shame on us // doomed from the start // god have mercy on our dirty little hearts
The thing is that what's behind the object is what's at stake, and St. John may have absolute clarity of purpose when given provided with direction, but underneath all that fire and bravado is the knowledge that it will never really be his, what the little shark-head represents.
St. John knows this. He always has, although he rarely allows himself to think about it, and so it doesn't occur to him that it should be any more important tonight. Tonight is just a warmish April night in Hell. And he is just like he has been every other night since he got here, all thin shoulders and floppy hair and casual, cruel grace of movement, walking from the Inn to the library.
Later, if he let himself think about it, he'd realize they moved like him. So it's better that he won't, not really. There's a sound like leaves rustling, if leaves were made of metal and glass - and there's a little girl. This isn't the kind of thing to get St. John, he'd just as soon pretend there were no children in the world.
...and since it ended, there haven't been any in Hell, either. When he takes a step closer and she looks up, he knows. There still aren't.
There still aren't and he can't stop looking; he's drowning in mercury and he's not scared. He should be - he knows somehow, he should be scared to his fucking bones - but he's not, he's still and quiet and listening to silver fill the space behind his eyes. She steps, floats toward him and he tilts his head down to her and she rips his throat out.
Or that's what it feels like - her teeth are blunted, snarled, like they were made to tear rather than slice. He's stumbling backwards and he can feel the blood running, pooling in his collarbone and he can feel her eyes even though his are shut.
His head is vibrating, liquefying; his fingers are numb but they know that metal shape, they were made to fit around it. He knows that. He knows without it he disappears. She swirls into ash, and the fact that it doesn't smell like burning meat is the best thing that's happened to him all night.