Ought not the be forgiven. Nate's ears curled back sharp, because the idea Cecil, or really anyone else, might do something beyond grace, felt so foreign. If Cecil had the notion they were condemned in any fashion, they wouldn't find agreement from Nate on the matter.

Every next word rolled off their tongue, earnest, and Nate knew he was supposed to buck up. To agree they spoke sense. Smile again. Shake off the burden, answer the question.

This was the part where he was meant to be anything other than what he'd always been, some twisted broken thing who was only good at pretending for a while. Each word hit like a blow to a heart still mending.

Why had he stayed? Where was his courage, now?

Nate swallowed. He stared at his rocks. Thought about Eleanore.

Trembled, faintly, and it struck him in a wave of shame that all his explanations sounded too much like excuses. Man up! the voice of his father scolded.

You're right. Nate diverted, defaulted, appeasement smooth off his tongue like the stones at his feet. It did not match the taut of his jaw.

Wasn't fair, what happened to you. You didn't deserve it. And Nate meant that, earnestly. Or any of the hell I put you through, after. Words that wouldn't make up for things,

Words he wished he'd had the chance to tell Eleanore, too.

But wasn't hell where Nate had been often told he was bound? He knew why he'd been killed as a man, had recognized the faces who'd done him in and — should have known better. I'm trying to — do better, than I have been. He forced out.

Divisive impulses tore at him, one where he donned the mask through grit teeth and gave the answer he thought Cecil wanted, and one where he was honest. What Nate had learned others wanted him to be, and what he wanted for himself. In each he now saw a personal failing. They twisted like snakes into knots until the end of one seemed the beginning of another, and every heartbeat punctuated another second of blatant shortcoming.

Lack of immediate condemnation paired with that singular demand — Why? — felt like a trap waiting to spring, and time, it seemed, was running short to form the best shape of himself.