• Mature • [The Burning Mountains] Blood of my Blood

[Malcolm]

25 Ashan

Malcolm was marched from the keep in the centre of the Faction VII camp, out into the yard where he was chained with his hands locked together behind his back. He stood in a pair of leather trousers and boots lined with bear fur, a memento from the dead man he had shared a cell with the night before. They had torn his shirt from him, the cuffs, tattered and frayed, still hung from his wrists.
It had all been a lie, Vaughn was nowhere to be found, and Blackwood, with a scornful smile, had announced that indeed the young man was dead. Malcolm felt empty, and truth or lie, another stone was added to the growing pile of rocks in his belly. It's my fault, he had convinced himself, my son is dead because of me, and the other is lost.
“We came all this way, for this?” Yoreth laughed, and looked about his company of men, both those in uniform and those who were bandits, only here for a show. “This is your father?” He looked between Marcus and the Mortalborn, and thought to himself, this is the man Elyna would take over me.
A slave approached, holding a silver container full of blood, that of the last man they had bled out in the courtyard. Yoreth took a knife from the red soup of the stranger's remains, and stepped forward to wipe it on Malcolm’s cheek. “She used to beg me you know? My little pet,” he smirked. “Fuck me harder,” Yoreth leaned close, whispering. “Begged for it,” he shut his teeth together with a snap, before turning to his men.
“This man, the Wolf of Krome, led an army that slaughtered our brothers, sent our women and children to the mines, took two commanders from us, including the heir to our homeland, Edmund Burhan.”
The crowd rumbled like thunder in the distance, closing in to get a better look at the ex Baron of Krome. “He destroyed half of our remaining forces, and left our men to die in the snow, some of which had burned alive.”
Malcolm knew the man was speaking, but he couldn't make out the words. The ringing in his ears had returned and taken him far away, to the house on the hill, where an open fire was burning, a meat pie sat cooling on the stove, and his girls were safe, warm and safe. A sharp pain brought him back in an instant, and he followed the buried blade’s wielder to look Yoreth Blackwood in the eye, those cold, icy blue eyes.
“And so I say to you, my men, if he took something from you, here is your chance to take it back.”
They took their turns, each stepping up to the blood painted stone to leave their mark on Malcolm in an old sailor tradition, said to let rest the souls of those who refused to pass on, but instead followed their love ones, seeking justice and vengeance.
Malcolm had thought himself too cold to feel pain, but with each new mark was a reminder that he was not beyond their reach, not yet, and that he was still of this world. There came some relief, if only momentary, as hot blood spilled from his wounds. It was, however, unable to bubble and cauterise under such temperatures of this snowy day in the Burning Mountains. His eyelids grew heavy, and his legs shook. Their cuts were an inch long and lined up across his chest in no order.
“Marcus,” Blackwood summoned the man with a wave of the knife.
Marcus stepped up and took the knife in hand, leaving his own marks, one for each of his spoken grievances against his father. “My brother, my mother, my realm.”
Blackwood nudged Marcus. “I told you,” he said, “you will choose your father’s death.”
“Then leave him chained and let him starve or freeze, which ever comes first,” he spat, turned his back, and plodded down through the snow to his horse without so much as a backwards glance.
A few other men spat at the warden’s feet as they passed, but it was Yoreth who lingered. “Don't worry, Wolf, we’ll take good care of that little girl of yours, and her mother too.”
Malcolm hadn't so much as made a sound or breathed a word, but with a look he made a promise to the man in front of him, that one day he would kill him.

[Malcolm]

