(Here You can listen to audio version:
)
Today I’m going to tell you about a necromancer… Not just any necromancer, but the Necromancer… The one who was the first to make a pact with Death, who was the first to learn its dark secrets, who coined the creed of the ancient brotherhood of graveyard sorcerers….
But let’s start at the beginning. Centuries ago… No, more than centuries, thousands of years ago. It’s hard to say how long ago, because there are no chronicles so old as to date back to that time… In some country in the East; the name of that land, the name of the people who inhabited it, the language that people spoke, the names of the cities they inhabited. All this is lost in the darkness of oblivion….So, as I say, thousands of years ago, in some country in the East, there lived a man. An ordinary craftsman. He made pots out of clay. He couldn’t be called rich, but he certainly wasn’t poor. Well, he earned enough to provide a decent living for himself, his wife and two sons. And he could even afford small pleasures from time to time, such as a jug of wine for dinner or a small trinket for his beloved….
But, although his wife was beautiful and diligent, and his sons were healthy and diligent too, this man was deeply unhappy. What was the reason for this?… His profession.
First of all, when a man sits at the potter’s wheel performing monotonous and familiar motions by heart, he often does so in passing, while his mind is sunk in contemplation.
Secondly, the potter’s life and work provided him with plenty of material for musings that were not very cheerful.
But before I go any further, you should know something : the people among whom the man lived have always been afraid of wraiths( the cursed corpses that walk the earth to harass the living). Ironically, the people feared the undead at a time when there was still no necromancer who could summon them from beyond the grave…. Therefore, they did not bury the corpse as we do today. Each body went to a pyre made of dry wood, which the priests set on fire. The pyre burned until all that was left of the deceased was ash, at which time the assembled family praised the merits of the deceased and raised a lament. The conflagration ritual was meant to ensure that the dead would not take revenge on the living, and the annihilation of the body was meant to prevent them from doing so, should the rite itself not be enough. When the fire was extinguished, the priests would collect the ashes and pour them into a clay urn, which was then buried in the ground.
We should remember that the future Necromancer was engaged in the processing of clay. But, as you already know, his creations were not only used to store wine, beer, water or milk… They were also a resting place for the dead members of his community. So, the Necromancer was not only a simple potter, but also a bit of a mortician. Every time someone died, the family of the unfortunate person would come to the potter’s workshop to order a new vessel in which the ashes would be placed. Therefore, the craftsman was aware of every death occurring in the area.
At first, this man felt a certain pride in the important role he played in society. After all, he ensured the souls of the dead a peaceful rest, and guarded the boundary between the world of the living and the hereafter… He had a stake in this as much as the priests .After all, they knew what prayers to say during a funeral, but they themselves could not create urns that were at least as important as the prayers they offered.
It was not uncommon for a potter to go to a funeral to watch what was left of the deceased’s mortal shell go into an urn. A person’s body, his entire earthly life, was finally housed in the vessel that his hands had made….Yes, at first this reflection was a cause of pride for the craftsman. He was young and foolish at the time. But over time, the thought that everyone, sooner or later, would become just a pile of ashes enclosed in an urn buried in the ground, became a cause of anxiety and bitterness for him.
Everyone was dying. Everyone. There was no turning back. This thought did not leave the future Necromancer day and night. As he caressed his wife’s hair and skin, he couldn’t relish it – he kept thinking about how her beauty would one day begin to fade as the inexorable old age arrived, until it would disappear completely when the inevitable death came. Looking at his sons, full of joy of life and strength, he couldn’t be proud of them ; all the time thinking about the fact that their youth was merely a postponement of judgment. While molding another urn, he couldn’t rejoice in his future earnings. He kept thinking about the fact that one day someone would pour his and his loved ones’ ashes into such a vessel. When he went to bed, he thought about how sleep was similar to death. When he woke up in the morning, he thought about how pointless it was to get out of bed ;after all, everything he had done was just a plaything in the face of what had to come. He might as well lie there and wait to die.
