11


It still hasn't become easier.

One night in the Carpathian mountains, a church in Naples the next. A tiny coastal town in Peru. An old castle in Japan, opened up to the public. He wonders if the taste of a soul changes depending on where you are in the world, but decides it isn't worth the trouble to ask Ragnarok.

Welsh farm country tonight, where the grass is damp and the sound of distant sheep breaks the pre-dawn silence. There are lights on in several of the stone houses, and he hates it; the idea of someone looking out the window and seeing him there is frightening, makes his hand fly to his shoulder. An instinctive gesture to guard the heart.

The voice comes on little forked tongues, pricking the corners of his brain. 'What are you waiting for, Crona?'

"All the houses look the same," he whispers hoarsely back, afraid of drawing attention. "I don't know where to – "

'They look nothing alike. You're making excuses, and I'm prepared to punish you for that.' The madness begins to come over him, then, promising the warm heady rush of fearlessness that will come with giving in. The solace that will be found there. Because madness seldom lies, he knows that allowing it to take over would feel every bit as ameliorating as he's been promised, and yet –

'If you continue to fight it, you know it will only be more difficult for you.'

Silence.

'Have it your way.'

From somewhere in the village, a dog begins to bark. A door swings open off to his right, and he tells himself that she warned him. She wouldn't have warned him if she didn't care.

Crona swings.