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Light and Death ((MacaronMaven and EvelynWillows))

ninseineon

ninseineon

Super-Earth
Joined
Jan 12, 2009
Norisel Duskweaver was born into the Light. Literally, in fact. Neither of her parents had been particularly religious, but Madam Duskweaver had a compulsion to visit the great cathedrals and see the beautiful stained glass. Norisel was born, quickly and without much fuss, before the tour was half done. It seemed an omen, particularly after decades of unsuccessful pregnancies, that this little child should come so joyfully into the Church.
The Duskweavers were exceedingly wealthy. A family of silk merchants and tailors, Norisel was raised surrounded by beauty and light and trained under the best tutors that money brought. She showed an early affinity for dance but the Light held her love. Her money and her time went to the church. It seemed a foregone conclusion that she would eventually take the cloth as a priestess...
Then came the war. The dead came bursting from their graves like maggots from a corpse and the world shook. Though at first the battles were far from her sheltered life, Norisel knew that she needed to fight the creeping plague. Her dancer's grace and healing talents were enough for a desperate recruiter. Though her elderly parents wept, they knew better than to stand in the way of a paladin's holy wrath. The training was swift, and she was on the battlefield before she had time to become appropriately comfortable in her heavy armor.
That first battle was a hell that would haunt her for life. At some point in the screaming confusion, the legion general was beside her. They pushed forward was best they could and hacked through reeking columns of the dead. A great chitin-armored beast lumbered along with the enemy forces, flinging balls of some strange acid-green fire. The orders were to stop the creature but when one of the fireballs landed too close, Norisel was thrown from her General. Her own weapon and simple recruit's shield were lost in the explosion, but she found the General's ceremonial shield in the wreckage. Scrambling over smoldering bodies (some that grasped her ankles), she found the dazed and bleeding General standing directly in front of the flame-thrower beast. The beast lifted a scything claw to kill her commander and all Norisel could do was to take the blow herself. She prayed to the Light for speed and received it. She prayed for strength and it was granted. She begged for protection and when the monster's claw came down, the white enamel of the shield exploded in green and violet light.
Later, after wounds were healed and the dead were counted, Norisel was presented with the shield to use as her own. The center of the white enamel was scarred deeply in a violet sunburst surrounding a space of gleaming metal where the claw had punctured the enamel. She was still using that same shield a year later, when the army made camp by the Farfalen river and the new recruits were arriving.
The young woman was eager for the help. Waves were coming more frequently at the front lines, and they had retreated four times in as many months. She hurried out, in her now-dented armor with it's fresh lieutenant's insignia, to meet them. With her helmet on as well as her armor, Norisel could have been any soldier. She was shorter by several inches than the men and generally smaller-framed, but there was no way for a casual observer to tell if she was a small woman or a young boy. Given the desperate nature of recent recruitment, either was likely.
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Life should have been simple for a boy born into a farming family. There were the cycles of the seasons, of planting and harvesting, and the daily, almost religious, tending to the animals and the earth. These were things that Darian Greyhe loved, and when he became a young man he fully expected his life to be the fulfilling life of a farmer. He had even begun entertaining the idea of courting the baker’s daughter, a comely and pleasant young woman several years his junior.

He never expected that the horror of the dead would come upon them, or wipe out his family and the small community they lived near in just two days. Since then his strength and the pure desire to survive had served him well, eventually leading him to Farfalen, where he banded with a small group of resilient men and women. It was during this time that he discovered that he was able to heal. It was a small thing; he could keep someone from bleeding out or from being poisoned by dirty water, but he found that he was only useful in defending those around him. He had no skills when it came to beating back the rotting hoards of their nefarious enemy.

Darian raised his sullen brown eyes to look at the soldiers gathered at the river to survey the rag-tag ‘recruits’ who gathered there. He was slightly taller than most, though lean and hard from years working the land from dusk to dawn. He noted that the armored men moved with a determined weariness, almost like they knew that the enemy was tireless and would never need to rest or eat like the living did. It was almost like they knew that they were fighting a losing battle.

