TW: Blood, Rock Eating.
There is hunger. There is guilt. There is agony. This is what he gets for sleeping.
A dream. A nightmare. A flashback. Evanthe Sterling, eleven years old. The rocks in one hand, the metal pole in the other. A woman, a ordinary person who learned too much about what citizens could have and yet never will have. So she has to suffer. It's her fault, right? It's her fault for poking around where she shouldn't. It's her fault she got caught. Its her fault she lies strapped in this chair, jaw pried open, eyes full of terror, of fear, of desperation.
The first rock. Going down and down and down and down. Her screams fill the room. Even with the rock tearing its way through her throat she screams. There's blood. But it's not enough. She must atone.
The second rock, just as jagged. Just as painful. Just as unholy. Her screams continue to echo in the chambers and yet there are none to listen to her besides Evan. Evan will not show her mercy. The metal pole shoves both rocks down, down, down. Her tears and snot pour down her face, but Evan is used to it. Evan is unphased.
The final rock. The most smooth. Both a blessing and a curse, but by now her screams have dulled, blood pouring out of her mouth. But it's not a random person anymore.
It's Freedom.
Freedom, down in the chambers. Freedom, blood pouring out of their mouth. Freedom, his best friend. Freedom, trapped in agony they do not deserve. Yet Evan cannot stop. The final rock goes down and down and down and he cannot stop it. He cannot undo his mistakes.
The room fills with blood. A beauiful and petrifing red. He sees his own reflection, his stupid eye and stupid suit and stupid tophat. Then even that melts. Even that vanishes. Evan is not his own. He looks up, the walls themselves bleeding, the only dry spaces spelling the word Butcher. Evan looks up.
The Blood Eye. The one who watches. The God of Absense. Evan drops the pole. He tries to avert his gaze, looking back down at the pool of blood now at his waist. Yet all he sees is the Blood Eye. Talking. Taunting. Feasting.
"Look at yourself, Sterling. Look at your writhing, hideous form. Clutching onto any strings of free will even if to give yourself to another god. Hiding your own pathetic body under a suit. You weep for the ones you cannot save and the bodies that crawl at your feet. For you and I both know you were always a true Butcher. At least Simon felt remorse. But you. The same death following you. Following you to Dali as well. Such a poor thing. You were the last person to see them and they all know it's your fault she's gone. And they all look at you with the same pity. Do you really think that someone like Eira could forgive you? That Freedom could see the best in your form? You weep for them despite your sins. You are not worthy of such."
The blood comes up to his chest, to his shoulders, to his eye. He cannot move. He cannot escape. It is as if he is chained to the floor just as Freedom was strapped to the chair. There is no escape. There is no mercy. He jolts awake, heart racing and breath unsteady. Not for the first time, he curls into himself yearning for the ability to cry and yet no tears are shed.
