Owen's Diary

The city of Anthemore is renowned for two things: the quality of its pastries, and its necromancers.

Necromancers was an old fashioned word. They preferred the term ‘thaumaturgists’, or if they were needing to sound more scientific than wondrous- ‘thanatologists’. But regardless of what they were called, they were good at what they did. ‘No matter the matter of death- your loved ones brought back to you. Always an affordable price.’

That’s why when Ezra died, I brought him to Anthemore.

He’d kick my ass for it. ‘Listen Owen,’ he’d always say to me over drinks late at night, ‘When I die, then you better not bring me to Anthemore. I’ll kick your ass if you do.’

I’d always agreed with him. I didn’t think I’d ever have to worry. You never think your best friend’s gonna die on you, right? You always think; we’re gonna grow old together, no matter what. We’re gonna die together, fifty to sixty years from now when we’re old and gray and lived good long lives.

But then when he died all of a sudden, I just… Kinda lost it. And I definitely did not think about keeping our promise. I put his body on ice, like he told me not to. I shipped him to Anthemore, like he told me not to. And then I paid three hundred medallions and a garnet for him to be brought back. Exactly like he told me to never, ever do, or else he’d kick my ass.

But I figured I could take an ass kicking, if it just meant I had my best friend back. I didn’t think he was gonna die. I sure as hell wasn’t ready for it. Who’s ready for that kind of thing? All I could think was why the hell he’d have to go and leave me alone?

So when the necromancer brought him back, that’s what I said. That’s what I apologized with. ‘Hey Ezra, sorry for bringing you back. But I missed you. I missed you so much.’

He just stared at me. I’d heard that resurrection drained all the color out of people, made them all cold to the touch and messed with their senses. It made sense, but it was still weird to see the mole next to his nose grey and his left eye all cloudy.

He didn’t punch me.

That stung more than the blow would have hurt. He didn’t move when I touched his hand. His skin was so cold. I apologized again. What else could I do? Knowing Ezra he’d be pissed for a while, but hey. Better than him being dead right?

Right?

His nightmares started three days after the necromancers did their thing. They’d said there might be some residual effects, especially if we stayed in the city. That was normal, after bringing someone back from the dead. That kind of thing tends to mess people up, no matter how skilled the necromancers are. They said take him out of the city and away from where he’d been brought back.

And I was going to, really.

But he just had panic attack after panic attack, unable to walk or move. So I checked us into an inn, made him tea, and got him lots of blankets and pillows. I stayed by his side and talked to him about all the good times we’d had. His memory was fine, but I figured he’d like the company. He seemed so different now.

He wasn’t the same Ezra anymore. He didn’t hear me sometimes, and that wasn’t just because of his dulled senses. More like, my voice was getting drowned out. He’d talk now, to thin air, to lots of different people when when it was just him and me in the room. I’d say ‘hey man, want a pastry?’ and he’d say ‘I’m so sorry that happened to you, Claire, that must have been awful.’

We’ve never known a Claire.

But then I heard later that day that the daughter of the guy who ran the flower shop down the street was named Claire. And then that night I heard she’d died cause some monster wouldn’t take her ‘no’ for an answer and then he wouldn’t stop hitting her. Her family didn’t have the three hundred medallions to bring her back, even though they had the garnet and their neighbors were two necromancers. Ezra apologized to her a lot.

He apologized to a lot of people now.

After six days, he stopped apologizing, and he just started crying. You ever try to get someone to stop crying when they’re covering their ears and squeezing their eyes shut and sobbing so loud they can't even hear you? All I could do was sit next to him and hold on to him as he cried, and then I’d have to try to get him to drink or eat anything. I’d just got him back, I couldn’t lose him again to dehydration or starvation. I asked him one day, after getting him to calm down only after tying a cloth around his eyes and putting a loud and fast paced tune on the gramophone, if he wanted to go home and recover in his own house, far away from Anthemore. He just shook his head.

‘I don’t want them following me.’ He’d said. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

After seven days, I went away for just a few minutes. Really, I only left the room to fill a glass of water. If I’d know what he was planning I wouldn’t have left him alone. I shouldn’t have left him alone anyways. Or at least I should have taken my pen with me.

Do you know how easy it is to put a pen through your eye? I didn’t. I don’t think Ezra did either. Do you know how much blood there can be? I didn’t realize there could ever be so much. There wasn’t that much when he died, but now it was just gushing blood over his face and his hands and he was just screaming through all the blood, staring out with one milky blind eye and the pen protruding through his other eyelid.

‘I couldn’t bear to see them anymore.’ He kept screaming. He just wouldn’t stop screaming. ‘I couldn’t bear to see them anymore.’

He wouldn’t tell me what he meant. He wouldn’t say anything anymore. He just covered his ears. And screamed. And cried. And kept apologizing.

He just wouldn’t stop apologizing.

I didn’t think that he’d be the one apologizing so much. I’d thought, since I was the one bringing him back from the dead after he’d told me specifically not, that I’d be the only one apologizing so much. I’d thought that with enough pastries and apologizes, he’d forgive me. Everything would go back to normal.

That’s how it was supposed to be. But now, there was just so much blood. There was a stain in the carpet now, and I had to scrub the blood from his skin, careful not to press on his eye while I did so.

‘I’m sorry.’ He kept saying to me while I wiped the blood away. ‘I couldn’t take it anymore. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to come back.’

When Ezra died, it was because of a bullet to the chest. He’d gotten shot in some dumb fight by some dumb asshole who didn’t care about ripping away my best friend. I’ve no idea what it feels like to be shot, but when I heard him say ‘I didn’t want to come back’ in such a broken voice, with the blood still everywhere and the mole by his nose still an ashen grey and his skin so cold to the touch, I think I came close. He ripped out my heart, hollowed out my chest in one scoop with those words.

Ezra couldn’t hear me. He had his hands over his ears, screaming and crying and blood starting to leak from the gauze, but I couldn’t stop apologizing.

And then the next time I fed him, forced some broth down his throat, he didn’t complain about the taste..

Of course he didn’t. The necromancer had said his sense of taste would be dulled, even for something as strong as bitter almond.