Chapter Text
Thrice to thine and thrice to be mine and thrice again to make up nine. Peace! The charm's wound up.
William Shakespeare, Macbeth.
What makes up a necromancer with so little to lose, but that continues to lose anyway?
Hands that smell like the earth, caught under their fingernails after clawing out of countless graves. The ground spitting back up what threatens to poison it.
Leaves and branches intertwined with hair that is as wild and untamed as the power that courses through it.
An eye. An eye that has seen too much of the world and too little of the goodness that may be in it but that flashes with power and glimmers with sorcery.
And a heart, a heart that beats not for anyone or any particular thing but one that simply beats. Begrudgingly, but it does.
What does a necromancer make of a world that has chewed it up and spat it back out over and over and over and over and over. It should get tiring. Being the only one when once there was two more to share the burden. When it wasn’t only him asked to sacrifice for another play at mortality. Another go in this game of survival. All the bone- aching weariness, all the suffocating ache of earth burrowing its way into his lungs, buried once again, the sharp sting of air being forced back in, choked down... but all for that electrifying power that courses through once again. Another life.
Survival in a world where mortality doesn’t play by nature’s rules but neither does the necromancer. Maybe nature doesn't want them here anymore, perhaps they have taken too much; what is balance when the side has always been weighed against you? What are rules to a player who burned the rule book? What is a game if your opponent cannot be found? When three become one a curse cannot be split; a curse or a spell or a responsibility carried by three souls now shouldered onto one.