And so the thought of death flavored every moment of the potter’s life with bitterness. He raised prayers to the Gods to send him solace, but the Gods remained silent. Besides, what was the point of praying? Although the powers were said to have meddled in human affairs and lives, had anyone heard of the Gods saving anyone from the inevitable fate of all beings: death? No. As everybody could see, even they were powerless against it. Or did they not exist at all? After all, he didn’t see them with his own eyes.
But… Even if the Gods did not exist, there was another force ruling the universe. Impetuous, all-powerful… It could not be doubted because every day it showed its power. The only certainty in all the chaos was death itself.
And so the Necromancer stopped praying to the Gods and started making supplications to Death. And this time, he was heard.
What really happened then? The modern necromancers tell it differently. Some say: “Yes, there is such a thing as the God of Death, the Terrible One, an all-powerful being from whose hand no one escapes. Somewhere out there, beyond the veil of matter, hidden deep in the inaccessible, primordial layers of eternal Chaos. It rests and observes the world and mortals, its subjects… And sometimes, when its gaze rests on a promising being, its makes him its prophet… Who will comprehend its intentions?” Others shake their heads, answering: “No, Death is not a deity. It is something more. It is the fundamental power in the Universe, It is the basic nature of everything that exists, it is the force that drives the spokes of the Great Wheel… One can try to oppose it, but what is the point? It won’t accomplish anything. Nor is it possible to win its favor. But… Just as a ship going with the tide, positions itself so that the wind blows in its sails, plows the waves unhindered so you can follow this great power that is Death… And then its strength will become your strength, and the currents of life lost by others will flow directly into your soul.”
Anyway, great changes have taken place in the Necromancer’s life. At first he didn’t notice them, until one day he accidentally grasped which way was the way to realize his dreams. His wife asked him to buy a goat so that their family would have fresh milk every day. The necromancer went to a nearby farm, where he exchanged freshly fired pots for the animal. He led the goat towards his house. At one point, the creature stopped. Tugging on the halter didn’t help, shouting didn’t help, the goat didn’t even think to move. It just stood there and barfed. Seeing that his attempts were to no avail, full of anger the Necromancer sat down on a nearby stone.
“Damned cattle!” – He growled at the disobedient goat. “Life is so short, and because of you I’m wasting a chunk of it on a stupid jerk!” – he muttered, unloading all his grief to the world on the animal. What? Aren’t you going to say anything? Maybe you could somehow make up for my lost time, LOST LIFE!” .He yelled, extending his hand toward the goat. Unexpectedly, the animal, which until then had remained insensitive to reproach, made a despairing moan, much louder than before, and took a few steps back.
At the same time, the Necromancer felt… strength. The fatigue disappeared. He felt crisp, as if he had just gotten out of bed. This feeling was so sudden that it seemed suspicious to the man. And his suspicions were going in a certain direction….
“Well, calm down now, come here, I won’t hurt you…” – he tried to make his voice sound soothing and reassuring as he approached the terrified goat. Finally, he ran his fingers into its fur.
“Well, give me some of your life, little goat…” – he muttered. He tried to imagine the force flowing from the animal’s body to his own. And indeed, the longer he did this, the better he felt. The energy was buoying him up. To say he felt rested is an understatement… Now he felt like he had lost years! Yes, he knew that wasn’t quite the case… He wasn’t getting any younger… But maybe… Maybe if he tried harder… He would make it! At that moment he realized that the poor goat was barely standing on its feet, trembling and moaning quietly. He pulled his hands away from her. After all, he did not want to put the animal to death. “ Don’t be afraid, little goat… Just in addition to milk, you will also give me something much more valuable”. – he said. This time there was sympathy in his voice – after all, this animal gave him hope to overcome his fears.
