The Rose and the Azalea - Chapter Fourteen

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    A curious form of art found detailed in Aldmer historical documents involves using magic to stretch out the death of a rose over as long a period of time as possible. It is recorded that several masters once made a red rose wilt over a century, and even the smallest change in texture could only be observed over a course of months.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

                    Azalea and I were drifting apart.

     

                    We still made love, of course. I had never needed that more. His body remained as light and soft and supple and temptingly frail as the day we’d first met, and his voice was sweeter than ever. When we were together, it didn’t seem like anything had changed.

     

                    Sometimes, though, when I caught him alone, I would see him staring into the distance, an eerie sort of melancholy in his eyes, his thoughts far too deep for my understanding. Other times, during quiet moments, I would find him gazing at me with an empty sadness, almost as if he was longing for something I could not give, and no matter how I pressed him he wouldn’t open up about it.

     

                    If only I had enough time to worry about that. I spent most of my waking hours outside the Manor now, coordinating the family’s every move in person. With S’hni and Rhansan both gone, I had to appoint temporary lieutenants to take care of their respective businesses. The men I had picked were the best of the lot and still just barely competent, and it seemed that I needed to hold their hands through everything. It was a special sort of frustration. Add to that the unknown enemy out there who appeared to be plotting the Flavanas’ demise – an enemy that my spies still couldn’t sniff out – and every day left me returning home feeling as if I was being crushed and drowned all at once.

     

                    When the date of Hrolka Iron-Tooth’s funeral came, I was almost relieved.

     

                    The day began early. I woke, played with Azalea with my fingers – he let out a few drowsy giggles as he squirmed – then got up and washed before giving my armour one last round of polish. I could see myself reflected in the Dwemer metal, all down to the tiny, disgusting white peach hairs on the corners of my mouth and my chin. I grimaced and went back into the bathroom to shave them off, knowing full well that they’d only grow back in a couple of days twice as rough and three times as obvious. I pulled on a clean set of shirt and trousers while Azalea rose and got dressed himself.

     

                    The outfit Edwin had picked out for him was modest and cleanly pressed, fit for a noble. Azalea had to sit in for a tailor, though, since his shoulders were quite a bit narrower and his hips a little wider than that of most men. His double-breasted suit jacket was fit tight, only emphasising his hourglass figure, and his coattails hung around his thighs like a skirt. His trousers were tucked at the shins into a pair of sleek leather boots.

     

                    I enjoyed the way he filled out his new suit, each subtle swell and curve. This wasn’t a bad change from his prostitute robes. If anything, it was even more enticing, the way it left everything to my imagination. And black actually fit him better than his usual flashy colours for some reason. I raped him with my eyes for a solid minute, and then we went down for breakfast.

     

                    The sky was still dark outside when we went down to the dining room, where the cook served us a sweet potato pottage and poached eggs. I dug in with gusto, while Azalea was more careful, handling his fork and spoon delicately, so as not to stain his clothes.

     

                    I hated the way we ate in silence. Every time I tried to bring up something to break the ice, Azalea gave me a strange little smile that left me dumbstruck at how beautiful and sad it was, and then I’d forget what I was about to say entirely.

     

                    We ended up not saying anything to each other the entire morning until we were to set off from Flavana Manor towards Little Whiterun.

     

                    ‘Azalea,’ I said hesitantly as we made our way out of the mansion. My helmet muffled my voice; I’d already put my armour on. ‘Is everything all right?’

     

                    He stopped with one foot inside the coach and turned to look at me. That smile again. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Everything’s just fine.’

     

                    It wouldn’t do to arrive splattered with mud, so the coachman drove slowly, taking the large central roads that were more worn-down than the ones we usually used to avoid dirtying the carriage. We took almost two hours to reach Little Whiterun.

     

                    The Nord quarter was less busy than usual. Most of the people who worked there were either gang members or related to the Nord criminal families, and about half were Iron-Tooths. All of them had gone to pay their respects at the ceremony. I wondered if Hrolka was going to be cremated or buried. From what I heard, modern Nords did both.

