Zemblanity

Fingers colder than the sweet clutch of death curled around his wrist and jerked him across the wet grass. The night moaned with the sound of restlessness and the stars blinked out one by one until the sky was as black as the deepest depths of the seas. The fingers made of bone traveled up his arm and pulled Curos closer until he was face to face with his doom; a newly risen skeleton. The corpse had long since lost his skin and hair, becoming a being composed of dirty white frame work.

"Home."

The word seemed to creak out of the creature's broken jawbone. Curos opened his mouth to scream, to speak, to do something but only silence remained. He did manage to pull his other arm in front of him and grab at the fingers holding his other wrist, however. With the chilling phalanges in his palm, he wasted no time and twisted them, breaking the grip.

With nothing holding him back, Curos stood the fastest that he could and began sprinting in the opposite direction. Suddenly panicking, he came to realize that none of his surroundings were familiar in the least. He was stranded in a relatively small and in wretched sorts cemetery. Headstones were scattered about the soft earth as if a strong wind had blown them here, dropping them, and not caring about their location. They were crooked and decayed, the engravings on them barely legible. The graveyard was fenced in by a rusting metal enclosure. Just outside of the gate was a forest. Now more familiarized with his surroundings, Curos took off again.

His escape was all for naught though, for the ground split above his feet and another of the undead made it's slow and terrifying climb from the depths of Hell. In reality it had taken seconds for the skeleton to come to ground and meet its eye sockets with Curos's eyes. Its jaw fell open as well and its words came out like the soft whir of the wind.

"Home," it grieved.

"Home?" Curos whispered his response without much thought.

"Home," echoed in a whisper as the ground around him split in random fissures and the lifeless gained new life and crawled from their burial plots. Pale hands grasped at darkened ground and pulled themselves to the realm belonging to the breathing. They moaned the word over and over again, each word came with a step in Curos's direction. He looked frantically for an exit but couldn't find one. Deciding that he would not stay still, he tried to run but once again the ground opened up - this time beneath his feet - and he fell into the endless pit. He did not scream, he did not cry, nor did he meet a brutal end. Rather, a voice rang loud in his mind.

This will not end on its own. You need my help if you wish to have this all fade away.

With a gasp, Curos opened his eyes and found that it was all but a dream. He held his blanket to his chest with one hand and wiped his brow with the other. He was covered in sweat. Another nightmare had plagued his night. He'd always had nightmares, even before his parents died. They increased in frequency after that and increased in intensity as he got older. It was as if Death wanted to claim his sanity. Death plagued his dreams, his vision, and nearly all aspects of his life, causing it to be extremely difficult to lead a normal existence.

He made his way from his bed and to the washroom. He washed and shaved, feeling quite lucky to live in a town house that had both running water and plumbing. It was unlikely for most villages to have them for these were privileges typically available to the rich and the royal. However, the village of Onstaan was growing larger by the months and becoming more of a city, and plumbing was much needed. Curos was privileged enough to have been taken in by the old doctor, a very rich and respected man in Onstaan.

Once he was clean and dressed, Curos descended to the ground floor where Dr. Ademen preformed most of his practice, which was connected to a back room where the doctor took care of the townsfolk who were beyond medical help; the dead. The room was very much alive, in contrast to his thoughts, with the coughs of a young boy as the doctor examined his nude body upon a table. He pressed on his skin and listened to his heart while his mother watched nearby with her hand over her mouth in anticipation.

"You are going to be just fine, son," he lied to the boy with a very convincing smile. He nodded and turned to the mother, pulling her off to the side. By the time she cried out in sobs and collapsed into his arms, Curos knew that the doctor had given her the news. Her boy would die. The gray rashes upon his skin already covered his lower back, hands and feet, and his genitals. They'd had twenty like him - adults and children - come before and each had found their way into that back room and then buried. We'd thought it to be unsanitary conditions at first, but since the plumbing had been installed in town, this eliminated this as a possibility. It wasn't contagious and it didn't seem to come from any particular source. Furthermore, the most interesting fact of matter was that each of the afflicted had been upper class. Even this small child and his family.

Finding it hard to watch the scene, Curos made his way into the back room. It was a small, dark room lit by a single candle. There were rows of planks lining three of the walls like shelves and an operating table at the center of the cubicle. Fortunately the beds were all empty, which was never the case these days due to the strange plague, but one young woman lay stiff upon the operating table. She was about his age or older and had long red hair. Her eyes were closed and her blue lips parted, skin as gray as a dreary winter morning. She'd died of the plague.

Home. The word came like a breath of air and he was certain that the corpse had said it. The word seemed so familiar and yet so vague; where had he heard it spoken like that? In a dream, he thought. Then he remembered the corpses calling out the word as if it were a prayer on a sinner's tongue, dragging him along on their trek. But could the girl truly have breathed the word? She was dead! Yet, then again, strange things always found a way of circling the life of Curos.

"That child will mark the twenty first of them in Ostaan alone," Dr. Ademen stated when he joined Curos in the morgue. He shook his head and made for the cadaver. "I've received word that the same illness has fallen on other settlements."