From then on, the Necromancer regularly fed on the goat’s life force, trying to draw enough to keep her from dying. Besides, she was not his only “feeder”. The potter became a regular at cattle markets. He could be spotted going from one animal to the next, occasionally patting down a particularly mature piece to check its fat and muscle. Curiously, he never bought any. One day the Necromancer thought: Since I can receive, maybe I can also give?. He began to conduct tests. He kept some of the strength he took from the animals for himself, and sent some to his wife and children. It worked.
Good days have come for the potter. Yes, he had not yet found a way to avoid death, but he finally gained hope that it was possible! All he had to do was fill his body with the life force he had taken from time to time. What’s more, he could also feed his loved ones with it!
The potter rejoiced that his wife was always full of strength and rest, that she was endowed with new life and became even more beautiful, full of energy and joy. He rejoiced that his sons were becoming healthier and stronger than all the other young men, that they were leading among their peers. He rejoiced when he worked and his hands did not get tired. He rejoiced when he went to bed, knowing that he would wake up crisp and rested. He rejoiced when he got up, knowing that with his new powers he would be able to do so much today.
He hoped it would always be like this.
He knew perfectly well to whom the thanks for these changes were due. Oh, yes, he still pretended to worship the gods to avoid condemnation from his countrymen. But for the silent, powerless deities, he had only voiceless lip movements, while during each prayer, deep in his heart, he sang grateful hymns in honor of Death, who deigned to move her punishing hand away from him.
The day came when his new faith was put to the test. He sat in his workshop, quietly preparing the next batch of pots to be fired. He whistled while working – why wouldn’t he? Everything was going perfectly. Suddenly he heard some shouting. He went out in front of the house to see what was going on. Imagine his horror when he saw his son being carried in his friend’s arms. The rag tied around his head was soaked with blood. Climbing onto nearby rocks, he had fallen and hit his temple.
The friends carried the unconscious young man to the home of the potter’s family and laid him on a bed. The priest came, but all he was able to do was wave his incense stick over the boy and recite a few formulas. An old healer came, but all she was able to do was soak the bandage in an infusion of herbs , because the wounded young man wouldn’t be able to swallow it. The unconscious man’s mother and brother kept vigil at his bedside, but all they were able to do was cry and lament.
At the time, the potter was looking for a way to REALLY help his child. He could sense the life force leaving his body like blood oozing from a wound. He tried to replenish the cavities with his own, but to no avail . It was like trying to fill a leaking bucket with water poured through a tiny colander.
The man was overwhelmed by despair. What good was it if he was not able to protect himself and his family from old age and loss of strength, if they could still die from a simple mishap? Liberation from the fear of death was only a naive dream…
Suddenly the potter realized that he had to give his son enough strength in one fell swoop to get his body to heal before he lost it again. At the same time, the Necromancer felt that he was unable to do so. He had already given away too much, if he tried to give the rest to the child now, he would die himself, and he would not help the wounded. He needed more strength… With all his speed, he ran in front of the house, where a goat stood tied to a post. He hooked his fingers into its fur like a hawk sinking its talons into the flesh of its prey, and began to scoop. And he didn’t stop even when the animal fell dead, he kept scooping until he squeezed out the last “drops” of energy, so that the goat’s corpse became a shriveled, decaying corpse into dust. Then he returned home.
It was already night. His wife and second son, tired of watching over the wounded man, were drowsy. The potter leaned over the unconscious man, then gently touched his head right next to the wound. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then began to give his son his gathered strength. After a while, it began to have an effect. Of course, the potter was not a trained doctor, he did not know the principles of the human body, but thanks to his power over life energy, he sensed instinctively what was happening. The body, which had received such a great boost, was beginning to fight back with redoubled strength. He could feel his son’s body starting to produce new blood to replenish losses, he could feel the wound on his head starting to heal slowly and the bones to knit together. It wasn’t an immediate process, but it was a step in the right direction. When the potter took his hand off the child’s head, he knew the child would survive.
