Black is the void. Black is the absence of light. It takes all in, and does not let go. Black, the destroyer.

Aye.

The dirt piled on top of you after you die is black. Seldom does anyone reemerge from this very earth once buried beneath its depths. Or would tell the story…or could.

The dead keep their secrets closely guarded. They will not tell you their histories, they have no voices to speak with, curse with. The earth fills their bodies day by day and eats their flesh. Just imagine the chaos that would result if the void did not obey the will of nature, the gods, and take all in; rather expelling these very bodies.

Yet sometimes a wrong echoes with such ferocity in this world that nature has no recourse but to bend and yield. The ground shifts and breaks open, spilling forth the dead. Charred bones all bent and broken, decaying flesh surround a throat slit open. The eviscerated torso of a body quartered. You can now bear witness to a glimpse of their life and the miserable end. You can now find that these poor souls speak no lies. The filth that is the truth lies before you, evident as the air you breathe.

One must then consider the terrible prospect of kismet renewed and second chances, offered to these former beings. Troubled creatures that they are. Bound together by vengeance, spirit, and black matter to walk again, to wield sword, to live but not truly be alive. What does this meant to us who are alive, who breathe, eat, war, love, fuck, shit, destroy and create? Would these creatures be aimless or would there be a burden to unload? What would feed their hunger? And with that gone, do they still remain?

Think…and think hard at that.

A voice warbled somewhere and everywhere at once, as though speaking through water. It was muted and distorted, but strangely calm. It was unfamiliar and unsettling, this stillness. A stillness as though suspended while everything continued its progression.

Sandor could only make out the unhinged movements of a blurred figure above him. Yes, exactly like being underwater, he thought to himself. Something like sunlight quivered further up above him. Rippling, looming closer, and retracting rhythmically.

He felt the cool relief of water on his skin and mused that he was drowned. He did not despair at the prospect. Sandor had no strength to struggle. Nor would he if the strength were in him. He closed his eyes, and tried to silence his thoughts.

What feeds their hunger?

Black is the void. Yet, sometimes, it does not take all in.

Dead with my own fucking thoughts, no wine to dull the edges! The Hound raged inside at the realization, I'll lose my mind. He had to admit there was something to be said for living, sweet wine, sour wine, or any fucking wine… always reliable to quench his thirst or distract his thoughts. And the wet heat of a woman on his skin, the few times he'd given into his yearnings when the urges were too great to ignore even through the haze of drunkenness.

Why do you let people call you a dog?

A dull ache roused within Sandor, at first just minuscule barely registering at the periphery of his awareness, but exploded into agony that twisted inside him, like the bite of a Valerian blade, glutting itself on his flesh. The ache snaked into him, through him and he exhaled a shaky breath.

He tried flexing his fingers with great difficulty, and felt the damp grass at his skin. Could as well be reeds, for all he cared but he now knew with a certainty that he was not dead…yet. He fought back the memory of the question, the blue eyes. It was too much for a mind now drunk on pain.

"The passage can only be secured by the distilled milk of the adder's venom." A whisper through the darkness spoke. A crow croaked back, as though in response. Sandor opened his eyes to see who kept him company, but could make out little of his surroundings. He could hear the familiar roar of the water nearby, but did not allow for his thoughts to become swept up.

"Drink" urged the voice and a bowl was held to Sandor's lips. He complied and drank, sputtering on the bitter taste that scalded his throat on the way down. As foul as it tasted, it quenched his thirst at once and made him feel light-headed quicker than any strongwine he had partook in drinking. Sandor rasped for more, and another bowl was offered and he drank. This one was different, sweet like honey and scented with pungent tasting herbs Sandor had never before tasted.

Sandor felt the stupor completely descent upon him before he finished drinking but managed to inquire, "Who are you, man?"

The voice ignored the question, "Now you must sleep, and then we shall see what the morrow will bring."

"Fuck the morrow" Sandor stammered back, his eyes heavy, and his head filling with a swirling fog. His head lolled to the side as sleep overcame him.

Overhead the black crow lept off a branch and dove, skimming the ground before soaring upwards through the canopy of trees and disappeared. A cloaked figure stood up from above Sandor and walked towards the fire burning, where flames lept high and crackled. The forest seemed to come alive, as dusk encroached, and the figure set to work. A small river of blood coursed its way through the grass, pooling in the pitted mud.

Some boundaries are too devastating to cross, even to those who rely solely upon instinct. The forest and all its creatures remained at bay that night. At dawn, the crow returned dropping a small packet on the ground before circling overhead, as though surveying the scene. It settled back on its branch and fixed its gaze upon the figures below.