Envy was barely any weight in his hand, as light as the desert toads he and his brother caught in the spring rains. Deprived of the gravity and vitality of the lives of the people of Xerxes, his life was as frail and delicate as anyone else's. With a firm grip to hold him, he longer required anyone's attention.
Marcoh was not in his hand, but, sprawled on his back in the snow, breathing so hard he could hear every distressingly wet catch in every respiration or aspiration, he was a weight in his mind. He turned towards Marcoh as the Earth turned towards the moon, drawn, pulled upwards because this man - this man, who had stole so many lives, who had turned so many times towards inaction, towards silence, sitting slumped in passivity that tore thousands apart - this man was in no one's grip now but his own, and he commanded attention, demanded it, deserved it.
He could feel again, welling up in him, filling his hands and his feet and his mouth, what he had felt the first night he met Marcoh, in an improvised dungeon beneath Central, something suffusing and light, cool like rain. "Here is a good man," he had thought then, and now, with fuller knowledge, stronger knowledge, deeper and darker and broader, he said, "Marcoh... You've won."