:D
21. A Shared Fascination
Fane did not know why she was still here. In all honesty, Fane did not know why he was still here. The experiment was over, he had completed his notes on the subject, and he could be busy with other tasks instead of sitting here quietly with the Undead elf beside him.
She had unmasked herself almost immediately and leaned against the back of the bed. When Fane had asked her why she had bothered unmasking, her response had been curious:
She had laughed, as she often did, and looked at him. "One might say I do not feel comfortable in my own skin," she had said. Fane had been mulling that over when the Undead laughed again. "How solemn you look!" she had cried. "I was only joking."
Fane had rolled his eyes, which inspired her to pat him on the arm rather condescendingly.
"In truth," she said more seriously, "I simply dislike being masked or even veiled. The wonders of touch encourage me to wear this mask, but I have no desire to hide my true self. If I do not have the overwhelming urge to feel and am among people who will not kill me on sight, I prefer to be exactly as I am. I rather enjoy being an Undead and showing off my pretty decorations."
"So," Fane had summarized, "you have a strong sense of self which is largely tied to your appearance."
"Fane, Fane, Fane," the Undead had sighed with exaggerated despair. "You are so eager to judge us lesser races with unnecessary criticism that it clouds your otherwise sound reasoning skills." The Undead had next shrugged. "Your conclusion is the opposite of the truth," she informed him. "My appearance is of the least consequence to me, as it is one of the very few things on which I am willing to compromise."
They had both fallen silent after that, and Fane was still thinking over her words. The idea of uncompromising belief was strange to him. In his experience, everything except the laws of the universe was mutable. He had once thought that the Eternals were as their name implied, but even they had changed, had fallen. His mind told him that the Undead was falsely confident in her own steadfastness, but his instincts disagreed.
Fane was unused to listening to instinct, but he had to admit it had served him well just a short time ago. The Undead's and his second attempt had been far more successful than the first, and Fane was beginning to understand the mortals' obsession with the act. He himself was tempted to solicit the Undead once more, but he did not need any more information now. It had been a welcome distraction from this mundane ship ride, however, and he was glad that the Undead had approached him.
Fane wondered if he should leave now, but he was comfortable. He was relaxed.
"Tell me," Fane began to the Undead, deciding he might as well learn about her kind while he was here, "why do you adorn yourself so? Is it cultural? Ritualistic?"
"What, the tattoos?" the Undead inquired. Fane nodded, and the Undead glanced down at her bare ribs. She raised a hand and aimlessly traced a looping swirl of golden-yellow ink. "Somewhat," she said softly. "They…" She hesitated.
While she formulated an answer, Fane studied the ink all across her bones. At first glance, they seemed like abstract lines and patterns of different colors but, at closer inspection, Fane could see that the lines formed concrete symbols, often curling around miniscule images. The designs on her skull were the easiest to discern, as they were the largest. There was a pale silver crescent moon bordering one of her eye sockets, a bright yellow snake following her cheekbone, and various plants and other images decorating the rest of it.
"They are personal," the Undead finally said. She tipped her head back and rested it against the tall headboard.
"Then I apologize for prying," Fane said. He was disappointed that his curiosity would not be satisfied, but it was not his place to force an explanation.
"Hm?" the Undead said, now staring at him with her head tilted curiously. "Oh!" she gasped. "No, not like that," she assured him. "I mean that they were a personal decision having nothing to do with a culture or affiliation with some group."
Fane looked at her intently, hoping for more, and she folded her hands in her lap.
"I forget many things across the centuries," she said, "so retaining the memories I make is important to me. Thus, almost every tattoo represents a significant event in my existence."
"Ah, sentiment," Fane understood. He began noting some of this down in his book.
"Sentiment," the Undead agreed, "but also practicality and instruction."
Fane paused in his writing to look at her again. "Can you expand on that?" he asked.
"It is practical in that I am keeping a record of my life's events," she responded. "It is something of a… visual biography, perhaps. It is instruction in that not all the memories are good; some are reminders of mistakes I ought not repeat." The Undead paused as she watched Fane take notes. "How do you write your name in your native script?" she asked unexpectedly.
Fane stared at her in shock, wondering what had inspired the question, but quickly jotted down the letters for her. She leaned over to study it, then hummed to herself. As Fane watched, the Undead retrieved her pack from the floor and scrounged through it until she produced an inked quill, a scrap of paper, and a small jar of white ink. The Undead studied Fane's name for a moment longer before carefully copying it onto the paper with her pen. She held it up for Fane to see.
"Did I copy it correctly?" she asked gravely, and Fane nodded. She hummed in satisfaction and carefully unscrewed the jar of white ink. She dipped her right index finger into the jar and began inspecting her left arm. "Aha," she mumbled as her gaze alighted on a small area of bone devoid of color.
Fane had noticed that both of the Undead's index fingers had been filed down to wickedly sharp points, but he had only seen her utilize the modification for lockpicking. Now, she pressed the inked point deep into the bone. She carefully ground furrows into the bone, reapplying ink frequently until the bone sparkled with her newest tattoo: a tiny inscription of Fane's name in Eternal script.
