Witching Hour

Prologue

In every century there were always four celebrated wielders of the elements in the world. One could wield fire, one earth, one water and the last one could wield air, but history seemed to forget about the fifth one.

This fifth element, so important to the worlds, and even to the elements themselves, was a lonely existence. The element could extinguish fire and made water vaporize. It could let earth decay and the wind... Well, the wind was a different story, stubborn element, but even that would scatter to the tiniest bits held in the universe. The element was what gave children nightmares and struck deep fear into the hearts of adults. Yet, it could not exist without all else that lived on the planets, and vice versa.

One of the keepers of this element was called James. James hated his name. It was dull, common and didn't befit with how he looked nor the element he wielded.

James. A despicable name for a Necromancer, but alas, not even with all his powers he could change it. Thus James never told his name - not that anyone had ever asked, because hey, there was a creepy looking guy in front of them raising the dead from graves - and thus James gratefully made use of the nicknames they had given him.

Reaper.

That is what they called him, if they talked to him at all and didn't scream their lungs out instead. Yes, he was a morbid sight to behold, he knew that. Reaper knew how a mirror worked though he didn't own one because of that reflection staring back at him.

Death wasn't pretty on anyone, and he too hadn't come out unscathed after he had died. Yet, he lived, and the dark magic he used to keep himself together was also what gave him his morbid look and kept rot and decay at bay.

Of course they had other nicknames for him too. Fallen Angel. Necro. Death. However, none of those were as often used as Reaper, and since that befitted him better, he had adopted the name.

Death. The fifth element to which everything in the universe bowed in the end. Only time itself seemed immune to its withering touch, but then again, time and death went hand in hand. They seemed to have created an intricate dance for themselves, sometimes close, sometimes apart, but one never without the other.

Reaper was standing in the middle of the graveyard as he so often did. A place where he belonged and felt at home the most. Not odd, seeing the dead-dwelling and dead-raising creature he was. And though it didn't matter which burial ground he was, this was his favorite one for a reason.

A turquoise colored light danced near a tree - a majestic piece of flora, massive and ancient. It had stood there for centuries, and though it had known many hardships, it had always survived, standing tall and proud in all its might.

Reaper cocked his head, a sign of puzzlement as good as any since he had no eyebrows to lift one.

Quickly he made his way passed the silent tombstones that surrounded him. As he neared the tree, the light died. With a sigh that fell from thin, scarred lips he crouched down to sit against the trunk.

No grave for those who had been accused of witchcraft. No ornate stones with last wishes from loving family members. Just a tree as the only solid reminder that they had once lived, and even that was a grace not many of them had gotten.

The proud oak the only tangible thing he had to grief his lost love.

As he thought about his beloved, the green light appeared in his mind's eye, dancing around him as if it was courting him. Just like his beloved had once done.

A rueful smile found its way onto his face at the memory; a smile none could see as it was shrouded in the darkness of his black magic, but it was no less fond. His beloved used to call forth the lights to tease him, make them dance erratically in the air as he was met with a warm yet cheeky smile.

It had been so long ago.

In a time now lost.

Reaper often longed for those days and it was the only meaning of time he still had. Decades came and passed, all leaving their mark in their own unique way, but he stayed unchanged.

Forever dead.

Forever alive.

Forever caught in the in-between.

Forever alone...

It had taken him many centuries before he had been able to mend the shattered remnants of his heart, but he hadn't moved on. He could not. He didn't want to either. Maybe one day when the time was right. Time he had aplenty.

A bell-tower striking the first tunes to announce midnight pulled him from his reverie. Reaper pushed himself up from his seated position on the cold ground. Not that he was able to feel that chill, but the year was growing late and as he had once lived with a beating heart, he remembered the feel of the changing seasons.

The bells stopped chiming, the last sound of their tunes filling the silent night with an eerie and ominous forebode.

The Witching Hour had come. It was time to get to work.

Time to raise the dead!