ETAN
Etan sat, sagging in one of the chairs in the sitting room, next to the small table, elbows on his knees, and head in his hands. He wanted to weep. And he wanted to run the Queen through with his sword. He prayed for the strength not to take her by the throat at dinner that evening.
Borsche paced the floor in front of him, his footsteps clicking on the stone, then softened by the rug, then returning to the thud of the stone as he shook his head and muttered to himself, his entire body rigid with tension and anger.
"What the hell are you doing, Etan?" he hissed. "What are you even thinking? You made a vow before God—as did I! You took her and now you would just… what? Abandon her? What happened to your marriage vows? What of your blood vow, for that matter?"
