The Butcher's good eye was colder than his glass eye, which was embedded with the noble symbol of the American Eagle. Bill's icy blue gaze was now resting on the portrait of the only man that was ever worth anything. The sketch was darkened and yellowed with age and filth, but you could still make out the strong, handsome face, and the eyes that revealed his integrity. He was the only man Bill has ever pondered after he had struck him down.

Bill was seated at his table, alone but for the watchful eyes of Vallon, staring at him from the mantle. Outside, cursing and screaming could still be heard of the commonfolk that lived in the Five Points. The moon was full, cloud smeared across is gave it a ghostly effect in the quiet sky. But it wasn't the moon that kept Bill awake. Bill could never sleep much. He had to sleep with one eye open, and he never cared for sleeping. Life was too wasted with sleep. A man that slept was a man that lacked control of his own body.

Bill's knives glinted from the flickering candlelight on the table beside his rough hands. He had countless numbers of them, but he kept track of his knives like they were his children. Some of them were stained with pig's blood, some with the blood of a human. Bill tore his eyes away from Vallon and slowly reached down held the blade of a cerated knife in his right hand. Rage settled in the pit of Bill's stomach. His eye twitched as he held the knife. A knife was just a tool to him. A tool to carve out the guts of a pig, or when the time came, the guts of the enemy.

He lifted his gaze once again to rest on the portrait on the mantle. Bill stared at Vallon's dead eyes. He was a more noble man than him, Bill knew. More honorable. He had fought for his people, and what had Bill done? He had struck him down the thrust of a knife. His young son had lain with him as the last breath left his body.

As Bill stared, he was unconsciously squeezing the blade of the knife in the clench of his fist. A row of blood, diagonally across his palm, began to fill his hand. Bill had noticed the pain, but though his lips curled and his yellow teeth clenched together with agony; he only squeezed harder, the sharp blade digging deeper into the flesh.

Bill had damned Vallon's tribe. He had brought strong men, warriors. Many men went down that day, but none worth remembering except the Priest. The snow was mixed with blood.

Bill honestly hated the Irish. They were nothing but a waste of human flesh and blood, unworthy of the right to live in the fine country of America. If Bill had had his way, every Irish man, woman and child would be hung over a pit of fire, and when Bill gave his word, the ropes would be cut. Their screams would echo in the night. He would take their fucking heads and make them trophies, display them in the parlor. Bill chuckled at the thought. Every Irish bitch would die. Every one.

Except Vallon. There was a time when Bill thought of Vallon as his own brother, even if he was unaware. The Priest and the Butcher weren't so different, after all. They lived by the same principles. In honor. Loyalty to their blood and homeland. Would do anything for their people. Or against them.

Bill had been pondering this nearly every night for the last sixteen years.

Bill finally looked done to see blood trickling through the contours of his hand onto the table. The table was already stained with layers of the stuff. Bill growled from deep in his throat and opened his hand slowly, feeling the warm redness run between his fingers.

Outside, daybreak came.