Follen waited patiently as Quinn foraged her mind for an answer, and showed no signs of surprise when she returned without bounty. She blamed herself, still, and perhaps it was easy to see why. How else was the sole survivor of a tragedy meant to see themselves? How could they be anything less than a lure for destruction?

But Follen still didn’t concede. His face betrayed no trace of anger, or disappointment—in fact it was still quite difficult to see [i]any[/i] emotion in him, even in his eyes. But there was, perhaps, a comfort there. There was nothing to take hold of in his eyes, no warmth or safety to find, but also no threat, no storm or chill to weather that would necessitate it. He was void. Dark, empty, and very gentle. 

“[color=lightblue]Things being the way they are, [i]‘just because’[/i], is the logic of storms and monsters,[/color]” he said. He got up from his seat and crouched down beside her, low so that he could look up at her downturned eyes. “[color=lightblue]There is more to your life than the things done to destroy it. To them, there is not. To define yourself by what has happened to you is cruel and unfair. Quinnlash—[/color]”

He reached out and placed a hand over hers. His skin was so temperate, even in the warmth of the room, that it felt like little more than a breeze. 

“[color=lightblue]We are not monsters, and we are not guilty. Decide for yourself what you are. Be what you [i]do[/i].[/color]”