Stood on the mountain with snow falling all around, it seemed there was little more to do than wait for death, but Malcolm was not ready to meet his maker, not by a long shot. He tested his bindings, pulled against the chains and iron cuffs. He could free himself, he thought, if he was willing break a bone or two. The warden folded his thumbs against the palms of his hands and yanked again, trying to squeeze his hands loose, to no avail. An uncomfortable click saw these actions halted while he reorganised his thoughts and pondered his escape.
Perhaps it was the cold or the blood loss that had sparked an impending feeling of doom, one that saw Malcolm stand still for a time, contemplating everything he would leave behind if he were to fail. One thought in particular plagued him, the fact that he might never kiss Elyna again or hold his daughter in his arms. Had he taken such simple pleasures for granted, he wondered. It was easy to overlook those he leaned on most, almost as easy as it might have been to make more time for them, if he had truly tried. It wasn't a matter of caring, Malcolm cared a great deal, perhaps too much sometimes, but he could have been a better partner and father.
Malcolm fought his bindings again, and took his time to test every link in the chains under weight of wielded rock. He contemplated, after a time, the thought of taking to his own hands with the rock, but imagined that if he were able to do enough damage to the first hand, he wouldn't be able to hold the rock long enough to break the second. He moved like a tiger, pacing back and forth in the confinements of his open cage. Freedom was right in front of him, he just had to take it.
The fresh fallen snow melted under foot as he walked over it in his boots, wearing a track along the stone. How long could he keep this up, how long could he stay warm? He cursed the mountain men, who had let the members of Qe’dreki walk him to the ritual stone only to leave him to die, rather than slit his throat like they had done with the others. It wasn't just the cold he had to contend with, but nature itself. The blood of those who had gone before him, along with the hot, boiling blood that still bubbled from his fresh wounds, were bound to attract all sorts of wildlife, though he imagined Faction VII had long since deterred the dragons from this part of the mountain.
If he could just hold out long enough, maybe… Malcolm sank down and bowed his head, who was he kidding, only a crazed fool could see the light at the end of this tunnel.

[Vaughn]

From Zi'da to Ashan he had been with Faction VII. From sometime in Cylus he had been hiding amongst the ranks of the bandits from those who had sent him to die.

Yoreth Blackwood was here, and so was Marcus.

Vaughn had been in poor shape when he had come into the clutches of the banditry. He had been mostly untouched by the Qe'Dreki during the time he had spent with them, thanks to Marcus' intervention, but eventually he'd crossed one too many lines and been bound and tied to a jacadon and sent by way of the sky to his grave.

He had thought then that he would die. Except on the way to his execution some really unbelieveable shit had happened, and he had ended up not only shot down out of the sky by bandits and thus ironically saved from the ax, but also marked by some sort of immortal beast and nearly drowned in the process. Whether or not his drowning had been a vision forced upon him by the immortal, who he thought must be Chrien, or if he had actually drowned in the sea and come back to life he still did not know.

It had taken some time to recover, healing his injuries from the fall and fighting past the infection of a nasty sword wound he had recieved on his right wrist. Then he had taken even more time to adjust to the Faction's way of life. At first he had been kept in a cage like an animal, but through good behavior and a bit of luck he had convinced his captors to let him free enough to roam the camp. Still then he had been watched by a guard, but he had known enough not to show any sign of deceit and so, though it took nearly twenty trials, he was eventually allowed to walk free within the Fort.

Then the real planning had begun. He spent his days memorizing the layout of his prison and practising swordsmanship with a host of the bandits, trying to grow his skill. Otherwise he kept to himself. He had been shown the Mouth of the Jacadon, a chute where unruly people were thrown to be dashed against the rocks far below, and so he had been somewhat cowed from making an immediate break. If he was not well prepared they would surely kill him, and he could not expect to survive falling from the sky more than once in his life...

So he allowed himself to settle into a routine within the Faction, slowly, slowly gaining their trust. If worse came to worse he would join them, work into their ranks, and once he was sent away from the Fort he would take the opportunity to escape.

Until then, he just had to wait.

---

There was some commotion in the Fort, and Vaughn, careful to stick to the crowds as usual, went to see what was happening. What he saw nearly took his breath away.

It was his father. His father was here. Yoreth had him and Marcus was there too.

The sword Vaughn's mother had given him as a teen was at his side, and he thought that he must do something because Malcolm appeared to be in grave danger... but then he realized, what could he do? Nothing this moment. Extremely cautious now not to be seen he crept through the crowd that followed Malcolm to some sort of sacrificial rock, and watched as he was chained and cut.

Throughout this torture he kept his hand on his blade, telling himself he would not watch his father die, but Marcus mercifully sentenced the chained and bloody man to death by exposure, and soon enough the crowds dispersed, leaving Malcolm alone to hang in his misery. Reluctantly, Vaughn left with them.

The first trial he could not get to Malcolm because the man was still something of a commodity. People occasionally went to visit him and spit or taunt him with food or drink. The bandits had no reason to hate Malcolm other than that Yoreth and Marcus hated him, but they were impressionable folks who liked a 'good time'... and torturing an innocent man was good to some.

That night, however, Vaughn found that Malcolm was, at least for a while, left completely alone. Now was his chance.

