A word of introduction (for those that don't want to read this shit, skip to next paragraph). I have been a reader of fanfiction for a couple years now. I always wanted to write something, and here is my attempt. This will be written in a series of drabbles. Why in this format? Because I doubt I will be able to write consistently anything more than this, and keep the motivation. I do love huge chapters, but I worry I won't be able to write these consistently, and it will end up becoming a chore. And if you recognize that quote at the beginning of the story, no, it's not going to be a crossover. I thought about that quite intensely, but decided against it. This far, I really had much fun writing this chapter. As someone said, if the fanfiction you want, doesn't exist - write it yourself. And I'm gonna give it a shot. Enjoy.
Bottomless Pit
This pit is for Hollows, not for the likes of you sane folk.
Or perhaps you are a Hollow, posing as otherwise?
A corpse.
More accurately, the corpse of the unnamed warrior that died in Clare's arms. The body has been dumped off in a ditch far away from the settlement by the villagers, who wanted nothing to do with it. After all, anyone who dabbles with those silver-eyed witches, is destined for misfortune.
It has been a couple hours, since the man in black saw the corpse and went on his way to report the casualties to the organisation.
On the corpses face, pieces of skin were missing, exposing the bone underneath. The empty left eye socket was covered by bloodsoaked clumps of platinum-blonde hair. Chunks of flesh along with a couple of ribs were missing and internal organs were spilling out. The legs were littered with holes of missing flesh. The entire left arm was gone.
A rat was nibbling away at a piece of intestine. And then, the entire corpse jerked. Immediately, the rat scurried away. The only eye left was flung wide open and mouth screamed in silent agony, face twisted in pain.
The corpse inhaled once.
"H-he-e-lp-p…" Came a quiet plea from the corpse.
But no help came.
Then, the yoki coursing through the ruined veins started the regenerative process that defensive claymores were known for.
Cell division was sent into overdrive, surpassing even the most fierce variants of cancer. Consciousness was beginning to fade and the corpse went limp, while the infused yoma flesh continued doing its purpose.
For a split second, the consciousness recalled a child's face adorned with a sadistic grin.
Before the world went blank, a vague concept was remembered - Vengeance.
(…)
Hours later, the single eye opened again, but the corpse did not have the strength to even plea for help.
All muscles were atrophied to such a degree, that if one looked at the corpse, one could point and tell almost all bones apart.
The abdomen wasn't split open anymore - what was missing, has been regrown, and was now covered in a translucent layer of cancerous-like growth, emulating the protection provided once by skin. The holes in the legs were now starlike, pinkish scars on the loose flaps of skin, covering the atrophied legs. The left arm, previously entirely missing - was almost regrown - yet pieces of raw bone, uncovered by the mangled pinkish tissue were still visible. The bones themselves were weak - the yoma flesh needed material to replace what was lost, and was cannibalising the hosts own body for the necessary resources. The missing skin on the corpses face was similarly replaced with the thin, translucent growth. The empty eye socket remained empty.
Pain was all it felt. But slowly, the corpse remembered what hatred was. It didn't know the reason, but it hated the face of the girl from its memories.
Consciousness was lost once more.
(...)
After two days, the yoma flesh stopped its regenerative process - it had no more raw material to work with, without outright killing the host. Organs were stripped out of nutrients, the body in a near catatonic state. It needed sustenance - and the regenerated digestive tract should be able to break down and absorb nutrients properly, once again.
With a groan, the corpse opened its eyes - and the world was pain. Its entire body was screaming in agony, yet at the same time, refused to die. It wanted to live. To survive. It needed to survive. It had to survive. It had to survive.
Not that it had much reason to live. It didn't remember much else than that accursed child's face. It didn't even remember its own name. Fueled by hate, the corpse refused to stay a corpse.
The corpse did not scream nor ask for help - it felt that even if it would be able to do so, it knew that help wouldn't come.
Then corpse felt something - nibbling away, scratching away, tearing at the skin of its right forearm. The corpse moved its head with titanic effort to see what was the cause of this unpleasant feeling. A rat.
At that instant, a primal instinct took over - and over the cacophony of pain, hunger screamed louder. Adrenaline surged within devastated veins.
With nigh but a sound and speed that should be impossible for such a shriveled body, the corpse twisted its new left arm and grabbed the rat by its neck.
The animal squealed in pain. The corpse tightened it's grasp. The corpse started to loose feeling in it's regenerated arm, but kept tightening the grip.
Crack
The rodent stopped moving. The regenerated arm wobbled and the corpse dropped the dead animal on its own chest, momentarily shoving all the air out of its scarred lungs.
Agony. Blood vessels popped on the regenerated arm and blood dripped onto the dirt beneath. Exhaustion. But at the same time, a sense of triumph.
The corpse moved its right arm and gripped the rodent - and moved the carcass near its mouth.
The first bite was tough. The corpse was weak. Biting through the skin was a great effort, but the corpse was rewarded with a warm stream of blood dripping down it's face. It still felt nothing on its regenerated facial skin.
It greedily bit into the small animal, gulping down as much as it could - muscle, intestines, tendons and even the tiny bones were consumed, ground down by the weakened teeth and swallowed. The corpse was bleeding inside from the tiny shards of bone that went down its throat, but it couldn't care less.
After the meal was finished, only the skin was left - the corpse gobbled down even the rat's tail. It moved away the hide from its mouth with its good arm, and fell fast asleep from exhaustion.
(...)
The corpse dreamt. Of people it loved. Battles it fought. Wounds it took. Lessons it learned.
(…)
It was noon. Around three days ago was the last meal of the corpse. Since that time, its muscles were still atrophied, and the skin loosely hung on it's frame - but the wounds on the face, abdomen and legs healed completely, albeit left even paler scars on the already, deathly pale skin.
The same couldn't be said for the regrown limb. Covered in red flesh, with pieces of pink skin covering parts of the mangled mess, and in other places visible veins, tendons and bone.
It dreamt of another life. A carefree life. A life with a family, friends and far from worry. Alas, it was time for it to return to the waking world. When it woke, it remembered nothing of the pleasant dream. The only thing left was emptiness and a desire for vengeance. The sly girl would pay. It creaked it's one, bloodshot eye open and screamed.
It screamed for blood.