He rose from the black.

There was nothing for him to see, but he had no eyes to strain for sight. No sensation came from his body, and despite his weightless drifting, he felt nothing from his extremities. For a moment there was panic, and then he remembered.

He had died.

Memories flooded in, sliding into his mind in disjointed fragments. A hopeless battle he should have fled from. The glitter of far too many blades. The stench of blood, and the slowing of his limbs until they would no longer move. The final collapse, and the encroaching end.

And now, the darkness receded.

Violet strands enveloped him, staining wherever he was in shades of deep purple. With the unfamiliar sight came a wordless thought, an offer spoken straight to his soul. It presented a deal; an option of returning.

He accepted.

He had died younger than he wished. He had died before he could achieve all that he set out to do. And besides… there were memories of someone. A woman, shining brighter than anything else, and two small faces looking up at him.

And then, all at once, there was sensation.

It was pain.

There was no exit for the searing agony, and then it tore from him with a groan. Weight pressed down upon him, drowning him in new darkness. Clawing upward, he pulled himself through the heaviness above, invisible clumps tumbling down on him.

All at once, his hand broke through.

Cool air met cold bone, and he paused, reveling in touch, in feeling, in the return of his own senses.

Clamping onto the ledge of his prison, he pulled himself upward. His other hand was occupied, tightly wrapped around something. Still, he dragged himself from the ground, climbing from the place he had been since after his memories ended.

Gray mist coated the grim scene before him. A child stood before him, a girl barely in her teens with dark circles beneath her eyes. Ranks of undead milled around her, dull green light pouring from empty sockets in their faces. Far above, a pale full moon shone down, illuminating stone memorials and gravestones in white light.

Removing himself from the grave he had been in, he felt the handle of the blade in his left hand tighten, felt his own rotting hand grip the mouldy leather harder. Necromancy was a forbidden practice, a malevolent magick that brought only pain. He felt that pain even now, and with it… came shame.

Death was natural. He… he was a mistake. An abomination that should not exist.

But those faces, those dulled expressions of glee in his mind… they were worth it. They would be worth it.

He looked down at his free hand and saw through the gaps where bone and rotten armor didn’t quite overlap. Lifting his head, he faced the teen.

The girl’s eyes fluttered, and she dropped to her knees. Moving before he could think, he held an arm beneath her, and she seized it. Lifting her to her feet, he waited for her to grow steady. She looked up at him, barely staying awake, and fear was reflected in her eyes.

He had made a decision. There was no abomination that he would be unwilling to become if he could see their faces again.

Acting from buried etiquette, he sheathed his rusting sword at his side and knelt, paying homage to his raiser. He saw her eyes widen, saw her take a step back. He bore witness as she steeled herself, standing just a little straighter.

He would be dead no longer.