The walls led me to them, the path told me their weights, the shadows whispered their secrets. I just walked with my knife ready. For the first few minutes I questioned them, questioned my sanity, wondered if mother's affliction had come to taint me. Then they started predicting things, telling me what one beggar would say before they said it, how one rat would crawl out of one pipe and into another, dragging an apple core with it, perfectly describing exactly how a crow would fly.

There's someone running across rooftops, trailing shortly behind me. A woman who thinks she's being quiet when she releases the coloured birds that signal how close I am, they don't know how much the walls laugh at her when she fumbles with the locked cages clumsily. How they howl with delight when she slips and almost falls to her death.

They're waiting for us at the next right

Let's introduce ourselves then. Their corpses lie in the alley, a feast for carrion.

Three of the men are over twice our weight. One is close enough to it. They are all armed, they are prepared for us.

How unsportsmanlike of them. Do they even have half of what I do? Do they even know what I’ve picked up in life?

They have all stained their hands ten times the amount you have. However they won’t kill you outright. Their leader wants to take your head.

Why would he want that?

It’s what you would do.

It is. A corpse can be seen many ways. A street scuffle, a poisoning, a bad fall. The head, my head perched on a spike can’t be seen as anything other than a brutal execution. That would certainly please whoever seeks me dead.

A man wielding a club waits to the right. He assumes you to be taller than you are. Keep walking for six seconds, then duck slightly. He wears a brigandine, hamstring him and move on.

One. Mother used to have full conversations with her own reflection, argued with it, screamed at the thing every now and then. Two. Sometimes the two got on just fine, helping mother figure out where she left her hair comb and such. Three. Then there was an incident and shortly afterwards mother was going on a long, long trip. Four. My fist tightens around the dagger. Five. I take a breath. Six. I duck. As predicted a club sails harmlessly over my head and hits the wall. I recognize the voice of the bearded man cursing. With swift movements I cut deep into both legs, parting flesh and muscle, severing tendons. He howls loud enough to terrify the dead now as I casually walk out of his reach.

The small one is to your left, charging. Face him, step to the side and let him impale himself.

I turn on my heel and see the assailant sprinting towards me with a wooden club. I sway slightly to the right so his attack narrowly misses and put the knife in his belly. He does most of the work, his own momentum slams the weapon into his soft guts, his own idiotic decision sent him here and yet he turns and looks at me as if this is my fault. I rip the blade down, spilling his guts continuing to look him in the eye as I did so. His soul is soft and white as it pours out of him. Will it be the same for him? Will it be different? Will it be this way for me?

Two approach from behind side by side. Disarm the left one, then kill. Incapacitate the remaining one with the club.

I watch the light bleed out of the man’s eyes. His soul acts identically to Kent’s. Is he suffering?

We need to act now.

What will happen when he’s given his rites?

Act.

Too late. Something cracks into the back of my head and this already distorted world grows worse. The walls laugh at me, mock my idiocy, The cold flagstones cut my face out of spite. The shadows promise to take care of me as they grow closer.

They’ll take our head.

That echoes in my head again and again as darkness crawls over me, it’s warm like a blanket, I hope they are true to their word, I don’t want to die alone.

A rope has been wrapped around my neck. That's the first thing I notice. It's cheap, scratchy and whoever tied the knot didn't much care for my comfort. It digs so tightly into my flesh I'm surprised I haven't choked to death already. The man I crippled sits propped up against a wall opposite me, his dead friend's head in his lap. Two belts have been wrapped around both legs but still he looks deathly pale. However he manages to find the energy to stare at me bitterly.

Instinctively I try to lunge at him, to finish it but my hands have been bound behind my back and while it may be cheap the noose strangles me before I can even move a foot.

"He's up," someone to my left says grimly, I don't recognize the voice. They must be the fourth man.

"Good," the leader spits, walking into my field of vision and crouching Infront of me, if he was a few inches closer, I'd be able to tear his throat out with my teeth. "You killed my brother," he says, sounding about as upset as one would be if it was a rainy day.

"That one doesn't look too good either," I say nodding towards the cripple. "Give me an hour or maybe less and it might be brothers."

The leader doesn't respond for a second. He stares at me deeply, I can see ideas flicker through his eyes, each piece of me he glances at he considers removing. In the end he just spits and says "Stand him up."

At first I thought it to be somewhat anticlimactic, then the other bastard started pulling the rope. I'm dragged to a standing position, my feet scrabble along the flagstones desperate to alleviate the pressure from my neck. Eventually I'm fully suspended and fear sets in. I kick and wiggle trying to escape my bonds. I try to scream but all that comes out is pathetic gagging.

"Stop," the leader yawns. I'm dropped back to the ground, landing on my feet, struggling to stand upright. Breathing is difficult, painful but still I gasp desperately for air.

