Necrosis

“I should be dead.” —For Necrosis, there had never been anything worth living for. He was not angry at the world or even particularly sad about it; it was just that he couldn’t feel anything anymore. Without desires or fears to spur him on, life was just a tepid mess, and he thought he would be better off without it.

There had been someone cheering him on once: his brother, Oleander, as bright as he himself was drab. “You’re a team, you and me,” Oleander had declared. They were brothers, and it was them against the world.

Indeed, from the very beginning, the world had been against them. Their parents were slaves, and so were they. As soon as they were old enough to walk, they were taken from their family, locked together in a cage. It had been just the two of them, and they’d bonded together in their adversity. Things were dire, but not hopeless....They had each other, after all.

It didn’t last. One day, the cage tarp was yanked aside. Oleander and Necrosis cowered as the slavers peered in. Their eyes fastened on the skinny boy with the lank black hair and...
“That one, with the wrapped hands,” they growled. They opened the cage and dragged Necrosis out. Oleander shrieked at the top of his lungs, hammering them with his fists, but they smote his jaw, and he fell, stunned. The door clashed shut before him.

Casual customers would have asked, “What’s so special about that boy? He’s obviously a weakling. You’ll barely get your money’s worth out of him before he bites the dust!”
For a long time, the slavers had thought so, too. But they had discovered Necrosis’ secret, and that had given him his name: his hands were dead black, a sign that he was able to sap the life from others. He could kill with a touch—but this power was not his to use as he pleased.

~ ~ ~

Like all magic, Necrosis’ touch had its limits: it could not pass through clothing, for a start. The slavers who tended to him were all swathed from head to foot in fabric; it didn’t really matter when they could reduce him to tears with a glare.

For Necrosis’ spirit was as frail as his body. He knew he’d be separated from his brother once he was found out, and so rather than fight back, he’d tried to hide. His brother had helped him wrap his hands in bandages.

One of the slavers had not taken it well. “Take ’em off!” she’d screeched, cracking her whip. “Customers need to see the goods, even a snivellin’ pup like you!” When Necrosis had shrunk back, she’d stomped forward, stripped the bandages away with her bare hands.
Her fingers had brushed his. The next minute, she was sprawling in the dirt, writhing in agony, her mouth open in a desperate howl. The rest of the camp had watched in terror as blackness had eaten up her neck, her face, till she was a shriveled, charred-looking lump the same color as Necrosis’ hands.

That was the first limitation. The second one was that any uses of this power left Necrosis a frail and shivering wreck afterward, barely able to stand. His power was not like a siphon that transferred the victim’s life to his body. It was like a fire: it destroyed the victim completely, but at the same time, it consumed an enormous amount of energy. This it took from Necrosis, with the result that, after killing one person, he was vulnerable to any further attack.

The slavers exploited this to the fullest. They auctioned Necrosis off before a crowd of buyers, and to show that he could be controlled, they forced him to demonstrate his ability. Slaves who had been deemed useless were dragged before him. Ropes had been tied round Necrosis’ wrists, and his hands were pulled forward, pressed against his victims. One by one, the slaves died. In between killings, Necrosis huddled on the platform, sobbing and shaking, while the buyers called out bid after bid.

The clan that won him was a powerful one, and much feared: they were assassins who specialized in dark sorcery. Necrosis fit right in with them, not as one of their members, but as a tool. The assassins bound, gagged, and blindfolded him so they could control him. They would drag him along on their missions as if he were a sack: Necrosis would feel the rush of freezing air that told him he and his handler were teleporting. Then the bag covering his hands would be ripped away and his palms pressed against bare flesh....He would hear a stricken cry, and then weakness would crash onto him like a landslide. Then away they would go, back into the darkness, leaving behind a foul, brittle husk.

The assassins had an excellent track record, and with Necrosis in their arsenal, they grew even more confident in their capabilities as the years passed. They thought they knew all the conditions of his magic.

But they didn’t. The third limitation was...

Twilight. Necrosis lay in his cell, moaning feebly. He had been feeling lightheaded and nauseous for the past few weeks, but his owners didn’t care. They had learned to ignore his infirmities, and now they hauled him off his pallet and to the courtyard.

