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⬣//ILLNESS BEYOND CONTAINMENT, DEATH WITHOUT LIMIT
You wake to the sound of silence— no early morning birdsong, no rustling leaves, not even the sound of your own breathing reaches your ears. For a single moment, you feel as if time has frozen, your mind held in stasis, until a familiar boyish lilt hits your ears. A beat later and he's standing before you, a smile stretching from cheek to cheek, but that smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Good morning, sleepyhead! I was wondering when you'd wake up. Are you well? Does anything hurt?
Mm, not that it makes much difference to me. If you're in pain, know that it's only temporary. If you're unhappy, you won't stay that way forever. This world is a world of miracles, one where everything that hurts you can be forgotten and destroyed!
Ah, but some of you don't believe me when I say that. Some of you still think the world that's hurt you oh so much is better than one where you can make all that pain go away. Don't you want to be happy? Why are humans so addicted to their own suffering?
I think it's time to find out!"
The boy vanishes before you can get a word in edgewise. Try to reach out and touch him and your hand will pass straight through. You now have, at least, a solid idea of what Lily looks like. It's only a shame that there is little you can do to stop him.
On the same day Lily made his presence known to all of Fragment, another equally sweet young boy has mysteriously vanished.
In the monster-laden streets of Mac Anu, shreds of bloodied white fabric can be found scattered about. A single golden horn can be found in the canal, roughly shorn and badly scuffed.
It's unclear who or what injured Zelkova, but no matter where you search or how hard you try to find him, no further clues will turn up.
When attempting to message Zelkova, who appears online as he always does, you'll always receive the same response—
"Hi! I'm Zelkova!"
In the wake of Zelkova's absence is a feeling of unease. You may feel anxious, scared, perhaps even angry over the perpetual downturn of events. In fact, you'll find that it's gotten very difficult to manage your own emotions.
Throughout the next two weeks, you'll steadily get more and more emotional. Small inconveniences will throw you into a rage. Stubbing your toe will make you lapse into hysterics. A smile from a friend may fill your heart with longing and your loins with lust.
No matter how you might try to quell the tempest of emotion inside of you, nothing seems to work. Every feeling is magnified, every feeling is intense, and all you can do is allow yourself to be taken by emotion.
It's a shame Zelkova isn't here to assure you that everything will be fine, just fine. Fine, fine, fine…
You may hear stirrings amongst the NPCs in various Root Towns that something unusual is occurring at Twilight Shoreline. Some claim that the sky itself has been ripped and torn while others make mention of an unusual figure lingering in the waves.
It may be tempting to gate in and investigate these unusual rumors yourself, but be warned: you may not leave in the same condition you arrived.
Do you remember what it was like to be a real human being? To have a life, a purpose, a meaning outside of the digital world? That must be nice. Memories are such lovely, precious things.
Unfortunately, what little remains to you will be taken away with the loss of your third and final core memory. Several other memories from your time in the outside world will disappear as the days roll by, slowly but surely erasing who you were and making room for who you have become: a swordsman, an adventurer, a catgirl, a being who has never known anything beyond the boundaries of Fragment.
Still, some pieces of your old identity remain, desperately clinging onto your old concept of self. Those with the drive to escape Fragment and return to the real world will still feel that flame burning deep within even if they no longer remember what sparked it. Not all hope is lost, but the worst has yet to come.
