Everything was pain and darkness for Angrath as he lay there on the floor, grasping at his neck and struggling for breath. He should be dead and he knew it. His wound, the bite he’d received, had torn away the majority of his neck and then…

Angrath struggled to both remember and forget those next few moments. His memory was foggy and something within him fought to remember, but the terror of the attack still mastered his will and he frantically sought for any source of relief or safety. Unfortunately, the room was bare and empty of all other occupants and the only furniture in the room was his simple bed of stray and a single wooden stool, now broken in pieces on the floor. He’d lived alone and in such simple circumstances that he had no real hope of being discovered.

A fire burned though him, coursed through his emptying veins, drawing closer to his chest with every missed beat of his stilling heart.

What’s happening to me?Angrath wondered as he began to lose control of his hands, his fingers twitching violently and flexing beyond his normal range of motion.

At the same time, his spine began to arch backwards and his neck and face were struck with renewed waves of pain. It felt as though his body were trying to rip itself apart. He tried unsuccessfully to crawl over to his bed where he could at least lie on something softer than the dirt floor.

That small piece of his mind that fought to remember what had happened struggled once again and glimpses began to tantalize his memory: It had something to do with why he lived alone. He’d chosen to live this way. He’d once been quite wealthy, and yet…what had happened? And there was someone else, wasn’t there? A woman? A man? Perhaps both? They’d wanted something from him that he wouldn’t give and so he’d come here.

A face came to him, that of a woman. He’d seen her that day and it had startled him. He’d run to his house and then…and then…

The fire in his veins, spreading inexorably inward from his extremities, now blazed within the full length of his arms and legs. If he could draw breath he would have screamed aloud for the torment he felt from it. As it was, he could only thrash more wildly upon the ground.

Angrath fought to gain some semblance of control over his body and in his addled state he tried shoveling fist fulls of dirt into his wounded neck. Something, anything to lessen the pain that gripped him, even if it wasn’t to save his life but to hasten its end.

The burning struggled onward until at last it seized his heart. Everything peaked and Angrath welcomed the oblivion he was sure was about to take him.

The pain faded. The burning subsided. But Angrath persisted.

And his memories began to come back to him.

Decades had passed since he’d come to this hovel. Hiding, regretting he hadn’t been strong enough to do what needed to be done when he’d had the chance.

He’d been a king, though the name of his country was still lost to him. Perhaps he’d forgotten it even before the attack. There was still much he couldn’t remember of that time. What he did remember was that there had been a plague. His people were dying and there seemed to be no end in sight besides the death of his nation.

That was when theyhad come to him. His elder brother, Angford, and younger sister, Anley. Their mother and father had deemed Angford unfit to rule because of his dealings with the dark arts and he’d swayed Anley and several others to follow him. They’d been banished since before Angrath took the throne, and yet, in the midst of the plague, they returned and offered Angrath a solution. A terrible solution.

“Join with us,” Angford had said.

“Live with us for eternity,” Anley had offered.

Yet even in those conversations, Angrath knew they were not his brother and sister. Not anymore. They had become something else entirely, something bestial with only the most meager semblance of humanity plastered over the surface. He could almost feel their hunger even as they spoke to him of saving his people.

“The death this plague bring,” Angrath remembered saying to them during their last meeting together, “is something far better and more pleasant than the so called life you offer.”

That had enraged them, but at that time he was still young, still powerful in his own right. He overcame them when they attacked and he could have destroyed them. Instead, he had mercy upon them and cast them out.

Before too long, his people had suffered the merciful death of the plague and he’d come to this place, in exile and alone. A solitary survivor in a desolate land. He’d hoped to fall ill himself but fate seemed to have a different course planned for him. He’d begun to wonder if he might just die of old age

Lying on the dirt floor, Angrath wondered at why he didn’t feel dead. He certainly didn’t feel alive. He wasn’t breathing. His heart did not beat. And yet he was aware. He tried to move and was surprised to discover that he could, in fact, control his body once again.

He sat up.

