[Was it cruel to explain the comparison? To tell someone who already felt alienated and inhuman that he reminded Myr of those poor souls who'd been deliberately made that way?

Myr isn't sure. But such a truth would surely lurk beneath their Bond, and fester unspoken, until a worse time to speak it arose; and in Myr's mind, the strength of their relationship--above and beyond the Bond--is in their willingness to offer truth to one another, even when it is painful.

Still and all, when L sees through him so easily--he'll take the distraction and the chill it sends down his spine, the way the feeling of being caught out makes him freeze as at the advent of a predator. (No, there would have been no hiding the comparison, as time went on and they grew even more familiar with each other. It would out.

He will need to find a way to soothe the fears he's woken, by way of apology.)

A moment passes before he draws an unsteady breath, lowering his head like the weight of his antlers has grown too much.]

Someone I should have been a friend to, and wasn't. I failed her.

[It will take a little time to recollect himself enough to tell this story; forgive him that, L.]

Her name was Yseult, and all she'd ever wanted was to be a Sister of the Chantry.