He went outside to bury the goat carcass. The sight of it might have aroused someone’s suspicion. The potter had no remorse. Since animals were killed to eat their meat, wasn’t it all the more justifiable to sacrifice the life of a cattle to save his own son?
Nevertheless, the Necromancer had crossed a line. For the first time, he killed with magic. He didn’t attach any importance to it, especially in view of the joy the whole family felt the next morning when the wounded man opened his eyes and, in a weak voice, asked what had happened… But, looking back on what would happen later, it was the first step into darkness.
More days passed, and the potter was even happier than before. Because now he knew that he could protect his family from any threat. As long as he could find the right source of power…
Of course, this is not the end of the story. A plague swept into the land. People were languishing by the dozens. There were so many corpses that not even a dignified burial was cared for according to ritual – bodies were thrown on a pile to burn together, and then the ashes were poured into a mass grave. Dying people lay in the streets, covered with hideous boils. Their relatives threw them out of their homes, hoping that in this way they would protect themselves from infection. Priests circulated among the houses, singing hymns and brandishing their incense sticks. The saying “It helped like incense to the dead” fits here perfectly.
Of course, while Death was reaping such a bountiful harvest, its chosen one avoided a terrible fate. But not without cost. Day after day, without fail, the potter had to pump energy into his body and the bodies of his loved ones, so that they would have the strength to fend off the disease’s attacks at any moment. Sucking the life out of animals was not enough… He had to get a new and better source of power. Fortunately, the streets were full of it….Potter became a true angel of mercy. He walked from one sick person lying on the cobblestones to another, leaning over each of them. To each he whispered a good word, to each he stroked his head… Each of them died quickly and painlessly. As you can probably guess, the Necromancer helped each of them to transfer to the after-world.
The potter had no remorse. These people were dying anyway. Their life force would evaporate on its own if he didn’t suck it out. He didn’t let it go to waste. What does it mean to shorten the life of a dying person by a few hours in exchange for the opportunity to ensure a long and healthy life for his own family? In addition, he was shortening their suffering. He wasn’t doing anything wrong.
Nevertheless, the necromancer had crossed a line. He started killing people with magic. And while he only sacrificed the lives of those who had to die to save those who had a chance, from a later perspective it was another step into darkness.
News spread among his countrymen about a man who walks among the sick and dying, bringing them solace at the moment of death, while the plague itself did not touch him. Some began to murmur something about , “chosen by the Gods”. The potter paid no attention to this. He had other things on his mind.
Although he was drawing power to the
right and left, he realized that he couldn’t last long like this. He was not able to continually strengthen all the members of his family, day in and day out to remove from each of them the threat of developing the disease. He realized that if he continued to do this, he himself would fall from his strength, succumb to the disease… And then who would save his family? He couldn’t try to save everyone .If he wanted to save anyone, he had to decide who to sacrifice.
His choice was his younger son. He was weaker than his brother. And… he loved him less. No, not that he didn’t care about him at all. With a heavy heart he destined him to die. But someone had to.
He simply stopped giving him life force. Within a few days, the younger of his children developed the first patches of skin. Soon the son was only able to recoil in pain and moan. The potter’s heart sliced in his chest as he watched this… But he knew it was necessary.
The moment came when the Necromancer’s wife and his older son left the house to get something to eat. He himself was to stay with the sick man to tend to him. He sat right next to his bed, ready to give him water or serve him in some other way if necessary. Admittedly, this was not necessary… The dying man fell into a restless sleep, probably haunted by delirium because he quietly moaned. The potter sat down right next to him. Looking at his son’s face, covered with signs of illness, he began to feel remorse again. Perhaps he had too hastily sentenced him to death? Perhaps he would be able to keep his entire family alive after all?
While he was pondering like this, suddenly his descendant opened his eyes and looked at his father. He also parted his chapped lips and whispered in a voice full of suffering and despair , “Help me, father!”.
