Revived

There weren’t always dragons in the valley.

That’s probably why it was such a shock when one killed him.

Light and heat poured over him from behind. The rising sun would be spilling between the Fingers, massive stone formations grasping at the sky along the eastern ridge.

What was he just thinking about? It was hard to concentrate for some reason.

Harron swelled as he took in the entirety of the spectacular haven spread before him between two jagged ridges high in the Plunderpeaks. Spring had burst into the valley with a vengeance after an unusually bitter winter; yellow poppies, clustered white izote, and bushes laden with sacred, magenta angel’s trumpets sprang into bloom seemingly overnight. Good omens all, for a people accustomed to hard winters and dwindling food stores each spring. Early crops would be plenteous, promised the Healers.

The scents of flowers, of rich, dark soil heavy with snowmelt, and of Spring itself, filled the valley, captivating his senses. The sun sat low before him in the west, but he felt no need to squint or shield his eyes. The sun was life, melting the snows and bringing the dead valley back to life. Revived. His valley. His home. His spirit soared, and he felt like he might do so as well.

Why had he never noticed all this before? He had to get home and tell… who would he tell? He couldn’t remember, but someone, for sure.

Wait, the sun is in front of him? Wasn’t it just behind him? That’s odd, and nothing very odd ever happened here. He vaguely remembered thinking the valley a dull, miserable place to spend a lifetime, barely prevented from fleeing forever by the snowbound passes. But just now, filled with the splendor of it, he felt a peace he’d never thought possible before.

Then he noticed the body below him.

His body. Broken and filthy.

Well, that’s odd, too. How do you suppose that happened?

Dragons. The thought intruded, most unwelcome.

Ah. Horrible little creatures, clever and baleful. Where had they come from? Where had they gone?

Wait, his body!

“Oh, crackshatter!” He didn’t usually speak such a filthy vulgarity, not out loud, anyway, but he didn’t think anyone would mind.

Finally, he looked around, really looked, a sickening shiver ripping through his middle. He floated a good 20 spans above the ground as the field medic made a hasty inspection of his lifeless corpse, her shoulders slumping as she rose and moved woodenly on to the next of many. The valley resembled a kicked anthill, if most of the ants were dead or maimed, and most of the rest wandered shellshocked through the smoke and ash and ruined bodies. How had he not noticed this before? How had he not remembered?

“No, wait. Don’t go! I’m not dead!”

Except, of course, he was.

He tried to go after the medic, but realized he wasn’t quite sure he had legs, not that he could have reached the ground if he did. He stretched after her, groaning, then made swimming motions with his arms, willing his legs – if he had any – to kick. Nothing.

“You’re silly!”

He would have jumped right out of his skin if he’d been in it just then.

Every bedtime story he’d ever been told by his older brothers and not-so-well-meaning Aunt Maym about the Dark Reapers of Souls burst into his mind. He’d have pissed himself if he’d had a bladder.

A chill like a creeping centipede raced up his back as, in that frozen moment, she floated right through him from behind, stopping with the end of her nose just inches from his, opal eyes beaming right through his.

This was no Dark Reaper. Probably.

“You’re so silly!” she said again, somehow especially emphasizing each word. “You always say you want some adventure, but when it finally comes, you just go and get killed right off! Don’t even get me started about your swimming. How have you not drowned before now?”

“Who the hell are you?

“Well! Now you’ve gone and insulted me. I’m sure I’ll never forgive you. ‘Hell,’ indeed! Quite the opposite, in fact. I am your faery godmother!” Her nose rose right along with her mock indignation.

“What, really?”

“NO, not really! Do I LOOK like a – oh, never mind!”

As she spoke, she floated backward, spreading her arms and drawing his attention to her whole form before dropping them with playful disgust. Tall and slim, she wore a flowing gown of light that seemed to shimmer with colors that simply did not exist. He could never have conceived of such beauty; she looked like joy incarnate.

“Who ARE you?”

“You may call me Joy. And close your mouth, please. You must learn that in this state we communicate with thought. You realize you have no physical mouth or lungs to form actual words of sound, yes?”

He nodded stupidly.

