"How are you possibly even human?"

Snapping his head toward the voice, he glares at the man--the creature who looms before him. There is malice in those eyes, condemnation. But nothing--nothing can rival the animosity that burns in his own soul. Only one thing matters now: revenge. It is all he has left, and he would rather die than allow him to take that too.

Fire ignites in his belly and he doubles over, gasping. Eyes wide, he flings his arms around his middle, not yet sure what it is he is so desperate to protect. A flash of metal sparks understanding; a sword gleams in his enemy's hand. Liquid pours down his front like the steady flow of a stream, yet this warmth is anything but soothing. He gapes at the layer of red that coats his shirtsleeves and trails toward the waist of his pants, and he remembers. Once, he'd taught his students how to paint. They'd ended up getting more of it on themselves than on the paper, but he’d decided it had been the experience itself that had mattered. Now, he's not so sure. How could something possibly be worth all the effort, he asks himself, if the end result is disaster?

Maybe his life, too, has been nothing but a canvas, and someone else has been holding the brush all along. He tries to envision what the masterpiece of Cho Gonou might look like--most likely something insipid like an empty field, with perhaps a tree here and a few flowers over there. There would be a sun too, shining over the barren landscape with a golden light. In the end, its brilliance would be obstructed by storm clouds, and when the rain would begin to fall, the flowers would wilt and the sun and trees would be smeared into something unrecognizable. He can hear it even now, the incessant thrumming of the downpour that threatens to drive him to madness. As it pounds in his ears, he runs his fingers through the final coat of paint, watching with detachment as the sea of red continues to leak out of him and dribble onto the floor.

"Unless the legend happens to be true."

The words float like ghosts in the back of his mind—a hint of truth, a whisper of memory. In his frenzied state, he can't quite grasp the meaning behind them, but they are familiar all the same.

Breathe. He has to remember to breathe. There will be no retribution otherwise, no purpose to this madness. He can't allow this man to win, not when Kanan has suffered such terrible abuse at the hands of this monster's clan. It doesn't matter that the vitality is leaking out of him faster than he can blink. It makes no difference that he can barely lift his head to scowl at the being that has tortured his lover.

"That a human who bathes in the blood of a thousand youkai," his tormentor continues, oblivious to the inner workings of Gonou's mind, "can become a youkai himself."

Another wave of pain hits him and his body spasms involuntarily. Hitching his breath, he clenches his fingers in the fabric of his torn shirt. His hands are wet again, he notices, slick with the evidence of his mortality.

"I really like your hands..."

He swallows back a wave of anguish, begging, pleading any deity who will listen to strike him down and end this suffering.

"Oh my. I seem to have gone a bit deep."

The youkai's words draw him from the depths of self-pity. Through lidded eyes, he stares up at his would-be killer. A metallic tang fills his mouth and he chokes on his own blood. He continues to retch and something unnatural presses against his hands, oozing out between his fingers. He doesn't dare move them for fear that his guts might try to escape.

"Humans are so very fragile." There is a triumphant tone to those words that makes Gonou's blood boil.

Fragile...yes, he probably is, he decides. After all, he has traveled so far and has slaughtered so many, yet it was all for naught. He is going to die here and no one will even remember his name. For a few scant moments, he had thought himself invincible. He'd convinced himself that he was capable of fulfilling his promise--that he was the only one she needed, the one who could save her. What a fool he's been!

Anger bubbles inside of him at the realization, and his fingers itch for the cold reassurance of the knife. He imagines himself slicing into the demon's throat, gouging the voice box right out of his neck so he can no longer speak such damnation. He wills his body to move--to attack--but he is too frail. Instead, he slumps to the floor, the raw skin of one palm softening his fall as it smacks against the rock. The sting it invokes as it rubs against rough stone is the only thing that makes him feel alive.

"Don't die on me so quickly. That's no fun at all," the demon insists. "Oh. Yes. You went to all this trouble, so let's try it."

Silence floods the chamber, a lack of noise so profound it hurts his ears. And then...

The youkai is standing over him again, arm outstretched. A gruesome red line zigzags over his skin and before Gonou has time to consider its meaning, the thick, coppery scent of death rains down on him. Its touch is like molten lava against his battered flesh. His head whirls and he writhes in pain, reaching for something with which to steady himself.

"I just may be the thousandth youkai...sir youkai killer."

His insides have melted to liquid fire. A guttural sound, raw and untamed breaks through the cage of his breast at last and bounces off the chamber walls. He cringes at the sound, the howling of a beast.

"Oh. Is it working?"

His fingers curl in on themselves as objects sharp as razors stab their way through the cuticles. Claws...grotesque, knife-tipped hooks tear at the darkness and he screams, horrified at what he has become.

Something foreign, yet almost organic begins to weave its way around his middle. It twists over flesh, crawling over his extremities. Panic grips him when he feels it pull itself taught as if threatening to strangle the breath out of him. Fighting against exhaustion, he forces his eyes open, watching in terror as a string of vines peeks out from under a torn shirt-sleeve. It creeps its way over his flesh and down his arm like a snake.

What is happening to me?, his mind screams.

