Lazarus pleads, but the man spits the words back into his mouth. The more resistance he receives, the deeper the pain.
Utter darkness.
No sounds, no smells, just nothing. Then a faint light.
A torch.
It lights a thin path in the distance. Something moves between the shadows.
A man.
A pale man, barefoot, dressed in dirty livery. The scent of food, and then—memories crash into each other. Blur. Blend.
Not food, but blood.
His long slender hands clutch a strange machine.
Wake up.
He tucks it into his pockets. The chamber. The pale man’s face is blank, like a trance. Wake up.
The throne.
Blood. Death. Life. Wake up.
The statue. The man. They twist and then—which one is which?
Wake up.
I can’t. Please. I want. I hunger.
The image narrows once more. The pale man’s face is blank like a trance.
The smell of blood, the beating of a heart. Wake up.
The pale man walks; the machine hums; the chamber breathes.
The memories slow down. I can hear their words. I want to obey, but I’m caught.
With a soft mouth too large for his face, only the delight’s gone now.
The crack of a whip.
Please. Stop.
I should not be here.
Wake up.
Lacerated skin, split open to the bone.
No!
A man. A pale man, barefoot, dressed in dirty livery. The memories—I need.
Blood-encrusted hair. Thick lips. Sad eyes. A hand.
Stop.
