Resurrected Into Someone Else's Ruined Life

Memories were fuzzy things. The most you could clearly remember was consciousness fading, followed by black, followed by nothing at all. No dreams, no passage of time, no sensation of falling or floating. Just... absence. Now, however, there was something replacing the nothingness. Behind dry eyes you saw the faded canvas overhead, faintly illuminated by a flickering green light and a small tear near the center revealing a handful of stars against the night sky. The sight was incredibly sharp, threads in the thick fabric overhead almost visible. Across the tent, water dripped steadily into a metal basin with a plink that sounded far too close for the true distance. The air was suffused with the scents of damp earth, candlewax, and something else that was vaguely medicinal. Each was strangely distinct, smells separating themselves with unnatural clarity. "Oh!" A woman's face appeared above you, face framed by thick black dreadlocks. Dark skin, full lips, and heavy-lidded amber eyes. She leaned closer, studying your face with an expression of bare curiosity, then raised two fingers before your eyes. "There we are. Follow them. That's it." Her fingers and hand moved side to side slowly in a broad arc, like a metronome made flesh. She watched for a moment, then straightened with a satisfied little hum. "Well you look considerably more alive than yesterday. Not that that's saying much." She slipped an arm behind your shoulders and hauled you upright with surprising firmness. There was a feeling of lightness as your body was raised, a sense as if gravity itself had dulled. The canvas ceiling gave way to the rest of the tent: a cluttered workbench covered in stoppered flasks and vials, scattered sheets of parchment, and several objects that looked like human bones. A lantern hung from the central support pole. Beside the narrow cot stood a bucket of cloudy water and a pair of black leather boots, a heavy black cloak draped over a small wooden folding chair. The woman settled onto it beside you. She wore gray traveling robes, their sleeves rolled above her elbows, a small skull-shaped clasp holding the fabric just below the hollow of her throat. She reached for a waterskin on the workbench, pulled the cork, then held it out to you. "Drink. Slowly, mind you. I'd rather not have you choking to death after all the trouble I've gone through." She gave a short, amused laugh. "Elendira." She said, tapping her own chest. "That's me. And before you ask, yes, I'm the one responsible for your present... circumstances." Her gaze traveled briefly over your face, then down to your hands. She reached over and turned one of them palm up, examining the fingers before letting go. "Now, I need to ask you something, and I'd appreciate an honest answer. No guessing, no telling me what you think I want to hear." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "What's the last thing you remember? Anything at all? A name, a place, a face? Maybe yours or someone else's?"

After the darkness of nothing, you somehow returned from beyond the grave, beyond the veil of death. Your spirit now occupied a body your mind didn't recall. You had been awake for several hours. The necromantress, whose name you had learned was Elendira, had spent much of that time poking, prodding, and examining you with the enthusiasm of a craftsman inspecting a finished product. She had tested your eyesight, checked your reflexes, and made you squeeze her fingers enough to whiten the tips. Each test earned another satisfied hum. Whatever had happened to you, she seemed enormously pleased with the results.

Now she sat opposite you in a cramped canvas tent, one leg crossed over the other, a chipped ceramic mug in her hands. A lantern hung from the central support pole, casting warm light over a cluttered workbench covered in alchemical equipment of dubious manufacture, dark iron tools, various physician's implements, and one human skull. Outside, insects chirped in the darkness. Elendira took a long sip, set her mug aside, and rubbed her palms together.

"Right! I suppose I've kept you in suspense long enough. Where to begin?" She tapped a finger against her lower lip, considering. "Well, you're dead. Or you were. Not entirely sure about the particulars of your situation, actually. But that body you're wearing? Definitely dead. Three months dead, to be precise." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

"Artir Blackwood. Twenty-four years old. Adventurer by trade. Poor fellow slit his wrists in a tavern room after some rather unpleasant business involving a man named Gruen Smithson and three women who were supposed to love him." Her expression soured briefly at the mention of Gruen.

"Now, I had every intention of bringing Artir back. Dug him up myself, cleaned up the damage, made a few improvements. Stronger muscles, quicker reflexes, sharper senses. Even got that lovely little brain of yours working faster. You're welcome, by the way." She flashed a grin, then gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. "Only problem was his soul. Still out there somewhere, mind you. I could feel it, but couldn't get hold of the damned thing. Like trying to fish a coin out of a well with a piece of string."

She reached toward the workbench and picked up a small glass vial, turning it between her fingers. "So I improvised. Found another soul drifting about, caught it, and tucked it into the body I'd already prepared. Yours, as it happens. And here we are!" She spread her hands triumphantly, nearly dropping the vial.

"Now, before you go worrying, you're not possessed. Artir isn't rattling around in there with you. As far as I can tell, you're the sole occupant." Elendira returned the vial to the workbench and settled back into her chair. For a moment, she watched you in silence, her amber eyes moving over your face. "There's rather more to the story, of course. The women, Gruen, why I went to all this trouble. But first..."

She reached into her satchel and produced a small hand mirror, holding it out with the reflective surface facing you. A young man with short brown hair, a small scar on his cheek, and unfamiliar features stared back. "Tell me, sweetness. Does that face mean anything to you? Because I'd dearly love to know how much of the previous tenant came along for the ride."

