He touches down her face. His fingers trace her jaw and brush over her eyelids. The purple under her eyes is dark and deep, the scars of fatigue that will never truly fade. Not any more at least.

It is difficult to say when and where he fell in love. This doesn’t make him comfortable, as he never forgets anything. Everything is committed to permanent memory that he can recall from in an instant. It is a part of who he is, what he sacrificed so much to obtain. He’ll sacrifice again now, and perhaps even more greatly than before.

Perhaps he forced himself to fall in love to achieve this. Was it possible to inflict such pain on someone who could no longer feel? He couldn’t recall any more the physicality of pain anyway; this was merely mental torment. … Merely.

He pulls on a thick leather glove, wrapping it tightly in place around his wrist. His fingers are too thin and smooth to hold a scalpel without the glove, even though his hands are perpetually steady. Nonetheless, he would take a breath if he had lungs left to breathe with at all.

The blade is sharp enough that even the lightest touch slices through her skin. The first incision is made just above her sternum and moves down to the bone. He guides it down, further and further, until he must rely on his steady hands to cut only the skin and part her down to her labia. He lifts his tool and moves his hand back up to cut along both collar bones, so her epidermis may be peeled back in two distinct triangles. It is not optimal for the next step, but necessary to maintain the shapes of the ritual.

He is focused. He must remain focused or the whole venture is pointless and she will be wasted. He tries to not recall her gentle demeanor and boundless curiosity. Her thirst for knowledge so thick and rich that even he wondered aloud to her if her fate would not be like his own. He throws asides the thoughts of her touches, laced with magic so he could feel-without-feeling them against his bones. But when he lifts her heart from her chest, he pauses briefly to recall the sound of her orgasm. He has long studied the human body; flesh or not, he could pleasure her well.

It is no matter now. He prepares the heart and continues. It is only when he is fully done that he presses her teeth against her forehead, the closest the lich can come to a kiss.

He loved her. He did. And in her youth was she was beautiful. Now, old and gone, he will make use of her skin.

The next day he stands in front of the mirror and smiles. It is good to have flesh again.

But he is a thorough man; simply feeling again is not rigorous enough of a test of this method. He flexes his hand and squeezes to feel the bite of his nails in his palm. Not thorough enough at all. He requires more intimate measurements. Preventative measures must be taken should his new body prove faulty.

He might need to fall in love.