Noctisardor Bypass I've got a distant memory of previous lives

It not be mine Anselm. It be yours. Sucks doesn't it.

Lobbed his way like a spiteful crone's curse. He's right and Anselm doesn't even need to think of Heda to know it. Now his only salvation was his children; if he could love them, maybe -- just maybe -- he could come to love himself.

If he wanted to, he could unzip Etienne's proud heart from spine. He could lay waste to the man and let him marinate in his own desolation -- he could do so many awful and hideous things that his muscles tensed in memory-knowledge of it.

But in the end he could muster no rebuttal. There was no lie in Etienne's words. No tall barrier in which to lodge one's wallspike into, to systematically climb and destroy. Truth was a smooth surface, its exterior impermeable.

Anselm stood tall just long enough for Etienne's figure to disappear. It wasn't the words -- or the profession of love -- that cut into Anselm today. It was that single glittering tear etched against that golden gaze.

Knowing he had cut Etienne deep to inspire it.

Knowing he was unlovable, and Etienne loved him still.

And knowing there were parts of him that he denied, that Etienne saw the truth in.

Anselm loosened a long held sigh that cavorted across his lungs as a whimper. He turned and did not revisit this spot.