It's not a matter of wanting - it never is; I don't want her to die, but she will. They always do.
It's dark in the border-marches today. Overcast. Little beads of ... what was it called? Water. Little beads of water are drip-drip-dripping down from the sky, and the drip-drip-drips splash all over my upturned face. It's a peculiar feeling. Like acid, except without the burning. It doesn't burn her either, which is good. I don't want her to die.
She's a tiny little thing, this human child. Her mother said she was... six? I'm not sure what that means, but her mother was quite insistent upon it. "Please, she's only six!" she'd said, over and over, before I pulled out her eyes and fed them to one of my goblins. Her mother's, I mean. I haven't tried that with her. It would be a waste, and whatever else I may be, I'm not wasteful. The dreams of children are always intense, and her dreams are no exception. I let them play over my fingers, teasingly, as I devour them.
It kind of tingles.
I giggle. Giggling tingles, and oh, I'm bleeding again. Oh, she bit me. How quaint! This is called 'pain.' I giggle again, and bring my bleeding hand up to my lips. It tastes like sunlit meadows and wistfulness. Leftovers from the mother, perhaps.
"Lady Kaori," someone says, and I turn. It's one of my charming little goblins! He's looking at me expectantly, and it takes me a moment to remember that I'm Lady Kaori now. Names are such troublesome things.
"It's not here," he says, and his little tongue curls adorably around his fangs when he speaks.
The little girl is crying. That's what that sound is called. Crying. I can't help but wonder if she cried enough, would she dry up right into dust? They're mostly water, after all. Something to look into. I sigh dramatically, and I carefully pack away the little girl's dreams for later. Waste not, want not! "This won't do, Mister Muggles," I murmur. "This won't do at all."
The goblin looks confused for a moment, but wisely does not object to his new title.
"Come now, call the Hunt to arms! If the heart of the Fortress isn't in the shrine anymore, I'm afraid the entire village will just have to be burned to the ground. Yes, that sounds like an appropriate lesson. Being burned alive will surely teach these villagers to be more careful with their possessions!"
The village. Oh yes! We're in a village. Did I mention that? It slipped my mind until I mentioned it. That happens, sometimes. The ... militia? Is that the word? Militia. They crawled quite impressively after my goblins gutted them. Must have kept crawling for at least half an hour. How Mister Muggles and his friends cheered and clapped!
The villagers are screaming now. Except for her. She's just lying there, staring up at the sky.
Oh pooh, did I take too much? I didn't want her to die. ... Maybe if I put a little bit back in her. No? Oh well.
At least the village is pretty when it's on fire.
So are the villagers.