The muddied tracks were getting harder to follow.

Harrin crouched next to the down-trodden path of broken twigs and snapped bushes, running a bone finger along the grass pressed into the ground. For a group of criminals, they weren’t very good at covering their trail.

Memories were still slowly drifting into his mind, gradually moving around and settling. It was hard to tell in what order some of them had happened. They didn’t seem to want to cooperate, despite his best efforts, and it was proving both difficult and frustrating to try and figure out the proper chronology.

At some point he would have to take a moment to stop and fully take in the fact he’d died. He knew that. But it was incredibly easy to… forget, almost. He was walking, thinking, moving, doing nearly everything that made being alive, alive. If he didn’t try to speak and didn’t look down at himself, he could almost picture he were still human.

...What made anyone human, now that he thought about it? He could think and he could feel, but any animal could do that. Maybe it was the use of intelligence? Rational thought? Even the dumbest goblin could learn math, if they tried, so not that either.

After a moment of thought, he realized to both his concern and relief that he couldn’t make a straightforward answer to the question. It made it much easier to lie to himself.

Standing, he walked back over to Senna and crouched before her. She was seated on a rock, absently glaring at a shrub. Part of him wondered if there was some sort of necromantic spell that might invovle aforementioned shrub, but he doubted it.

Releasing a low hiss, he patiently waited for her to snap out of her fugue. Blinking, she looked up at him, eyes dull. “Are we getting closer?”

Harrin nodded. The tracks in question were relatively fresh. The mud still held bootprints, but the edges were sharper than if they’d been there longer than a few hours. If they didn’t take a break, they would be able to get to the camp of the…

...Wait. Who was he chasing?

He paused as he realized he’d been tracking these people without the slightest clue of who they were.

A second thought made him realize he didn’t care. They razed a village to the ground and tossed the bodies in a pile. To add to it, Senna wanted them dead, which by itself was a good enough reason. Regardless, it wasn’t something that warranted too much thought.

He glanced at the young necromancer as she got to her feet, coming to a decision. Removing his new sword from its sheath, he offered it to her hilt-first, grasping it by the flat. She stared at him blankly, the dullness lifting from her face. “Wh-what are you--”

Ignoring her hesitation, Harrin placed the sword in her hand, wrapping her fingers around the grip. Her eyes widened as she realized what he was doing as he let go, and her arm dropped under the weight.

“Harrin!” She gasped, grabbing it with both hands as she tried to raise it back up. She was, he realized, not the strongest person he’d ever met. “I can’t use a sword!”

Harrin gave her another nod. That much was obvious, but the fact of the matter was that she needed to be able to defend herself. He couldn’t be in two places at once, and once he left to find his family, he didn’t want her to be helpless. Besides, she needed something to distract herself with. Her vengeance was already close at hand, and she would likely find herself without a purpose once it was executed.

Grabbing a relatively straight stick off the leaf-strewn ground, he gave it a few swipes to test the balance, found it downright awful, and went with it anyway.

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

Stepping in front of Senna, he raised the impromptu weapon at an angle from his body, placing his right foot forward and his back foot to the side, keeping his free hand out for extra balance. In other words, a fencer’s stance.

“Harrin, I really don’t think-”

Harrin rapped her with the stick. A clean, rapid strike across the knuckles. She dropped her sword immediately, jumping back and grabbing her hand. “What was that for?!”

Ignoring her reaction, Harrin leaned down and picked the sword up again, offering it to her. Rubbing her already reddening knuckles, she frowned at him. “I’m not picking that up again.”

Flipping it back to the correct orientation, he offered it to her handle-first, silent insistence bleeding from his body language. Senna’s mouth tightened, and she folded her arms over her chest. “I can’t - I’m not a fighter, Harrin!”

Harrin nodded in agreement, still offering the sword. She stared at it, looking visibly frustrated. “I’m…”

Releasing a sigh, she accepted the sword and took a step back. This time, Harrin could tell she put more effort into holding it ‘at the ready’.

Or at least, something approaching at the ready. In reality, her stance was hideous, her grip was wrong, the sword was angled incorrectly, she was angled incorrectly, the sword was sideways… Harrin had to look away. There was pain from being an undead, a constant soreness that permeated every bone in his body, but watching someone hold a sword that badly hurt far more.

Shaking his head, he lowered his stick and walked towards her. Senna’s forehead creased in confusion. “Am I doing something wrong?”

You’re doing everything wrong, he thought to himself. Taking the sword out of her hand, he moved her arms to the correct placement, sliding her feet back with his own. Lifting her by the armpits, he straightened her back and stepped backward, assessing his work. She looked more confused than ever, but at least she was holding the position. Satisfied enough, he gave her the sword back and picked his stick up from where he’d dropped it.

Turning back to her, he returned to his fencer’s stance and gave her a sharp nod.

Immediately abandoning all decorum, she ran at him with the sword raised, bringing it down as hard as she could in a crushing blow. Harrin barely had to dodge to avoid it, and whacked her on the knuckles again.

“OW!” She yelped, dropping the sword once more. Glaring at Harrin, she asked with frustration in her tone, “What’s the point of this?!”

Harrin poked her in the shoulder with the stick, and before she could grab it, snapped it back, adjusted his stance, and nudged her in the stomach. He continued whipping the stick out of her grasp, tapping her collarbone, neck, forehead, knees, elbows, and anywhere else he felt like it. Each hit was gentle enough that it wouldn’t leave a bruise, but he knew from experience exactly how much strength had to be applied to sting.

Jumping back, Senna practically growled, “Are you just showing off? Is that-”

Harrin’s foot flicked the underside of the dwarvish sword, flicking it into his hand, and he tossed the stick away. Even faster this time, he shot the blade upward, quicker than thought and driven by sheer instinct, coming to a dead stop an inch from her hand.

She froze, eyes wide, and he watched her carefully. Would she get it? Would she understand the lesson he was trying to teach?

Withdrawing the sword, he slid it back into the tattered scabbard at his side, giving her another bow as he did. The tension slowly drained out of her shoulders, but she didn’t stop staring at him. She didn’t say anything for a while.

Harrin grew worried all of a sudden. This was not the time to be picky about swordsmanship - she’d just lost her entire village, for crying out loud! He took a step forward, ready to prepare some sort of apology, through gestures if necessary.

Senna picked up the stick, shuffling her feet until they were close to the right position. Standing straight, she bent at the waist and held the stick out two-handed, watching Harrin carefully. “You’re… training me, aren’t you.”

The worry drained through his feet into the ground as she took up a stance, and Harrin nodded. This time, instead of rushing forward, she took small steps to approach him, carefully sliding to his left as she did so.

Harrin couldn’t help but feel a spark of pride, despite the fact she was a necromancer and he supposed to be dead.

She was learning.