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Under the cloud-covered night sky, Arthur Kirkland slipped into one of the cemeteries of London. Barely a thing could be seen and the branches of the trees, thick with their full and verdant leaves, blocked out the moon’s occasional attempt to reflect it’s silver light onto the ground.
Behind him floated several beings that were shrouded in a dark grey mist that swirled around them. They were wraiths, ghostly cloaked skeletal figures with green pin pricks where their eyes would be. Each arm was longer than a normal human’s and had gnarly claws in the place of fingers, dripping with the blood that had been shed from the cemetery guards that Arthur had ordered them to kill.
Arthur was a rather infamous necromancer and was feared throughout all of Europe. His spells weren’t always perfect, and sometimes he messed up. However what he lacked in finesse with his magic, he made up in sheer power. If he wanted, he could raise entire graveyards.
Though on this night, he didn’t quite have the materials needed to accomplish that goal.
Raising the undead was bloody expensive, even for a well-known mage such as himself.
Finally, he found a grave that looked promising. It was of a person who had died over a hundred years previous and wasn’t likely to be missed. The name on the plain gravestone was mostly worn and chipped away. All Arthur could see was, ‘Fran’.
Most necromancers would need a freshly dead body to raise a zombie. Arthur could raise anybody so long as he had some of their intact body material to work with, like some bones for instance.
Arthur got to work.
First he took a stick of poplar wood and carved into the earth around the grave, surrounding it. He then reached into the belt of pouches that he had at his waist and began to fill the grooves he’d carved with powered black onyx gems. Then he stood in the centre, lighting a single beeswax candle and setting it down at his feet.
He chanted in a dark language, forgotten to so many in this modern world of technology and easy to use minor spells. The words poured from his mouth, heavy in the air like water and became faintly visible in the form of runes, which fell to the ground. The circle began to glow and Arthur stepped outside of it.
With the last word he said, a shield came up around the circle and bones rose up from the ground.
Arthur was still concentrating when a bird swooped by, cawing loudly and startling Arthur. It made him misspeak a word.
The body still rose, so Arthur didn’t worry too much.
It was covered in dirt at first, but a wave of green light washed over them, making them clean again. The bones all floated into their positions they’d been in when they’d been part of their human. Slowly the body began to form, organs, muscles, blood, skin and hair.
Arthur gestured towards his wraiths to get ready to grab the newly created zombie. As soon as the glowing circle dimmed and everything fell to darkness, the newly risen man fell limp into the waiting arms of the undead.
Then they were off, silently through the night as if they’d never been there at all.
#
A shriek woke Arthur up the next morning.
He’d been working at his desk when he got home, having ordered the wraiths to place the new zombie into the holding pen with the others. Then Arthur had gone to work on various papers on his desk, which was a room away from the zombies.
He found their moans and groans rather soothing if he were to tell the truth. So much so that he found himself drifting off and into a deep sleep.
So waking up to a shriek had jarred him, causing him to jump out of his seat with widened eyes.
Arthur didn’t have anything in his compound that could make a noise like that. He wasn’t a fan of ghosts for the sole reason that some of them were screamers. He liked his peace and quiet when he wasn’t trying to do evil deeds, thank you very much.
He walked cautiously over to the holding pen, putting up a shield spell in case he’d been invaded by a rival mage.
He looked through the window and immediately jumped back when he saw his new zombie staring back at him, a look of horror etched onto the pale, greenish face. The zombie had shoulder length blonde hair that had been tied back with a single tattered blue ribbon. His clothes were dirty as if the coffin he’d been put in had collapsed and spilled ground over his body.
That wasn’t what startled Arthur though. What stunned him was that the zombie’s blue eyes were looking at him.
Right at him. Seeing him. Knowing he was there in a way that was far more than the primal urge to seek the heat of the living.
Then the zombie began to speak with a trembling voice, “Allo? Excusez-moi? S'il vous plait?”
Arthur had somehow created an intelligent zombie.
That would be a good thing.
Were his zombie not French.
Scowling, Arthur flung the door open and quickly tugged the undead out, not really caring that it stumbled. It righted itself and sluggishly ambled a few steps. It still seemed to have some of the reflexes normal to it’s kind.
