Love Has No Grave

This story was inspired by "THE FINE" a song/YouTube video by Young Scrolls. I'm pretty sure this is the longest thing I've ever written, but... it's weird. It's really meta, as well. I can't remember writing a lot of this, even though it's been the only thing I've done for a few weeks. It can also be taken as a metaphor of my writing thus far. I realized that everything I've put up so far is pretty much the same, and this story reflects that, by being a story about death, thus the end to repeating ideas while also being one at the same time. The theme is also true to my writing, in that in writing this, I have created three paths to choose from: straight on, straight on but improved, or a completely different direction. Hopefully this makes sense and you like this story, and we both like where I go next.

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"We are bound by blood now, Sulva. Even if all of it is mine."

The corpse did not respond. It lay still upon the slab of stone it had been placed upon to receive the transfusion of the woman's blood. She had spent the week transferring small amounts of it at a time into his veins through a little tube. She had spent the rest of her time resting and keeping her strength up; following the warlock's instructions exactly. There was no room for mistakes if she were to resurrect her husband before he rotted away.

"You don't look any better, but that should be enough."

The woman leaned onto the dead man's chest and gazed upon the pallid face of the love she had lost. She whispered to him, as if he was simply in a deep sleep.

"The time is upon us, my love. You will return to me, and we will be a family again. Wait for me. I will be right back."

She rushed out of the house, slowing just enough to wrap her cloak around herself. The warlock lived on the outskirts of town, in a small tower by the waterside. The town had long since turned a blind eye to the questionable services the warlock carried out for various citizens in need, but those that did so took great pains to conceal their identities. None had come to the warlock with a need like she had. No one had surprised the warlock before, none had made him question the bounds of his power. To reverse death was a task fit for only the most skilled of those versed in the dark arts. It was the darkest art of them all compared to healing embarrassing diseases and other such paltry things the townspeople sought the warlock out for.

He had half expected never to see the woman again after that night she had come to him, inconsolable and desperate. Her pain was so great he was sure she would not be able to muster the heart enough from the shattered pieces of her own to carry out what was required to prepare the body for resurrection. But here she was, on another black night with those wide eyes even darker.

"He's ready! I've filled him with blood and gathered all the things you need."

The warlock blinked at her.

"Alright, alright, Elia. I'll be right out."

The warlock shut the door and gathered his own cloak and additional magical implements he hoped would bring the poor woman's husband back. She whirled around at the sound of the door creaking open. Her pale face shone from the enveloping blackness of her cloak like the moon above. The warlock sighed and felt a pang in the heart he had long since believed was shriveled black and unfeeling.

"Take me to him."

The woman nodded fervently and rushed away, hoisting her dress as she ran. The warlock envied her, if only for that. A burden such as hindering clothing was a bound that he did wish to meet. He shook his head. That was another matter. Tonight he would confront something much more restrictive: death itself. His own body was hardly as stringent a prison as the cold hard earth.

The woman led the warlock through the night back to her home. She unlocked the back door and let him inside, and after looking about for any witnesses, she slipped in after him. A single candle burnt deep in the den the body dwelt within. The warlock waited while the woman lit the lantern in the kitchen they had stepped into. The warlock laid his tools upon the table while the woman gathered all the herbs and personal effects he had told her would be required. She looked at him expectantly, waiting for validation of the items she had brought. He looked them over and nodded, satisfied, before approaching the threshold between them and the room the body of the dead man lay in.

"Has he begun to rot?"

The woman joined him in the threshold and gnawed on her thumb. "He smells, and his flesh decompresses under even a gentle touch. Nothing has fallen off or anything, yet."

"Good, good. It will be better for him should he wake, to find his body how he left it. His constitution will recover over time, as well."

The warlock approached the corpse and examined it in its nakedness. The limbs were still intact, the digits stiff but poseable. The body was indeed squishy but not penetrable by the finger alone. The penis sat shriveled amid a bramble of dark pubic hair but still retained its sponge-like quality. He was in good condition, for being under the care of an amateur.

"He is ready. Are you?"

The woman answered affirmatively immediately, but the look the warlock gave her forced her to compose herself.

