"It didn't feel that way at the time," Martel observes sourly, in something that's more of a middle ground between unrelenting bastardry and the brief glimpse past his urbane exterior at what he contends with now. "Have you ever seen the sort of scar that sword of yours through the chest leaves? I never thought I would."

If this wasn't quite morbid enough, yes, thank you. In a manner of speaking it could be another concession; he's all too aware of Sparhawk's sword, some memories refusing to fade the way others do. The nightmares vary, but the sensation of drowning in his own blood, the wound destroying him from the inside while the outside burned from torn flesh, that stays with him.

"And if I didn't half wish I'd killed him myself," he says, as if merely speculating, "I might say death is an easy way out."

Living with what he's done is...many things, but not easy. (He should really talk to Henry, but that is a thought he'll think again when he has the space for it. Not now.)