“Why the fuck are you French? I raised you in an English cemetery! You should be British,” raged Arthur, having never been a fan of the French, “Can you even speak English?”
The zombie blinked a few times before he spoke with a heavy french accent, “As much as it pains me to say so, yes, I do speak your language. And what are you going on about with your talk of cemeteries? Also, what were those terrifying things back there.”
The zombie was still shaking as if scared.
Arthur hadn’t ever had to explain to an undead that they’d died in their previous life. He’d never had to explain any of this before. All of the creatures that he’d raised before had been, at the most, semi-intelligent and utterly bound to him as their lord and master.
“You had been dead for over a hundred years. I’ve brought you back as a zombie,” said Arthur, still standing because he didn’t know what to expect from this situation. He had no idea how much control he had over this creature.
The zombie looked down at it’s skin and gasped. Obviously it saw the sickly green pallor over it’s formerly living flesh. Thankfully it would never rot. Arthur had perfected his preservation spells to prevent that so his house didn’t reek of decay all the time.
“I don’t understand. How is this possible?” said the zombie, it’s lower lip quivering, “What happened to my beautiful skin?”
Arthur had been about to feel sorry for him but then rolled his eyes at the thing’s vanity, “You died before mages and supernatural creatures revealed themselves to be more than myth and legend. I am a mage who specializes in the necromantic arts.”
“The devil’s work?” asked the zombie, stepping back in fear, crossing itself with slow movements.
Clearly it still didn’t quite understand what it was.
With a wave of his hand, Arthur dismissed that notion, “There is no such thing as 'the Devil’. Don’t be a fool.”
The creature seemed to have enough of that, “You are saying that I am a zombie and you can cast magic and somehow I am a fool for believing there is a devil.”
Arthur blinked a few times and then snorted out a small laugh, “Well I suppose you have a point there, even if there is still no Devil.”
“So you aren’t raising the dead for the purposes of evil?” asked the zombie.
Arthur frowned and looked away. He didn’t have to answer these questions to a creature such as this, “That is none of your business.”
They stood in silence for a while, both seeming to be unsure what to do. Arthur hadn’t ever had to do this before. Sure he could just order the creature back into the holding cell, casting a silence spell over it to prevent it’s speech. He didn’t want to do that though. Not to something that could think.
His thoughts were broken by the zombie speaking once more, “I’m Francis, by the way. And you are?”
“Arthur.”
Francis gave a tremulous smile and Arthur crossed his arms and looked away.
That was how it all started, really.
#
“I am famished,” whined Francis, sitting on a chair.
The back of one hand was on the man’s forehead, the other was resting on his stomach. He was staring up at the ceiling and acting so utterly dramatic that Arthur wondered if it would be better to just off the creature.
“Well I told you what you need to eat. You just refuse,” said Arthur, grumbling and writing in a book.
“Because I don’t want human flesh,” cried Francis, “You are the magic-user. Can’t you just make it so I can eat whatever I want?”
Arthur pushed back his chair and got up, going over to a cabinet and pulling out two crystal cups. He poured some scotch into both, “That isn’t how it works you insufferable creature.”
He went over and held over the cup, waiting patiently for Francis to take the cup. Since his reflexes were so slow, he took a moment to get a good grasp.
“Try to drink that.” said Arthur.
Francis sniffed over it and smiled, “It smells fine, quite good actually.”
Then the zombie took a sip and his grin faded, “I can’t taste it.”
“Interesting. Sense of smell but not taste. Fascinating really,” said Arthur, going over to write some notes on the various pieces of paper scattered over his desk.
He didn’t notice the letter opener being take off of his desk before it was too late.
“I refuse to live in a form that can’t enjoy gourmet foods or fine alcohol,” said Francis right before he plunged the blade into his chest where his heart was.
Then Francis made some dramatic flails of his arms and prepared himself to cry out or fall before he looked down and noticed that there was no blood coming out. Arthur reckoned that was about when the fact that there was no pain registered in the zombie’s mind.
“Way to go Francis. Now you have a hole in your chest,” said Arthur, rolling his eyes and leading the shocked zombie out of the room.
He led them to Arthur’s medical room. If you could call it that. It was mostly used for stitching zombies.
