Douglásc's room was empty; the sound of a feast going on far below faintly echoed through the floor.

Sif's arm took a bit longer than usual to heal, and still pulsed with pain as it did so.

He hadn't thought that a person would be capable of something so terrible.

But he had been burnt at the stake by someone who had instructed Brannagh, by someone who had made Douglásc a slave and trapped Iudrige in a ring. So perhaps the world was still yet crueler than he thought. After a while, the music below faded away.

" You look awful," Douglásc told him as he came in; he was wobbly, and closed the door a bit too loud. " Where's Iudrige?"

So Sif told him.

He was quiet.

After a moment, he pressed his face into his hands.

He started crying, and Sif wasn't sure what to do. He had expected anger, for Douglásc to cuss or maybe throw something. He didn't really think that Iudrige and Douglásc liked each other that much, enough to warrant crying.

" Iudrige, I'm sorry," he wept, and he slumped across the bed next to Sif. "My lord, I'm sorry... I've tried to live by your will... Why am I the only one left, now? I've never been any good..."

Sif wasn't sure what to say to him. He felt a bit adverse to the idea of comforting Douglásc, of all people.

" It's all your fault," Douglásc cried. " If only Helna was here, Helna could fix it... But because of you, she gave up her threshold and she died..."

The insult washed over Sif like a light spring rain. He had already thought to himself, countless times before, that he'd rather be with Helna than Douglásc. It only made sense that the sentiment was shared.

He sat silently next to Douglásc for a while, as the man drunkenly cried himself to sleep.

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