The mausoleum didn’t look all that ominous.
It was too dignified. There were no carved skulls or faceless scythe-wielding men dressed in ragged robes. The only vaguely whimsical decoration was the scrollwork on the lintel, resembling the curved horns of an auroch. It was a protective sign, meant to ward against evil. It couldn’t hold a candle to the ostentatious mausoleums in the capital. 

It was getting dark. The guardian would be awake soon, if it wasn’t already. Bernard swallowed his anxiety and mounted the steps. He wasn’t sure if he should just shout through the door, or if there was some kind of gesture of greeting he was expected to perform. He’d forgotten to ask. It was a little late to ask now. He knocked.

The door opened, releasing stale air and the stench of rotting meat.

He hadn’t expected the door to open.

‘Uh… Greetings, O Guardian. My name is Bernard, and I fear I may have made an error that caused you irritation. The boy I brought here earlier today was alive and still survives. I would like to apologise for bringing him. I didn’t know what it meant to lay someone on your doorstep.’

Bernard bowed deeply. A low chuckle rolled out of the darkness.

‘A stranger? So formal. Come in. Let me look at you.’

Bernard’s legs felt like they were made of lead. He reassured himself that he was invulnerable and had nothing to fear, but it didn’t help. The smell didn’t care if he was invulnerable. It still choked him. He forced himself to enter. The mausoleum was pitch dark. It made it impossible to miss the pair of dimly glowing eyes lingering at the back of the room. The creature moved around a little, but stayed back.

‘You wear a crown and have no beard. You’re a Prince?’

‘Not any more.’

‘But you’re still wearing the crown.’

‘A fairy gave it to me.’

‘That makes more sense. Fairy gifts shouldn’t be discarded. I’m envious. They make far better guardians than me.’

Bernard wasn’t sure how to respond. Did a creature like this need reassurance? Was it right for him to reassure it? Did it expect him to? He felt like anything he said could be dangerous. He was too queasy to reason out which was the best option. He said;

‘If you’re keeping these people safe and happy, then you’re a fine guardian.’

‘They’re not happy. They’re scared. I try to soothe them, but it doesn’t work. I frighten them.’

‘Doesn’t that make it easier for you to protect them, though? If the people who would cause the townsfolk harm are scared of you, they won’t attack.

‘The townsfolk are scared.’

‘Maybe if they met you, and saw that you meant them no harm…’

Bernard heard a rattle of metal and the faint click of flint. A moment later, a lantern flared to life. The face it illuminated was inhuman and deformed. Large eyes bulged from sockets that seemed too small. Countless sharp teeth glistened in a lipless mouth that stretched unnaturally across the creature's face and down its blue-grey neck. Bernard suppressed a shudder. Unthinking, he asked;

‘Are you a draugr?’

‘Do I look like one?’

Bernard wanted to kick himself for what he'd said. He was lucky it hadn’t immediately torn him apart for insulting it. He looked over the thing again. In truth, he'd never seen a draugr, or even a drawing of one. He'd only read descriptions of them in legends of heroes. Though it was hunched over the lantern, it was clearly enormous. The blue tint of its flesh, and the horrible teeth... he couldn't think of anything else the guardian might be. But, draugrs were monsters filled with greed and hate. They didn't protect villages. Even their presence was said to be a blight on the land, killing plants and wild animals - their evil souls were that poisonous. He grasped for anything that he might use to refute himself.

‘Maybe not. I don’t think their eyes are supposed to be as big as yours. But... you’re the right colour, and you’re tall.’

The creature stood, slowly. It remained stooped so that it didn’t bump its head on the ceiling. It took only a few long, careful steps before the creature was within Bernard’s reach. As it moved, he saw something quivering in the air around its shoulders. It had a shroud. Not a normal shroud - something like a heat mirage. It extended up to the ceiling and seemed to pass through. The creature must have been the source of the strange effect that hovered in the sky over the town. Bernard said;

‘You were human, once. Weren’t you?’

‘Would that prevent me from being a draugr?’

‘No, they all start as human. I asked because… I can see your pain.’

Faramund looked down on the not-prince. It was struggling to breathe, but didn’t appear to be frightened. He’d lit the lantern expecting the little thing to run away terrified. Its suggestion that he reveal himself to the villagers to prove he wasn't dangerous was almost insulting. He knew what he looked like. The arrogant not-prince didn't. But - the not-prince didn’t run. It was filled with curiosity despite the fact that it was suffocating. Faramund pitied it. Human lungs were delicate. They didn’t cope well with grave odours. He could excuse the small creature’s disgust. He wanted it to explain itself.

‘You see pain?’

