He dubbed himself the Rat King when he foresaw the rodents crawling on his corpse, weaving in and out of his garments like a sensation, like a disease. Now he waits for them down in the ornate sewer home he fashioned. It is a fickle thing, the premo...
She slides down the corridors, like a blissful dream, slipping in and out of his own. Fingers curling around pale flesh, she watches, there and yet, not. The cobalt blue of her beads slip across his skin, sliding back like they always did. Sense and time means little to him—he had none of one, and an eternity of the other. Or so he thinks.
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"Where is the one with the tattoo?" she asks him, moving down the rows of books.
"He is indisposed," Boidae tells her, a sudden flush rising across his skin. Her fingers trail the edges of the books, slowly, faintly.
"What does that mean?" She turns to look at him but he averts his gaze.
"He does not feel well."
"Is he sick?"
He laughs at that. "Yes, but it is expected."
She stops walking and stares at him.
His mind flits, thinking and unthinking, moving forward and back on its own accord. "Let me show you," he says impulsively, holding out a hand.
He feels her hand slide into his own.
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"It is his failing," Gobbes said to her once, when in the pale twilight she had found herself at his door. "His love for you encompasses all else. It is a failing that defeats his greatness. For great men can only love the masses as a whole and favor no part of it, even their own family. A great man sacrifices his children, his mother, wife, and his lover for a purpose beyond himself. But he cannot sacrifice you."
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