"Have you?" Curos asked, swallowing hard. He pushed the whisper out of his mind. He thought it better to have imagined it, even if he was sure that he didn't.

"Indeed. They show the same signs; gray rashes, coughing, darkening of the iris, and dying during the dawn," he said all too calmly. He picked up the girl's arm and examined the length of it, noting that the gray continued all over her body and left no splotches or seams. It would seem that the pigment changed color even after death. "Are you alright, Curos? You seem troubled."

For a moment, he thought to lie. "You would think me mad," he laughed.

"In times of insanity, can one man truly be mad?" Dr. Ademen questioned as he took the girl's hair in his hand. Interestingly enough, the hair had not lost color or luster.

"She spoke a moment ago," he confessed to his caretaker. The physcian merely raised an eyebrow of suspicion.

"This cadaver?"

"I swear it," Curos noted adamantly. The doctor opened his mouth as if he made to say something, but Curos cut him off. "See, I knew you would not believe me. But she did. She said the same thing as the dead in my dreams."

The medic suddenly became very disinterested in his subject and more piqued by the words of his underling. He looked in his eyes and tried hard not to look away. What he was searching for, Curos could not be certain. All that he could be positive of was that he did not like the weight of skeptical eyes cast unto him.

"The dead continue to haunt your sleep? Eleven years you have lived under my roof and for eleven years you claim that the dead walk in your nightmares." He seemed preoccupied. Worried, almost.

"Is this bad? A dream is a dream, is it not?"

"Having nightmares of the Afterworld so close to your eighteenth year... Well, it is a bad omen. You've only got four more days. Otherwise..."

"Otherwise what, sir?" Curos's heart was racing and his hands felt sweaty. He clenched them into fists, squeezing his fingers into his palms. His foster father looked back down at the young maiden and wouldn't meet his child's eyes. He was beyond worried. He looked absolutely mortified.

"It is not for me to say. Perhaps you should speak with Sunjill Racture," the man spoke callously, near defiant. He wanted no further word on the topic, Curos could see as much. Yet the questions began to form in his mind. Why was the doctor so worried? Even in the face of a terrifying plague he had remained calm. Why would this be the catalyst that unnerved him? He ran a hand through receding blond hair and swallowed hard. "Let us get back to the task at hand."

The pair worked in arctic silence for awhile but eventually the awkward atmosphere broke apart. They then worked elbow to elbow and discussed the lass's condition. It would seem that the gray continued after the death of the afflicted for when he'd left her here this morning her neck hadn't been reached yet and then when he'd come in again, her neck and head - as well as the rest of her anatomy - had been transformed. Furthermore, rigor mortis had set it long ago, but her joints remained limber. Her lips were near violet by that point.

After examining the miss for what seemed like hours, the two decided to pick up their work later after dark when the the doctor's office closed for the night. They were making no headway other than the new information about the graying skin. He gave Curos four pieces of dark metal, which was the currency of the kingdom, so that he could buy himself lunch in town. Of course, he thought this a opportune occasion to seek out Sunjill Racture and get the answers that his father would not give him.

The town of Ostaan was built within a circular wall that had decayed each day since the day it was built, leaving them very little protection; not that they truly needed it for the opposing ruler's kingdoms had been vanquished centuries before. The town itself consisted of house upon house in long winding rows with no spaces between them. This created wide streets that circled and crossed all through the city. At the midpoint of the circle existed a large fountain where venders set up their carts each morning and dealt goods to the locals.

The young lad made his way through the busy streets, walking tall and keeping his eyes forward, though he could not mistake the eyes cast upon him. He never quite knew why they watched him so. Was it because he was the adopted child and apprentice to a successful medic? Or was it because he watched ruffians stormed his childhood home and clubbed his parents to death? Was he looked at in awe or was it pity? Shaking his apprehensions, he continued on his way to the hub of Ostaan, the marketplace. He spent one dark metal piece on a mug of beef and ate it as he made his way to the western part of the city.

He had always admired West Ostaan for its culture and atmosphere. Though the kingdom of Tieren believed that witches and wizards and beasts of unnatural order once roamed the lands and had died away forever, the citizens of West Ostaan held the belief that these things still survive, passing their blood a trickle at a time through generations. Many of the city even lay claim to be otherworldly as well. Lysic, his adopted father, had always been cautious of this district for he fear ghouls and hexes.

Wild fragrances of perfumes and incense snuck their way into his nostrils as he found himself in the western most part of Ostaan. Smells of wild flowers and summer breezes contrasted with the odors of rot and sewage. Magic, or so they called it here, was afoot. As Curos walked, women and children danced in the street and grabbed at his hands. He'd smile and give a sort of dance before breaking away and making his way once more, though he did stop and give the rest of his beef mug to a beggar. Self-proclaimed witches and banshees offered him goods but he had the sense to decline.

