[The anger has made its home on the young prince’s face, and it will not fade so quickly in the wake of Oz’s explanation. But one word halts his step for a moment, makes him pause before remembering himself to tread at the same pace of his new friend else he lags behind.
The words escapes him before he can give it more thought.]
A voice?
[It isn’t disbelief; it is so far from that. But it’s unexpected, makes him think of his own chorus of the dead that have hushed for this exchange, but now whisper and writhe in the back of his skull.]
What kind— of voice? A stranger’s?
[Not like his, surely— not loved ones eaten by flames, died in the throes of pain, limbs broken and heads severed from body—]
no subject
The words escapes him before he can give it more thought.]
A voice?
[It isn’t disbelief; it is so far from that. But it’s unexpected, makes him think of his own chorus of the dead that have hushed for this exchange, but now whisper and writhe in the back of his skull.]
What kind— of voice? A stranger’s?
[Not like his, surely— not loved ones eaten by flames, died in the throes of pain, limbs broken and heads severed from body—]
What does it tell you? Why did it free you?