The darkness greeted Kail as it had for days, a dull ache in his scarred eye-sockets. Time slowed for him until hours felt like ages, the stabbing pain unending in its tide. The voice whispered into his ears, teasing him with honeyed words that bled into his thoughts and dreams. He felt his grasp on reality slipping, the frail grip that he had starting to break. The darkness stole from him his dreams, his memories. In the dark, he did not know the truth from the lies. Reality mixed with dreams until he did not know when he was awake. Even those maggots that lingered in his flesh, that ate away through his muscle, they seemed almost ethereal now. The only thing that was constant was the pain, the slow pulsing pain that flared into fire every time he moved.

It was not the blunt pain that he had felt in the sewers. It was not so simple a pain. The agony that he felt seared into his very spirit, breaking his will and shattering his resolve. It reminded him of vows and dreams made long ago, now crumbling to dust. It reminded him of his solitude, how he was utterly alone. It was a gentle pain that ate away at his heart and mind, finding the cracks and worming its way in. As the pain grew, so did his doubt and loss. Self-loathing and regret weighed heavily on his spirit as he wept silent tears.

To live a life Sir would be proud of. Those words echoed dully in his mind as time wore on with indefatigable strength. They had meaning once, he knew, but bit by bit their weight began to bleed away. He wanted to believe in them, wanted so desperately to remember what they meant to him. Yet with every passing moment his resolve was battered, his virtue checked. He was but a moth before a raging flame, a single flower in a storm. Who was he to stand? Who was he to fight? Yet fight he must, such was demanded of him. So he could only persevere, could only wait and pray and cling onto that single hope. Sir, he murmured, cracked lips shaping the word, yet nothing but rasping air escaped his mouth. Now even words failed him; how much longer would it be before thought did as well? Why did you leave me, Sir?

Why am I so alone?

The creature they called Hope no longer came for him, no longer sank its brutal fangs into his flesh. Instead, she took its place with honeyed words and poisoned breath. He had never thought that he would have preferred that harsh pain, that simple pain, but it was blunt. That pain was a primal pain, a blinding fire that scalded and scorched him. Her pain was insidious, was a poison where his was an axe. Where he used a cleaver, she used words. Where he used a brand, she used venom. She would play with him, toy with his body and spin him around a pointed finger. When she tired of him, she would leave, and he would weep.

Rat things would come for him then, their greedy fangs and oily claws tearing apart his flesh. No longer held back by stakes, he fought and twisted, but they devoured him despite his efforts. Icy cold manacles bound his arms and legs, ensured that he could not flee from his fate. And after his limbs had been stripped clean, after his skin was torn and ragged and after his empty sockets wept blood for tears, he would hear her return. She would whisper sweet-things into his ears and cup his chin with a gentle hand. He would feel that warm motherly embrace, and she would pour that ichor down his throat. And when she left, he would weep.

“Why?” he had asked her once, had asked the darkness. His voice had sounded strange and detached, as if it had not truly come from his mouth. “What do you...want from me?” The words had come with difficulty, for his little-used throat and tongue seemed to have forgotten their roles. In response, she had merely traced his jaw with that gentle touch.

“Our god…” whispered that enchanting voice. “...is dying. He has need for a new vessel.” Her hand traveled down his throat, ran along his collarbone. “You are a...mmm...candidate.” Her fingers settled over his heart, in that familiar position over his heart. “Every death you have, you walk closer to Atal’s flame. In the end, you will take it or it will burn you. So my role, dearest, is to break you.” Her lips were numbingly close to his ear, her breath warm on his skin. “Over and over, until either outcome happens.”

When she left, he wept empty tears. Clacking claws surrounded him—panting breaths, ripping teeth. He screamed, but it sounded hollow to his ears. When his screams stopped, when the sounds of death ceased, he felt that ichor pour down his throat. His body burned with the feeling of life, with that feeling of crow-cursed life. Why could he not just die? Why could this not just end?

He had begged, had pleaded for merciful release. Yet that bliss was denied to him with sweet words. Yet that favor was denied to him with a poisoned tongue. And then those rattling claws and hissing rats came again, his death coming upon him once more.

