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Consumption. That was the only way Hob could describe what being near Rue had put him through.
He was, had been for his entire career, a diligent man, defined by himself and others as carrying through his actions with a considered reason and unwavering devotion to cause, the steady, unchaotic nature of which set his peers of the Goblin Court at frequent unease. He did what he should. He thought only of the mission. Allowing his superiors to justify the means, Hob pursued, with frightening intensity, always, always the ends. And so perhaps what Delloso de la Rue had truly done to him was awaken that long-sleeping goblin that had, for so long, trembled under the heavy boot of his loyalty.
Hob’s role in the Goblin Court’s attendance of the Bloom was unmistakable. As a soldier, he was meant to investigate and to rectify, to sniff out guilt and to use his storied claws to draw vengeance from the shed blood of nobility. Captain Hob had not come to the Bloom to socialize. He was hardly meant to be part of anything at all, indeed, hardly meant to be anything of his own to begin with. But then Rue had come along, and it had taken so precious little.
And he was talking back. And he was forgetting his station. And he was grabbing what he could. And he was watching. And he was hardly breathing. And he was stumbling in the sand. And he was speaking. And he was being listened to. And he could scarcely find the words. And something was teeming below his skin. And something was curling around his heart. And something was becoming ferociously protective within his gut. And he was falling. And he was breaking. And he was becoming something, something tender, and small, and wanting. And he was watching. And he was wanting.
It was an immense, otherworldly thing that gripped him in its talons, a piercing, unremitting pain beyond body. His mind was being eaten. He was sure of it. That was why he failed to listen to his orders. Why the bare scent of peonies had made him pause. Why, standing in the tea ceremony with a potion of detect thoughts in his hand, he had, for a moment, forgotten what he came for. Why, listening to Rue’s words in the dusty hug of the derelict tailor, he had not raised a hand against them. He had wanted.
For all his life, he had been hungry. On the first day of the Bloom, he had eaten something precious in the woods, trying beyond logic to keep it safe and close, to appease the thing that had clawed at him since time before time. Foolishly, he had assumed it would bring him satisfaction. But unseen within the deep pit of his stomach, the precious thing had begun to grow in a way that could not be satisfied. Its tendrils wrapped around his spine, wove themselves into the lithe sinew of his arms, seeped into the saliva that coated his teeth and tongue. He wanted. Still, he wanted.
Eating the feather had been the desperate, furtive act of a man who did not know himself beyond the station of his rank. It had lacked reason; pure, unmitigated sentiment had driven him. Standing before Delloso de la Rue, the very creature that consumed him, Captain Hob - Knickolas - was not the same man. And so, when the hunger rose within him again, he did not move beyond reason. He had taken the hunger within his mind and studied it for a moment, before allowing it to guide his hand with the firm intention of a man who knew his next meal was coming.
Study the fresh, wet ink. I see your name, Fold the soft paper against itself. and it is precious to me. Take their gaze in his. I know that you see this, Move slowly. and I want you to. Open his mouth. There is something deep within me, Place it on his tongue. and it wants to keep you close. Close his mouth. It will have no other. Swallow. It never will.
Behind the crackle of the fireworks, Hob could hear Rue's soft gasp, and the long muscles of his arms burned. He wanted to eat the sound.