     

                    We arrived at the funeral hall a few minutes before the ceremony began. Fjorn was greeting everyone at the door. Someone had tidied him up the best they could, but I could tell even before stepping fully out of my coach that the man was dead drunk. His eyes were shot through with red and jaundiced yellow, and his hands were shaking. His suit’s collar was wet with traces of mead, and his beard was even worse. I frowned with disapproval. At his own wife’s wake? No matter how much he needed the alcohol to cope, there had to be a line.

     

                    ‘Lady Flavana,’ the Nord crime boss said as he turned to me with a pronounced stagger. ‘Your presence… honours me and mine more than I-’

     

                    ‘Mister Fjorn,’ I interrupted sternly, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘Pull yourself together; you still have an entire day to get through. Be strong – for your Hrolka.’

     

                    The red in Fjorn’s eyes swelled until I could no longer make out his pupils. ‘Get your hands off me, woman,’ he slurred, shoving me off. In an instant Edwin and one of Fjorn’s bodyguards stepped forward, separating us. ‘And don’t you mention my wife,’ he yelled, swaying wildly.

     

                    The people around the hall became dead quiet, staring fearfully.

     

                    ‘Apologies, my lady,’ Fjorn’s bodyguard murmured, leaning close. ‘He’s gone through three barrels over last night.’

     

                    ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said, gathering my cloak around me and standing straight. Someone had to show a little dignity around here, and it may as well be me. ‘I understand completely. No harm done. Come on, Edwin.’

     

                    The hall was larger than a regular temple of Arkay, and had a blank shelf set into the back wall meant for accommodating religious idols from most any sect. Hrolka Iron-Tooth was lying in an open casket. The case was an elaborate one, walnut and gold bands, and many people had already thrown in flowers, so many that Hrolka almost looked as if she was drowning. The Nord woman had died small – pitifully small. Her arms, folded on her chest, were no thicker than broom handles.

     

                    Our seats were two rows behind the front. About what I expected. I lowered a red rose gently into the casket, then sat down alongside Edwin and a small group of Flavana lieutenants I’d brought along. With a sudden pang, I felt the absence of Rhansan and S’hni more acutely than ever. I’d worked with the two of them for all of my adult life, and now…

     

                    Edwin, Denholm and I – we’re the last of the old guard.

     

                    I’m only nineteen.

     

                    Gods help me, I’m only nineteen.

     

                    Immersed in thoughts that were beginning to drive me into a panic, I barely noticed that the doors to the funeral hall had closed, and Edwin had to prod me to stand along with the rest of the attendees.

     

                    Fjorn’s speech was intelligible. He only managed a few syllables that weren’t completely distorted, and his Nord accent mangled even those. The priest standing next to him was trying his best not to look scandalised and failing spectacularly. His assistants simply looked afraid. I wondered what they thought of the whole affair. It wasn’t every day that one had to oversee the funeral of a crime lord’s wife.

     

                    There was an air of relief when Fjorn finally stepped down from the dais. I thought he was going to start blubbering right there, but it seemed that he still had enough self-control to keep himself from behaving like a complete infant. I had never been more grateful for my heaume. The man was a wreck and I was sure that thought was showing on my face.

     

                    Every single speech that followed Fjorn’s seemed elegant and thoughtful in comparison. Thank goodness he went first, I sighed, a sentiment likely shared by the priest. Fjorn sat down heavily in front of his wife, almost snapping the legs of his chair. He stared blankly at Hrolka’s equally blank face, then grabbed a bottle from one of his men and guzzled it. No one said a word.

     

                    This went on until early in the afternoon. We did not break for lunch, nor did Fjorn seem like he needed any sustenance other than whatever spiced mead he was drinking. It stank. He took a long draught of it every time someone got up to the speaker’s podium to give a speech about how absolutely wonderful of a human being Hrolka Iron-Tooth had been, and by the time the wake ended at five he needed two of his bodyguards to help him walk.

     

                    Hrolka’s tomb was on a hill all on its own. It was a long way from the funeral hall, almost a full mile, and many attendees mounted horses. I felt my lips tighten. Fat bastards. Do her the respect of walking with her. At least no one had the audacity to get into carriages. Then I looked at Fjorn and felt my lips tighten even more. He couldn’t even stand straight enough to bear his wife’s casket. One of his lieutenants had to fill in for him. What a fine display of Nord honour.