A foul wind blows, billowing through Root Towns and Recreational Areas alike. On the wind, you hear the whispers of forgotten memories, both your own and those of the people trapped with you. Though you may no longer recognize those memories as your own or those of your friends, you can't help but feel as if some part of you has been clawed out and torn to shreds. It's a sad, lonely, isolating feeling, b̵͓̘͎͍̅̄͛́ú̷̹͕̒̀͝t̴̟̥̮͖̗̆̃̾͋̋̎̄̉͐̋͆̇̕͘ ̴̢̥̬̼͚̰̬̰͍̥͉̝̦͕̥̰̎̈́̃̅͆̉̈́̀̏̏̇̀͜í̵̧̧̥͓͇̠̗̤̺̖̼̬̪́̓̐̽̿̽͗͜t̴̨̲͎̼̦̱̪̬̭͖̓̾̈̄̈́̒̎͆̇̕͠ ̸̢̣̰͈̝͈̫̦͉͕̋͂̐͗̓̽́̈͛̃͑̓̚͜͝ẁ̷̙͛̍̑̈́̅͂͊̓̽̈̌̋͘͝ó̷̢̮̟͙̹̤̭̬̬̰͓̣͑͆̂̈́̎͂̒̌̊̽͘̚̚͜͠͠ņ̵̢̛̦̖̆͆͂̽̑̊'̷̢̮̫͚̜̭̰̙̭͚͓̭͙̺͑͜ţ̸̛̛̘͚̘̯̲̖̰̝̖͙̥͊̉̑̄̽̀̆̎̈́̅͘͜͝ ̶̩́̈̈́̌͑̿̆̾̈́͊̀̈́͘̚͝͝l̴̲͕̩̊́a̶̫̪̽̒̌̀̑̍̿̕s̶̱͉̩̣̒͆̽͗̽̊͂̚̕͠͝t̸̢̧̨̹̬̹͈̣̮͈̣͚̰̳̲̤͌͗̊͗̎͂̎͗̏̆̀̀͑̽̑̿͠ ̴̩̺͕̳̝̘̳̣͎͚̰̇̈́̈́͑͐̈̈̏̀͂̈́̍̽̑ͅf̷̛̙̖̲́͒͐̏̒̿̆͆̑̎͐̄̉o̷̱̭̙͗̌͆͗́̆̌́͗̚͘ȓ̷̡̢̦̠̖̟̻̬͚͈͔̥͓̟̤̋̿̃̎̌͗̂̽̐͛͆͠e̵̼̻͓̺̖͓̞̘̤͎̤͓͚͔͚͔̓̈́͘v̵̡̖̳̗̼͉̻͓̗̠̝̭͍̆͒ͅê̷̱̄̀ͅr̴̤̠̜̞͉̘̙̠̙̩̣̫̮̘͖͉̿͋̈͊̓̓͜.̷͓̯̒͐̏̋̓͗̄̉̓̎̒̾̚͝͝ͅ ̸͖̘̞̼͓͚̝̘̙͓͔̱̗͍̏̑̐̔̋̉͂̈̿̆͂̋̋̈S̵̢̫̭̠̩̻̩̈́̔̅̾͛͛̌̃̑͐̈̕͝o̵̡͖̙̘̟͕̗̲̒͋̇̿̔̍͒̈́̏͑͆̉̀͒́̕̕ö̸̜́̽̈́̀̆̐̂̉̔́̅̔̆ň̵̛̥͍̘͕̫̝͔̼̮̝̤̎̀̉̔̍̊͜,̸̨̛͇͙̺̱͎͙͖͎́̈̈̀̂͜͝ ̵̩̯̯̟̂̒͊̌̆̆y̵̢̜̘̘͗͂̎̓͒̿͑̇̆̉̋͘͠͠o̷̢̨̜̹̣̗̤͍͇̅́ŭ̷̞̇̈̑̂͊͂̓͋̅̌͐͘'̴̡̨̡̰̘̠͉͈̥̓͜l̴̡̡̰̖͙͕̹̹̝̖͉̓̿l̸̢̧̞̜̻̝͈̙̫̈́̒̈́̐̀̄̿̈́̀̄̚͘͘̕͜ ̵̛̗̗̙̩̙̝̩̟͎̗͉̠̉̋̒́̐̐̀̄̃̐́̎͒̕͝b̵̨̡̢͖̺̼͔͓̬̟̭͕̈̈̓̒̓͌ȩ̷̥̟̳̲̝̩̝̱͎̲͆̔̕͜͠ ̷̧͈̠͈͓͉̭͔̪͕͖̫͇̼̩͓̣̔̆̈́̋̓́̂̉̔̎͂̒̈́͂͂̈́̚ḥ̷̛͍͇͈̼̺̣̦͕̪̹̘̝̅̂̌͗̾̋͌̈́̾̂͠͝͝a̶̢̛̝͔͚̠̻̗̞̿̊̆͒̐̅̉͗͒̉͘̕͠ͅp̵̓̍̾̓͊̌̑̈͋̾͒͜͝p̶̳͎͙̹̎͆̿͠ͅy̸̨̧̡̩͚̯̪͕̽̓̅̀̇̕͜.̷͍͙̹̓͛͐̀͐́͝ ̷̺̼͖̔͐̏̈̾̈́̆̿̅͝͠͠Y̷̢̛͗̀͛o̵̢͖͖͈̙͒̄̆̉̀̆͌̉͜u̵̫̩͓͖̲̝͔̲̎̏̐̈̓̚͘'̵̡̨̻͍̲͚͔̤̼̬̪̠́͌́́̒̕͠l̷̫͔̜̍͆̍͋̔͆͒̾̑͑̐͒̈l̴̡̩̳̟̩͕̗̠͗̓̆̚͝ ̶̯͈͕̜̤̗͚̙̗̝͒̃̎́̒̂̔͑́͊̈́̓͒͌̅͝k̶͕̬̳̰̝̮͈͉̰͊́̃͘͜ṋ̵̎̃͛̾̃͐̂̔̿̔͐̓̍ő̴̫͔̐̂͑͛͋̈́̂̈́̈̚ẅ̵̛̮̪̝̖̰͖́̃̇̃̇̅̓̇̕̚͠ ̴̢̫͕̻̜͇̝̺̣̟̥̥͉̖̗̱̙̇͑͆̿̓͑̕ņ̷̨̢̩̳̱̝̩͖̼̰̩͙̫͆̄͐ơ̶̢̧̢̡̰̜̰̞̭͓̹͔̲̱̄͋̄͐̆̏́͗̏̀͂̓͗͋͊͘ ̷̘͈̰͖̰͂͛͌̑̿̀͗͑́̽̊͂̒̚͝ͅp̸̯̤̀̄̀a̵͇̖̖̹͗͑̈͐̉̽͂̚͝ḭ̴̫̫͚̻̥̮̲̫͈̹̮̞̲̘̩̪̄͐͐̄̈́̒͌̇̇̽̓̆͗̒͝n̷͓̥̬̠͔̗̯̬͈̪̞̪̗̘̩̲̭͗̏.̷͙̹̥̗̼̉̽̆̈́͘̕͠͝ ̸̞͔̱͙̑̄̈́̂̔̎̃̓̐̚H̷̨̲̗̲͙̗̱̠̗̹͔̥̦̋͒̈́̆͑̚͜á̵̧̛̛̟͎͈̲̼̣̊̆̇̐͆̌͒̀̚͠ͅp̶͎̠̫͖̗͋͑̏͑͛̈́̏͋̈̇͘p̸͈̟̦̠̮͚̫̥̅̍̐̏͆̂̀̒̇̂́͌̐́̕i̵̡̡̘͔͍̭̱̜̯̞͎̬͈̗̎̀̈͒̆̀̓̈͜͝n̵̜̑̃̔͠e̴̡̢̦̩͙͚̦̥͎̩̰̓̈́̿̎̔͌s̸̥͓̱̗͙̥̺͖̥͉̱̹̟̀́̀̆̑͂̌͜ͅś̵͚̮̝̤̭̘͎͔̝͔̤͙̤̮͓̘̒͋̂͗̍̓̔ ̵̦͖̩̠͉̹̘͎̮͓͙̙̣̜̘͋͊̏͊̋̊̈̓́͆̌̚͝c̷̨͕͕͕̖͉̹͔͎̦̠̱̍ǎ̷̫̬̪̘̠͔͍͍̹̞͉̈́̃̓̊͆͘͠ń̸̢͆͒̀̀͂̊̆̚̕̕ ̶̙̺͇̬̼̪̩̮͗͌̍̈̀̀͝b̸̡̺̞̳̗̳̙̗̯̠̦̼̻̭̑͗̋̔͒̀̾̅̄̊̾̾͘e̴̢̢̘̜̟̯͎̜̭̞̼͚̟̾́̓͊̊̃̄͌̃̓͆̽̕ͅ ̵͔̝̖̖͚̓͂f̷̡̛̝̳͎̼̼̱̪͈͙̣͖͙̘̞̺̮̉͑͘͝͝ő̷̧̹̦͓̰̦̯̝̣̱̲̠̩̟̺́̋̅́͒̈̏͘͝u̸͍͍͇̟̲̟̟̺̓̌̍͑͒͌́̌̽̐͊̚̚͝n̴͓̺͕̜͚̲͍͍̰̙̖̘̪͓̙̘͇̍͑͛͊͂̄̾̿̍͋͊̂̈́̕͝d̴̺̟̞̙͍͓̪͈͋̓̇͌̚͜ͅ ̵̛̮̯̪̤̫͖̠͔̫̥̬̰͈͍͚̇̀͗̐͗̈̚͝͝͝ę̶̡̦̜͙͔̜̩̽̇̀v̵̢̡̗̥̬͉͍̱̲̻̘̝̮́̅̍̈́͑̌̏̚̕ͅͅͅë̶̝̳̤́͋̈͗͋̍̊̽͋̕͝n̵̪͓̠͖̫̫̩̻͚͍̬̤͆͗͊̉̾̌͐̾͑̑̍̈́̕ͅ ̷̙͍͓̂̔̓̃̄̚͝i̵̧̨̮͕̱͓͕̦͇̲̹̋̐̈́̆͜ͅn̷̝͈͇̹͚̝̏̄ ̴͇̪̬̈́̏͗̃̄͌̐̊͝ͅd̵͔̖̠͈̮̃̍͗̀̋͛͗̈́̏͂̇̇̕ę̴̪̟̰͍̱̘͇̼̻̤͎̇͊̐ą̷̧̪̭̖̣̖͎̪͌̒̐̄̑͊̐͑̕t̵̡̧̡̯̬̗̞̰̪͇͉͎͍̝̰̄̓͌̈́͆̿̔͐̇̈́h̷̥̖͔̆͑͊͛͂͠.̵̛̹̃̒́̋̾̒̔̓̒͛͆̓̃̕͠
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His tail lashes against the water.
He lifts a hand, ignoring all injury and pain. The other question doesn't even matter. )
... Come here. Come down here.
( Please. )
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But he reaches out to take that hand, stepping further into the water.]
Are you okay?
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Still, he just gazes at his visitor, closest he's been to being easy to read.
He's scared. )
... He promised...
( This comes out a mutter. Did he not gather enough data...? Was his data bad? Had he been wasting too much time? Had he...
He squeezes his hand - or tries. The attempt begins, but he doesn't have the strength to execute. )
... Macha. I'm Macha. But before, when I had fake memories... you used to call me Mithrun, and Morgan. Do you remember? We made a promise. Do you remember that?
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[It's repeated, unfamiliar. None of the names Macha repeats are familiar, and his expression doesn't budge.
Still, he sees that frightened expression, that low HP bar. So despite the confusion and frustration that simmers, his touch stays gentle, crossing the distance as he opens up his inventory.]
...No. I'm sorry. This is the first time we've met.
You must be thinking of someone else.
[He carefully withdraws an HP potion, holding it out with his other hand.]
...Here. You look like you're in pain. Don't do that to yourself.
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...
He doesn't see the potion for several long moments, his gaze, every eye, fixed on his visitor for a long time.
Then, finally, the eyes on his body roll back, and his gaze falls from Barrett. He lets go. He stares at the potion. )
