The sound of the jet still echoed, like a viscous whisper:
shhhhlup... splatch... drip... drip...
She, still kneeling, stared at the goblin in horror.
The pus dripped down her face, but what truly paralyzed her was the sound — that broken moan, as if coming from a place deeper than physical pain.
"Aaaaargh!" she screamed, horrified, as the sticky liquid slid down her face and apron.
The acrid stench invaded her nostrils with brutality, like an invisible blade slicing from within.
She tried to suppress the reflex, but her body reacted before her mind: her eyes squeezed shut, her stomach clenched, and a sound escaped her throat —
"Khrrghh!" — a dry, desperate cough, as if trying to expel the contaminated air.
The warm, oily touch on her skin was worse.
It clung.
As if the liquid had a will of its own, gripping her with invisible, viscous fingers.
"God... this is disgusting," she thought, her face contorted.
She stepped back, her feet stumbling slightly on the wet floor, and began to breathe rapidly, like someone trying to escape from inside their own body.
"No... I can't stay with this on me," she murmured, nearly crying.
With both trembling hands, she grabbed a clean cloth, her fingers clutching it tightly as if the fabric were her only salvation.
She began scrubbing her arms, her neck, even her face — every trace of the viscous liquid had to disappear.
The sound of the cloth against her skin was harsh, rhythmic, almost violent:
shrrk... shrrk... shrrk...
Even with her muscles aching, she didn't stop.
Her obsession with cleanliness was stronger than the nausea, stronger than the fear.
She had to clean.
Every last remnant.
"If I leave even a little... just a little... it'll never come off," she thought, eyes wide.
And then she stopped.
Panting.
The soaked cloth in her hands.
The goblin still there, unmoving.
And she — clean, but not completely. Never again would she be.
Lysandra tore off her apron and tunic with a sharp gesture, her eyes brimming with disgust. Every fiber of fabric seemed to cling to her filthy body, and she shook her shoulders as if trying to rid herself of a repulsive insect. Within seconds, she was down to her undergarments, panting, her hands trembling.
She ran to the barrel of fresh water in the corner of the room, yanking the iron bucket with force. The sound of metal against lonely wood echoed as she leaned forward, ready to plunge her hands in. The anticipation of relief made her heart race.
"For all the gods... this shouldn't exist..." she gasped, nearly crying, as she plunged her hands into the icy water.
"I'm going to vomit. I swear I'm going to vomit."
The water struck her skin like a slap, but she didn't care.
She scrubbed her fingers furiously, as if she could erase the touch of the pus, the smell, the sound — as if she could erase the moment itself.
"Never again. I'll never touch a goblin again."
Just before the skin met the water, Lysandra raised her right hand, lit by the pale glow of the magical lamp. The clump of cold, filthy gelatinous liquid stuck between her fingers seemed to pulse, and she froze. The bucket fell to the floor with a metallic thud, her heart stopping as the reflection of her own impurity stared back at her.
Lysandra lifted her right hand, and the stench of the yellow slime clawed at her nostrils. It reeked of rotting Gruk and something fouler still — an odor so vile it felt like it could peel the lining from her lungs. The putrid fumes scraped at her soul, dredging up memories she'd buried deep. Her heart pounded, hammering against her ribs as if trying to escape her chest.
"AAAAAH! GROSS, NO! HELP!"
She flailed her arm frantically, trying to fling off the filth without even seeing the target of her revulsion. Every fiber of her being pulsed in agony, and her screams tore through the silence:
"OH GOD, OH GOD, I CAN'T TAKE THIS! CLEA – CLEANLINESS!"
Desperate, Lysandra dropped to her knees, her face twisted, her blackened nails digging into her own flesh as she fought the urge to rip her hand off. The sound of her despair echoed through the cold walls, proving that, for a moment, the filth had conquered even her will to go on.
Lysandra grabbed the bucket of fresh water and plunged both hands in, feeling the cold spread a tingling sensation that pushed the disgust away. She scrubbed her fingers firmly, twisting her wrist to loosen every hardened thread of pus. The murky liquid ran down her fingers, carrying that yellow crust away until the drops hit the stone floor with a wet sigh.
When she finally felt her skin clean, she raised her hands to her face, carefully rinsing her wrist and nails. Each movement brought relief, draining the nauseating tightness in her chest. When she finished, Lysandra lowered the bucket, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, letting the sound of air flowing in and out fill the silence — a moment of truce before resuming her care.
Lysandra blinked, returning to the present. Her body no longer trembled as much, and the cold water still trickled down her clean arms. When she lifted her gaze, she found Gruk staring at her, his eyes wet with pain, but carrying something unexpected: gratitude.
Gruk let out a sound — low, guttural, almost emotional:
"Guuuuu..."
She stopped.
Gruk slowly turned his face, his large, bulging eyes fixed on her.
Another sound, this time deeper:
"Gobu... bogu..."
Lysandra let a small smile form on her full lips, forgetting the horror for a moment, touched by a small and unprecedented spark of warmth.
"You're thanking me, aren't you?"
Gruk blinked slowly.
Then, with an almost moving effort, he raised one hand and touched his own chest.
"Gobu."
A thread of relief and complicity was born there, between the caregiver and the foul-smelling patient. And for the first time, Lysandra felt they weren't so far apart.
Is this what it feels like to share a moment with someone?
Lysandra held the light fabric of the white dress and slid it over her body with care. The contrast between the purity of the cloth and the dense chill of the room felt almost symbolic. She pulled the dress up to her hips, adjusted the simple neckline, and tied her hair into a quick bun, ready to resume her care.
Lifting her chin, she met Gruk's hesitant gaze. With a firm voice, she said, "I'm not done cleaning you. Come back here, please."
A soft sigh escaped her lips, and she murmured with compassion:
"Poor thing..."
Her hands hovered in the air, trembling. She reached for the apron once again, but this time she lingered. The memory of that hot, obscene weight in her grip returned — not soft like a slug, but thick, rigid, fitting snugly in the hollow of her palm. Slime-slick, irregular, and grotesque. It pulsed like something alive, something demanding.
She shuddered, then swallowed hard. The disgust was still there, but beneath it a strange compulsion. She wrapped the cloth in her hands and leaned closer.
The limb was still there, stretched out obscenely — an extra appendage, a "third leg," covered in hardened crusts and reeking jelly. The rough knobs and lumps beneath her grip gave it a grotesque charm, like a thing not meant for eyes. The tip, swollen and spongy from which threads of fetid yellow fluid still seeped, sticking to her cloth, her wrists. The closer she brought her face, the thicker the stench grew, metallic and acrid, curling in her throat.
Gruk groaned — a sound between agony and hunger — and the limb twitched in her grasp, spasming. His whole body responded, jerking in time with her touch, as if her cleaning were also awakening something else in him.
Lysandra's stomach tightened, bile rising, but she forced herself forward. She rubbed along the rigid shaft, peeling off hardened crusts, wringing out the foul pus with slow, deliberate strokes. The sounds filled the chamber:
splursh... shlick... squelch...
Each one clawed at her nerves.
"You're going to survive," she whispered hoarsely, her voice breaking. "Even if I throw up in the process."
With every press, more of the thick yellow discharge oozed out, coiling down her fingers like rotten honey. She kept her jaw clenched, her breath shallow, refusing to give the nausea power.
Gruk's eyes rolled, his guttural cries spilling out in raw, broken notes:
"Gruuuhhh... boguuhhh..."
He didn't know her words, but he knew her touch, the steady rhythm that drew poison from his body.
And for one dizzy, terrifying instant, Lysandra realized: she wasn't just healing him. She was feeding something inside him.
Something that liked it.