There is no escaping the final end of Necromancy, and of its ill-repentant Necromancers. For all my love and labor wasted on the soon-to-be-dead dark arts, this is still one of the few areas which gives even one as fanatic as I pause. There is no defending what has been done—what has been desired, though as I make my last home within these four walls under the land which forsook me, I cannot help but look beyond my protective gaol to the sky which I may never see again and wonder to myself.
There is no defense beyond that of Equine desire, and so, may I be blamed for wishing for eternity?
Undeath is a gift granted by Necromancy, but what of the Necromancer? Those living in undeath may not cease, so why may those who made it so? It seems unfitting, or perhaps unjust, to assume the wretches who have taken to calling themselves the true arbiters of a meaningless death should themselves find end. Should they not be allowed to circumvent that which they have denied? Is it not right? Is it not within their means?
Unfortunately, it is, though I consider it a great blessing that none were allowed to carry their eternity out.
As an intrinsic philosophy, the soul of one who commands souls is a truly special artifact, for their power is itself accounted within their soul. That is not to say there is any meaningful weight to a Necromancer’s soul; upon their death, their soul is escorted to the Underworld the same as all the rest. They are not given special treatment, nor are they reviled for their crimes against Death, thankfully.
But within that statement, there is a logical fallacy. For one to lose their soul, they must die, and to truly die, they must lose their soul. But what if, upon death, there is no soul present to be called to Tartarus? What if the soul was removed prior to death, yet was still in some way connected to this earthly plane? If death releases the soul but the soul does not leave, then would it ever? Can the soul be made to stay after death?
Of course it may. That is the phenomenon of undeath, and in this way, Necromancers discovered their most rarefied pursuit. It is no easy thing to bind one’s soul to something other than their living body without severing the link between the two entirely, yet if it is somehow achieved, then death no longer holds any meaning. The call cannot reach the soul. Whatever may come to pass, if one’s soul never travels to the Underworld, then they never truly die.
This is the way of immortality.
Yet it is not so simple as taking one’s soul and placing it in a locket. For one, a Necromancer is not able to manipulate their own soul in any meaningful way, for any such action would result in their immediate incapacitation. It is as though the soul itself actively rejects such a thing, and this block cannot be overcome through willpower.
If a Necromancer’s soul is removed anyway, perhaps through the aid of another, then that would simply cause their body to cease functioning. It would effectively create a simple state of undeath, and though replacement would bring about what is known as an imperfect lich, the Necromancer would still die upon complete destruction of their physical form.
Normally, souls in undeath are tethered to the will of a living Necromancer even after the failure of their physical form, yet this obviously fails upon the Necromancer’s own death. To achieve immortality, the soul must be made to retain its independence beyond even the death of its original body, so the most prevalent solution to enterprising Necromancers was to devise a physical vessel.
Objects are not ordinarily suited to containing souls, though this is relatively easily solved through a specialized spell. This is not the end of it, however, as then the Necromancer’s soul would simply reside within the object rather than their body.
There is one method to attaining immortality, and that is through creating an object which does not outright retain a soul, but calls for one. Upon death, the Necromancer’s soul would not travel to the Underworld, but would instead squirrel itself away within the enchanted object. This enchanted object is known as a cairn, and whatever happens to the Necromancer’s soul after, they have achieved a method of immortality. So long as the cairn remains, the Necromancer’s soul will never travel to the Underworld.
Perhaps there are yet cairns remaining throughout the world unknown. This thought should bring me some comfort, that the dark arts yet possess isolated pockets of resistance, yet I feel little more than dread. Of all of us, Necromancers are not they whom I would have chosen to carry our legacy, nor for as long as they may do so. If Sol Invictus is any measure, then eternity is not meant for the living.
Yet, even as I write these closing remarks, my mind continues to wander. For all of our storied history, there has been but one who achieved what I consider true immortality—not the simple persistence of the soul, but the perpetuation of the body. For a method to migrate or retain one’s original body, perhaps even restoring it after destruction, there was never any success among any whom I have known.
None but the First Necromancer. Only he was so gifted.
Yet even he was pulled back to the Underworld.