AN: This is going to sound a whole lot like the newest trailer for CODBOT Zombies. That's because, as an honor to the fact that it is the last map for the game, I'm writing a fic (that I actually intend on finishing...).
The Commemorative Tragedy of a Young Soul,
A Prologue
Do you want me to remember how I died? Because bringing me out to Evangeline in the forest and bringing her an eye of frog and tail of newt, singing 'double double toil and trouble' isn't going to do it. It won't bring me back alive again, either. Finding all the ingredients to a potion that you give me won't help. No, that's not how a ghost gets her memory back. It's time. Time and touch. Sometimes a ghost is reminded by an action of another. Sometimes a ghost is reminded by the swooping sound that recalls their own grim, bloody fate. But it's usually just time. I don't remember how I died. I don't remember much of how I lived. But I remember a little. Just a piece, the essence of which is bound eternally and silently to Mahora Academy. I don't suppose anyone had ever stopped to wonder, if I died in a war accident, why the Academy didn't suffer any permanent damage. Or think about the traps on Library Island. Only a few people have really stopped to ask what Library Island has housed. And the answer they get—well, books, mostly. We're sure that those books were so valuable that it was worth the time, effort, and potential danger to hide a basic magical artifact or two.
The young ghost sighs, kicking her ethereal legs back and forth, her calves going slightly into the table that acts as her perch with each swing. She looks up at the new student as she enters the room, blinking her gentle eyes, and watching her face.
Here to gawk at the ghost, she asks.
She shakes her head, and sits on a desk beside her, putting herself in a more comfortable position. In truth, she doesn't know why she's there. Some strange force pulled all reason from her mind, and sent her wandering with some odd purpose to this room. To this ghost.
And now, whether it's the odd chill that dances like a gypsy up and down her spine, the tingling hair on her neck, the cold feeling that begins to gnaw greedily on the tips of her toes… something is keeping her here, wanting her to wait for some answer. Some closure.
Sayo watches her, and lets her feet fade away into the characteristic wisp of formlessness that seems to follow ghosts around. She floats over to her, watching her cautiously, her eyes darting nervously between her face and her hands, worried some secret weapon might emerge. Finally, she places her hand on the girl's shoulder, her face a mere breath away from her own.
You're here to learn.
The hand on her shoulder, tingling her nerves in a cold chill of a handprint, moves down your arm, bristling her hair and making bumps rise like dead from their graves along your forearm to your wrist. I don't remember how I died, if that's what you want.
I know.
She takes her hand, and nods. She takes the girl outside, floating slowly down the streets of Mahora, feeling the chill of a breeze, under the pale moon. Pale as death. She stops along the shore to look out at Library Island. Do you know what's under there?
She shakes her head again. Nobody does.
She nods, and the breeze actually seems to move her hair like a silken veil, brushing by her cheek like a gentle roll of Arctic water.
They stand like this for a long time, the cold not touching her, and only gently blowing and caressing her right side.
My name is Sayo Aisaka. A portion of my life is tethered to this school. And I'm going to tell you what really happened.
AN: If you like this story and would like it to continue, please give me some notification, be it review, message, whatever. I only want to write a story that people actually want to read, so let's save both of us some trouble and write a little opinion.