Senkha has spent the better part of the night and day staring at the bars, save for when she wrote in her journal that morning. She hasn't eaten anything, nor has she slept all night, but she doesn't seem to care much. She just... -stares-.
Oliver has been doing much the same. His lit up his pipe a few times, the smell still lingering in the cell. His blade is propped against the wall opposite them, providing something of a light source. Every so often he looks at his wife, but he can't think of a thing to say.
"How did he escape?" Senkha asks suddenly, her voice hoarse and cracking.
Oliver looks away from the blade at the sudden sound of her voice. "Who."
Senkha glances around the cell, eyes finally resting on the manacles against the far wall. "Patrick Morgan. You can't stop thinking about this being his cell. Even if you don't mean to."
Oliver's gaze follows hers and he grunts. "Furthest cell. Didn' come here fer that." It's not really an answer to her question and he knows that, so he continues, "Fought out. Jumped."
"And he didn't die?" Senkha seems surprised that it's something so simple.
"You tell me."
Senkha hums thoughtfully and returns her gaze to the bars. She tries to close herself off even more, but the thing about closing off this much is that things slip through the cracks. Things like her thought of jumping.
Oliver isn't right up beside her, but he's close enough to reach out his arms and pull her over to him. His arms squeeze around her, but he doesn't say anything. That anger is still there.
It's that anger that makes it more vivid. Senkha tries to keep it hidden, but images flicker at his mind: the wind on her face, the ground drawing closer, a cracking sound.
Oliver's arms tighten around her, perhaps too tightly. "Stop," he says, a crack almost coming to his voice. Though he doesn't need sleep, he sounds tired. Possibly even afraid.
Senkha stops, less because he's asked her to and more because she needs air. She coughs a little bit, trying to shift in his arms, but doesn't say anything.
Oliver notices the shifting and lets her go, one arm falling to his side and the other lamely into her lap. "Please stop," he repeats, even though she has.
Senkha looks down at Oliver's hand in her lap and manages a weak, "I'm sorry." There's no telling what she's apologizing for; probably everything.
Oliver nods, letting his head rest back against the wall after. "Ah believe that."
Senkha seems to have no more words for that. She's trying to keep the images at bay, but they keep flickering past. After a while, she says (in a very thick voice), "Everything I've done for the past year or so has hurt the people I love."
"So y'think about hurtin' us th' hardest way y'can."
"Like you wouldn't all be better off without me!" It's a broken promise. Senkha knows it, somewhere, but this is the rawness of the wounds on her back and her heart screaming. "One small hurt compared to a lifetime."
Oliver scowls, lifting his head again and forcing her to look at him. "-You are not leavin' me-."
This forcefulness takes Senkha by surprise; whatever else goes on between them, she's not used to Oliver being like -this- because it's usually her desperation that shows. "...even if you wouldn't hurt anymore," she says quietly.
Oliver realizes how he's acting and lets her go. He rests back against the wall again, the scowl not leaving his face. "Ah wouldn't let you go."
Senkha exhales slowly as Oliver lets her go and brings a shaking hand to touch the spot on her arm where he'd gripped. "Why -don't- you hate me?" she asks after a long pause.
"D'you want me to? Would that make y'feel better, if instead 'a fergivin' you Ah wanted ta never see y'gain?"
Senkha cringes at these words and slowly shakes her head. "It's what I deserve, though. It's no less than what I deserve."
"Yer talkin' to th' wrong person 'bout not gittin' whut y'deserve."
"...you didn't answer my question, anyway." Senkha runs her thumb subconsciously over the flat of her wedding band, almost marvelling that it's still there.
"That's b'cause Ah dunno th' answer," Oliver sighs, sitting up again momentarily to reach out for his blade. The runelight comes with it, and he can see her better. "Jus' th' way it is."
It's far from comforting, and the same is probably true of the parade of words that begin to leave Senkha's mouth. "I'm sorry I thought about killing myself. I'm sorry I keep committing necromancy. I'm sorry I can't stand to see Dizzy any longer..."
Oliver rests the blade half across his lap, his hand briefly running over its surface before returning to his side. "Ah know y'are. Why y'think Ah don't mention it?"
"...I'm sorry that I tried to die in Silithus. I'm sorry I didn't trust you. I'm sorry that I have a hard time trusting you. I'm sorry I tortured you. I'm sorry I whip myself. I'm sorry I manipulate you into do horrible things. I'm sorry that I bring out the worst in you. I'm sorry that I'm not the woman you d-deserve..." Senkha finally finishes her tirade with a choked half-sob.
Oliver just sits against the wall and listens. He's aware of all these things, he knows she did them, but he's never heard them presented so bluntly. And yet, all he says is, "... Ain't whut Ah meant 'bout not gettin' whut Ah deserve."
Senkha exhales, seeming somewhat cleansed by having blurted all of these things out to Oliver. "What did you mean?" she asks after a moment of trying to regain some calmness.
