Daylight streams in through the cracked wood of my coffin, a bright sliver, like a vein of silver against the blackened walls of my casket. My arms are bound in lifeless death, useless to me crossed over my unbeating heart. I hear their spades breaking the long-settled earth, tearing me from my sleep. A tolling bell, as if from countless miles, rings within my soul, and a voice begins to chant:
Who’s bound to death may never die
—sleeping, he may awake—
and found in death must heed my cry,
must rise for his oath’s sake.
The pattern of his words resounded in my chest, my heart weakly echoing every iamb. Warmth flowing into my palms, I feel my chest stretching as air filled my lungs again. With a shout I throw open the lid of my over-inhabited crypt. Screams fill the scene as I stand, emaciated, a skeleton covered in black rot. A man beside the calling bell, dressed as men used to dress in my time, approaches, jumping down into my grave.
“Rak,” he calls my name. “Remember yourself.” He holds out the ring; taking my bony hand, he slides it into place.
My eyes are opened, my mind returned. “Zin,” I whisper hoarsely.
Tale Told 