And his father helped him as much as he could. It was too late to change his plans, to try to cure his son, the disease had wreaked too much havoc in his body. The only thing he could do was to shorten his suffering….
The necromancer began to
But let’s start at the beginning. Centuries ago… No, more than centuries, thousands of years ago. It’s hard to say how long ago, because there are no chronicles so old as to date back to that time… In some country in the East; the name of that land, the name of the people who inhabited it, the language that people spoke, the names of the cities they inhabited. All this is lost in the darkness of oblivion….So, as I say, thousands of years ago, in some country in the East, there lived a man. An ordinary craftsman. He made pots out of clay. He couldn’t be called rich, but he certainly wasn’t poor. Well, he earned enough to provide a decent living for himself, his wife and two sons. And he could even afford small pleasures from time to time, such as a jug of wine for dinner or a small trinket for his beloved….
But, although his wife was beautiful and diligent, and his sons were healthy and diligent too, this man was deeply unhappy. What was the reason for this?… His profession.
First of all, when a man sits at the potter’s wheel performing monotonous and familiar motions by heart, he often does so in passing, while his mind is sunk in contemplation.
Secondly, the potter’s life and work provided him with plenty of material for musings that were not very cheerful.
But before I go any further, you should know something : the people among whom the man lived have always been afraid of wraiths( the cursed corpses that walk the earth to harass the living). Ironically, the people feared the undead at a time when there was still no necromancer who could summon them from beyond the grave…. Therefore, they did not bury the corpse as we do today. Each body went to a pyre made of dry wood, which the priests set on fire. The pyre burned until all that was left of the deceased was ash, at which time the assembled family praised the merits of the deceased and raised a lament. The conflagration ritual was meant to ensure that the dead would not take revenge on the living, and the annihilation of the body was meant to prevent them from doing so, should the rite itself not be enough. When the fire was extinguished, the priests would collect the ashes and pour them into a clay urn, which was then buried in the ground.
We should remember that the future Necromancer was engaged in the processing of clay. But, as you already know, his creations were not only used to store wine, beer, water or milk… They were also a resting place for the dead members of his community. So, the Necromancer was not only a simple potter, but also a bit of a mortician. Every time someone died, the family of the unfortunate person would come to the potter’s workshop to order a new vessel in which the ashes would be placed. Therefore, the craftsman was aware of every death occurring in the area.
At first, this man felt a certain pride in the important role he played in society. After all, he ensured the souls of the dead a peaceful rest, and guarded the boundary between the world of the living and the hereafter… He had a stake in this as much as the priests .After all, they knew what prayers to say during a funeral, but they themselves could not create urns that were at least as important as the prayers they offered.
It was not uncommon for a potter to go to a funeral to watch what was left of the deceased’s mortal shell go into an urn. A person’s body, his entire earthly life, was finally housed in the vessel that his hands had made….Yes, at first this reflection was a cause of pride for the craftsman. He was young and foolish at the time. But over time, the thought that everyone, sooner or later, would become just a pile of ashes enclosed in an urn buried in the ground, became a cause of anxiety and bitterness for him.
Everyone was dying. Everyone. There was no turning back. This thought did not leave the future Necromancer day and night. As he caressed his wife’s hair and skin, he couldn’t relish it – he kept thinking about how her beauty would one day begin to fade as the inexorable old age arrived, until it would disappear completely when the inevitable death came. Looking at his sons, full of joy of life and strength, he couldn’t be proud of them ; all the time thinking about the fact that their youth was merely a postponement of judgment. While molding another urn, he couldn’t rejoice in his future earnings. He kept thinking about the fact that one day someone would pour his and his loved ones’ ashes into such a vessel. When he went to bed, he thought about how sleep was similar to death. When he woke up in the morning, he thought about how pointless it was to get out of bed ;after all, everything he had done was just a plaything in the face of what had to come. He might as well lie there and wait to die.
