Keeper's instructions had been crystal fucking clear. Whoever was paying for this job didn't just want Griselda Kilkenny dead, they wanted her damn scared first, and an example after, and if Mildmay wondered what a smalltime madam had done to earn that kind of feeling, he sure as anything knew better than to ask. It wasn't none of his business. He was just Keeper's clockwork bear: wind him up and make him dance. 'Cept his 'dancing' meant somebody wound up dead.
He couldn't look at Corbie. Or at Keeper. And that only left watching as the scene played out same as it did in his memory and dreams. He watched as his younger self stepped outta the shadows silent as the death he was bringing when Griselda crossed the mouth of the alley, one strong, scarred hand wrapping 'round her throat to cut off any scream, the other pulling her back by her hair. He hadn't been worried about her fighting back, not even with her arms and legs still free. She was at least a couple septads into her second Great Septad, and struggling to breathe was taking up most of her focus.
He backed her into the nearest wall, using his body to pin her in place, and leaned in close to tell her exactly what he was gonna do to – how he was gonna bleed her slow, and then, once she was dead, how he was gonna leave her to be found – his voice low and harsh as he forced the words past his scar and the tiny voice in his head wondering why he was doing this. 'Sides, he knew why. 'Cause Keeper'd told him to, and maybe, if he did it, she would... she would... She would what? Love him? He couldn't even believe that, but he did it anyway.
The watcher's face remained as stony as ever, but the fever-flushed grey of illness lost even those bits of color, as he remembered the feel of the first cut, and the second, of Griselda's blood on his hands. "Stop it," he forced out, barely a rasp.
Re: Corbie & Mildmay (and Kolkhis)
He couldn't look at Corbie. Or at Keeper. And that only left watching as the scene played out same as it did in his memory and dreams. He watched as his younger self stepped outta the shadows silent as the death he was bringing when Griselda crossed the mouth of the alley, one strong, scarred hand wrapping 'round her throat to cut off any scream, the other pulling her back by her hair. He hadn't been worried about her fighting back, not even with her arms and legs still free. She was at least a couple septads into her second Great Septad, and struggling to breathe was taking up most of her focus.
He backed her into the nearest wall, using his body to pin her in place, and leaned in close to tell her exactly what he was gonna do to – how he was gonna bleed her slow, and then, once she was dead, how he was gonna leave her to be found – his voice low and harsh as he forced the words past his scar and the tiny voice in his head wondering why he was doing this. 'Sides, he knew why. 'Cause Keeper'd told him to, and maybe, if he did it, she would... she would... She would what? Love him? He couldn't even believe that, but he did it anyway.
The watcher's face remained as stony as ever, but the fever-flushed grey of illness lost even those bits of color, as he remembered the feel of the first cut, and the second, of Griselda's blood on his hands. "Stop it," he forced out, barely a rasp.