If there is nothing inherently wrong, only abused, then everything inherently has an ordinate use, a place it belongs. So, this necromancy, be it evil, is evil only in its conditions; its accidents of time or place make it wicked, give it a foul name. Perhaps there is another name for it when it is approved, and white and black magic are both one and the same hue against differing backdrops.
I’d like to think so, but I see in your eyes it is not, not in your heart; yet still you approach me. You know I have power. You’re sure I am damned. Perhaps you will be damned, you say, if you ask my help. In that case, you already are, to an extent. My words have entered your ears and will find your heart.
But a prince, perhaps, has more than his own soul to consider. Be it matters of state, for the love of his people, will he risk hellfire? Many, I think, have haply conceived their own misery under such noble pretensions. Many nobles, prince, have come to me, many a niggardly beggar too; the same tint, but a different hue.
I have not come to beg.
So, what is it you ask?
Ask? I do not ask. Nothing’s inherently wrong but abused? Then what is abuse, Necromancer? I do not ask. I tell. I am the prince. Hell truly is… It is right. I will delight in it, for it is just. So let your hellish tongue wag. There is a place where it belongs.
I have not come to listen to your prattle and sophistry which I think is the only power you really have. I have come here to tell you your place in my kingdom. For, whatever I think of you, you are part of it. There has always been a necromancer, a shadow. There always will.
This is your home too. I can’t, won’t, take that. It is not right. But if it’s your home, then I am your prince. Do we understand each other?
Impossible. Only one can understand the other, for he is then overstood.
The prince commands the jester,
“Take me to the necromancer.”
The black magician plied his craft,
and now the prince has laughed.
He stole my job.
The prince stole his.
So I should rob
the statesman’s biz.
Tale Told 