The Sleeping Citadel: Gray Magic

The Unfortunate Tale of Poor Old Mr. Mortimer the Too-Nice Necromage

Once upon a time there was a stereotypical wizard's tower, tall and old and gray, made of stone and tile. As any proper wizard's tower was, the structure was hidden deep within a lush and magical, green forest. What was the point of building a tower out in the middle of nowhere like that? No one knew. It was simply how wizard's towers were. And as any proper wizard's tower was, the structure appeared old and crumbling, though of course it was supported and reinforced by magic.

Within the tallest and only floor of the tower—the base of it utterly empty, existing only to provide the foundation for the tower—sat alone a single, old wizard. He was an unusually tiny man, perhaps because his powers had robbed him of so much, or perhaps because of his unusually meek and timid demeanor. Despite the power and potential that he possessed, the old man wizard was incredibly sheepish and easy to push over, and not just because he was aged and frail. He was completely hairless, bald and without facial hair, even lacking eyebrows due to numerous accidents with his magic. From time to time, he would draw some on, but other times, he forgot.

He sat alone on his wooden throne in his cozy little tower, but he knew he would not be alone for much longer.

"They should be here soon..." he mused, the tiniest of smiles spreading slowly across his aged, withered face. And sure enough, soon enough, excited and chattering voices filled the forest, overpowering the natural noises of nature as a hoard of human feet tromped through the flora and fauna. A sign hung on the front of his tower over the window out which he could look and survey the swath of forest path leading to his tower.

Ah, yes, there they were. All the townsfolk and villagers from the neighboring cities surrounding the forest he inhabited. In droves they came, far and wide, young and old, big and small, of every color and shape and size, but one thing united them all—

"Mortimer! Old Man Mortimer! Mr. Mortimer! Kindly Necromage Mortimer!" They cried out and waved, everyone with a request, someone they wanted brought back. Grandparents, parents, old family and friends, even dead celebrities, fallen heroes, and late, beloved pets.

"Can you bring back my dog?"

"Can you bring back this brilliant mind? Think of how much we could achieve as a species if they lived again!"

"What of this religious figure?"

"How about my dear, sweet, old, granny?"

Mortimer smiled and nodded slowly. "Come one, come all, I have more than enough power for death to stall..." He raised his old, withered hands and got to work. Many hours later, the droves that left his tower were even more numerous than the ones that went in. Smiling and laughing and chatting, everyone sung Mortimer's praises, his name ever on their lips, and yet not a single one of them stayed behind to ask the old man how he was faring. Instead, he slumped tiredly into his seat, heaving a satisfied sigh. He was even smaller now, even more withered and hairless.

"Ah, but it was worth it... It was all so worth it..." His eyes drifted shut, and he was wracked with chills and shakes the entire night long. Come sunrise, though, his old bones and joints sang as they were kissed by the sunrise. He rose to his feet, yawning and stretching. They would come back in three days' time. It was all his powers could afford him. He was the most powerful Necromage in all the land, and yet even for him, there were restrictions. Death was a cruel figure, and not so easily tamed, controlled, or bargained with. Mortimer had unlocked the key, but love would always have its sacrifices, and there were never any sacrifices without blood.

It was well within his power to resurrect hoards and swaths of the death, creatures and counts limitless beyond comprehension or comparison. But at a price. If he wished to return loved ones to their families in ways that they understood, it took much more power and care than simply raising a massive army of the dead. There were plenty of Necromages who chose the latter route, determined to conquer Death and Life, but not kindly old Mr. Mortimer, the Too-Nice Necromage. He had chosen a different path.

The truth is... Death is a kind mistress. It is Life who is the cruel master. Finding lost souls was easy. Sneaking them past Life's vigilant eye was not. He was a monster of a man, reveling in the torment of his subjects, stringing some of them along in a years-long battle between life and death. There were those who died in agony, those who died slowly, and all because Life reeled them in and out of Death's patient clutches over and over again. Death waited quietly below, her hands raised up to catch any that Life so callously cast aside in his endless quest and thirst for more. He was a bulldozer. She was the hole—the grave—left in his wake.

Mortimer lived a long, lustrous life with a long, lustrous legacy. But even the Master of Death and Life could not outrun his forever. One day, his number was finally up, and he expired. With cruel laughter, Life kicked him and beat him to death, watching him die slowly and alone in his tower. There was no one there to help or visit him that day, his previous resurrection-work still ongoing. Of course, after he passed, a great cry went up across the land as other loved ones slowly faded away back to the ash and dust from whence they came.

"Mortimer! Mortimer! O Great, Powerful, Mighty Mortimer! What's become of you?!" Again they flocked to his tower, but all that remained was a tiny, withered skeleton wrapped pathetically in large, dark robes. Was it a funeral shroud? Swadling for an infant? What a sad, sorry state he was in. What a sad, sorry lot it all was. Countless mourners showed up at his funeral, with enough salty tears to drown out the entire Earth, including every last sea and ocean. And yet, despite all of those many, many tears, not a single one was really for Mortimer himself.

They did not know him, did not know what he was like, only that he was the one that returned their loved ones to them. Now, he too, was gone, now and forevermore, and there would never be another Necromage quite like him, at least not for quite a while more. And thus concludes The Sad, Sorry, and Unfortunate Tale of Poor Old Mr. Mortimer the Late and Too-Nice Necromage.