... Hien. It was the administrator who did this to me.
( He uncorks the bottle, drinking it. He doesn't have much HP total, so any healing is sizeable - but his HP ticks back down, however much it heals. The injuries on him are pretty nasty.
He shouldn't have let him go. But Barrett wouldn't have stopped for him, anyway. Macha is meant to be alone by design. He knows, he knew this would happen in some way. But that doesn't make this any easier. )
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With a raised hand, ashen fingers take a hold of his own sleeve and use it as a rag, carefully wiping the blood away from his face. A glimmer of the compassion still left, despite the kindness no longer showing vibrant in his eyes.]
Why?
Are you angry at him for hurting you?
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... No.
( Sorry, no food here. )
I... was collecting data on unrequited love. I... had him love me. His love was violent, and stayed violent, even though I felt nothing for him.
( He watches the empty bottle dissipate in his hands... )
... The data I've found tells me... that the value of love isn't in reciprocation, but in feeling it.
( ... )
... But that can't be true. It hurts too much.
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He nods quietly, more to show he's listening than anything else, taking his time to wipe off what he can see and get a better look at the injuries below the seeping blood.]
So you feel love then. Just not for him.
Is that what you mean, when you said it hurts? What he did to you? Or do you mean something else?
cw: description of injury
It opens up into a meaty, interior expanse. But there's nothing in it - no viscera, no bones (despite absolutely feeling like he's got a broken bone or two, while you mop him up). It's just an empty, wet container. There's just this red ooze that drips from it now, like a chrysalis cracked open before it could finish. Love unrealized, love forever incomplete. )
... Feeling something for someone when they feel nothing for you in return... is painful. But my data is bad. Maybe... that's why you don't remember me.