"Yes. I need him, and I know he would agree it was not his time to go. We've a family yet to make."

The warlock only nodded, preferring this answer for all involved. He transferred the items on the kitchen table onto the slab and began preparing the body to be brought back to the world of the living. He applied the herbs to the corresponding areas of the body and arranged the artifacts around each limb and the head.

"These will all be lost in the ritual. Are you comfortable with forfeiting them? This operation is not guaranteed to succeed."

The woman ran her hand along the man's face in melancholic reverence. This gave the warlock his answer but he waited for her to pronounce it all the same.

"Yes. Whatever the price, I'm prepared to pay. Whatever the chance, I will take it. Bring him back to me, Valjon Wise."

Valjon the warlock nodded to the woman, resolving to take confidence from her raw belief. He closed his eyes and recited the words of power needed to begin the ritual. The woman backed away from the sudden tremor of everything upon the slab. She started to tiptoe into the shadows but the warlock stopped her with a raised arm. He would need her for the most pivotal step of the spell.

With another word and a tap on the bar of gold before the feet of the body, a twitch went up its leg. The woman gasped but Valjon remained focused on the next artifact, a ring beside the right hand. A stronger reaction pulsed down the arm. The body began to vibrate weakly. Valjon touched the dagger beside the other hand and a jolt rocked the body, the sound of flesh slapping against the slab loud in the tense air of the den. A finger placed lightly upon the medallion above the head sent the body into a ceaseless shake.

The artifacts burst into bright blue flame that stole the air from the room the candle and the lantern needed to survive. The body absorbed the light and glowed a ghastly blue underneath the near translucent skin. The walls were awash with light blue shadow constantly shifting and quaking, thrown wildly by the violent undulations of the energized corpse.

The woman looked on, petrified by the exposure to magic. The warlock looked more unnerving than her husband's charged corpse. His olive complexion was bathed in brilliant blue light, the air around his form whipped his loose robe about like he was standing in a turbulent wind. She watched him raise his arms, chanting his words of a forbidden tongue. Slowly, the body began to rise above the slab. The hands dragged over the slab until the body was clear of the surface, hanging suspended in the air.

"Elia, approach the body, now!"

Elia obeyed the warlock, his voice strained and otherworldly. She took her place before her deceased husband and looked to Valjon for instruction. She saw that the warlock's eyes had been imbued with the icy blue glow. His features were taut with focus. The veins in his neck bulged with exertion as he mimed lifting the body into the air.

"Speak your intention for this husk, Elia! Speak heartfelt and true."

Elia faced her floating love and held her hands up similar to the way Valjon did. She closed her eyes and narrowed her mind upon the memory of her husband when he still lived. Her heart slowed and she imagined it beating in tandem with his dormantl organ.

"Sulva, I beg for your return. Our hearth is cold without you. I hope these flames burn hot enough to remind you of our evenings together here, in our home. You carried me through the threshold on our wedding day, and you swore you would carry our children through it to play in the yard. I plead with you, fulfill your promise, return to me."

The body of Sulva convulsed one final time and fell to the slab. Valjon dropped his arms like a great weight had been lifted from him. He drew deep breaths to regain his strength, and the objects aflame were extinguished leaving behind nothing but ash. Elia stared at the pale face of her husband, waiting for any sign of reanimation.

There was no movement.

No breath was drawn or released. She placed her head upon his chest and listened for the sound of a heartbeat. Nothing. Only the slow process of decay. Elia turned to Valjon, defeat welling up in her eyes.

The warlock placed a hand on her shoulder and did his best to be reassuring.

"Now, we wait. Whatever binds us to the other side must evaluate our offering."

"Do you think my words weren't good enough?"

"I think your contribution was the only component of the ritual I cannot doubt the effectiveness of, darling."

Elia was comforted by this but still could not help but feel they had failed. The warlock was certain of it, and had no idea how he was going to console her.