He slunk out of the barracks and towards the bloodstone, making his way slowly and carefully and keeping an eye out for enemies of any type. He did not think he had ever been so paranoid in his life, but in this case paranoia would help them both live. If he saw someone he made sure to find a shadow in which to hide, and to stay in that position, unmoving, until there was no longer anyone in sight. It was slow progress.

Finally, though, he made it to his father.

He approached from the side, strolling casually with his hand on the hilt of his sword as if he wanted to taunt the prisoner like anyone else. His father had his hands shackled, and he had no clue how he was going to get the man out, or if he even could. Surely there were keys around but they wouldn't be here. Perhaps Yoreth had them. Or Marcus.

If it was Marcus he might have a chance of convincing his brother to let their father free without bloodshed. But Vaughn didn't really know his brother anymore. He didn't want to take that chance.

"Hey," he said bluntly when he came within earshot. He came close enough to speak quietly but not so close as to look suspicious. He doubted his father would recognize him, especially in the dark. He had lost thirty pounds since he first became a captive and was skin and bones and wiry muscle, gaunt in the face with a thick growth of beard much longer than his usual amount of scruff.

Malcolm himself looked terrible, and though Vaughn's heart mourned to see him this way he could not appear weak. So instead he grunted out, leering with the sword in his hand, "You know who I am?"

He prayed to the gods that his father did, if only to give the Mortalborn hope.

[Malcolm]

Could one be accustomed to death? Malcolm had died and lingered in the in-between, where his father had stepped through time and space to stand before him, and his aunts had taken their turns passing judgement, with prison still fresh on his lips. Malcolm was not afraid to die, but with so much to live for, had prayed death stay its hand, at least this time.
Had death crawled through his veins and stopped his heart in secret, he wondered, as a familiar voice caused him to stir and look up at the dark figure stood in front of him.
“Vaughn?” The Mortalborn’s voice cracked, then it was so… he was dead and finally reunited with his son.
His limbs shook and he sunk down, relieved. “I looked for you,” words whispered by the cold lips of a broken man. “I couldn't save you,” a tear fell and rolled to a stop on his cheek, halted by the icy wind that raced over the mountain as darkness fell.
“I'm sorry,” Malcolm tried to raise his hands, to reach out and touch the man, but the cold or the heavy iron cuffs had kept his hands at bay. “For everything…”

[Vaughn]

What in the hell? Vaughn thought. He had it in himself to be angry. He felt angry a lot recently.

Malcolm, broken. It didn't make sense. It was his father and yet the man was a stranger. Had he ever seen his father cry?

No. Never.

"Pull yourself together," he managed to say, but it was only a whisper. What Vaughn wanted in this moment was to break himself open and show his heart; he wanted to throw aside the facade he had so carefully cultivated for the last sixty or so trials. And all because his father was reaching out for him.

Tired hands snagged in their chains, holding both men back from one another, and Malcolm sunk low to the ground, shaking.

It was then that Vaughn realized, somewhat belatedly, that his father must truly be dying. From his wounds or from something else, Malcolm must be dying to have fallen so far, nothing else made sense; dying and the words he spoke were like visions. Visions saved only for the damned.

That was frightening, and it only made Vaughn more angry. The young man spat out, a little louder this time, "Vri?" The immortal of Death was his father's father. "Vri, if you're here then you can fuck off right now." He turned and looked around, not knowing if it was to check that no one was watching or to look for the immortal himself. He let the anger be felt in his voice. "We don't need your help so if you're here keep the fuck away from him."

That said, he turned back to his father and hunkered down. He grabbed Malcolm roughly by the face, like one might a prisoner they hate, but said in a soft voice, "You need to pull yourself together, okay? You couldn't save me..." That was true. How long had he been kept by those foul Qe'Dreki bastards? And for what? For his mother to die and his brother to betray him? For Vaughn to get a man tortured and killed in his place?

His expression was grim. "You couldn't save me but I will save you. Okay?" He made sure the Mortalborn was listening through whatever demons that haunted him. "Okay? Promise me you'll hold on. If anyone comes to take you away," here he cast another glance over his shoulder, looking for Vri again as if his grandfather might have appeared behind him to watch, "Tell them, tell him that it's not your time. Not now and not ever." Not so soon after Vaughn's mother had gone. He wouldn't let his father go too. Not the man who was supposed to live forever.

