The Lich’s Thousand Year Gift
The lich drummed seven skeletal fingers (three original, four acquired over the years) along the box’s edge in anticipation. Horrible blue-violet pinpoints of light, sparks of energy that served as its eyes, glanced at a clock impatiently.
It was nearly time.
The dark wooden box showed no sign of aging. The polished silver hardware was as bright as the night it was sealed. The filigree had ignored grime and dirt, the unlocking mechanism was well oiled and primed for use. The box possessed a sort of anti-glow, as if it sucked ambient light and heat from the room and was visible through this imposed contrast.
The lich’s patience began to grow thin, a sensation it had not felt in centuries. A thousand years ago (minus a handful of hours), it had been a living creature, full of magic and energy, passion and desires. Love. Hate. Obsessions.
As a final mortal act, the lich sealed a box of worldly contents and letters to its future self. Upon death and re-awakening, the lich found the box but remembered none of the contents. The binding magics would hold the vessel safe from all interference, including the lich itself, for a thousand years.
In a rare move of self-deception, the lich pivoted and floated out of the room so it could watch the sunset, as if this would speed along the passage of time just a bit faster.