Shape was not ours to choose

Festival music ceased, and the only sound that continued to sound through the street were the cries of Erasmus. He shouted, pushed, and shoved in his attempts to get away. The others knelt in silence against the black street. Erasmus couldn’t understand why they didn’t fight or flee. A slight tugging continued against his heart as if urging him to give up, but he didn’t. Erasmus fought harder, more violently. The police that surrounded him looked anxious and scared. His time speaking to the undead gave him insight into body language, and what to say, or do, in these situations. He lunged at the most fearful. The boy recoiled and fell back. He backed away quickly, scraping his pants along the street while Erasmus continued unabated through the crowded street towards the alleyways.

He ran through the winding streets he never became familiar with. Memories surfaced of wandering to El Viajar, looking for any sign of the Necromancer. He hadn’t stopped until he saw the fliers. The decision to come to El Viajar had been a wise one at the time, there was no way the Necromancer would stay in the Deuda all the time. However, group after group saw the Necromancer in plazas, wandering around as if he wanted to get caught. Fury caught in Erasmus, not in his body, but in his sense of reason. Something inside him, a part that no longer worked, fought against the emotion until the emotion failed. Fury faded from Erasmus, forcing him to the same jovial self he had been forced to be. Frustration welled inside until it too faded.

He knelt among the trash and cardboard boxes. Music blared from somewhere out of reach. He listened, heard happy yelps, and felt, briefly, disgusted. The police that chased him ran the wrong way, and Erasmus relaxed a bit more. He didn’t need to physically relax, being dead meant that any way of laying down, running, or sitting felt the same as the next. No discomfort. No emotion other than the one he was left with.

He kicked a pile of trash to his side. The bag didn’t go far, only tumbling slightly. He breathed, if only out of reflex, and hope. He kept expecting a sensation, an emotion, something, but it never came, no matter how he acted. Lifting himself up, he brushed himself off and cuffed up his arm, a habit he kept trying to stop. The sight of his rotting forearm did bring back a feeling, the sense that he shouldn’t be what he is.

Erasmus searched his memories, trying to find a hint about who he was or could have been. Blocks away, music continued playing. Memories tried to surface through the gaps, sensations, and realizations until they were forced away by an unseen force. It was like finding the next client, the next payday, only to realize they didn’t have money or weren’t a lead. The sensation of missing something didn’t dissipate as fast as expected. He felt through it, and in the giant block of missing memories, he felt as though he must have been someone important. His gaze locked in his rotting flesh. It’d grown since the last time.

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

Walking away, he continued to think about his past. The music faded into the background, as silence began to take the streets. Silent nights were his favorite, it meant there was no one around, it meant he could think. Maybe he was the type that got tired of people?

Down the alleyway, away from sound, noise, and humans, into the thick night, he heard a noise. Erasmus realized he had been wandering randomly, without thought. Looking up, he realized that he had no idea where he was, or where the noise had come from. Two, three, four more steps and the sound returned.

“You are not him.” A voice, deep, unfocused, forgettable, spoke out from the alley in front of Erasmus. It took time before he could see who, or what, had spoken. A human, though, they looked wrong, walked towards him slowly, shambling through the alleyway. It’s face looked melted, disfigured, unknowable. “You will maintain my shape for a time, undead.”

The creature shambled forward, stumbling, as if it could not maintain itself. Erasmus froze, a sense of curiosity took over him. It reached out. When it touched him, he remembered who this person was. He was an undead, one of the people at the university, who hadn’t been seen for weeks now. Why hadn’t he looked for this person? Why didn’t Erasmus remember until now?

A sensation drifted over Erasmus’ body as the undead in front of him melted completely, leaving no trace. Erasmus, for a brief moment, felt as though he couldn’t recall who or what he was talking to. The sensation engulfed him, offering him knowledge, and purpose. He remembered the undead before him, as well as all the others that had gone missing over the weeks. The thing that now engulfed his body washed over his rotting flesh. Erasmus wanted it to close his wounds, to make him whole, a wish he often thought of when considering the power of Life. This thing that engulfed him obliged. His wounds closed, sensation returned, and fury filled him.

“Am I alive?” Erasmus asked himself.

No undead. The creature spoke directly to Erasmus, no words were needed. I change the shape. I change the function. I am not Sin.

“Then how can I feel? What do you want?”

I want shape. I want to be. I need the Necromancer. I need his bones.

“I need him, too. With him, I can become whatever I was meant to be, whatever that may be.” Erasmus continued forward. The knowledge filled his mind, purpose returned, and he searched for William. His friend had a lot to answer for. Erasmus strode forward in the night as everyone else forgot he even existed.