He chokes on the gritty air that has been his life-source for nearly 300 years. If he throws himself off of this precipice he will not die; he's tried before. His self-inflicted wounds do not kill him, they only pain him until he screams at himself to cease the slicing of his skin.



"This.." He coughs grit and dirt into the sleeve of his ragged robe. "This prison...it is worth all I did to you?" He says the words into the open, knowing they'll reach the ears of his captor.



He can feel the hesitation, the small smile...not his ears, but his soul, hears the reply: "Why, of course."