There were tears. Samandriel couldn't stop them, and even if he could he had no desire to. There was no shame in crying. Perhaps, he reasoned as they tracked slowly down his cheeks, crying was something he'd needed to do anyway.
"There wasn't one point where things went wrong. It was the subtle snapping of a tree branch, unnoticeable at first until most everything collapsed."
He sighed softly as Duma's power managed to finally knit a particularly gruesome blow to his Grace back together. He would be scarred for a long time, but at least scars meant healing.
"I was begging him to listen," he whispered, "Begging him to not take me back to Heaven where they'd carve me apart even more than this...Castiel reached for his blade instead. I fled here before he could kill me. It took... It took everything I had to get here and I spent...Two days? Maybe three in the care of a god who was Norse but Not Quite. One who knows nothing of angels and Grace, but put my vessel back together enough that I could recover some to be able to get here."
He'd thought, more than once before Duma said something on his post, that he would die in this room full of his vessel's things. It was better to die of his injuries here than watch a man try so hard to help and get nowhere.