"But you had time," He presses, gently, because he did know this much, "At least some. To see things put in order. You were probably walking along some hall, or working at the papers, when it happened."

But he hadn't told Viktor nearly as much in turn, had he? Always asking, obfuscating, making it about other's needs, or a philosophical stance, or— or defending his friend, or himself. Dancing, just as he had this afternoon, around the truth.

Enough. Enough! This is stupid. Skan takes a deep, deep breath, and opens his beak— then lets it go. The effect is comic, a puffing-up, rousing of mane-feathers, and then the wild exhale... but his distress is real.

He tries again, with as much success, and then stands and turns around, pacing towards the balcony, and then back again. Once more, you stupid bird.

"I was being tortured to death," He forces it out, his throat nearly closing on the vital word, torture. Skan opens his mouth to continue, to explain more, and finds he's lost all his air again, somehow.

Breathe, gryphon, breathe. Some hero you turned out to be. Find some damned impassivity, you great black fool!