Eirin wakes up in the middle of a storm next to her own corpse. In front of her is the masked necromancer who has revived her and whom she must obey, even against her own will.
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This is a short fantasy nouvelle, perfect for those readers who are...
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The necromancer refuses to answer my questions, repeatedly scrutinizing me from head to toe. Under his mask, I can't discern if his gaze is filled with displeasure, pride, or something more lascivious. In the dim light of some candles, I find myself compelled to scrutinize him in return, driven by curiosity.
My self-proclaimed "master" reveals only his black, unkempt hair. Green eyes and a thin mouth peek through the mask concealing the rest of his features. Despite the flowing robe enveloping him like a shadow, I can ascertain his thin, almost lanky figure and his rigid posture, indicative of a well-educated background.
"Where are we?" I repeat, receiving only silence. "Why did you bring me back?" I persist.
Silence.
Silence.
Only silence.
I bite my bottom lip and lift my gaze to meet his. The lack of sensation makes it challenging to gauge the intensity of my expression. I fear I might get hurt without even realizing. Is it normal to be unable to perceive certain things? Perhaps.
"I need answers. Whatever they are. I implore you to explain my situation," my words take on a pleading tone this time.
Silence.
The necromancer releases an exhausted sigh and averts his gaze. He turns away as if he has lost interest, taking a few steps away.
"Clean yourself," he finally whispers, pointing to a side without looking at me.
The small hut, resembling a hidden cave in the midst of a forest, stands surrounded by towering undergrowth. Vines cover the exterior, and missing sections of the roof allow storm droplets to infiltrate. Even a stray traveler would mistake it for the abandoned ruins of a lumberjack's home.
"Will you answer my questions later?" I inquire.
"Clean yourself up," he reiterates, stern.
I turn towards the indicated direction, assuming it's the bathroom. "I need to understand what's happening."
"When we leave," he promises, his voice resonating in the room's silence.
Resigned, I release an exasperated snort and head toward the designated space. In the darkness, I discern the furniture's edges —a worn, dirty bathtub, buckets of water, and half-used soap. For the first time today, I'm relieved not to feel the coldness of the bath I'll take.
I turn again, unsure. There is no door behind me, just an old frame where the room's division used to be. Could he be a pervert? I silently question as I undress. The notion seems absurd, given that he created this body.
I'm unashamed of being seen naked, since that's normal in the army, but I still choose to take advantage of the darkness to hide my silhouette from the necromancer. Under the first colors of the morning filtering trough the roof I observe my new body with some difficulty, it closely resembles my original one. The skin tone is accurate, curves mostly unchanged. I do notice slight differences of course: shorter legs, a slightly wider waist, and a subtly altered nose. I look good, better than ever, despite my dislike. No traces of my numerous scars or birthmark remain. I am a flawless porcelain doll, disturbingly delicately crafted.
After contemplating the details for a few minutes, I arch an eyebrow and leave the bathroom. Completely uncovered, I approach the necromancer.
"Did you do this?" I point to my still-dirty body.
"What are you talking about?"
"To this... this thing. I don't know what to call it. Whatever I am now."
"The container for your soul? Yes, it was my doing, Alvola," he admits, never averting his gaze, perhaps uninterested.
"Well, it's all wrong. Scars are missing. And freckles. And marks... it's imperfect. I mean, it's so perfect that it's not realistic or natural. I don't like it. Fix it,'" I request. "The differences bother me."
He laughs.
"Have you seen the state of your rotting flesh? I did the best I could with the information left and the materials available. You know that practicing my art is punishable by death in our kingdom and throughout the continent. Conform yourself. You are my creation, Alvola, my possession. You belong to me because I created you, and you have no right to demand anything more," he steps toward me. "Just as I made you, I can unmake you. I can force you to obey like a simple puppet. I am only giving you the opportunity to behave without resorting to it because I believe that the right thing to do is to have mercy on those who have not attacked me. Now, go clean yourself up."
"I don't understand."
"Your duty is not to understand but to do what I tell you," he insists. "Clean up. You know you need it. Then, put on the clothes I left on that chair and come back to me," he points to a corner I hadn't noticed.
"Will you answer my questions at that time?"
"Only if you behave."
Frustrated, I attempt to strike him, but I find myself paralyzed. He carelessly lifts me by the waist, treating me like a piece of furniture, and carries me to the bathroom. Upon crossing the threshold, I finally feel free to move normally.
"Clean up. It is an order."
"Son of the devil," I curse before starting to clean myself.
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