Here it was.

A jumble, a cascade of thoughts that Madhukar knew were not her own. They were sickly, lurid, sloughing and wheezing like the flesh and vents of the beast they belonged to. It was her, all over again, her own guilt that had grown a home within this foreign vessel that was meant to be her own, but from a bird's eye view, under a haze of oily green. She felt so separate, so alien from herself in that moment, it was almost enough to distract her from the alien she was being forced to inhabit, made to understand.

In summary: "I do not feel guilt, ███ thing. You do. That is why you fascinate me so." So soft, so light, so suddenly, viciously sharp like a blade to the jugular, it cut through her ears and her mercy and Madhukar knew she would have to damn one ghost for the other who yet had a chance to live. Lightning flickered in her empty palm,

then sprung.

Sick. Madhukar was sick, sickened, disgusted, abhorred. She was tired, she was mad as hell, she was through. She understood. She forced one ghastly presence upon the beast and confronted the whole. She would not stop. Lightning. She would not stop. How it flew, how it cackled, hurled and stung; how it expressed in all the ways she could not: fury, grief, guilt. All the guilt it could ever desire, a wellspring born from shattered earth. One electric lashing for every synapse fired in her brain: Is it enough?—Is it enough?—I can't make you understand me any other way—Is it enough for you?—Too much?—It will never be enough.—It will always be enough to destroy y— and so on.

Whatever glass container lived in the center of her heart had splintered into enough fragments to suit the predecessor of that forsaken emerald gripped in Madhukar's other hand. Whatever lived inside had stuck in Madhukar's every wayward bolt, redirecting and splitting, forming a most intricate, most perfect web. Madhukar knew how it worked, had known since she had first formulated this concept in her mind. She was likely the only one in the caves who knew how perfect this construction was, and if this creature had any capacity to learn, or even to listen, then the secret would remain hers alone. I will tell you though, my friend: it would not kill this one immediately. There would be just enough time to fall, to crumble, and to fade.

Upon the fall, Madhukar closed the distance. A reversal of their first meeting, when it had swaddled her; she now swaddled it, in some capacity, with a memory. She would hold out her hand of intermittent chrysoberyl — now free of lightning, having cast every blade — and place it ever so gently upon the creature's hide — perhaps its face, if it were close enough — mirroring another time in her life that Tsetse might recognize, had his magic allowed for such.

"Br-eak in again..." Her words came slow. Painstakingly deliberate, each syllable exasperated, driven into adequate composure and form. Her voice was deathly quiet, raspy, scarcely a wisp hovering in the air like those fool's flames that lead ignorant vagabonds astray. "An-d I'll lose it. That guilt." Darkness will encroach soon after this, Madhukar knows — she has made it so. This creature — does she even want to know its name? — may think itself a master over darkness, over what should remain unseen, but in truth it is simply a dim little torch tamped out and swallowed by the storm it knew it couldn't handle.

So why had it even tried?

Fascination, Madhukar reasoned with herself. The kind that is misplaced. The kind that served as a double edged sword, fastened deep into the pits in both their hearts. Again, she failed to die. Again, she failed to kill.

Maybe she'd get another shot.

.̷̧͉̼̈.̴̧̱̺̠͛̓͗̑.̶̡̪̜̹̲̙̘͚͈̔S̵͇̞̮̝̜͚̲̍̽̏̎̔͋͜͝h̸̨̧͉̠͔̹̎é̵̛͈͉̠̠͕͈͖̳̙̗̈̉ ̵͕̱̣̮̲͍̦͛͛͆̉̂́̒͝h̷̰͑̉̽̚o̸̺̱̞̫̯̞̠͍̘̕p̷̹͇͈̈́̋̀̉ḛ̸̢̢̝̲̻͖̺̬̓̉͑͒̾̈́̇̅͘͝d̵̨̖̯̯̤͇̼̯̬̈̈́͒̎͊͊͝ ̶̢͔̩̜̻̦͊͘͝ş̸̼̞̽̈́́̋͗̈́̽̈́̕o̶̡̨̫͓͑͜.̶̬̃̑̕̕

It wasn't fair. For Madhukar to be given wonder by such wonderful people, then to have them destroy it or steal it away, take from her the supplement she did not naturally produce. To make her believe she was worth those expectations, that admiration, that fascination, and then to betray her own expectations of them, corrupt the wonder they shared, turn it into vacancy or jealousy. Turn all she had been given and all she had stood to give into death. He had used this spell, hadn't he? When he killed that Gembound. Now she would jam it rod by rod, lash by lash into anyone else's hide as if it were his own. As if it would change anything. As if she could be changed at all by doing nothing differently. It wasn't fair, it was insanity—but that was the test. When would it ever be fair? When would Madhukar ever be right?

While she was distracted by the onslaught of violence beating triumphantly against both souls, the demon chose to strike twice. First, the words which brought her to the present. She grimaced, snarled, although the corners of her mouth had turned upward to create the faintest impression of a sneer. She was appalled by the audacity of the accusation, by how contradictory it felt to the previously revealed motive of the demon. Words meant to affix their claws into her skin and hold her tight for the killing bite—but Madhukar moved too quickly.

She didn't avoid it, but she turned away just in time to receive it in the right place. She could now feel, for the moments that remained, the intense force of that ugly maw, the texture of each tooth burrowing into her arm. It would writhe with life for a moment—life embedded in the fur and bone of another life, like a bee during the moment of its sting. But as a sting end, so would this bite, and so would this life, if Madhukar so chose. She could feel the pain in the present, and what it would mean in the future, and she could already feel in the palm of her hand the texture of the hideous scar—one of many—that this would bestow upon her form. She could feel the blood in her tongue as she bit down to save herself that one most important defeat; the agony and terror that, if they became audible, would only sustain this beast.

So she wouldn't let it out. Madhukar would hold it in, one gargantuan breath of air, swirling up like a hurricane, whirling death in the pinprick pupils of her eyes. She would stare hard and cold at the liar, the manipulator, the guiltless found guilty, and she would not utter another word until they were gone. Her lightning cut too as she stared and considered whether proving this was worth it or not, possible or not. If she or this creature even knew for certain, or if it was all just a series of postulates and theorems that didn't add up. It was all inside her, the endless fury, and if this fool wished for its release then Madhukar wished to provide no more than what she had given. She could steer it back to the desert called mercy and leave it to chrysalize in the drought of her rage or her guilt. She could leave it to sleep, and then to awaken hungry for more. Or...

It called to her, crooned and purred with all its fabricated affection, while the howling commands of the other gale whipped at the back of her head. This, too, she stared at. Abominable, iridescent, and sincere. Her storm. What was it really made for? Could anyone define it, justify it, accuse it of one thing or another? Why should she hide it when everyone wanted it, needed it, couldn't seem to live without it? Why couldn't she just be wrong this time? That was the test. Madhukar's arm felt like it was about to come off. This was the test.

Madhukar stared ahead, into the eyes of a demon, a trial, and a temptation all in one. What was its name? What was its verdict? What was its answer? How little it seemed to matter now that the bottle was open, the lightning outcast, and the pain eroding them both. How little she wanted to care.

If Tsetse wanted to find something in Madhukar's eyes, all that was left for her in this moment was pain. She wouldn't let it out.