     

                    As for the Flavanas? We marched. Through the uneven streets and rocky roads, all the way uphill, in full armour, our heads and backs rigid. Even in such a morbid occasion, I was glad everyone got to see the difference between us and the rest of the gangs.

     

                    We reached the tomb. It was lavish, fit for a queen, a massive mausoleum larger than most regular houses enclosing the interment chamber. The casket bearers – Fjorn had finally found enough balance to put a single hand on one of the rungs – set Hrolka down in the very middle, around idols and shrines of the Eight. The priest of Arkay spoke a few words, then lit the incense offerings on the shrines, making a cloud of fragrant smoke around Hrolka’s body.

     

                    Fjorn knelt down in front of the casket, where his wife slept. I felt a swell of pity and reached out to Azalea, taking his hand and squeezing it.

     

                    Some sobriety entered Fjorn’s eyes, and he heaved a great, shuddering sigh.

     

                    ‘I will close the casket myself,’ he said thickly. ‘Thank you for coming. Now please… leave us to ourselves.’

     

                    And so the wake adjourned. One by one the attendees left, and I did too, still clasping Azalea’s hand. The priest of Arkay was the last to leave the mausoleum. He closed the door lightly behind him, shutting Fjorn in, alone with Hrolka’s remains.

     

                    I led the Flavanas back down the hill, and then we dispersed, some of the lieutenants pulling off their helmets immediately as they headed back to their territories. I should have reprimanded them, but I really couldn’t blame them for wanting fresh air. The entire ordeal had been stifling.

     

                    My coach was stopped several streets away. Before we could get inside, though, a Khajiit male walked in front of me. Edwin blocked him immediately, a hand on the hilt of his sword, and the Khajiit raised his hands. He had a black spot above each of his eyes.

     

                    ‘This one means no harm – he comes bearing a message.’

     

                    ‘From?’ I said shortly. I was not in the mood for conversation.

     

                    ‘Master Iron-Tooth, madam.’

     

                    ‘Fjorn?’

     

                    ‘Yes, madam. He wishes for you to meet him back at the tomb, for he has buzinesz to dizcuss.’ That fucking cat voice. I thought S’hni was bad.

     

                    ‘I’ll be there,’ I said irritably. ‘Get out of my way.’

     

                    The cat promptly ran off. I smacked my palm against my helmet. ‘You know,’ I growled, ignoring the ringing. ‘Fjorn could have told us when we were next to him instead of sending a runner if he hadn’t been too drunk to string two sentences together.’

     

                    Edwin shrugged. We started back up the hill.

     

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                    The plan was a shrewd one, as expected of Bengakhi. Once I was done, I would no longer need Sabina Flavana.

     

                    I would no longer need Sabina Flavana.

     

                    I would no longer… need…

     

                    …that had stopped being true so many weeks ago, and I had never even made an effort to correct it. It was too late now.

     

                    I could only hope that my personal emotions would not compromise my execution.

     

                    Drown them; hold it down. My body is a tool, her attraction to me is a tool-

     

                    Me, too, myself. A tool. I only needed to be true to the village, I was only supposed to be true to the village, I can only be true to the village, and nothing else matters, no one else matters, no one else can possibly matter, no one else. No one else! No one else is supposed to-

     

                    She is asleep beside me right now. Our thighs are joined together, connected at the pelvis, tangled, skin on skin, flesh on flesh. I can sense the palpitations of her heart as she twists from her troubled dreams, I can hear the intake and expulsion of air from her lungs. I can feel her blood flow, visualise the workings of her internal organs. I cannot bear to think about which one I would target. Her legs are curling up, her pores are expanding, the muscles in her arms, strong, flexible, hard, soft. She is all around me. She is warmth.

     

                    So incredibly vital, even after-

     

                    Stop it! Just… stop it.

     

                    Meditation didn’t help. Mental drills didn’t help. Running over six centuries’ worth of books in my head didn’t help, and I could no longer hide my distraction. Sabina tried to talk to me over the course of the week, concerned, and I passed it off as a mood swing.

     

                    In a way I was relieved. Immensely relieved. After this week, I no longer needed to be troubled… I no longer had anything left to distract me from the village. I could be a shinobi in full once more.

