Severin doesn't beg. He's not sure it won't make things worse. He complies, and he hopes that's the right decision. His eyes, though. His eyes are pleading.
The traitor doesn't beg. There's no point. It's not like Emperor Xiloscantun could hear him. He complies, defeated. His eyes are downcast and dull.
Doll, dear thing, doesn't beg. Why would it? No one has told it to. It does as it is told, it complies, because the path of least resistance is worn smooth and taking it is easy. Its eyes- it doesn't have those anymore. Doesn't need them.
Content warnings: implied/referenced past noncon and forced to hurt, emotional whump, self harm, self mutilation, burning, hand whump, blinding / eye whump.
(Yes this is the “Sev spirals and decides to burn his own eyes out” bit. First draft I wrote down earlier today when I was sad, but I'm happy with it, think I'll leave it be.)
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It's shaking- it can't stop shaking, and it's been... it doesn't know how long it's been. Not long enough. It's still shaking, and its eyes are squeezed shut but that doesn't help, doesn't erase what happened, can't make it forget, and it doesn't deserve to forget and it is alone and Leonia is alone and how is she supposed to manage when even it is struggling so?
It is alone, and shaking, cold and clammy all over, and it prays that they've let Leonia go home because it cannot stand the thought of her being alone and shaking too, she was never part of this, was never meant to be part of this, and neither it nor Canna could have guessed that this would be the result of their attempt to change things, and it's not fair, nothing ever is but this is worse than anything before- it knows, it knows that suffering is never deserved and that has always been a comfort but now it stings because why, why her? It wishes it had the power to go back, give the time to the serpent to eat and start over, but only Canna can do that and Canna is not here, it is alone, alone, alone and it doesn't know what to do.
Canna would know what to do.
And it- it knows Canna, doesn't it? Think. Think. What would Canna do, other than give the time away?
It is shaking, so Canna would hold it. Is cold, so she would warm it. It wraps its arms around itself, and that helps, a little. It cannot remember the last time it did so, the gesture unfamiliar and clumsy after so long without the ability to.
How to fix things?
It cannot reach Leonia right now. Cannot help her. So- focus on the self, first. What does it need?
It needs to not be guilty. Or to not feel guilty, because it cannot undo what was done but it knows that that wasn't really its fault, even if the guilt says otherwise. It had to obey, or Eshha would have done worse- he said so, and it could not risk the possibility of that being true.
It did what it had to but it still feels horrible for it, still cannot stop the tears it held back earlier, held back for her sake, but she is not here, it is alone, is crying, is shaking still.
Think.
Shaking isn't helping. Squeezing its eyes shut isn't helping. Being cold and alone isn't helping.
It forces its eyes open. Too bright. The world is always too bright because it has adjusted to years of darkness, but normally the cell is dark too-
They left the brazier lit.
It's right there, in the middle of the room, blazing bright and warm while it huddles cold in its corner when it could- it could.
It crawls closer. Could get up and walk, but no one is watching. It is alone, but for the brazier. The fire.
What would Canna do?
It reaches out and the fire doesn't respond, of course not, but it can feel the warmth and reaches further and-
It hurts. Ithurtsithurtsithurts and instinct screams for it to snatch its hand back, but Canna would say be still, and so it is still, patient, yes, good, until it remembers how to breathe without screaming.
It curls its numb-aching-burning fingers around something glowing, soft, beautiful, so beautiful and the idea comes to it then, because it likes beautiful things, is one itself, and like attracts like even though it can barely think through the pain, can barely see, but it doesn't want to see anyway, it wants to go back, back to when things were dark and warm and painful in a way that was easy. It wants to burn the irrational guilt away, it wants agony to confirm what it already knows- that it is the victim here, not the perpetrator, never the perpetrator.
It has never wanted to hurt anyone.
...Anyone else.
And it knows what it has to do. What it wants to do.
Its fingers don't move right anymore- it brings the numb hand to its face clumsily. There is no one here to move this doll's limbs for it, to pull its strings, so it has to do that itself, even though it's hard, even though it hurts.
It is shaking so badly it risks losing the glow if it waits any longer, so it doesn't, and the handful of shimmering heat makes contact with an eye.
It forgets, then, to hold its breath- it screams, flinches and falls back, face burning, sizzling as the eye is cooked- not burnt out, no, but it's enough, for the time being, it's enough. It doesn't think it can do anymore. It wants the pain to stop.
It curls up and shakes and sobs, tears flowing from one eye only, the other burning, burning, but isn't that what it wanted? There is no room for irrational emotions when pain is all-consuming. It can hardly think, and only the sheer amount of experience it has keeps it from falling apart completely, gives it a sliver of calm, of focus.
Good. Good so far. One more.
It doesn't want to anymore.
Irrelevant. This is for the best.
If Canna were here, she wouldn't hesitate. It wishes she were, but it knows it has to do this alone. It knows it can.
Its hand won't, though. Won't move, fingers stuck curled and burnt and useless. No matter- it has another.
Its breathing comes too fast and too shallow, leaves it dizzy as it reaches for the flames again, up because it is still half-curled on the floor, and plucks a burning ember from the base of them. Its nerves scream as its heart skips a beat, and it doesn't want to anymore, but it can and it will. An involuntarily jerk has it losing balance, sprawled on the floor, on its back, but it manages to hold on, sheer desperation holding the overwhelming urge to let go back for just a moment. It holds up its prize, a golden-red glow that blurs in its remaining eye.
Now.
It holds its breath, and brings the burning piece down. Its aim is- good enough. The cry it lets out echoes back to it in the cell, too loud, but it couldn't- can't -help it, this is worse than the last, worse than anything- that can't be true- is it?- it doesn't matter.
