I don’t stay very long after that.

I set out on the road with my bag, a map, and few expectations. I didn’t have any idea where I was going, but I owed it to that little deity in the Beyond to give it my best shot.

So I did.

Those first few days on the road are filled with dust and memories. The haunting, dead faces of my siblings resonate with every step forward, each one of them begging me to turn around and warn them–or plead with them never to join the war. On one hand, I’d made a promise. On the other hand, they would inevitably be called upon, and they would rise to meet the challenge: for the sake of their land, for the sake of traditions as old as time itself.

Telling them they would die changed nothing–they had been prepared for that outcome when they went into war. They understood that the invading kingdom knew nothing, or very little about their practice–knew that they would appear more dangerous than they actually were.

How different the world looked in just three short years. How different we were viewed, how different we viewed ourselves. War did something to us. Suddenly, our constructs weren’t our friends, our help: they were means to an end. We lost respect for the bones and the bodies.

Is that what Ben saw? Is that why he left?

I shove that thought down. I can’t think about my brother. He’d left so long ago: I was really a young child. It wasn’t worth spending time or energy on.

I follow the road to the north, the opposite end of the continent from the invading kingdom. I hoped it would buy me some time and peace. Maybe when we were invaded, the damned prince wouldn’t notice me and I could continue to live comfortably under the radar until my second death.

I suppose it doesn’t matter either way. Death is inevitable, I knew that better than anyone.

It’s never been a matter of whether, but a matter of when.

Three years doing something I loved with the remaining time I had was the only way I could ensure that it wasn’t… literally… stupid.

The first two towns I encountered are regular places that are filled with regular people, but they’re too big for my taste. I’d be far too obvious in places like these. The stops do offer me pointers, though. I follow the fingers through the mountain pass and into the cooler environment of the Norsard Highlands toward a little town called Reisau. It is greener here than at home and the air tastes different, the flowers are different, the light from the clouds above looks different: it’s a nice different.

The first day after I leave the city of Torsen on my way to Reisau, a sound startles me in my campsite by the roadside. I sit and look around, confused. The sound comes again, a gentle crashing that isn’t far off–as though something very large is trying very hard to be quiet. I frown, Is it a bear? No. A bear wouldn’t care about how noisy it was. This thing took a gentle step, hear the crash, then did not make another noise. It was trying to move away from the camp I’d built the night before. I frown. Human? I send out little waves of my green and purple mana, digging into the soil with my fingertips. I feel it flow through the earth: it twines in mycelium and dead roots, then splinters up a dead tree to create a long arch over where I’d heard the sound. Bones. Bones and… clay?

They shift beneath my tracing, as if startled to feel my touch.

A construct.

My eyes open and I frown. What are you? How do you move? Who leads you? I prod through the webbing of magic as I draw myself from my bedroll.

The construct doesn’t answer, only shies away from my magic: large, hulking body easing away from the place it stood. “Where are you going?” I call, both in magic and in alarm. I don’t want it to flee. It’s so strange to encounter a construct on its own out here. “Please don’t leave! I mean no harm.”

The giant hesitates, and I feel its energy consider me, but then it turns and crashes away from my magic into the forest. Too skittish, I realize. How long has it been out here alone? I wonder, heart tugging sadly. The only reason a bone construct would still be alive without its necromancer is if its necromancer had left without passing its life force onto another… or, worse, the necromancer had unexpectedly died. Without someone offering the construct a physical anchor, the magic could become erratic at best, and dangerous at worst. How peculiar that this one shied away from me. I push the thought of the hulking construct from my mind and break down my tiny campsite. A construct out here meant there was another necromancer out here, and the construct was safely contained. After all, it did no harm–in fact, it demonstrated incredible foresight and curiosity.

I smile, respecting the workmanship. A sad thought occurs to me: either it was well-formed, or it meant that the erratic behavior had ended and the construct would pass along again soon. What made the idea even worse was that it would not be given a proper committing ritual. Committing a construct back to the earth was usually accompanied by great ceremony: a grand gesture of gratitude for the bones in their second life and second passing. We hold our constructs with great honor and reverence in their last moments before returning them to the soil.

There are many reasons we might pass them along. Sometimes the bones become fractured or splintered in ways that we cannot abide using their form any longer without inferring great dishonor to the soul it once housed. Sometimes, the magic becomes finicky and the constructs grow violent – a rare and dangerous thing that should never happen. Young necromancers are always accompanied by a mentor in their first Awakening to avoid such a terrible outcome. It was rare, to say the least.

