Arthur opened his eyes to the dimly-lit lantern of his shop, his eye catching the remnant of his evening meal. Some crumbs of black bread remained, their coarse and rough textures are still better than starving outside the street. There was an empty mug with a sour smell resting on the small table. Maybe it’s beer, or maybe ale? For a second, Arthur couldn’t exactly remember what he had for dinner. 

Outside the humble wooden shack, the night was still young, but it was dark as tar. The late autumn moon was obscured by dark cloud, with barely a thread of moonlight shining on the cobble street. It was drizzling ever so slightly, causing the average city dweller to hurried home, for everyone know that walking outside in such a foreboding night was not safe. The weather was miserable, which only fit in more with the ancient city.

The foul, acrid odor of tallow filled his nose as the candle produced wisps of dark smoke. The tendrils of smoke rose up, spreading across the dimly-lit room, escaping through the open window to the starless night. And, as if they gained sentient, some smoky tendrils linger and snaked their way to the second most interesting thing in the room.

A cold corpse with a giant cut on it’s upper torso, as well as a dozen smaller ones. The first cut cause serious blood loss and some irreversible damage to organs - the leading reason for death. The distinctively male corpse was lying on the large, wooden table - he served as Arthur’s mean to bring home the bread. 

Shaking his head while sauntering toward the window, Arthur took a long look at the autumn weather before he brought his hands out. Droplets of cold water began to gather on his cupped hands as the rain gradually switch from drizzle to a torrid downpour. Taking the cold water to wash away to fatigue on his face, Arthur straightened up, took a long look at the corpse currently waiting for him, before disappearing from the front of the house.

He came back to the large table wearing a long white apron that had been marred with splotches of blood. On his right hand was a basket of sewing needles, spools of white thread and several tall candles made from a special wax made by priests from the temple of Viharis. Signing to himself, Arthur remembered the correct protocols as clear as day, and he set out to work. 

Setting the candles on the holders, he moved toward all entrance to the room and brought the wicks toward the old lantern; one by one. Putting the candle down, the room was illuminated by the new light; one for the entrance, one for the window and one for the door leading to the back of the house. The crisp, strange smell produced by the tall candles soothed him, providing him with courage to face the upcoming storm. With all the precaution set up, he turned the small hourglass on the side of the table upside down.

As the sand drizzled pass the midpoint, the candlelight stay strong, unwavering even though it’s raining cat and dogs outside. The room was brightly lit, as if there were more than three candle burning. As the last droplet of sand crossed the middle point of the hourglass, he breathed out a sign of relief - it seemed that this corpse is safe, and he won’t be leaving his life behind tonight.

Dipping the piece of clean white cloth in medicinal alcohol that had been blessed, he hung in around his mouth. As the strong smell assaulted his nose and drove his mind to maximum attention, he began to work. 

From the outermost layer of the wound on the left side of the torso, he started stitching, threading and kneading the wound back together. Often, he would have to pick up bone fragments that got stuck in the flesh as well as watering the region that he’s stitching in order to clean it. The iron scalpel that he brought carefully maneuvered under candlelight, removing the blood cots and correct some minor bruises. The sensation of the iron needle entering flesh was still nauseating, Arthur thought as he stitched the exposed flesh together. As he finished with the first thread, his head is already drenched with sweat and the body was half way done.

Taking a few step to the window, he quickly murmured a rite of protection, before stretching his hand outside the window and into the rain. Taking the wooden ladle on the left of the window, he gingerly took a spoonful of water from the barrel that’s collecting rain water. Letting the water washed away the filth on the sewing needle, he came back to his workbench and began anew.

Needles after needles, threads after thread. When he finished with the stitching, the body would look relatively normal - all the wounds are closed. Apply another layer of cheap cosmetic powder to hide the thread; change the corpse into a basic set of burial cloth. 

“Huh, finally done” Arthur signed in relief; another night working here and another night he survived in this corner. Now that he finished with the important business, he couldn't help but wonder about the person that he had stitched together in life. Was he a good person, a merchant that unfortunately encounter robbers, or was he a thug that died under the blade of the city guard.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

The corpse was a young man - in his eighteen or twenty at most, the ripe age for having children. He was easily one of the tallest man he ever patched up, surpassing 6 feet easily. But he was unexpected flabby, as if he sat down all day and eat only sausages and cheese. The man accumulated more fat than normal people, making really annoying to sew. His face was unexpectedly fair and his hand long without calluses, another proof that he hadn’t faced the harsh weather of the region while, or better yet, someone who never truly worked physical labor in his life. His short blonde hair was unkempt, and he lacked any noticable mustaches to speak of.

