Dead Plate Oneshots Eye For A Heart

Vincent Charbonneau lived alone in a tiny stone cottage at the edge of a village forgotten by time. His home, perched on the cusp of a thick forest, sat like an old relic among the whispering trees. The villagers would often come to him to marvel at the toys he crafted—wooden marionettes, delicate clockwork animals, and small mechanical wonders that moved with a life of their own. His hands, skilled and practiced, breathed life into what was otherwise lifeless.

But no matter how exquisite the toys were, no matter how much joy they brought to the village children, Vincent always returned to the same hollow home, the same cold bed, the same endless quiet.

Vincent was not fully human. His ancestors had once mingled with creatures of the forest—fair folk, it was said, with eyes of glass and voices like the rustling leaves. Vincent carried the weight of that lineage in his veins. His eyes were darker than pitch, his skin too pale to be of any living thing, and his hair, always falling into his face, framed the gauntness of his expression. His gifts for creation were unnatural, some whispered, but none dared voice it aloud. His work was too beloved to question.

Still, Vincent felt the distance. He always had.

One cold winter evening, as the fire crackled softly in the hearth, Vincent sat hunched over his workbench, carving yet another toy, yet another thing that would never speak to him, never understand him. His fingers traced over the delicate wood, whittling it down to form what would become a small marionette—a puppet, but more than just a toy. This time, he wanted something real. He wanted a companion. Something that would share his thoughts, his quiet days, his lonely nights. He wanted a friend, or more than a friend. Something that could love him, as broken as he was.

And so, he began to carve with a fervor that startled even himself. Each stroke of his knife gave form to something more than a toy. This puppet was different. It was slender and strong, with broad shoulders and fine limbs. The face was expressive, even in its stillness. Auburn curls were carved into its head, and two moles adorned the right cheek. Vincent fashioned clothes for the puppet, making it look almost human.

He named it **Rody**.

For days, Vincent spent every waking moment perfecting Rody. He would sit with it by the fire, whispering secrets to the lifeless thing. At night, he would dream of its voice, low and hesitant, but warm. He imagined its laughter, the feel of its wooden hand in his. In those dreams, Vincent wasn’t alone anymore. He wasn’t the strange toymaker that even the children seemed wary of when the light hit him just so.

But no matter how beautiful Rody was, no matter how perfect, it remained still. A husk of the love Vincent longed for.

One night, as Vincent stared into the puppet’s blank eyes, he wept. Tears stained the wood, but nothing changed. He was a master of crafting things with life, but he couldn’t create a soul.

And then, a voice—soft and melodic, but sharp as a knife—echoed through his cottage.

“I can give it life, you know,” the voice said.

Vincent froze, his head snapping toward the sound. In the dim light of the fire, a figure stood in the doorway. Cloaked in shadow, she wore a veil that obscured her face, but her eyes—her eyes gleamed with an unnatural brightness.

“A witch,” Vincent whispered.

She stepped forward, her movements fluid like smoke. “Loneliness is a powerful thing, Vincent Charbonneau. It eats at a man. It gnaws at the soul until there’s nothing left but a hollow shell.” She paused, her eyes falling to Rody. “But I can give you what you want. I can make him real.”

Vincent’s heart leaped into his throat. “How?”

The witch smiled beneath her veil, though there was no kindness in it. “Every gift requires a sacrifice. I will give him life in exchange for something of yours.”

“What do you want?” Vincent asked, desperate, already knowing he would pay whatever she asked.

“Your eye,” she said, without hesitation. “For a potion.”

Vincent recoiled at first. His eye? His vision was all he had left, the last link to the world that still remained somewhat familiar. But when his gaze flicked back to Rody, so still, so perfect—he hesitated no longer.

“Take it,” he whispered.

The witch stepped closer, pulling out a small, jagged dagger. Vincent didn’t flinch as she moved, her cold fingers brushing against his face. There was pain—sharp and blinding—but he barely registered it. His thoughts were on Rody, on what would come next. The witch held up his eye, now a glistening orb in her hand, and Vincent, for a brief moment, wondered if he had made a mistake.

With a whispered incantation, the witch poured something dark and shimmering into Rody’s wooden mouth. The marionette shuddered, its limbs twitching violently. Vincent held his breath, watching in both awe and terror as the puppet blinked once, then twice.

