"How would I know?" Lust's unoccupied shoulder lifted in a half shrug. "You don't talk to me and you hold things against me that I don't even remember. That life you had before you became Scar is little more than a dark mystery to me. I only know you. Or what you let me know."

No. Lust wasn't very good at giving comfort at all.

But Scar was drugged and finally giving voice to things that had needed it for some time. And perhaps it distracted him from his pain. There was a chance, Lust supposed.

"And I only know me," she went on. "I'm no better or worse than you are. What do I have to blame you for or be angry with you over? You tried to kill me, but I tried to kill you. I haven't born you any ill will since before Lior. Why wouldn't I be merciful to you?"