Elia went back to the kitchen and relit the lantern. She stopped there, and sank into a chair, gazing hesitantly at the body of her husband. The warlock looked over the body and tested its flesh. The limbs were still stiff, the meat still impressionable, though the hairs on the arms did remain standing from the energy he had summoned into the body. He caught himself before he sighed, and went over and relit the candle instead. Perhaps light would help the woman. Maybe her hope would survive.

He joined her at the table, and said nothing. He knew she would ask him to try again, and did not wish to trigger the request himself. They both sat watching the body, neither uttering a word for fear of even a moment of distraction. The night went on, and the woman's spirits fell. What was worse, to the warlock, was the death of the fire in the lantern. His urge was to stand and bring it back to life, but the similarities and irony screamed at him, and he could not risk the potential sobs of the woman's recognition.

The warlock had just begun to doze off when he heard a gasp. He bolted upright, ready to comfort the poor woman as well as he could, but found she was already asleep, her face buried in her arms. A deep inhale rocked the silence. The warlock's senses could not pair the sound with what his eyes reported to him of the woman's sleeping form.

The warlock was finally afraid. He was certain he was not powerful enough to raise the dead. He said the words with conviction, but conviction fueled by optimism alone. He wished he were asleep and Elia was the one awake to discover what lay on the stone slab.

He looked over, his head moving as stiffly as the body was the last he had looked upon it. He could see the candle flickering at the edge of his peripheral vision. He darted his eyes to the candle, and waited, for movement or a sign of danger. He could discern neither, so finally he forced his eyes to fall upon the body.

It could no longer be called a corpse. Shallow breaths seeped in and out of Sulva's chest. The warlock could see his nostrils flare ever so slightly and his face twitch as if he were in a deep slumber. He turned back to Elia. She snored lightly, adrift in restless sleep. He could not wake her only to disappoint her with a short lived resuscitation of her husband.

He stood and crept over to the body that breathed. The chest did rise and fall, air did pass through his nose, small noises emanated from within the body. The warlock cautiously pressed an ear against the stomach, keeping his eyes on the gentle respiration circulating through the nose and mouth. A growl. The stomach was restarting. A faint heartbeat, beating slowly like a hibernating bear.

He was alive. Sulva no longer rested in peace but rested peacefully. The warlock backed away, unsure of what he should do. Sulva woke to help him.

"Where am I?"

The warlock jumped at the croak of the new voice. He knew it had to have come from Sulva. Had he woken him? Was he ready to be awake? He tried to sit up, but the creaking of his joints gave report to the rigor that had set into his body. All he could manage was a tilt of his head to peer down his uncooperative form.

"Sulva? You're alive."

Sulva strained for control of his voice, coughing and clearing his throat. Valjon found him water and gently tipped the cup against his lips, policing how much slipped down his throat. He finished the cup and laid his head back upon the slab.

"Sulva? What happened to me?"

Valjon gripped his breast and contemplated the pain Elia would have to bear. Would Sulva's life after death bring more harm than his death? He wasn't as powerful as he had seemed. He could not bring all of Sulva back.

"You... do not remember."

"No, nothing. I am Sulva, I take it?"

"Yes, you were, you are Sulva. You died, Sulva. I've brought you back."

The formerly dead man lifted his head again, a little higher this time. He was not capable of much facial expression but it was clear he was puzzled.

"Died? How? How did you bring me back? Who are you?"

The warlock was about to answer him, but recalled that it was not solely his will to revive him, but Elia's. He turned back to the sleeping woman, and thought it wise to reserve more explanation to his wife. He went to her, and carefully shook her until she woke. Her head jerked back and her arms shot out over the table. The warlock calmed her and helped her to her feet.

She searched his face, and knew something had changed. She didn't know whether to feel afraid, crestfallen, or overjoyed, so she felt all three, and relied on the warlock's guidance over to the slab. Her eyes had to adjust to the low candle light, but she knew she was movement, though slight.

"Sulva!"

Valjon stopped her and moved to stand between her and her husband.

"Elia, he doesn't remember."

"What? He doesn't remember?"

"No, Elia. I don't think I got to him soon enough. He is alive, though. It's a miracle."