He set his jaw determinedly. His family was not known for being quitters. He was the last of them; the Greyhes had been one of the founding families in the Greywoods and had carved a life out of the wild territory there generations ago. Darian might have had to leave the overthrown town that he was born in, but he would carry with him his family’s stubborn hope and persistence until it was ripped from his chest. His eyes rested on a small knight; practically a child. It was difficult to judge, because the helms hid the men’s faces, but the slight build and shorter stature were undoubtedly not the form of a full-grown man. It saddened him to see the boy out there among men; the youth must have had the courage of a lion to be there. Darian had seen hardened men freeze at the sight of the dead rising up and eating the living. He wondered what horrors the child had seen, and he felt a surge of sadness and compassion for the youth.
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There were fewer newcomers than she had hoped. Still, Norisel was confident that the Light would provide what they so desperately needed. The officer in charge of the new arrivals glanced wearily over his ledger and did not seem to approve of what he saw.
"I don't have much for you this week, Lieutenant." He sighed as the recruits lined up before the officers. Norisel felt sorry for the man. Not yet to middle age and already his face was lined and his beard laced with silver. She thought a wordless prayer for him and the man straightened a little.
"It's enough, sir." Her voice was clear and confident, piping out of her helmet. "The Light gives us all we need to thrive, asking for more only spoils the challenge."
A few of the veteran soldiers chuckled at her bravado, but the laughs were exhausted, stillborn sounds. The small paladin took notice and rested her hand on the handle of her weighted mace. Bits of sunlight glinted off the weapon and her armor in an oddly steady rhythm, like a heartbeat or the breathing of a sleeping child. At first the new soldiers regarded it as nothing more than a trick of the light... Then one gruff older man suddenly jerked his glove off and stared at his hand.
"T'was a cut, just 'ere, on me thumb. Infected, it was. T'ain't there no mo'!"
Other recruits shuffled to look for any other missing injuries (there were several, all minor and all seamlessly healed), until the logistics officer cleared his throat and thumped his ledger. Norisel kept swaying slowly to music only she could hear, but the strange pulse of light stopped. Mostly, anyway.
"Greyhe. You were the only one to report any healing, so you go with Lieutenant Duskweaver." He gestured to the small armored form before brusquely moving through the list of names and the other assignments.
 
Darian had watched the pulsing light off the youth with a detached, air. It wasn't the detachment of one uncaring but of one lifted into another realm of existence simply by being in the presence of pure light. He felt the air flowing into his lungs with each breath, the rhythm of his heart, but if someone were to step in front of him with a sword and thrust him through the middle he would not have given it a care. He felt...a power unlike any he could remember, and the power he felt seemed to come from beyond the boy in the lovely though dented and battle worn armor.

When the light subsided he swayed softly, like a drunk man stepping out of the darkened inn. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head softly, regretting the absence of the sensation he had been intoxicated on.

"Greyhe. You were the only one to report any healing, so you go with Lieutenant Duskweaver."

Darian frowned. The boy? "Yes. Yes Sir," he said hastily, not wanting to misstep on his first day with the band of knights. He wasn't sure if there was something he was supposed to do, so he simply walked over to the diminutive knight and stood off to the side a bit as the others were partitioned off. The youth's title didn't mean anything to the prior farmer; to him anyone in armor was 'Sir', and anyone who glowed like the boy had was someone that he doubted he should cross.
 
Norisel raised her hand in polite greeting and smiled at him, even if she knew that he couldn't see. As much as she wished that she could lead him to his tent to rest after what must have been a long march, the armored woman knew that neither of them would have any rest today. She turned and began leading him through the camp. Everywhere they went, soldiers seemed to stand a little straighter or move with more enthusiasm. The pulsing light had stopped, but some of the effect seemed to linger. It spread around them like the light from a single candle. It was only partially intentional. Apathy was spreading like a disease and Norisel knew that without faith, the armies of the Light would fail. If she could help strengthen that faith, even briefly, she would do so gladly.

"I wish I could give you more time to become acclimated to the camp, but... We need more healers, badly. We had a... Skirmish, I suppose you could call it, last night." She shivered. The knight had a delicate accent, very faint but still present in the soft way she pronounced her consonants. "Where are you from? And I must ask now, how much healing have you done so far?"

They were approaching a set of three large, pavilion-style tents. The ground was mucky with blood and filth of all kinds, but the air smelled more of smoke and charred meat. The tents and everything near them were dusted gray with ash. Great columns of smoke rose from behind the structures, and Norisel paused to stare at them for a moment.

