As Bellamont tastes his own blood, he wonders what his mother would think of him. Stripped naked, hung by his ankles, being flayed alive by the very people he so craved to destroy. No, not to destroy - destruction would be far too merciful. He wants them to suffer. Wants to watch them scream for their mother as he does his, wants to brandish their beloved matron's head above them as they beg for mercy. But now, it will never happen. And amongst the sweeping cloaks and wicked, glinting blades around him he catches sight of his face. He mouths his name, even as his tendons begin to rip under the pressure of his weight, suspended. Lachance.
Funny, how little he has changed in so many years. The same thin lips, curved in a smirk, jaw set and dark eyes relishing the sight of him. Older, more chiseled, but otherwise the same face he saw smiling sweetly after lopping off his mother's head. The sound was unforgettable - like a bone being cracked and spitting marrow, gasping for breath. But bones don't breathe. Bellamont smiles at this thought - soon, neither shall he. Death is all he can hope for.
He sees Arquen, grinning as blood drips down her chin, her teeth sinking into some bloody hunk of meat pulled from his guts. He wonders what he tastes like before screaming as his hair is pulled from his skull. The taste of his mother's cheek goes sour in his mouth as he writhes, knowing that she will never forgive him for dying without vengeance. She was so pure, so gentle, and he has failed her as a son.
They think he cries from pain, but it is not so. He cries for purity and innocence. He doesn't cry for himself, but for the little boy who saw his mother's head fall with a crack to the ground before he could grow stubble. They are different people, though they look so much alike - wide-eyed, dark-haired, both carrying the air of a beaten dog. Both silent, too. He never saw much use in words. Lachance always had - using his silver tongue to beguile and befriend, to charm as though he were the master rather than the snake.
At last the fraying rope snaps, and he falls. He cannot stop the scream that rips through his tightened throat as cold stone and grit slide under his raw skin, as he realizes how much blood he has lost. His mother bled through the floor, dripping into the basement. He wonders if he will do the same as something slides down his belly and groin, cutting delicate nerves. He doesn't need to know what they are doing to him. He, too, would have humiliated them so. He sees J'ghasta, preferring wine to blood, and croaks something at the Khajit as a blood bubble pops from his split lips. With a grin the cat raises his goblet, drinking to his Silencer's death.
He realizes with little surprise that someone is hacking away his toes. No art to it, no delicacy. He was so much more poetic with his victims. He wasn't a sadist, no, he was a pure bringer of death. He would comfort his victims as they gurgled, show them the beauty in the streaks of their blood against his walls. And Maria. Sweet, dear Maria, he would always treasure. He could pretend. Yes, that is what he will do. He will pretend she never said those horrible things about his darling mother. He will pretend they are married, that his mother lives and her eyes glimmer with pride as she lifts they sweet grandchild they've given her.
As the world mercifully crumples, he wonders what Maria is making for dinner.