     

                    But still, still-

     

                    Still the thought of no longer being able to see her again made me feel cold to my stomach. I barely had any control over my scent now, I was secreting it all over the place. The entire mansion smelled of lilac and vanilla, of me.

     

                    And the strange happiness I felt in that was only equalled by my crushing shame.

     

                    Let it end, one way or the other, please just let it be over.

     

                    A shinobi endures. A shinobi endures-

     

                    I can’t take another second of this!

     

                    The Ninth of Sun’s Dusk came. The operation began.

     

                     Fjorn Iron-Tooth had gotten himself even more drunk than I’d expected. He was tottering everywhere, and despite the amount of flowers in the room, the most overpowering smell was the mead.

     

                    I didn’t have my timepiece with me – a rather elaborate device for a prostitute – but my mental clock was usually accurate within five to seven minutes. It should almost be four in the afternoon, I thought, and one hundred seconds later there came four gongs of the bell. The current speaker, some great-aunt of Hrolka’s, paused for a moment before resuming.

     

                    I stood up, turning my legs in a little. ‘Sorry, Sabina,’ I whispered in her ear. ‘But I’ve been holding it in for hours, I need to visit the outhouse…’

     

                    Most of her face was hidden behind her helmet, but I could still see that roguish grin of hers in her eyes. ‘Can I come along, then? I want to watch.’

     

                    I gave her a reproachful frown. Sabina blinked, then nodded. ‘Not the time or place for jokes. Sorry.’

     

                    I stopped in front of the latrine pits and waited. The Iron-Tooths had reserved the entire hall for the day, so I didn’t have to worry about too many people coming and going.

     

                    A shadow materialised on a branch of a nearby oak, then sped down to lean next to one of the outhouses.

     

                    ‘Completely inebriated,’ I murmured softly, in a volume only perceptible to a trained shinobi in close range. ‘Proceed as planned?’

     

                    ‘Yes,’ Shi said, slightly more loudly for my benefit. ‘Sho and Big Sis – don’t tell her I called her that – eliminated most of the more corrupt watchmen in the Flavanas’ pocket, and the Oculatus have made discreet arrests of many others. With only Denholm left managing finances… all that’s left is to cause an incident of enough magnitude to justify an overwhelming response.’

     

                    ‘And that,’ I said, making sure I was keeping the tremble out of my voice. ‘Is my assignment.’

     

                    Shi must have detected something anyway. He zoomed out from behind the outhouse and leant close. Uncomfortably close. Almost rudely close.

     

                    ‘Kit,’ he said slowly. ‘Normally I wouldn’t even need to ask, but…’

     

                    ‘I will be fine,’ I snapped, then realised that I’d interrupted my senior. ‘I’m sorry, Shi-jo, I-’

     

                    ‘That’s all I needed to hear,’ Shi said, leaping back up into the tree and disappearing.

     

                    I strode back to the wake, which took another hour to wrap up. A few guests left, but the majority remained with Fjorn, accompanying Hrolka to her tomb. I remained patient. There would without a doubt come a moment where Fjorn was left alone with Hrolka, to grieve his last before personally closing the casket. It was a custom of the Iron-Tooth Clan even when they still lived in Skyrim, and they had carried it on here.

     

                    They laid the casket down in the mausoleum. It was grand, to be sure. Almost frivolous. Sabina slipped her hand around mine as we watched the final rites. Her warmth; my warmth.

     

                    Stop it!

     

                    The wake ended. I tugged at Sabina’s cloak as we left the tomb and she lowered her head to look at me – still with that heartrending concern in her eyes. She cared so much. She cared so much it was torture.

     

                    ‘What is it? Something wrong?’

     

                    ‘No!’ I said. ‘No, I’d just like to stay around for a while. It’s so peaceful here…’

     

                    ‘Sure,’ she said quickly, turning to Edwin. ‘Go get the coach.’

     

                    Lysanders crossed his arms and stood still.

     

                    ‘Oh, come on, it’ll be fine,’ Sabina scoffed. ‘I didn’t bring my sword with me, but you know as well as I do that I carry my hammer everywhere. Besides, Fjorn’s bodyguards are right there.’

     

                    Lysanders didn’t budge.

     

                    ‘It’s all right,’ I said quietly. ‘I… want to be alone for a while, if that’s okay.’

