Before he'll see it, he'll hear her quietly moving before him. And then a warm hand over his own, a gentle pressure there. If he opens his eyes then, Fever is crouched down before him, looking into his face from her position.

There are many things she thinks about him - she hasn't lost any of the dissatisfaction that comes from his actions, from imprisoning someone so. But even her ruined skull can see that it's far more complicated than black and white, messier than anything she ever heard about Cazador, than her circumstances before. He carries none of it with pride. He carries it because it is his. And he is showing her his wounds that fester still, that have not been able to knit themselves back together after all this time.

"Listen to me, Erik. Unless there were two of you - one to sentence the woman to her death, to wield the lash, to bestow upon you impossible compulsion, to create circumstances designed to perfectly destroy you, and the other to endure all that torture - you did not do this to yourself. There is no way that is so, in this entire plane or any other."

If he looks, there is an intensity in Fever's eyes - not a sorrow, but a flickering empathy. Something that understands.

"That death you dealt is yours. To pretend otherwise would be disgraceful. But equally so, I do not believe any power could have stopped it."

So, one carries it. One remembers.