Matthijs

Matthijs was dead, or he should have been. He had seen the end of his life and, all told, it hadn't been a bad one.

He was old; old enough to remember what to others was only history. Old enough to have received the blessing of the Lightweaver herself, in the days when the gods still sometimes spoke to their children. He had raised children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren; had served as scholar, teacher, priest.

And then he had died, killed by a jealous rival he had believed was his friend. Dismembered, his remains buried where they would never be found. And that should have been the end to his story; a long, fulfilling life and a quick, grisly death.

Except Matthijs came back.

He woke in a shallow grave, choking on damp earth, and desperately clawed his way to the surface to lay gasping in the cool night air. In the drifting illumination of fireflies, he saw the bloodless, gaping wounds and dark lines where limbs had been severed. Traced the cut around his throat where he had been decapitated. His head felt unsteady, as if it wasn't quite as firmly attached as it should have been.

Matthijs was old enough to remember why his race took such care when they disposed of their dead. Few would even whisper the word emperor, as if just naming that horror could summon it, but he had seen their ravages firsthand. He knew what it meant for a dead imperial to come back. Except, he had been buried alone.

As the sky lightened towards dawn, he counted his limbs. Ran shaking claws over his body, looking for something foreign, some part that did not come from him. But he found nothing, and despite his fear he didn't feel mad. But would he know if he was? Did the emperors know they were emperors, know the death they sowed? And if that had not brought him back, what had?

Better not to risk it; his clan would certainly not have him back anyway. He would keep to himself, where he could do no harm.