My body feels light, no longer fatigued and wearied from the blows and wounds as it had been moments ago. I looked at my hands, a snow white that stemmed into whetted nails. I feel something on my back but it, strangely, does not weigh me down as I got up. How long had I been out? What had happened to Alice? I heard the tap of footsteps from the halls. Heavy. Yanked. It was Alfred. He has hurt Alice.
Deses. Orkos. The two weapons are uncomfortable. I can defeat him without it, I thought. It will be easy. I will kill him with my bare hands. I release them with another mention of their names.
Alfred stepped into view, his whole body was now ailed with those pus-colored veins that bulged uncontrollably, as if they were about to burst any moment. Alice dangled from his arms, the dame's breathing coming in swift pants.
He lays Alice onto the floor, the once ancient carpeted floorboards were now a dented moonscape of jutting wood that splintered into prongs of oak. I do not feel anything but the urge to kill him. I do not know the reason but they tell me to; the whispers in my head tell me to.
I am behind him. He is surprised that my hands are inside him. He jumps away, a crater in his abdomen. A piece of flesh is in my hands, sinewy green drenched in the color of red tea. I take it into my mouth and devour it. It does not taste good, an acidic undertone present as I chew the meat. But I am hungry, ravenously so. I wipe the blood from my mouth and look at him—no, it. He is no longer the man that had once saved me; it is no more than a monster, now—a ghoul. Its face is contorted in pain. It looks amusingly disgusting.
I am in front of it now. I pluck its arms off the body. The blood is a twin fountain fixed on opposite sides. I am drenched in it, the same gob of green that the werewolf had spat at me. It melts my skin, the pale coating dissolving to make the calcium of my bones visible. I do not fret. I will heal; I know it. I rip off his legs with my hand. It comes off easily as though it was a toy, a mannequin that was to be disassembled.
The creature howls in pain and for a second I considered not killing it. But it has murdered Virgil and injured my love. It must pay. It staggers to the ground, limbless, engulfed in blood as if it was the ocean. The smell of molten flesh and iron mix in the air, a crude synthesis that can only exist in Yarim.
I tower over the creature now. How easily does the tables of fate change? One minute you are powerless against a foe, the next you stand tall over him, deciding his fate. Deciding how he meets his end. I know immediately what his end will be. I throw away his limbs, much to his horror, and whisper Flare. The flames smolder tall, a huge difference from the flickering ball that had once occupied my hands. It burns my flesh as the green gob of spit does. Some ghouls are weak to fire, I remember her saying. I am one of them. It seems I do not have resistance to it either.
Then, I shall end it quick. I draw nearer, hands armed with the charcoal-producing blaze. His visage drips off, like candle wax slowly falling off as the flame burns the wick. The smell of rotten flesh is peculiar, a rank and pungent smell mixed with a tinge of sickening sweetness. A rotting piece of meat sprinkled with the cheap perfume servants wore—offensive yet a tinge of mild pleasance was beneath it.
He is unrecognizable but it is not yet done. More. More. More. The voices shout inside my head, and I feed them. Their hunger is ravenous, and the feeling enshrouds me as the abyss does. I do not know how long I went, burning the ghoul's flesh and mine. I do not know how much flesh was oozed off, and how much coppiced. My eyes would frequently catch the white-yellow cartilage beneath the flesh, but I would continue. It is not enough was my endless reverie. I had gone sick.
When I had finished, my hands were a mangled mess of skin that I could hardly call it a limb. It will grow. But I know this time, scars will remain. I lay on the floor, weary from the sickness that had overcome me. The things—wings, perhaps—that I had felt on my back were now gone, and the vigor I had enjoyed went with it. I was drowsy, nearing the end of my consciousness.
I hear coughs across the room. Alice. I crawl on the floor, cavities decorating the floor as the meander-filled carpets had. My head is pounding in pain but I trudge on towards Alice, dragging my body with only my chin and knees.
Filth flies inside the house in swirls. Moonlight punctures the barbed hollow of the roof. I carry on, towards Alice. Let her be safe. Please. I reach her.
Her face is peaceful in the moonlight, her chest heaving in and out as she breathes, lips parted subtly that she looked like she might say something boorish and coarse once more. She was a bricky woman, and I loved her for it. Blood trickled from her forehead but I cannot wipe it. Perhaps one day I will be able to sleep with her as close as I am now to her. Perhaps I will be able to stroke that ash-blonde mane and feel the warmth of her breath. Perhaps if I save Yarim, these will no longer be fantasies and thoughts. I am getting ahead of myself.
Of course there is a chance it may not happen; that Alice will not be able to accept the love I have to give. If so, allow me to stay here then, God. Even though it will last only for a time, let me rest here. Yarim can wait. The cure can wait. Let me sleep here and rest. Beside this dame I may not be able to be with.