He could hardly tell the difference between dreams and waking. With the darkness came offering him power once more, his weary spirit very nearly gave in. Either take it or it will burn you, she had said. Either way, this would be over. That was all that he wanted, was it not—for this all just to be over? Escape was blessedly close, tantalizingly close. Just take it, whispered that crow-cursed voice in his mind. Just take it and damn the consequence. Just one more step, and it all be over.

But he could not. He could not betray that last spark of light that burned bright in his blinded world. To live a life Sir would be proud of. Those words felt heavy on his shoulders, but he just could not turn them away. Again he rejected that gift, preferring instead to remain in this world of torment and torture.

Where are you, Sir?

My god speaks, and I must answer. My god calls, and I must listen. His voice rings in my mind with the rattling of shackles. His words whispers demand servitude, and I accede with rapturous glee. My body is bent and broken to better serve my god, my children crafted in his image. He commands me, and I must obey. Yet what is the voice that screams out inside of me?

What is this pain that fills me when I have already made my choice?

He did not know when he woke, or even his was really awake. Was it all but a dream? Was it all ever going to end? His chest heaved, his empty socket weeping ghost tears. He felt so alone, surrounded only by thoughts and dreams and memories and sightless eyes. He could not speak, could not feel, could hardly remember to breathe. Everything felt so numb.

The sweet voice came again, her honeyed voice, a soft breath against his skin. It spoke cloying words in his ear, words that he did not bother to listen to. There was no meaning, only sound, only noises that drowned out the loneliness and emptiness that pervaded his heart. They muddled with his thoughts, much as a dream does. He did not feel the words, only the tone, sweet and intoxicating. With every breath, he felt his mind growing cloudier, the pain ebbing. It did not fade, merely his tolerance to it grew alongside the pleasure that he felt radiating throughout his body.

It was a warmth, a comfort that filled him with satisfaction. It was a drug, a depraved satisfaction that broke through his inhibitions and weakened barriers. It blossomed out from his chest, reaching to the tips of his fingers. His limbs felt heavy, the weight of his burdens dissolving into nothing. He did not see why such worries would matter. They were of the past. He should revel in the now. The pleasure filled him, his body shivering.

He felt more and more of the drug enter each time he breathed, the fragrant aroma heady as it filled his lungs. A small part of him resisted feebly, but it was swallowed by the sense of indulgence that came with the drug. As more and more of the laced poison flowed through his blood, he felt his thoughts decay. Less and less of him resisted, his tired body and broken mind already accepting its fate willingly.

Where are you, Sir? Those words sounded hollow to him now. Why struggle? Why wait? There was no future for him anymore. There was no hope in tomorrow. It was only fitting to pursue satisfaction in the now. The voice appeased him with these thoughts, the last of his resistance fading like a flickering flame swallowed by dust.

Gentle fingers danced down his chest, heated kisses on his skin. His mind was fuzzy, every one of his nerves buzzing as a single touch tracing his arm made him burst into flame. Every breath made his chest burn with need. Every murmured word made him shudder and shiver as sparks tingled down his spine. He heard the voice humming into his ear. It promised pleasure. It promised satisfaction. It promised sin and pain, and he accepted. He could not refuse. He did not feel guilt. He did not feel anything but desire that bloomed in his body, taking root at the base of his chest.

With the first seed that planted itself in him came the breaking of the walls of his heart. His mind now lay broken, his body as well. All that remained of him was spirit, desperately clinging onto hopes of salvation. All that remained to ruin, to shatter, was that feeble spirit. The first flower of sin had been planted, with its blooming would come a thicket. The vines of depravity would stifle the light of hope as the roots of vice tore out the purity of the heart. That seed would blossom, both eternal in its patience and insurmountable in its strength, and its petals would herald the coming of a god.

He sought release from the pain, that their god promised him such. Death, or power beyond it, he cared not which. All he needed was to give in. He would have to cast himself aside. He had to lose the shackles that chained him, the shackles that branded his limbs and had brought him nothing but suffering. Those shackles of morals and virtue had given him naught but cost him everything. To discard them would bring him euphoria.

They would bring him rapture beyond comparison. Their god would bring him exaltation beyond comparison. Such the voice whispered in his mind. Such the voice promised to him.

The god called. His god whispered. Atal whispered to him power, whispered to him release. He was hanging on a thread, the only remainder of what had been a rope. Now he only had a single thread of spirit, a single thread of hope. So simple it would be to crush that hope.

Is this my final choice?