The usual aches and pains of old age that he’d grown accustomed to were noticeably absent. Gone too was the milky haze that had been settling down over his vision. His hearing was also significantly improved, far better and more acute than he remembered it being even in his youth.

“Is it done?” a voice called from outside his hovel and startled Angrath.

In a blink he was on his feet, ready to fight, a broken stool leg gripped tightly in his hand.

What’s happened to me? He wondered in awe.

Certainly he’d been well trained, but he was an old man and had been old for some time. Long enough that he’d lost or forgotten his training and instincts years ago. Yet now he felt strong.

Instinctively he sniffed the air. He still did not breathe but he could sense the smells in the air and through the scents of his hovel and usual scents of this place he picked out two smells that did not belong here.

The first was close by, practically all over him, and it was a sooty, greasy smell. The other smelled faintly familiar, like a familiar flower perhaps, but it was tainted with decay. Where had he smelled that scent before? It was from so long ago, and though his memories had somewhat come back to him, he could feel them already beginning to fade away as though they were begin consumed, never to be remembered again.

“Who’s out there?” Angrath called out wearily.

There was a pause.

“Angford, are you in there?” the voice called back and he realized it was a woman speaking. There was something familiar about it and he began to worry and suspect who the speaker may be.

“I am Angrath,” he replied, “Angford was my brother but he is not here.”

The door to his hovel slowly opened and, as he’d suspected, Anley stood there, outlined in the moonlight. Her expression began as one of confusion but swiftly turned into anger.

“What have you done?!” she cried out upon seeing him. “Angford!” she rushed into the room and began scraping at the floor.

Only now did Angrath realize that, mixed into the dirt around where he’d lain, was a thick and greasy ash. Much of it was also rubbed into his own clothes and marred his face and hands.

Anley let the ashes sift through her fingers. She did not cry, such emotion didn’t seem possible from her, but she did begin to exude a powerful anger that Angrath could, strangely, almost taste.

The last piece slid into place and Angrath looked down to the broken stool leg in his hand; the pointed tip looked almost burned and was covered in the same ash.

“I’d suspected what you had become,” Angrath said, still following the trail of memories as they presented themselves before him. “And I was right in thinking that dying any real death was better than this false immortality you two had sold yourselves for.”

“You fool!” spat his sister as she turned and began prowling around him, finally showing the beast he’d always sensed within her. “You lost everything because you weren’t willing to make a few sacrifices. You could have still been king, still ruled our great nation.”

“What happened to those who followed you and Angford?” Angrath asked her and the look on her face was answer enough. “What sort of kingdom can you have if your people are also your cattle? Pretty soon it has to fall apart. Either the people revolt, or you run out of cattle. Which was it for you and your so-called kingdom?”

Anley swiped at him with a clawed hand but Angrath swatted it away with the stake, breaking several of Anley’s bones in the process.

“How could you have killed Angford?” Anley cried out, cradling her mangled hand. “You were nothing but a weak old man!”

“Thankfully,” Angrath said, “I don’t remember the details of that struggle. If I had to guess I would say it was a combination of good luck on my part and overconfidence on the part of Angford.”

“Well it doesn’t matter,” Anley said and a wicked grin began to spread across her face. “Soon enough you’ll come to see things as I do and then it won’t matter that Angford is gone. You’ll do just as well in his place.”

“And why would I ever do that?”

“You’ve only just begun the process of transforming,” Anley crowed, “once it’s complete you’ll see things my way.”

“How long will that take?”

“Oh, not long,” Anley assured him. “You can run away from me, try and save your soul, but all I have to do is wait here and you’ll be back. By tomorrow night at the latest you’ll be back.”

Angrath lunged forward with lightning speed and pierced his sister’s chest with the stake. For a brief moment a look of utter terror and surprise showed on her face before she, like their brother before her must have done, melted away into ash.

“I should have done that years ago,” Angrath told the piles of ash, “I’m sorry it took me so long and has cost me so dearly.”

