Scanlan helped himself to one of the sample glasses. They were just about right for someone his size, although by now he was accustomed to drinking from glasses suited to humans or elves (and consequently getting sloshed from it). This time he merely took a sip, and by the time Gilmore had asked him that question, Scanlan had forgotten he had tried the wine in the first place.
In another lifetime he would have grinned and lowered his voice to secret-keeping volumes, No one catches the Meat Man. But Gilmore deserved better than that. Scanlan had shared with Gilmore the loose story of how he had parted from his friends. How Scanlan had felt empty and hopeless after death. How some festering anger in him had broken free when his friends wouldn’t admit the most obvious truth-- that they didn’t need him.
He still smiled before speaking. Old habits were hard to break.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, shrugging. “Part of me is. I can’t imagine they want to see me again. I don’t really want to know what they think of me now.”
It was only a half-lie. Scanlan couldn’t count the number of times he changed his mind about wanting to see them. That was the trouble with being alone too much. He had to keep his own terrible company.
“I said some awful things,” he went on, gaze dropping to the gate stone as he spoke. “Things that weren’t true. I was selfish, but they had all gotten a turn already, so I took mine.”
He tipped the gate stone over, then had another sip of his drink. A dramatic pause followed.
“Potent. Sweet. Smooth.” He informed Gilmore suddenly, nodding as if he had never said a thing at all about the other's question. “The wine is alright too.” Now he was just being cheeky again. “Should we try another?”