The broken lets her wisdom sink in. She is not much older than he, but it seems she has gathered much more knowledge of one's emotional workings than he has ever even seen in any other. His eyes widen with a rising fear that he cannot escape, and his body tenses as she rests her head against his side once more. She tells him the benefits of crying, how it leaves only the good behind.

He has yet to cry, he has yet to see the good in himself. Is that it, then? Must he only shed a tear to emerge anew, reborn as a bright and shimmering being of feeling and understanding? Can he be golden? "Sometimes I feel there's nothing good left." He tries to cry and he cannot. Why can't I cry, he thinks, cursing himself? What is wrong with me?

The image of his father's powerful form, so like his own, yet stronger even as he carries it low and walks through blindness, returns to him. Flashes of an old home, of days spent in carefree bliss with Evangeline, of spitting fights and a deep understanding that he cannot hope to even mimic, fill his consciousness. He is soothed in some respects, but tortured in others. He does not think this kindness, this love that his father knew so well, can ever become his own. He has felt only the wretched influence of Dovev's lust and the apathetic mercilessness his mother force fed him at birth.

He watches the light of his bridle as it glows and plays off of Aylin's long, white mane and glitters at the edges of her horn. He lets his heartbeat slow and his mind ease at the warmth of her touch. His fear fades. In time he will be his own light. For now, he must let Aylin be his.

He pulls away slightly, but slowly and gradually so as not to upset her. He thinks of what Manhattan would say to him now, if she was here. Would she stop him? Perhaps. But as much as he hates himself for sending her away, he does not regret the freedom he has now to share. "Aylin, I'm... I'm different. I'm not just me, anymore. I'm everyone my father came from, everyone I've come from," he admits, his gaze focusing to catch her eyes. Her green eyes, just like her mother's. His features shift somewhat, just slowly enough that she might take the faint shifting images in. Only his eyes, his bridle, faint markings and scars, alter as his face changes. "In the hearts of all of my ancestors, I still can't find the good," he goes on, his voice steadied by old confidence and an even heart. "And... I know that they were good, some of them. So even knowing all they know, feeling to some extent all that they feel, why am I like this?" His questions are perhaps ones with no answers, perhaps ones she cannot help him with. He sighs, heavily, but feels bolstered at least by his calm. Somehow he has settled and relaxed enough to ask of a near stranger (but is she really a stranger) what he has wondered all his life:

"Aylin, why do I feel so cold?"

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