‘I have a sort of second sight. It only ever works on humans. I can see you, though. You’re definitely not the same as other humans, but if I can see anything, then… I can only assume you must be at least part human.’

The not-prince was looking increasingly faint. Faramund wanted to continue the conversation, but the human wouldn’t survive much longer in the stifling atmosphere of the mausoleum. It needed to breathe fresh air. When the healer visited, its comfort was assured because it stayed out in the street. It never said anything worth eavesdropping on, so the other humans didn’t bother. Privacy had never been an issue. Today, Faramund could smell at least seven humans lingering nearby. The not-prince seemed to know things Faramund didn’t, and they might be things dangerous for the townsfolk to hear. He couldn’t just have the thing stand outside while he questioned it. He offered the not-prince his lantern. It accepted. He said;

‘You can’t breathe here. Go out. Find a place away from all these listening ears. I will follow.’

The not-prince obeyed. It mounted an odd not-horse, and they rode out of the town. It seemed fitting that they would be paired like that. A strange sort of symmetry. Faramund trailed behind them, silent and unseen. As the journey grew longer, he wondered if they were trying to flee. Almost as soon as the thought occurred to him, they stopped. Glancing around, he decided it was a good place to meet. A cleared space by a small bridge - it offered few hiding places for eavesdroppers and an easy view of people approaching on the road. They wouldn't have known, but the spot made Faramund feel nostalgic. He had built the bridge himself, half a century ago. He’d forgotten about it. It was still in good repair - someone else had been tending it. For some reason, that pleased him. He put it out of his mind and stepped into the limited pool of lamplight. The not-prince said;

‘Hello, again. I wasn’t sure you’d be able to follow that quickly.’

‘If you thought I was so slow, why didn’t you run away? I would have forgiven you if you fled.’

‘I didn’t want to offend you more than I already have.’

Faramund smiled. The not-prince was pleasantly considerate. It was an unexpected trait in a human dressed like that. Then again, a fairy dressed him that way. She was probably making a point about the kind of person who should rule. Faramund said;

‘I was not offended to start with.’

‘Even though I put a living person on the steps?’

‘It was a child. I wouldn’t have eaten it even if it were dead. People don’t look kindly on that sort of thing.’

‘Oh.’

‘That’s not why I asked you to speak with me. You said I look like a draugr. What is that? Am I a draugr?’

‘You don’t know what you are?’

‘No.’

‘A draugr is a type of revenant. Revenants are… dead human spirits, like ghosts, but they don’t leave their body. I don’t know if you really are a draugr. I blurted it out based on a few similarities. I shouldn’t have said it without thinking first.’ 

‘So it was just because of my appearance? Skin and size, but not my face? What makes a draugr?’

‘The tales I read about them say that they can speak.’

‘That fits. Is that all?’

‘They live - no, that’s not right. They dwell in their cairn or barrow - you dwell in your mausoleum. That’s sort of equivalent.’ 

‘No. The mausoleum isn’t mine. I moved there after I became the town’s guardian. I only stay there because it’s convenient. It’s where the bodies would go if I didn’t take them and it has no windows. People can’t look in and see me.’

‘Some stories mention them dwelling near the place they buried a hoard of treasure when they were alive.’

‘I have no hoard of treasure. Even if I did, I never visited this place when I was alive. It wouldn’t be here.’

‘Then, that doesn’t match at all.’ 

‘Does that disqualify me from being a draugr?’

‘Maybe, maybe not. There are more similarities. The smell of decay is supposed to linger around them.’ 

‘I can’t deny that.’

‘They eat meat, like you. They’re supposed to be hungry all the time - the nastiest ones eat every living thing that comes within range of their barrow.’

‘Livestock and wild animals too?’

‘Yes.’

‘Animal meat doesn’t sate my hunger, and I’ve never needed to eat that much. I eat much less than a living human does. One or two corpses a year is enough. I can eat more, but it doesn’t do anything for me.’

‘I guess the draugr in the stories could have been killing the animals but not eating them.  I definitely read one story where the draugr chased someone’s cattle until they died of exhaustion, but left the bodies where they dropped, untouched. Chroniclers exaggerate and make mistakes all the time, and the reports they received might not have been accurate in the first place… so the hunger thing doesn’t help rule out being a draugr.’

‘Is there anything that does? Is there something only they can do, or only they are hurt by?’

‘Not really. All their abilities overlap with other creatures. Superhuman strength is pretty common among things that aren’t human any more. A draugr that’s vulnerable to weapons can be killed by cutting off its head and burning its body. That’ll kill anything that can be decapitated. There are other draugr that can’t be physically hurt though. When they’re dormant, they’re usually found sitting or standing, never lying down. I know it’s silly, but when I first saw you sitting…’

‘Maybe. I don’t sleep at all. I can lie down, but I don’t feel the need to.’