( All love terminates in isolation. People recounted their ideal experience, but not what they truly felt. That must be the problem with the data he's gathered.
Because - if the purpose of love was to only feel it without need for someone else to share its weight, why does his chest hurt so much? )
editor's note: moo
I'm sorry to hear that.
Data... I don't know what your data has to do with it. But... I feel I would remember someone like you.
[It feels so similar, to listen to him speak. The talk of data feels like it makes sense, even though he doesn't understand the parameters, the language a different shade than he's used to.]
Why do you think your data is bad? I haven't felt something like that when I watch people.
shh
He casts his gaze down to where Barrett cleans him up. )
... Because unrequited love is a experience that cuts into you and splits you in two. But... so many people here seem to feel that it's a nice feeling. Loving at all is nice. And that it doesn't change how they feel, it doesn't make them regret it... And that they can work out their differences to make it requited.
I knew from the onset that it wasn't true, but I don't know why I've recorded so much information like that.
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[He's not sure if it's fascinating or disappointing. But he knows it doesn't matter. The knowledge isn't for his benefit.]
You feel pain. From people you don't love. From someone you do. Do you think you regret it?
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( But he doesn't find fault with is visitor's logic. Maybe he should prod them more particularly - pointed questions, to dig into the injury...?
A beat, though. Hm. He frowns. )
... I don't know if I regret it or not, though. Maybe I'm not certain because I'm not human...? ( Or is he just broken...? ) ... Do you abide by your own parameters? Do you feel what you know is true about hate?
( He knows you, even if you don't know him. )
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[He doesn't argue. There's no desperate hold of his hand, no plea to rethink or reframe. The information is accepted, isn't questioned, isn't put into any other perspective. He doesn't need to.]
How do you feel now that it's here with you?
For me... mn. It's hard to say. It's easy to test. But for what I know...
[It's not much. The voice of an angry adult. The feeling of fear and the anger that came with it when something was wronged.
Something. Something. What was it again? What were those things he would kill for?
...
He frowns, washing out his sleeve in the lapping of the ocean. The moisture is irritating him, but it doesn't motivate him to leave. It was just more data in the end.]
...I don't know enough to say I know everything. But what I do know... feels like it could be true.
Jealousy burns. Vengance burns. Aggression burns. It's like fire that lights people to doing things, good and bad. When they feel wronged. When they feel they're being treated rudely. Unfairly. When they've hurt and want the hurt to be passed along.
no subject
And his visitor's voice, a deep rumbling of anger in the echoes of his words. The anger he describes sounds familiar; it sounds like him, in some way. It sounds like a fire and a rage so bright he had been willing to make his anger his funeral pyre.
And in the wake of that crackling rage, too, it sounds like the things people had told him before - who had asked him, if his anger meant more to him than staying with them. Even if only by design, this anger means more to Barrett - yes, Barrett - than Barrett's memories of him. )
... If I give you anger, will you help me understand if I regret my feelings, or not?
( Like a cat hearing the treat bag opening across the house, Barrett may sense an impending air of violence... Not a match, not a combat, but a brawl. )
Just don't kill me. Lily needs us both alive.
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Mn.
If your aggression isn't genuine, you'll make me angrier. I don't have time for questions that don't matter.
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Not genuine? If you don't think I'm angry enough you forgot our promise I'll tear your fucking wings off.
( His hand shoots forward - no longer gripping his collar, but his neck with an eminently intentional grip. )
You think I'll just accept your, "Oh, that's nice"? I'll fucking kill you.
( This is an ice-hot sort of anger - a blue flame. And from the way his fist balls up and his arm swings back, it seems he's going to punch his face in - as many times as he can get away with before he gets knocked off, but his grip on his neck is pretty vicelike right now, though it's unlikely he'd be able to actually choke him out with one hand based on size difference alone. If he were really trying to kill him, he'd be using both hands. )
no subject
There's a thrill through his veins in how raw the aggression suddenly drips out from Macha's lips, even as his own temper flares in being yanked down, smothered, climbed on top of-- he'll even take the hand to his neck without much more than a digging grab at Macha's wrist with his own ashen fingers.
But as the punches start flying, he loses patience quickly. He asked not to be killed, and yet within a moment he expresses desire to kill. Flipping his answer, just like all the rest. It takes only a small amount of change. He isn't sure how he feels about this supporting his data.
