"For a haunting? It's practically blissful." He presses back, flexing the thinnest of smiles before rolling back across the grass, head resting in Emet-Selch's lap. It doesn't feel like stone, funnily enough. There's give, despite its coldness, and each individual blade of grass bites into the edges of his skin beneath gauzy silk.

His exhale is slow. His eyes lid.

"You talk a lot about the ones you lost to, you know." Wording amended one beat later when he adds:

"The ones that killed you, I suppose."