"Want to beg for forgiveness before it's too late?" I mock between breaths. "I'll still take your hands, tongue and put a big fuck off brand on your face if you cut me down now but it's preferable to what will happen if you don't."

The leader doesn't laugh. Instead he takes out a dagger and stares at me coldly. "I'm going to gut you while you hang, then I intend to take that fine longsword over there and chop off your arms, legs and finally your head."

"Messy work," I comment. "Yet I can't help but notice you don't have gloves. I'd suggest you take your brother's but… well let's just say it was rather obvious that he used those for a deed much less productive than training."

"I'll make sure those last words are written down somewhere when I'm important," he responds, clenching the knife with white knuckles.

"Be sure to make it known that your companions were more hindrance than help as well. I'd hate for that dead piss stain to take away from your shining success. Tell-"

He steps forward and drives a fist into my stomach, hard, knocking the wind from my lungs. I was hoping for the knife but one must make do with what they are given. I hurl myself forward and sink my teeth into his soft face. I tried to get the throat but ended up tearing a fat lump of meat from his cheek.

Despite the situation the stubborn idiot refuses to let me die quickly. Instead he punches twice more while the other one hauls that rope faster than what could be thought possible. I've still got his warm bloody meat in my mouth when they've got me three feet in the air.

The leader curses and blasphemes for what feels like minutes as he tries to repair the damage I've caused. When he realises that mark will stay for a while he turns to me, no longer bothering to maintain the cold facade. Every movement screams rage.

You did well, something whispers, something lurking in the darkness on the edges of my vision. We'll be with you always. Even in death.

Such words don’ t convince me to go easily. I thrash and kick, my boot catches the fucker right in the jaw. He spits out a number of teeth and crawls to his knees. Just then, a miracle happens. Maybe my hangman slipped or perhaps he is just inept but for whatever reason he lets go of the rope and I fall onto the leader. He grunts and crumples under my weight but doesn’t stop squirming

No time to catch our breath-

I try anyway and regret my ignorance almost immediately. The leader wraps his arm around my neck and doesn't hesitate to crush the windpipe.

When your lungs scream for air and your vision starts to fade the oddest things begin to happen. Your want to live overcomes almost every other thing, including pain. Almost easily I manage to tear my hand free however a scarily significant portion of skin had an issue with that and decided to tear free of my hand instead. The pain was an odd thing, like a distant voice telling me something had happened without really convincing me much. I don't have the time however to admire this oddity of the mind or the red mess I turned my hand into. Instead I immediately reach back with this ugly thing and jam my thumb into the first soft bit I find, which happens to be an eye. The disgusting warmth feels odd on exposed muscle, the distant voice screams at me to stop, filled with urgency, the leader just screams until eventually he lets go of me and rolls about on the ground in agony.

No one else.

I crawl to my feet carefully, trying my hardest to keep the mutilated hand from touching everything else. The sting is beginning to breach through the fog. I kick the screamer in the forehead with all might, silencing him. Out of curiosity I turn to look at my hangman and see the rich girl from the angel standing over him wielding a bloodied brick with shaky hands. It takes a moment to notice the man lying at her feet, blood pooling onto her fine shoes.

"Good lady," I manage to rasp grimly and try to bow but that just sends waves of agony through my side.

She drops the brick and stares at me silently for a few seconds before turning away from me and vomiting. It is then I realise how I must appear, mouth dripping with blood and hand deformed into a disgusting crimson tentacle like appendage

We disgust her.

I limp over and gently pat her shoulder while she's doubled over, unsure of what to say or do. Unsure how I'm supposed to look like anything other than what I am.

Leave her, she'll learn how to bury this deep. We did.

I try to remember what the feeling was like for me. It’s of no help, I received no words of comfort or reassurance, not even chastisement from grandfather. No one knew of the deed, No one could be allowed to know. The walls were the only ones who ever received my confession. She begins to sob, echoing off of more old memories, reminding me of my…

Weakness.

Shame.

Disease.

Frantically I sift through my memories desperate to find something that could help, desperate to dig up something more than a fucking pat on the back. What did I want? What did I yearn for? Did I ever know?

You'll only make the girl worse. Do you honestly think you've ever reassured anyone with your reputation?

They have a point, this scene alone hasn't exactly painted me as the shining angel of forgiveness. I probably scare the poor girl more. She's probably wondering if she's next. I take a step back with the intention of walking off, hoping she'll forget this like a bad dream but instead she embraces me as soon as I take the hand away. Not the lustful cling I sometimes pay for. Not the heartless imitation of affection I'm used to receiving. Something warm, something oddly beautiful, something I desperately try to reciprocate. She sobs into my cloak. I’m unsure of what to do with my hands, one rests on her neck, the other is suspended awkwardly in the air, dripping blood onto the flagstones.

