A Necromancer's Hands
If anyone ever asked Khora what thing she loved most about Mortimer, her answer would have to be his hands.
They were much larger than her own hands; calloused, cold and scarred where hers were soft, warm and tanned. They had done many deeds, both good and bad, terrible and miraculous. They had saved thousands, hundreds of thousands, of lives and killed many others with their actions. They had held the staff that cast the killing blow to his doppelganger, shaped the spell that struck down the Lich, formed minions from the dead and yet still handled her as if she were a skittish animal or a fragile heirloom.
She liked spending time under the lush spreading linden tree that lorded over one of the farther outlying fields, sitting in the cool grass with his legs stretched out on either side of her and his arms around her. In the cool shelter of his body, she would cup one of his hands in both of hers and compare their sizes, his long fingers easily curling over hers, and then examine them, counting the scars and murmuring the causes of the ones she knew. When she came across one that was obtained before they were tossed together like sea-debris in choppy waters, he would chuckle and recount to her the tale, using his other hand to tickle the back of her neck or trace her own scars, faint on her olive skin.
Those hands brought pleasure in privacy, steadiness in public and the knowledge of a waiting safety net should she stumble. They had held her up, in the end, when she was too exhausted to go on, when she spent the last of her energy getting them to Door of Komalie.
She had watched his hands, killer's hands, savior's hands, cradle their only child with a gentle gingerness, Greer's head looking so small resting in the large palm. When the boy was older, they were covered in mud, carefully making the most perfect mud pie or potion-stained as the two experimented with combinations. Often they were singed as the combinations proved explosive.
As they years went by and their son grew old enough to strike out on his own her hands started to show the inevitable signs of age and yet his remained cold, calloused and scarred and still young. As grandchildren were born and grew and visited, more mud pies were made, more potions stained his hands but they were as unchanged as in years before. Sometimes, on cold days, her own grew too swollen and painful to shape the intricate spell signs while his were as fluid as in the days when Ascalon was green and peaceful. Eventually as grandchildren grew and struck out on their own like their father before them, the swelling persisted even on warm days and his large hands would hold her own like they had cradled their only child and every one of their grandchildren, full of loving carefulness as he massaged them.
One day she was no longer able to hold the wand and focus she had carried with her through the terrible months leading up to the defeat of the Lich, her hands so crippled they would not respond to her commands. His hands, more scarred than the days under the old linden tree but no less young, carefully curled his fingers around the hilt and dried the frustrated tears on her face.
And on the final day, his hands supported and guided her delicately as she stubbornly went about her day, frail and wasted but proud to her last breath. She observed classes, correcting minor lecturing errors and gesturing to her Elementalist granddaughter to demonstrate the forms she could no longer create.
When she stumbled, weakened by the blasted disease, his hands steadied her like they had so long ago on that hellish trek up the black paths lined with flows of lava.
When she sagged, exhausted, his hands lifted her up, guided her to the shade of a young ash tree planted in the courtyard of the school. There was a carpet of lush green grass under the tree, an oasis in the paved space and his hands gently helped her sit. There under the shade of the tree with his legs stretched out on either side of her and his arms around her, she took his unchanged hands and counted the scars with her twisted, aged hands. It was a sad contrast between the two, but she focused on the new scars, the ones accumulated from the years of grandchildren and, recently, great grandchildren and when she found one she didn't know about, he told her, gently, the tale behind it and tweaked the back of her neck.
And when she breathed out his hands held hers and he kissed them, and her, and his hands closed her eyes forever.
A Necromancer's hands always have done something heinous, something twisted and awful for that is the nature of their chosen specialty. But a Necromancer's hands are capable of great deeds, of kindness and love. They may help children take first steps, shape mud pies and weather small injuries made by the practice daggers of an ambitious grandchild. They may not only create evil, but also destroy it.
If anyone ever asked Khora Ai what she loved most about Mortimer Mortag, a Necromancer, her answer would have to be his hands. His killer's hands, his savior's hands. His Necromancer's hands.