The Resurrectionist

by A. Rae Dunlap

Yet I must insist that, in the end, this is not a story about Death. It is perhaps a Life story—or even, yes, a Love story. It is the story of how I clawed my way from the decay of a crumbling legacy into the modern era of Reason and Science. It is the story of how I escaped the prison of archaic superstition to the freedom of enlightenment. It is the story of how a rose can blossom from even the bloodiest soil, of how light can grow from shadow, how love can grow from despair. This, dear reader, is the story of my Resurrection.

Gathered around a gritty pub table, poking a human ear with a fork? My stomach churned as I contemplated the prospect. Of course, I was well aware that I would encounter cadavers over the course of my medical training, but in my mind it had always been in a very civilised manner:

Despite my family background and my profound respect for etiquette, I’d never been one to bow out of a verbal altercation,

Oh yeah, picked up on that real quick…

Aneurin gave me a quizzical glance. “I would have thought it was fairly obvious that I am not the kind to take a wife, James.”

🏳️‍🌈🤔?

I don’t set the prices, and I didn’t start the trade. This is what it is. You came here for knowledge, and this is the price of it. Now that you know, you can’t look away. No more pleading innocence for you.”

My stomach lurched, and I whirled away, only to find myself facing the fireplace over which hung pans of bones boiling in blood-coloured water, and a large iron cauldron containing more entrails, a heart, a liver, two kidneys, and a pair of lungs.

My gaze felt riveted to the damp trail the wet muslin left upon his porcelain skin.

So we are at least a little 🏳️‍🌈♥️

At last, Nye’s eyes met mine, and we were once again caught in a crystallised moment of paralysing uncertainty. I wanted, I wanted, but what, what? And I could see he wanted, he wanted, too—

🏳️‍🌈♥️🤭

And Nye. Every moment with him felt like a dream decoded, a riddle unravelled in a foreign tongue. Whether drinking by my side at the Pig, eyeing me appraisingly across the hall at Malstrom’s, or splayed out casually in my desk chair recovering from the rigors of a dig, he was my North Star whenever the darkness of doubt threatened to envelop me. When I could not tell dreams from wakefulness, he remained my touchstone and my Truth; a glimmer in his eye and a quirk of his lips were all that it took to make me feel manifest, whole, and worthy.

🥹 That was beautiful.

I could not be certain what his question was, but I knew with all my being that my answer was yes. And with that, he stepped forward and pressed his lips to mine. The strangest thing was, it was not at all strange. Surely, that moment should have felt momentous and burdened with meaning and profound purpose, but instead it felt startlingly casual, effortless, and sure.

I love being right. 😏 (I didn't know this was a queer love story too going into this, I was scrolling through KU and thought the cover was pretty... )

“But in matters of a personal capacity, I must urgently impress upon you that I endeavour to conduct myself as a man of honour. I have no desire to inflict pain upon your sentiments or shame upon your pride. My intentions towards you are born of deepest affection, and it was never—and will never—be otherwise. Do you understand?”

How could anything be unnatural when our coupling felt as easy as breathing air? How could the life I’d found with Nye be anything other than a benediction, full of grace? How could Nye ever be less than everything?

For he was everything. And for all my inexperience and shy trepidation, for all my bashful fumblings and insecure ramblings, he was all I could want in moments of intimacy: tender, patient, and endlessly joyful.

It could never be unnatural. It was as easy as breathing.

This was the only home I would ever need to know. Nye pulled me closer. We breathed.

And I could not even bear to think of what would happen were they to move against Nye. The mere thought of losing him, of being here, without him, filled me with a deep and bitter dread that I couldn’t even begin to quantify. No. That could not—must not—be allowed to happen.

I'm obsessed.

Everything that occurred next happened in one dizzying instant. Nye’s hand flew to his head, tore off his wig, and dipped it deliberately into the open fireplace beside him, setting the whole frizzy nest ablaze. Then in a single, calculated maneuver, he elegantly lobbed the flaming ball of hair across the room, landing it directly upon the straw bed—which promptly set the whole of it alight.

Well, yeah that'll do it.

“You have not brought me low; you have raised me from the utmost depths of despair and longing. I did not follow you out of desperation, I followed you out of desire. Do you not see that? Do you not see that all we have done, I have consented to do? This is my will, Nye. My truth and my reason, it’s all with you.”