To see a construct repaired with clay was… Well, it felt like this construct was old. Without the use of other bones to supply its bulk, it was not a raising of convenience. It was an act of friendship, or of love. It was as though the necromancer that had brought it into being cared very much for the bones, and so supplemented its breaks with clay and sticks and mud: fashioning a body that would be sustained in weather and long hours, in the sun and in the night.

And it was so far from town, too…

I walked a great portion of the day before I heard the telltale crash of the construct following me. I cast my magic fingers through the earth to prod its feet, and found that it was the same energy as the creature I’d encountered earlier. I retracted my magic quickly, hoping not to startle it away. If it was so curious of me, it would wander to the edge of its territory, then return. But by midday, it was still keeping a generous distance behind me.

I ducked into the forest, seeking reprieve from the sun and to sit and maybe eat a small lunch. The construct stilled just out of my reach of hearing, but I could feel its eyes follow me as I moved. I opened up my rucksack and the dried mushrooms I had saved for my trip. I sat down and chewed them thoughtfully. The construct watched with interest, and even with my naked, magicless eyes, could just see the flash of its white skull behind a tree.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Where was its necromancer, its anchor? Why had it followed me so far?

I sit forward and set my hands on the ground, rooting my fingers into the earth. I cast a web of my magic out, seeking–there. A graveyard. It’s old and falling apart, and the bones are ancient and nearly dust. I gather my things and trek deeper into the forest. Where there was a gravesite and a construct, there must be some sort of trace of another necromancer.

My feet lead me to a small plot of graves. Their headstones had so deteriorated from the elements, and great swaths of moss and overgrown trees draped them into one another. Even the fence around the edges has fallen to barely ankle-height in places. It’s a place that has not been touched in centuries.

I frown and step into the circle. A rush of energy flows into me through the balls of my feet, ricocheting up my legs and into my torso, and I have to grip a nearby tree to avoid falling. A crashing sound erupts from behind me: the construct running toward me, and I have the beginning touches of fear. I try to take a step away and out of its path, but realize my feet are being pulled into the earth. Tendrils of roots flicker over my feet and pull me down, the dirt and grass separate around me and I cling to the branch of the tree. What?

The panic sets in when the branch breaks and the roots have pulled me into my ankles. “Help!” I know no one can hear me, in my heart of hearts. I dig the broken branch into the ground anyways, trying to force myself from the ground even as it sucks me down, but I’m not strong enough to push myself out.

This is a trap, I realize belatedly: an ancient tripwire set for people like me.

A root snakes up my knee, wrapping firmly against my thigh and tugging. I scream. I’m not proud of it, but I do. You would too.

Great, skeletal hands grasp me from under my armpits and lift me from the graveyard. The roots tear and the blanket of moss that had begun blanketing my torso rips like cloth, and they set me gently onto the overgrowth outside the fence. I stare up at orbital sockets in a tilted skull. It stares back.

The ground cracks as the roots slither back into the earth, the ground repairing the pitfall from view. My head is swimming with adrenaline, and I think I want to throw up. I sit on the ground and take deep, ragged breaths into my chest, trying to calm my thundering heart. Once my body realizes the danger has passed, I squint, confused. I look up at the construct again. “You saved me.”

It nods, a slow, awkward tilt; as if it hasn’t nodded in years. As if it hasn’t spoken in centuries. I suppress a shiver. How old is this construct?

“Why?”

It stares down at me, making no movement to indicate that it has heard me at all. Then, it looks around, rearing up to its full height, and I realize how large it really is. The windows on the second storey home that I had grown up in with my coven would have met its eyes. Its great swaths of clay back and arms have overgrown with bits of moss and broken tree branches. He was green and gray and red. The only bits of bones I see in the colossal body are its skull, its hands, and its legs: big, bowing things that don’t look like they were human in life.

Giant? Was this construct built from the bones of a giant?

“Where did you come from?” I try asking, but it has already turned away from me, scampering behind the trees, crashing away. It appears I’ve exhausted its social capacity for one week.

When the crashing stops, I can see its orbits glowing at me from the deep shade of the trees. It’s watching me, still. My personal–albeit shy–protector.

What on earth?

