He lies in a cage, forged of flowing lava. He sword has been sheathed for good, welded shut. He smiles at me, knowing he's there in the back of my mind. Why didn't I kill him? Because I'm not a killer. I'll let him die on his own. Soon enough, he won't mean anything. Soon enough, his icy grasp will be nothing more than a breeze that flows along, something you ignore, something you just let go. He's done for. Now to move on.