He stepped to the side and allowed her to come near the man upon the slab. She saw him lift his head a bit as she neared. She was suddenly sure she should be frightened. The face she has so adored and lavished kisses upon gazed at her numbly and without focus. The eyes did not recognize her, and did not know that they should. His blank yet perplexed look broke her already demolished heart.

"Sulva, I'm Elia."

He blinked at her.

"We were married."

His eyes widened like they had used to when he was trying to make her laugh and she had to fight the shot of pain within that made her want to cry.

"We were? For how long?"

"Two years, Sulva. We've lived here and prepared it to be a home for our children."

His eyes really bulged. Now Elia wanted to laugh and this only confounded the emotional turmoil she was weathering.

"We have children!"

"No, no we don't. Not yet, anyway. We had only just begun trying."

"Oh."

The warlock stepped in and looked over Sulva once again. He didn't find anything changed in his condition but a faster heartbeat, and felt confident he could responsibly extricate himself from the situation he was indeed chiefly responsible for. He ushered Elia away to whisper words of advice and hopefully reassurance.

"Elia, be patient with him. He may regain his memory as his faculty recovers. He did just come back to life."

"You really think so? I can jog his memory?"

"I can't say for certain. Maybe not. But, I will go and see what I can conjure on memory reconstruction. Until then, care for him, treat him like you did the Sulva you loved. And, most importantly, feed him very gradually. You don't want to overwhelm his stomach."

"Oh, I see. Thank you for your help, Valjon."

Valjon bowed to the woman and moved to make his leave.

"Valjon, wait! Please, find a way to bring his mind back to me. I can't be grateful enough for breathing life back into my love, but it's his heart that I truly need."

"I understand, Elia. I'll do my best, but I can't promise anything. I'll see you soon."

The warlock left and Elia was alone with her husband. He had watched Valjon exit and turned his eyes to Elia. For the first time, she didn't know what to say to him. Perhaps the elephant in the room would be a good place to start.

"How do you feel?"

"I don't know. Tired, but wide awake. Have I died before? I can't remember anything at all."

"No, you haven't. I don't think I could bear losing you more than once. The first time was brutal enough to last me the rest of my lifetime."

"How did I die?"

Elia sighed and wondered how you explain someone's death to themself. She couldn't even make herself think about it, but did that matter anymore? She held his cold, unfeeling hand in hers and took solace in his faint heartbeat.

"Well, you were murdered, Sulva."

He pondered this for a moment. His face betrayed no emotion but thought.

"Why?"

"You were duped into a situation you had no way of expecting. You were but an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire of political strife. They didn't even mean to kill you, you weren't the target."

"Was I a politician, then?"

"No, you were a courier, a useful man to have around. You were sent to deliver a message to this visiting nobleman but it was just a distraction by his enemies. He got away but you were slain in the attack."

"Oh. Did I like the nobleman?"

"You never knew him before."

"Oh. I would have liked to die for him if we were friends."

"What about me, Sulva, your wife?"

"I would die for you, too."

Elia was struck by a feeling of familiarity. She could have sworn that she recognized that as something Sulva would say in cheek, but his tone and stare were earnest.

"You won't die for anything anytime soon, if I have anything to do with it. Are you hungry?"

Sulva thought on this too, and Elia knew that he would not be sure of the condition of his stomach.

"Let me make you a broth, wait right here."

Sulva waited, unable to do anything but. He stared at the ceiling and tried to discover if he recognized it. He failed, and began working on wiggling his fingers, his toes. He knew not if he succeeded, but the inability to feel was failure enough.

"Tell me if it's too hot, Sulva."

He turned back to the woman who knew everything about him.

"Did I like broth?"

Elia stopped and mined her memory for the answer.

"I'll say... yes. Here, lift your head."

She brought the spoon to his lips and with concentrated effort on Sulva's part, she carefully poured it down his throat. He couldn't swallow nor taste, but he enjoyed the exercise holding his head up and keeping his mouth open at the same time provided.

"Too hot?"

"I don't know, but I think it's fine."

Elia fed her husband the rest of the broth, and noticed the minute improvement in his control of his muscles. She smiled at him when he finished and could tell from the tension in his cheek that he was trying to smile back to her.