And so the thought of death flavored every moment of the potter’s life with bitterness. He raised prayers to the Gods to send him solace, but the Gods remained silent. Besides, what was the point of praying? Although the powers were said to have meddled in human affairs and lives, had anyone heard of the Gods saving anyone from the inevitable fate of all beings: death? No. As everybody could see, even they were powerless against it. Or did they not exist at all? After all, he didn’t see them with his own eyes.
But… Even if the Gods did not exist, there was another force ruling the universe. Impetuous, all-powerful… It could not be doubted because every day it showed its power. The only certainty in all the chaos was death itself.
And so the Necromancer stopped praying to the Gods and started making supplications to Death. And this time, he was heard.
What really happened then? The modern necromancers tell it differently. Some say: “Yes, there is such a thing as the God of Death, the Terrible One, an all-powerful being from whose hand no one escapes. Somewhere out there, beyond the veil of matter, hidden deep in the inaccessible, primordial layers of eternal Chaos. It rests and observes the world and mortals, its subjects… And sometimes, when its gaze rests on a promising being, its makes him its prophet… Who will comprehend its intentions?” Others shake their heads, answering: “No, Death is not a deity. It is something more. It is the fundamental power in the Universe, It is the basic nature of everything that exists, it is the force that drives the spokes of the Great Wheel… One can try to oppose it, but what is the point? It won’t accomplish anything. Nor is it possible to win its favor. But… Just as a ship going with the tide, positions itself so that the wind blows in its sails, plows the waves unhindered so you can follow this great power that is Death… And then its strength will become your strength, and the currents of life lost by others will flow directly into your soul.”
Anyway, great changes have taken place in the Necromancer’s life. At first he didn’t notice them, until one day he accidentally grasped which way was the way to realize his dreams. His wife asked him to buy a goat so that their family would have fresh milk every day. The necromancer went to a nearby farm, where he exchanged freshly fired pots for the animal. He led the goat towards his house. At one point, the creature stopped. Tugging on the halter didn’t help, shouting didn’t help, the goat didn’t even think to move. It just stood there and barfed. Seeing that his attempts were to no avail, full of anger the Necromancer sat down on a nearby stone.
“Damned cattle!” – He growled at the disobedient goat. “Life is so short, and because of you I’m wasting a chunk of it on a stupid jerk!” – he muttered, unloading all his grief to the world on the animal. What? Aren’t you going to say anything? Maybe you could somehow make up for my lost time, LOST LIFE!” .He yelled, extending his hand toward the goat. Unexpectedly, the animal, which until then had remained insensitive to reproach, made a despairing moan, much louder than before, and took a few steps back.
At the same time, the Necromancer felt… strength. The fatigue disappeared. He felt crisp, as if he had just gotten out of bed. This feeling was so sudden that it seemed suspicious to the man. And his suspicions were going in a certain direction….
“Well, calm down now, come here, I won’t hurt you…” – he tried to make his voice sound soothing and reassuring as he approached the terrified goat. Finally, he ran his fingers into its fur.
“Well, give me some of your life, little goat…” – he muttered. He tried to imagine the force flowing from the animal’s body to his own. And indeed, the longer he did this, the better he felt. The energy was buoying him up. To say he felt rested is an understatement… Now he felt like he had lost years! Yes, he knew that wasn’t quite the case… He wasn’t getting any younger… But maybe… Maybe if he tried harder… He would make it! At that moment he realized that the poor goat was barely standing on its feet, trembling and moaning quietly. He pulled his hands away from her. After all, he did not want to put the animal to death. “ Don’t be afraid, little goat… Just in addition to milk, you will also give me something much more valuable”. – he said. This time there was sympathy in his voice – after all, this animal gave him hope to overcome his fears.
From then on, the Necromancer regularly fed on the goat’s life force, trying to draw enough to keep her from dying. Besides, she was not his only “feeder”. The potter became a regular at cattle markets. He could be spotted going from one animal to the next, occasionally patting down a particularly mature piece to check its fat and muscle. Curiously, he never bought any. One day the Necromancer thought: Since I can receive, maybe I can also give?. He began to conduct tests. He kept some of the strength he took from the animals for himself, and sent some to his wife and children. It worked.