He sat Francis down on a low bed and readied the thread and needle, “If you want this to not show too much, stay at still as you can. Your body does a tiny bit of self healing. Not nearly as much
as when you were alive though, but enough to help minimize the look of this if I close it right.”
Francis nodded.
Once they were done, Arthur looked up to Francis while he knelt beside the zombie.
“Will I really have to eat a human?” asked Francis with such a small voice that Arthur almost felt bad for him.
Standing up and closing his eyes, Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose with his finger and thumb, “I’ll try to think of something. Alright?”
Although he had no idea what in the world he would do.
#
“These clothes are disgusting,” complained Francis, shuffling into the room in which Arthur was having his tea, “I demand better ones.”
Gently placing down his fine china cup, Arthur looked at the zombie. As it turned out, Francis had been a noble when he was alive. However it seemed that he had been lost in London and had been mugged. After that he’d fallen prey to the elements and had died without anybody knowing who he was.
This would have been all well and good if the foppish twit didn’t expect to still be treated as if he were practically royalty.
“You really aren’t in any kind of position to be making demands,” said Arthur, watching one of the other zombies actually be useful and sweep the floor, “You aren’t even pulling your weight. They do.”
When he said those words, he pointed at number 15. He preferred numbering the zombies, rather than naming them.
Francis huffed and put his hands on his hips, “Because they don’t have a choice. I do and I want better clothes.”
“Why should I?” challenged Arthur, “You are insulting my clothes after all, since you must not forget that they are from my own closet.”
“Yes and you dress as if you are a poor person. This house is palatial and it is clear that you can afford better,” said Francis, gesturing around himself, “I watched that picture box of yours and-”
“For the last bloody time, it’s called a television,” said Arthur, his voice actually pretty calm despite his words.
“Whatever. My point is that the box told me what sorts of fashion your people wear now and that is not it,” Francis slowly shuffled to Arthur and pinched at the sweater vest that he was wearing.
“Hey!” protested Arthur, “When I’m not wearing my black cloak and my necklace of bones, I am allowed to wear whatever I damn well please.”
“We’ll see about that.”
#
It was official.
Arthur Kirkland, necromancer extraordinaire, had lost his touch.
He was following around Francis, who was playing off his shuffling as a physical impairment. The zombie had used makeup to cover his pallor and they went out once the sun went down to hide his generally unnatural look. Arthur had refused to go and buy makeup but Francis had whined until Arthur had given in.
As much as the necromancer wanted to pop the zombie in the face for being an annoying twat, he didn’t have the heart t hurt such a unique creature.
Francis had covered his body with as much of Arthur’s clothes as he could find and they’d gone shopping.
Arthur, of course, also had to dress up, wearing a wig and hat as well as contacts to help hide his identity. He had to cast a spell on himself to mask his aura in case there were other spell-casters around. His face was rather well-known after all.
“Just buy something already!” said Arthur, tapping his foot as he watched the zombie look over the same rack for the tenth time, “We’ve been in here for almost an hour.”
“I’m looking for items to make you look less horrible,” said Francis, waving off Arthur’s words.
“I hate you.”
“Mm hmm,” muttered Francis, putting another shirt into the basket that Arthur was holding.
It was already nearly overflowing.
“Now are we done,” asked Arthur once more, nearly ready to explode.
“Oui,” said Francis, with an ecstatic smile on that handsome face.
Arthur felt something weird in his chest at the grin. He had no idea what it was, but the idea that he’d made this man happy warmed his insides.
No!
God he was stupid.
This was just a zombie. Not a man.
Just a fluke of his over-whelming abilities.
As they walked to the car in the dimness of the encroaching night, Arthur wondered what he was going to do. Francis was ambling beside him, talking animatedly about something or another that he’d learned in this exiting new world that he’d been reborn into. Arthur found himself actually enjoying listening to another person for once.
#
Despite the fact that Arthur still hadn’t figured out a way for Francis to eat, the man still wouldn’t consume human flesh.
Arthur supposed that he understood why he didn’t.
Yet the French zombie had eventually begun to cook breakfast for Arthur in the mornings before the Brit would wake up.
Francis didn’t have to sleep and had enjoyed cooking when he had been alive before.