And then, Rody opened his eyes.

—

At first, Vincent was elated. Rody, his Rody, now moved with the grace of a man. He walked, spoke, laughed—his voice as rich and hesitant as Vincent had imagined. For the first time in his life, Vincent wasn’t alone. He had someone who could understand him, someone who could fill the silence. Rody listened to him, shared meals with him, even though he had no need to eat.

But there was something wrong.

Whenever Rody looked at Vincent, his gaze faltered. His eyes always seemed to drift to the side, never meeting Vincent’s missing eye. The hollow socket was hard to look at.Vincent could feel Rody’s discomfort, feel the way his new companion tensed whenever he was too close.

At first, Vincent tried to brush it off. Rody was adjusting, after all. He was no longer just a puppet; he was learning how to live. But as the days passed, it became clear that something was wrong. Rody, though alive, never smiled in Vincent’s presence. He would look away when Vincent spoke, his face tightening whenever he caught sight of the patch.

The realization hit Vincent like a hammer. Rody found him monstrous. Even the creature he had given life to, the being he had sacrificed for, was repulsed by him.

The children from the village stopped visiting soon after. Word of Vincent’s missing eye spread quickly, and though no one dared say it to his face, he saw the way they looked at him—pity, fear, disgust. They no longer cared for his toys, no longer crowded around his shop window. His once-bustling cottage grew quieter and colder with every passing day.

Even Rody began to withdraw, spending hours alone by the fire, staring into the flames as though wishing for something, or someone, else.

Vincent’s heart ached. He had given everything to bring Rody to life, but in doing so, he had damned himself to a loneliness even deeper than before. Now, not only was he alone—he was also feared, shunned, a monster in his own home.

One night, as the fire flickered low and the wind howled outside, Vincent approached Rody. He knelt before him, his one good eye searching the puppet’s face for something—anything—that might tell him what to do.

“Rody,” Vincent whispered. “Am I so terrible to look at?”

Rody’s lips parted, but no words came. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Vincent’s gaze. Instead, his eyes stayed fixed on the floor, on anything but the man who had given him life.

Vincent felt the weight of his own misery crush down on him, heavier than it had ever been before. The witch had given him exactly what he had asked for—but not what he had truly needed.

He had a companion, yes. But not love. Never love.

The cottage, once filled with the sound of laughter and toys, now felt colder than it ever had before. Vincent was alone again, but this time, it was worse. Because now, even his own creation turned away from him.

Vincent remained kneeling before Rody, the weight of his despair pressing down like a heavy blanket. He had hoped for something more than just life in his creation. He had hoped for a bond, something warm to drive away the years of isolation. Instead, Rody’s silence cut through him like a knife.

“Rody,” Vincent murmured again, his voice trembling. “I did this for you. For us. Why won’t you look at me?”

Rody shifted in his chair, his wooden fingers flexing slightly, as if testing the weight of his own existence. He didn’t speak for a long while, and when he finally did, his voice was low, strained. “I didn’t ask for this.”

The words hit Vincent like a blow. His chest tightened, and for a moment, the room seemed to spin. The firelight flickered, casting long shadows across Rody’s face, making him seem even more distant, more unreachable.

“What do you mean?” Vincent asked, though he already knew the answer. The truth had been there, hiding beneath the surface of Rody’s expressions, in the way he flinched whenever Vincent came too close.

Rody’s eyes—those once-lifeless orbs that now shone with a dull, eerie glow—finally met Vincent’s gaze. But there was no warmth in them. No love. Only the cold, wooden mask of someone who had been thrust into a life they had never wanted.

“I was nothing,” Rody said, his tone devoid of emotion. “I didn’t need to be anything. But you… you took that from me. And now, I’m trapped in this—” He gestured at his body, at the finely carved wood that had once been his prison and was now his flesh. “—this thing. And I don’t know how to live in it.”

Vincent felt his throat tighten. He had never considered that. He had been so consumed by his own loneliness, his own desires, that he hadn’t thought about what it might mean for Rody. He had wanted to fill the emptiness in his life, but in doing so, he had cursed Rody with a hollow existence.

“I thought… I thought you would be happy,” Vincent whispered. His voice was barely audible, the words scraping out of him like a confession.

