Chapter 96

Post Mortem

Pleased with the latest addition to my decorating, I can now turn my attention to more important matters. My loved ones are all looking a bit battered. Repairs and healing are in order. Then I must figure out the business of rebuilding and ultimately ruling the kingdom. I am a little grouchy about this as I suspect it will be difficult to be queen from an isolated woodland cottage. I miss my cottage so much.

But first things first. The Fairhaven girls were all injured fighting that ratbag Phylas. I stitch a new leg onto Sara’s torso, all the while extolling the virtues of caution, of common sense, and of knowing when to charge down a hallway waving your daggers and hurling fireballs and when to hold back. My wisdom falls on deaf ears. In truth I cannot blame them. They are young, and in their positions I would have done exactly the same.

Sara and Karine took most of the damage. Sara is easily mended, (rainbow daisy chain stitching, carefully embroidered while the teenage draugr watches me like a hawk) but Karine dies of her injuries the following night. I patch up her body as best I can and bring her soul back with a few words of extreme caution.

“This body might be tough and strong,” I say, as the brand new draugr flexes her undead muscles, “and you won’t need to sleep, but it will deteriorate over time, with injury and wear. You can still die. You are not immortal. You need to be careful. Do you understand, Karine?”

“Yes, yes,” the dead hellion answers, before rushing off to lift a cart over her head with a giggling Gabriella inside.

I sigh and set aside my needle and thread. They are not my flesh and blood, I am certainly not their mother, but I do worry. They do not take the dangers of life seriously. Living in a haunted castle, surrounded by undead probably has that effect on growing minds. They are only girls after all. But perhaps, I think, they might have the right of it. Not everything needs to be suffering and misery. If they pass from this world at least they burned brightly, and spent most of their time here laughing.

Next I go to see Roland who is in a sorry state indeed.

“My dear,” I say to him, as I attach a new arm. “I think it is high time you considered a new body. There is only so much I can do with needle and thread.”

He smiles sadly. “I suppose you are right, my lady.”

“Think of the body modifications we can make,” I say, brightly, my needle darting in and out. “With new flesh.”

Strangely this argument does not seem to sway him.

Once Roland is darned and patched to the best of my ability I go in search of Jenkins, finding him eventually, curled up on the comfortable chair in my tower. My poor cat is looking rough. Cradling him on my lap I inspect him for damage.

If I had tear ducts I would have turned his black, furry hide wet as a forest spring. He does not seem to mind his missing chunks of fur, or the newly exposed ribcage but I do. He head butts me softly, his purr constant, if a little subdued.

Tickling him behind the worn ears I ask him to please stay home, and to stay safe until I can… I don’t know what to do exactly. I suppose I can find him a new body, but that does not seem right. Realistically telling him to stay out of trouble is as useful as telling fish not to swim. He is a cat after all, and a witches’ cat at that.

“Would you like to be a lich, Jenkins?” I ask him.

He does not reply, but it seems to me this is the only sensible solution.

Once I have my house in order, and the kingdom secure, I will bend my will to this task. I can think of no finer thing to do with my undead powers. The Kingdom of Einheath deserves its very own lich cat, and so do I.