Nothing that Annel had ever read or been taught had suggested that a spectre might resist its hunger.

He had known that it would have memories of its past life. Why else would he ever create a spectre? He had sought only to bring his mother back to the world of the living. He had also thought that doing so would result in his death.

Yet, in honesty--

He had always hoped. For Annel was now a man of two halves.

One, the dominant half while he was casting a ritual, was the trained mage. A man of immense willpower, singular focus, and cold rationality. A man who knew the risks, and interpreted those risks as certain death.

But the other half -- was the insane half. The half that had howled at the heavens when he, a recent graduate to the rank of full mage, returned to find his family, his childhood friends, the entire village of his birth wiped from the map, extinguished in a single night of fire and blood.

Annel's insanity manifested as a wish, a promise to himself: that somehow, someway, it would all work out -- if only he could bring them back.

Now, he was looking into his mother's blue eyes, and he was still alive. The same blue he'd stared into as a little boy. Albeit without a sclera or pupil, and composed of glowing flames. But still, blue.

"Mom, is that you?" He was too weak to lift his head, but he managed a hoarse whisper. "You... aren't going to..."

The spectre hissed, surging toward him then away. The sound came from all around, a mark of the spectre's ability to influence its surroundings. Her surroundings.

She struggled with herself, trying to put the memories in order. They were jumbled, disconnected, tattered from their journey across the veil.

But so many of them featured this man. Her son. His brown hair had never changed since childhood, nor his dimpled cheeks, or the strong nose that he took from her. He was her second child, the one she had secretly loved the most. More than anyone, even her husband.

Who needs to be told that the love between a mother and her child is a special thing? It should be, at least. In a perfect world, that bond is the purest, deepest love. Not everyone gets to experience perfection, of course.

But Annel and his mother -- Devra was her name, she suddenly remembered -- had shared that sort of bond. It was from her that his magical abilities had sprung. She had taught him her simple magics, spending each of their days together until he was sixteen. Then, the Capitol Arcanum had come to take him away.

Even then, he'd visited during every break, and they would while away hours in conversation and mutual affection. Exalted mage though he might be, Annel never forgot his roots.

He remembered them now. What she'd said. The words he'd kept in his heart, even after it was broken.

"Mom... you said you'd always love me..."

He was crying now. The spectre's eyes flared in response.

"Al-ways, my child. Al-ways."

She was still learning to use her voice. But already, he thought he heard a familiar, sing-song tone, the accent of her birth country.

Sitting up was a struggle. He tried, then gave up. He rested for a while instead, focusing on passively drawing in energy as he'd been taught. The spectre hung in the air, still rippling from time to time, getting close to Annel and then pulling away again.

"My love, it is pain-ful. The hun-ger. Hunger..."

Devra at last succeeded in speaking a two syllable word, letting it sigh out into the air.

Marshalling his energies again, Annel shakily pushed himself upright, wrapping his arms around his legs.

"It's alright, mom. You can take my energy, if you need it. I'll live on inside of you."

Such devotion! His eyes shone with it. Or, perhaps, that was the light of insanity.

"No... nev-er," the spectre whispered.

Neither spoke for a while. Both remembered. They'd always been able to sit in comfortable silence.

"Mom. You need to eat, to survive. You're still weak."

"Yesss... eat..."

He nodded thoughtfully. Then, he raised a shaking hand, pointing across the chamber.

"We're in the temple basement. It'll be easiest if you go out that way. Go to the forest. Find rabbits, or a deer."

The spectre began to flow away, crossing the faded, dead lines of the pentagram. Half across the chamber, it paused.

"And... then?"

"Come back to me. I suppose my work will go on."

First, he had to rebury his mother's body. Even if she was returned to life, one still had to show the proper respects.

But he hadn't prepared for survival. It took him a long time to get to his feet. He walked like an old man, pausing frequently, then climbed the steps one by one.

The main floor of the temple had been mostly destroyed in the raid. But the structure was made of stone, one of the sturdiest in the village. Annel had made his camp in the lee of the collapsed ceiling, under the statue of Corum.

He let himself fall to the floor, leaning his back against the god's leg. With one hand, he pawed open his bag.

No more mana potions, no more mana crystals. He'd used up everything in practicing his necromancy.

Well, nearly everything. He still had a pouch of old vetal leaves. He flipped it open and pulled out a handful, stuffing them into his mouth. Then he began to chew, ignoring the taste of leather and mold.

The trickle of mana he absorbed from the leaves went to his core. From there, he transformed the energies and circulated them through his body, a process that had taken years to learn. A bit of his strength returned.

He spit out the mangled remnants of the leaves, took a drink of stale water from a gourd. Then he picked up his notebook and flipped it open.

At the top of a long list, he drew a line through an item. It said, simply:

"Mother"

He frowned over the rest. Besides the other items on the list, the page was cluttered with notes, written at varying angles and sizes. As he read, he began to cry again, without noticing. He closed the notebook, gently setting it aside atop a thick tome.

From the forest, far away, a rabbit's shrill scream rose then abruptly stopped. Annel smiled, at that.

"Now, now, now..." he muttered, digging in his bag again.

He had a problem. He wasn't prepared for the other items on his list. It was time to take stock, to consider steps, to estimate outcomes.

Most of his current belongings were nothing special. The bag, for instance. It was a leather backpack that looked like it might be older than him. The first thing he pulled out from it was a rolled up blue robe, which he set aside; he was wearing more sensible pants and a jerkin at the moment. He added his underwear to the pile. Mom had always told him to pack plenty.

He had half a roll of rations left. That was good for two days, although the consistency of the stuff meant almost certain constipation. He set them aside before reaching into the bag again.

A wand. It wasn't his own stave; that had broken when he detonated the warded door of the magic shop. He'd grabbed this one before making his escape. A simple thing, suitable for students of the first level, and not useful at all in a ritual.

A pouch with many small pockets followed. Again, nothing special, just basic components that any mage might use, like bits of bone, gemstone dust, dried newts, herbs, fossilized shit. He remembered how the whole class had laughed when the instructor taught them why coproliths were useful. Another ghost of a smile crossed his face

Using both hands, he pulled out a case and opened it on the floor, revealing a crystalline orb the size of two fists. It was of good quality. The trouble was, really useful scrying tools tended to be quite large, impossible for a single man to carry about. This was only a portable scrying orb, of the sort used for warfare or traveling.

From the side of the bag, he retrieved a sheathed dagger. Like any blade, it was useful for many things. He'd used it to sacrifice the sheep, earlier. He'd have to use it soon to carve off some of the animal's meat for cooking, since he'd survived to get hungry again. Whether it was used for ritual purposes, cooking or combat, the knife didn't care.

One by one, he pulled several rings off his fingers and added them to the assortment on the floor. Then he regarded the entire collection.

"It wouldn't even impress a hedge witch," he muttered, after a moment.

That evaluation helped him decide on what to do next. He put back on the rings and packed away his other things.

First things first. Moving almost at a normal pace, he went back downstairs to retrieve his mother's now-soulless corpse.