Birth

It was a compulsion to breathe - it wasn't a choice, it was a command from the magic that flooded her bones, her fetid flesh, and ordered her to breathe. It wasn't into her lungs, the long decayed sacs, that the air was pulled into. It wasn't simply air that she pulled in - it was magic from the fabric of the weave itself. The command repeated again and again, cycling the weave, the magic, through her and the thunder of her soul thudded back into her bones, into her skull, and the pain - oh the aching pain like being split asunder, pulled apart - the pain of her past life rushed in to fill the void of her skull like the swirl of the tides. Memories were not held in a brain, memories were now in her bones, magic breath keeping them alive and burning burning burning like a fire pulsing. Every movement burned a memory, every breath burned a memory - brighter, brighter, brighter - until the brutality of her return to the living world forced Arlenia to scream. They were everywhere. The memories were everywhere.