Liraeth's concern was understandable, but Tenth's confidence never faltered. Eyes shining bright with stern, decisive stubbornness, he waited for the order like an outlaw waits for the guillotine. The other man was probably right - the idea was dangerous, unwise, even foolish - but deep down Tenth knew that he wouldn't be able to live with himself otherwise. As long as there was that sliver of hope to hold onto, they had to try.

It was gone as soon as the order was spoken. Everything faded - the sounds, the colors, the scents - leaving only a dull but painless urge to raise his right hand and bring it closer to the fire. Closer. He leaned forward, face blank, eyes half-dead. Closer still, with no hestitation and no pause, until the fire enveloped the hand completely. He felt nothing.

A small part of him protested. He needed to save his right hand, or he wouldn't be able to hold a sword. More than that, he needed to prove to Liraeth - and to himself - that he could disobey if he wanted to. The small, quivering, barely present part of his conscience he was beginning to recognize as himsslf proper was screaming in agony he couldn't feel, willing himself to pull back, waiting for the sweet relief of freedom. It did not come.

He could neither hear nor discern Liraeth's order to stop, but his curse-driven body still somehow knew to obey. The hand moved slowly, so slowly, deliberately, methodically, like the singed skin wasn't there. Aimlessly, still not feeling any pain, he cradled it to his chest and waited for... Something. A sharp noise that would cut through the haze. A spark of color that would draw his attention. A sensation that would make him feel like he was still among the living. Anything.

Nothing.

He stood up, unsteady, color gone from his face in the seconds it took him to catch himself on a nearby tree trunk as he swayed. It was only a few steps to the river, a monumental effort, and then he dropped to his knees, sticking his hand into the cold stream, watching the angry red shift into soothed pink, struggling to remember how it got there.

He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice wouldn't obey him. Pale, trembling lips wouldn't move to form words. Tired, unfocused eyes wouldn't look where he wanted them to, wouldn't catch what he wanted to see. The water seemed to still under his touch - he knew it should've been moving, flowing through his fingers, but he couldn't feel it. It wasn't him who eventually forced the exhausted, stiff, injured body to stand up and return to the campfire, sitting down heavily in front of what should've been - at least in the moment - scaring him too much to approach. It wasn't him who raised his head, staring emptily somewhere past Liraeth, into a great nothing. It couldn't have been him, because he wasn't there.

Brown eyes searched for blue-green ones in a brief moment of recognition. A quiet whine was drawn from his throat, cutting off abruptly as the curse once again took over, waiting for another order. He wanted to apologize to Liraeth, to warn him not to give another command, to beg him - then, with everything gone, with no sounds, shapes, or feelings to hold onto, he wanted nothing. His liege was right to call him "Tenth". Whatever sat by the fire, pain unnoticed, shivers forgotten, was only an empty husk of a person.