He managed to not cover his ears to block out the recordings coming over the intercom but he couldn't as the volume grew, dissolving into screams, and all he could think of was one pleasant evening in spring when he had returned to the camp to find fires, the horses gone, Trip in his jester's motley and blood with his sword still in his hand, Shandi lying beside her fire and how when he'd brushed back her hair his hand had come away wet and red. He remembered noticing in the midst of the silent chaos that her potatoes had been done cooking. he'd taken them off the fire.

Flames burning blue, good metal rusted away, the closer he got...

Is this your parents' fire?

He curled in on himself, eyes tightly shut and hands pressed to his ears as if to block out the nightmare eyes and the voice that were only in his mind and his memories.

Someone's parents have been singing entirely the wrong sort of songs.

The flashlight fell from his lap with a thump and rolled under the bed. He didn't notice.

Is this your parents' fire?

Silently, he wept.