The classic story. The classic cliché.

That is what I used to think. That life was a page in some sort of elaborate fairy tale in which all stories are born and all legends are ended. A chronicling of all things.

No longer.

Life is more, we are more. I am more. Or maybe not more.

Maybe something different.

I have been re-risen. No, not a zombie. My mind works as it did in existence. Maybe I truly am something more. Who knows.

My flesh is now a grayish tint. Some of my bone parts reveal themselves from the crevasses of my rotting, chapped skin. I need no longer the ability to breathe or to eat or drink. My heart is partially visible. It doesn't beat, yet I live on. Life boggles the mind, even when one lives no longer.

I look into a shattered glass from the remains of the chapel walls. My eyeballs are there no longer. Two dark, shadowy abyss' take their place, and a gaping scar runs through the middle of the right one. My lips have run themselves away as well. My jaw is visible, exposing a skeleton-like mouth.

How pleasing my new form is.

I look amongst the tussled chapel pews from the previous conflict, which may have happened years ago, seeing the manor of my corpse. I see nothing but fallen comrades. I look amongst my allies and enemies alike to search for my dear friend, Krauser, an ally sent in from Albion. He is no where.

I wonder if he has met the same awakening as I. I can only hope not, for his mental sake.

I fasten the doublet and straighten the barrett which remain on my body, and make way to swing the chapel doors.

I pray that Avaris is as it was to me before my death: a peaceful field full of blossoms and blessed with eternal summer.

I was most indefinitely wrong.