Larksong Grotto defuse your private bomb

There was deep confusion in the boy, and though it had not been initially familiar to Týrr, who did not remember the time as Ragnar's captive — when he couldn't remember anything; the time before Ragnar had crafted his elaborate lie and given him the false memories and name — but he wondered if it was something similar to Tryphon's puzzlement.  Týrr couldn't assume that the boy was an amnesiac like himself, but he was confused. Delirious, even, maybe; though  Týrr couldn't be sure of that either. After all, he was not the medic of them. When the boy looked at him, his eyes were distant. Focused upon him, yes, but  Týrr got the distinct feeling that Tryphon wasn't really seeing him. Crystalline eyes sought Citali, an unspoken question in them, hoping that she would understand what he was trying to convey without speaking the words. The look he gave his medic was brief, for his gaze went back to Tryphon, concerned. It was not a feeling that the Rekkr could readily place: after all he had threatened to kill Gunnar and Adlartok though both situations were vastly different than his run-ins with Tryphon. He hated anything to do with Ragnar, even after killing him, and any mention of Scarlett and her useless brat ward made his blood boil. 

“No, I am not from the Sea,”  Týrr spoke gently, trying to reach out to the boy though unsure if he was even getting through. The boy muttered something else about being lost and Týrr fell silent, not knowing what else to say. Unsure if asking 'where were you lost' would be a good choice or a bad one. “Citali,” He called to the Amazon near him. “Do you think he is feverish?” Because Týrr did not know, but he knew what it was like to be confused. To be lost, and how frightening it was, and if they could do something for Tryphon, the King-to-be would see it done.