With that he released Malcolm's face and stood. He walked around him, stalking like a wolf around wounded prey, but really he was inspecting the other's binds more closely. Just his wrists were bound but they were clad in iron shackles and chained to the bloodstone, and there was no way Malcolm would be able to slip his hands through without injuring himself. Vaughn shuddered to think that he might have to cripple his father to get him free.

He would not do that. There had to be another way.

Keys were the obvious route, but he had just about no chance of getting his hands on them. Perhaps if the Faction trusted him more, but as it was he was still on shaky ground.

Then there was Marcus. He could go to Marcus. But he still didn't trust his brother. He didn't understand him. Marcus had cut their father. Vaughn had watched. Because of that Marcus would have to remain a final hope, saved only for the event that all else went wrong.

So what was there for him to do?

He didn't know. He had a couple ideas. Gods, all of this was so infuriating.

"Stay here," he finally said, the driest of tasteless humor, and then he was gone.

He was off to find a blacksmith hammer and log wedge.

[Malcolm]

Vaughn closed his hands against the mortalborn’s face, and the brief warmth the gesture provided brought him back from his stupor, back to the cold, dark mountainside, where he was once again alone. Malcolm stood up in the snow, the bloodstone icy against his back. “Vaughn?” he called, but there was no one there. Had it all been a dream?
The wind cut through him like the cold steel that had left him bloody and bruised, and he fought against the cold, turning his back to the strengthening blizzard, defiant. Air sickness and snow made for a slow and agonising death, and the vision of his innards being picked out by the crows with the rising sun, breathed life into the man.
Malcolm followed the chains to the stone, and pulled. He knew the chain had been screwed into the rock, he had worked this out before the light of day had fled. With his boot planted against the stone, Malcolm closed his hands around the chains and pulled, keeping as much tension on the metal bindings as possible. After a few minutes, he paused and tried a new tactic, twisting the chain-links so that they folded against one another, but still had no luck.
On his hands and knees again, Malcolm dug around in the snow that surrounded the ritual stone, and flinched as his hand found something foreign. He pulled a bone from the snow, what looked like a rib-bone, and tried turning the chain-link closest to the wall with it. Under very little pressure, the bone snapped, and in his frustration, Malcolm slammed the remaining part of the bone against the stone until it was nothing but shards, and his hands were cut and bleeding.
From the rubble, he took a thin, sharp piece of bone and poked it into the keyhole of his left cuff, trying to jostle the lock open. The bone rattled against the iron to no avail, and with the wind worsening and the cold causing him to shake uncontrollably, Malcolm sat and waited, for death and the vision of his son to return.

[Vaughn]

It was easy enough to get what he needed and he returned to his father, finding the man huddled down and shuddering in the cold. Shit. For a moment he was helpless, staring down at the shivering man. He didn't know how to take care of someone, especially someone he had always thought would be able to take care of themselves.

Despite only being dressed in whatever offcast clothes the Faction had spared for him, Vaughn shrugged out of his winter's jacket and tucked it around his father's shoulders like one might to a child, the item of clothing still fresh with his own warmth. Immediately he felt the bite of the wind and cursed himself; how long had Malcolm been suffering out here, and Vaughn had done nothing?

He had a lot of questions for his father, like how the man had come to be here, but not a lot of time so the questions could wait. Instead, he knelt down again with his back to the wind and placed the tools he had gathered against Malcolm's chains.

The log wedge was a simple piece of metal with a point on one end and a flat on the other, used to split wood without an ax. The blacksmith's hammer he had gotten from the Faction's forge, which he wasn't usually allowed near without supervision, but at night it sat empty and cooling and no one bothered to watch. Now he took the wedge and debated: use it to try to snap through the chain itself, or the place where the chains met stone?

Either way he would have to be fast. Shivering now himself without his coat, he squinted against the wind and the darkness and set the wedge between the place that the metal plate met the bloodstone, where the iron would be weakest, and began to hammer in a quick, paced rhythm.

He was not perhaps as strong as he had been when he had first been captured; the time spent without regular meals promised that. And he had been away from the forge for a long time. But he had been training in swordfighting and there was strength in that as well. He figured, with ten bits and cold metal to work with, he could make quick work of these bindings. Getting the cuffs and chains off Malcolm's wrists would be another thing for after they had escaped.

But until the plate snapped he was out in the open, and if someone heard the metal banging and thought to come look...