The assassins had many enemies, some of whom were unlucky enough to get captured. They would be spirited back to the hideout and then executed. Necrosis, invariably, was their reaper. On that day, he looked blearily at the victim—an assassin from a rival clan, no different from Necrosis’ foul owners, really. Necrosis could barely focus; the world swayed and dipped. He felt his hands drawn up, towards the hapless man.

He started to shiver. Waves of cold raced up and down his body....But that was odd, because something was burning inside his chest. It stoked his heart like a furnace till it hammered fit to burst through his ribs. “Hurts,” he thought dully, as the world ran together like paint streaming down glass. “It hurts. It should...stop....”

And stop it did, in the most explosive way possible. The energy that had eaten others’ lives like a fire now burst forth in incandescent devastation.

In a brilliant flash of light, the clan was annihilated. The assassins screamed as their hearts were ignited within them, and one by one they tumbled to the earth as lifeless, powdery husks.

Necrosis fell, too. The light washed over him and then fled beyond the horizon, before the threat of an encroaching storm. Silence descended upon the broken lair.

~ ~ ~

That was the third limitation: Necrosis’ power, exercised too much and too often, would overload, and his body would become too weak to contain it. Then it would burst forth, eating away all life in its path. All...except one.

Necrosis opened his eyes to devastation. His owners, his tormentors, were no more. Their remains had been washed away by the storm; only twisted, unidentifiable pieces remained.
He lifted his gaze to the sky. Rain fell onto his face, but he did not blink. The drops slid down his eyes as if they were glass.

Necrosis knew he should be curious about what had just happened, and maybe more than a little scared, but he wasn’t. The fire had taken away a significant portion of his life, too. The only thing he felt now was exhaustion.

He looked at his hands. They were smudged, as if by ash....He could see his palm. Pale skin, almost white...Something about that was off, but he couldn’t think what. He started examining the corpses, and more of the blackness flaked off his hands.

He found raiments, put them on, more out of routine than anything else. And then out he stalked, weaving and swaying, heading to parts unknown. Occasionally, in soft earth, he left his footprints. Ashes caked the impressions, as if they’d leaked through his feet, but he never noticed them; the wind carried them swiftly away.

He wandered for many months, heedless of the blistering sun and freezing rain. His skin began to crack. He did not notice how more ashes leaked out through the fissures in his soles. His clothes became tattered, revealing pallid skin and ribs gleaming through open sores.

His face remained impassive, if a little sad. He never looked up as the sun passed overhead, following by a waxing, waning moon. Day after day after day...

At last the sun’s light was blocked by mossy branches, and the moon was hidden from view. Necrosis’ feet sank into marshy earth. The trees closed their boughs above him, sheltering from the sky. The Tangled Wood took in the sight of this strange, broken newcomer, and it welcomed him as its own.

~ ~ ~

Necrosis wandered through the Tangled Wood for some time. Then came a dreary afternoon when rain poured down, bursting through the canopy, turning the ground to mush. It became difficult to walk, so when Necrosis saw a cave, he instinctively entered it. He walked through the darkness, hours upon hours, until he was deep beneath the ground and the sky was only a faint memory. Time passed, and the tunnel forked....It split again and again. By luck or something else, this was how Necrosis found himself in the tunnels beneath the Hidden Haven.

He was not well received at first. The Hidden Haven dwellers had only occasional need to enter the tunnels, and at times, when they did, they would glimpse him: a gaunt, pale form stalking through the darkness like a towering ghost. Not a Stranger, and most definitely not a man...Necrosis had also picked up a habit of humming snatches of song that came to his mind, mostly chilling dirges and songs of vengeance he’d heard from the assassin clan. They were not reassuring sounds.

The clan’s new members still hadn’t gotten entirely used to the strangeness of their new home. Their nervousness spread to the older members till the clan leader, Onoind, was forced to intervene. He picked up his staff. With the nervous throng behind him, he stormed into the tunnels where the specter had last been seen.

It was an awkward encounter. Necrosis knew the tunnels like the back of his hand, and he instinctively tried to avoid the crowd. When Onoind grew tired of the entire matter, he ordered his clanmates to disperse. They did that—and Necrosis, hearing their voices fading away, emerged from his hiding place. He tottered behind Onoind, swaying dangerously.