At first he hadn’t understood how to use the electric stove, so Arthur had tried to show him. It had become fairly obvious how little Arthur actually used the kitchen however and Francis took it over.
Arthur had no idea quite how long it took for the zombie to make the food, considering he couldn’t move as fast, nor could he taste. However everything that he made was wonderful. Francis’ mind was just as sharp as ever.
As Arthur munched on a freshly baked slice of baguette, he watched the Frenchman stare out of the window and look down at the lawn outside. Arthur really wished that Francis could at least sate his hunger on regular food. He felt bad.
There had to be a way.
“Would you mind if I planted flowers out there?” asked Francis, “Your lawn is so dull.”
Arthur shrugged, “Sure. I don’t mind so long as I don’t have to care for them. I’m hopeless at caring for living things.”
“Is that why like the dead so much?” said Francis, slowly but surely making his way to the table where he sat across from the Brit.
“Yes,” said Arthur.
Plus the dead couldn’t hurt him by dying. They were already dead.
He must have shown some of the hurt on his face, because Francis frowned and tilted his head, “You look sad, care to talk about it?”
Arthur shook his head, “I’m fine.”
#
Except that he wasn’t.
He found himself staring at the zombie more and more. He felt as if he were sick inside to look at Francis the way he had been.
Having somebody in the house again was nice. He was no longer lonely. Francis was smart as a whip and kept Arthur on his toes. Even if the zombie could be annoyingly vain and high maintenance at times. But he was also sweet and rather handsome.
Arthur had a hard time sleeping one night, a few months later, when Francis came into his room.
“You’re tossing and turning,” said Francis, going over and sitting on the edge of the bed.
“I know,” said Arthur, staring at the ceiling, unsure what to do with himself.
“I’m still willing to lend an ear mon cher.”
Biting his lower lip, Arthur said, “It’s hard to talk about.”
Francis placed a hand on Arthur’s and entwined their fingers together, “Take your time.”
Eventually, Arthur did, “I’m a bit older than I look. Not by a whole lot. That is to say that I’m not elderly. I’m fifty-two.”
He sighed, “I married young. I’d always had a lot of power to my magic, but not always the best concentration and control. My wife didn’t mind. She loved me in spite of me breaking things around our house by accident.”
Arthur felt tears well in up in his eyes rolled down his cheeks. Francis’ cool fingers glided over his face and wiped them away.
“She was pregnant with twins when she’d walked through the door to my study. She trusted that my magic would never hurt her. The spell I was casting was one that obliterated every trace of a body. Utterly disintegrated.”
Francis, despite being undead, had a very sharp mind. He understood immediately, “So you began to raise the dead in hopes that you could bring her back.”
Arthur nodded and swallowed, his throat feeling thick, “But even somebody of my power has limitations. You need more then a small vial of ash that used to be a body. You need bones, tissue samples, hair or something. I’d killed her and I couldn’t even bring her back.”
Without warning, Francis wrapped his arms around Arthur in a tight hug. Cool lips pressed against his cheek and his neck, moving to press chastely against Arthur’s lips. Francis didn’t deepen the kiss at all, and Arthur didn’t either. They were happy as they were. Neither caring to think on exactly what their situations were. Both of them just wanting the touch of the other.
That was how Arthur fell asleep that night, laying in Francis’ cold embrace.
When he woke up, Francis was still there, watching him with a smile adorning this handsome face.
Arthur felt his heart swell with sudden adoration.
#
Of course, nothing could last forever.
The relative peace that Arthur had been feeling had drifted away when his secret compound had been discovered.
The clerics and paladins that were hunting him had found his home and stormed it during the middle of the night.
Arthur had is entire house set up so that he could release all of his undead with the press of a code from his bed chambers. There were many of them, zombies, wraiths and even skeletons.
They hadn’t been enough.
The holy men had come prepared.
Looking over at his bed, Arthur saw Francis sitting and trembling, eyes wide with fear. The man was not a fighter in his previous life or even the new one he’d found himself in.
“Mon cher, I am scared,” said Francis holding his arms to stop his shaking.
Arthur straightened his back and said, “I won’t let them get you. Don’t worry.”
And then he went out, locking the bedroom door behind him.