The pyres were hidden from view, but she knew exactly how many bodies were burning there. Though the massive bonfire piles seemed disrespectful at first, all it took was one "calling" before she changed her mind. Better to burn the dead to nameless ash than have them butchering the living.
 
"I'm the last from the Greywoods," Darian replied. "My family settled there six generations ago." He surveyed the camp, noting the almost helpless looks in some of the soldiers' eyes. He sighed at the lieutenant's question about healing. "I don't mean to disappoint you Sir, but I don't have much experience. Mostly it's luck; finding clean water, stopping people from bleeding to death or helping them to breath after breaking ribs...nothing of much talent personally. I'm willing to do whatever is needed, though." He eyed the smaller knight critically. "If you don't mind me asking, how long have you been fighting? Aren't you a little...young...to be in the thick of battle?"

He squinted into the bright light of the soon-to-be setting sun. He saw the long plumes of smoke and knew that the necessary was being done; people were being laid to rest with fire so that they would not rise up and kill the next day. It was unfortunate that the smell of roasting flesh didn't discriminate between man and beast. The aroma of the pyres were intoxicating to a man who had not eaten in many days, and his stomach rumbled it's protest at remaining empty.

Darian leaned on the staff he carried and adjusted his axe. The staff was more a tool than anything, but he found that it had been more than useful on a few occasions when he felt the light-headed rush of exhaustion. One of the men traveling with Darian had muttered that the gods must have been laughing at them, not allowing them to sleep in life or in death. That man had died several days back, and he had been set to rest in the fire that same night. Darian wondered if he was resting now.
 
Norisel chuckled at his question. Being called "sir" was rather normal, particularly after the promotion, but it was only the new soldiers that mistook her for a child. She removed her helmet and balanced it on her hip. Long, pale-gold hair tumbled over her collar, tied back from a delicate face by a red silk ribbon. Her eyes were a remarkable grass green and seemed nearly luminous in the dimming light. They canted up slightly at the outer corners, making them look even larger and more exotic. Though pale from exertion, her skin was smooth and clean, something most soldiers around them couldn't claim.

Her small stature was explained when she pushed her hair back and uncovered a pair of long and pointed ears adorned with bars made of pearl and jade. The Children of the Sun were a breed of elf so heavily influenced by humans, the two races were nearly identical. Norisel bore the small frame, fine bone-structure, and pointed ears of her people. Though an old race, they had a life-span only slightly longer than Man. In ideal circumstances, a Sun-elf might live to be a hundred, but circumstances were far from ideal.

"I think that I am older than you, Greyhe of the Greywoods." She said, her soft accent more noticeable. She smiled and rested a hand on his arm. "I have been fighting the Armies for a year with this group. I was a healer for the great cities in the south before that. I am in my thirtieth year under the sun. Your eyes will lie to you, the world is not what it seems anymore."

She gave him a sympathetic smile and returned her helm to her head. The motion was smooth and well practiced.

"Your healing talents will be enough, for now. Have faith, and they will grow."
 
He felt the flush of embarrassment wash over him when the knight revealed herself as a woman...and a Child of the Sun as well! He nearly stammered an "I'm sorry," but he could see that she seemed merely amused and not insulted by his misinterpretation of who she was.

"I, ah... Lieutenant Duskweaver, I'll try to do my best to help. What you did earlier, that glowing thing that reached everyone around you? That would never be in my reach. I can see now why you were chosen by the Powers to wield such a gift." He was a clod of dirt compared to her. Not only was she a Child of the Sun, but she was stunning despite her exhaustion and her battle weariness. Her golden hair and her perfectly unflawed, pale skin surrounding those large, tilted eyes were enough to unnerve a man in the best of conditions. For Darius, an unsoiled man in his mid twenties, the appearance of such a lovely specimen in the midst of the carnage and chaos of a battle field was enough to send conflicting emotions surging throughout his body.

He glanced away as she donned her helm. "Where do I start?"
 
