"Ah yes, 'six minutes,'" he echoed softly, more to himself than anyone else. "Lovely name you've got there." She threw a cheese wedge at his chest, though whether it was in response to his jests or because she couldn't have him starve to death was unclear. He pushed himself away from the tree's support in time to catch the proffered food, and the shock was just enough to jar his balance into straightening itself out. Helpful, in a really odd, roundabout way.<br/><br/>The cheese was slightly stiffened from age and exposure, but right now it tasted like any other elegant meal he'd ever had the pleasure of feasting on at Yridhren. The feeling of stomach acid turning and leaping at the sustenance made him acutely aware that he was still nauseous, and eating was only finding a new way to make him feel sick. A sense of resolution dawned on him to take one final bite before he tossed the half-eaten wedge at her. If she caught it, she caught it. If she didn't; well it wasn't particularly good cheese anyway.<br/><br/>The forest around them smelled familiar, reminiscent of the petrichor he was often enveloped by whenever he saw fit to open his bedroom windows and embrace the nature around him. They were still within Elyria's country borders, though they were far enough from the capital city of Omn Asari that Cyr couldn't recognize anything. No landmarks, no trails, just a sea of forest. Even the trees looked different this far out; he could plainly see the white, thick bark of the elderwoods, and the prickly bearings of the ashpines, but the other flora was unfamiliar to him. He vaguely recognized the dark purple petals of nightshade, and nightshade only grows down past the River Elisk, so they were decidedly some ways south from his home.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Home.</span><br/><br/>The word resonated with him so suddenly that he almost lost balance again. He spun on his heel toward her, looking down at where she sat. "You have to take me back," he demanded, putting on his most authoritative voice, though admittedly he hadn't quite inherited his father's overwhelming demeanor and the words were a hollow suggestion if nothing else, but he had to<span style="font-style: italic">try.</span>"They're going to execute my brother if I'm not around. Whatever your contact is paying you, I will<span style="font-style: italic">double</span>it. I'm royalty, and I'm almost assured that whoever you're working for is not. I am on the High Council; I'll exonerate you of your crimes against the crown, pay you out and we'll both be on our way." The words were hopeful, but hope was something Cyrithil had learned not to put too much stock into. Ion's face passed through his mind, sitting in his bed alone, dishes piling up because none of the hands<span style="font-style: italic">dare</span>go near a crippled homosexual. That was taking two of the most awful sigmas in Elyria and wrapping them into one unfortunate man. The thought of him having no one to care for him or keep him company<span style="font-style: italic">hurt.</span>Physically<span style="font-style: italic">hurt</span>. With his last bit of strength for argument, he drew back his pride.<span style="font-style: italic">"Please."</span>