Arthur nearly drained himself, casting every spell that he knew, scorching the walls of his home with the crackling heat from bolts of energy lashing out from his fingertips and slaying his enemies. When he eventually took to his sword, he knew that he was finished. There were more and more enemies coming into his home.
All he could do was run to Francis. Bolting through the halls of his home, he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw that the door to his bedroom had been kicked in.
Standing there, white light from a holy spell swirling in his hand, was a cleric. A very powerful cleric ready to kill Francis, who was cowering before the man of light.
Arthur dropped to his knees, “Please don’t take his life. He’s intelligent. He can feel.”
The cold-looking blue eyes of the tall blond cleric turned to Arthur and stared from behind wire glasses. Arthur noticed just then that there was a smaller blond by the other’s side. This man had violet eyes and a more welcoming appearance despite the frown on his face and the mace in his hands.
“Berwald. Maybe what the necromancer says is true. The zombie had been speaking.”
In a relatively monotone voice, the higher ranking cleric (Arthur knew because he could feel the power crackling off of the man), said, “It’s still a zombie Tino.”
“So raise him and bring him back to life. If anybody can do that it’s you Ber.”
Berwald shook his head and raised his hand towards Francis once more and said, “The necromancer has killed too many people. This is probably a trick.”
Arthur cried out, “If you bring him back to life, I’ll let you take my life without resisting, it’s not a trick.”
The look of shock was clear on the faces of Tino and Francis. Berwald simple lifted his hand towards Arthur and shot out a single beam of white light. It burned Arthur, surrounded and engulfed him. Distantly he heard Francis’ cries of dismay.
Amid his screams of pain, he tried to meet Francis’ eyes so that he could try to convey what he felt through them. As he felt his life drain from him, he mouthed the words, “I love you.”
Right before he left this world.
#
A faintly green wisp of magical essence floated through the world. It didn’t have a goal or a destination, it simply drifted. It had no idea where it had come from or what it was or had been.
It just was.
Until at one point it felt a tug at it’s very being. The feel was faint at first, only a mere suggestion of direction.
However as time went on, the feeling grew stronger and stronger until the wisp of green couldn’t help but float towards the glowing beacon of light that called it nearer.
It travelled until it found itself in a cemetery in a city called London.
Night had covered the ground in darkness and the moon cast it’s silvery glow over a small headstone.
The smooth granite rock had a name chiselled into it, 'Arthur Kirkland’.
Before the grave was a man, tied up long blond curls and a white robe, trimmed gold. The man’s head was bowed and words were being uttered softly. After a moment or two, a faint light surrounded the man and he stood up and moved back.
The wisp of green felt itself being pulled to the ground where it expanded, swirled and twisted along a body that slowly began to form. The wisp melded into the form and they two became one.
#
Arthur Kirkland came to with much confusion.
Had that cleric actually killed him?
He remembered a lot of pain and the heartbroken look on the face of the zombie that he had grown to love. After that though, there was nothing and a lot of it. How much nothing had gone by?
Arthur was confused.
That is, until he heard a velvety smooth French voice call out, “Arthur? Mon amour?”
Blinking his eyes open, Arthur found himself in a London cemetery. He was laying on the ground in front of a man. The man looked a lot like Francis, only with pale peach skin. The man who couldn’t possibly be a zombie walked over to Arthur gracefully and knelt before Arthur, brushing his fingers over his cheek.
The fingers that touched him were warm and thrummed with life.
“Francis?”
Those blue eyes lit up and a smile curved his lips. Francis leaned down and pressed a kiss to Arthur’s lips.
“Oui. C'est moi,” said Francis, resting his forehead against Arthur’s.
“How? What?” said Arthur, eventually sitting up and falling dizzy into Francis’ arms.
“Berwald killed you but raised me. As payment for being risen, I was expected to join their ranks,” said Francis, gesturing down at his white robes, “It’s taken me nearly two decades and a number of spells to prolong my youth. However I eventually attained the skill to raise you back from the dead.”
Arthur’s eyes swam with tears and he threw his arms around Francis. He didn’t know what to say without ruining the mood. He’d never been very good at speaking his mind it if thoughts weren’t related to curse words. So he just rested in Francis’ arms.
After a few moments, Arthur found himself able to whisper, “I love you.”
Francis smiled and said, “I love you too.”