Good days have come for the potter. Yes, he had not yet found a way to avoid death, but he finally gained hope that it was possible! All he had to do was fill his body with the life force he had taken from time to time. What’s more, he could also feed his loved ones with it!
The potter rejoiced that his wife was always full of strength and rest, that she was endowed with new life and became even more beautiful, full of energy and joy. He rejoiced that his sons were becoming healthier and stronger than all the other young men, that they were leading among their peers. He rejoiced when he worked and his hands did not get tired. He rejoiced when he went to bed, knowing that he would wake up crisp and rested. He rejoiced when he got up, knowing that with his new powers he would be able to do so much today.
He hoped it would always be like this.
He knew perfectly well to whom the thanks for these changes were due. Oh, yes, he still pretended to worship the gods to avoid condemnation from his countrymen. But for the silent, powerless deities, he had only voiceless lip movements, while during each prayer, deep in his heart, he sang grateful hymns in honor of Death, who deigned to move her punishing hand away from him.
The day came when his new faith was put to the test. He sat in his workshop, quietly preparing the next batch of pots to be fired. He whistled while working – why wouldn’t he? Everything was going perfectly. Suddenly he heard some shouting. He went out in front of the house to see what was going on. Imagine his horror when he saw his son being carried in his friend’s arms. The rag tied around his head was soaked with blood. Climbing onto nearby rocks, he had fallen and hit his temple.
The friends carried the unconscious young man to the home of the potter’s family and laid him on a bed. The priest came, but all he was able to do was wave his incense stick over the boy and recite a few formulas. An old healer came, but all she was able to do was soak the bandage in an infusion of herbs , because the wounded young man wouldn’t be able to swallow it. The unconscious man’s mother and brother kept vigil at his bedside, but all they were able to do was cry and lament.
At the time, the potter was looking for a way to REALLY help his child. He could sense the life force leaving his body like blood oozing from a wound. He tried to replenish the cavities with his own, but to no avail . It was like trying to fill a leaking bucket with water poured through a tiny colander.
The man was overwhelmed by despair. What good was it if he was not able to protect himself and his family from old age and loss of strength, if they could still die from a simple mishap? Liberation from the fear of death was only a naive dream…
Suddenly the potter realized that he had to give his son enough strength in one fell swoop to get his body to heal before he lost it again. At the same time, the Necromancer felt that he was unable to do so. He had already given away too much, if he tried to give the rest to the child now, he would die himself, and he would not help the wounded. He needed more strength… With all his speed, he ran in front of the house, where a goat stood tied to a post. He hooked his fingers into its fur like a hawk sinking its talons into the flesh of its prey, and began to scoop. And he didn’t stop even when the animal fell dead, he kept scooping until he squeezed out the last “drops” of energy, so that the goat’s corpse became a shriveled, decaying corpse into dust. Then he returned home.
It was already night. His wife and second son, tired of watching over the wounded man, were drowsy. The potter leaned over the unconscious man, then gently touched his head right next to the wound. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then began to give his son his gathered strength. After a while, it began to have an effect. Of course, the potter was not a trained doctor, he did not know the principles of the human body, but thanks to his power over life energy, he sensed instinctively what was happening. The body, which had received such a great boost, was beginning to fight back with redoubled strength. He could feel his son’s body starting to produce new blood to replenish losses, he could feel the wound on his head starting to heal slowly and the bones to knit together. It wasn’t an immediate process, but it was a step in the right direction. When the potter took his hand off the child’s head, he knew the child would survive.
He went outside to bury the goat carcass. The sight of it might have aroused someone’s suspicion. The potter had no remorse. Since animals were killed to eat their meat, wasn’t it all the more justifiable to sacrifice the life of a cattle to save his own son?
