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The tendrils creep idly into his peripherals, just out of reach and intangible. He can feel them, the way they curl around him and burrow beneath his skin, writhing against the blood in his veins and nibbling at the soft insides of his flesh. The way the metallic taste of blood coats his tongue, the way the smell of sulphur, rotted and vile, fills his nostrils. Sweat gathers at the nape of his neck, damp and hot.
He's burning again. His skin prickles and burns, engulfed in unforgiving flames, licking up his arms and curling around his fingers; it feels as if liquid magma is burning through his veins, melting his flesh and skin as it caves into his charred bones. His stomach rumbles with a hunger that is both his own and not his - it's an awful gnawing sensation deep within his stomach, a hunger that longs to consume; to snatch up the nearest body - breathing, alive and thrumming with life; intoxicating - to drink in deep the fear of others as he peels away skin and delicate flesh from bones. He imagines himself with thousands of mouths, little and gaping and filled with sharp teeth, attached to his body by bleeding veins. All of them endlessly hungry, endlessly craving fear and flesh. A sickening - tantalizing - vision flashes across his vision, an allure of spilled organs coating the forest floor.
Except - the hunger is not his own, is it? It is not him. It's that thing, the thing that lurks unbidden within the underworld far below, a hungry, writhing mass of sinew and organs, a heap of wet flesh and oozing eyes.
We are the same thing.
He closes his eyes, digs his teeth into the soft inside of his cheek. Iron floods his mouth; it is beckoningly sweet, and his mouth waters. It is not the familiar onset of bile rising, but rather eagerness for more. He feels sick.
He is Andrew, he reminds himself. A Guide, existence contrived to assist the Hero.
He is the Wall of Flesh. He is a guardian. He is ruthless. He is ever-hungry, and ever-angry.
He takes deep breaths, and lets the scent of fragrant wildflowers and damp moss fill his senses instead. He focuses only on the gentle rustling of green leaves overhead, the feel of soft grass beneath his feet. Anything but the burning agony. If he focuses hard enough, he can hear the faint trickle of a distant stream, the familiar squelching of a gelatinous slime hopping through the forest. It's easier this way.
Or, at the very least, he can tell himself that it is.
Overhead, the afternoon sun has never felt more scorching on his skin. He finally looks down, and grimaces as he's greeted with a sight not unexpected: his arms, reddened and blistered. They sting, agonizing, the soft breeze doing nothing to nullify the pain.
Another pinprick in his mind flares up, brief but insistent, and he lets his mind connect to the earth. His eyes become the very ground and sky of the world, and he is the world. A core. And deep within its fiery depths, he feels a nearly imperceptible tug.
Someone is here…
In the Underworld, leagues below the surface of the world. He is overcome with a brief wave of confusion, then grim understanding. He opens his eyes, returns to his body.
It's the Hero. It can be no one else, he knows. He also knows that the Hero comes closer and closer each day to being ready to face whatever the unforgiving underworld will throw at them.
He knows the Hero must free this chained world.
Even if it must mean his sacrifice - it will mean the death of the Wall of Flesh. His own death.
Still, he can't help but smile, if not grimly. He hopes, and is steadfast sure, that the Hero will succeed.
After all, who was he if not the one to know what would happen at every turn? Wasn't that his purpose? To be the pit in which the universe, cruelly indifferent, tossed every tome of knowledge written down through the ages down? It is a prophecy long foretold, and one he has seen be fulfilled over countless eternities.
He is thankful that the moon does not hang above him now - he is not sure he can stomach seeing that celestial body, knowing what lies within its craterous mysteries. The sense of impending doom hung low over him like the dimness of an eclipse.
His arms hurt. It's nothing new.
His death will be the same. He has died a thousand deaths, and will die a thousand more. Such is the very fragility of men, the folly and transience of morality. A dull, unforgiving inertia. The very nature of his curse, his existence. He will experience a darkness, a time in an intangible void beyond the reaches of his sight. Only a deep sense of terror, and a voracious hunger.
And then he will awaken anew in the forest once more, grass soft as always beneath his body, sun bright above his head.
His purpose never wavers, never changes.
His flesh writhes, pulses beneath his burned skin. The Spirits of the world, of Light and Dark, are eager to be freed. Their usually soft murmurs, easily intrinsic enough to be little more than a background hum on a poor day, turn to raucous shrieks and wails. They make his ears ring.
He cannot let himself crack. Spirits such as those are impatient, restless. If he is to let his guard down for even a moment, they will spill through the cracks like a river pouring from a broken dam.
He doesn't hear the call of a bluejay, perched in a tree above him. The wailing reaches a crescendo, and the world goes dark.
-------
He winces as Holly tightens his bandages, a touch rougher than a nurse perhaps ought to be. Despite her callous countenance and general air of irritation and vexation, she is good at what she does, and refuses to deny anyone of any needed medical attention. Even him, who finds himself at her doorstep for the second time that week.
Andrew isn't blind to the fact that she is particularly irritated with him, from the way her eye twitches when he knocks on her door and the way she impatiently ushers him inside to sit on a makeshift medical bed.
She's silent while she works, and he is thankful that she does not point out the bags under his eyes that are darker than usual, the lacklusterness of energy. He's exhausted, and it shows.
"How many times a week must one come in with such severe burns? Seriously, Andrew." Her tone isn't exactly gentle. She gives her work a once-over, then sets his arm down gently. She looks down at him, green eyes steely. "It's quite honestly concerning."
Andrew forces a small grin, attempting to soothe the way his heartbeat begins to pick up. "Ah, you know me."
He receives a flat look. "No. I don't."
He doesn't tell her that she's more right than she could possibly know.
The silence settles like soft snow over them again before Holly gives him a cynical look, tapping his gauze-wrapped arm. "These are lava burns, Andrew, and I think we both know that."
He does. But his silence tells her all she needs to know.
She pauses, then shakes her head with a quiet sigh. She begins to pack away the medical kit she'd use to treat him, not facing him.
"Listen, I'm not going to pry into your life. I don't know if you're running off to the underworld, or what, but I do know that this," she gestures to him, "is not normal."
"I... I know. I'm sorry," he mutters quietly. She doesn't respond, just gives him another look. She's trying to see something inside of him, he knows.
She won't find it.
"Just be careful. You got that? You're going to end up in more trouble than you can handle one of these days. Now," She places her hands on her hips, expression just shy of an icy glare. "Get out of my office. I'd much prefer for my next patient to not be you again."
-------
Much later, when soft lavender paints the evening skies, and the twinkle of stars begin to dot the heavens above, he feels a shiver go down his spine, a roil of nausea through his stomach.
He feels the familiarity of vertigo, feeling suspended in the air for moments that stretch into eternity. It's come countless times, yet never without a fleeting moment of sheer terror.
He thinks of the Hero, as his mind fades into itself.
I'm sorry to have to hurt you.
And then - he collapses. He feels burning agony, and then nothing at all. He does not exist in such a body any longer, no longer tethered by pain and flesh. He is no longer Andrew.
By tomorrow morning, he'll be someone else. And one day, Andrew once more.
He is the Wall of Flesh, and he is vicious. It's almost freeing, a personal catharsis.
He feasts.