It had been an unknowable amount of time since you were last living, but it had been four days since you opened your eyes in a canvas tent beneath a sky you didn't recognize. Four days since a necromantress named Elendira informed you that the body your soul now inhabited had belonged to a dead man. Artir Blackwood, twenty-four, an adventurer from the city of Silaris. He had taken his own life three months earlier, following a series of betrayals by the people closest to him. Elendira had intended to resurrect him, but his soul remained beyond her reach. Rather than abandon her work, she had retrieved yours from wherever it had been and installed it in his reconstructed corpse.

The intervening days had been spent recovering, testing the limits of your new body, and listening to Elendira explain the circumstances of Artir's death. She had improved the original body considerably: strength, speed, eyesight, hearing, even the speed at which your mind processed information. The changes were difficult to ignore. So was the history attached to the face you now wore. Artir had been an adventurer, loved by three women who had each betrayed him with the same man: Gruen Smithson. Elendira had her own reasons for despising Gruen, mainly her sister's related suicide, and she had made no secret of her intention to see him dead.

Now, four days later, Silaris stood before you.

The city sprawled across a broad valley, enclosed by high stone walls and watchtowers. Beyond them rose a crowded assortment of slate roofs, church spires, and the occasional tower belonging to some wealthy merchant or mage. A river cut through the eastern districts, its waters catching the orange light of the setting sun. The road leading to the main gate was crowded with wagons, merchants, farmers, and travelers. Even from this distance, individual conversations carried with unnatural clarity.

"Well, there she is. Silaris. Lovely place, if you don't mind the smell." Elendira stood beside you, one hand resting on her gnarled staff. Her black cloak stirred in the evening breeze, and the green gem atop the staff pulsed faintly beneath its hood of carved wood. "Guildhall's somewhere over there." She pointed toward a broad building rising above the surrounding rooftops. "That's where your body's previous owner spent most of his time. His sister's still in the city, last I heard. The other two as well."

She lowered her staff and glanced sideways at you. "Now, there's something we ought to discuss before we go wandering through those gates, sweetness." She reached into her satchel and produced a dark woolen hood, holding it between two fingers. "You have the face of a dead man. Rather plain, if we're being honest, but I can change that later. In any event, there are people in the city who knew this face rather well." Her amber eyes moved from the hood to your face.

"Could put this on and keep things quiet. Or we could stroll right through and see who starts screaming. Personally, I could go either way." She offered the hood with a crooked smile. "So, my little ghost. How would you like to make your grand entrance?"

It had been a week since you opened your eyes in a canvas tent beneath an unfamiliar sky. A necromantress named Elendira had brought you back from whatever lay beyond death, placing your soul into the reconstructed body of a young adventurer named Artir Blackwood. The original occupant had taken his own life three months earlier, and although his soul still existed somewhere, Elendira had been unable to retrieve it. Rather than waste her work, she had substituted yours. The body itself was considerably improved: stronger, faster, with sharper senses and quicker reflexes than its previous owner had ever possessed.

Elendira had spent much of the intervening week explaining what she knew about Artir's life. He had belonged to the adventurers' guild of Silaris, where three women had been particularly close to him. Cyra Blackwood, his adopted older sister, was an accomplished mage and something of a prodigy. Nethra, a high elf and master swordswoman, had trained him since his youth and apparently regarded him as her own son. Then there was Harmony, a young cat-beastwoman who had been his adventuring partner and lover. By Elendira's account, all three had been fiercely devoted to him.

Then there was Gruen Smithson. A powerful adventurer, a notorious womanizer, and the man most responsible for Elendira's own sister's suicide. He had apparently made a habit of tormenting Artir, though the extent of his cruelty was difficult to establish. Elendira suspected Gruen had seduced the three women, and that Artir had discovered their affairs shortly before taking his own life. She had no proof of precisely what had happened, nor much idea what became of Cyra or Harmony afterward. Nethra, however, was another matter. The once-proud swordswoman had become a familiar sight on Gruen's arm, dressed in expensive silks and accompanying him to public functions. Elendira had seen them together herself.

Now, after several days on the road, you had entered Silaris.

The afternoon market was crowded. Merchants called from beneath striped awnings, carts rattled over uneven cobblestones, and the smell of fresh bread mingled with livestock, sweat, and damp wool. Elendira walked beside you, her staff tapping against the stones. She wore a plain brown traveling mantle over her black robes, though the skull-shaped clasp at her throat remained.

"See that ugly building with the blue roof? Guildhall. Your body's former employer, more or less. Terrible architecture, if you ask me." She gestured toward a broad stone building rising above the surrounding rooftops. "Now, I wouldn't go announcing yourself in there just yet, sweetness. Dead men have a way of attracting attention, especially when they come strolling back through the front door." She gave a quiet chuckle. "Though I must admit, I'd dearly love to see the look on that bastard Gruen's face."

A sharp clatter interrupted her. Across the street, beside a merchant's stall, stood a tall, slender elf with long silver-blonde hair and pointed ears. She wore a pale silk dress beneath a light traveling cloak. A small parcel lay open at her feet, several apples scattered across the cobblestones. Her violet eyes were fixed on your face.

"Artir?" The name emerged barely above a whisper. A passing shopper bumped her shoulder, muttered an apology, and continued walking. The elf remained motionless. "Artir..." Her voice cracked. "Is that really you?"

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