‘You don’t sleep? You just don’t come out in the day? Are you weakened or hurt by sunlight?’

‘No. I just don’t like it.’

‘That’s not really a match either, then. Draugr can come out in the day if they want to, but they usually go dormant. The invulnerable ones are defeated when a hero enters their tomb in the day and forces the dormant body to lie down properly. If you can lie down without issue…’

‘So I’m not one of them.’

‘Maybe not. Though, what were you like when you were alive? How did you die?’ 

‘I don’t remember much of my life. I had a family. I think I was a fisherman. It was too long ago. I died…’

Faramund couldn’t remember. Everything before his return as a monster was much foggier than anything after. Big life events were the only things he could bring to mind with ease. His wedding. His parent’s deaths. His children’s births. He was sure that if he had time to think about his impending death before it happened, he would have remembered it. There aren’t many life events that leave a larger impression than one’s own death. That he couldn’t recall anything like that implied a sudden death. In that case, he expected he’d remember some kind of post-death confusion about it. He’d immediately understood that he died. He’d only been confused about how he woke up again. The best he could do was a vague memory of listening to his funeral procession from inside his coffin. That didn’t help - it only confirmed that his body hadn’t been buried by a sudden, mysterious landslide localised to the town’s graveyard. The not-prince interrupted his thoughts;

‘Draugr are usually either killed violently by an evil spirit, or were especially vicious people to start with. Some of them come back looking for revenge. Others come back because they’re unable to part with the wealth they had in life.’

‘I don’t think I died violently. I think I’d remember something if that happened. A moment of terror, or sudden pain and confusion - something. I wasn’t wealthy, either. Comfortable maybe? My house had a dirt floor, but I remember it being warm in winter. When the children were growing up, it felt small, but it didn’t bother me.’

‘Do you remember where the house was? Or your grave?’

‘Somewhere far to the south, near the coast. I don’t think I could find it again. When I dug myself out of my grave, I was so incredibly thirsty. I went to the well to drink and saw my reflection in the bucket of well water. I couldn’t bear what I’d become. I didn’t want anyone to see me like that. I ran away. I ran until I was too hungry to think. I found a body in a shallow grave in the woods and in desperation, ate it. Then, I ran because I didn’t want to think about what I’d done. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. I couldn’t stay anywhere for long, anyway. People notice when graves are dug up or bodies go missing. So, I can’t retrace my steps and get home. Even if I miraculously went to the right place, I probably wouldn’t recognise it. It’s been so long.’

The not-horse spoke. Faramund had expected it to speak sooner, but when it didn’t he’d almost forgotten it was there.

‘How did you become the guardian of Nemeduro? If this isn’t somewhere that was important to you in life, it doesn’t make sense you’d be drawn here in death.’

‘It’s not a nice story.’

‘It might help us work out what you are.’

‘There had been a war, I’m not sure what it was for. It made finding food extremely easy for a while. A season after it ended, I came across the trail of a gang of marauders. I think they were ex-soldiers, drunk on violence and blood. The things they left behind were worse than anything I’d ever done. Eating something I found dead already doesn’t compare to half-flaying a child and forcing him to dance until he died. His bloody footprints proved to me that I wasn’t a real monster.’

‘Was that near here?’

‘If you cross this bridge and ride for a day, you’ll find whatever’s left of his village. There won’t be much. It must have been… 200 years ago at least.’

‘Nemeduro is still here, so I’m guessing you stopped them getting too far?’

‘They had set fire to some of the buildings before I caught up. It was summer, so the thatch was dry. It burned quickly. It wasn’t hard to find the people who did it. I cut them down like wheat. One of them drove a spear through my gut before he died. I dragged myself into the woods to die in peace. They were the first people I’d ever actually killed.’

‘You obviously survived.’

‘Yes. The villagers found me and brought me back. They did their best to treat my wound. They were terrified of me, but they asked me to stay. They saw that I only attacked the marauders. They were grateful that I’d saved them. I was grateful that they welcomed me despite how I look. I helped rebuild the burned houses, with stone. I kept invaders out. There were so many violent bandits and marauders back then that I didn’t need to steal from a graveyard until years later. I didn’t want to steal something like that from the people who’d taken me in, so I planned to leave. I explained why I had to go, and… they offered me their own dead willingly.’

The not-prince said;

‘I don’t think it’s possible for you to be a draugr. There are no stories about kind draugr rescuing people.’

