Murmur slapped Peter on the shoulder, proud of himself for this most perfect resurrection. Well, near perfect, it was. His faith had been steadfast, when he had found the abandoned corpse laid out beneath its shroud of shrubbery - and exhumed it from the thorny bracken, sensing the lively pulse of the soul still strong, holding on by an astral thread, as it were.
Pietro had died all too quickly, unfulfilled and alone.
His longing to find his boy had persisted. And when Murmur petitioned the Heavens on his behalf, Pietro’s soul leapt at the opportunity to regain its way back into this world. And he did.
Only this time his muscle and bone was reconstructed - made up from the decayed remains from which he had lain in, in the pit, with all that emulsified around him.
Already, unbeknown to him, he was partly beast, and tree, as well as human. His body had drawn the living memory for its form, but its substance had come from the grave itself.
Murmur, the young and hopeful Monk, had no idea of the forces he was accommodating - his faith was pure and his intention was good, but he was naive believing that within this world was the "be all and end all’ of existence. And, to knit life out of death, would have unnatural consequences.
Resurrection takes on many forms - and that need not mean reform by mere repetition. Nor, that it is, of itself, a blessing.
-Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances
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