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The more they spoke of Skoll, the more Jefferson refused to admit that the dead man's memory vaguely resembled his own. He and Skoll had both known battles during their lives, though admittedly Skoll's were surely more dangerous and rending; Jefferson had known struggles with both the outside and inside world, a creature caustic from his own bitterness and incapability to forgive himself for past deeds. What world he'd grown up in, like Skoll, had been left behind with Maluki along with all the memories, tender or otherwise, that lay there. Jefferson was no hero, that was for sure. Skoll had been a mentor willingly, and probably a good one at that; Tyrone had been the cyclops' apprentice only because Iskata had deemed it so at the time. Whether or not the then-Praeas had served his duties well was another story, but for the most part, DaVinci's son had primarily turned out well. Could he call himself a hero then, in seeing that Tyrone had grown up shaped despite a troubled household? No, he couldn't.
But Aivyr spoke of Skoll as a killer -- funny, Jefferson should have seen that. The dead man had seen wars unlike anything else, or at least his comrades seemed to think so. The cyclops refused to see himself as anything worthy of praise for similar sins of the past, most of which his amnesia had forbidden from his memory (which was probably for the best). Jefferson didn't know how many crimes he'd committed as wild-eyed Maluki, but he could only assume they were unforgivable, what with bastard children biting at his heels and dozens of faces recognizing him but wondering what had changed him so. Skoll had found the means of compensation somehow; Jefferson could not, or at least he would not let himself.
It was Nikolov's words that brought the cyclops' tattered ears back against his skull. The boy's goodbye was brief, but its tenderness cringed at the scarred man's single eye. He was a leader himself, trying to make differences for those he watched over. He was their guardian, or so he tried to be. Had he stirred any change in any of them? Had he bettered the pack Iskata had left for him, or would she only look away in shame should she see him now? The brute frowned and turned his gaze away; this funeral was turning into a court for his own character put on the stand, accused and denied by himself alone.
Jefferson looked at Jantus as he spoke with a sadness and pain in his eye, ears still held back in shame even when the fellow cyclops declared the pack fortunate to have him there to lead. No thoughts browsed his mind, nothing denied the compliment outright in his head, but Jefferson found a slight smile and nodded, extending a hand. "Glad I could help, cyclops," the brute said, his smile slowly widening into something realistic. "I'll have to make a point to come visit sometime, if I can find it. You're always welcome back here; Skoll's not going anywhere. You can trust me with that." He bowed his head as well in proper respect, then his eye wandered back to the grave. "You've done a great thing, Jantus. I'm honored to have been a part of it."
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