THE DARK TIME

THERE WAS A STORM THAT NIGHT, SHAKING MY MANSE. BUT IT LAY EMPTY. IT LAY STILL. THE HEART THAT ONCE BEAT IN SYNCOPATION WITH MY DESIRE TO LIVE BEATS NO MORE. FOR ALL MY TALENTS IN WIZARDRY I HAVE YET TO BE ABLE TO STOP TIME, I HAVE YET TO BE ABLE TO REVERSE DEATH. BUT I HAVE BEEN TOLD OF A RITUAL; A RITE TO BRING AIR BACK TO LUNGS AND SPIRIT BACK TO CORPUS. I HAVE NOT DELVED INTO NECROMANCY. FOR ALL MY YEARS AS A WARLOCK, IN THAT REGARD I AM BARELY AN ADEPT, AN ACOLYTE. BUT I MUST TRY. FAILURE SHALL ONLY LEAVE MY LOVE AS STILL AND LIFELESS AS SHE ALREADY EXISTS. IT CALLS TO ME. I GAZE UPON THE ANCIENT TOME, PLUCKED FROM A LIBRARY THE WORLD HAS LONG FORGOTTEN ABOUT. BUT WHO SHALL SHE BE? SHALL SHE BE MY SUNBEAM, MY EVERYTHING? OR SHALL SHE BE A WALKING SHELL, DEVOID OF HER VERY BEING? I SHALL RISK IT ALL. MY PAIN IS TOO DEEP. TOO ENDLESS. I MUST REACH FOR A SALVE. I OPEN THE BOOK. I SHALL COMMIT TO THIS COURSE.