Breathing hard from exertion and from the adrenaline of the moment, he brought the hammer down faster.

Once, about seven bits in when he could feel the metal beginning to give way, he accidentally hit thumb instead of wedge, and he cursed to himself on a hiss. His hand throbbed with pain and he wondered if he had just broken a bone or two. In the dark and cold he couldn't tell if he was bleeding. He set the wedge back in place, forcing himself to use a thumb that felt like it had been smashed, and began to hammer again, only for something... perhaps the sound of a cough or a mutter in the night, to alert him that someone was approaching.

Gods dammit, hide or stay, and in a gamble he hammered harder. Just a few more hits...

At that moment he felt something in his chest prickle, almost like a rush of goosebumps; it was the mark of Chrien. He'd had this feeling before when he had needed luck most, when he had been trapped in that damn cage waiting for the Faction to decide his fate.

Back then he had worked up a camaraderie with one of the guards and they had gotten into playing cards and dice to pass the time. Vaughn had slowly begun to win each game, a combination of desperation, insight, and just a bit of extra luck. Once, through the power of the mark, he had rolled sixes seven times in a row. In the end, after he had beaten four different guards on a handful of days, he had eventually bet for his freedom from the cage and won.

Now, feeling that prickling again on his chest, he prayed to Chrien that luck would be with him and repositioned the wedge and hammer.

And just like that: with one, two, three perfect hits he felt the metal snap to pieces under his hands.

Immediately he scrambled out of the way, cowering behind the bloodstone with his tools clutched to his chest, and held his breath hoping not to be seen. He waited for footsteps to approach or a voice to call out.

Right on cue, "Eh," someone said in the darkness, "Eh, what'chu doing?" He couldn't tell if the voice was addressing Malcolm or himself.

If the man gave them any trouble, Vaughn would use the hammer to split his skull. The mark of the hurricane that twisted upon his chest seemed almost to approve of that bloodshed, making his heart beat ever faster and his blood thrum, but gods help him he didn't want to do that.

[Malcolm]

And as luck would have it, he wouldn't have to.
Malcolm had felt small in the jacket, the warmth causing him to look up. Vaughn had returned, but the cold and the pain in Malcolm’s limbs confused him. There had been no pain in death, not the first time at least.
Was he alive?
“Vaughn?” Malcolm mumbled, greeted with minor recognition as his son struck the rock where a pin kept chains bound.
He watched the man with disbelief. Vaughn had always been the more sensitive of the two boys he had raised, and Malcolm at a stretch, would struggle to call him brave. Resilient, cunning, and resourceful, yes, but could he recall a time Vaughn had ever stuck his neck out for anyone else?
The pin came free and seemed to glow in the dark against the white snow. Malcolm closed his fingers around the ice-cold metal and felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as they were approached from behind by a man.
And Vaughn was gone.
The metal burned in his hands, and over the wind and the sound of his own terror-struck heart, Malcolm could not hear the footfalls of the stranger in the dark. It wasn't until a warm hand fell against his shoulder, and his heart jumped with fright, that he realised this was a blessing in disguise.
“Die quietly!” The man laughed, but the laughter was short-lived as Malcolm’s abilities took hold, drawing strength from the man at his back.
Warmth returned to his limbs, and as the stranger drew back in fear, the Mortalborn twisted and jumped to his feet, driving the pin into the faction member’s jaw, through his mouth, and up into his skull.
Hot blood painted his fingers, and as the man drew one last, shaky breath, the smell of piss was caught by the air. He had killed the man, and with a mighty roar triumphed over death once more, but not alone. Malcolm sunk down and started relieving the body of the belongings that had once been so precious to the soul trapped within, now released.
“Vaughn!” Malcolm called, having claimed a belt and iron sword. He had searched the man for a key and come up empty handed. “As hard as you can!” He held his wrists against the bloodstone with his hands flat, waiting for his son to try and break the cuffs, and hopefully not his wrists.
If successful he would drag the dead man out of sight with his newfound freedom, and if not, he would risk a trip down the mountain in chains, with very little time to waste before more would come looking.
“We have to hurry!”
His nose bled and his eyes stung, but Malcolm would not waste this opportunity.

[Vaughn]

It was over so quickly that Vaughn had little time to react. The man grabbed his father's shoulder and at once Vaughn rose with the hammer in hand...