“You don’t need to nod either – oh, why must you make this so hard?” she pressed her fingertips against her temples. “Ugh, ok. We have one little problem. You’re dead, and you’re not supposed to be, yet.” She tapped her finger on the side of her chin.

“Yet? When am I supposed to be dead?”

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m saying something profound.”

“How do I know when you’re saying something profound?”

“Because, silly, EVERYTHING I say is profound. I’m your faery godmother!”

“But, I thought….”

“Don’t interrupt!”

“Sorry.”

“So, we have this little problem. Therefore, we simply need to get you alive again, right?”

“Um, right?”

“Now, our other problem is…”

“I thought you said we only had one problem?”

“I thought I said, ‘don’t interrupt!’ You truly only hear what you want to hear, then?”

He clamped his jaw shut as his insides twisted into knots. How could he feel so many sensations without a body? Could he still vomit? Good questions for another day.

“Our OTHER problem is, well, I can’t quite raise people from the dead. Not by myself anyway. Any ideas?”

“Not by yourself? How CAN you raise people from the dead?”

“Well, I at least need a person to work through, I guess. Preferably someone who’ll use some kind of herbs or enliveners, something that I can kind of charge up.”

“You guess? Are you telling me you’ve never done this before?” he gaped.

“Well, you’ve never died before. When exactly was I supposed to practice?”

“What about the medic?” Suddenly hopeful, he jerked his gaze around hoping the medic hadn’t disappeared into the slow-churning chaos, but miraculously she had only moved a few spans away. Time seemed to flow around the two of them like thickened pine sap.

“Oh, you have medics, how fun!” She seemed to sparkle more than normal as a dozen or so lavender butterflies burst upward from a clump of trampled flowers, made two loops around the medic’s head, and then began fluttering around his pale, dead face.

“I just love butterflies, don’t you?”

“What in the name of…” the medic muttered.

Joy’s sparkles flared.

“I think… I think I need to…” the baffled medic knelt beside Harron’s body and began pulling every last bottle, stone and instrument from her satchel.

“What are you doing there, Setale? That one’s good and dead. I saw him fall.”

“Never you mind, Axyl. Do your job, and I’ll do mine.”

Axyl backed off, muttering about crazy, half-trained medics wasting supplies and how they shouldn’t be in the field until they knew a lost cause on sight, but he’d seen enough battle for one day, apparently.

As Setale worked, Joy turned back to Harron grinning like a child who’d stolen sweets and gotten clean away with it.

“What? What are you looking so weird about? You should be jumping for joy that you’re going to be alive again.”

“If this works, will I ever see you again?” he finished in a whisper.

“Yes, in a little while. Or is it, ‘in a long time?’ I get so confused being inside time like this.” Her face became genuinely serious for the first time that he’d seen, all playfulness vanishing from her voice as well. “I must warn you; things will not be as they were. These events, difficult as they may be, have brought you back to your true path from which you’ve strayed. This is the way of things. Never fear, I will be there to guide you, and there will be others. You are supported. I promise.”

Her dead certainty took him aback, but…

“My true path? Others? What does that mean? What is my….”

With a shock like jumping into icy Shimmer Lake, a new perspective slammed into place in his mind. He gasped, looking directly up into the terrified medic’s stunned face.

Then, the world exploded.

He felt everything. He lived, yes, but his body wasn’t exactly healed. He felt like he’d tumbled down from the very tip of the Fingers. His nose and mouth flooded with sensation: blood and gore, smoke and sweat, and the bizarre, acrid residue the dragons had left hanging in the still air.

Old Axle jumped as if he’d seen his own Dark Reapers coming for him and let out a cry like a mountain grolm in a trap, stirring all within earshot. Quickly, all seemed to register that there was no threat, but what had elicited such an outcry?

Curious voices closed in.

“He’s alive?”

“Risen from the dead!”

“A miracle!”

“Quiet, the first words of the Revived are holy, words brought back from the Halls of Angels.”

“Revived? Blessed be!”

“We have a Revived among us!”

Harron opened his mouth, hoping his incredible experience would bring something really impressive to his lips.

“He’s destined to lead us to victory over all our enemies!” someone in the crowd shouted.

Wait, what???

“Oooooh, crackshatter.”