     

                    Sabina withdrew slightly. The hurt in her eyes stabbed at me like a spear, but she hid it and nodded. ‘Of course. I’ll go with Edwin, then. Azalea, I…’

     

                    ‘Don’t take too long!’ I smiled at her, a bright smile, a poisonous smile. I could see the relief in her bearing as she started downhill with Lysanders, the relief as that gesture told her I still wanted her, to be with her.

     

                    That’s right… just keep it up, keep up this charade until the very end… and it’ll be all right, it’ll all turn out just fine. She never needs to find out…

     

                    I took a deep breath and centred myself. Now I had work to do. Suppress it. Suppress all of it.

     

                    I walked the short distance back up to the tomb. Two Iron-Tooths were standing guard at the heavy iron door, and they barred my way as I approached.

     

                    ‘Wake’s over,’ the one on the left said. ‘Go home.’

     

                    ‘Eh?’ I said, raising my voice by half an octave. ‘But I-’

     

                    ‘He said go home.’ The Nord on the right clenched his fist. ‘Don’t you have any common decency? Let the man mourn alone.’

     

                    ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, pushing my bottom lip out into a sad pout as I reached into my breast pocket. ‘I just had this flower I wanted to give to Madam Hrolka…’

     

                    The two Nords exchanged a look.

     

                    ‘Give it here,’ the Nord on the left conceded. ‘I’ll take it inside in an hour or two after Fjorn’s calmed down a bit.’

     

                    ‘All right,’ I said, perking up as I handed the flower to him. ‘Here!’

     

                    ‘Damn,’ the Nord said as he received it. The flower was blue, with six petals, shaped like a bell and quite droopy. ‘This smells great. Really sweet. Are you sure this is appropriate for a funeral?’

     

                    He waved the Datura Crepusculum under his nose and took a long sniff. ‘Wait,’ he said slowly, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he fainted. In another fifteen minutes he would be dead.

     

                    His companion bent over him instinctively, startled. ‘Hey, what’s-’

     

                    I whirled to his back and brought the heel of my hand scything down to the base of his skull. There was a sharp crack and he collapsed, insensate. I shattered his neck with another, heavier blow, then spent the better part of a minute concealing their bodies in a nearby gardener’s shed. Not the most perfect disposal method, but the deception only needed to last one day.

     

                    Fjorn was still kneeling in front of his wife, his shoulders shaking. Unbelievably, he had somehow acquired another bottle of mead.

     

                    Now came the delicate part of the operation. Shi’s timing would have to be quite good, but I trusted him to keep good track of my progression.

     

                    ‘Hello, Mister Fjorn,’ I said lightly. ‘You look so unhappy. Come here… let me comfort you.’

     

                    The head of Clan Iron-Tooth jerked and spun to face me, his eyes wild, his beard haggard. It took a few seconds before he recognised me.

     

                    ‘You- you’re…’ His shocked expression shifted rapidly into derision and revulsion. ‘Harold, Esking, you two dunderheads,’ he yelled. ‘What are you doing letting this whore inside?’

     

                    That wouldn’t do at all. He was still extremely drunk, but he could still become suspicious. I didn’t have much time to provoke the reaction I needed.

     

                    ‘Now, don’t be like that,’ I cooed, gliding closer to Fjorn as I put a hand on his chest. It was large and firm and quite hairy. His shirt was half-unbuttoned. I dug in a few nails, teasing. ‘I just thought you needed some company, master Iron-Tooth…’

     

                    ‘Get away from me,’ Fjorn pushed me away and spat. ‘And leave us.’

     

                    I danced playfully towards Hrolka’s body, curving my lips into a mocking smile. ‘Poor thing… you must not have done anything fun for so long. So much pent-up aggression.’

     

                    Fjorn glared straight at me, the redness in his face draining to pinpricks in a sea of white. ‘I’m warning you-’

     

                    I sat down next to Hrolka’s body, stroking her cold cheek with a finger. ‘It must have been so frustrating watching her waste away.’

     

                    ‘Don’t touch her, you godsdamned ladyboy,’ Fjorn snarled, spilling what was left of his bottle as he shook.

     

                    I heard the roll of spoked wheels coming up the hill and recognised the unique pitch of those horseshoes immediately. Time for the final push.