‘Was that kindness?’

‘You didn’t have to help them.’

‘I got something from helping them, though.’

‘You’re putting too high a standard on kindness. You don’t have to be selfless for it to count. You could have let the marauders go. You would have had all the bodies you could eat if you followed in their wake, but you chose to fight them. You chose to protect a group of defenceless people.’

‘Then what am I?’

‘I’m not sure. Some other sort of revenant. There are quite a few different types. I don’t know them all. I don’t think you’re a gengångare - they’re too similar to a draugr. You don't look or act like a fear gortach-’

‘Can any of them be cured?’

‘Cured? As in; returned to life? Not that I know of. That doesn’t mean it can’t be done, though. I’m not an expert, I’m just better read than most... I do know a witch, though - I could ask her. She might know more.’

‘I tried to ask a witch. He said the only remedy for an ‘unclean spirit’ like myself was death. Then he set me on fire.’

The not-horse said;

‘That’s not a great prognosis, and terrible bedside manner.’

The not-prince ignored it and said;

‘There’s a chance that witch might have just been scared and ignorant. Another witch might know better. Or, next time we see her, I could ask the fairy.’

Faramund considered. He said;

‘Why would you do that for me? I’ve done nothing for you.’

‘For the same reason I helped Jorrit when I heard him calling in the woods. It seemed like the right thing to do.’

‘The right thing to do…’

Protecting Nemeduro had felt like the right thing to do back then. The decades wore on and the danger passed. The people he’d saved were dead, replaced by their thrice-great grandchildren. Now, his presence wasn’t necessary. The region was peaceful. He’d become the scariest thing any of them were likely to face. Only the healer was brave enough to come and speak to him. What was the right thing to do now?

Bernard watched the guardian lapse into silence again. It stood, gazing at the ground with its strange luminous eyes. Agatha nudged his elbow. He wished he could speak to her telepathically. He’d encountered too many situations where he needed to ask her something in private when he couldn’t reasonably walk away. Hoping the guardian wouldn’t notice, he whispered;

‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve met a few ghosts and a vampire, but nothing like this. Undead don’t usually leave their homes. Even the most lifelike of vampires has a deep attachment to their grave.’

‘You’ve met ghosts?’

‘Yeah. It’s not as exciting as you’d think.’

‘What about Death? He rides about all over the place to collect souls.’

‘He’s not undead. I’m not sure the idea of undeath works with immortals. If you can’t die, there’s no coming back.’

‘No, I mean… when he’s riding in his coach to collect an important soul, he’s supposed to have ghostly attendants - the coachman, the footmen. They’re meant to be people so evil that Death himself is punishing them by denying them access to the afterlife. They’re not tied to their graves or homes. They follow Death.’

‘…That’s a good point. But, this guardian still isn’t someone I’d describe as evil.’

‘That’s the same problem as before… It can’t be a draugr because it’s not evil. It can’t be punishment from Death because it’s not evil.’

Faramund wasn’t sure if they really thought he couldn’t hear them whispering. Admittedly, he hadn’t heard the start of it; he wasn’t paying attention then. He was now. He’d made up his mind. He interrupted them;

‘Where are you going now?’

The not-prince said;

‘Us? Agatha’s helping me get to the capital. The fairy asked me to speak with my brother.’

‘He’s the one who made you not-a-prince?’

‘Yes.’

That would be a dangerous confrontation. The not-prince was small and weak. The number of enchantments on him almost made an audible buzzing sound, but they might not be enough if he didn’t know how to use them to his advantage. Faramund said;

‘And then, after you’ve spoken to him?’

‘I’m supposed to find my purpose.’

‘That takes most people their entire lifetime.’

‘It does, but that means I’ll have plenty of time for detours. I want to go back and visit that witch I mentioned, to thank her for her help. I’ll ask her about you. If she has any ideas, I’ll come back here. Otherwise, I don’t know. I haven’t really planned that far ahead.’

‘I won’t keep you from your task any longer. If it was given to you by a fairy, it’s not something you should delay. Thank you for humouring my questions.’

Faramund bowed awkwardly. The motion felt unnatural in his present shape. Without waiting for a response, he turned and loped back to Nemeduro. He didn’t have much reason to return. The handful of sentimental trinkets he collected weren’t worth the effort of finding a scrap of fabric to carry them in. Besides, they were probably safer if he left them in the mausoleum than if he carried them with him. A thief would want riches, not an ancient dried flower or a fragment of ribbon. He wanted to explain his departure to the healer. He didn’t want anyone to think he’d abandoned them because he was upset about the child left on his doorstep.