Rody’s gaze softened, but it was not out of pity or kindness. It was the look of someone who had seen too much, too quickly, and understood the cruelty of it all. “You wanted me to be real,” he said quietly. “But I wasn’t meant to be. I was never meant to feel this.”

Vincent’s single eye burned with unshed tears. He tried to reach out, but Rody flinched at the movement, drawing back as though the touch might hurt. Vincent’s hand hovered in the air between them, trembling, before he let it fall back to his side.

“And now,” Rody continued, “you’ve changed yourself for nothing. You’ve given up part of yourself for me, but I can’t give you what you want.”

Vincent’s heart ached with a deep, hollow pain. He had thought that sacrificing his eye would bring him closer to the one thing he had always craved: companionship, love, understanding. But it had only driven a wedge between them. Rody’s coldness, his reluctance to meet Vincent’s gaze, was worse than any loneliness he had known before. Now, the reminder of his failure was always there, living and breathing beside him.

“Do you hate me?” Vincent asked, his voice breaking.

Rody didn’t answer right away. He turned back to the fire, watching the flames dance and flicker in the hearth. For a long time, the only sound in the room was the crackling of burning wood.

“I don’t know what I feel,” Rody said at last. “But I know I don’t belong here. Not like this.”

Vincent couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The pain of his sacrifice, the realization that he had taken away Rody’s peace for his own selfish desires—it was all too much to bear.

Rody watched him cry, but there was no comfort in his expression, no empathy. He was not like Vincent, not really. He didn’t know how to feel the way a human might. He was a creation, pulled from the quiet, content void of nothingness and thrust into a world that demanded too much of him.

And Vincent knew, in that moment, that he had made a terrible mistake.

—

Days passed, but the gloom in the cottage only deepened. Vincent tried to continue his work, crafting toys for the children of the village, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore. His hands, once so steady and skilled, fumbled over the wood, and his creations came out wrong—lopsided, unfinished, grotesque. He could feel the fear in the eyes of the villagers whenever they came to his door. The children who had once adored his toys now whispered behind their parents’ skirts, their gazes drawn to the patch that hid his missing eye. They were afraid of him now, just like Rody was.

Rody rarely spoke. He wandered the cottage, his movements slow and methodical, as though still adjusting to the body he had been given. Sometimes, he would stand by the window, staring out at the village below, as if contemplating what lay beyond the life Vincent had forced upon him.

One evening, as the sky darkened and the first flakes of snow began to fall, Vincent found Rody standing outside, his wooden form silhouetted against the white landscape. His back was to Vincent, and for a moment, Vincent felt the overwhelming urge to reach out—to apologize, to beg for some kind of forgiveness, though he knew it would never come.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Vincent said softly, his breath visible in the cold air.

Rody didn’t turn around. His voice, when it came, was flat, emotionless. “It doesn’t matter what you meant.”

Vincent’s heart clenched. He stepped closer, the snow crunching beneath his boots. “I would give anything to fix it. To make things right.”

Rody remained still, the wind tugging at the loose strands of his carved hair. “You can’t,” he said simply. “You can’t undo what’s been done.”

Vincent felt the weight of those words press down on him, suffocating him. The witch had warned him of the cost, but he had been too blinded by his own desires to understand. Now, he was left with nothing but regret.

Rody turned, finally, to face him. His eyes—those wooden eyes that had once been lifeless—held no warmth. “I don’t belong here,” he repeated. “And you… you don’t belong with me.”

Vincent’s throat tightened. He knew what was coming, but it still broke him when Rody spoke the final words.

“I’m leaving.”

Vincent shook his head, his eye wide with desperation. “No. Please, Rody, don’t—”

But Rody had already begun to walk away, his wooden footsteps fading into the snow. Vincent watched him go, his heart shattering with every step. He wanted to chase after him, to beg him to stay, but he couldn’t move. He was frozen, paralyzed by his own failure.

The snow continued to fall, soft and relentless, covering the ground in a thick, white blanket. And Vincent, the lonely toymaker with one eye, was left standing alone in the cold, watching as the only thing he had ever loved disappeared into the distance.

Rody was gone.

And Vincent was alone again.

But this time, the silence was unbearable.