"You've gotten too fat for it", he pronounces under his breath, but starts the slow crawl to the bed before Griffith can retaliate with hisses and kicks, the typical fare of a child caught out and held. They can both weather through Griffith's whims, but sorcery is a different brand of hardship their skins have only tasted once profusely, like blades and sickness. They may well not live to tell the tale of futile experimentation.

One knee sits the edge of the bed, propped heavily on the covers. Then the next. He climbs over Griffith, hovering above him, never caging in a man who has hated all those who would deprive him of luxury or freedom — both, represented neatly in space. But he looms and he watches, laughter a slip of air from cross lips, even as he dips his head in to push their foreheads together. Hello, you stupid, unbelievably reckless mule.

"When you're the end of us, remember I told you so."