Kohl of the Blind

The stench arrived first. *Sssssss-hiss.* The damp torch wick sputtered, struggling to stay alive in the damp air. Burnt camphor battled the cloying rot of decomposing flesh. The scent of death was a stubborn beast; no herb could mask it. Michael tightened the waxed mask over his face until the straps bit into his skin. His fingers, slick with cold sweat, nearly snapped the wooden kohl-needle. *Drip.* A bead of perspiration escaped his turban, sliding down his forehead like a spider. «... The eyes never lie. The buboes behind the ear are the signet. The Seal of Annihilation ...» The corpse before him had ceased to be human. It was a bloated mass of bruised indigo under the flickering orange light. *Splat.* A viscous, yellow fluid erupted from a ripened sore on the body’s chest. Michael recoiled. His hand trembled as he brought the needle toward the dead man’s milky, unresponsive pupil. «... Do I apply the kohl to eyes that will never see the sun? Or do I shutter them against the truth? ...» *Creeeeeak.* The heavy stone cellar door groaned open. The sound of metal on stone echoed through the narrow, claustrophobic corridor. Raphael entered. His stride was measured, …