Raising the dead

Kurin clenched the vermilion stone,

emblazoned with umber and blonde,

embedded in a femur bone

he had whittled into a wand.

 

He fled the realm with nearly nought,

as the forsaken often do,

quietly, veiled—and never caught.

Driven away from all he knew.

 

He’d raised slain knights and vile sons,

and the traitors who knew too much.

Their chains of death would come undone

with arcane stone and eldritch touch.

 

He’d sing spells, and again they’d breathe,

disregarding their fatal wounds.

But even holy men would seethe,

from the madness of stolen moons.

 

When a pious prince took the throne,

the demons were fed to the noose.

Royal decree blamed him alone

for drought, disease, and broken truce.

 

So, he clenched his infernal gem,

and came across a humble town

far from the chaos and mayhem,

and the cruel justice of the crown.

 

“Welcome, stranger,” a farmer said,

offering him shelter and food,

“May I ask what you’re seeking here?

If you don’t find my question rude.”

 

A crate of gold to raise your dead,

his instincts wanted to reply,

have you ghastly or wicked plans?

If so, you’ve found a new ally.

 

But, “honest work for honest pay,”

was the untruth that left his lips.

“I have no hearth, nor coin, nor ale

to save myself from winter’s grip.”

 

When Kurin met the peasant’s kin,

his mother was holding back tears.

His daughter was frail, pale of skin,

and looked ragged beyond her years.

“My name is Rose,” the young girl said,

between loud and violent cough,

“I’ll be seven in the autumn—”

she managed before dozing off.

 

“The child was born with a sickness,

and it worsens every year.

The girl can barely stand or breathe,

and I’m afraid her end is near.”

 

He dined each night with his kind hosts,

sharing in their laughs and their mead.

They saw love where he only saw ghosts;

nothing was everything they’d need.

 

As the weeks fed eternity,

his patience grew steadfast and thick;

a strange sense of paternity

for the child, lovely and sick.

 

So, when that dreaded morning came,

and little Rose had passed away,

Kurin’s eyes watered just the same

as her father’s upon that day.

 

“I can bring her back,” he bellowed,

unsheathing his stygian wand.

“For this is who I am by trade,

my knowledge untethers death’s bond—

 

 —but I must warn you,” he proclaimed,

“her sweetness will wither away,

our darling won’t come back the same,

she’ll be healthy but never gay.”

 

“I long for her to be joyful,”

the farmer beseeched from the ground.

“Will no magic keep her precious?

Just name the cost. It shall be found”

 

“For one to preserve their essence,

another must willingly die.”

The farmer forfeited his life

swiftly, and kissed his girl goodbye.

 

“Parent her, like she were your blood,”

were the last words the kind man said.

So, Kurin, too, started anew,

as a father, raising the dead.