[He lets the stumbling rant continue unbroken, said more to the ocean than to him. It still lacks that vibrant rush of aggression from earlier, increasing the pull of irritation against his brow. But he doesn't interrupt, turning over the shape of the strange feeling in his mind.]

There is nothing I can do about Lily and my anger. Lily's goals have to be more important. I hope you know that.

[That aside:]

Did you ever tell the old me how you felt?

You wanted something you weren't getting. Did you ever express your rage? Or do you want it to sit and simmer inside you, until you wanted to hurt me in return?

[It's left open-ended, a clear farming for data. His expression sours with confusion as Macha continues, hearing the list and clearly not understanding the implication.]

Does it have to be grief?

I know he knows loss and abandonment. He knows the fury that comes. He knows love that felt artificial, with the poet.

Why do you think it would be grief he's after?