[Ianchus' eyes are fixed on the empty place, and his grip tightens on Jezebel's hand briefly before he lets go, stepping up to it, looking down at a fixed point.]

He can't let go of the past. He insists I should sit on the throne. Me!

[Another sharp laugh--his strong lungs lend a different, booming edge to the same honeyed voice he usually speaks in.

He lifts the bottle of wine, tilting it, as if pouring it over someone's head. His voice lowers to a whisper.]

Can you imagine. Is that how much blood means.