“I love you, Eran.”

The words repeated ad nauseam, spilling into themselves again and again, forming a droning buzz that was simultaneously heartening and heartbreaking.

True awareness slipped in like an early morning drizzle; sputtering in fits and stops, hesitant and skittish. It gathered itself slowly, carefully, silently.

Until, finally, it poured - and I was fully aware once more.

Sorrow assailed me. Grief engrossed me.

Yet despite their strength, they were merely tears in the rain, all but hidden within the perpetual flood.

They washed away, just two more rivers running into an ocean that had filled itself long ago.

Could you really see the difference?

Starlight washed over the alley, its gentle glow spilling down from above. It was harder to see the beauty, now. Harder to ignore the flaws. Harder to feel hope.

It was just a little too bright now, a little too clear. A little too easy to see the lie. Still, I could let myself ignore it. I could focus on that glow. I could forget everything else. I could pretend there was still light in my world.

I had a lot of practice at that.

One day, maybe, I might even believe it.

I locked my grief away; I obscured it in the darkness, where it had always remained. Where it always would.

A disconcerting degree of guilt assailed me as I finally took in my handiwork. The alleyway, already covered in blood, had become more butcher shop than back lane, more slaughterhouse than sidestreet.

I squeezed my eyes tight, pushing back the half-remembered sensation of biting and tearing and chewing and clawing and feasting and blood and Mel and -

I shuddered, locking the memories away again.

A thousand, thousand legs crawled across my skin; they spilled into my bleeding wounds, poured into my gaping throat, dripped into my open mouth.

They came home again.

The scene upon opening my eyes again was much improved; discarded flesh no longer quivering atop writhing carapace, splintered bone no longer trod upon by insectile limbs, sodden viscera no longer bursting under the weight of countless Risen.

It was still a thing of nightmares, but not quite so much. Not for me, at least. For the recipients of my delirium-filled ire, I had greater doubts.

As terrible as their actions had been, it was difficult to say that this sort of...brutality was justified. The thugs’ skin ran red with blood, the effusive liquid collecting in pits and craters that now layered their flesh. I, caught in the terror of my memories, had visited terror upon them in turn.

It wasn’t the act of a hero.

It was far from it - far from who I needed to be.

Their chests rose and fell, giving me at least some degree of solace. I hadn’t killed them. Not yet, anyway. Ideally, not ever.

I looked to their immobile Risen, its body mangled and half-devoured; it had suffered the worst of the damage. Cut off from the commands of its comatose master, it simply stood - a broken and silent sentinel, testament to the terror that had consumed this alley.

It would serve its purpose. I stepped towards the canid Risen. With one hand pressed against it, I reached out towards the nearest of the -

A stampede of pounding feet a few blocks away interrupted me.

Frustrated, I changed my targets, healing my crow-self and closing my own gaping wounds instead. The static Risen fell even further into disrepair, completely emptying my available pool of [Woundshift] for the remainder of the night.

They were getting closer, as I thought they would. There were two possibilities: the first was that the Guard had finally arrived, in which case the wounded thugs should be able to be apprehended and receive care for their wounds. The second possibility was that the thugs had friends. In that case, they would still likely be able to receive decent care.

In either case, it was best that I not be around.

I left after wiping off my boots as best I could, picking up my abandoned pack, and slipping away through a maze of alleyways and sidestreets; I stayed, perching upon heavy-shadowed eaves, my talons clenching nervously.

The sounds of approaching life resolved themselves, manifesting as a contingent of mounted figures. They paused at the scene, taking it in.

“Well, fuck,” a voice stated. “Looks like we’re late.”

“What gave it away?” another questioned.

“There’s no time for this,” a third voice - a woman this time - interjected sternly. “Mark!” she barked, nearly making me lose my perch in surprise. “You know what to do.”

The final figure - Mark, I presumed - dismounted, walking further into the crimson-coated alley. His mount followed, tracing bloody paw prints along the way. As he stepped into the dim glow of the overhanging lantern, I could begin to make out the sturdy bone-white armor that covered his otherwise slim figure.

The Guard, then.

Streets away, I let out a sigh of relief. Of the possible arrivals, the Spectral Guard was the most helpful. Not only were they likely able to provide care for the injured thugs, but - presumably - they had arrived after meeting with the couple that I had saved, meaning that the thugs would also likely be apprehended for their crimes.

“This one’s going to take a lot to fix…” he muttered.

The guardsman pulled a bundle from his pouch - it was too dark to make it out clearly - and kneeled next to one of the mangled men. He reached over, doing something with the man’s hands. Cuffing them together, I guessed.

After he did the same for the other man, a light flared around him, spilling ever so slightly from within the joints of his armored shoulder.

Bones knit. Flesh regrew. Wounds closed.

A man screamed.

He scrambled back against the nearby wall, pressing himself against it as if he could go directly through it, should he try hard enough. The other guards had surrounded the alley’s exits, ensuring that the men could not run after being nursed back to health. Still, the man ignored them, staring off into space with wide, unblinking eyes. His mouth moved, forming a litany of mutters and murmurs that I was too far from to make out.

When his partner was healed, he reacted much the same.

“This isn’t like what was reported,” the guardswoman said. The others turned to her, giving their attention. “Regardless, Mark, good work. No matter how this happened, you saved two lives today. We’ll take them both in for now. Once they’re more coherent, we can talk to them and the other two victims and see what we can find out. Based on what we were told, though, these two are likely to be the initial attackers. Still, we’ll run it through anyway.”

One of the guardsmen interjected. “What about the third man they mentioned? I don’t see any sign of him. Beyond the amount of blood here, I suppose. You thinking he did this, Captain?”