A cadence, like a drum, begins to hammer through his skull. It reminds him of the rain and of everything he's lost. Desperate to silence it, he slaps his hands over his ears and begins to rock. His fingers brush along the contours of cartilage, caressing an edge that extends far past its usual shape. Gasping, he tears his hands away from the tapered flesh as if he’s been burned.

No...no! It can’t be true...

The pounding in his head races in time with the beating of his heart. Another blood-curdling wail escapes his throat, the embodiment of death itself, wild and untamed.

Laughter rises above the din, a hollow sound that leaves him feeling empty and cold. "So? Tell me how you feel. What's it like to be one of us...the youkai who violated your beloved?"

"Gonou," her voice calls out to him like the echo of a memory, "Gonou, please don't leave me. Don't let them hurt me."

What would you do if you knew what I've become?

He squeezes his eyes shut as if doing so will rid him of her ghost. The tears on her pale cheeks only grow more pronounced, the desperation in her voice more insistent. He can't stand it. He can’t endure this anguish. He blinks, fighting back the sorrow that threatens to consume him. There is a flash of glee in ethereal eyes as his tormentor's face swims into view. When the demon's mouth twists itself into a wicked sneer, Gonou finds his strength once again.

Leaping to his feet, he moves like an animal hot on the scent of its prey. In his rage, he forgets his wounds and the pain they bring; he knows only revenge. The youkai who had once been Gonou bears his teeth. A horrible scream pierces the night as he strikes, claws ripping into flesh and tearing through muscle. Organs pulse and shudder around his hand as he drives it clean through the demon's body. He knows he will die a monster, but at least he'll have the satisfaction of dragging this creature into the pits of hell along side of him.

The rain beats down on him, but he no longer cares. Nothing matters anymore--not the dead he's left behind nor the creature that now resides just beneath the surface of flesh and bone. And certainly not the entrails that lay open to the elements on the soft mud beneath him.

He has no idea where he is or how long he's been crawling. In fact, he can't remember leaving that place at all. The only thing he's certain of is a peculiar tug in the center of his being that had drawn him onward, urging him to set one hand in front of the other and keep moving.

Blood pools in the corner of his mouth, but he is too weak to wipe it away. Defeated by grief and guilt, he lays against the sodden earth, praying for death.

When he closes his eyes, fragments of memory begin to resurface--a coy smile, a simple touch, the smell of her shampoo.

"I really like your hands."

Mustering his last ounce of strength, he lifts a quaking arm to stare at his palm. It occurs to him now that his nails have returned to normal, and he marvels at that for a moment before the thought escapes him. In the moonlight, he can make out dark shadows where the crimson has dried and crusted to his skin. Thicker clots are scattered across his knuckles, tiny islands of flesh against a sea of blood.

"Your fingers are so long and pretty."

And now...they are soiled with murder.

He lets his hand fall back to the grass, content in the knowledge that this horror will soon be over. But will he ever find peace? Can he ever attain joy in the afterlife while carrying the burden of such a sin? If a higher power really exists, will it be merciful to him? Will it understand his reasons? Will he ever be forgiven? No, he decides; the weight of his crimes is much too significant. He can only wonder if hell is too lenient a punishment for all he's done.

Maybe it's better this way. He doesn't deserve to be with her, not when he couldn't even save her.

He watches in horror, paralyzed as the blade--his blade sinks deep into her abdomen. He squeezes his eyes shut, longing to force the memories away, but they are unrelenting. Over and over he is forced to watch in terror as her eyes flash wide with pain and fear, blood gushing from the wound to stain her dress.

Please, he begs, but the images only multiply, refusing to grant him peace. Kill me. Somebody kill me.

A fit of coughing wracks his frame, and he's glad he can no longer feel his body. His insides went numb a long time ago, his limbs heavy from the lack of blood flow. Only his senses are working properly. If he blinks his eyes open, he can see the patch of moonlight that illuminates his bloodstained hands and the leaves and rocks nestled beneath them. He can hear the wind and rain lashing at his prone form and feel the droplets of water as they pelt his head.

He wonders if all that water can ever wash away the evidence of his crimes.

Another sound...something off in the distance. Whether it's the wind in the trees or the crunching of footsteps, he can't be certain. Visions flitter through his mind of a stranger finding him amongst the dirt and debris. He wonders how long it will take for someone to discover his remains and what they might say or think when they do. Would it ever be known just how much he's lost or all of the terrible acts he's committed in vain?

He closes his eyes and allows his mind to drift. Cheek pressed against a fallen twig, he offers himself up to the gods, begging them to do with him as they will.

"Hey, man. You dead down there?" A voice calls out to him from the darkness, tugging at the last strings of consciousness.

No, please, he thinks. Please, just let me die. It takes all of his effort to lift his head and open his eyes.

He wants to say something to this man, to beg him not to interfere with fate. But the image he beholds stifles his voice. Hair and eyes the color of blood stare back at him, and he nearly laughs at the irony. So this is how the angel of death has chosen to appear to him; it seems he is being made to suffer until the very end.

His last fleeting thought is not of Kanan or of demons, but of a swirling pool of red, somehow comforting, almost humorous despite its mocking color, as he lays his head on his arm and gives in to the blackness.