Her head cocked to the side, puzzlement evident in the gesture even with her face covered.
"You saw the light? That... is unusual. And promising. Most people only feel the warmth." She beckoned him into one of the huge pavilion tents. "That you could see the glow at all speaks very well of your latent skills. Most healing is instinctive, but some of the more powerful spells take training. It should encourage you to know that I started with less ability than you before I began formal instruction."
Inside the tent, a guard offered them steaming clay bowls of a thin but savory-smelling stew. Norisel refused politely, but accepted a mug of herbal tea. She stood for a few moments in silence, sipping and looking at the contents of the pavilion.
The cavernous space was filled with cots, each holding a wounded soldier. Aisles were also cluttered with bedrolls and some of the less seriously injured rested on the floor. It was more quiet than a person would think, but occasionally a groan or whimper would reach them. Haggard looking men and women in the robes of priests moved through the beds, offering what help they could give. Occasionally a flicker of warm light would spark out, but the healers seemed to be sticking to more conventional methods.
"Sister Duskweaver." A man in fine silk robes, stained with blood and worse things, approached and took a mug for himself. Like Norisel he bore the long ears and green eyes of a sun-elf, but he was taller than her by several inches and had the beginnings of wrinkles on his forehead. Other Children of the Sun were evident, both as healers and as wounded. "I hope you are here to help. I've lost two healers to exhaustion today. Idiots burn too quickly and take up beds that the bleeders need..."
The man continued to grumble even as he gulped down a bowl of stew. He didn't even seem to take more than a cursory glance at Darian.
"We are here to help, Sir. Brother Greyhe has just arrived, I was hoping to have him fed before we began his training." She didn't seem put off by the man's gruff behavior. Perhaps his mood was understandable, given the conditions.
 
Darian accepted the broth with a heartfelt 'thank you' and began to drink it in slow sips. The made a soft purr of contentment as his empty stomach welcomed the thin sustenance. "I don't think I can afford instruction," he said in answer to the lieutenant's statement. "I'm just here to help. I can't run away while innocents are being murdered by these evil flesh puppets." He looked around as he finished his cup, and then handed the mug back to the guard who was serving the soup.

He was amazed to see another Child of the Sun so soon. He had only seen a few in his life, and most were from far away or else they had been transformed to these dead armies. He looked over at Lieutenant Duskweaver when she introduced him as 'Brother' Greyhe. "I'm just Darian," he protested gently, "I'm...I'm not a priest. I was a farmer before this. That's all." He looked over at the other Children of the Sun. "But I'll do whatever is needed. I'm not afraid of hard and dirty work."
 
"I won't have you bumbling around like an idiot and killing good soldiers with incompetence." The grim priest said as he dropped his bowl in a bucket of similar dirty dishes. "You train with the sister, you learn, and you work."
Without any further comment, the man stalked off down the rows, barking orders as he went.

"We are all children of the Light. Brothers and sisters all." Norisel said softly. She discarded her mug as well before walking towards the cots. As she went, she took off her armored gauntlets and began flexing her fingers through a series of limbering exercises. The light was beginning to pulse off her again, though it was directed at the many injured around them. "It's faith that heals. Use what you have. Sometimes it helps to pray, or sing. I knew a man that used dirty limericks. For now, just try. We will walk from this column to the other wall, and gauge your progress at the end."
She placed her hands on the shoulder of the first man she came to. There was a second, perhaps two, or nothing before an intense light burned from her hands and onto the injured man's body. He gasped out his thanks weakly before falling into an old child's prayer while the small knight moved on. She did not stop at every bed, but favored the most gravely injured. At one cot, a quarter of the way down, she stopped abruptly and stared at a horribly wounded unconscious man.
"Darian, get behind me." She never raised her voice but her tone brooked no argument. The injured soldier's skin was gray with blood loss, but the arteries stood out stark red. As they watched, the red was gradually overtaken by a creeping shade of sickly green-brown. Norisel took her mace from it's hook on her belt and waited. She was very grateful for her helmet now. She hated when the recruits saw her crying.
The man shuddered and died, only laying still for a fraction of a heartbeat before Norisel's weapon came down and smashed it's head to a fetid pulp.
 
"Wait," Darian said as he followed Norisel towards the cots. "I get to train, with...you? And what do you mean that we will walk? I mean...just walk?" He looked at the cots of injured and dying and his heart ached for them. "I can't do what you do. I clean wounds and bind them, I sew flesh together and set broken bones. You're...you're special. You're blessed."

His grey eyes searched hers desperately, trying to make sense of the idea of simply walking and praying and healing without contact. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant Duskweaver. I don't think I'm what you're looking for. I think I'd just waste your time."
 