The Undead inspected her work carefully, deepening furrows or adding extra ink as needed. Once she was satisfied, she wiped her finger with the scrap of paper and returned everything to her bag.
"I am always recording new memories," she said cheerfully. "I believe this qualifies, yes?"
"Fascinating," Fane murmured as he scribbled this newest development down. "You are a fascinating creature," he added offhand.
"You are not the only one to have said that to me," the Undead said dryly, and Fane glanced up at her to see her staring into the distance.
"I meant no offense," he said hurriedly.
"And I took no offense," she replied with a chuckle. "I have been captured and studied by dozens of necromancers over the years," she revealed. "I am quite used to being fascinating to you scholars."
"I have found that most of you mortal races dislike being studied," Fane admitted. "I have recorded some… interesting reactions from those who took offense."
"It is generally considered impolite, but I understand curiosity," the Undead said. "I am always glad to help satisfy it. As long as you do not attempt to cause harm, I have no issue."
"I have no intention of causing anyone harm," Fane said, "only to observe."
"Yes, I know," she replied. "That is why I am glad to cooperate. Now, however, you must tell me something. Why do you consider me fascinating? Every necromancer had a different reason, and I am curious as to what yours is."
"You seem to understand mortals very well," he began briskly, "even though you claim to have lived in isolation for centuries and to be unpracticed socially."
The Undead nodded but did not say anything, waiting for more.
"Even though you seem enamored with touch," he continued, "you profess that you enjoy being Undead."
She silently nodded again, so Fane flipped through his notebook to remind himself what else he had found curious about her.
"You give trust without reservation even though very few will ever return the favor," he said; another nod was the response. "You never take offense even at the most personal of attacks and are willing to make peace with those whom you should disdain. Your morals are strict and yet contradictory. You do not revere your gods as others do, even going so far as refusing to accept the gift of nearly infinite power."
The Undead chuckled at that one but still did not speak.
"Hmm, what else…" Fane murmured as he flipped through his notebook. He was surprised at just how many insights on the Undead he had scattered through his observations. "You do not seem to need a goal to strive for at all times," he added. "That is unusual. You seem perfectly content without a permanent home or social ties, yet you have a deep affection for some mortals…" Fane sighed and looked up from his notebook. "Do you require more reasons?" he asked dryly.
"Summarize it all in one sentence," the Undead said softly.
"…You are always the outlier," Fane decided after a moment of silence.
"Hm, fascinating," the Undead mused. "No one ever has the same answer."
"Do you mind if I inquire as to what the others' conclusions were?"
"Dominik said I was fascinating because the dead were not supposed to be made of sunshine." She chuckled while Fane stared in bafflement. "He was a poetic sap," she explained. "Do not mind him. The others…" The Undead trailed off and began inspecting her bones closely. Eventually, she gasped and grabbed her right foot, tilting it so that she could see the bottom. "Here they are," she murmured.
The Undead chuckled lightly as she read the minuscule script, and it took Fane a moment to realize that she had transcribed the answers. He quickly scribbled this down into his notebook; he supposed this is what the Undead meant by recording her own history.
"Some of the reasons given were: because my bone is malleable under certain induced conditions," the Undead said, "another because I have little attachment to my mortal life, because I claimed to double as a woodwind instrument, I had shockingly human-like mannerisms, I enjoyed being Undead, my favorite color—at the time—was blue, I did not kill my necromancer, I preferred the company of animals, I am healed by poison, I have a familiar, dogs shy away from gnawing on my bones…" She squinted at her foot, then shrugged at Fane. "I am sure there were many others," she said, "but I have not recorded every reason."
Fane gazed at her, trying to determine whether she was being facetious, but she did not laugh or break eye contact. "Those are… truly the reasons?" he asked cautiously.
"Indeed," the Undead said with a chuckle. "I asked each one to summarize why they thought me fascinating, intriguing, interesting, and the like, and those were their answers."
"They are all so… shallow," Fane observed unhappily, "except for the first one. That one is simply odd."
This time, the Undead did laugh. "It is fascinating to me to relate the person to their fascination," she said cheerfully. "The shallow answers originated from necromancers who treated me as an experiment, a thing. They viewed me through a shallow lens, and so their conclusions were likewise. Dominik was… well, he idealized me, and so his answer…" The Undead snickered and waved a hand. "You heard that drivel. You, however, are likely the most open-minded. Therefore, your analysis is perhaps the most accurate, but I can hardly be certain. I do not find myself particularly fascinating, so I have no personal answer to the question."
Fane barely prevented himself from murmuring, "Fascinating," again, but he still transcribed the basics of the Undead's explanations into his notebook.
"You know," the Undead said thoughtfully, "you rather remind me of Dominik."
The words took a moment to register in Fane's mind but, when they did, he stopped writing. "The… sunshine… one?" he blubbered. "I do hope you are joking."
