The sun is beginning to set. It’s getting dark. I’m still in the ditch. Relatively alive. I’m surprised myself. When the necromancer’s head was pierced by the spear, I thought his magic would dissipate—but I’m still here. And I’m thinking! That means I exist.
The spear blow tore off my arms and legs. They’re somewhere in the pile nearby, together with those guys who shielded me from final death. All I have left are my skull, spine, and ribcage.
You probably think everything’s terrible? Quite the opposite—I’m free. There’s no control anymore! I can do whatever I want. For example, click my jaw. I can also open my mouth. And clack my teeth. And I can close my mouth, too. Honestly, I haven’t been this happy since I first came into existence. I think this calls for some jaw-clicking.
Yes, I admit—it’s a bit sad. But still far better than being under the complete control of a mad self-taught necromancer.
Why am I still “alive”? While lying here staring at the sky, I might as well ponder this. Maybe the magic our bald, now-dead leader accidentally learned turned out to be stronger than usual. That would mean I’ll exist forever—until someone or something destroys me. Well, “destroys” meaning shatters my skull.
By the way, there’s no flame or anything like that inside me. My eye sockets aren’t filled with darkness, nor do they glow with sparks or magical light. My skull is literally empty. If I stuck a handkerchief inside, I could probably polish the inside until it shone.
So my life is literally just bones. Am I subject to decay or rot? If so, then if I lie here for a few years, I’ll die for good. Or maybe some of my summoner’s power still lingers on me. Does that mean I’ll vanish the moment it fully dissipates? Both outcomes sound rather grim.
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Or—could it be that the spell sustains itself? Like a vacuum cleaner, but for magical energy? In that case, my little bones could lie here for eternity. But what if I get buried under soil and leaves—and then more stuff on top? Will I keep existing under all that weight? That’s bad. I need to do something!
I tried moving slightly. The magic—or whatever force keeps me “alive” and my bones intact—allows only two kinds of movement: opening and closing my mouth, and rotating my head. I think that should be enough to get somewhere. I can do this!
I turned my head toward the pile of bones that, just recently, were my battle brothers. I’ll try to crawl toward them. I pressed my skull against the ground, closed and opened my mouth. No result. Damn it! I need to move my head. Got it. I start nodding. Still nothing. I just dragged my chin across the leaves.
I need more force! I press my skull harder into the ground. I try to push it down—to wedge my little skull into the layer of leaves and fine, loose soil.
Nod.
It works! Yes! I managed to shift—just a tiny bit. Too little for one motion, but I moved. Now I press my temple into the earth. As hard as I can. All my effort. I imagine that if I had veins right now, they’d be bulging across my forehead—or maybe even bursting. That’s how hard I’m trying for just one movement. Or at least, that’s how it feels.
Nod.
Yes! This time I moved much farther—about one or two centimeters, I think. I almost considered catching my “breath” and resting a bit, but then realized I don’t need to at all. I’m not tired. Amazing. So I can use 100% of my skeletal strength every single time, with absolutely no fatigue. Incredible. And at the same time, deeply unsettling. Skeletons, it turns out, are far more impressive in this regard than anyone might assume.
And so, contemplating the greatness of skeletons and the mighty power of the entire skeletal race, I kept inching forward—millimeter by millimeter—hoping that pile of dead bones would help me avoid being stuck here forever.