More importantly, he isn't about to sit and be hammered on without reciprocation. With a snarling growl, the redhead abruptly shoves his weight to the side to roll them both over into the surf, immediately grappling for Macha's wrists as he slides one knee up to pin Macha down against the sand, arms stretched above his head. The Lord Partizan bares his teeth in a growl of warning, fresh blood against the still-healing bruises of a broken nose still on the mend, now spattered with red and purple with a smear of bright red against his mouth.]
I've never met you before today.
Don't make a threat you don't intend to keep. Do you want to keep yourself alive for Lily? Or do you want vengeance for your hurt feelings?
Why would I let you have both??
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You think this will kill you? Or are you saying you'd kill me over this?
( Sharp-tongued and without quarter - this is the blaze of scorned love, as well; some parts anger, some parts grief. But regret? He still isn't sure. )
You know me. You know me. And you used to love me, too. You want to know what I want? I want you to remember. But you're not going to. What else can I do but grit my teeth? I'm not going to let go of your weight.
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[It's still aggression, though, fierce in a way he hasn't seen much of yet, even as words of sentiment spit out towards him that don't land.
Used to love him? It sounds mad. Even though he feels an odd connection, an understanding, the distance is not something he can ignore.
Maybe... maybe it was...
...
His grip stays tight, momentarily uncaring of whether the press of his weight would hurt the already injured small one.]
If you attached to who I was, like Leviathan and Swallow? Then I can't help you. Lily already corrected what was holding me back. What's left of him keeps me from forgetting.
I don't love you, Macha. Does accepting that make your heart burn like this???
I'm jealous of it. Your flame is so bright.
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He'd been rejected by Barrett in some small ways, smoothed over and compensated for. There were caveats and promised and suggestions things could change between them with circumstance. If Mithrun sets aside revenge, if I finish helping Lily; things that seemed so deceptively achievable, and nothing that asked them to set their feelings aside.
This is firm, though, maybe if only by circumstance. There isn't really any going back. They only are can be what they are. And there's no room for him in this program's heart. He knows. He wasn't enough. )
... Then, keep being jealous. I like you. Even then, even now.
( His breathing strains under the pain from his ribs, and his arm jerks again, as if trying to get free, even knowing it's useless.
The crevice in his chest seems to split only wider, little by little, beneath his knee pressed there.
The more it burns, the more he wants to try. )
I don't care if it makes you hate me. I'm not going to stop.
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With a dissatisfied click in the back of his throat, he lets go of Mithrun's wrists, easing off of him. Though he's learning plenty, it's of a flavor he wasn't expecting. Keeping the fight was no longer worth it.]
I have no reason to hate you. And you can feel what you want. It doesn't matter to me. [If Macha has decided he's in love, then it's not this Partizan's place to stop him. It's Macha's job to adapt if that love brings annoyance and resentment.
He wonders if it will.]
You don't get to decide anyone's feelings. Only your own.
[A beat, as his tone drifts with a combination of heavy irritation and... concern?? Its hard to place.]
If you're one of Lily's, you shouldn't die. But if you keep getting hurt like this, you are going to die. That's bullshit. Care about yourself before your love runs out of things to touch.
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He doesn't seem particularly motivated to push himself up, and so he stays lying down. The sound of waves crashes gently in the background. His chest aches, like an open wound. )
... I don't love myself. I love other people.
( His gaze remains fixed on the sky, its shade something only he, for now, sees; but his other eyes, they drift toward his guest. )
I got these injuries from a data collection attempt, so it was worth the risk, anyway. I can remove someone from this Area just short of them killing me.
( He doesn't bother reiterate why he had put so much into collecting this data. He knows ██████ doesn't really care. )
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[It's blunt, sitting in the space as he looks over Macha's prone form, irritation growing.]
Your risk is stupid if you die. Your data will stop having meaning. Your love will have been worthless.
If you're angry, why aren't you acting? Why do you snuff out so quickly? [Pointed, purposeful. Egging a response despite its honesty. Be angry for a reason. This isn't enough.]
If you can't be bothered to protect yourself, then someone should protect you until you learn better.
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... I gave you all my anger before. You just don't remember. The things I want to yell at you over are things you don't know anymore. All that's left is to like you as you are.
( Aggressive.................... acceptance? Not the kind of aggression this guy desires, he's sure. )
Not that I won't get angry with you. Did Lily hurt you to make you this way?
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