But by that time the man was already falling to the ground. Vaughn averted his eyes from the rush of blood, nearly black against the snow, trying to keep his breathing under control. He wasn't certain he had ever seen anyone killed before.

Now his father, full of energy and once more the man that Vaughn remembered, set his wrists against the stone and commanded him to break that one, final chain.

There's not enough time, he thought, but of course didn't have the time to argue. Instead, not exactly knowing why but just that he needed to do it, he bent and slicked his fingers through the fallen man's blood, pressed a stamp of dark red to his chest, against the mark of the hurricane, and muttered aloud, like a prayer, "Chrien."

Then he placed one of his hands over one of his father's, shielding Malcolm's hand from the blow should Vaughn miss his mark in the dark, and tried to err in that direction should his hammer not strike true.

But once more the immortal's luck was with them, perhaps for the final time that night, and with two hard strikes the cufflink snapped into pieces.

Vaughn was immediately on the move.

"This way," he said, and then had to double back because Malcolm was wasting more time hiding the body. Who cared about that, they needed to get out of here fast. But like before it wasn't prudent to argue, which honestly was driving Vaughn insane. He helped shove the body wherever Malcolm wanted to put it.

"Let's go," he hissed, soon as they were finished, and then he was making his way fast as he could towards the area inside the Fort where the bloodstone courtyard met the gates to true wild.

It would be a long hike from the gates of the Fort to safety. They could steal horses but Vaughn wasn't entirely sure horses could make the journey down the winding, craggy path he had been forced to traverse when he had first come into the Faction's hands. Not quickly at least. And the stables were sure to be guarded, even at night. Bandits were jealous people, constantly paranoid of being robbed and deceived.

No, he decided as he ran, they couldn't risk it. The guards at the gates would be bad enough to deal with. He was tempted to find some rope instead and go up and over the side of the Fort's outer wall, rather than through whatever bandits or soldiers were keeping watch during the night, but he didn't know if Malcolm was strong enough yet for such an endeavor and he himself had no experience in climbing.

Before he could make mention of a plan, however, he spotted another person up ahead and Vaughn abruptly stopped and faded back into the shadows. He stayed painfully still until either Malcolm did something about it or the man, or woman, was gone from his sight. They had little time, little time, and he felt himself itching to move. It was excrutiating staying in one place for even a moment but his instinct was to hide, not fight. Though he knew only a little about swordplay he knew enough: fighting would get them killed a lot quicker.

[Malcolm]

Chrien
Malcolm heard the immortal’s name fall from his son’s lips and felt a soft knot form in the centre of his brow. Since when had Vaughn had anything to do with such an immortal as her?
He dragged the body to the edge of the stone and pushed snow over the lifeless form. Come dawn the bandits would find plenty of blood, and if luck were on their side, assume an animal had taken Malcolm in the night, one strong enough to tear iron from rock.
The warden followed quickly behind his son, falling into his footsteps in the snow as he let Vaughn lead the way. There was a fort between them and the goat track that led down the mountainside, the alternative being a quick death through the chute. Vaughn heard someone approaching and jumped back into shadows, and reluctantly, Malcolm joined him. These folk were bandits, it was true, but if he could spare a life, he would.
As the woman walked by, the pair waited for her to go on until she was out of earshot before they continued on along the stone wall. As tempting as it was to cut through the fort, Malcolm knew it was the easy route, and nothing about the last few trials had been easy. He doubted their escape would be anything but trying.
Having traveled to the end of the wall, the men found that it would not be an easy climb over or around. “We will have to go down,” he said to Vaughn, but the drop was steep with an overhang that cut into the mountain.
Malcolm had brought along the chain and pin from the ritual stone, and with Vaughn’s hammer, they were able to drive it into the wall, his strikes muffled by the folded fabric of his jacket, once again returned. The Mortalborn tested the chain, leaning back so that it was under the full strain of his weight.
“It will hold,” Malcolm whispered, it will have to, he thought.
It would have made more sense to send Vaughn first, being that he was lighter, and Malcolm could hold the chain if he slipped. But on this occasion, and with the depth of the drop unknown, Malcolm chose to go first. The chain was only long enough to get him over the edge, and he held on tight, dangling there in the darkness. He swung his body and tried to reach out for the wall, but it was no good.
“Pass me the hammer,” Malcolm called. If he could drop the hammer and make a judgement on his fall, he would feel better about falling into the unknown, and having his only son follow him.