     

                    Laughing, I tossed my head backwards as I undid my belt, flinging my hair behind me in a wave and curving my back against the casket. ‘You can call me by her name if you want,’ I whispered gently, soft as soft could be. ‘Oh, dearest Fjorn… how I’ve missed you-’

     

                    Iron-Tooth bellowed in rage and smashed the bottle on my forehead. I anticipated the motion, standing up into the blow to reduce the momentum I was receiving, but the bottle still left a gash in my skin as it smashed.

     

                    The carriage rolled to a stop and two pairs of heavy Dwemer boots touched the ground. Twenty seconds.

     

                    I cried out as loudly as I could and fell back against a wall. Fjorn wrapped both hands around my throat as he bore down on me with his height and full weight. His grip was tight, and I feigned a useless struggle as I swatted weakly against his torso, inflaming him even further.

     

                    ‘You fucking argr slut,’ the Nord howled. ‘Not for all the gold in Tamriel-’

     

                    Clinks, loud and quick. She was sprinting towards the tomb now. She could hear us. Ten seconds.

     

                    I pressed a finger against Fjorn’s wrist and pushed outwards, applying light pressure to an acupoint as I loosened his grip. In a simultaneous movement, I undulated my waist with some force, sending my unbelted trousers sliding down to my ankles and revealing both my legs. Five seconds.

     

                    In the instant before Fjorn returned his right hand to my neck, I gathered breath and half-shrieked, half-choked – ‘No, stop, stop!’ – as I transferred my centre of gravity to my knees and dropped to the ground, ripping my shirt against the wall as I brought Fjorn down with me.

     

                    The door to the tomb crashed open. Sabina stood there transfixed, Edwin Lysanders close behind her.

     

                    Fjorn kept on strangling me as I wept quietly. He was sprawled, rabid, between my naked thighs, his hands on my throat, his body on top of mine. It was as obscene a picture as I could paint.

     

                    Before Fjorn could even fully acknowledge her presence, Sabina let out a roar of pure fury, grabbed her hammer from her belt, and charged.

     

                    Fjorn raised his head. In his last moments, the Nord’s drunkenness seemed to fade, and the gleam of stunned realisation in his eyes told me that he understood precisely what was going on. He looked back at me and opened his mouth. And then Sabina’s hammer planted itself into the side of his face and all that was left of his jaw was a quivering mass of red and white.

     

                    A series of dull thuds filled the tomb as Sabina bashed him four times across the skull in rapid succession. Teeth and bone bounced around the mausoleum. Fjorn Iron-Tooth keeled over next to the remains of his wife, his brains dripping out through what remained of his temple, smearing the casket and staining the floor.

     

                    Sabina’s own battle rage faded. She stared down at her hands and her bloodied hammer, horror written all across her eyes. ‘Gods,’ she mumbled. ‘Oh, gods, no.’

     

                    And then she shook herself and turned to me. ‘Azalea, are you all right?’

     

                    Why?

     

                    Why?

     

                    How?

     

                    I’ve just ruined you, I screamed silently. Your kingdom is about to be destroyed – how are you even concerned about me?

     

                    ‘Azalea! How badly are you hurt? Did he…? Azalea?’

     

                    Stop it. Stop it, stop it…

     

                    ‘Is he in shock? Do something!’

     

                    I want to disappear, I want to be done already – why won’t you just let me?

     

                    ‘Azalea, please,’ Sabina pleaded, kneeling in front of me and taking off her helmet, her watering eyes filled with nothing but worry. ‘Just look at me and let me...’

     

                    Stop it stop it stop it please stop…

     

                    ‘Just look at me and tell me you're all right!’

     

                    I could not.

     

                    I was not.

     

     

     

     

                       

     

     

Comments

2 Comments   |   ilanisilver and 3 others like this.
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  October 8, 2018
    This cannot possibly end well, but excellent Shinobi use of Iron-Tooth to make Sabina angry. Yeah, this will ruin her. 
  • Karver the Lorc
    Karver the Lorc   ·  October 8, 2018
    Mygodmygodmygod, it's happening! It's going down! Yay! :D
    But seriously now. Very interesting plan. Of course Bengakhi came up with it, using Harrow's role to the fullest. And I like how you portrayed how Harrow's psyche is slowly breaking down here...  more