Oliver gives her a flat look that almost says, 'What do you think'. He answers anyway, though, lifting his arm again- gesturing to the dungeon and the ziggurat containing it. "Ev'rythin', Senkha. Ev'rythin' except somethin' Ah kin depend on always bein' there." His hand lowers and he nudges her shoulder with it.
"...something you can always depend on being there," Senkha repeats slowly, looking Oliver over with no small amount of worry, as if he's just saying these things and then will Blightreavertrollfase and run away.
Oliver gives a hint of a smile. " 'Least Ah thought so." He reaches out again for her, pulling her against him in a more gentle, less desperate manner. "Y'did that, it'd never stop hurtin' me."
Senkha swallows hard and takes a deep, steadying breath, only it sounds more like "Whuhuhuhuhhh" than anything actually steady. "Likewise," she murmurs after a beat, resting her head against Oliver's chest.
Oliver rests his hand on her head, holding it there against his chest. Her blood still stains his tabard, now visible to her in the runelight. There's a lot of it. After a while, he admits, "Ah ain't sure ha' Ah'm gunna get you outta here in one piece."
Senkha looks up at Oliver, not lifting her face from his chest. "I could hold my breath?" she suggests. "Or we just make a run for it?"
"Are y'ready ta leave? D'you feel a'rite?" As she rests against Oliver, he has a good view of her back, and he leans forward to inspect the wounds he inflicted.
The wounds are as healed up as they could be, only a new crosshatch of scars remaining. "Physically, I'm alright. But..." Senkha doesn't say it aloud, but something inside of her admits that here feels safe to her as well. It's the darkest, ugliest place they've ever been, but they're still here, and still -together- and that's beautiful.
Oliver runs a hand over the scars, his frown returning. Her response, though, brings him out of it. "... Y'don't want t' leave." He doesn't sound surprised, but at the same time, he doesn't sound like he was expecting it.
Senkha shakes her head just barely, closing her eyes again. "There's a world out there. I'm not sure we're quite ready to face it again."
"Y'think we ain't? Ah face th' world purty well, most th' tahm. But if y'wanna stay here, we'll stay raht here." Oliver pauses. "Ain't nuthin' fer you ta eat, though."
"I'm not hungry," Senkha confesses and then, for reasons that probably only make sense -because- it's them, she reaches up and kisses Oliver. It's a long, firm, aching kiss, like they so often exhange.
Oliver is still just a bit too bewildered by the entire situation to meet her kiss with as much life as she's putting into hers, but he smiles. "Y'will be."
"Then we can leave when I'm hungry," Senkha states decisively. "For now... I like that it's dark here. And cold. Light, I'm a peculiar person that such things comfort me, hmm?"
Oliver makes a sound, something between a grunt and a short laugh. "It's no wonder y'lahk me."
"Must be why they're comforting. They remind me of you." Senkha does not add that the rank smell of death pervading the air here also reminds her of him. It kind of goes without saying.
"Well," Oliver says flatly. "Welcome t'my flyin' treehouse, Ah guess." He sags a bit, relaxing. They're going to be here a while.
"I wish I had a flying treehouse," Senkha states in a bit of a whine, before adding, "if you'd like to leave, go home or something, we can. Just... feels safe here."
"It is safe here. Ain't no place safer. If y'can ignore th' fact that a lot 'a these folks is two eyetics away from bein' skurge."
"What stops them? What keeps them sane?"
"Don't know," Oliver admits. "If'n y'watch Stormwind fer a day, y'kin see sometahms they dun' always hang on. Ah think most, though, jus' fear death."
"Or damnation," Senkha suggests. "Or do you think they fear death because they remember it?" And then she squeaks slightly. "I'm sorry, I know you hate it when people talk about death knights like you're not even there."
"Senkha. Yer talkin' -at- me." He looks down at her, his brows pressing together in concern. He goes on, though. "Some's jus' happy with whut they is. They enjoy th' power. They enjoy th' immortality. They enjoy th' killin'."
Senkha doesn't know how to react to the first, so instead, she just asks, "But you don't? I mean. I know you don't. I know you love and hate it. But." She frowns. Her question came out all wrong.
Oliver continues to look at her worriedly, eventually sighing and letting his hand drop from her head to her shoulder, which he squeezes gently. "Yer a'rite. An' yes, Ah do. Th' skurge made me a damned sadist, an' Ah hate it more'n anythin' else. They fergot t' take away my regret, Ah guess."
"Maybe they didn't forget. Maybe they just remembered that they had regret once, too." Senkha reaches up and takes Oliver's hand, turning her head to press her lips to his fingers. "Is it strange for you, coming back here?"
Oliver snorts at that assessment, his memories of the Scourge do not depict them as sympathetic beings. He feels the pressure of her lips on his hand and leans forward to kiss the back of her head. He rests his good cheek on top of it after he does. "No. Don't mind it here."
"It's safe here," Senkha repeats and relaxes against Oliver.
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