Page 423 of Eight of Swords, Part Two

Lachlan tries to run but this world hurts to even walk upon and he stumbles, skins his knees on white-hot rocks, palms melting. When he looks down, they’re not like the monster’s.

They are still human hands.

‘Oh, God.’

‘Oh, God.’

The monster is on his knees too.

He has wings.

He could fly.

With enormous effort, he gets to his feet, watching the creature do the same.

‘Fly away!’

‘FLY AWAY!’

Neither one does.

Neither can, not without the other.

Lachlan sees blood on pale skin, his own injuries carved into this pathetic, ugly thing that has no place in the world. Who could ever love such a monster? The creature is throwing hate-filled looks at Lachlan all the while so plainly terrified.

‘You could leave if you weren’t so stupid,’ they say to one another. ‘You could fly away!’

All the world is burning them both;

no water, no earth, no wind, only fire.

Flame and lava, destruction perfected long ago.

‘Why are you here?

I don’t want you here!

Do you understand?

No one wants you!

You’re ugly, you’re a fucking monster!

Why are you copying me!?

You’re pathetic.

Useless and weak and disgusting,

why don’t you just go die in the lava?’

The creature says it all back to him, and the pain inside is worse than before, so severe that Lachlan dry-retches on his knees again, more agony and blood. This world can only destroy.

Death.

Destruction.

Wrath.