Succession

It never gets easier. It had been an amulet, a bracer, that accursed locket; once an entire suit of armor. Whatever the object, Gale never warmed up to the experience of being bound to an item. This gemmed circlet was no different, even the sack of fragmented bone that she was wrapped about would have been a more pleasant host, had she still had the coherence to inhabit it. Acherus' dank halls were as dreary now as they were during the assault upon the North. She could not see her surroundings, but she felt something. Occasional presences moving, the concern of the feeling few that had been brought to the Hold. As they drew closer, they became clearer, almost as though materializing at her side. The minds just enough to touch, to gently scratch at for a glimpse of her surroundings. What stung the most laid not in what her soul now endured, but in how they looked upon her. Not -her-, but the vessel they had come to know her in. All the doting, all the concern had been for this face that was not hers. A remarkable resemblance, but not hers. It was not that different bend of her nose that made the sight so uncanny, though it did irk her tremendously. Restoring her soul had been an afterthought; restoring the body seemed a pressing concern even to this gaggle of Risen. Why?! If there were any group of companions that might understand the fungibility of flesh, ought it not be these? Find a replacement, for to proliferate seems to be all the living do -- they eat to grow, they breed to multiply, they rot to nurture one another's growth. She had been a fool to even consider calling them friends. They will have their use -- after all, death follows in their wake, and few among them sustain themselves on the energies of those they slay. Besides, who better to aid in returning the favor to this Lady of Woe? What a wretched woman, content not only to be resigned to the half life of untethered spirits, but the -pride- she seemed to hold in it. It ached, how obvious it was: they would dote and worry for the vessel; if she were to replace the vessel, they will replace her. For all its faults, its frail, spindly limbs, and overt visibility, it serves its purpose fairly. In fact, most who know her by it seem enamored; they become so usefully pliant in its presence. She resigned herself then to maintain it. A few seemed to look past the purloined skin. Dreadsworn, of course, but what choice did he have? Without the pieces given of herself, he would fray to a mindless one in mere years. Little Lourane had been so polite -- a proper society rearing, that much is apparent -- but she still suspected that much of her goodwill was rooted in the woman's wish to examine her on an operating table. The scholarly sort were like that, and it made them fickle. The stupid and the greedy were easy to predict: if one pays them enough or offers them whatever vice they seek, their loyalty is assured. Academics were different, clever enough to understand greater good, seeking not excesses but enlightenment. She carried something with her. Someone. Gale could not quite make out who that someone was, but how she yearned to. Even in her weakened state she could touch the mind of another, and this mind, the one interleaved with Lourane's? Its touch had been exhilirating, flicked her aside like a housefly. Whatever power it held, it should be hers, should be theirs. A dangerous thing for the young Human to hold within her, but with the guidance of one like Gale? They could secure all the power they require to dull the sharpest edges of their bond with death, the greedy master. The others must have scattered, for now. With no host with which to feel the passage of time, no eyes through which to see the bugs crawl and the sconces flicker, it was difficult to tell how long it had been. An hour, a day. The space was a fog of present senses and memories both ancient and new. Sight of the self-assigned minion flashed into mind, as did Hestus. Sweet, auburn sunsets over the old garden, lectures until dawn had begun to peek. Memories, and not dreams. She could tell that much; the scrambles of her mind had chosen not to show her the clever, ambitious Azhidasja of the old world, but this... thing, she had become. She knew well what the beginnings of an undead mind turning feral felt like, and she felt it in the husk of Dasja. Prideful, and relishing the kill, relishing the -hunt-. Occasionally, a distant presence would draw near, remain by her for a time, and her grip on this unraveling reality would become just a little bit firmer, and then they would depart. Just what it was, that was anyone's guess. A pair of necrolytes assigned to drop a fragment of anima into the gem where she now dwelled? Did the presence of another being simply anchor her to sense, allowing her to endure the banishment for a moment longer? Speculating made little sense, but what else was there to do in this miniscule void that crushed against her like a vise. As though the world had heard her, something spoke. It spoke in the here and now, it must have. She had been torrented by this endless wave of fragmented memory for long enough to forget she had ever been anything else, and it all felt so disjointed, so vague. Like the implication of a sense, not the sense itself. This voice, it spoke with such clarity, such intent, that it shook the bounds of this small realm forged just for her. "You return." The booming timbre, the deep tone that threatened to break the earth and shatter the mind, it was unmistakable. It called sense into question not because of how it shook and beat against it, but because it could not be so. He was gone, could his return be near already? "I fade." The voice had spoken again. Gale had been too stunned to reply, the rushing thoughts stirring a storm throughout her mindscape. What had the voice meant? He fades. She grew dejected, her disappointment chilling the enclosing silver. That mournful tone impossible to hide in her reply. "I thought this was to be our great reunion. That you would return to this world, that we would shape it together. It is not, is it? You come to announce... -I- shall return; you shall not." A rumble shook the realm. The cursewright's voice had always been slow, but she heard it now. It was different, weaker. He was not displaying his greatness, he was using it all just to speak these words. A weak, wheezing breath of a thousand mouths. Gale knew what his strained concession meant. This was his final declaration. "The flesh was mine. I leave it to you." He was right. It was his, it always had been. His creation -- not as a child, but as a crop, sowed upon the world's field, and his to reap. Had he only had the strength to do so, it would have been so easy. Had ease been what she sought, she would have let go many ages ago. The task was clear, one final mission bequeathed from a dying love: she, the ordained Harvester. She could feel her voice meek, cracking in reply. "Hold me before you depart?" Her love obliged. The cold, liquid metal began to rise, to envelop her. A thousand maws shrieked in unison. It cut into the mind so sweetly, a forest of scaled feelers crushing the spirit in their grasp. A thousand deaths died, a thousand yet to come. In the outer world, a necrolyte squinted at something unusual. A diadem, on a pedestal of bone, weeping a single black tear.