(the ghoul) sleep
The dead do not sleep, neither do they dream, but he does both tonight. (She would disapprove, but She is not here.)
The dreams shift restlessly, scenes appearing and then receding into the far reaches of what's left of his mind. Sometimes they emerge later, blackened and twisted as if by fire. He's reasonably certain at least some of them are memories, but when he tries to grasp at them they slip away again, reality and unreality dancing hand in hand.
He's on a mountain, icy wind whipping at his face, a thousand shards of glass piercing his lungs each time he breathes. Then the mountain lurches, and he's falling, plummeting into empty space. Not quite empty--there's snow far below, growing nearer. He crashes into it face first, and when he clambers to his feet he's standing on a rocky, grass-covered hill. He can see the sparkle of the sun reflecting off the sea, and hear the gulls calling. The sound is sharp and sudden, as if all that came before was silence.
The ships in the harbor, the high weathered walls, the central keep--he knows this place. Sure as there's stone beneath his feet, he's home. There's a name on his tongue, and he can nearly taste it, but it dissolves into the wind as he opens his mouth. Already the vision is fading, called away to be replaced by another. He looks down and catches a glimpse of sturdy, well-made boots before he's whisked away again.
As he sinks deeper into sleep, the scenes become more lurid and fantastical. He recognizes these, and they call to the hunger locked inside his belly, nearly waking him. He clings tighter to the dreams, sating his hunger on ghosts and memory.
In life, such nightmares would have set him tossing and turning all through the night and on past morning, but the ghoul does not move. It does not move when She returns, boots striking harsh notes against the storeroom floor, nor when she releases the rabbit from its cage, waking it and placing it around her neck.
She stands watching the ghoul, waiting. By the time murky day replaces blackness, expectation has turned to hesitation. The rabbit squirms, eager to be off.
I am responsible.
"Rise," she commands, and it is with no small feeling of relief that she watches bone and rotted flesh begin to move, stiffly, until the ghoul stands before her. She can feel its hunger, how its life-- unlife-- flickers, dangerously close to burning out. It makes no move to leave.
Uncertainty rises in her a second time, but she cuts it off, nodding to the door. "Acceptable. You may go now. Feed well, and return to me within the hour."
Only once it has gone does she wonder whether she ought to feel regret, or pride.