"Thank Lorien!" Shantar called to no one, since no one could hear him, and he knew it.
"Lorien," Gershul's rebuttal was blunt. "Is dead."
"We've entered an age of reason, haven't we?" Skandra asked them as he strolled further into the depths of the prison. "I want to put a question to the two of you."
His cloak was battered, sewn together by unsteady hands that desired only completion and didn't realize that it could never be achieved with half-measures. Mud spattered his cloak, spattered his boots, and the fine Elvish clothing that he wore underneath was still half-soaked by the rain. Skandra could feel a chill coming on, so he began waving the torch in front of him, seeking to spread the warmth across the room. Dank and dark prisons were not known for their hospitality. He'd been in more than one, come to think of it, and this was no different. Only it was different. Boots clicked against stone as he finally arrived. Arrived at a chair. It was a madman's thing to see, so he looked at Leironuoth, then Aeotha, then the chair again. As if asking them silently if the chair was really there.
He'd never imagined a chair before, had he? Didn't want to die sitting down. Laying down.
The torch hung from a hook in the center of the corridor as he dropped into the chair.
"Praise Lorien," Skandra muttered when he didn't fall to the ground. "Praise be to Lorien. That's a very... interesting phrase, don't you think? As if all the praise in the world belonged to a goddess. Maybe it does. I don't see anyone here deserving of praise. How about you?"
"Here we go again," Shantar mumbled in return.
"That wasn't the question," Skandra went on as he had before, patting his pockets in search of a clove. "I'm getting to that. My friend died. The first time I ever saw your home and my friend died there, Leironuoth. Isn't that funny? The sort of thing blood feuds are made of, isn't it?"
Until this moment he hadn't realized what he wanted to say. And he wanted to make sure he was heard. Until this moment he hadn't realized that he wasn't just angry with himself for killing Ralus. He was angry with these two, who wanted something so badly that they were willing to ruin anyone's life to do it. Even take away that life if it came to that. Skandra wasn't an idealist. He didn't give a mother fuck about the bastard he'd laid out on the stairs. But there were some people in his life that were important enough to him. Important enough that he didn't want to see them hurt. Odd to think these two might have been on the list once upon a time. Maybe they still were, but right now, he couldn't see it. Right now he couldn't feel it.
All he felt was Ralus screaming in his bones.
Weary bones, certain that the end was near, but willing to go on for a little while longer.