“Well, that’s rare alright” Arthur thought, remember how even the prestigious Knight of the Rose that he had the honor of patching up had calluses on his fingers. Even a rat-catcher would know that the Order of the Rose main purpose was to work as entertainers and, sometime, lovers to ladies of the court. “So this man is a merchant then? Lack of calluses and an untrained body can only mean one thing”

Prying open the man mouth and putting a silver Denar under his tongue - his fee for crossing the River of Death. It’s not something that Arthur need to worry about, as his job is subsidized and, frankly, opened by the Kingdom. His salary was not impressive at all compared to more prestigious jobs, but it’s enough to pass by. Even the Duke of Doubon - the Lord of the city that he was in couldn’t even think of cutting corners when it come to disposing body, lest he invite the wrath of the King and the 4 other Dukes. Stitching back the body before sending it to the grave had always been a law for the Kingdom, with backing from three major religion. 

As he put the finishing touches on the body, suddenly, wind howl. The three candles that serve as protection against evil spirit all sputtered out in a second as gusts of wind assail his shop. The lantern dime, even though the light wasn’t extinguished, it was as if someone had put a black clothe on in. For a second, silence, and then, a myriad of noise assaulted Arthur’s ear. They howled, wailed and mumbled in strange tongues that sound more beastly than human. High-pitched scream aas if lingering spirit screaming their ethereal throat out, grieving their own demise and swearing bloody revenge against the one who wronged them. Wisps of smoke coalesce into vaguely humanoid forms floating around the room. The dark room, cold temperature was well as the clearly supernatural occurrence could only mean one thing - that the corpses was a bad omen

Arthur stood there, frozen by shock and fear, as if cold, icy hands griped his heart, threatening to snuff it out any moment. He kept murmuring the rites of protection, taught to him by priest of Viharis, the god of Protection and Providence, but it was no use, as the ghostly forms roamed the room. He would have run, if his feet didn’t feel like lead. Likewise, he would have shouted for help, for anyone, if his mouth could open and his throat didn't feel like someone stuffed wax in it. But alas, none of those option were viable and Arthur was frightened beyond his wit, knowing that his final moments were approaching.

And, as sudden as they arrive, the assorted noised abruptly stopped as the dimly-lit lantern turned a sickly shade of red. The wisps of smoke were instantly drawn toward the lantern, which was burning red-hot. 

Then suddenly, a single parchment of paper of the highest quality burned itself into existence in front of Arthur eyes. And under the red light, he could clearly see what it read - even though he hadn’t even finished learning to read and write clearly. As if the words were directly plugged into his mind and the meaning were transplanted. 

Dear whom it may concern

In accordance to the ancient facts forged between the Blind Divinities and the Realm of Rest, we have sent an emissary from the Land Beyond in order to act as our instrument in the Lost Era. However, it would seem that through unfortunate circumstance, our mortal instrument had encounter fatal circumstance. There is nothing that we can do about it, as any further interruption in the River of Time risk angering the Watchdog. 

Therefore, as the one who encountered our instrument and perform an act that serve to Realm of Rest, we bestow on you the mantle. You would be more than a mortal, raised to heights that you wouldn’t imagine before. As our illustrious forebear, the Monad had decreed, we will instruct you on your duty and benefit, as befitting of a Divine servant.

Regarding your duty

* You would be expected to serve profession that relate to death - executioners, forensic doctor, necromancer and corpse stitcher are the primary example.

* ???

* Survive

* Never to reveal any information regarding us or this contract

Regarding the boons we would provide.

* Each corpse would be graded, and your reward would be distributed accordingly 

Hereby, we announce you as the Emissary of the Blind Divinities - may you contribute to existence. Your memory of this encounter would be sealed until further evolution, as your mind won’t survive this.

Signed

[      ] 

As the last word entered his mind, as if he was in a trance, Arthur put his finger upon the paper contract; a gash formed on his hand as he placed his fingerprint, effectively signing the contract. And so power erupted from the signed contract, forever changing the life of the young corpse stitcher.

The last thing Arthur remembered before unconsciousness claimed him was the cold surface of the wooden floor and the foul odor of tallow.