A sequence of random prequels and/or oneshots from the same characters as The Light of the Day. Yes, I did write the first one instead of my English essay.
Everything in his world faded before being reborn. That was the scariest moment, just after he had cast - as though he, or the world around him, was stretching away at the seams. Maybe he had been. Quite possibly, in the moment between leaving Orrien and entering the corpse, Left had experienced the impossibility of existing on the matterplane without a body. The more he dwelt on the thought, on the memory of the tugging sensation, the more convinced he became that, had he stayed in such a state of limbo, he might just have stretched himself into nothingness. It was a terrible thought, though an altogether irrelevant one. With the same strength of conviction that he had narrowly escaped non-existence, Left was aware that it was equally impossible for him to have remained in such a state. Impossibility ran an incredibly tight schedule.
Nonetheless, the first action in his new body was to breathe a sigh of relief; the next, to inspect it thoroughly. He had done the right thing in casting renewal on it from Orrien’s body. He simply hadn’t the energy to even think about such things now. Besides, this was an undoubtedly more pleasant experience than transferring straight to a freshly dug corpse would have been. At least this way there was no unnecessary skin falling off. Yes, it had definitely been a wise decision to cast from Orrien.
He began to wonder just when he had begun thinking of Caster’s body as Orrien. He supposed he had always been inclined towards such thoughts, as he had never known Caster. He had only ever experienced Orrien in Caster’s body. Perhaps it was because she had assumed it first, and because Caster had never woken. By that reasoning, could he then call his body his? Left examined the slender fingers, the scrawny legs. Yes, he supposed he could. The boy had been no older than 16 when he had died, around the equivalent of Left’s own age, give or take a few years. Left had no need to question how the boy had died. He had seen it in the purple mottling on the neck when he had first dug the body up. No doubt the poisoner would have quite a shock if he saw his victim now, looking healthier than ever. Indeed, Left might have been sorely tempted to make mischief had he known the identity of the boy’s killer. But he did not, and the thought soon dulled.