"If you think that is so, go report to Commander Dolanson and begin infantry training." She sheathed her mace and watched the corpsemen take away the truly dead. Her voice was just as calm and gentle as ever, but there was a quivering and frantic energy to her frame. It was if she was a barely contained mass of frustration and wrath. "These men will die. Nearly all of them. There are not hands enough, not healers enough. Any small skill might safe one of them. If you are not willing to try, go quickly before we don't have the cot for you as well."
She did not turn away from him, but a nearby cot was suddenly flashed with uncomfortably warm light. The injured man glowed for some time after, and seemed to sleep comfortably. A young woman (no, a girl too young for womanhood) glanced up in grateful adoration before moving on to the next cot. The girl couldn't have been more than thirteen, but she took the soldier's mangled hand and began to hum a hymn under her breath. The hand scabbed over and bones shifted under the scabs. Once the obvious damage was repaired and the bleeding stopped, she got up and moved on.
"If I am blessed, it is with faith. Faith is all you need. The Light provides."
 
Darian leveled his gaze at the feisty knight. "I'm not a killer," he informed her. "I don't intend to pick up a sword, but I never said I would not try. I just don't understand how you could ever expect a farmer to do what you do. I'm not like you. You're special. Blessed." He began to roll up the sleeves of his tunic. "If you want wounds stitched together and cleansed, a bone set in place or a destroyed limb amputated then I'm your man, but if you expect glowing lights and vibrating musical energy to emanate from me with the frequency that flatulence flows from the arses of orcs then you will be disappointed."

With that he began to walk down the isle and look over the wounded. There were other priests like the lieutenant who could heal with their faith, but Darian knew only what he knew. Sometimes a wound would heal or knight under his care with the quickness of a fluttering moth, but oftentimes it was his skill with his hands and the patience in his heart that healed. He did wish that he could walk and pray, as she did, and heal without a touch, but he did not have that kind of confidence. He glanced over at her as he took up a position next to a wounded man who had a spear shaft through his side. The man's eyes were white with pain and anxiety.

"Easy brother," Darian comforted. "You will not die from this; but you'll be too sore to dance for a few days I think." He smiled at the man and began to work on him.
 
She seemed taken aback by his words and stood perfectly still for a moment or two before laughing, hard. Her small form veritably shook with girlish giggles until she managed to regain her composure.
"It's enough." Norisel said, voice heavy with relief. The pair moved slowly down the line of cots though it seemed that the lieutenant didn't need to be moving at all. More than once another healer would call out for aid and, as swift as lightning, a flash would hit a specific cot. Sometimes the flashes hit several yards away, and more than once they hit without the knight even turning. By the tenth such flash, Norisel was walking more slowly. Another few and she was breathing heavily enough that her armor couldn't hide it. By the time Darian was on his third patient, she was sitting beside the cot.
Another healer brought her a cup of tea and she cradled it in her unarmored hands. The liquid shook in the cup.
"It has started again." She muttered, taking off her helmet and sipping the tea. "Those damned creatures can't give us a moment's rest."
Outside the pavilion, men started to yell and the war-drums began pounding. She drank the tea quickly and the shaking stopped. Though the sounds of fighting seemed close, her face showed no fear at all, only a serene detachment while she took a few deep breaths.
"It's going to get busy. I suppose this is your trial by fire."
 
"You're going to hurt yourself by pushing too hard," Darian said when he noticed Norisel shaking. "Lieutenant Duskweaver you're going to be good to no one, you know, if you let yourself get drained." He looked up when she said that 'it' was starting again. He blinked his eyes in wearing caution.

"I've never fought. I don't want to be a fighter," he said, looking back at her. He blinked twice and picked up his staff. "What can I do to be the most help?"
 
"We will both do the most good by staying here, at least for now. I may be called away if the fighting gets too severe." She smiled sickly. Apparently, the woman was no more thrilled to be fighting than he was. "I'm not much of a fighter myself. The best I can manage is to keep myself alive while the real warriors do the work."
She seemed much more steady now, but the light pulses were absent.
 
Something about the way she smiled...or didn't smile...made Darian rethink his opinion of her. "How does this work? This power," he waved a hand over her as if to indicate the magical power she channeled to heal people around her. "Does it come from your god or does it come from you? Does it drain you like a cistern of healing waters?"