Sunjill Racture ran a small library on the lower streets of the district. It was small and could only be identified by a small sign in the window that read Awaken, which probably meant that the shop was open. Curos let himself in, the bell on the door ringing clearly for Sunjill to hear. An energetic, yet enigmatic old man pushed himself through a doorway of beads and strings and smiled at his customer, barring missing and yellow teeth. He was quite the frantic old man with snowy white hair sticking up in random order. His eyes glinted amber and with a hint of intrigue.

"Aha! My dear Curos! How have the years done this to you! You have grown!"

"I am nearing my eighteenth year. In four days, actually."

"So young and yet so old," Sunjill joked. In years before, the man had come to Lysic with various illnesses. He hadn't always lived in the cleanest streets and was prone to get infections and sickness. But he'd gotten attention from the doctor and had been careful to avoid such situations again. He'd always bring treats for young Curos, bringing the two into an unlikely friendship. "What ails you, boy?"

"You may think me strange," he warned him, "But even the good doctor suggested that I question you about this, seeing as he wouldn't give me any answers."

"Answers about what, child?"

"Do you think it strange for a man to still dream of the dead as vividly as I do?"

The bookkeeper froze and for a moment in time, Curos was afraid. The same blatant horror that had been on his father's face earlier in the day was now clearly replicated on Sunjill's countenance. His lips quivered and he tried to speak but was at a loss for words. The old man frantically scratched at his arm and tried his best to think of an alternative to something that Curos couldn't even fathom.

"You know something. Tell me now!"

"Are you certain that it is the dead that you dream of, and not the spirits of loved ones lost?" Sunjill tried to avoid answering. Curos was taken aback for a second.

"I am certain. For years I have dreamt of corpses and skeletons and wisps; not once has my true father or mother come to me. I only see the dead that grip me and pull me, uttering 'home' over and over again." Curos explained this quickly, followed by a rather hefty breath of relief. This had prayed on his mind for quite some time. He'd read it somewhere that it were perfectly normal for children to have nightmares, even of this multitude. But that was just it; he was four days from becoming an adult. Why must these dreams haunt him so?

"Curos," Sunjill started slowly, timid. It was almost as if he were trying not to scare himself more so than to not startle the younger man. "Do you believe in the Afterworld?"

"Aye, indeed," he replied without much thought. The Afterworld was the unseen world where spirits of the deceased roamed free without pressure or obligations, eternally at peace. Though, those are just the plains. Beneath the very earth existed the pits of the Afterworld, a place of freezing misery and debt, where the Lord of Death ruled his court. It was the Lord of Death who decided who lived and died, who were sent to the pits and who were sent to the plains, as well as which souls could reincarnate. Curos believed whole-heartedly in this for he liked to think of his parents in the plains, strolling and laughing, arm in arm.

"Well, Curos, there is a tale that people have told for ages, though it's faded recently, for one has already been found," he spoke softly.

"One of what?"

"People used to tell children stories of other children - ones that are like you - who dreamt the dead coming for them. These children fought with these nightmares for years, but on the mark of their eighteenth year, he comes for them. The Lord of Death. He comes and claims them as bearers of his mark; the mark of a Necromancer."

When Sunjill finished speaking, he cast his eyes down at his bare feet. Curos could not understand at first. He felt anger at his own confusion but soon the answer became clear. He blinked hard and took a step toward the old man. He didn't move. He looked petrified, as if he'd been turned to stone. Curos craned his neck and caught his eye, just for a moment, before Sunjill glanced quickly away.

"You mean to say that I am a Necromancer?" Curos was dumbfounded. "I've never raised a body nor conjured a spirit in my entire life."

"Well of course you haven't! You do not receive the mark until your day of birth. But as to wether you truly are or not, I cannot be certain. One already has been marked, and there is never more than one while another is alive," Sunjill responded. "This makes no sense... But if it turns out to be true... There are terrible times afoot."

"What do you mean? Please give me a straight answer!" At this point, the boy was beyond frustrated. The day had been nothing but others dodging his questions and terrified expressions. He was exhausted of not knowing. If he truly were a Necromancer, and he did not believe that he was, he deserved his questions to be answered.

"A Necromancer is a being with one foot in this world and one in the Afterworld. This creates a small, barely noticeable rift between the worlds. We never think much of it, for all that pass through are lost and wandering spirits. But if two Necromancers exist, the rift will open. The dead... The dead may raise, child."

"I-I can't imagine," he stated and fought with his own shaky voice. He'd lied, he could feel it. Eleven years of dreams had made him prone to believing such a thing. The dead walked in his nightmares, they could walk in the mortal plain as well. Wether it be true or not, Curos feared it. It was witchery or demonology or some dark magic, but if they truly feared him because he could cause the rift between the living and dead to open further... He was inclined to fear himself.

"Curos, now listen to me," the elder said with a short and precise voice. "I want you to return to the Adehem home and live your next four days as though nothing is wrong. The first chance that you get on your day of birth, come directly here. Do you understand?"

"Aye."

"Then leave me now, and pray to the Good One that you do not receive his mark."