“It’s okay,” the words slip past my lips, the remembrance of a vague childhood fantasy brought them there and my rasp can’t be terribly soothing but it seems to help. “It’s okay. You did what was right. You’ll be okay.”

Warmth slowly sides down my cheek.

I wipe it away and gently drag her away from the grizzly scene, uttering similar assurances constantly, some Karis said to me when I managed to hurt myself as a boy, some I read in books or paid to have said to me. Anything I can think of is likely to bring more tears. I stop at the first trustworthy looking beggar we find and claim to have forgotten my sword. I fish half a silver finger from my pocket and give it to the man. After confirming five times who I am and what will happen to him should anything happen to the girl.

The walls no longer loom over me. They twist and turn and convulse. The floors part to reveal a fleshy undersurface every now and then. A mass of eyes may be beneath one flagstone or veins trailing into the dirt like roots. Things lurk just outside of my field of vision, they vanish as soon as I try to look at them, I only know they're person shaped.

The roof runner has fled, come a day she'll be out of the city.

Leader?

Running blind. Head left and we’ll cut him off in a half minute.

Cut out his other eye, his tongue, his liver. Hang him by his own guts

Relish in his suffering.

Kill him, bury him, move on.

The voices neglected to mention how fast he was running nor did they notify me how effective my blinding was. The leader crashes into me with the speed of a horse and knocks both of us to the ground, skittering a few feet away from me. White light is all I can see for a moment as my skinned hand is dragged along flagstones. The leader scurries to his feet like a desperate animal and for a moment he seems to be prepared to continue his sprint and fuck off into the distance but then he glimpses a corner of my cloak and looks me in the eye. I hadn’t left him terribly pretty. His left eye was still present but somehow that was worse than an empty socket. It was crushed deep into the socket, exposing the tender flesh. It appeared to be almost flat like that of a fish. The white is a disturbing shade of red, the green iris contrasts starkly with this and the pupil is so small it may as well not be there. The hole in his cheek allows one to look into his mouth, lacerated by shattered teeth. He snarls like a mad animal and draws a knife.

“Now did that little tool do you any good only a moment ago?” I inquire mockingly.

He leaps at me but I deftly roll clear, kicking him in the face as he sprawls onto the ground. I rise to my feet quickly and stomp on his knife hand before he has a chance to react. Bones crunch like dry leaves underneath my boot and the man gives a howl of torment. I kick him twice more in the guts before collecting his knife and inspecting it. A crude thing, more suited for cutting fruit rather than flesh. I cast it aside and brandish my own stiletto. I crouch over him as he groans, toying with the blade, keeping it only a few inches away from his face, the cold steel feels molten when rubbed against red flesh.

“Who paid you?” I inquire.

He spits at me, more blood and teeth than spit really, reaches a rather impressive distance.

I grab his face and hold the blade only a few hairs away from his good eye. “It can always get worse for you. Always. Never doubt that once.”

For a moment it appears as if he might defy me again but I see something within him crumple. “No one paid. Plan was to give your crown to your bitch cousin. Cunt would have made my family lords.”

“She would have played games with you till you were nothing but corpses to be dissected.”

Quickly I cut the man’s throat and jerk back to avoid the spray of blood.he gargles and grabs at his throat futilely trying to stop the bleeding.

“I would have loved you,” I say calmly. “Tell me why wasn’t that enough for you?” A tear rolls down my face. “Why is it never enough for anyone?" Increasing in volume and speed. "Why do you all want more and more? Why am I never enough?” I yell loud enough to hurt my throat.

The gargling I receive in response fails to satisfy me. His moronic face only angers me as it twists and contorts violently. An odd hybrid of screaming and weeping forces its way out of my mouth and I kick the dying man in the face. Then I do it again and again and again…

My boots are stained red by the time I regain control. My face is soaked with blood and tears. I beat the bastard to death, then continued hitting him again and again, harder and harder until what sits steaming before me could not reasonably be called a corpse.

A shadow stands beside me. They look like a misshapen man, marred and mangled and dipped in ink. I assume him to be admiring my handiwork. They hand me my longsword lazily, as if it was a stick for a child to play with.

“Thank you,” I mumble not bothering to look away from the mess.

Another shadow appears to my left. Slender and tall. They thrust something thorned into my skinned hand. The pain is impressive, the way it appears to absorb my blood is somewhat worrying. This figure leans so close to my ear that small wisps of darkness are blown off of its featureless face and tickle mine.

We have always been with you. We will always be with you and we will always love you.

With that they vanish leaving me with my dead friend. Out of curiosity I look at what the other gave me, finding a pretty rose, dripping red with my blood.