"Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,

And the dews of night arise;

Your spring and your day are wasted in play,

And your winter and night in disguise."

- from "Nurse's Song": William Blake, Songs of Experience

Dear reader,

It is my pleasure to announce to you that Heccan Kirkeus made a great and wise leader to the people of Ravnica. Under his guidance, each had the ability to live as freely as they saw fit, so long as they did not harm anyone else's right to do so. He lived a long and proud life, and today, a year after his death, a statue is to be unveiled in his honour. We could, if we so desired, spend thousands of words describing the mirth and marvel of this celebration; if we wanted, we could look at Heccan's rule as that one simple scene, and show all the ways in which he had impacted others.

But the truth is, reader, that leaders are quite static characters. They cannot afford to change, you see, because then you – yes, that's right: you – wouldn't be able to recognize them. There would be uprisings, because suddenly, this leader is not the one who was chosen. As such, no matter how much a leader might morph on the inside, the mask of his exterior will never shift. He must be steady, after all, or you would never trust him again.

A leader is born in five moments – and each of them happens before his rise to power.

I – Conception

Two hands at once,

Entwined for life

If I were to tell you about Ibsa and Tullius Kirkeus, reader, I would begin by telling you they were happy. And I don't mean the merely mundane happiness that one feels when they have no qualms with their lives – for that is content, and what they felt was much more complex than that. They were not wholly pleased with their lives, but the beauty around them quenched any thirst they might have had.

Well, almost any thirst.

For, you see, reader, Ibsa and Tullius Kirkeus deeply longed to have a child. They had tried everything, from what Ibsa's mother had called the "good, old-fashioned way" to shamans and strange, outcast mages whom Tullius' father had referred to as "senseless hacks". And, throughout it all, nothing had succeeded. And, with every passing day, Ibsa felt weaker as her heart longed for the one thing she could never have.

One day, however, as Tullius returned from a particularly trying day of work, he found his wife lying on her cot, huddled up and shivering. A few dry coughs escaped her throat as she told him that she felt as though all joy was leaving her body – and that, without it, her heart saw no point in going on. And that, reader, brings you to today's scene.

"You wish me to bring a child to life?"

"There must be something you can do," pleads Tullius. His clothes look ragged and worn from the journey to the land of the Azorius. He has heard rumours, of course, of the things that they have done – cruel, horrid things that, when he heard them as a child, made him shudder to the core; for those who see the world in binaries of black and white are far crueller than those who grasp its complexities – but he has heard whispers, quieter still, of the goodness they have brought: tales of loved ones long lost returned to their families for a small price. There is always a deal to be made, if one has nothing left to lose.

"There is always something we can do," says the woman. It might amuse you to know, reader (for it certainly amused her), that this woman is the same one who met with Heccan when we last saw him. "Whether or not it's something we will do is a complete other story. And I warn you, animation is a costly thing."

"Name your price. I will pay it."

If your father is anything like the average middle-class Western father, reader, you have most likely seen him play poker – and you will most likely have heard him say that you should never, ever show your hand. Unfortunately, Tullius had no such father, and in fact had never heard of poker (which, after all, is a thoroughly terrestrial game, and thus one which does not exist in this separate world. Even more tragically, he had never heard such a saying – and he had just broken its very cardinal rule.

The woman smiles. "Very well, then. If you want a life, then you must give one in return. Your wife is very ill, is she not?"

"No." Tullius' eyes grow twice their usual size. "Not that. Not her. She wants him – that's why I'm doing this. That's what's killing her. I could never..."

"I am a reasonable person," purrs the woman, "and I am prepared to offer you an alternate. I will let the pair of you live and give you the child – for fifteen years. After this, you both will die and your souls will be mine."

Tullius gulps. "Only fifteen?"

"It's your choice. Fifteen years with your wife and son, or none?"

"This is all so sudden – so much – can't I have a few days to think?"

The angel grins. "Now, Tullius. Your wife doesn't have a few days, does she?"

Never let go

Through flame; through knife

II – Birth

A special boy

Was born at eight

A boy plays in the clearing, a gleeful grin on his face. His parents watch, from a distance, but do not tell him who he is. How would they even begin, when the truth is so horrid that even they cannot bear to think of it? He is eight years old, now, and they are seven years from the grave. Every second ticks at the back of Tullius' mind, hissing away at him louder than his son's giddy cries as he finds another insect scurrying across the grass. He runs off to chase it, laughing all the while, and Ibsa gives Tullius a smile.

Heccan crushes the ant underfoot, and he cries.

A strange feeling bubbles in his stomach. It feels close to sadness – close, but not quite. What is it? It almost feels like when he lost his stuffed bear, Bruno, but that feeling went away when his mommy found him in the pile of clothes next to his bed, so it can't be that.

