He doesn’t look away from that all-seeing eye. He listens, like he can’t hear the set awkwardly spinning up to life, the muffled conversation in her wake, the cacophony of people not paying attention. He wishes he could be anywhere else. But what good is that sort of wish? He can’t be anywhere but here. There’s nobody else but him. So he looks, and he listens, and he holds his head as high as it will go.

It makes sense. Horrible, horrible sense. But it all adds up, combines with what few scraps he had into a cohesive picture. Not the whole, but enough to see the shape of it. A scared fragment of the Eater’s mind, living on after death, without any of the structure it needed to function as it should. Promoted, suddenly, above its pay grade, with no choice in the matter, no support, and worst of all, no idea how to fix any of it.

By all the gods. If there was something, anything he could’ve done to discover this earlier, to have a chance to stop it, and he didn’t, forgive him. Please, forgive him.

And if nothing else, let him make this right.

“Please. Wait.”

He reaches out a hand, to motion to stop her, and has to brace himself on the side of his chair. Or else risk toppling over entirely.

“You’re the only person on board who’s been able to meet with the Tides like this. The Secretary runs and hides whenever he hears I’m coming. The ship’s much too big to have any hope of finding him, if he doesn’t want to be found. They don’t mingle. They don’t reach out. All I have are official channels, and they only use those to stonewall me. I’m sorry to keep you further, but, please, anything more you can tell us could help us do something about it.”

You, who can see through him, do you see his heart breaking?

“They shouldn’t be left to suffer.”