerry, there were no such things. There was only a large, hovering soul, the largest he’d ever seen, shining with a soft black light. It was dark, and at the same time, warm, truly reflecting Jerry’s nature as a friendly necromancer. From his soul, dark threads spread to every corner of his body, much more intricate than anything he could create but far simpler than the stark perfection living creatures were supposed to carry.
It was exactly as if a master necromancer had killed Jerry and reanimated him.
Can that be true? Are necromancers created by necromancers? Am I someone else’s undead?
This thought shook him, but striking and invasive as it was, it was a mystery for another time. Right now, coming at peace with himself took precedence—something Jerry was very good at. He raised his head at the sky, taking in the endless, hopeful blue. So I really died sixteen years ago… Who am I, then? Am I Jerry? Or someone else?
The thought was frightening.
“Hey.” A sound came from behind, and Jerry turned to find Derek standing there. “Are you okay?”
The hunter’s voice was filled with concern. He’d heard Jericho’s words too—everyone had.
“I’m fine,” replied Jerry, sighing. “Just thinking.”
“It… must be a shock.”
“In a way. But it’s not the end of the world either; I mean, I’m still the same person as yesterday or the day before that. Maybe I’m not who I thought I was, but… how much does it really matter?”
“I’m glad you’re taking this well.” Derek leaned against a tree, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “But then again, if you thought about it too much, you wouldn’t be the Jerry I know.”
“Heh, that’s true, I guess. It’s just interesting. My death was obvious in hindsight—there were so many signs—but it doesn’t really matter, does it? I mean… what’s changed?”
“Nothing, that’s what.”
“There is one thing.” Jerry’s eyes turned thoughtful. “I always thought I was the same as other people. I was a necromancer, sure, but at the end of the day, we were all humans. Now… Now, I don’t know. I am not like others, Derek. I am different. Can I really live amongst humans as one of them when I really am not?”
Derek stayed quiet, his hard eyes filled with thoughts and care. “You know, Jerry,” he finally replied, “I believe you can—but not in Pilpen. That village is where hope goes to die. They are not open-minded… and as I have said before, I do not believe they will ever accept you. They barely tolerate me despite spending a decade there.”
Jerry raised his head. “Then, what should I do?”
“Wander. If you really want a home, find a different one… but you are young, Jerry, and strong, and the world is your playground. Don’t settle in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere. Live your life. Explore, travel, meet new people and places, taste everything life has to offer—and when you grow gray, you’ll still have plenty of time to hole up in towers.”
Jerry met Derek’s eyes. “Do you think that’s best?” he asked.
“I do. Why did you want a home, in the first place?”
“Because I was lonely.”
“But you aren’t now, are you?”
Jerry smiled. “No. I have Boboar and Foxy. Boney, Headless, Axehand, Birb, and the Billies too, at least the four that survived the battle. And I have you, my friend, and Ashman—though he acts weird lately—and Holly, who is slowly getting used to me.”
“The three of us belong to Pilpen,” replied the hunter, “but your undead do not. They are good companions, Jerry. I never thought I’d say this, but the undead… they are more humane than humans, sometimes. They will take care of you. You will never be alone.”
Jerry looked down, digesting those last words.
Never again alone…
“You are a great man, Derek,” he said, but the hunter only smiled sadly.
“Maybe I used to be… but as you died sixteen years ago, so did my soul when my wife passed. My spark is gone, Jerry. My world has reached a wall. I love my daughter more than anything, but having her means my life no longer belongs to me. I am old… but you are not. Your future is an empty canvas, an open sea where anything is possible. Leave Pilpen, Jerry, please. Live. The world is too large to stay where you’re unwanted.”
The necromancer looked up again, and as the two men crossed eyes, they saw deep into each other’s soul.
“I will,” replied Jerry. “I still have some things to do in Pilpen, but soon after we return, I will leave. We will wander. I have an idea, actually, but I’ll keep it a surprise for now.”
“Whatever you want, my friend.” Derek laughed. “I’m happy for you.”
“So am I… and, Derek?”
“Yes, Jerry?”
“Thank you. For everything.”
Derek smiled back. “You’re welcome.”
***
The rest of the day passed in a blur. There were forty-two dead bandits, and they buried them all in one mass grave. Then, five more holes were dug, for the Captain and each of the fallen Billies.
They stood over the graves for some time, then set out, back towards Pilpen. The bandit hideout remained, a wooden network in the forest’s heart, there for people or nature to reclaim it—whatever came first.
Jerry, Derek, and the undead trudged through the forest until the moon had risen. They wanted to get as far away from the graveyard as possible. Eventually, Derek needed to sleep, so they stopped and set up camp. The undead didn’t need to sleep, and neither did Jerry.
Three days later, they reached a spot near the village, where Derek waved them goodbye and headed back to his daughter—she was undoubtedly worried sick about him.
As for Jerry and his undead, they headed towards the tower. Now that the bandits were no longer a problem, nobody would disturb them anymore.
Or so they thought.
Fate has its own workings. And unfortunately, though the battle was over, there was one more surprise awaiting Jerry.
