Great Responsibility

“Would it be insane to try to defeat The Great Undeath?”

The question landed hard. Clara turned still. The fire snapped, a small spark jumping out onto the stone hearth, drawing a glance from her. It quickly faded.

“It would be noble of you,” Clara began, “but that may not necessarily be your true path. Not to mention it would likely lead to snuffing out your spark.”

Silence lingered for a time. “What then is my true path?”

Clara did not answer, instead she rolled her left hand at Anna, signaling that she should answer it for herself.

“Returning home.”

The woman nodded thoughtfully. “Then that is your path. It also aligns with returning things to their more natural state. After all, you should not be here.”

“If I was summoned to confront The Great Undeath, but I leave without doing that, what about the realm?”

“Did you willingly come here or was it forced upon you?”

A nervous chuckle escaped Anna. “Well, I certainly wasn’t asked.”

“Then it is not your problem. The nobles created this by abusing magic. You should not be responsible for their consequences.”

“But they summoned me to stop it. It feels that if I leave without doing anything, I am failing.”

“Choosing to not take action is not the same as failing.”

“But I am failing my purpose.”

“If you feel it is your purpose to do something, then you should. However, you already said your true path was to return home.”

“Is it possible that I could do both?”

“Yes. But only because you genuinely wish to, not because of some unfounded obligation. You owe the realm nothing and you certainly owe the nobility nothing. This is their problem that they should be solving on their own, not dropping onto someone else.”

Anna found herself still staring at the damp pall piled up in her lap. She felt overwhelmed by everything. Clara looked at the exquisite cloth. “Maybe you should use the drying frame over there,” she offered gently, gesturing with her wrist to an unoccupied wooden frame, folded closed, set against the wall near the fireplace.

“You said earlier you thought I was being manipulated?”

“Clearly the nobility have manipulated you,” she advised softly. “I have no idea what they said to you, but enough was said that it made you travel across the realm, passing through our area, on your way east towards Deadwater Bog.”

“Why don’t I remember any of that?”

“What do you remember?”

“Awaking in some catacombs with a funeral cloth over me and lying atop a stylus.”

“Before that?”

“Dying in my home world.”

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

Clara gave a quiet tut and rose, going over to the drying frame to unfold it, positioning it several feet back from the fire so as to not accidentally roast the expensive velvet. “Your pall is such a lovely thing, we should treat it kindly.”

She turned, holding out her hand and wrist to receive it from Anna.

“No, I should do it.” Anna rose slowly, shuffling painfully over to the frame, slowly spreading out the pall to dry. Clara wordlessly assisted.

“Quite sore from your travels?”

“It’s been a rough twenty four hours since my arrival.”

Clara shook her head as she finished with her side of spreading out the pall on the frame. “That does not make sense. You have been present in this realm for at least several weeks.” She tried a different approach. “Do you have any clues at all that conflict with your version of reality?”

Anna thought to her lost phone. “It was July in my home world when I died, but when I woke up I had an object that said September.”

“That confirms it then.”

“Confirms what?”

“I believe someone or something is altering your memory.”

“Could a magical object be doing that?”

“Seems plausible.”

Anna reached into her joey pocket, producing the filthy stylus, its length caked with bits of earth and stained by dried muddy residue. “At one time there was the soul of a necromancer trapped inside… but he died in the bog.”

“May I?”

“Sure.”

Clara received the stylus, considering it for a time. She then found a suitable rag, wetting it with some hot water from the kettle atop the trivet. She squeezed the rag to dampen it evenly, then set about cleaning the stylus. Once the caked earth and muddy stain was gone, she followed up with some fine powdered chalk on a clean portion of the rag, using it to polish away the dark tarnish on the crown-shaped metal topper, revealing shiny silver underneath.

“A unique, attractive object,” she admired. “What can you tell me of the person trapped inside?”

“Annoying. Sarcastic. Willing to use death magic without regret. Wanted me to be his apprentice in the worst way.” Anna made an irritated face for a time. She saw Clara looking at her expression. She softened it.

“By your change in expression, he was not entirely awful,” Clara replied, setting it down in front of Anna to retrieve when she wished.

“No. He was-” Anna searched for the right word, “-challenging.”

The stylus laid on the table between them. Anna half-expected it to suddenly make some wise crack but it remained silent, reduced to a mundane utensil.

“You said he died in Deadwater Bog? Would you elaborate?”

“A young man named Clayton and I were ambushed by some peat-preserved undead. The necromancer tried to command the undead to attack us. Instead they turned on him.”

Clara’s eyes widened, her expression changing to surprise, then abrupt worry. “Clayton?”

“Yes, he is one of the witch hunters that caught up with me in the catacombs. We escaped together, thanks to the necromancer.” Anna returned to the stool, sitting down slowly, placing her elbows on the table. She folded her arms on the table and buried her face in them. “I don’t know what to do. Apparently all I can do is cast death magic, but I don’t want to become a villian.”

“Death magic is generally evil in nature, but using it respectfully and responsibly is not necessarily evil.” Clara rejoined Anna, sitting across from her.

“With great power comes great responsibility,” Anna replied, her voice muffled by her arms.

“Well said.” Clara leaned forward, resting her fingertips on Anna’s elbow. “Is that another of Mister Newton’s laws?”

“Ben Parker.”

Clara withdrew her hand, falling quiet for a time. “You must be famished.” She rose and began to move about the kitchen. Anna kept her head down, listening to the various sounds as the thoughtful woman prepared something. Wood slid, ceramic clinked, and the knife rasped. The smell of wild strawberries soon overcame the room’s lingering scent of baked bread.

Looking up, a brick shaped loaf of bread sat atop a bread board in front of Anna. Incorrectly leaven, the squat bread’s dark brown crust was traversed by cracks and showed signs of scorch marks from overbaking. Clara had sliced the brick into thick slabs. One slab faced up, slathered with a generous layer of strawberry preserve.

Anna nearly cried at the sight.