"Perhaps they hadn't a choice," Myr offers, as softly. "I confess I know only a little about the clans--only enough to know it can be parlous hard living, and every pair of hands might count for survival. Perhaps they couldn't leave with you--and not that they loved you any less."

Though he'd not look again at the spirit haunting the other elf, Myr can't help another glance at the apparition now that he knows the significance of it. (Unthinking rubs his thumb over the ring on his left hand; he knows where Simon is, knows he's as fine as anyone might be in all of this mess--but I loved him, he's gone now hits home.) "I'm sorry," and then, "Would it help to speak more of him?"

The scene by the tree has finally vanished, elf victim and shem tormentor dissipated back into the Fade. The spirits have not given up entirely yet; as soon as Myr's asked his question there's a sharp gristly crack of a neck breaking and an awful gurgle in a man's voice--and Myr flinches, eyes shut a hard moment against what the sound evokes.

(That one wasn't even real. It hadn't happened. Praise the Maker, it hadn't happened, but if...)