Those You Can't Save: Mystigon's Reincarnation

Bones is a bird of few words. He’d been told of Mystigon’s death in Kul’Goran, and it’d been… awkward. He was a housemate. They’d talked mostly about rent. Most of his knowledge of the man was secondhand, from Pieni talking about past adventures and shenanigans. When he’d heard the news, been told the details, he’d simply started composing a note by which to inform Pieni.



His relationship with Pieni is… complex, but he’d known him as an optimist back in the village. Less so after the attack and L’s exile. Even less so now, after three days trapped in an ant warren and some sort of ordeal in the desert with Devils and Yuan-Ti. He’d come back looking ill; maybe not in a way that the featherless folk could see, but his feathers were dull and over-preened and his wings twitched oddly, and he seemed to be unable to stop fidgeting and pacing, and frantically spewed the events of his No Good, Very Bad, Horrible week to Bones over tea in an Inn.



When he was done venting, Bones’d taken him by the hand, pressed the note into it, and told him he might want to read it in a quiet room, if he could find one. He’s no good at bereavement counseling. Or emotions. It would be better to send him off to deal with his loss in private than attempt to comfort him and make it worse. This is what Bones tells himself.



He’ll pull through this. They’ve both been through worse. Bones isn’t responsible for this. They’re not friends. He doesn’t even like him. He’ll be fine.



When he’s cradling him in an alleyway, trying to get him to breathe in time with numbers like L taught him, he realises nothing has ever been fine at all.



Pieni tells him between breaths:



“I can bring him back.”



“Can you?”



“I’ve got a spell.”



“...”



“It’ll be fine. There’s --”



“Concentrate on breathing.”



“--Nothing to be worried about.”



“I need you to count with me.”



“I shouldn’t be reacting this way.”



“One.”



“This is my fault.”



“It could not physically be your fault. Two.”



“I hate Mystigon.”



“No you don’t. Three.”



I hate Minotaurs.



“Four.”



I hate Giants.



“Five.”



I miss L.



Six.



He is breathing and the air is cold. The floor is cold. The alleyway stretches on forever.



Seven.



He is so heavy and yet so light, but not flying. A lucid dream. He breathes cold and swallows it and it burns acidic and it runs through his veins and in his hollow bones.



Eight.



Only Bones is warm. Everything else is white and white noise and runs on forever like time. His blood is sluggish and he feels sick. Sick and tired and sad, like L always was.



Nine.



L would’ve known what to do.



Ten.



But L is gone.



I want him back.

--

“I will get him back,” Pieni mutters absentmindedly, shovelling a pile of dirt to the side.



“Yes, with your Druid magic. We’ve established that.”



The hired muscle is doing a much better job of filling the shallow grave. An open bottle of rare unguents rests nearby, already applied. Mystigon’s bloodless body is half-buried in the dirt. It doesn’t matter. It’ll be gone soon.



The past evening is a blur for Pieni. He must have told Bones enough about the ritual for them to be here halfway through the process, but that’s it. He doesn’t know how he ended up with him in the alleyway. Whatever the hell that strange fit was is a problem to be dealt with later.



As soon as he can’t see the corpse in the soil he tells the hires to stop. Bones stands there awkwardly, waiting for instruction. Pieni tells him he doesn’t need to stay for this part; he’s given him enough help already.



He stays.



Pieni scatters some seeds, carves some runes into the dirt with sticks, and uncorks a bottle of rare oils and pours it over the grave and waits. It takes an hour, but slowly and gradually the flower grows from the grave, starting off as a small purple tulip, until it grows big as a tree with a bud the size of a sheep. The flower wilts as though some kind of massive weight is contained in the bud, towards Pieni, and as the flower opens and blooms, a body thumps out of it unceremoniously onto the floor. Mystigon’s old clothes don’t fit it, but he’s bought some spare garments of various sizes and throws them on the body without looking, as well as Mystigon’s scarves.



The body is unconscious, for now. They take it back to an Inn in DH, leaving the big flower at the gravesite, and give the body its own room next to theirs. They put him to bed and each leave him a note on the dresser:



“You’re a half-orc now, but you’re alive. Be grateful. I died once, too, so I can give you a word of advice: don’t go around thinking you’re invincible just because you cheated death. Also, I don’t fully understand why, but you caused Pieni a lot of distress and I had to deal with his emotions and feelings and other inconveniences today. If you don’t apologise to him, expect to be set on fire within 5-10 business days. -- B.”



“Dear Mystigon,



I told you once: whatever roads you're walking down, you didn't have to go them alone. I could have walked the warpath with you. It's not really my jam, but I would've done it for you... And it would've been stupid of me. I'd go insane seeing all those people hurting I can't help; the Plague was bad enough.



It keeps happening. I was a bit of an explorer back where I'm from, and I came back one day and people I knew had died in an attack by some horned people. They were there one day and gone the next, and there was nothing I could do. There were people better than me who died that day, and I sometimes wish I could replace them in the dirt.



I loved a man who was sick. He was very sad and tired all the time, and he hated himself, and I was the only one who could make him happy, and he always knew what to say when I was sad. On real bad days, sometimes he disappeared, and I'd search for him, expecting to find a corpse. He got exiled about a year and a half ago. I'm still searching.



I go away to investigate some ants and snakes, and I come back and you're dead in some war...



Death seems so real right now and yet I miss it every time I look away.



Maybe you would've been too proud to accept my help, like you were the other time you nearly died. It doesn’t matter. I won’t be back at the house for a while, if at all. If you care so little about your own life that you’ll throw it away so fast, I’m not going to waste my life worrying over things I can’t control.



-- P



P.S. Fuck you.

P.P.S. I left all the stuff on your corpse and the stuff they gave me in a chest in the room you’re in. I left you a health potion in case you’re tired and some extra money in case you need some new clothes for your new form.

P.P.P.S. Still fuck you, though."

--

Later, a waiter delivers a small rolled-up letter to Bones. He is in the Inn’s tavern, musing over feelings of jealousy; nobody mourned him like this when he died. Pieni has been avoiding his room at the inn, in no mood to run into Mystigon. He reads the letter:



“I know I fucked up, and I by no means was trying to be careless. For Pieni: you are absolutely right. I am travelling to the Angel Bark. I need to speak to Will. Thank you for bringing me back. Promise not to be throwing my life away again. Will see you soon.”



In the corner of his eye, he sees Mystigon sneak out of the tavern and disappear. What Pieni sees in that man, he does not know.



“P.S. You are the greatest friend I could ever ask for.”