He moved closer to her and then sat down near her. "There must be more to this then simply killing these dead creatures and trying to scratch a life from the remnants of civilization. There must be something behind this...affliction that has taken its toll across our land. If we can find out what caused all this evil to spread across the land then maybe we can stop it." He looked at her with a question in his eyes, as if he was asking for her to confirm his thoughts.
 
She frowned and looked into her clay mug of tea as if it would have answers for her. How was she going to explain the Light to him? Her own teacher had said that it was like describing color to a blind man, and now she saw how true it was.
"It's faith, I suppose. There are nonbelievers that heal this way, but they are always weaker. Healing takes concentration, and it draws from my own strength, to a degree. In a quiet room, I could maintain a steady stream of light indefinitely. If I press harder, I could bring twenty men from death's door before collapsing." She didn't seem to be bragging, but Norisel didn't hide the amount of sheer power she held, either.
"There is a leader of this army," She admitted grimly. "We don't know his name yet, but... His knights have been sighted. They are... Horrific."
 
Darian nodded, his suspicions confirmed. It was a relief to know that it wasn't a mindless horror they faced but something solid; a being or beast that could be destroyed. Kill the head, the body will wither... true with snakes and also with leaders. He always believed that those who lived for righteousness and truth would prevail no matter the obstacles before them.

"If you're not one of the fighters then why not rest? Sleep; allow yourself to heal inside until you are needed." He stood near the diminutive knightess, his staff clasped in one hand as he regarded his lieutenant. "I'll watch over you if you will rest easier."
 
She smiled, a true smile this time, all warmth and summer sun. Rest would be heavenly, but...
"MAKE A HOLE! MOVE IT!" Someone bellowed from the back of the pavilion. Healers scrambled to make room for a group of heavily armed warriors as they carried in...
"Oh... Oh no..." Norisel bolted upright, pale face turning positively gray. The group of soldiers supported the body of an older human man who bled from countless punctures in his heavily decorated armor. The blood drained out like water from a wicker basket and left a trail behind them. "That's the commander. We... Oh, Light have mercy. Come on. I need more hands."
She dropped her tea unceremoniously and grabbed Darian by the hand, dragging him towards the gruesome scene. Healers of all sorts were crowding around the commander, flickers and flashes of light strobing over his armor like a firefly swarm. Horrifyingly enough, for every flash, more blood seemed to pour out.
"Stop! Stop it, you're making it worse!" Norisel dropped Darian's hand and forced her way through the crowd. A priest in fine robes collapsed from exhaustion, and no one seemed to notice. The commander seemed to improve for a split second, the blood slowing to a few drips before beginning with new speed. It seemed far too much blood for a single man. "He's not infected. Let him die."
A couple of the fresher-looking healers looked at the diminutive woman in horror, but the older ones nodded and stepped back without a fuss. It didn't take long for the wounded man to bleed out and Norisel held his armored hand the whole time.
"Brother Greyhe, have you ever participated in a resurrection?" She asked quietly. The gathered crowd stared grimly at the fallen man and many of the younger soldiers looked downright terrified. This was a difficult endeavor, well known to be horribly dangerous for everyone involved, but without the commander to lead them what chance did the army have?
 
Darian looked up with horror at the decimated body of the commander. All the attempts to save him seemed destined to fail, and it was with a sense of profound relief that he heard Lieutenant Duskweaver order the others to let the commander die. He saw the horrified looks on the others' faces and had to wonder about their reaction. After so much exposure to the horrors of the battlefield, how could one man's uninfected death cause them such pain? He, at least, was going to Glory with a pure soul.

So it was with a look of disbelief that he heard Norisel's question. "What? You don't mean to yank this man out of his eternal reward and back here simply because you're scared of going on without him? That's cruel! I would not bring my worst enemy back to this hell-on-earth if he had died and was already on the other side." He shook his head at his new commander. "Before you seriously consider ripping him out of eternal bliss to force him back here you should consider the motivation for such an idea. Is it for his benefit, or because of your fear, that you would consider such a thing?"
 
