[ Once, as the hateful Balladeer, he had learned from Dottore ways to cause pain—to torture, for information (and honestly, for his own sadistic pleasure, for he had reveled in others' pain). Among the little things about human anatomy he'd learned, that one could instantly kill a person by cutting their brain stem was a fact he never thought he would make use of until now. But he's glad he knows it, because he does not want to cause Kaveh more pain than necessary.
There is blood, still. It pours down the architect's back and stains the puppet's white sleeves—a symbol of his deed, the sin he carries now. Kaveh does not breathe. It is only the shell that is left in his arms. And in that shell is the heart he must carve out to progress this ghastly fairy tale.
The puppet's eyes flicker to Alhaitham for a moment, a dull ache in his chest. There is nothing he can do for Alhaitham, save completing this task as quickly as possible to allow them to reunite, hale and healthy.
He holds Kaveh in an embrace for just a beat longer, and then gently lays him down, reverent in his actions. Using an unsoiled part of his sleeve, he closes Kaveh's eyes. Once more, just once more, he will have to cut that heart out and hold it in his hands.
It's almost disgusting how practiced he feels in this, pulling aside the architect's shirt and cutting into still warm flesh with the dagger. He knows exactly where he must cut to reveal the heart, and all the while, his hands soak in cooling blood. It pools underneath Kaveh, the only part of him that is in motion. He is far, far too still.
He cuts through sinew and breaks bone. Blood and viscera engulf his hands. He searches for arteries and veins and slices them, releasing the heart from its confines. It's in his hands again—warm, still. Proof of Kaveh's life, and his death. The puppet draws in a quivering breath—one, two, one, two—and then he presses it against his chest, drawing it into his body.
It starts with a jolt, and he can feel its fierce beat, so strong that it might leap right back out of his chest. He keeps his hands on his chest, curling in on himself as it threatens to tear him apart. But he's not done. There is one more thing he must do.
He can't hide the evidence of his actions. But he does what he can, concealing slices into skin with fabric, stained bright red, and stands up. Blood drips off his sleeves, deafening in the silence of the room. Quietly, he walks over to the other man who remains in the room, stands so that the Scribe won't have to see Kaveh to look at him, and calls out to him. ]
no subject
There is blood, still. It pours down the architect's back and stains the puppet's white sleeves—a symbol of his deed, the sin he carries now. Kaveh does not breathe. It is only the shell that is left in his arms. And in that shell is the heart he must carve out to progress this ghastly fairy tale.
The puppet's eyes flicker to Alhaitham for a moment, a dull ache in his chest. There is nothing he can do for Alhaitham, save completing this task as quickly as possible to allow them to reunite, hale and healthy.
He holds Kaveh in an embrace for just a beat longer, and then gently lays him down, reverent in his actions. Using an unsoiled part of his sleeve, he closes Kaveh's eyes. Once more, just once more, he will have to cut that heart out and hold it in his hands.
It's almost disgusting how practiced he feels in this, pulling aside the architect's shirt and cutting into still warm flesh with the dagger. He knows exactly where he must cut to reveal the heart, and all the while, his hands soak in cooling blood. It pools underneath Kaveh, the only part of him that is in motion. He is far, far too still.
He cuts through sinew and breaks bone. Blood and viscera engulf his hands. He searches for arteries and veins and slices them, releasing the heart from its confines. It's in his hands again—warm, still. Proof of Kaveh's life, and his death. The puppet draws in a quivering breath—one, two, one, two—and then he presses it against his chest, drawing it into his body.
It starts with a jolt, and he can feel its fierce beat, so strong that it might leap right back out of his chest. He keeps his hands on his chest, curling in on himself as it threatens to tear him apart. But he's not done. There is one more thing he must do.
He can't hide the evidence of his actions. But he does what he can, concealing slices into skin with fabric, stained bright red, and stands up. Blood drips off his sleeves, deafening in the silence of the room. Quietly, he walks over to the other man who remains in the room, stands so that the Scribe won't have to see Kaveh to look at him, and calls out to him. ]
Alhaitham.