voices.
"All a man can betray is his conscience." - Joseph Conrad
Should killing be so easy?
No, it should not. If he were God, he should resolve to change this.
You are no God. Tiny voices in his head, whispering to him. You are a killer.
He's subdued, lost in a solitary world of agonizing, endless guilt.
There is blood on your hands, say the voices.
He winces, shuddering at the thought.
She lives, but he is haunted nonetheless. The living haunt us more than the dead, the voices say.
He dreams of her great shuddering gasps; the surprise, the horror in the pale blue of her eyes as the poison stings her throat; her steady blows pushing him from her until, too weak, she sinks into his arms.
He wakes, and the voices in his head seem to laugh.
Weren't you her friend, Merlin? They taunt him, tease him.
He shakes his head. They laugh louder.
Murderer, they whisper.
He trembles.