She sighed. “It’s difficult to say, at the moment. He was supposed to be at death’s door, according to our two witnesses.” She motioned to the slaughterhouse that surrounded them. “Could a dead man do this?”

He shrugged. “Maybe they were wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time a civilian saw blood and panicked, thought things were worse than they were.”

Mark laughed, a hard edge to the sound. “Right, Elias. There’s nothing weird going on here. Just two men dying in an alleyway - looking to have been literally torn apart, mind you - and more gore than you can shake a stick out. They probably overreacted, though.”

“Oh, shut the hell up, Mark. It’s just some speculation, never hurt anyone. We’ll find out when they calm down, anyway.”

The final man spoke up. “If we’re throwing out speculation, anyway…” he paused for a moment. “What if the third man was a Corrupted?”

“One of the victims claimed to have been healed.” Elias debated. “If he was Corrupted, wouldn’t the third man’s power have to involve healing?” He pointed at the two cowering thugs, the first muttering to himself while the second simply stared with empty eyes. “How do you explain that, then?”

He shrugged. “I’m just saying. Corrupted are weird, you know? Creepy. Wouldn’t be the first time that one popped up and got involved in trouble. It’s possible.”

The Captain interrupted. “Elias, now isn’t the time. Leo, you say that there’s a Corrupted involved every time anything strange happens. I can’t remember a time when you were actually right. There’s not many of them left, these days, so slow down with the conspiracy theories.”

“I’ll be right one of these days, Captain. Just have to stay consistent.”

She gave him a look that I couldn’t quite make out.

“...Sorry,” he said dejectedly.

It wasn’t long before the guards abandoned the alleyway, walking on foot now, with their mounts stepping alongside them. The two thugs, having remained terrified and all-in-all uncooperative, had been securely tied to the top of a single mount for transport. The Risen that had exchanged its flesh for their own lack thereof plodded along at the back, looking impressively damaged.

I had to assume that someone would be along later to clean up the remaining mess; if not, the area would likely become rancid soon enough.

I stepped off my lonely eave, taking flight, my pitch-black feathers shrouding me against the night sky.

Meanwhile, I had also managed to get lost.

It wasn’t that I had any particular destination in mind, for the moment. Despite that, I still felt overwhelmingly, hopelessly lost - in both mind and body.

To make things worse, I desperately needed a thorough rinse; I had already seen no less than four beggars shy away from my blood-soaked figure. Even in the Low District, even being beggars, it wouldn’t be long before someone reported me and the Guard would have to respond.

It wasn’t until dawn had arrived that I finally managed to get myself cleaned up - relatively speaking, at least.

The starlight was gone; the city was revealed.

I released a sorrowful sigh.

It was time to break a man’s heart.

At that, my depleted conduits refilled themselves once more.

I wandered the Low District, working up my courage. Finally, with the help of my bird’s eye view, I found the Low Market once again.

I never quite managed to find my courage, though.

Just as before, the Low Market was a cacophonous display. I pressed shoulder-to-shoulder against the teeming mass of humanity; or, I did, until they inevitably stepped aside.

I desperately needed new clothing.

Though washed as free as possible of blood and viscera, my clothes were a wreck; torn at the shoulder and sliced at the hip from my fight with the Axtail, and that wasn’t even mentioning the later attention it was subjected to. The chest lay in mangled strips in testament to my previous wounds, the leggings faring little better. All in all, I looked terrible. It was little wonder that everyone I passed looked distinctly uncomfortable.

I would need to stop by the tailor’s. If that meant that I could put off visiting Uncle Gil a short while longer, well, that was just a happy coincidence.

Was I allowed to feel relieved about that?

I hastily made my way towards my new destination, entering the clothing shop.

“Welcome, wel -” The shopkeeper’s greetings cut themselves short. He gave me a look, not even attempting to mask his disapproval this time.

“I’m back?” I said hesitantly.

“What the hell happened to you?” he boggled.

I thought for a moment, cocking my head.

“Would you believe me if I said I had a difficult day?”

Unsurprisingly enough, he had little problem believing me.

Ten minutes later, the tattered remnants that I had called clothing had found their way into the trash heap and I was garbed in more appropriate attire, with another set or two safely stowed away in my pack. I stepped back outside, locking my eyes on the intricate ornamentation of Bone Garden.

I had no excuses left, now.

Bone Garden was just as its name implied: an impressive panoply of bone, the displays designed in a way that brought to mind intricately-designed gardens - along with further ornamentation that directly suggested that fact. Blossoms of both bone and bud decorated the shop, accenting an eclectic series of bone creations and carvings.

Here, an intricate flute rested against a wall. There, an extraordinary beast composed of interlocking splinters of bone wrapped its tail around a vine. Jewelry, carvings, masks, and more; nearly anything that could be made, had been.

Behind the counter was a man engrossed in a conversation with an excited customer. Uncle Gil, I presumed.

I waited as he finished up with his customer; with the way that my anxiety twisted and coiled, I was even thankful for the reprieve. Yet, soon enough, there was no time left.

Now free to pay more attention to the shop, he looked at me. Then, he looked at me again, hope and terror in his eyes. Yeah, it was him, there was no doubt about it. I sighed, preparing myself.

Gil walked directly past me, locking the door, before turning on his heel.

“You didn’t find him.”

The words were not a question, more a statement of fact. A declaration of misery. An admission of fear.

I deeply wished that they had been true.

I steeled myself. “Why don’t we sit down?” I suggested, gesturing towards a bench that lined the wall.

His face fell at that, yet I knew that it would soon fall further.

When he had taken a seat, I finally continued. I destroyed his hope. I confirmed his fear. I broke his heart.

“I found him. I’m sorry.”

The next few moments were a blur - or perhaps I simply didn’t want to remember them.

Like most things in my life, it was easier that way.