The Undead burst into laughter and pressed both hands over her eye sockets. "Y-yes," she managed to choke out. "I mean, no. I am not joking, but I am n-not implying that…" She giggled fiercely, and Fane huffed out a sigh. "I meant that… during the little time that Dominik was not staring at me in abject infatuation… he acted very similarly to you."
"To me?" Fane repeated, slightly offended. "A mortal? Similar to me? Who is this Dominik you keep mentioning?"
"Dominik was the human who reanimated this," the Undead stated, gesturing to herself.
"The necromancer who created you?" Fane inquired, interested again. Insights on the necromancer could help him explain the irregularities in the Undead's personality. "Please, go on."
"One thing that I would first like to mention," the Undead stated, "is that Dominik did not 'create' me. He seared the flesh from my corpse, reanimated my charred bones, and strapped me to a table for civilized conversation, but my personality, my self is my own."
Fane eagerly prepared to write, realizing he may have discovered a sensitive topic at last.
"Oh, do not look at me like that," the Undead said airily. "This is what I mean. Dominik used to give me that exact same look when he thought I said something just deliciously curious. If I may hazard a guess, you believe that you have hit upon a skeletal nerve at the mention of my so-called creation, am I correct?"
Fane slowly put down his pen, unwilling to admit the accuracy of her words. He gazed intently at the Undead, who pointed at him languidly.
"See, Dominik was always trying to find my nerves, no matter how much I reminded him that I had none."
"And did he?" Fane inquired, ready to jot down notes again.
The Undead laughed warmly. "He did indeed," she revealed, and Fane felt a flash of anticipation. "You, I am afraid, must go through the same decades of obsession if you would like to do the same."
Fane gave the Undead a withering glare. "Does this amuse you?" he snapped.
"It bloody does," the Undead laughed. "I personally have no issue with being considered a creation," she explained more seriously. "I do not consider myself a creation, but it is only semantics. Dominik, however, grew adorably offended if I ever credited him for anything beyond the symbolic breath of life."
"I still do not see the similarities between us," Fane said, deciding to wrangle back control of the conversation.
"You are infatuated by semantics, Fane, just as Dominik was," the Undead explained with a note of amusement in her voice. "Logic. Exact definitions, the mechanics behind every facet of existence, the details in every image you see. Dominik carried a notebook around just like you do. He would scribble in that book, then squint at me when he thought I was not looking—just like you do. He would take every sentence as an opportunity to make an inquiry and would often grow so frustrated that he would throw an inkwell at my head. 'At least you cannot evade ink as well as you can questions,' he would tell me."
"It sounds as though you and your necromancer were on amicable terms," Fane commented.
"Yes, we were," the Undead said nonchalantly. "We got along much better when he decided to take my advice to stop trapping himself in his own logical mind. I taught him to embrace emotions, to use his instincts, and he would describe to me how it felt to bask in the warmth of the sun."
Fane again recalled how the Undead had told him to do the same earlier, to stop analyzing, and he wondered at the significance. He frowned as he jotted down his notes, somehow even more curious than he had been before. While he wrote, he caught sight of the Undead adding another tiny tattoo on the bottom of her foot. Fane wondered if he should be flattered to have inspired two tattoos, but he did not ask.
"I have existed for four millennia, Fane," Lorelai suddenly said in a quiet, firm tone, serious enough that Fane lifted his head to gaze at her expectantly. "My strongest and best memories are of Dominik, a human with whom I spent five decades. Do you understand why that is?"
Fane squinted at her, wondering at the significance of her question. After a few moments of silent musing, Fane sighed. "What is the point of guessing?" he inquired.
The Undead said nothing, only watching him with her head tilted to the side.
"Perhaps because he gave you so much personal attention?" Fane postulated, deciding to bother playing her little game. "Because he was the first person you remember? Because he raised you from the dead? Because he cared for you?"
The Undead sighed as though disappointed and shook her head. "Because he understood the power of transience, Fane, then of nothingness," she said. "Very few people, even those obsessed with it, understand the power of transience, and even fewer of nothingness."
Baffled, Fane watched her stand and balance on one foot to avoid smearing her newest tattoo. He waited for her to expand upon her answer, but she only hummed a soft tune as she threw her cloak over her bones.
"If I wish, may I solicit you again sometime?" she inquired distractedly as she buttoned her cloak.
Fane blinked, then looked back to his notebook. "…I suppose," he said.
"Oh, but before I leave…" the Undead added, spinning to face Fane once more. "I caught sight of some of your notes, and I do wish you would refer to me by name rather than 'the Undead.' If you meet more Undead, it will become rather confusing."
Before Fane could react, the Undead tapped forwards and snatched his pen. She scrawled her name underneath where Fane had written his, then nodded once.
"That is how you spell it, for future reference," Lorelai stated. She gave him a cheery wave and trotted out of the room.
Fane decided to add a few more observations to his notebook before he followed suit. This had been a far more valuable experience than he had anticipated.