I cough and look back over at the spell trap, then back at the eyes that stare at me. “Thank you,” I say gently. And even though my voice doesn’t carry very far to my ears, I know it can hear me. I feel the thrum of its pleasure in a little spike of copper colored magic that curls its way back to me. It suits the construct.

I bend down and scrape away at the edges of the graveyard and find what I’m looking for: buried under years and years of growth is a corner stone carved with ancient runes. Druids. I roll my eyes. Druids and necromancers were at odds centuries ago in their own great war. In their own great, stupid war where lots of people died, but then decided they got along after all–at least, mostly. Some fanatics absconded to Cainern, and stewed over whether Led belonged to the necromancers or the druids. It was part of the reason for the war, after all. Antonio de Cardenas was a druidic fanatic, like his father before him. Not that I knew much about politics before or even during the war. I just knew my home. I knew my tradition. I knew that the druids and necromancers of Led had long since set aside their differences: this was just a mine that had been untripped for centuries.

I’m lucky that the construct was following me, and it had the wherewithal to help me.

I glance over my shoulder and find the little skull several trees down, peering at me around the edge of a tree as though the trunk could hide its massive bulk. I smile. It’s cute: all twelve feet of it. I turn back to the stone and dig it out, pushing my magic into the center of the graveyard and pushing mushrooms through the top. The trap triggers again, and the druidic magic pours into the poor mushroom. Great vines and roots erupt from the ground and close over it, dragging it deep into its belly. I hesitantly press a fingertip into the loam beyond the boundary–no zap this time, and settle back onto my heels, sighing in relief. “Good. It’s safe now.” I look back up at the construct who is watching me with interest.

“Thank you,” I tell it again, rising to my feet and brushing off my skirts. This doesn’t answer my many, building questions, though. There is no trace of another necromancer here. There aren’t any bones nearby besides those within the trap and the construct who has made itself my protector. If a necromancer was in this area, they would have dispelled this trap ages ago.

I sigh and rub my face. “Where did you come from?” I wonder aloud, knowing it won’t answer me.

It does, however, amble a little closer, head tilting with curiosity. I pause, frown. It’s trying to tell me something. “Are you coming with me?” I ask it.

Its head tilts. A question.

I press my magic into the earth again, gently touching its body. “Do you want to come with me?” I ask, both magically and aloud. It’s a habit I got into a long time ago. Some of my siblings never spoke aloud to anyone besides the living, but for me… I think I preferred to let them hear my voice, even without the organs to hear.

It cocks its head another direction, as though considering. Then it nods once.

“Is there anyone who can claim you?” I ask, suddenly nervous. “Are you all alone out here?”

It shakes its head, then it nods. I realize it’s answering each question individually.

Well. That’s quite something. I rub my arms in the mid-afternoon chill. “How long has it been?”

It doesn’t answer me, or make any indication of having heard me at all.

I nod to myself. “Okay. For safety, would you be alright if I bonded my magic with yours?”

It clearly hesitates, then crawls, ever so slowly, forward. It still looks skittish: its large body is humming with nerves as it approaches me. “This won’t hurt.” I promise it–because it won’t.

It presses the large expanse of its skull against my extended palm, a heart-melting demonstration of trust. The bone is warm to the touch. Dry… I close my eyes and lean into it. Copper magic floods around us, mingling with my purple and green. It shoots up and wraps around our bodies, warm and tingling.

Bonding with a construct is one of the most pleasant sensations I’ve experienced in my life. Most of the constructs I’ve bonded with that were not my own gave me a similar sense of sweet comfort. Some constructs were prickly in their bonding, and proved difficult to work with in the time I spent with them before passing them back to a sibling.

But this one… this one felt right, like a puzzle piece finding its home in my chest. Our individual magic weaved together in perfect synchronicity and settled over our shoulders like a mantle. The perfection of the connection gives me emotions I don’t know that I can name, and tears well in my eyes. I look up as the mana settles about us and find myself staring into its deep, empty orbital sockets. “Well,” I say, pulling my hand back and clearing my throat. “I suppose you’ll need a name. Do you have a name?”

The great head shakes its negative.

“May I give you a name?” It gives me a shy nod. I don’t have to give it too much consideration before the name comes to me. “How does Henry sound?” The construct gives me a firm, enthusiastic nod.

I swallow. That was almost too easy. Had the magic spoken for him through me? I nod and extend my hand. “Okay, Henry.” Its phalanges dwarf mine but are gentle–as though it’s afraid to crush my hand. “It’s so nice to meet you.”