Judging from the pained look on Norisel's young face, she had already thought of these things. She hated this part, sometimes.
"I have standing orders from the commander himself." She said stiffly, looking down at the corpse. Her face softened slightly and she looked up at Darian with a very sad smile. "If it eases your conscience, I can't 'yank' anyone back. They have to pull themselves back, I only offer them a hand to lead them back."
She didn't dare voice what the rest of the gathered soldiers were thinking. If the commander died, there was no one capable of leading in his place. Without the commander, the army would crumble and the cities and families they defended would fall too quickly. Even without the commander's express permission, Norisel would have tried to raise him. It was a simple matter to trade his peaceful death for the chance to save thousands.
"Do it quickly, lass, we need him back before the lines collapse again." On of the warriors said, shuffling on his feet.
The lieutenant took several deep breaths and nodded. Her canted green eyes closed while her lips still moved in silent prayer. The other healers crowded closer, one man pulled out a ceremonial rattle and beat it softly against his thigh while several priests sang an indistinct hymn in a language unlike anything heard on earth. Tense heartbeats passed, Norisel seemed to grow visibly smaller as she sagged under the strain. For that matter, everyone around the corpse seemed to weaken. The rattle's rhythm faltered and broke, the priests fell silent and... The commander hacked and coughed his way to a sitting position.
"Good girl, good girl." The fallen man choked out, nearly bowling the small knight over with a pat on the back. "Help me up, men, come on! There's work to be done."
"How many is that now, Norisel?" One of the healers asked, pushing Darian gently out of the way so he could help the woman up. The soldiers followed the commander out, bawling orders the whole way.
"Fifty-four. Though the commander is three of that number now." She accepted the hand up and pointedly avoided meeting Darian's eyes. He had been right, and they both knew it.
 
Darian didn't like what they were doing but he understood that they had orders...no matter how wrong the were. He didn't know what to do to loan his energy to the resurrection so he did nothing. In truth, he didn't want them to succeed. It was still wrong; a robbing of the Death God of someone who had earned his way to eternity in an honorable matter. He watched the priests hovering between saving lives and raising the dead, mixing what he believed to be pure magic with the dark arts as if it was a simple recipe that they could manipulate without consequences.

Everything had consequences.

He waited until the commander was taken up and moved away. Once the majority of the healers had gone on to other things, Darian found a moment to get close to his lieutenant. "Ma'am...I mean no disrespect, but please consider my concerns. You brought back people fifty-four times? That's over half a century of defying Death. Each of those times takes a bit of your soul, until you have nothing left. You have to stop, Lieutenant! You cannot battle evil with evil and think that good will come out of it. How will there be any other commanders to rise up and lead if you do not let those who have fallen pass on?"

Darian put a hand over hers. "I know that I'm no one to you. I have no rank here, no station and have earned no respect from my peers. But you need to do stop doing that. It's wrong and it will kill your soul."
 
Norisel watched him patiently and allowed him to speak his mind. Nothing he could say would change her orders, or her mind for that matter. There was just too much at stake.
"Brother Greyhe, this army is the sole protection left for this kingdom and several others. My own home is only a few days march to the south. The undead horde has been moving south at a predictable pace, pushing refugees ahead of them. Last Tuesday I helped direct a group of two hundred orphans to safety. If it takes my soul to give them even a single chance, I gladly give it." Nothing in her voice or face suggested that this was a dramatic gesture. The young woman was calm and matter-of-fact. This was a decision she had made too long ago.
"I can assure you, though, that my soul is safe thus far," She stood and inhaled deeply before looking around her for their next task. "I have been told, by wiser men than either of us, that erosion only occurs when the soul is lost. As it was explained to me, resurrection spells involve sending a small bit of one's own soul into the aether and using that bit to guide the departed soul back into this realm. If the Departed is lost, that bit of your own soul is left behind. I have never failed, so it stands that my soul is intact. There is... grave risk involved, I know. I don't do this lightly, believe me. But the fact stands that very few of us have the abilities it would take to end this. The commander is one of them."
 
Darian shook his head. "You can't erode something that isn't there. That man told you what you needed to hear to do what he wanted you to do, and I'm sorry if he's someone you respect and what I'm saying is hurtful." He drew a hand through his hair and then put a hand out to steady the knight.

"It's your soul. Do with it what you will. Now...I'll help however I can." With that he looked towards the doorway that the Commander had just gone through and sighed. "What do you want next of me?"
 
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