Anley’s words had rung true to him about the transformation only just beginning. He could feel his very nature slowly being consumed and before long he would lose the will to resist it. Already he knew he wouldn’t have the will to plunge the stake into his own chest. However, there were more ways to destroy such creatures and, fortunately, he still remembered a few of them.

As part of the process required to waterproof his hovel, he kept large barrels full of pitch. It was a thick and heavy substance, durable and difficult to work while it was cool. He set a fire going in his fire pit outside and began heating up large chunks of pitch in a large pot. In the mean time he began gathering up lengths of cord and testing them for strength. They had to be able to hold him and prevent him from escaping. He also gathered up several strong lengths of wood. He’d intended these to be used for fence building but now they’d have a different purpose.

He worked quickly, knowing he could lose his nerve at any moment. He first bound his legs, wrapping the cord around them and bracing them with the posts. Then he tied off the cord and poured pitch over it all to prevent him from being able to untie or easily cut himself free. Then he tied his right hand down to his side, again using a wooden post as bracing and then adding pitch over it. He couldn’t tie his last hand down and so instead he balled it up into a fist and plunged it straight into the pitch. He’d expected it to burn but no pain came of it. The pitch cooled and hardened quickly in the cool night air and before long his fist was immobilized. He flexed and tried to break free and was pleased to find that he couldn’t.

Last of all, Angrath lowered his head over the pot of bubbling pitch. He knew he could still chew his way free and then make his way back to the shelter of his hovel. It was this knowledge, in fact, that had lent him some small comfort even while he worked to bind himself. But now it came to it. This was his last hope. His last chance to save himself. His last chance to end himself. The growing beast within him fought as he tried to lower his head into the pitch. It snarled and frothed struggled and Angrath found himself unable to force his head below the black surface.

Seconds, minutes, then hours passed and still Angrath struggled, all the while feeling more and more of himself fading away as the beast within grew in strength. Dawn was not that far off, if he could just hang on for that much longer.

His skin itched as the sky began to lighten. He turned terrified eyes towards the treeline and the very tips of the trees seemed ablaze with fire as the new day began to creep onward.

“NO!” He cried and began to struggle all the more. Angrath, however, had done his work well. The ropes, poles, and pitch all combined to make an effective and durable set of bonds.

He tried and failed to break his left hand out of the pitch. It was just soft enough that he couldn’t break it like a rock, but it was strong enough that he couldn’t tear it away. He tried to bite at the bonds holding his right arm but the poles prevented him from being able to bend down far enough to reach them. Instead he bit and tore chunks away from the pitch on his left hand but then found he couldn’t spit it out. The pitch stuck in his teeth and filled his throat and yet still he kept at it, trying to free himself until his mouth was entirely clogged and useless.

His hovel was not particularly nearby but perhaps he could roll himself over to it. Using his one free hand, he began to push and pull and slowly he began to flop and roll his way closer.

Sunlight hit the top of his hovel and was inching its way downward. Angrath tried to scream out again but the pitch prevented him from doing so. He turned and rolled once more.

Something caught and pulled tight and held him mid roll. Confused and furious he turned and looked back towards the pot. The rope he’d bound his legs with had a short tail of a few feet, all covered in pitch, and then tied to the pot itself.

When had he done that? He didn’t remember ever doing that, but there was a lot he wasn’t able to remember, now that he came to think of it. He was a king, and needed to rule his people, but what he was doing here or why he’d so foolishly allowed himself to be bound like this was beyond him.

He pulled and jerked against the cord but the pot was large and filled with pitch and in his current state he simply could not put his strength into such efforts.

Sunlight illuminated the open doorway of his hovel and he could see into the solitary room within. The broken stool, the disheveled bed, and the two piles of ash.

The sight awoke something within him, the last spark of his life, and he took hold of it. He was a king, yes, but his kingdom had long since failed. He had accepted that reality long ago. Had turned away from the false promises of a salvation that would have caused an even greater destruction than just the loss of his people. It would have been a darkness that did not end, a plague that never relented.

King Angrath, last of his lineage and his people, turned back to face the rising Sun. He would die as he had lived, the master of himself, and he welcomed the new day.