It was not the dull throb of an ache, nor the insistent prickling pain of an open
wound. It washed over him in innumerable waves, entire tides of suffering with
intermittent peace - a thing that he found it hard not
to welcome, though he knew it to be dangerous. If it was the fate
of his flesh to become necrotic, could it not die by the swift passion of fire, rather
than this lingering torment?
Nine layers of skin. Nine lives, each dedicated to mourning the one that came before.