The ant looks up at him – or at least, he thinks it's looking at him, because the head is bent at a weird angle upwards like he does when his daddy talks so he has to look up to pay attention. Is he supposed to say something? Or maybe the ant's just doing that because it's dead. His eyes tear up again at the thought, and the feeling in his stomach gets stronger. Is it a tummy ache? God, I hope it's not a tummy ache. Those always feel so gross. But this is tingly, not fuzzy, so it can't be that...

In the blink of an eye, the ant's head snaps back down and it begins to walk away, as if nothing had happened. Heccan watches, fascinating, as the creature trots away into the higher grasses, where he can't follow because his parents said not to go there. Did I do that? The tingly feeling in his stomach is gone. That's weird. With a shrug, he turns around and walks back to his parents. They don't see him at first, so he taps his foot. Nothing.

"Mommy! Daddy! Guess what I did?"

Ibsa smiles. "What is it, dear?"

"I brought an ant back to life!" he shouts. "Well, I think I did."

Tullius' eyes flick over to Heccan. "What do you mean?"

"Well, it's a bit of a long story. I was playing with this ant – I called her Raja, like Auntie Raja, because they're both ants. Kind of. Auntie Raja is an aunt, and this one is an ant – and anyway I was running to catch her, but then I stepped on her, and she died. Then, there was a weird feeling in my stomach – tingly, so not like a tummy ache. I checked by myself – and then Raja just walked away!"

Tullius blinks. Ibsa forces a smile. "Wow, darling, that's wonderful!" she says.

Heccan nods. "That means I'm magic, right? Like the Guildpact?"

"Just like the Guildpact," says Ibsa. "But maybe we shouldn't tell anybody about this yet, just in case you're wrong."

"But I'm not wrong!" Heccan pouts.

"I know. But still, just in case." Ibsa sighs. "How about we get you something real nice as a reward? Maybe a pet?"

Heccan jumps up. "Can I get a bunny?"

"Sure," says Tullius. He sighs through gritted teeth. "That sounds great."

"I'm going to call it Fluffy," announces Heccan. "But I do hope I really am magical, though."

And with that, he runs off ahead of his parents. And behind them, their once joyous faces meld to fear and anticipation as each steps counts away their lives.

But, of his gift,

He'd curse the weight

III – Change

The sun climbed high

The end came nigh

The boy and the rabbit have grown closer than either of his parents had expected – but you know that already, don't you? For the past few months, after all, Fluffy has been integral to Heccan's adventures, and, with some of you still reeling from the rabbit's final death, it must be something of a shock for him to see it alive and well, fur and all. They spend most days in Heccan's room: he chatters away as it scrunches its nose at appropriate moments.

"Do you smell that, Fluffy?" Heccan grimaces. "What is it?"

A bitter, burning putridity fills his nostrils and he coughs as it works its way into its lungs. His head starts to reel. Outside the window, the moon shines down on his head; he should be asleep, but he never even closes his eyes the night of his birthday. It's all too exciting, and too scary at the same time. What does the year hold for him? He can already imagine successes of all kinds, especially where magic is concerned. The other day, he reanimated a wild boar. Maybe this year he'll work his way up to a person. Of course, then he'd have to talk to Jarod, whose eyes have a strange way of seeing straight through him, and he'd have to tell his parents he's been secretly practicing – only Fluffy knows about that – but it'd all be worth it. Maybe, one day, he'll even make Guildpact.

Warmth tickles his skin and raises the few hairs that have started growing on his arms. He's a bit of a late bloomer, even for Golgari – some of the other boys in the neighbourhood already have a trace of hair on their upper lip, but his skin still looks like undisturbed porcelain. The warmth grows, and the stench gets more invasive. Heccan gets out of bed, buries his feet into his slippers, and opens his bedroom door.

And, much to his surprise, he sees flame roar down the hall – and he runs. He doesn't pause to think that if the fire is down the hall, then it probably started in his bedroom, or that Fluffy is still sitting on his bed, waiting for him to come back. At fifteen, Heccan Kirkeus still has a survival instinct, and that particular instinct is screaming at him to run, shouting with every nerve in his young body. His lungs feel heavier with each step, as though the smoke is dropping rocks down into his lungs. They could be, for all he knows. He'd believe it. He doesn't remember ever hurting this much, even when he was eleven and broke his arm falling out of a tree. It doesn't hit him that, if he's too slow, he might die. The truth is, reader – and, if you've never lost a loved one (blessed as you are), you won't know this – that people don't truly understand death until they've witnessed it. It has a different impact, then, when someone has actually vanished forever. Suddenly, forever begins to feel like a much longer time.

When he first feels the night's cold winds against his bare arms, Heccan laughs. Relief and adrenaline ooze from every pore in his body, mixed in with his sweat and the frightened tears that still flow out of his eyes. I'm alive.

"Mom!" he shouts. "Dad! I'm okay!"

But no one answers.

"Mom?" he repeats. "Dad? Fluffy?"

For the first time since his feet have felt the familiar grass outside his home between his toes, Heccan opens his eyes, and he sees. Reds, oranges, and yellows – he's always liked those colours, but he isn't sure anymore – dance just before him, jumping up to the moon in odd and unpredictable patterns that both enthrall and exhilarate him. He sees grey columns, too, punching up into the stars and banishing them from his sight.