One of the clan members glanced back and saw him, and they screamed. As one man, the group stampeded out of the tunnels, leaving one very bemused clan leader and the impassive stranger. A lesser person might have fled from Necrosis, too, but Onoind had been through too much to be scared by a revenant.

As the last scream of “AAAAAAAHHH! A ghoooost!” faded away, he turned to address Necrosis. “I’m awfully sorry about that,” he grumbled. “They get very excited sometimes. But then, they’re new. I suppose you came up through the tunnels....Where are you going, stranger? Do you need anything from my clan?”

Necrosis’ lips moved feebly. He had not spoken for many months, and he’d forgotten how to use his voice. Onoind examined him and, with growing concern, he sent for his healers.
They concluded that there wasn’t anything they could do for Necrosis. “He’s gone,” Marrowrend stated flatly. He shook his skull-covered head. “Whatever he had ate his life; he’s really just a shambling corpse now. It was probably magic that did it....What’s your name?”

“Necrosis,” the stranger answered. His voice hissed up through parched lips. As the healers stepped back, unsure of what to do, he rose to his full height again. Out the door he staggered, humming to himself, his tattered clothes fluttering behind him.

“Should we be worried?” Lana inquired. Lachlan muttered something incoherent, and Marrowrend shook his head again. “No. He’s harmless. Whatever did this to him is gone now.”

“Let me clarify: Should we be worried on his behalf?”

They had to conclude that they did not know. It was personal concern rather than anything else that prompted them to observe their patient over the next few weeks. He became a regular, if unnerving sight around the lair as he walked about unsteadily, his ragged garments barely concealing his wounded body.

No one could get him to break his disturbing habit of humming snatches of song. There was some relief when he disappeared back into the tunnels—though it was short-lived, as they heard the humming again some days later and he lurched out into the light again. The Hidden Haven resigned themselves to yet another strange addition to their clan.

One good thing, though: He was harmless, as Marrowrend had said. He was never hostile or excited, and at times he even sat down and kept silent. Perhaps the Healers’ Cove had made a good impression on him, for he stayed there from time to time—just sitting on a vacant chair or bed, not getting in anyone’s way. Sometimes his long-fingered hands would twitch, and he would reach out to a patient, gently wind his fingers into their hair.

“Why don’t you just sleep, Necrosis?” Lachlan burst out in exasperation one day, after the revenant had frightened yet another patient with this. Necrosis looked at the old healer and calmly explained, “I do not sleep.”

Lachlan squinted at him. When Necrosis had first arrived, he had not spoken much and indeed had ignored most questions. Nowadays, however, he responded, even if it was with just a shrug or a nod. He was becoming more responsive...more aware.

They had been trying to learn more about him and whatever had made him like this; answers hadn’t been forthcoming then. But perhaps now...

A sunny day. A pair of children, brothers, had been brought to the Cove. They had quickly gotten over their initial fright of Necrosis and had gone to sleep. Necrosis sat between them, softly patting their heads.

“Brothers,” he said as Lana bustled past. The healer flashed a quick smile. “Yes, Necrosis. They are brothers.”

He sighed heavily and nodded. Lana stepped away, but then she heard his next words—
“I had a brother once.”

Lana paused. She turned and stared at Necrosis incredulously. She considered asking him more, but the specter’s eyes had glazed over again; his mind was flying away.

So she took the words, tucked them into the back of her mind. She would have to report to the leaders and other healers later. She left Necrosis where he was. After a while, his eyes cleared again. He looked at the two children, sound asleep on either side of him, and a brief, soft smile flickered across his face.

~ written by Disillusionist (254672)
“Strangers” by Felix Kramer and J.
all edits by other users

• Distant, unfocused.
• Necrosis doesn't sleep.
• Has dark eyebags.
• Wanders the tunnels of the Haven.
• Constantly looks tired.
• Skin is cold and clammy to the touch.
• Leaves a faint trail of ashes in his wake.

His mind was like an uncompleted puzzle, all muddled up, with some pieces lost.
Ashes follow him where ever he goes, it trails him like a shadow. When he would touch the walls he always left a mark.
He wanders, catching sight of specters of the past. From his past.
One always catches his attention. The soft, kind-hearted smile, laughter that was full joy.
It would stir something within him.
He would reach out, but before he could even touch it, it would disappear.