Nevertheless, the Necromancer had crossed a line. For the first time, he killed with magic. He didn’t attach any importance to it, especially in view of the joy the whole family felt the next morning when the wounded man opened his eyes and, in a weak voice, asked what had happened… But, looking back on what would happen later, it was the first step into darkness.
More days passed, and the potter was even happier than before. Because now he knew that he could protect his family from any threat. As long as he could find the right source of power…
Of course, this is not the end of the story. A plague swept into the land. People were languishing by the dozens. There were so many corpses that not even a dignified burial was cared for according to ritual – bodies were thrown on a pile to burn together, and then the ashes were poured into a mass grave. Dying people lay in the streets, covered with hideous boils. Their relatives threw them out of their homes, hoping that in this way they would protect themselves from infection. Priests circulated among the houses, singing hymns and brandishing their incense sticks. The saying “It helped like incense to the dead” fits here perfectly.
Of course, while Death was reaping such a bountiful harvest, its chosen one avoided a terrible fate. But not without cost. Day after day, without fail, the potter had to pump energy into his body and the bodies of his loved ones, so that they would have the strength to fend off the disease’s attacks at any moment. Sucking the life out of animals was not enough… He had to get a new and better source of power. Fortunately, the streets were full of it….Potter became a true angel of mercy. He walked from one sick person lying on the cobblestones to another, leaning over each of them. To each he whispered a good word, to each he stroked his head… Each of them died quickly and painlessly. As you can probably guess, the Necromancer helped each of them to transfer to the after-world.
The potter had no remorse. These people were dying anyway. Their life force would evaporate on its own if he didn’t suck it out. He didn’t let it go to waste. What does it mean to shorten the life of a dying person by a few hours in exchange for the opportunity to ensure a long and healthy life for his own family? In addition, he was shortening their suffering. He wasn’t doing anything wrong.
Nevertheless, the necromancer had crossed a line. He started killing people with magic. And while he only sacrificed the lives of those who had to die to save those who had a chance, from a later perspective it was another step into darkness.
News spread among his countrymen about a man who walks among the sick and dying, bringing them solace at the moment of death, while the plague itself did not touch him. Some began to murmur something about , “chosen by the Gods”. The potter paid no attention to this. He had other things on his mind.
Although he was drawing power to the
right and left, he realized that he couldn’t last long like this. He was not able to continually strengthen all the members of his family, day in and day out to remove from each of them the threat of developing the disease. He realized that if he continued to do this, he himself would fall from his strength, succumb to the disease… And then who would save his family? He couldn’t try to save everyone .If he wanted to save anyone, he had to decide who to sacrifice.
His choice was his younger son. He was weaker than his brother. And… he loved him less. No, not that he didn’t care about him at all. With a heavy heart he destined him to die. But someone had to.
He simply stopped giving him life force. Within a few days, the younger of his children developed the first patches of skin. Soon the son was only able to recoil in pain and moan. The potter’s heart sliced in his chest as he watched this… But he knew it was necessary.
The moment came when the Necromancer’s wife and his older son left the house to get something to eat. He himself was to stay with the sick man to tend to him. He sat right next to his bed, ready to give him water or serve him in some other way if necessary. Admittedly, this was not necessary… The dying man fell into a restless sleep, probably haunted by delirium because he quietly moaned. The potter sat down right next to him. Looking at his son’s face, covered with signs of illness, he began to feel remorse again. Perhaps he had too hastily sentenced him to death? Perhaps he would be able to keep his entire family alive after all?
While he was pondering like this, suddenly his descendant opened his eyes and looked at his father. He also parted his chapped lips and whispered in a voice full of suffering and despair , “Help me, father!”.
And his father helped him as much as he could. It was too late to change his plans, to try to cure his son, the disease had wreaked too much havoc in his body. The only thing he could do was to shorten his suffering….
The necromancer began to
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