Schwann stares at his reflection, unblinking. The blue-green eyes that stare back at him remind him of nothing so much as a corpse's - hollow and clouded and dead.
He should be feeling something, he knows. What, exactly, that something might be, though, he can't quite bring to mind.
His cold eyes flick to the spot of dried blood on his right cheek. He's washed his hands, cleansed his sword - and yet, this one stain has escaped his otherwise thorough attentions.
His expression changes not one hair as he raises a hand, placing the tips of his first two fingers carefully over the red spot.
He remembers the heft and swing of his blade; he remembers the screams. His sword has thirsted that night, has drunk deeply of the blood of the Commandant's enemies.
He puts his hand down; lets it hang limply by his side. Is he now nothing more than an assassin? Than a blade, to be wielded at the Commandant's whim?
Than a walking corpse, animated by this thing in his chest?
His expression still does not change, even as the tears begin to flow down his cheeks. All he can hear is the screaming, and all he can see is the blood - and all he can feel is the hideous stillness in his chest where once a heart had beaten.