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Summary
Ajax had just floated, for Celestia knows how long, till he'd felt nothing but the barren and lifeless ground of Khaenri'ah beneath his feet. Ajax was nothing, yet he still managed to be the Tsaritsa's masterpiece, a work of art, refined and polished, never to be tainted by the blood of the unworthy. And it was all because of those murky waters that plagued his dreams.
Maybe that's what caused him to sit up in bed one night, gasping for air he didn't need, hands reaching for something to grab onto and stop his descent. But, he thinks, you've already suffered. You've already drowned. Yet, you deserve more of it. And as his vision was spotted, all he could think about is the pitiful expressions of those he killed, the undecipherable whines of hilichurls as he slammed his daggers through their chests, because those had once been people who are now cursed to roam these lands, born only to be killed and experimented on. And Ajax knew that better than anyone else.