He watches until morning, until there is nothing before him but ashes, dust, and three charred skeletons.

"Mom?" Heccan blinks back tears. "Dad? Fluffy?"

His stomach tingles; slowly, the bones begin to float.

"I'll never leave you behind again. I promise."

But he refused

To watch them die

IV – Denial

Nothing changed,

Things stayed the same

"Pass me the pepper, Dad?"

When asked what to do with the child, Jarod had merely shrugged. "He's doing fine," he had said.

"He lives with the dead," the people had replied.

"It builds character."

They sit at the dinner table, like they always have, and have the same mundane conversations about their days and their feelings. There is something circular in family that stays, even in death. It's the way that you always know your father will make a bad joke like "Hi, hungry, I'm Dad" (which, I regret to inform you, reader, is common in every world, even this one), and your mother will roll her eyes and chastise him, but hide a coy smile that she doesn't think he can see. Of course, it's quite hard to smile without a mouth, but there's a very distinct tilt of one particular bone in his mother's upper-left jaw that lets Heccan know there'd be a smile on her face if she had one.

The neighbouring families – particularly the Thetians, who had always liked Heccan and had a daughter his age – had been particularly helpful in helping reconstruct the Kirkeus home, though none of them had wanted to stay for the housewarming when they'd seen Tullius' skeleton sitting at the table, drinking a cup of coffee that coursed through the bones around his chest cavity. "It's a ritual," he'd explained, when Porteus Thetian had asked him, his voice shaking, why he still drank it. "Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I have to stop living, does it?"

"Sure thing, son," he says. His bony fingers wrap around the pepper shaker and grind it above Heccan's steak. "Tell me when to stop."

"Perfect!" says Heccan after a few seconds. "I love you, Dad. You too, Mom."

Bones rattle as both nod their heads in acknowledgment. A quieter clattering can be heard from under the table, where Fluffy waits for whatever might fall. He could never do this when he was alive; Ibsa always worried that he'd eat something he shouldn't, and then he'd die. The bright side of being undead, reader, is that there are plenty of fun things one can do once they don't have to worry about it killing them.

"Oh, Heccan! I have to tell you the most wonderful conversation I had with Mrs. Thetian the other day."

Heccan frowns. "Mom, you haven't seen Mrs. Thetian in over a year now."

"Well, yes," says Ibsa, "but that's still the other day. It's just a few times removed."

Heccan nods. "So what'd she say?"

"She told me how wonderful you were growing up to be! I tell you, she spent a solid five minutes just talking about how handsome you were, and how well-adjusted, and how lucky we were to have you. Isn't she just the sweetest thing?"

I'm sure you don't have to guess, reader, that Mrs. Thetian, like any other person with a somewhat healthy mind, would no longer dare to call Heccan anything close to well-adjusted, but it brought a smile to his face, and so I must say that at the end of the day, this was not the worst thing for Heccan to hear. In fact, it sailed him through the meal, until he barely registered that the words his parents spoke escaped as fumbled whispers through toothless mouths, and were, in fact, quite unintelligible.

Years later, Jarod would be asked whether or not he still believed that living the dead built character.

"I've never seen a boy as self-reliant," he'd scoff. "He learned how to find everything he could possibly need – family included."

He ate with ashes,

Ignored the flames

V – Acceptance

And yes, it's true –

Can't be denied

After his inauguration as Guildpact, Heccan had spent over a month travelling Golgari, trying to track down the remains of his parents; it appeared they had wandered away during his absence and lost themselves in the woods. By the time he had found them, the years had caught up to them and they had rotted away into crumbling disasters, melting into a brittle white powder whenever he touched them. Fluffy, on the other hand, had remained in perfect form; Heccan had casted a simple maintenance spell, intent on burying it along with his parents.

Today, he digs a single grave. Three feet long, one foot wide. Just big enough.

Sweat pearls at his forehead. The sun shines particularly bright today, and it beats on Heccan's back as violently as lightning strikes a great oak. The oak, however, falls after a strike; Heccan still stands, though his back is bent. His teeth clench together as the shovel breaks the earth one last time with an echoing clang!, holding back an expletive, and then drops the shovel to the ground.

When did the world become so empty? They've always been dead. Nothing has changed. He'd asked a few of the neighbours if they'd wanted to pay their respects to his parents, but, as it turned out, the town had held a memorial a few days after their death. Mrs. Thetian had given him a hug and a pat on the head, and he'd almost broken down then and there. It was warm. He had felt flesh against his chin, heated by a beating heart, and realized how cold his world had been. How quiet his sleeps were, without so much as a snore to be heard down the hall.

He picks up the shovel again and drops soil back atop the hole. Every load brings a new tear to his eye; every huff he breathes makes his stomach tingle. But the world stands still.

Six feet below him lays a rabbit.

The doe-eyed boy

Inside has died