Page 425 of Eight of Swords, Part Two

He looks up at the monster, sees shock writ large in the face of a disgusting, unlovable killer.

Confusion, sorrow, frustration and pain.

Lachlan walks forward slowly.

He reaches out with a bloody hand.

The monster does the same.

Their fingertips touch.

The monster bleeds black.

Lachlan bleeds red.

But it’s all just blood.

It’s not meant to be on the outside.

The monster sobs weakly, lifts red eyes to look at Lachlan the way a beaten dog might.

He’s hurt, feels pain.

He can feel pain.

‘How long have you been here?’ Lachlan asks.

For the first time, the monster does not mirror him.

‘We were seventeen.’

You’re a killer, Lachlan.

You killed the man who made you.

‘Who put you here?’

Lachlan looks slowly around.

The violence of burning stone, the furnace-wind scouring his lungs raw and the flames consuming his skin, all possessed by a terrible kind of anger.

Rage.

Hatred.

Wrath.

‘I did. I put you here.’

Slowly, Lachlan raises his hand but not to harm. He touches the monster’s cheek.

Red eyes blink owlishly.

‘This is my world, isn’t it?’

The earth burns.

The moon is broken.